#i ask please what. and again. in the fuck.

[gospelica]

"what's this 'bout a boy?"

your pervy uncle sukuna has you bent over his knee like you're about to be spanked. but rather than hit the flesh of your ass with his calloused hands, he's plunging two fingers meanly into your cunt like you deserve a punishment :(

it's not your fault! you want to say that, to beg for him to go easy on you but every time you open your pretty lips to speak all that comes out is desperate moans and pleads for more. he curls his fingers inside of you every now and then, makes you see stars just to pull that pleasure from you!

you can't be too loud, though, your parents are only in the other room. uncle sukuna is meant to be here for a family dinner, one in which he'll exchange weird jabs with your father and make your mother turn her nose up all the while he's digging nails into your thigh under the table. you haven't seen him in months now, not since the last time he visited and you ended face-down-ass-up on your pretty comforter taking his cock so deep you forgot your own name.

as if you could settle for boys your age after a taste of him.

sukuna stops his movements and, with his free hand, forces your chin up to look at him the best you can from where you're bent over his knee. "fuckin' answer me. who's the boy?"

"no one!"

"lying brat, you want me to make you cry again?"

uncle sukuna had overheard an exchange between you and your mother when he first showed up. you were telling him about a boy from your college classes that had asked you out: sweet, well mannered, probably a bore in the bedroom. your mother encouraged it, because of course she thinks you're rather lonely. after all, you've never brought a man home! she just doesn't know it's because your uncle would find a way to make his murder as cruel as possible... :(

"'m not even interested in him," you have to breathe through your mouth, squeezing around sukunas fingers which are still stalled inside of you. "he asked me out. i said no. i can't... i can't be with other guys now that i have you."

there's silence. you know your uncle doesn't like that sappy shit. he's the type to fuck you rough and mean and leave you shaking just to throw a teasing 'love you' over his shoulder as he's leaving, just to watch your eyes widen as you stand between your oblivious parents. but you also know that he's possessive. that he'll do anything he can to stake his claim on you, though because of the secrecy of your relationship that usually means inhibiting your ability to sit down without wincing for a week.

"what, you think i'm your boyfriend or something?" his fingers start up again, making your pussy squelch as he thrusts them into you at a newer, meaner pace. "got some news for you about our relationship, brat."

"no i know," you gasp as he curls his fingers up again. you're so close, so fucking close it hurts. you're digging your nails into his leg though he doesn't seem to mind at all. "still. don't want anyone else... fuuuuck, uncle sukuna, right there, please.."

you think he laughs. or maybe moans as you definitely break skin with how hard you're digging into him. he speeds up, starts rubbing your needy little clit in fast circles until you're trying to keep quiet when your orgasm crashes over you.

"look at you, talking bout boys when you can't even last with two of my fingers inside this little cunt. fucking pathetic."

he pulls his fingers out just to sharply pinch your clit before moving you to better sit on his strong lap. "i'll drive you to classes tomorrow."

you're a little too stupid from your orgasm to get his point. "what?"

"no one knows i'm your uncle. hell, you hardly knew me yourself til i started showing up. i'll drive you, walk you in, show everyone you're spoken for."

"am i spoken for?"

"tch. don't play fuckin' dumb."

[enhaflixer]

CUMMING OF AGE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’d never even come close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It made you feel fucking insane.

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

You didn’t even think about pleasure anymore.

You didn’t dare.

-

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

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

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

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

And then there was Heeseung.

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

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

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

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

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

Your focus was always Evie.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

Sleep wasn’t coming for you, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your focus sharpened the second Heeseung spoke again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

The bathroom door closed with a soft click behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The wetness should’ve been a good sign.

But you already knew how this would go.

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

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

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

You tried harder.

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

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

But it never came.

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

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

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

Not even fucking close.

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

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

This wasn’t working.

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

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

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

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

You knocked.

Soft, quick. Regretted it immediately.

Nothing.

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

Your hand was already dropping when the doorknob turned.

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

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

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

He blinked once, brows pulling in slightly.

“You good?���

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

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

He blinked again. Caught off guard this time.

“…What?”

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

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

“No. I don’t.”

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

“Fuck.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

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

That made him pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he still hadn’t said a word.

Your next breath shook as it left you.

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

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

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

You froze.

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

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He stepped back.

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

He held your gaze.

 “Come in. Close the door behind you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fidget.

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

Your lips twitch. You almost laugh. Almost.

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

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

You blink. “Like… where I touch?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…She?” you murmur, lifting a brow.

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

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

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

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

You don’t move right away.

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

Your breath hitches.

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

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

But still—nothing clicks.

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

“I’m nervous,” you admit quietly.

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

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

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

Your hand stills.

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

You hesitate, then obey.

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

“Feel that?”

You nod. Barely.

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

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

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

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

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

He lets the moment hang.

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

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

His gaze is heavy. Steady.

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

The room feels hotter now.

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

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

He hasn’t blinked once.

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

The only thing that’s changed is his posture.

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

You’re doing this to him.

But not enough.

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

You’re trying. God, you’re trying.

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

It’s good. So good.

But it’s not enough.

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

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

“I’m not,” you whisper.

“You are. I can see it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me what she’s feeling first.”

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

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

You nod.

“No,” he says. “Say it.”

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

“Say it like you mean it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re right there.

You’re going to break.

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

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

It’s sharp. Fast. Inevitable.

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

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

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

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

You lift your head, eyes glazed over, panting.

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

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

He’s so hard.

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

“Look at that messy little cunt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanna cum, baby?”

You nod frantically, but it’s not enough.

“Use your words.”

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

“Need what?” he pushes.

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

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

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

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

“Let her fuck your fingers, slut.”

You snap.

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

It doesn’t hit you right away.

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

It crashes over you fast. Wet. Messy.

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

Heeseung is still there.

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

And then it fades.

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

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

Reality slams back into you hard.

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

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

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

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

Heeseung hasn’t moved.

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

You can’t meet his eyes.

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

“Didn’t say stop,” he says mildly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t even seem fazed.

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

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

He raises an eyebrow. “Cum?”

You shoot him a look.

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

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

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

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

You blink.

“…There’s a second lesson?”

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

Your pussy twitches beneath your soaked panties.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. I’ll call you.

Speaker on. Hands ready. Nothing else.

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

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

Low. Thick. Wrecked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?”

Your fingers drift over your mound, soft and slow.

“…Didn’t work.”

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

You nearly choke.

“Take the blanket off.”

You do.

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

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

“Fuck. You’re already wet.”

You don’t answer.

“Don’t ignore me. Say it.”

You whimper. “I’m wet.”

“Where?”

Your hand slides lower. “Everywhere.”

“Let me hear it.”

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

Squish. Slick. Wet.

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

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

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

You nod like he can see you.

“You touching your clit yet?”

“No,” you whisper. “Just teasing.”

“Don’t tease her. Feed her.”

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

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

You do.

And you moan. Loud. Wet. Pathetic.

“You sound like you’re crying.”

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

“Then shut her up.”

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

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

Your thighs start to shake.

“Don’t you dare stop.”

“Heeseung—fuck, I’m close—”

“She wants to cum. So let her.”

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

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

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

-

You don’t get a break.

Heeseung doesn’t let you.

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

Morning. She hungry?

Your pussy clenches on reflex.

You bite your lip, cheeks flushing under the covers.

Yes.

His reply is instant.

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

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

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

You send the photo.

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

He doesn’t reply until hours later.

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

That’s how it starts.

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

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

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

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

“Are you wearing panties right now?”

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

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

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

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

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

You cum like a trained animal.

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

He doesn’t let you get comfortable.

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

-

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

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

Heeseung.

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

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

Don’t open this here. I’m serious.

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

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

And it destroys you.

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

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

And you feel it—that slow, steady drip.

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

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

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

You cup her with your whole palm and rock once.

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

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

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

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

You snap a photo.

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

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

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

-

You don’t even knock.

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

You better show up dripping.

And you are.

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

He opens it like he already knew you were there.

Barefoot. Hoodie. Nothing underneath.

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

Just opens the door wider and lets you in.

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

He closes the door behind you. And waits.

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

He lifts a brow. “Yeah?”

You nod. Swallow hard. “Every day.”

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

“You leaking?”

Your breath catches. “Yes.”

“Prove it.”

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

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

He doesn’t touch you.

“Show me,” he says, voice low.

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

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

You keep your eyes on him the whole time.

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

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

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

“She tastes trained.”

You nod.

“She beg yet?”

You exhale. “She never shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah?”

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

“You want her filled?”

You nod again. “Please.”

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

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

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

You scramble onto the bed.

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

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

But he doesn’t touch you first.

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

And sniffs.

Deep.

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

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

Your body jolts. Your hands fist the sheets.

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

“Heeseung—” You whimper.

“Shut up.”

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

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

He just stares.

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

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

“I can see that.”

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

He doesn’t lick you.

Not yet.

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

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

You sob.

And then he spits.

Right on your pussy.

Hot. Heavy. Messy.

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

Your hips roll. You can’t stop it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cry out, thighs clenching.

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

“Open.”

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

You try to cum. You try.

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

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

You nod frantically, fingers gripping the sheets, desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do. Of course you do.

Because you’d do anything he says.

And he knows it.

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t give you time to finish.

He presses in—slow, deep, cruel.

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

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

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

She’s full.

Finally fucking full.

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

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

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

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in.

You scream.

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

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

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

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

So you lift your head—try to kiss him.

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

He pulls back.

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

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

Your breath shatters.

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

Your pussy clenches around him so violently he groans.

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

Tears spill over your cheeks.

And you cum. Just like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He leans down, mouth right by your ear.

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

You’re already limp when he flips you.

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

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

“Still hungry?” he mutters behind you.

You nod into the pillow.

“Say it.”

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

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

He doesn’t give you the rest.

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

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

He presses forward.

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

He starts fucking you again like he owns you.

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

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

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

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

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

He thrusts harder. You scream into the sheets.

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

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

It’s raw. Ugly. Loud.

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

He fucks you through it—harder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

You wake up to the burn in your thighs.

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

Still there. Still inside you.

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

A slow, deep ache spreads in your gut.

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

But something else creeps in too.

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

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

“Are you really not gonna kiss me?”

It’s soft. Not needy. Just… there.

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

You almost regret asking.

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

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

No hesitation. He kisses you hard.

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

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

You’re whimpering into his mouth when it happens.

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

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

And then you hear it.

“Heeseung?”

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

“Hey—have you seen Y/N?”

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

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

“Shit,” you mouth, barely audible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bathroom. Now.”

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

His voice is casual. Sleep-rough.

“Yo.”

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

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

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

“She didn’t text me.”

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

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

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

“Will do.”

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

“You owe me.”

You punch his chest.

He grabs your wrist. Kisses it.

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

-

It’s early.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do. Barely.

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

Downstairs?

Evie sings along to the chorus.

-

It’s disgusting.

There’s no other word for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

“Y/N?”

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

You freeze.

Every muscle in your body locks.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

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

And then you both look up.

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

Evie.

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

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

And then she gags. Audibly. Violently.

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

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

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

“No—no—no—no, no, no—”

She’s panicking.

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

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

“DON’T.”

The scream hits like a slap.

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

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

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

“Heejoo—”

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

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

And then her expression cracks completely.

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

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

“You’re both fucking insane.”

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

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

She flinches.

Flinches.

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

She looks empty.

“Don’t come near me.”

Her voice is flat now. Robotic.

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

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

Looks at Heeseung. Then at you.

“You’re both dead to me.”

-

​​You don’t remember the walk home.

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

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

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

She meant it. Every word.

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

She meant it.

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

They don’t send. You’ve been blocked.

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

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

It never comes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I had to see you.”

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

“You already saw enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

You speak,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Evie—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

It doesn’t happen overnight.

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

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

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

Just three words: We need to talk.

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

Your hands shake as you reply, Yeah, okay. 

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

And then she clarifies: Just you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heeseung finally speaks, voice rough.

“You… love me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You open your mouth.

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

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

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Maybe.”

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

Evie clears her throat, hugging herself.

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

You nod quickly.

“Of course.”

Heeseung nods as well, voice soft.

“Anything you need.”

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

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

You don’t stop her.

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

He exhales shakily.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

Heeseung seems as restless as you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that progress is slow, but present. 

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

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

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

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

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

Girls’ night?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

He clears his throat.

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

You turn to look at him. “No.”

There’s a beat.

“Can I?”

You nod.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, Heeseung—please—”

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

You nod frantically, hips rocking against his hand.

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

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

But he’s not done.

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

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

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

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

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

“Say it,” he demands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t stop him. You beg for more.

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

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

You scream. You scream for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t move.

You don’t want to.

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

Heeseung kisses your shoulder and whispers against your skin.

“I’m never being patient again.”

-

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

[stardustquills]

thinking about husband!nanami being obsessed with the idea of getting you pregnant. 18+ mdni. wc; 1.7k

-

you’ve lost track of how many times he’d made you come - how many time he’s come in you. even now, hours later, it seems like there’s no end.

not that you were complaining anyway.

“oh, baby,” he dragged, voice an octave lower than it usually was. kento had just come in you for the nth time, marking your walls with his white ropes.

he pulled out, leaning his head down to take a glance at his art. “what a pretty pussy. my pretty pussy.” your lips were swollen and puffy, blushed as his seed escaped your cunt, trickling down onto the bed.

he tsked, taking two fingers and scooping up your combined juices before shoving it back in.

you folded with a sob, biting on his shoulder. You head moved into the crook of his neck, taking in his natural scent mixed with his earthy cologne.

“h-ha, ken,” you managed to whimper, your hands weakly clawing at his shoulders. you were overstimulated and tired, unsure of how much longer you could handle him and his insane sex drive.

“doing so good f’me, honey,” he cooed softly, giving you a moment to recover before the next round. his free hand combed through your hair, a soothing motion he knew you loved. when he spoke again, it was like he was speaking to a baby. voice all sweet and gentle, one you couldn’t find yourself saying no to. “think you can go another round?”

he wasn’t really asking - he’d make you go another round.

he slipped his fingers out, causing a soft mewl to escape your throat. your hole hopelessly clenched around nothing as he brought his fingers up to his mouth, cleaning them off. he hummed contently, his fingers moving out of his mouth with a pop!

“we taste good together,”

what a filthy, filthy man your husband was.

“k-kento,” you looked up at him, a pout on your lips with dried tear stains. you hands moved from his shoulders to his neck, your fingers fiddling thing the hairs on the nape.

he looked down at you as you called his name - his heart softened at the sight. his precious wife pouting and looking up at him with doe eyes. your body trembled and shook, goosebumps rising as he trailed a hand down your arm. “yes, darling?”

“‘m tired,” you started, voice quiet and barely audible. “can’t-“

“ah ah,” he cut you off, “yes you can. c’mon honey, just one more round, please?”

how could deny him after he asked so sweetly? but you didn’t know what had gotten into him, why he was so hellbent on getting you pregnant. having kids wasn’t a new topic in your marriage, it’s been something that’s been discussed numerous times, but now you think you’re ready for it.

ever since you told kento “let’s have some kids,” (which was earlier today), he’s been pounding into you like a bitch in heat.

it’s just that he thinks you’d look so beautiful pregnant with his kids. it’s something he’s been thinking about for ages. kento knew you’d be the mother of his kids just a few months into dating.

and now he finally gets to live it.

he can’t wait to see you all round and glowing, growing his kids in your womb. he just knows that you’d be an amazing mother, it’s something you’ve been talking about, and it fills with him so much happiness.

fuck, he’s hard again.

“mmh-“ you whine into his neck as he takes your hand and it helps it wrap around his cock. his hand is around yours, helping you pump because your hands feel that much better than his.

and the whimpers of your name that leave his lips are so delicious, so delicate and full of the love he has for you. “just one more round, baby, please?” he repeats, voice breathy as you both pumped that veiny cock. “wanna get you pregnant so bad. last round, i promise.”

his hand left yours as he helped you on top of him, your legs straddling his as you hand continued moving up and down, torturously slow. kento looked up at you, his hand swiping a strand of hair behind your ear, a soft smile adorning his lips.

“so pretty,” he pulled your face closer to his, placing a kiss on your forehead. “so beautiful,” he kissed your eyelids, “so perfect,” the tip of your nose, “all mine,” before kissing your lips.

you swallowed up his whimpers and moans, you hand still resuming that unhurried pace. his lips fell open and you continued pecking them, a girlish giggle leaving you as a particularly needy moan of your name left your husband.

“just one more round, yeah?” he pulled his face away from yours, his eyes falling to where your hand tugged on his cock. the tip was an angry red from being so used and aroused, and when you swiped your thumb over his slit he thought he’d come right then and there.

“nghh, b-baby,” his hand grabbed your wrist, stopping your movements, “fuck, gonna make me come,” his voice was deep and gravelly, and you could feel the fresh pool of arousal at your cunt. “gotta come in you, honey, gotta give you some babies,”

kento’s hands moved to your hips, lifting them with a mumble (“lift your hips for me, sweetheart. there you go.”) as he let you line him up with your cunt. your cunt that was drooling with his come, making a mess on his thighs. but he didn’t care - the sight only turned him on even more.

you let yourself lower onto him, a desperate moan ripping through your throat, one that matched your husband’s.

“kenn,” you panted, already squirming, just from him bottoming out. the pleasure was too much for you and your overstimulated pussy. your head fell into the crook of his neck once more, using his scent to ground yourself.

“shh, you’re doing so good, mrs. nanami,” and there it was, his favourite nickname for you, “last round, sweetheart, you can take it,”

you had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last round.

but oh he was being so sweet, so nurturing and careful as his hands helped you roll your hips against his. your thighs shook already, goosebumps rising all over your skin as he did all the work even though you were on top. he doesn’t even bother to rub hearts on your clit; he knows you’ll come just from the penetration alone.

his heart is full of so much love and lust, breathless gasps leaving his plump lips as he feels himself hitting your cervix. so much love for his wonderful wife - his wife that lets him use her body over and over again without any complaints.

he bucked his hips up, a moan of ecstasy leaving him as a gasp of surprise left you. his strong arms now wrapped around your waist, pinning you against him as he bucked his hips up into you again, not letting you escape.

you took it like the good girl you were and it drove him mad.

“so good to me, sweetheart,” he leans his head down to your hair, inhaling the sweet, floral scent of your shampoo. kento closed his eyes, letting himself thrust into you faster and faster. he’s so pussy drunk he can’t think straight; he’s only focused on giving his wife some babies. “mmm-aah, mrs. nanami!”

each thrust brushed against your g-spot, a breathless pant leaving you every time it happened. you couldn’t think straight. you wanted it to stop, the sensation was tiptoeing the fine line between pain and pleasure, but fuck kento’s noises were like music to your ears. you’re so cock drunk, strands of incoherent babbles leaving your lips as he dragged his cock in and out of you.

you could feel yourself clench around him, a distinct whine leaving your lips as you felt that familiar coil in your stomach.

“gonna come again, love?” kento grunted, a singular ha! leaving him as his dick kept ramming into you. “it’s only been a few minutes, darling,”

“too much, ken, ‘s too much,” you sobbed, seeing a fresh batch of tears blurring your vision.

“you’re fine,” he decided, thrusting into you with a newfound fervour. “you can take it, honey, i know you can.”

and you do. because who are you to disappoint your loving husband? if he says you can take it, you can take it.

“that’s it, such a good girl,” your head spins with how proud he sounds. you could smell the salty sweat mixed with his earthy cologne. god, everything about him drove you nuts.

“it’s okay, baby, you can come,” he encourages you, one hand petting your hair, the other still wrapped around your waist. kento could feel like way your walls have been fluttering around him, one of the signs you were close. not to mention the way your body quivered and spasmed.

a few more thrusts and you were coming undone, your noises of pleasure being muffled against his neck. your chest heaved with each deep breath, doing everything you can to try and reduce your heart rate.

kento came soon after, his arms tightening around you as an attractive moan left him. thick, white ropes of his seed shot into your womb again, and he kept thrusting until he was sure his come was in you as deep as it could go.

“i love you,” kento whispered, kissing your hair since you kept your face in his neck. he bucked his hips into you again, testing the waters, and chuckled when a high-pitched whine left you.

“love you too,” you kissed his neck, still breathing heavily.

he didn’t pull out, not wanting his waste any of his come. instead, thrusted into you again, slowly, sloppily, his pussy drunk mind taking control of his body.

“k-kento,” you pleaded, dragging your nails down his chest as his pace gained momentum. “you said that was the last round-“

“i know, sweetheart,” fuck, his voice was so needy - your overstimulated walls fluttered around him madly. “but you just feel so good, and i wanna get you pregnant so bad, and h-hahh,” he moaned, cutting himself off.

and it’ll continue, night after night after night, until he knows you’re pregnant - and even then, it might happen after that, too. because kento is so in love with his marvellous wife, he only wants to make her feel good.

[evesbookshop]

𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲, 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 ⇩⇩⇩

“ 𝐡𝐢! 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐱 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫? 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐮𝐮𝐮 <𝟑”

𝐁𝐲 @horrorapple

𝐘𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐲 (𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭)

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

𝐅𝐭: 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐕, 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞, 𝐧𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝), 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐞 (𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝). 𝐔𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐜𝐤.

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

Sex with Katsuki was always a little rough. He was a high string man and if fucking you into your shared mattress is what helps him loosen up, well you’d consider it community service. 

But this, this was just mean.

“Oohh, kat, s’too much-” You could barely get the words out with how hard he was ramming into you from behind. Arms pulled back and held together by one of his large calloused hands pushing your back into an unforgiving arch as his other hand was hooked around the junction between your hip and torse, giving him even more leverage as he pistoned in and out of you.

“Fucking, bastard w-who the fuck did he think was, lookin at you like that huh?” Katsuki snarled out from behind you, honestly you didn't even think he’d heard a thing you said.

You’d dropped off lunch for him in a petty little house, spring had sprung and you were excited to see him . But then a side kick had stopped you on the way to his office, a new hire. Kept making snide little marks and his eyes didn’t settle on your eyes once. And when Katsuki had heard your voice and came out to see a man that wasn’t him ogling you, well it was over before it started.

So here you were, being fucked like he hated you.

“Bet- fuck- bet that ashhole wishes he could feel yer fuckin cunt, shit” A laugh that held little humor followed, sharp and angry.  “ My fucking cunt, taking me so good gonna mold you to me , princess. All fuckin mine.”

“All yours, suki, promise. All- nng - all yours!”

“That's right, all mine, shit, Sucking me in so good” Now, he was talking to you. And his words certainly had an effect, case yeah you were independent, but god it felt good to be his. Your walls started to flutter in a familiar warning and he picked up on it immediately. “Oh you like that don’t you, you like being mine, Dollface?”

“Suki please!”

“Not what i fuckin asked.” A sharp slap echoed as his hand came into contact with your ass. “Try again.”

“Yes, yes i love it! Love being yours. Hnng~ Please!”

“Course you do, fuckin course you.” Katsuki’s voice was growing ragged, chest heaving as he took his free hand, slipping it in front of you to rub rapidly at your clit while positioning his hips to hit the spongy spot he had memorized, the one that had you finishing in no time. “Come, fucking come for me, princess. Make a mess all over my cock.”

The reaction was instant, with the combined stimulation you stood no chance against it felt like a band snapping within you, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your spasming body was only held in place by his grip on your arms and around your waist as he continued to prolong your climax. Fucking you straight through it until it was over, but he wasnt done yet.

Pulling out quickly and letting go of your arms, which would usually leave you face planted into the mattress in front of you if he wasn't flipping you onto your back with strength that was impressive in itself. Pressing your knees to your chest with one hand has he lined himself back up with your soaked entrance. Pushing forward in one swift thrust, both hands now free to hold you by your thighs. Hammering into a speed and strength that had your jaw dropping into a silent scream. Arms coming up to help hold your thighs in place alongside him. One hand draped over is in a light show of affection that didn’t go unnoticed by him.Breathing picking up.

“Shit, taking me so good, Doll. Gonna fill you up so good, Hn-fuck, not gon a waste a drop of it, not a drop.”

“Mhm promise Kat, not go-gonna waste any, prom-ise!” You nodded dumbly despite his blocked vision.

‘Atta girl, that's right. My girl and her greedy fucken pussy. Shitt she wants it real bad dont she.” Was Katsuki really talking to your pussy right now, yes he was and it was the hottest thing he’d ever done. So hot that you were already nearing your second orgasm of the night, body squirming as you let out a series of whines and prayers of his name.

“Oh she liked that huh, gonna come for me again ain't ya?”

“Yes yes yes Kat-”

“Quiet down, Doll. Me and your pussy are tryna talk right now.” You were clenching around him so hard he felt like he was gonna explode. And when you started to actually come around his cock, squeezing and gushing around his dick, he was practically done in.

“There we go, there we fuckin go. Good fucking girl” He let you finish before pulling your legs back towards him and around his waist so he could hold yours. Katsuki wanted to see your face as he filled you with his seed. 

“Come in me, please please, come in me Kat. Want it so bad, wanna feel it so fucken bad.” Katuki was already dangling by a thread but watching your face as you begged for him to fill you to the hilt was what did him. Leaning forward to bury his face in your neck, thrusts becoming less coordinated as he chased his high before slamming into you one last time and grinding into your heat as he leaked into your pussy. Filling you to the brim as you shivered at the feeling of his thick roped of come coating your walls. 

Staying in place as his cock finished twitching and began to soften inside you.

“You feel better?” You asked in a murmur, voice hoarse.

“Yeah, yeah” He whispered in response against your neck, chest still rising and falling hard.”You okay, not too rough?’”

“Perfect.” You assured as you brought up a hand to rub his back.

“Perfect.” Katsuki nodded , nose nuzzling softly against your sweaty skin. “Still firing the rat bastard.”

“Okay, Katsuki. Okay.”

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 ❤︎︎

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 ❤︎︎

[sierrale8ne]

celibacy / paige bueckers x fem!reader PART OF THE $$$4U COLLECTION ‘ it’s been four months and two weeks and 36 hours and eight minutes since you been pleased ’

summary after finding out you ended your sexual arrangement with paige for work purposes, she takes it upon herself to show you how much she’s been missing you and how badly she’s been needing you. warnings paige is a hornball that can’t comprehend why you’d want to obtain from having sex, sexual content, packing, strap-on sex, strap-sucking, spitting, literal cum eating like… p is a freak. from lena i felt like bringing back some old pairings so this is p x that reporter i wrote about a minute ago ( in my main masterlist titled easy access ) this is nasty, i’m ovulating so there’s that.

Paige had been accustomed to the life that came with being a star athlete: wake up, practice, treatment, class, nap, lift, and if all of that was completed, the occasional media interview.

Today was one of those days.

Her practice jersey is damp against her body, the navy blue compression shirt underneath clinging to her arms as she answers question after question. Tournament seeding, last year, the draft next month. All of it is the same, just enough for her to know exactly what to say and when to say it.

She stands patiently, arms crossed over her chest as she waits for the next question. And then it comes.

“Paige, is there any advice you’ve given your teammates— specifically Sarah and Jana— about how to handle the tournament now that they’re in it?”

Paige freezes.

It’s your voice, she’s known it well enough to be able to point it out in a crowd full of all other reporters. A voice she’s heard so many times that it became burnt into her brain— every tone, every shift.

You dig your way through to the front, and when Paige sees you— like really sees you for the first time in months— it’s the first time all day that her demeanor shifted. She’s always loved your work attire and how you prided yourself in looking your best. But today you’ve dressed down and she still thinks you look perfect. Low rise washed denim, New Balance sneakers on your feet, and a white shirt with some writing on the left shoulder that she can’t quite make out.

“I’m sorry, can you ask that again? I zoned out for a minute.” Paige clears her throat. The other reporters laugh but you stay focused, it your first media availability with Paige. You knew better than to crack, especially now. So you repeat the question, poised as ever and honestly Paige is a little shocked. She thought if anything you’d be just as off your game as she was. But you weren’t.

She stutters, and it’s so small that you almost miss it, but she answers anyways. “Just to embrace the moment. Pressure is a privilege, and they came here to preform on the biggest stage—” Her eyes bore into your own, blue like large pools of cerulean. The same eyes that once made you give up everything, toss away your morals, and submit to her. “— and we all got total confidence in them. Hopefully that translates to them having total confidence in themselves.”

You nod, thinking about how generic her answer was and how your boss would probably have something to say back at the office. It seemed like she always did, but that’s what came with being an intern, you’ve learned.

Media availability ends, and you are very glad that Paige was the last to be interviewed because you can’t wait to get away from her fucking gaze. You cut the recording on your phone, shoving it in the back pocket of your jeans, followed by sticking your notepad and pen in your purse.

You follow suit with everyone else, turning towards the practice facility’s exit doors to head back to the office. Until your stopped, a hand to your lower back that send a rush to your core.

You’re reminded of the first time. The way you danced against her at Ted’s her hand on your back, bending you over as you twerked her jeans, the feeling of the zipper against your ass. How she took you home, made your legs shake and your toes curl, just to become even more vulnerable with you in bed hours later. You learned a lot about Paige that night.

You learned even more about yourself.

That no matter what, as long as she was around you’d never be able to resist her.

It’s exactly why you turn towards face her right now, you hands cautiously gripping your purse and the other raking through your hair.

“Look who finally came to see me.” Paige’s nails rake along your skin, dangerously drawing you closer and closer to her.

You feel your knees getting weak already. She smells surprisingly good considering she just got out of practice, she looks even better. But you can’t. “Stop.” You groan, reaching back to brush her hand off.

“I’m just checkin’ on you, you good? It’s been a while.” Paige says, her voice sultry and a bit cheeky. She’s priding herself on the fact that she still has you like this.

“Paige, we’re not doing this here. I’m at work.” It reminds you of what you said the last time you had her. MSG in New York, another day you were supposed to be focused on work that ended up with Paige’s hand in your pants.

She nods, pretending to understand but the look on her face lets you know she’s thinking about anything but. “Okay, then come over later.”

The blonde had a way of making you go speechless every time you saw her, but right now you were literally at a loss for words. You made it clear when you cut her off— Paige was a distraction— so for her to stand here, so hellbent on getting you alone, in a way she once had you, was ridiculous.

You scoff, looking around at the now filing out hallway. You drag her off, fingers digging into the bicep that’s so fucking big you nearly are taken aback by it. “I’m not having sex with you, P. It’s done, you know that.”

“You’re tellin’ me whoever else you’re sleeping with makes it feel as good as me? Y’know that’s bullshit, ma.” She goes on, and you take a step back for your own sanity. A response bats around in your brain, you shouldn’t tell her the truth, she would get too confident. Too cocky. You didn’t need that.

It came out anyway, like word vomit. “I’m fucking celibate, Paige, there isn’t anyone else.” You grit through your teeth.

Paige’s eyes nearly glow and her mouth curls up into his God awful smirk that you’d want to slap off if she wasn’t so damn sexy. “You? You’re playin’.”

“I’m not. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to finish.” You mutter, walking across the hallway to the elevators plans sweating as you do what you know best. Work.

Your night ends with a much needed bath, soaking in the hot tub to soothe yourself of all the stress piled up throughout the day.

And the tension that only Paige Bueckers could give you.

She was good, you had to give her that. And what made it worse was that it was effortless. Paige didn’t have to say too much, or even touch you. All she needed was one moment, one instance where your demeanor shifts and your strength cracks and all of a sudden you’re her’s again.

You couldn’t shake your mind of her even if you tried.

And it made your core fucking throb.

When you finally do exit the bath— legs a bit sore from the attention you had given yourself between your legs— you cater to yourself. Legs smooth, and body smelling of sweet vanilla cashmere. You throw on some cute pajamas, matching silk with a top that fits you loosely. The plan is to get in bed, until you hear a knock at the door.

You trail to the door, manicured feet padding against the hardwood.

And then you open it.

And there she is.

At first, it’s like your mind is playing tricks on you. Because it’s been forever, and no one in their right mind would show up to their old fuck buddy’s apartment at this hour. Paige seems to be the exception.

She wears these dark grey Essentials sweatpants, slightly dirty and scuffed on the hems. They sag just enough for you to see a small edge of her Nike Pro’s when she lifts her arm over her head and her fingers run through her hair. Her hoodie matches, and that makes your knees buckle. The dark fabric makes her skin and hair look even brighter.

“Why are you here?” You sigh before she even gets a chance to speak. Being mean about it seems to be the only way you can think of to get her out. It’s for your own sanity anyway. You’ve never been able to rid her off for as long as you and Paige have known each other.

Obviously, you don’t know Paige.

Because she finds that so fucking attractive.

Paige bites her lip, trailing her eyes to your shoulder where the strap of your shirt has fallen. “I’m still on this celibacy thing. Like, are you sure? And why the hell would you want to do that?”

You have to laugh, because it’s hysterical that your vow to stay away from sex had UConn’s star player unable to think straight.

“Paige, I—”

“Seriously, we’re not having sex anymore because of what? Did I do something wrong? Am not doin’ it right, you gotta tell me.” Paige is babbling, and it makes you so embarrassed that you tug her inside the apartment before your neighbors can hear about it.

It’s unfathomable to you. “I didn’t think it was that hard for you to find someone else to sleep with, Paige.”

“It’s not! But you cut me off, and the first time I see you again you’re talkin’ bout some celibate. So, naturally I’m curious.” Paige attempts to explain, hands moving freely in the air as she talks and you stare at them the entire time. Her knuckles slightly red from the cold, veins adorning the back of her hand, and her long ass fingers. It was a taunt. As soon as you made it clear that you weren’t going, here she was. Testing you.

You take a step back, as if the distance would give you a clear head. “You’re a distraction.”

“What?”

“A distraction.” You speak up. “I can’t do my job with you texting me and telling me all the ways you want me in bed. I literally couldn’t focus.” You explain, and now that it’s said out loud you feel ridiculous.

Paige Bueckers was so good at fucking you, that it made it hard for you to do your job.

The blonde lets out a sigh of relief, dropping her arms down on your counter and leaning against it.

“You happy now?” You respond, sighing loudly.

“Ma—”

“No.” You cut her off quick. This is exactly how it went last time. And this time you had half a mind to know better.

“Let me get you there, baby. No distractions this time, I swear.” She murmurs, voice low and almost strained— hours of practice for the tournament to blame. “No way you don’t want it, ma, just please.”

Paige is walking towards you now, hands reaching for your hips and you let her. You actually don’t even think about moving. You can smell her cologne, warm and woodsy, sticking to the fabric of her clothes. Her hands trail off you to the hem of her hoodie, pulling it up and over her head.

Your eyes trail to the ground it falls on almost immediately, because Paige’s choice of a thin tank top and no bra leaves very little to your imagination.

“What do you want, ma?”

A whimper flies from your lips as her hand grips your chin, fixing you to look at her. Your hand grips her shirt for leverage, clinging to what’s left of your morals.

That’s when she knows she has you exactly where she wants you.

“Hmm? What do you want?” Paige repeats, dragging your hand down her abdomen until it rests at her sweatpants. And you feel it. Her sweats were baggy enough to conceal it, but as soon as you feel the length in your palm it’s clear that Paige was thinking about you the same way you were thinking about her in the bath. “You want it? ‘Cause y’know I’m always ready to give it to you.”

“I want it.” You whine, snaking a hand up to her neck, tugging her close to you.

Her breath fans your lips, a smile gracing her face that doesn’t even try to hide. “Yeah? Break this li’l streak you got goin on?” Her hand tugs your shirt strap lower down your arm, and the second it’s reached the furthest it could go you’re slotting your lips with hers.

She tastes like everything you’ve remembered her to be, minty but still sweet. Her lips are soft, vaseline smeared on them and transferring to your chin. You continue palming the strap through her sweats, and Paige groans like it’s an extension of herself.

“Want you.” You moan.

“I know. I got it, baby. I gotchu.”

Paige’s strap sits on your tongue as you greet it with tiny kitten licks. You should’ve known that Paige would’ve made your work for it after leaving her to dry for months. Which truly wasn’t your intention. Paige was attractive, women wanted her, and you expected her to get it elsewhere.

Obviously not.

Her back is flush to your couch, shirt hiked up to give you a view of her hardened nipples and perfect fucking abs. You grip the base, spit trailing down the length that you take into your mouth.

“Mhmm, put that fuckin’ mouth to work, baby. Lookin’ so sexy f’me.” She hums, pushing your still slightly damp hair out of your face.

You plant your hands to her thighs, taking the strap deeper just to prove that you can. A part of you thinks you enjoy showing out for Paige like this again, doing what she wanted when she wanted.

Her eyes flutter shut like she can feel your mouth, the warmth of your tongue running on the underside of her cock— and if she closes her eyes hard enough, she probably could. But the vibration is good enough.

“Four months. Four and a half fuckin’ months.” Paige says to herself between breaths.

You pull back to breathe, saliva connecting your lip to the tip. You’re completely mesmerized by her, you vulnerable she looks even when you’re the one on your knees with her cock in your mouth. You spit on it again, sucking it back into your mouth before taking the strap in again. You’re sure that Paige’s eyes roll into her head.

“You’re fuckin’ crazy.” She grunts, hips moving forward further towards you. “Gonna paint your face, I swear.”

Paige’s words send a throb to your cunt. You can almost picture it— her groans and slack jaw as she comes. You draw your hand between your legs, rubbing your clit that’s still covered by your pj’s. The stimulation makes you whine.

“That shit turns you on, ma? Just know you’re so fuckin’ wet.” Paige hums to herself. She decides to reach for your hair, tugging you up and off of her strap until you’re hovering over her.

Saliva dangles from your lip, and in her obvious lust, Paige sticks her tongue out. You’re left speechless. Paige was a freak, you knew that much, but she’s chasing after your fucking spit like she’s thirsty for it. Like she was dying in the desert and you were the only one to solve her thirst.

She almost slurps it up, the noise so vulgar that you moan in her face. Paige chases after your mouth, locking lips with you in a deep kiss. Your hips grind against the strap, paying no mind to the mess it’s going to create on your shorts.

“Need it inside me, P.” You plead.

“Celibate my fucking ass.” She groans against you, using her strength to push you to the other end of the couch. Her hands dig into your hips, clawing at your shorts so hard that you’re sure she’s going to rip them off of you.

You’ve never seen Paige like this, this needy, this horny. She dragged your mouth onto her cock with a fervor that was animalistic. Then now, her teeth nipping at your own lips so hard she might draw blood.

It’s hot.

It makes you upset that you held out on her for this long.

Paige’s hands slip to your shoulders, pushing the other strap down your arm and putting your tits on display for her. She breaks the kiss, lips trailing down your jaw, neck, and chest before finally reaching your nipple.

“Paige!” You moan, head thrown back in ecstasy as she pulls your shorts off next.

“No crotchless this time?” She jokes, making you think back to the last time she fucked you stupid. It gets her off, watching how desperate you are for her to make you come.

“I need you to fuck me,” You whine desperately, hand fisting a handful of Paige’s perfect blonde hair. “Please,” you beg. Your hips grind against the unbelievably long strap, almost as if they had a mind of their own.

“I like it when you beg.”

“I know.” You tug your black panties to the side. Paige smirks at how soaked you are, the way your slick drips through your folds. “Want your cock, P. Please.”

With your help in spreading your legs Paige is tapping the tip against you. The wetness of your pussy filling her ears like the sound of music. Your mouth falls agape at the sudden pressure. and she takes the opportunity to fill your mouth with her own spit. A fat glob falling on your tongue and you swallow it almost immediately.

“Tell me you want it again.”

You sob, body aching in need. “I want it, I want it, Paige.”

Without hesitation, the athlete thrusts forward, burying all eight inches balls deep inside you. It’s so foreign, months of being away from her to blame. A collective gasp escapes both of your mouths. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head while her mouth formed the perfect ‘O’. Paige eyes you like a piece of meat before connecting your lips again in a heated frenzy. Your back arched into Paige’s as she gripped your hips and began roughly pounding into your cunt.

“You hear her? Just screamin’ for this dick, baby.” Paige hums, her words sending a rush of more arousal out of you. A mixture of pleasure and ecstasy spread across your features as Paige established a fast and relentless pace. “You’re so fuckin’ easy.”

“Baby—”

She breaks the kiss. “Imma distraction, but you can’t get off without me. Can’t make this pussy cum the way I do.” The couch practically groans in protest, its durability tested as Paige’s grunts reverberated against your lips. The room filled with the intoxicating sound of your bodies colliding, skin slapping together in a sensual symphony that echoed off the walls.

You watch Paige tuck her shirt in her mouth, giving her a perfect view of not only where she digs you out, but your tits that bounce in her face.

She’s fucking the shit out of you. And that alone is enough to draw her close to that climax.

“Y-you— Paige, baby. You’re fuckin’ deep, fuckkkk!” Your eyes were tightly shut, face contorted in pure bliss as you cling to the blonde with every fiber of your being. Your legs wrapped around Paige’s thighs, ensuring that she couldn’t escape your embrace. “F-fuck! P!” You cry out.

“Fuck you stupid, yeah? Put yo’ ass to sleep. Make it feel so fucking good, huh?” She roughly pushed the fabric of your shirt over your head. The fabric slipped away, leaving you fully exposed. “Cover me in it, cum on me, ma.”

You want her closer, deeper, anything. So you wrap your arms around her neck, tugging the blonde so close that your forehead touches hers. She keeps thrusting, seemingly noticing that you needed more.

“I know you’re close.” You murmur, trying your hardest to keep your eyes focused on her. “Paige, oh my Goddddd—”

“Y—shit.” Paige’s legs tremble, and you notice the slight falter in her rhythm. “Fuck, you first.” She lets out a groan, followed by a chase of your lips. It’s soft, way softer than how she fucks you.

“I’m cumming, I’m cumming— I’m gonna cum, baby.” You babble over and over, your resolve fleeting your body as your orgasm creeps up on you. Paige lets out a high pitched gasp, her face flushed with overwhelming pleasure.

She tried to hold back, to maintain her composure, but failed miserably. A moan of pure bliss escaped her lips as she thrusts once more, practically balls deep into you as she comes. You let out a moan yourself as you feel the warmth taking over your body.

Paige doesn’t pull out, only pulling back enough to swipe her fingers over the ring of come that you’ve left behind. She brings her fingertips to her mouth, riding them out your taste.

“You left me out to fucking dry for four damn months?” Paige asks, her breathing labored from the exertion. She brings her hand down to your cunt, clit completely swollen. Almost desperate. “Left me without this shit for too long, ma.” She mumbles around her hand yet again.

She’s cleaning you up with her fingers, every bit of your release finding her tongue in almost desperate sweeps. You whine at the sensitivity, but let her.

Because it’s Paige, and you can’t fucking resist.

🔖 @thaatdigitaldiary @rosemariiaa @pboogerswbb @xxloveralways14 @bueckersbitch @d3arapril @wbbgetsmewetter @tndaqlwifwy @ykylalex @ohmybueckers @flipthepaige @janaelalfysblunt @cherryswisherz @courtsidewithlani @vamptizm @bdbueckers @makethemhoesmad @unadulteratedcyclepaper @omg-imtumbling @avvwritesstufff @luvnoirs

[k-aemi]

nagi seishiro & mikage reo ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ two better than one.

smut, threesome, dub(?), bondage, dark content(?), mentions of anal, not really a ship fic, more like experimenting, but take it however you want.

nagi and reo were practically at your mercy. they loved you s'much and would do anything to have just a bit of your attention. could say they were obsessed with you. your touch, your body, and your voice is what puts them in a trance. so of course theyll do anything you ask of them right? even if they hate it?

"cmon reo, seis right in front you, all bare and tied up..~" you breath tickled reos ear as he swallows his built up saliva. nagis blindfolded letting out some ragged breaths. hes nervous, he doesnt know what you guys were doing, or going to do. but all this is for you...hell listen to you as long as you give him the affection he so desires from you. he really cant hate you for that.

"i-i really dont wanna...feels weird...i only w'na touch you [name]..." reo exclaimed. sure nagi was his treasure, but hed never imagined to see nagi like this. the thought never even occurred in his mind. you fake your frown. "but dont you wanna make me happy?" you massaged his shoulders as your boobs touched his back. "yes...but." he pauses.

you let out a low hum as you crawled to nagi. settling behind him, now in between your legs. "just be a good boy yeah? then you can fuck my tight lil hole hm?" you smirked knowing that would spark up his motivation. your hand lightly touches nagis tip and his body quivers. "a-ah.." he lets out and its so cute <3

reo stays silent for a bit before sighing in defeat, he cant say no to that, he loves having sex with you, he cant give up that opportunity. he slowly leans into nagi, and he can feel his breath on him. reo gulps before cupping nagis cheek, finally closing in that gap as they connected lips.

you smirked at the sight, just seeing your pretty boys kiss each other stirred so many things that shouldnt be said out loud. their tongues ingulfed one another, soft little moans eliciting from both males as you stroke nagis cock. nagi lets out breathless moans while reo shuts his eyes shut, embarrassed from this, he knows the minute he opens them hell be met with your piercing gaze.

your stroking is teasing and you can feel his cock twitching. drools fall from nagis and reos lips, as they shared saliva and danced with their tongues, tasting each other. "cmon reo, come kiss his cute pink nipples~" you rubbed two fingers against his neglected nipple and he twitches under your touch, suddenly tensing as reo lightly nibbles onto it.

he swirls his tongue, sucking and biting and nagi is seen to be resisting his restraints, he needs to grab hold of something, it was too much. "[n-name]...please hold my hand.." he whimpered out. how could you refuse your cute boy? using your free hand you held his hand, tightening his grip on you on the sudden contact. you giggled. "'f course baby. is reo making you feel good hm..?" nagi knew what you wanted to hear, even if he doesnt wanna, its all for you. "y-yes..."

reos eyebrow scurries, he wants to be touched by you now...but if he does a good job pleasuring nagi, hell have you to himself. he suddenly traces his lips up to his collarbone, giving it tender kisses against the skin, then up to the neck. nagi lets out a whimper when he feels reo sucking on the sensitive skin, thats definitely leaving a mark.

"wow so eager reo~ ill definitely reward you if you keep up with the act~" you lift his chin up to meet your gaze, and he has this determined look to him. he nods and you squish his cheeks. nagi gasps as you suddenly let go of his cock, his hips thrusting into air as he already misses the touch of your hand. "h-huh [name..]? whyd you stop..."

you chuckled. as you grabbed hold of nagis chin to kiss his cheek. "cos reos gonna be making you cum, right reo baby?" your eyes shift to his purple ones and he blinks at you dumbfounded. nagi only whines again. "but wan' you to make me cum..." "shh...you guys are being bad boys by complaining, dont make me angry ok?" you cooed, giving him another kiss.

nagi can only comply. you eye reo, signaling for him to start. your gaze will always startle him, he slowly grabs hold of his cock, and rubs it up and down...painfully slow. you frown. "sei wont cum if you dont speed it up reo...better beg for him to go faster sei if you wanna~" you nibble his earlobe and nagi bites his bottom lip. he didnt want to sound so desperate to cum from reos touch...but he needed the release. "reo...please." his hips thrusts up into his fist. "your mouth...please fuck...use it...wanna cum." he breathes out.

reos eyes widened and he glances at you. you can only smirk and raised an eyebrow, intrigued on what hell do. your hands focused on pinching nagis little pink nipples and reo makes the decision if he should do it...but if he does youll reward him good wont you..? reo bends down to his cock level, the smell of sweat emitting from it filled his nostrils.

nagi was big, bigger than reo, theres no way even for him could it fit in his mouth. so he starts small first, sucking on his tip. "a-ah reo...please all the way..." nagis thighs quiver, feeling his tongue swipe over his veins, involuntarily thrusting into his mouth more.

"cmon reo, he wants to cum, youre gonna hafta go deeper than that yknow..?" your hand creeps up to reo, caressing his head and pulling back the hair that covered his face from you. smiling to yourself you can see him struggling to keep a consistent movement. "like this reo." were the last words he heard before your hand gripped his hair and guided him up and down on nagis cock.

"hmph-!" reo gasped out as hes forced to suddenly take nagis monster cock. "c-close reo...keep going..." the way his cock contracts with reos throat felt super good...not as good at you but itll do. he just wants to cum. you didnt even let reo get the chance to rest, his eyes shut tightly as you force him to take him more, deeper until his nose reached to his white pubic hairs.

nagis cock twitches and reo feels it. "does reos mouth feel good baby?" you nibble onto his earlobe. nagi hiccups a little, as he struggles to speak coherently. "y-yes...yes! fuck...i-can i cum..?" he rests his head onto your chest to meet your eyes, theyre full of plead and pleasure like hes losing his mind. you chuckle. "'f course baby you deserve it." you kissed him before a moan tore from his lips as his body jerked. "f-fuck..!"

reos eyes finally opened, but so slightly when he feels nagis sweet sticky cum spraying inside his mouth. "dont swallow yet baby." you pat his head. he holds it in, he feels gross, but just a bit accomplish at least. all this will be worth it he tells himself. nagis chest heaves up and down as he tries to catch up with his breath. you can only giggle at the sight in front of you, grabbing reos chin. "say ahh~" taking out your phone.

reos mouth opens slowly... the sight of nagis cum is splattered on his tongue, you take a quick snap and put your phone down, pulling reo into for a kiss, the taste of his saliva and nagis cum mixed together, you fucking loved it. youre definitely gonna keep them in your life<3

pls requestt :>

[rositaslabyrinth]

Tough love - Soldier boy

Soldier boy x female!reader

You have been really pissing Ben off, disobeying orders, causing trouble, etc. Ben decides that he needs to use his frustration and anger towards your punishment.

Content warnings : Rough sex, punishment, emotional frustration, domination, degradation, overstimulation, raw intimacy

Word count ; 1,945

Minors PLEASE do not interact!!

You’ve been pushing Soldier Boy’s buttons all night.

You know it. He knows it. But you can’t help yourself. There’s something about the way he takes everything so seriously, so rigid, that makes you want to test him—just to see how far you can go before he snaps.

Tonight, though, you may have pushed him a little too far.

You’re sitting across the room, arms crossed, watching him pace, the tension thick in the air. It started with a simple disagreement—something trivial, really—but you don’t back down, and neither does he. His jaw clenches, his eyes narrow, and you know the moment he’s had enough.

“Are you done?” he asks, his voice low, dangerous.

You just smirk. “Not even close.”

That’s when his patience finally breaks. He strides toward you in a few long steps, grabbing you by the wrist, yanking you up off the chair. Your breath hitches, but you don’t say a word.

“Enough with the games,” he growls, his grip tight on your wrist, pulling you toward the bed. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, feel his anger rising with every step. But you’ve seen this side of him before—the side that needs to take control, to remind you of who’s in charge.

“You’ve been pissing me off all night,” he murmurs, a dark edge to his voice. “And you’re gonna learn that there’s a price to pay for that.”

Before you can react, he pushes you down onto the bed, his hands moving quickly to strip you of your clothes. There’s no tenderness in his movements—just frustration, urgency. It’s like he needs to erase whatever’s been building up inside of him.

He rips your shirt off, then your pants, leaving you completely exposed beneath him. His eyes darken as he looks down at you, but there’s something else there, something that’s not just anger—desire, need. The frustration he’s been holding onto for so long is finally spilling out.

“Maybe this will teach you,” he mutters, his voice low, dripping with lust. He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand while the other moves down between your legs, feeling how wet you are for him despite everything.

You gasp as his fingers tease over your sensitive skin, moving slow, deliberate, making you ache.

“You think you can keep teasing me like this?” he asks, his voice rough. “Think you can keep getting away with it?”

You open your mouth to speak, but he silences you, kissing you hard, swallowing any words you might have said. His lips are hungry, almost desperate, as he kisses you harder than before, his tongue demanding.

“Answer me,” he growls against your lips, his hand still holding you down as his body presses into yours.

You whimper. “No… I didn’t think—”

Before you can finish, he’s inside you—hard and fast, filling you completely in one swift motion. You gasp, your body instinctively clenching around him as he begins to move, thrusting deep, each one harder than the last.

“Didn’t think what?” he demands, his pace relentless. “Didn’t think I’d put you in your place?”

You can’t even respond—your head is spinning, your body caught between the roughness and the overwhelming pleasure. The bed creaks beneath you with every thrust, and you can hear his breath, shallow and ragged, as he pushes into you again and again.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. “You’re so damn tight. Don’t think I won’t remind you who’s in charge.”

He lets go of your wrists, his hands moving to your hips, slamming you down against him harder. You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pounds into you, each thrust so deep you can barely breathe.

The room is filled with the sound of his skin slapping against yours, the air thick with desperation, frustration, and need. His grip on your hips tightens as he forces you to meet each of his thrusts, making you feel every inch of him.

“You think you can get away with messing with me?” he growls, his voice dark with pleasure as his pace never falters. “Think you can push my buttons and get nothing in return?”

His thrusts become more frantic, more desperate, and you can feel him losing control, just as much as you are. You’re already so close to the edge, your body burning with need.

“Tell me you’re sorry,” he demands, his voice sharp as he looks down at you.

You can barely form words, your breath hitching with every movement. “I’m sorry,” you manage to gasp out, your head spinning. “I didn’t mean it.”

He slams into you again, his body tense, but there’s a softness in his gaze now—almost like he needed this, needed to hear you say it.

“Good girl,” he mutters, his pace never slowing. The words only push you further, your orgasm building, that tight knot in your stomach growing.

Finally, with one last deep thrust, he comes inside you, his body jerking as he releases a groan of satisfaction. His grip on your hips loosens, and he collapses beside you, both of you breathless, your bodies still trembling.

You both lie there, trying to catch your breath, the weight of what just happened still hanging in the air between you. You’re both exhausted, but there’s something in the way Soldier Boy’s gaze lingers on you—something that tells you he’s not quite done yet.

You can feel it before he even moves. His hand grips your wrist again, yanking you into a sitting position, pulling you toward him with force. His chest is still rising and falling rapidly, but there’s no softness in his eyes, no sign of the tender side that had surfaced just a moment ago.

“You think it’s over?” he growls, his hand firmly gripping your chin as he forces you to look up at him. The edge of his anger is still there, sharper now, like it’s never fully been released. “You think I’ll just let you walk away after that?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you shake your head, knowing exactly where this is going.

He’s not done punishing you. He wants more. And somewhere deep inside, you know you deserve it.

Ben drags pulls you back up, this time pushing you onto your hands and knees, your body exposed beneath him. He takes his time, letting his hands roam over your back, your waist, your ass—teasing, but with that same, unrelenting energy.

“You want to push my buttons, huh?” His voice is low, deep, dripping with something dangerous. “Think you can get away with it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t think you can. But you don’t need to.

He slaps your ass—hard. You yelp in surprise, the sting burning into your skin, but it makes your body react in a way you can’t ignore. It feels right.

Another slap. Your breath hitches, but this time, you’re starting to feel the heat building in your core. You want more.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his hand sliding between your legs, finding your sensitive spot again with a deft touch. He’s not being gentle now, his fingers pressing harder, rougher. “You want this, don’t you? Want me to break you.”

You bite your lip, trying to stay quiet. He presses harder, making your body tremble with the force of his touch. “Tell me,” he demands, his voice sharp. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” you gasp, your head dropping as you feel the need building again.

He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating in his chest. “I bet you do.” His hand moves to your waist, pulling you up onto your knees, your back against his chest. His voice is low, almost a growl. “You wanted to test me, so now you’re gonna pay.”

He moves swiftly now, spinning you back around and pushing you back onto the bed. He hovers over you, his eyes dark with lust and something else—something that’s been buried beneath the surface, waiting for a chance to break free.

“You wanted me to teach you a lesson, right?” His hand moves between your legs again, but this time, he doesn’t let you feel any relief. Instead, he teases you, pushing you just to the edge, only to pull away.

“Don’t make me say it again,” he warns, his tone harsh, his hands pinning your wrists down above your head.

You moan, your body aching for him, for more. “Please,” you beg, your voice trembling. “Please, Ben, don’t stop.”

His smirk returns, and then he’s sliding into you once more, slow at first, like he’s savoring it, letting the tension build again.

“I’m not stopping,” he mutters against your ear. “Not until you learn what happens when you mess with me.”

The way he moves now is calculated—deliberate, punishing, each thrust deeper than the last, the power he’s putting behind it leaving you gasping. He grips your wrists tighter, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps as he picks up the pace.

You can’t think, can’t breathe—he’s taking everything from you, using you, and all you can do is feel.

Your body betrays you, though, betraying the act. The pressure in your core builds again, and this time, you can’t hold it in. You want this, you want him to keep going, even though you can’t keep your thoughts straight.

“I don’t think you’ve had enough yet,” he murmurs, and with that, his pace quickens, harder, faster, more brutal.

You come again, your body clenching around him, a mix of frustration and relief flooding through you. But even as you fall apart, he doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t stop.

His hand slides between your legs once more, rubbing at your sensitive clit, pushing you through it, overstimulating you until you can’t tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins.

“Say it,” he demands, his voice hoarse as his movements become more frantic. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe, your voice trembling from the intensity. “I’m yours, Ben. Please, don’t stop.”

With a final, almost feral growl, he thrusts deep, coming inside you as his body trembles with the release, his grip on you tightening as he holds you down.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The tension in the room slowly dissipates, and the air is heavy with both relief and something else—something you both needed.

But instead of pulling away, he’s still there, his body still pressed against yours, his eyes dark and unrelenting. “You didn’t really think that was enough, did you?”

Before you can respond, he pulls out and flips you over onto your stomach, pushing you down against the bed, holding you in place. He’s not done. He’s not anywhere close to done.

“You’re gonna take this,” he growls, his voice rough, his hands moving between your legs again. “And you’re gonna remember who’s in charge next time you think about testing me.”

He enters you again, no mercy, his thrusts brutal and fast, making you moan loudly with every movement. The bed creaks under him as he drives into you, using you to satisfy his frustration, pushing you past any sense of exhaustion.

Your body can’t keep up with him, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care. He’s determined to make sure you never forget this moment.

When he’s finally done, his body still heavy over yours, you’re left breathless and trembling beneath him. There’s no softness in his touch, only the weight of his dominance lingering in the air.

“Don’t ever forget who’s in charge here,” he mutters against your ear, his voice cold but full of a possessive need that makes your head spin.

Liz talks : first soldier boy fic guys and let me tell yall this has been sitting in my tumblr drafts FOR WEEKKKSSSS but I’ve finally felt comfortable enough to post it lmaoo (me and my insane posting habits I need a schedule BAD) so here yall go!! Any and all type of feedback is appreciated <3

Tag list : @deansbbyx , @nymphet-quenn , @juicifeur , @sunsbaby , @starzify , @bluemerakis , @aambearr , @blossomingorchids , @littlesoulshine , @daylighted , @wchswift , @emeraldcrs , @bossyblondie , @lunaleah , @pieandflannel

If you want to be tagged in any future works of mine please check out THIS post !!

[justalittlespore]

The last time I DMed for a group of people, I had just a bit of experience from many years prior, and most of them had no experience at all. But I'd built a whole world and loose story and was excited to share it with people, so I got this group together to give it a shot.

I made the mistake of having them start out as strangers, with a grand plan to bring them together as a group. You see, I was under the misapprehension that, having agreed to play this game, they were interested in the world and story I'd set up, and would therefore take the hooks I laid for them and find reasons to work together. Because I was a fool.

When they made their characters, I asked them to fill in some basic info for me, including someone important from their life (who was still living), their greatest goal in life, and what their character's main motivation would be to go on an adventure.

Half the players tried to treat the game like a single-player sandbox video game and got frustrated and accused me of railroading them when I asked them to please not run alone into the woods in the very first scene when the characters have all just met and been given a reason to work together. At the first sign of any kind of danger, one player would simply say "my character is a coward so he would run away" and refuse to take part in anything.

One player specified in my questionnaire that his character thought himself very wise (a devoutly religious monk, in fact), but was actually very foolish, and was the type to get drawn in by get-rich-quick schemes. So I prepared a hook to draw him into the plot involving an NPC trying to sell him on a get-rich-quick scheme... which he promptly refused to engage with because he'd decided that actually his character was too zen to be tempted with worldly possessions.

When I began to get exasperated, several of the players pointed out that a good DM like Brennan Lee Mulligan never seemed to have any trouble adapting to what players wanted to do. They were unreceptive to my counter points that 1) that is his entire job, which he is paid for, and 2) his players are skilled improvisers and all actively working together to tell the best story possible.

I feel I should note that at this time, all of us in this group were in our 30s. And not, say, 14-year-olds who you might expect this entitled attitude from.

After a few sessions of desperately trying to keep the characters in the game at all without totally railroading them, I asked everyone to please watch a couple specific episodes of Adventuring Academy with Brennan Lee Mulligan which were about how to be a good player so that everyone has the best possible experience. I had already told them that I was spending literally 8 hours per week planning these sessions and trying to find ways to keep things going and keep together a group of people who desperately wanted to be brooding loners, and I promised them bonus XP at the start of the next session if they would just watch one or two of these videos.

At the start of the next session, one player proudly announced that he hadn't watched the videos, and that he wouldn't, no matter how I tried to bribe him, because he didn't think that being a player in a tabletop roleplaying game should come with homework.

When reminded (again) that I was spending 8 fucking hours a week planning these sessions, for which I was not being compensated in any way, and which he was making harder, he shrugged and said that it was my idea to start this campaign, so it was up to me to keep it going, and keep the players interested enough to keep showing up.

I don't DM anymore.

D&D 5e supposedly has a GM shortage and idk maybe if the player culture of the game didn't treat GMing as a thankless job and the rules of the game as an issue to be fixed by the GM maybe things would be better. Ah well, who knows. Maybe a couple hundred more "we ruined the GM's campaign on purpose" memes will make people enjoy running the game better.

[moonstruckme]

*insert Bernie Sanders meme*

I am once again asking for Prince!Sirius, perhaps a tryst in the royal gardens? A stolen kiss while practicing a waltz? An eventful evening at the opera for the “engaged” couple? A midnight motorbike ride throughout the city, away from the palace guards? Sneaking out in the night to see each other?

Anything you’d like, of course, and only if you’d like to write it♥️I love you just as much either way, which is bunches and tons🥰

Thank you for your request!! I shall be using more than one of these haha :)

cw: migraine, arranged marriage

prince!Sirius x princess!reader ♡ 1.3k words

By the way Sirius talked about it and everything you’ve experienced since setting foot in the palace, you’d come to the easy assumption that the negotiations of your arranged marriage would take place behind closed doors you weren’t invited through. You never imagined you’d be involved. Though perhaps involved is a strong word for what you are now, sitting like an ornament at your grandmother’s side while her courtiers argue in civil tones with courtiers from Sirius’ kingdom.

The more you’re around Sirius’ parents, the more intimidated you are by both of them. Sirius can be intimidating too, all roguish charm and sharp-toothed grins, but his parents are different. They’re just…scary. You don’t think they’ve stopped glaring since they sat down. Every now and then, when negotiations don’t seem to be going their way, Sirius’ mother’s mouth will become pinched and small, as though she’s only just barely biting her tongue.

Evidently, marrying two heirs is more complicated than simply getting married. Sirius would have to abdicate to his younger brother, there are inheritances to be discussed, land ownership, things like dowries which you didn’t know still existed. It all faded away around the time your ears started ringing. There’s a harsh, zagging line across your vision now. The undersides of your thighs are slick with sweat. You have no hope of translating this bourgeoisie legal dialect.

Sirius is sitting on the other end of the table, but you’ve been able to feel his gaze all evening. At times he’s looked bored, others agitated, but for the most part when he looks at you his eyes are calm. Placid waters. A thick morning fog.

You don’t think either of you are meant to speak, but Sirius wouldn’t be Sirius if he didn’t break the rules.

“Well, this is tedious.” His mother’s gaze snaps to him, but the prince appears not to notice. He stretches, pushing back his chair. “I’m going to nod off if I don’t get some fresh air. Care to join me, Your Highness?”

For once, you don’t care enough to decode the looks your grandmother and her courtiers are sending you. “Sure,” you mumble. Nausea presses at the base of your throat as you stand shakily. “I mean, yes, thank you.”

Sirius escorts you from the room like a true gentleman. A hand on your back, opening and closing the door for you. He doesn’t even comment when you close your eyes and put your hand over them in an attempt to block out the light. Just keeps walking, guiding you around turns and through hallways. You don’t think to ask where you’re going until you step outside.

The difference is brightness is immediate. You drop your hand. It’s nighttime, the palace gardens dark but for small lanterns illuminating the paths in front of you. Those are bearable, at least.

Sirius waits until you’re seated on a bench to ask, in a more hesitant tone than you’ve heard from him yet, “What’s wrong?”

You nearly moan as you fold over your legs, putting your forehead to your knees. “I’m sorry. I’m okay.”

“Don’t do that. Please. I could see you sweating from across the table.”

Your nausea worsens. “Did everyone see?”

“I don’t think so. I’m not sure,” he admits. You appreciate that you don’t have to question whether Sirius is telling you the truth. He always does.

“Not very princess-like.”

“Fuck that.” Sirius’ hand lands between your shoulder blades, fingers splayed but unmoving. “What is it? Do you need a doctor?”

You let out a breath. It warms your knees. “No,” you mumble. “It’s a migraine. I’ve had them before, it’ll go away.” Not quickly, you don’t say. But eventually.

“Oh,” Sirius murmurs. Somewhere in the garden, not very close, there are crickets chirping. Faint. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“What can I do?”

You pause. Maybe it’s because you’re already feeling so wretched, but the simple care in his voice makes you want to weep. “Nothing really. It’s helping just to be out of there. Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says in a quiet voice. His thumb moves a couple times over a bump in your hunched-over spine, thoughtful. “The lights from the path aren’t helping, are they?”

“They’re better than the ones inside.”

“Can you move?”

You pick your head up, gathering your strength. Sirius’ eyes are unreadable in the dark. “We should probably go back in, right?”

He frowns. “No.”

“They’ll be upset if we’re gone for too long. I’ll be okay.”

“The longer we’re gone, the more they’ll speculate about an heir, and the more they’ll have to talk about.” He quirks a brow at you, eyes glinting. “Come on, gorgeous. It’s the right of betrothed couples to canoodle in gardens.”

You let him pull you up from the bench, trying to ignore how that makes you feel. How lately you’ve found yourself wishing the perceptions of you and Sirius’ relationship were closer to reality. You don’t want to be married, or to be a queen, or to have the pressure of producing heirs. But you wouldn’t mind canoodling in gardens. Only if it’s with Sirius, though.

He takes you off the path, into a grassy area walled in by trees and shrubbery. The only light comes from the stars in the sky. You’ve completely given yourself over to Sirius’ whims by this point, so you make no objection when he lies you down with your head in his lap, the dewy grass dampening your clothes.

“Tell me if this hurts more than it helps,” he says, positioning his hands on either side of your head. His fingers sink into your hair and begin to massage gently at your scalp.

Tears press at your eyes again. Not from pain. From relief, yes, but also a rush of aching tenderness. You don’t know that you’ve ever been treated with such care.

“It helps,” you manage.

“Yeah?” Sirius' voice is near a whisper.

“Yeah.”

“I have a hard time believing that when you’re not breathing, lovely.”

He’s teasing, a little bit, but his tone slips into sincerity again when you let out a long breath. “Good,” he says, thumbs making small circles at the base of your head. “Thank you.”

You don’t know how long you lie there. No one comes looking for you, or if they do you’re too far into the garden to hear them. The breeze cools the sweat lingering on your skin. Sirius is diligent in his ministrations, working his way from your ears to the crown of your head and from your forehead to your nape. It works. Your migraine doesn’t go away completely, but you feel better.

You open your eyes slowly. The stars wink above you with their cold light, but Sirius’ gaze is warm on yours.

“I’m going to fall asleep,” you murmur.

His lips quirk. “I’ll wake you in the morning.”

“We can’t stay here like this.”

“Why not?” he asks lightly. “I don’t mind. Most guys would give their left foot to sit here with you all night. I’d count myself lucky.”

Your chest aches. You’re not going to take him up on that, but a few more minutes won’t hurt.

“Thank you,” you say.

“Really, babe, I don’t mind.”

“No, not just…I mean, for everything.” Emotion makes the throbbing in your head worsen, but you keep your eyes open to hold his gaze. “For always being so nice. Just, thank you.”

Sirius must see the pain in your expression. His brows furrow just a little, and he brushes his thumb next to your eye, encouraging you to close them. You do.

You think you might feel his lips on your forehead. It’s too ghostlike a kiss for you to be sure, the tickle of his hair past your ear perhaps more wish than sensation. You pretend it’s real anyway.

[just4jinx]

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

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

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

“jinx?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDS Men with an Ace Reader

AN: As an ace girlie, I need this. If OOC pls ignore because I need a world beyond fucking please 😭

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn ace reader

Ingredients: 80% comfort, 15% cuddles, 5% confusion

My Fav: Caleb wins this (damn bro Xavier hasn't made it to this in so long. I feel shame)

Xavier:

He knew. Across lifetimes, watching you from a quiet distance, he had always known your nature.

How your love was whispered in words rather than felt in kisses. How tenderness was measured in presence rather than touch.

So when he meets you again, Xavier is careful. His touches remain light, friendly, never crossing a boundary.

He knows exactly where the line is, and he never pushes. Even when you are unaware of it, Xavier knows your language of love.

And it has failed to dim his heart.

Affection between lovers is not bound to the touch of skin. He loves you beyond the measures of time, so sexual preferences are of little hinderance to this prince.

Rafayel:

Coming from a culture where complimenting someone’s scales is considered a confession, Rafayel is careful with touch.

For Lemurians, such intimacies are sacred. Reserved only for those closest to the heart.

Despite knowing you for so long, he spends even longer getting to know your soul before seeking pleasure. He reads you like ancient tome, never rushing and with immense care.

And when your reaction to his touch is a flinch. When you pull away despite the vulnerability of your gaze, Rafayel does not push. He only draws you into the circle of his arms, resting his chin against your shoulder. Holding you without asking for more.

He is more than willing to love you that way, through the comfort of an innocent embrace. He is afterall the man, who gave you his heart when you couldn't; damning himself and his people.

Zayne:

He struggles. Hides his need. Your conflicting languages of love are not easily translated, and he knows it will take work from both of you.

He will never complain. Zayne never does.

But to him, your touch is the only relief from his curse. The only salve that mends the wounds Astra carved into him. To crave you in the way his body yearns, and to resist it, that is a testament even for him.

But he is willing to learn. To understand the touches that work and the ones that don’t.

And you, you would have to find ways to open up. To be vulnerable without physical intimacy. To let him see all your fractures and let him love you anyway. And allow him the same courtesy.

Sylus:

He will make it work.

King here will do anything and everything. Whether you are sex-indifferent or repulsed, there is no way he’s giving up on you because of that.

He does not need physical touch to enjoy time with you. Cooking dinners together, a kiss here and there, cuddling at times, or even just knowing you love him is enough. He thrives in the quiet steadiness of it.

Does he have needs? Yes. But he’s a big boy who knows how to take care of himself.

He would never make you feel guilty for what you cannot give.

Honestly? He’s probably the best at keeping you comfortable. He knows how to navigate your boundaries better than you do.

He makes you feel safe because Sylus understands that love doesn’t have to mean sacrifice.

Caleb:

He didn’t notice it before.

Hell, he’d acted as your fake boyfriend so many times, how did he miss this?

So when you freeze under his touch, when the realization of Netflix and chill dawns in your widened eyes, his heart drops. He sees the fear beneath the brave front you put on, the quiet surrender to give him what you think he wants.

And he hates it.

Feels sick that he didn’t notice sooner. That he made you feel like you had to endure it to keep him close.

He spends the whole night learning more, asking you questions with the sharp desperation of someone who has to get this right. His hand in yours, his voice low and careful. He needs to understand everything.

Gods, he can’t afford to make you feel that way again. He wouldn't survive it.

Because Caleb doesn’t need that from you. He just needs you.

[luvsbitca]

“Hello, Ravi?” Eddie answered the phone, a thread of nervousness in his gut.

“You have to call Buck.”

The thread turned into a thump of terror. “Why?”

“He’s really missing you and I think you need to talk to him. He invited me to drink but he hasn’t fucking stopped talking about you and I’m done.”

Eddie breathed out. “Yeah, I’ll-“

“Tommy?” Ravi’s voice came through the phone.

“Hi, Ravi, how are you?”

“Come have a drink with us,” Ravi said.

“I…I’m not sure if I…” Tommy said.

“You go first,” Ravi said, “I’m on the phone.”

Eddie waited a beat and then asked down the phone. “Remember me?”

“Sorry, just saw Tommy. I think I’ll drag him over to make Buck cool it for a while, he won’t talk about nothing but you if Tommy joins us.”

“They broke up.” Eddie pointed out, voice tight realising that Tommy was still in LA for the first time. Or rather that Tommy was there and he wouldn’t be there if anything happened or he hurt Buck again.

“They’re still friends though,” Ravi said. “Please call Buck later.”

“I will.”

“Bye, Eddie, I need to go. Have a good night.”

“Bye, Ravi.”

There was silence on the other side of the phone and now Eddie found himself desperate to know what was happening in LA.

“Dad,” Chris said.

Eddie turned to him and reminded himself that this was why he’d left. He’d call Buck tomorrow; he and Ravi wouldn’t get up to much tonight. Buck would understand that this was Chris and Eddie time. He’d make sure they FaceTimed Buck next time they were together; he knew Chris would love that.

do we think ravi called eddie after this and was like “please call him”

[kiwisa]

Good Old Days ✪ LH44

━━━━ PAIRING ! Lewis Hamilton x Ex! Fem! Reader

IN WHICH... Nobody moved on from your iconic relationship with Lewis and, quite frankly, neither did you.

user1 both lips smiled 

user2 Let's go!! The GOAT 🐐

yourusername Looking good Lew!!! ♥ by author

⤷ lewishamilton ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

user3 may i ask for your hand kind sir??🧎

user4 i wish i had the same relationship with my ex as lewis and y/n do

⤷ user5 I'm pretty sure theyre still fucking U cant be just friends with someone u were with for 4 years

⤷ user6 How about we let them exist in peace? Hmm? ♥ by author

user7 I NEED THAT JACKET RN

⤷ COMMENTS

Anonymous The rumors are definitely true. Anyone who is slightly invested in their story knows how big this is because even though they remained friends, she never went back to a Grand Prix in three years.

user1 43 minutes ago The interviewer had one job and he did not disappoint

user2 2 hours ago lewis this, lewis that... can we please appreciate about how beautiful y/n looks instead???

user3 3 hours ago In English we don't say "I got back with my ex", instead we say "I'm here to support someone really dear to my heart" and I think that's beautiful

user4 8 hours ago she looked good in mercedes colors but i must say the red suits her 100x better

user1 WTF DID I WAKE UP TO???

user2 I can now die in peace

user3 congrats everyone, we have officially survived the drought !! 🫡

lewishamilton I love you ❤️

⤷ user4 OK THIS IS NOT A DRILL EVERYBODY STAY CALM

user5 pls never put us through this again and get married asap ♥ by author

⤷ user6 AYOOOOO WHY ARE YOU LIKING THIS Y/N? WHAT AREN'T YOU TELLING US???

user7 omggggggg my parents are back together

user8 It's 6 in the morning over here, Y/N. I was not prepared.

arianagrande so happy for you both!! 🫧☀️ ♥ by author

⤷ user9 the way theyre everyone's fav couple. iconic shit if you ask me.

[lulunothulu]

“Come again?”

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: Hangman, being the instigator he is, asks Rooster a question that’ll make you both question your friendship.

Contents: drinking, swearing, KISSING, implications of sex, morning after, HEA. 18+

Your callsign: Canary

“Hey, Bradshaw!” Hangman yells over the loud music. “How many beers does it take for you to kiss little miss Canary?”

“None,” he smirks, looking directly at you.

“Come again?” You ask in disbelief.

Around you, the Dagger Squat howls and yelps, shaking both you and Rooster.

“Kiss her!” Phoenix starts.

Soon enough, the entire squad and chanting, “Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!” And you want to punch Hangman in the dick.

Not that you wouldn’t mind kissing your best friend, Rooster. He just doesn’t feel the same way, at least you thought he didn’t.

“If you don’t kiss her, someone else will!” Hangman yells.

“Who? You?” Rooster chuckles.

“Why not?” You butt in. Again, the Dagger Squad goes wild.

Only this time, Rooster looks a bit pissed.

“Yeah, kiss her, Bagman,” Phoenix encourages.

“Don’t encourage—” Rooster starts.

“Okay,” you shrug, pulling Hangman by the collar of his shirt.

You don’t get to kiss him because you feel yourself being lifted over someone’s shoulders.

Not someone…Bradshaw’s.

“Put her down! I was about to kiss her!” Hangman yells after you both.

“Fuck off, Seresin!” Rooster yells.

“Yeah, fuck off!” You repeat.

Rooster carries you out the front door of the Hard Deck, and straight to his Bronco. He places you down on the ground beside the driver’s side before leaning over you, his arms outstretched on either side of your shoulders.

“How dare you try to kiss him,” he play-scolds, a smirk forming on his mustached lips.

“How dare you care,” you spit back, also smirking. “I was about to kiss the best kisser in the squad and you fucked it up for me, Bradshaw.”

“Who said he was the best kisser?”

You scoff. “Please, Jake’s a menace but he gets laid more than you do.”

“So…I was an option?” He’s practically floating with how big headed he’s acting.

“You wouldn’t kiss me,” you say, rolling your eyes. “You’d be scared to ruin our friendship.”

“What if I wasn’t?” Bradley’s voice is gruff, low and steady. “What if I wasn’t scared of ruining this, us?”

“I’d say that you’re crazy,” you respond.

“Say you’d kiss me back,” he states.

“No,” you playfully answer.

“C’mon, Miss Canary,” he teases, this time pressing his body to yours and sandwiching you between him and his Bronco. “Say you’d kiss me back.”

He’s solid muscle on top of you. The thought of his body on yours, of him inside you, gets the wheels of your mind churning.

You play into it, after all, he’s not serious.

Pressing and rubbing your hips into his, you bite your bottom lip and bat your lashes at him. “And if I don’t?”

“With the way you’re pressing into me, you’ll find out soon.”

Sure enough, you feel him hardened against your crotch. The thought and feel of his length against you gets you so wet, you have to clench your thighs together to keep from getting any sort of tension away from between your thighs.

“Alright then, Mister Rooster,” you reply. “Kiss me then.”

Bradley wastes no time, his lips are on yours as soon as the last word comes falling out of your mouth.

His mustache tickles but you don’t mind. It’s his lips that make you want to melt into a puddle. They’re sweet, soft but insistent in the way that he kisses you. Tender enough to not hurt you, but hungry in the way that he’s been waiting for you to give him the green light.

Everything makes sense, his lips on yours, the way his hands cradle your head and snake around your back to cup your ass. The feel of his tongue slipping into your mouth sends you into a deep state of want and need.

You wrap your arms around his neck, and instantly feel him move the hand on your head down to your ass as he lifts you effortlessly off the ground and pins you to the window of his car.

Breathlessly, you pull away, searching his brown eyes for any indication of regret. Only, you don’t find it. You find hunger, lust, and something else you can’t place.

“Are we really gonna do this?” You ask.

“If you want to,” he replies.

You pull him in for one more kiss, a peck if you would, before pulling away and smiling. “Take me home.

~*~*~*~

The day after, you wake up feeling something heavy on your stomach. Turning to see what it is, you find Bradley sleeping beside you. The heavy thing on your stomach being his arm.

Oh god. Bradley’s arm is on your stomach.

You look under covers, pulling the duvet up and gasping softly when you see your naked body. You take a quick glance at Bradley, only to find he’s also naked beside you.

And by god is he beautiful.

“You like what you see?” You hear him gruff beside you.

You quickly pull the duvet back down, turning to face him. A blush creeps up your neck and ears when you find him already staring at you.

His hair is sticking up at all angles, his brown eyes are soft, and a lazy smile is formed at his lips.

“I didn’t realize we, uh…”

“Fucked?” He finishes. Then, with a wad of his brows, adds, “Made love?”

You feel your blush rush to your cheeks and cover your face with your hands. “Oh god.”

“Hey,” he starts, taking your hands in his and forcing you to look at him. “I don’t regret it at all.”

“You don’t?” You ask.

“Fuck no,” he smiles. “I’ve been wanting to further our relationship.”

“Wanting to be fuck buddies?”

“Y/N,” he groans. “Do I need to spell it out for you?”

“Please do,” you say. Your heart is pounding a million miles per hour in anticipation of what he means.

“I’ve known you for years and you’ve never caught up to the fact that I have feelings for you?”

“You have,” you suck in a breath, “feelings for me?”

He sighs, caressing your cheek. “Of course I do. How could I not? You’re a damn good pilot, smart, funny. Not to mention how fucking hot you are.”

He sits up, leaning on one arm and looking down at you.

“Y/N I want to be more than friends,” he tells you. “I want to take you on dates. Marry you one day. Have kids with you.”

Tears threaten to prickle and fall from your eyes but you blink them away.

“Please say you’ll date me,” he begs.

You swallow, trying to keep from laughing and pulling him in for a kiss. You take a deep breath, feeling the air calm your emotions before you smile.

“Okay,” you simply say.

“Okay?”

“Don’t make this a thing like that one book,” you joke.

He sighs with relief, leaning down before kissing you deeply, his mustache poking your nose. You don’t care though. You’ll gladly feel this if it means you get to kiss him.

When he pulls away, you laugh.

“What?” He asks.

“I can’t believe we had sex last night.”

He smirks, raising a brow. “Wanna do it again?”

You shrug, a fake serious expression on your face. “I don’t see why not.”

Ughhhh I’m loving me some Bradley Bradshaw lately. This was supposed to go out last night and my dumbass forgot to post it 😂

[littelovelunette]

Fragile Flower

Contains smut, mommy kink, clit stimulation, fingering, mirror sex, praising

Your breasts turned Sevika on more than anything. You thought it was weird because there was barely any meat on your chest.

And that was exactly what turned her on. Whenever you'd change in front of Sevika, expect a good pounding from the back.

Today was no different once you slipped that tank top off your body, Sevika was already behind you, hands coming to grab your tits and give them a rough squeeze.

She knew you could handle it yet she was always so gentle with you, cooing praises and more to you as if you were a fragile flower.

You loved the treatment though. You definitely weren't complaining.

Sevika's thumb moved on your nipples, rubbing the tip of it. “S-Sevika.” You stuttered and grabbed the frames of the mirror that she pushed you against.

“Dollie, fuck.” Sevika groaned. “You look so pretty like this.”

Sevika removed the thumb as if to emphasize her point, a small nipple peeking out under her meaty finger.

You whined at the imagery, looking away from the mirror.

“You know how to address me now.” Sevika whispered, her other hand tugging your panties down just enough to reveal your pussy to her.

“What's got you so wet?” She whispered.

“You, mommy.” You answered. “No one gets me wet like you do.”

“Mhm, that's right.” Sevika whispered in your ear, one rough hand rubbing your bare cunt. “That's right mommy, does now, doesn't she?”

“Y-Yes, mommy.” Your breath hitched in your throat once you felt her fingers pinch your clit.

“That's my good angel.” Sevika nipped at your neck. “My good angel who always listens to mommy. You're mommy's good girl.”

“I am.” Your lips parted in a pleasured sigh, legs trembling as Sevika's fingers rubbed your slit teasingly before the tip of one disappeared inside.

“Mommy, it feels so good.” you whispered once you felt Sevika's two thick fingers filling your pussy up.

You gasped and mewled in pleasure, your legs shaky and hands grabbing the mirror for dear life.

You'd lose balance of your legs any moment because of your sensitivity.

“Does it now, sweetie?” Sevika asked in that sweet tone of hers that made you melt against her arm.

Her fingers scissored inside your pussy before digging deeper making a slow whine drag out of your throat.

“Mhm.”

Sevika smirked slightly, one hand still playing with your small mound of flesh while the other busied itself fingering your pretty little pussy.

She wasted no time curling her fingers in that one sweet spot that made everything in your brain go fuzzy. You moaned loudly.

“Mommy… can't come so soon.” You complained, making Sevika tut.

“See, now you're being a disobedient sweetheart.” Sevika said in faux sympathy. “Mommy decides when and how you come. Let's try that again, shall we?

You whimpered but nodded. “Sorry, mommy… I'm sorry, please, you make me feel so good.” Your eyes rolled up as your fingers slackened over the mirror's frame.

Sevika's fingers were relentless and fast paced. Her thumb rubbed your clit in slow deliberate circles as her two thick fingers worked to get you off.

She pulled your nipple and twisted it making you moan loudly, squirting your release on her fingers. It came in a small spray of release, staining her fingers, your panties and the mirror surface.

Sevika chuckled.

“What a messy little angel.”

[shaunamilfman]

lost in translation [2]

pairing: Jackie Taylor x f!reader summary: You're her French tutor. Your methods may be a little controversial. College AU. note: any dialogue line in italics is French I saved us both time by not translating all of it. mdni. more smut. more jackie taylor praise kink Part 1

Jackie gasps as your fingers brush between her legs, already ready for you as your fingers come away damp. You trace a finger across her cunt, feeling out her entrance as you slowly dip your fingertip inside just enough to tease. Her hips shift instinctively, chasing the touch as her knees fall open wider in a silent invitation for more. Jackie always wants more, wants another touch. It’s one of the first things you learned about her.

It’s endearing, the way her eyes fixate on your hands when she wants you to touch her. She doesn’t always say anything–doesn’t need to–but her eyes always give her away every time. Like now. Eyes glazed and hungry for more. Her lips part, like she wants to say something to urge you on but isn’t exactly sure what. She bites at her bottom lip instead, worrying it between her teeth.

That just wasn’t fair: you wanted her bottom lip between your teeth, where it belongs. Jackie could be so selfish sometimes. You love the sounds she makes whenever your teeth come into play, the sighs and little whimpers she tries to quiet. The way she’ll pull just a little bit in the opposite direction to feel the skin pull taut. It’s almost unnoticeable, Jackie certainly thinks it is, but you pay far too much attention to her to let something like that slip by unnoticed. 

It’s funny, almost. Jackie usually knows exactly what to say to get what she wants. A part of you enjoys this change of pace, but a bigger part wants to hear her voice in your ear. Soft, desperate, and just the perfect amount of whiny.

It was the simple pleasures in life that you really had to look out for. And Jackie, flushed and pliant and asking for what she wants for a change in that sweet and breathy voice? That made the top of the list.

“How’s it feel?”

She relaxes at the unspoken expectation. Jackie was wondering if she would be practicing her French again today. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she considers, releasing her bottom lip from between her teeth.

“Good. Better inside,” she answers pointedly.

“Better inside, hm?” You echo as you press forward.

Finally, she can’t take it anymore. Her hands reach out for your arm, your shoulder, your back. Anything will do, and she certainly isn’t picky. She settles on your back as you sink two fingers into her.

“God, yes,” she breathes out shakily. Your hand rests on her waist as you curl your fingers, feeling the way she squirms beneath you.

“Fuck, fuck, please,” Jackie whines, clawing at your back as she tries to pull you closer. 

You laugh quietly against her ear, nipping at the skin beneath it. “That's not how you say it.”

Jackie groans, trying to turn her head to kiss you, but you pull just out of reach. You won't let her distract you that easily. Again. It was embarrassingly easy to fall victim to Jackie's whims if you weren't careful. She was dangerously adept with her mouth.

“S'il vous plaît, s'il vous plaît,” she tries breathlessly, the words falling from her lips like a prayer. She stumbles over the syllables in her haste to placate you, but there's no doubt in your mind what the words are. 

She's gotten quite good at that one, you'll admit. Please, please, please. The only words Jackie would ever say in a perfect world. Alas, she keeps insisting on leaving your bed. Jackie's stubborn like that. 

“Better,” you murmur in French, nipping at her neck again before soothing it with your tongue. You curl your fingers in reward, which earns a choked whine. 

Jackie always complains when you start this up, and yet she was always so wet by the time you slipped between her legs that she clearly didn't mind all that much. Not with the way her eyes lit up whenever you started speaking French, like it was just an instinctual response to the language to press her thighs together and squirm. 

God. Have you Pavlov’d her? 

The thought of Jackie sitting down to study or take her exam and thinking of nothing but you murmuring words in her ear as you took her was nothing short of life changing. Maybe you should feel a little bad about the whole thing, considering that she had sought you out for help in the first place. But the feeling didn't last long. 

Besides, she was the one that kept insisting that you move your regular meetings in the library to your room instead. It was her fault she kept finding herself on her back like this, pleading with you in broken French like her life depended on it. The way that Jackie reacted sometimes, you wondered if it really did feel like that for her. 

Sometimes she acted like she would die if she didn't get to come soon. 

“Your pronunciation could use some work.”

“Je m'en fiche, je m'en fiche,” she protests. She grabs at your arm, feeling the way your muscles move beneath her fingers as you fuck her. 

Jackie always likes to feel you beneath her hands, touching anything and everything as long as it was a part of you. Even when you were just sitting across from each other at the table, you'd eventually find her trying to play footsie beneath the table. 

“You don't care?” You tease. “Shouldn't you be practicing?“

“You're killing me.” Half-laugh, half-whine. All desperation. Just the way you like her. She's been so stressed out recently with finals coming up. Having her like this was a welcome relief. Still, you couldn't help but tease her. 

“Good. Maybe next time you'll study your vocabulary like I told you to.”

You knew that she cracked open the book when you weren't there, but sometimes you really couldn't tell. 

“I'll practice. Later. Promise.”

“Later, when?” You ask, letting your fingers still inside her. “During our next session? You might get distracted then too.”

“I'm studying right now.” 

“Not hard enough, apparently.” 

Her hips buck in protest at your unimpressed look, trying to fuck herself if you won't do it for her. You make no move to stop her as her foot braces against the bed for leverage, keeping your hand limp and letting her do all the work as she rocks up into it. She throws her head back with a breathy moan, clutching at you even tighter as she chases it. You enjoy the frustrated noises that leave her pretty lips until she stills and glares at you. 

Jackie digs her nails into your skin in a way that would be painful if it didn't feel so damn good. “Fine. Yes. Oui. Whatever you want. Just–s'il vous plaît.”

“Bonne fille.” You kiss beneath her jaw again, enjoying the way it made her melt beneath you. You pick your rhythm back up like you'd never even stopped. She could be so pliant when she got what she wanted. 

“Again. Say it again.” Whiny. Not quite a plea, but you answer it anyway. Don't you always, in the end? She's good at getting what she wants. 

You grin against her skin. “Good girl,” you repeat.

Her breath hitches, hips arching up to meet you. “Again.” 

“Hm?”

“I don't even know how–” Jackie groans. “Encore?”

“Is that how we ask?”

“Hate you,” she mutters, dragging her nails down your back. Her eyes flash with irritation when you let out a pleased noise in response. “Hate you.”

“Who taught you that one?” You ask absently, bringing a thumb down to circle her clit. 

“S'il vous plaît, encore?”

“Love when you ask nicely. Good girl.”

“I want–I want…” Jackie trails off with a moan, eyes slipping shut as she clutches at you. 

“Are you going to come for me?” You ask, taking mercy on her.

“Please–”

“I want to watch. I know you’ll look so pretty for me. Want to hear you say my name; could you do that?”

The words are barely out of your mouth before Jackie arches, her thighs snapping shut around your hand as she manages to cry out something that sounds sort of like your name between shuddering breaths.

… 

Two months ago

You’d like to say that Jackie had made massive progress since then, but it would be more honest just to say progress. Some progress. In what direction, you’re not sure. But progress has been made.

That wasn’t entirely fair. She was getting somewhat better. Jackie could probably manage an actual conversation with someone if they were patient enough and didn’t mind having to rely on context clues for the verbs she forgot to conjugate. You were patient enough, but you dreaded the thought of Jackie trying to actually speak to someone like that.

She would probably be getting even better if she would take it just a bit more seriously when she was with you. It’s not like she wasn’t studying outside of your sessions. That much was obvious. Jackie has improved enough that she has to be working on it by herself with real dedication, given how much trouble the language has seemed to have given her. Sometimes it felt like Jackie had improved too much in between sessions, but you never wanted to question her on it.

But whenever you sat down across from her, it seemed like practicing French was the last thing on her mind. You don’t get it. Having you in front of her should have been the best time to practice. That was when she should have been asking you hard questions, clarifying things she didn’t understand, or practicing her conversation skills without you having to prompt her into it. 

All she seems to want to do when she has you is twirl her hair around her finger and give you confused looks you suspect were only half-genuine. There’s just something a little too knowing in her eyes for you to take her at her word. Something that makes you wonder if she knows a little more than she’s letting on.

Like when she leans forward with her head resting in her palm, watching you with those eyes that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. The only person worth paying attention to, at least. It made you feel things you probably shouldn’t for someone you were meant to be tutoring. It can’t be productive to have a crush of all things on her.

But she was just so genuine. So attentive. So clearly uninterested in learning French.

The only way you’ve found to get Jackie to attempt a conversation in French was to talk about yourself or soccer. You aren’t sure what the correlation was. Maybe she was just deflecting. Still, watching Jackie stumble her way through asking you to watch her play this weekend was worth the time it took to get out here if nothing else was.

“So, what do you think?” She asks hopefully, fingers fidgeting with her notebook.

“Ask me again, Jackie,” you say, leaning back in your chair and twirling your pencil absently around your fingers.

Her head tilts to the side in an expression of confusion, even while her eyes keep flicking back to your fingers. You can already tell that she has absolutely no clue where this is going, which only makes the whole thing better for you.

“Come to my game this weekend?” she asks hesitantly.

You sigh pointedly. “In French?”

Oh, she mouths, a flush creeping up the back of her neck. “But I… fine.”

“Could–would–will you come to my game?” She tries in French. It takes her a few tries to get the phrasing just right, especially with how nervous the whole thing seems to have made her. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her this nervous ever, fumbling conjugations and stumbling over her words. It was like she was holding her breath the whole time and only let it out when you finally nodded your agreement.

Her shoulders relax immediately, her lips parting as she looks at you. There was something she had wanted to say to you right then, but she lost it the moment the words left your mouth.

“You’re doing such a good job,” you say warmly, not even sparing them a thought. Jackie certainly spares them a lot of thoughts if her reaction was anything to go by.

It was like you performed a factory reset on her. Error, error, Jackie does not compute. She stares at you wide-eyed, with something almost bordering on awe, before she breaks eye contact with a slightly manic, high-pitched laugh as she starts shuffling her papers around in distraction. The sound of her laugh lingers just long enough to sound strange and out of character. She avoids your eyes, almost dropping one of her papers and having to do an awkward lunge to stop it from hitting the floor.

“Uh, thanks,” she mutters after a long moment, still staring at the table, looking like she was trying to piece herself back together.

That was something you couldn’t stop noticing after that: the way she responds to praise. A good job here, or a that was perfect there, was usually enough to have her focus on what you were saying to her for at least another fifteen minutes. A lot of people you tutor respond better to praise than they did to criticism–you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, after all–but Jackie responds suspiciously well.

You kept telling yourself that it was only her competitiveness. It’s not like you can become the captain of a nationals-winning soccer team by settling for mediocrity, right? Of course she would want to hear that she was doing things correctly. That’s how you improve, after all. Feedback, praise, constructive criticism–not that you were doing much of the last one.

It wasn’t just satisfaction on her face, was it? It was nothing like the look on her face when she scores a goal, that smug satisfaction as she glances over at you to make sure you were watching. It was something altogether different, something softer shared just between the two of you. Something that lasted longer than it should, stretching out until it made you want to do something stupid.Satisfaction wasn’t what you felt when you watched her react to it, either. 

You should stop indulging it. Indulging her.

But it made you wonder, sometimes, just how much it was affecting her. Were you just imagining the way she shifts in her seat when you praise her pronunciation, or was she really pressing her thighs together? Surely it couldn’t be that simple, could it? It was Jackie Taylor, after all. Surely she had better options sitting around than her French tutor who couldn’t quite manage to teach her French?

The way she looks at you in those moments, like she was trying to suss out whether you really meant it or not, made your breath catch sometimes. You never gave it out when you hadn’t felt like she earned it, which Jackie quickly latches onto. She waits just a moment before she tries another exercise, waiting to see if you had anything else you wanted to dole out. A momentary flicker of disappointment crosses her face until she moves on down the page.

Jackie was always fidgeting with something as she sat across from you–restless hands that couldn’t stay still–but when you praised her? All her attention shifts over to you. Even her hands sat motionlessly in her lap.

There was a line you were drawing, clear in the sand. But every day it seems to get muddier and muddier, until finally you step right over it.

…

“D-décrire,” Jackie manages breathily, hips jumping when you reward her by lapping at her cunt again. You throw an arm over her hips to hold them down, tired of having to avoid getting your nose smashed by her errant thrusts. 

“Oh, fuck, uh–write? To write?”

Jackie whines as you start to pull away, almost crumpling the notecards in her hands in her desperation. “No! No. Describe? Its describe, please? S'il vous plaît?”

You squeeze her thigh in acceptance, making Jackie cry out as you let your nose bump against her clit with each flick of your tongue. She absently shuffles to the next card, trying to draw the moment out before you force her to pretend to study. Jackie shudders as she meets your impatient eyes, reluctantly turning her attention to your carefully written vocabulary cards. The two of you could have quizzed them the normal way, but she insisted on having your mouth right now. 

Let it never be said that you aren't efficient. Two birds with one stone and all that. Or, rather, eating Jackie out while she stutters her way through vocabulary she only half knows. The best of both worlds, really: she gets that orgasm she's so obviously fishing for, and you get to reassure yourself that she's at least learning something out of the time you're supposed to be tutoring her. Also, you get your mouth on her cunt, but that goes without saying. 

“Faire des courses. Something with errands… Running errands?”

Another squeeze of her thigh as you pay her clit some attention, a relieved moan leaving Jackie's lips as she shuffles it to the haphazard bunch of cards held precariously in her hands. You almost wish she dropped them just so you could tell her she had to start again. Not seriously, of course: you think Jackie might actually cry if you were, but the thought of her face when you said it might have made it worth it. 

Jackie's hips twitch up, trying to get more of the touch you've been withholding from her since you've begun. You've started paying more attention to her now, knowing how close she was getting. Both to the end of the stack and to finishing. 

The weight of your arm keeps her pinned more than she seems to like as she grumbles under her breath, her foot pressing lightly into your side in reproach. You dig your thumb into the meat of her thigh, and she pulls back with a whined complaint that's quickly soothed with consolatory flicks of your tongue against her clit. 

It's different now that you've moved up, like you've found her kryptonite. Thighs quiver just enough to be noticeable around your ears as they shut reflexively before you have to spread them apart again, an aborted roll of her hips to meet your mouth, the sound of her fumbling with little papers like it's everything she can do to keep them in her hands. 

“You–oh, God, there–you're cheating,” Jackie accuses. 

You hum in acknowledgment, not bothering to reward that with a response as you flick your tongue steadily against her clit.

A sharp breath, then a slow exhale as Jackie lifts a card up. “Qu'est-ce tu fa–aah…” She trails off into a moan, almost crushing the card between her fingers as she struggles to keep her eyes open. “...fais pendant ton temps libre?”

“Free time, maybe?”Jackie tries, cursing under her breath as you don't respond. 

“Hobbies?” Nothing, again. Jackie almost cries. “What do you do for fun? Please?”

You squeeze her thigh in acceptance, and this time she does cry out. In relief, in pleasure, you aren't sure what. Did it even matter when she sounded like that? There's still a few cards left, but if she would just ask… 

Almost as if she could read your mind, Jackie starts babbling. “Please. Pleasepleasepleaseplease just–”

She's so pretty, all the time, but especially right now–muscles clenching and flushed from her shoulders up, desperation written so clearly across her body. And she's been so good tonight, hasn't she? So patient, even if she did it to herself. You move your arm off her hips to wrap your arms around both her thighs, holding her open as you really dive in. Licking hard and fast at Jackie's clit as her hips jump. 

Jackie drops the flashcards with a relieved moan, her hand darting to fist in your hair like it was drawn by a magnet as the cards settle haphazardly across her chest and pool around her sides. 

“Yes! Please, like that. Like that.”

And who are you to deny her? 

She squirms beneath you, your arms tightening to keep her still as she arches up off the bed. It doesn't seem to take much now, not with how you've been teasing her all night. Jackie's been so worked up for so long–in Jackie time, not real time–that her thighs are already starting to tremble where they're pressed too tightly against your ears. 

It's like she's trying to ground herself with the touch, but it's a pointless endeavor. You're not letting up, not after you've waited so long to really have her tonight. You hadn't realized how badly you wanted her too until you were done with your little study session. 

This has to be the last one. You haven't managed to actually study in weeks. Every study session, no matter how good your intentions were when starting it, ends up like this. The two of you tangled up in one another, mouths and tongues and fingers. Jackie’s always the first to give in, but some part of you doubts that she ever intended for it to go any other way.

Jackie's growing frantic beneath your attention, soft pleas interspersed with breathy cries of your name as she grabs on tight to any part of you she can reach. She manages to find one of your hands on her thighs, tugging your fingers away. You’re surprised for a moment, thinking she’s trying to lead your fingers somewhere else entirely. You almost start to move to make room for your arm before she entwines your fingers together.

Her hand is sweaty, or maybe it was yours, but all that really matters is how tightly Jackie has to hold your hand to keep from losing it. 

“Please,” she murmurs again.

Doesn’t she know you’ll give her anything she wants by now?

… 

“I left your money on the nightstand,” Jackie murmurs against your ear, nuzzling her head into your shoulder as the tip of her cold nose brushes your neck. You shiver at the touch, trying not to pull away. 

Jackie was always so damn cold. 

“You make me sound like a prostitute,” you mutter, fingers tracing shapes along Jackie's bare back beneath her blanket. The two of you are pressed tightly enough together that you can feel Jackie's chest move as she laughs. 

“Not true,” she protests in a whisper, grinning against your neck. “Everything I know about French I learned from you.” 

“...That's not the compliment you seem to think it is.”

Jackie gasps in offense, nipping at your ear. 

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you're going to fail French a second semester in a row, and it's going to be my fault.” Surely she would have made more progress if you hadn't spent the last month before her final fucking her instead of studying. 

Jackie laughs nervously. Your eyes narrow as you slowly look toward her messy blonde head. 

“Jackie?” you question. 

“So, it's a funny story. I actually think you're going to laugh when you find out…” 

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, totally. See, the thing is I'mnotactuallytakingFrenchisn’tthatfunny?”

“What?”

Jackie clears her throat. “I'm not actually taking French. Isn't that, like, so funny?”

“You're… You're not… You're not even taking French?”

Jackie laughs, trailing off when you don't join her. “I said it was funny.” 

“Why would you even–what the fuck, Jackie?”

“I mean…” Jackie trails off guiltily. “I knew you tutored French, see? And I took enough in high school that I figured I could get away with it, maybe.”

High school French. 

That explains so much. She probably failed that too. You don't even know what to think of this information. 

“Why?”

“It sounds dumb when I say it now, but you're hot, you know? I figured I could just sit a few sessions and ask you out, but then you started talking in French, and it was even hotter, and it spiraled from there.”

“You've given me hundreds of dollars to tutor you because you had a crush?”

“It's my dad's money,” she says dismissively. 

You shouldn't find that as cute as you do. 

Jesus. 

At least you won't have to pretend to tutor her anymore.