#it tastes OKAY when it's melted

[koka-mi]

why does aldi's butter taste like that..........no. just no..it's so bad guys..,,.,,I need my mom to go back to ANY OTHER BRAND PLEASEEEE this is so NASTYYY

[pergaminaa]

Modern au

Dorian does have a lot of ideas when it comes to the things he and Manon can do on any day to relax and have fun (he does it mostly for her, because she needs to experience this and also to relax)

Friday nights are usually their quiet nights in. Dorian has taken to the habit of ordering food and they’d sit and watch a movie or two together. They always take turns picking movies (that was another thing because growing up Manon wasn’t allowed this kind of fun so the only movies she watched were those she could sneak around and watch without her grandmother finding out. So essentially with Dorian she’s learning what genres appeal to her and which ones don’t). Dorian is a little appalled because ‘why do you say you like this it’s literally stressing you out???’ Like I’m sorry but Manon is totally this horror film junkie that gets super creeped out but continues to watch them for some reason. Dorian honestly doesn’t know how to respond because she’s so invested but lowkey also so scared????? He just lets it go because she’s having fun (?) and he won’t get in the way of that.

As for the food Dorian usually handles that because if he asks the responses he gets are:

‘Anything is fine,’

‘I’m not really hungry’

‘…’

So really, he doesn’t bother asking anymore.

It’s giving her too many options and most of these are just giving her a chance to come up with an excuse not to eat.

So what he does is that he just narrows down the options.

He’d pick a restaurant and pull up the menu on his phone. He’d hand it to her to pick or just do that and ask her if it’s alright (he knows her taste so most of the things he picks are to her liking).

It’s what he does when it’s their nights off to relax and do nothing productive (usually on Friday nights) but it also extends to other occasions as well. They’d be somewhere and Dorian would order coffee and very possibly a snack so he just shoves his phone into Manon’s hand to pick. Like, he’s not asking if she wants something he’s just like ‘time for a break’ which includes BOTH of them.

[lamefish]

when fratboy!satoru takes your virginity you kind of expect him to be an ass about it. he's cocky as it is, and has a habit of gassing himself up too much when it comes to his... skills in the bedroom. if you're not listening to him talk about how he's the strongest, you're listening to him talk about how he's the biggest.

being the only virgin of your friend group was starting to grate on you and... a small part of you might've wanted to find out if there's any bite to satoru's bark. it's not like the two of you were dating or anything, but you felt comfortable enough to walk up to him one day during lunch and ask, in front of his best friend:

"will you take my virginity?"

maybe you expected him to blush. or freeze up. or at least trip over his words. but instead, the stupid white-haired prick looked up at you with the most relaxed expression possible and shrugged.

"okay."

and that's how you ended up here, sitting criss-cross applesauce on his messy dorm-room bed with his tongue halfway down your throat. a few empty cans of beer and abandoned cheat sheets lay strewn over his floor, and you hate yourself for letting this be the backdrop of your entry into the sex-having life.

but you can’t hate yourself for long because as he runs a hand up your thigh and under your skirt, you start to feel more excited than you thought you’d feel. he pushes you back, slots his knee between your thighs and bites at your bottom lip before trailing down to your throat.

still, it’s satoru, so when he pushes your panties to the side and feels just how wet you are for him, he laughs. “you get this wet when you touch yourself or is all of this just for me?”

“shut up,” you groan as he nips at the skin of your throat and gently runs his finger through your folds and up to your clit. you’re surprised he knows where your clit is, even.

and he’s not wrong—you’ve never been wet like this before. you can feel just how damp the fabric of your panties are you as satoru pulls them down your thighs and hikes your skirt up to get a clearer look at your soaked cunt.

“pretty,” he licks his lips. “wannna taste her, that okay baby?”

his eyes search yours for consent and you’re stunned for a moment as he waits for ‘enthusiastic consent’. you didn’t expect this sort of check-in from a frat boy. your nod seems enthusiastic enough to him, but just for clarity—“use your words.”

“yes. please, gojo.”

“satoru,” he corrects you. “want to hear that name when you cum on my tongue. cant believe no ones tasted her before.”

the use of referring to your pussy as ‘her’ is odd but quickly overlooked when he delves into your pussy like he’s dehydrated. tongue flat against your heat just to flex and circle around your clit. he sucks and bites a little and pulls you to your first orgasm in nasty speeds.

you cum on his tongue whilst his eyes bore into yours from between your thighs. white hair pulled out of his face by your hand as you tug the strands in hopes that he’ll stop licking at your overstimulated clit. it takes until you’re shaking for him to finally pull back and free his angry cock from his pants.

you think you gasp when you see it. he said he was big but you didn’t think he was a truthful man in the slightest. his cock is so heavy it doesn’t even stand at full mast—it fights gravity. satoru sees the look on your face and instead of sporting a shit-eating grin like you expect, he climbs over you and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“let’s stop here?” he asks. “we could watch a movie. oooh what about die hard?”

you giggle, your nerves melting a little at his words. “i’m okay, i want this. i am not graduating as a virgin.”

satoru snorts and, after rolling a condom on, gently pries your legs apart enough for him to slot his wait in between them. he guides your ankles to link behind his back and slowly runs the tip of his cock through your slick folds. “tell me if you need me to stop,” he says. “just relax. i’ve got you, baby.”

you actually manage to relax a little, focus on the feeling of being stretched as satoru slowly pushes into you until his tip is completely hidden in your cunt. it’s uncomfortable, but not unbearable. “keep going.”

one of his long fingers dips down to rub soft circles over your clit to relax you a little more as he pushes deeper. you’ve never felt so full, so sore yet desperate for more… you wonder if it’s always going to feel like this, or if it’s just because satoru is the one breaking you open to find pleasure in your insides.

he lets out a pretty moan as he bottoms out inside of you, the weight of his heavy balls resting against your ass as he stills and catches your lips in a wet kiss. his tongue slips into your mouth, runs over your teeth and pushes against your tongue as he slowly draws out of you and then, with a grunt that you taste, snaps his hips forwards into you.

that hurts, but there’s an odd stitch of pleasure in the way he’s broken you open. “sorry,” he speaks against your lips. “it’s better that i just got it out of the way, it can start feeling real good soon. gonna make you cum on my cock, baby. you want that?”

you nod, eyes staring into his as your foreheads meet. satoru nods back, licking his lips and smiling. “yeah? you wanna be stuffed full, huh? always knew you were filthy. but i’m the only one that gets to see it.”

his arrogance pulls at your lips. “until i fuck the next guy.”

snap. his cock splits you open at that, and though you wince and screw your face us, you’re letting out moans made for porn too. his finger on your clit starts working a little faster as he draws back again just to drive into you even harder.

“no,” he dips his head down to bite at your neck. “not until you fuck the next guy. i mean you can try, baby, but it’s not happening.”

“ngh, what do you mean?”

another thrust into you sends you further up the bed. you’re sure you look a mess but satoru looks down at you with such wide blown eyes that you could be convinced you’re from the heavens. “not giving you up that easy,” he groans. “you know, i fucked someone last week just because they had your name. got to moan it without being slapped. again.”

your hand flies up to his chest, almost in an attempt to slow his now mean pace. “wait you—ngh god—you like me?”

“i’m far fucking past like,” he moans, hips starting to stutter. any discomfort has faded into glorious pleasure. your stomach starts to tighten again and you know you’re close enough that he’s going to try and time your orgasms. “you’re so perfect. so much better than i imagined.”

your eyes roll back a little at the thought of satoru fucking his fist late at night to the thought of you. how nonchalant he was when you asked him to take your virginity, you wonder if he went home last night and stroked himself to the sheer anticipation of being inside of you.

“satoru i’m gonna—”

he cuts you off with a deep kiss. it’s sex and want and lust, but it’s also soft in a way you can’t describe—maybe even a little anxious after his confession. it might just be his pending orgasm, but you swear his lips tremble between yours.

his cock throbs as he drills it into you, hits your most sensitive spot with every single thrust. it’s like he already has you mapped out, because you’re both cumming in tandem with each other before long.

a part of you aches to feel his cum spill into you instead of the condom he wears, to be claimed and filled by his seed over and over. would he fuck it back into you? clean you off with his talented tongue? would he plug you with his cock until he’s ready to overfill you with a second load?

he moans into your mouth and pulls back a little to revel in your fucked out expression. your legs still wrap around his waist, boxing him in and keeping him close. you worry that in typical frat boy fashion he’ll make an excuse and run off to recount the fuck with his friends. but satoru pecks at your lips, then your chin, then down your neck again.

“what are you doing?” you ask, vision slightly blurred from the intensity of your orgasm.

“gonna make you cum again,” he smiles against your skin. “didn’t you hear?”

“hear what?”

he pulls back to look at you, a soft smile pulling at his pretty lips. “that if you cum at least five times when you lose your virginity, you’ll fall in loooove.”

[classyrbf]

nerd!gojo who can’t get you out of his head. Not a minute passes by where he isn’t thinking of you. So imagine breaking his little heart when he spots you swapping spit with some popular frat boy. He can’t help but feel jealous, even sad. It’s just a stupid crush, it’ll go away. Right? Wrong. Because the deal you two struck forces gojo to see you every few days for a tutoring session, where you hand over your chem work to him and he does it without hesitation like your little dog, only for you to jerk his cock and make him cum in return. Poor baby can’t help but imagine you doing the same to that jock. And he can’t help but grow curious the next time he sees you.

“Hey, um,” Gojo looks up from his desk, “who was that guy you were with earlier in the halls?” He blinked, watching at the way you typed away on your phone, your acrylics clacking against the screen, obnoxiously chewing on your gum with glossed lips.

“Hm?” You furrow your brows. “Oh! You mean that stupid jock frat boy Toji?” You sit up. “Don’t worry about him.”

“Is he…your boyfriend? I saw you two kissing…it’d be kinda weird if he was your boyfriend…you know—because—”

“Such a perv! Are you spying on me now?!” You scoff.

“No! No! I wasn’t! I’m not!” Gojo furiously shook his head. “I was…curious.” You carefully walk over towards Gojo, a soft smirk on your pretty face while you blew your gum into the shape of a bubble. “Sorry,” he muttered, feeling embarrassed, stupid for even asking.

“Are you mad? Mad that I was kissing someone else?” You giggle. “I only use that idiot to get into all the school parties.” He slowly turned his head to look at you.

“But do you—”

“Do I what? Jerk him off like I do with you?” You almost laugh at the idea. No way in hell. “I’ve only sent the desperate loser nudes to get off to. But you’re special, Toru.” You push his chair slightly away from his desk that way you could straddle yourself on top of him. “You’re so much more smarter than him. So much more handsome. And you do everything I say just like the good boy you are.” Your tone is soft and sultry, just enough for Gojo to melt right into your hands. He could feel the heat creep up to his cheeks, face flushed red and throat dry as you rock your hips against his slightly. “I get it now. You were jealous, huh?” You coo. “It’s okay, you can tell me.”

Gojo opens his mouth, breathing shakily, hesitating to answer. “Y-yes,” he quietly says, nodding.

A smile creeps up on your face as you get an idea. “Toru, have you ever ate pussy before?” His eyes immediately go wide, breaking eye contact with you as he looks anywhere around his dorm. “I’ll take that as a no,” you giggle. “How about we change up your reward today, hm? You get to eat me out, yeah?” Gojo sheepishly nods, shaky hands pushing his glasses back up his nose.

Minutes later, he has you sprawled out on his bed, his pretty face buried deep in your cunt as he messily eats you out, sucking, licking, slurping all over your clit and folds. His teary eyes stare up at you, addicted to the way you smile down at him and run your fingers through his soft, pillowy white hair, holding his head down. “A little more up—ah, yes, yes, right there—mmmm.” You bite down on your bottom lip, surprised at how much of a fast learner he is. In all reality, you shouldn’t be. He’s a nerd. “You like the way my pussy tastes, don’t you?” You moan softly.

Gojo nods without hesitation, his hands holding your thighs apart as he runs his tongue up and down slit before circling it over your sensitive clit. He can your juices running down his and chin and god, he’s intoxicated by your taste. Everything about you just has him wanting more and more. “You look so cute looking up at me over your glasses,” you sweetly say. “Makes me even more wet.” Gojo is trying his hardest to cum in his pants right now, but you make it so damn hard.

He lifts his head to catch air, licking your juices off of his lips. “Am I doing a good job?” He asks, bashfully.

“Mhm, it’s like you’re a natural.” You cup his face, running your thumb over his cheek. Either he’s a natural or maybe he’s just so desperate to eat your pussy that he’s doing a surprisingly good job. Whichever it was, Gojo didn’t care enough to dwell on it especially when you’re pushing his head back down. Your phone began to ring, you picked up within a few seconds. “Heyyy.” You smiled. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be down in a few minutes—mmph! What? No, I didn’t moan you pervert! Ugh, fuck you Toji, I just need to finish my tutoring session remember?” You roll your eyes.

Gojo could feel the jealously in his chest stir again. How could you make him feel so special and so casted out at the same time. But it only fueled the want to make you cum harder. He could see you were struggling to breathe normally, trying to hold your moans in. “See you in a few. Bye!” You quickly hung up, tossing your phone aside. “Fuck! What’s gotten into—oh, fuck! Ah, mmph! Yes, yes, yes, I’m gonna cum!” You grip onto his hair, rocking your hips against his face as you came undone, lewd moans and gasps filling the room.

Gojo sat up, staring at you, his glasses slightly fogged. “Did it feel good?”

“First time eating pussy and you already made me cum? I’m shocked, honestly,” You say, slipping on your panties and pulling down your skirt. “Thanks for the orgasm, sweets, but I really gotta go. Mwah!” You blew a kiss at him, snatching your phone off of his bed.

“Going to see Toji?” He couldn’t help himself.

“Ugh, Gojo stop getting all possessive and jealous. We’re not a thing. See you in a few days for the next assignment.” You rolled your eyes, tapping away on your phone.

"Oh...okay, sorry—" you walked out his dorm room, slamming the door. And once again, he was left there completely entangled with his thoughts and feelings. None of them good.

[dior-luxury]

You Being Super Oblivious Of Them Flirting With You

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/light romance - no prns .

- [𝐜𝐡.] 3rd years

- [𝐩:𝐬] slow burn . one-sided pinning (resolved) . light comedy . mild suggestiveness . teasing/banter . slight jealousy

Note: I sat down to write cute flirty headcanons and instead accidentally wrote all of these guys having a romantic breakdown in about their crush being so oblivious about the flirting. 💀 Then I thought they where good and just decided to go with that as the prompt!

Trey Clover

It had been going on for weeks.

Subtle, harmless gestures at first—sharing his homemade treats, seeking you out in the hallways between classes, and always making sure there was a spare seat beside him at Heartslabyul’s long, rose-lined table. You always took it. Smiling up at him, laughing at his jokes, even leaning against his shoulder sometimes when the evenings stretched long and drowsy under the golden canopy of dusk.

And yet.

You were completely, utterly oblivious.

“You’re really good at baking, Trey,” you complimented one day as he handed you a small, ribbon-tied box of matcha-flavored sweets, his personal recipe he never shared. You bit into one, eyes lighting up in delight. “I don’t know how someone like you is still single.”

Trey blinked.

“...Someone like me?”

“Yeah! Tall, dependable, cute smile—you’re like...dad boyfriend material.”

If he had been drinking tea, he might’ve choked.

Dad boyfriend material?!

Despite the polite, affable smile he wore, a faint twitch of disbelief rippled across his temple. Trey had dropped so many hints—letting you taste frosting off his finger in the kitchen, gently brushing your hair out of your eyes when you leaned too close to the oven, even calling you “sweetheart” under his breath when you dozed off during a study session.

And yet, here you were. Thinking he was some domestic teddy bear.

The final straw came during a Heartslabyul tea party, when you reached over to wipe a crumb from the corner of his mouth with your thumb, completely unaware of how red his ears turned.

“You’re always such a mess after eating cake,” you scolded gently.

“You do realize,” he said slowly, looking into your eyes with a rare, unreadable intensity, “that I only ever bring you the first slice.”

“Huh? I just thought I was lucky!” you grinned.

That did it.

He leaned in, lowering his voice as he caged you between the chair and the hedge behind. His gloved hand gently tipped your chin up. “I’ve been flirting with you for months,” he murmured. “How much more obvious do I have to be, shortcake?”

Your mouth dropped open. “Wha—wait, what?!”

Trey laughed softly, finally letting his forehead rest against yours, the tension melting into something warm, golden, and soft. “I swear, you’re sweeter than my tarts and twice as dense.”

Cater Diamond

“Okay, I give up,” Cater announced dramatically, collapsing face-down on the common room couch. “I’ve tried everything, and they still don’t get it.”

From behind his phone screen, he peeked at you sitting nearby, nose buried in a magazine, completely unaware of his suffering.

It had started as a game at first—light teasing, exaggerated winks, the occasional compliment laced with glittering charm.

“Looking good today, babe~” he’d say, snapping a selfie of the two of you while slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“Thanks, Cater! You look amazing too, as always!”

But you always said it like a friend. With zero hesitation, zero fluster, zero realization. You treated his affection like background noise—a quirk of his personality.

Even when he’d rested his head in your lap after a long day and looked up at you with dreamy, sleepy eyes and whispered, “You’d make a perfect boyfriend, y'know... if you’d let me,” you just chuckled and patted his hair.

“Aw, Cater, that’s sweet. You’d be a great boyfriend for someone, definitely.”

Someone.

SOMEONE.

He practically screamed into his pillow when he got back to his dorm that night.

Every day since then had been a desperate escalation. He started bringing you your favorite snacks, styling your hair for fun, sending you good morning texts with pet names like “sunshine” or “my star.” You responded with gifs. Gifs.

Finally, in a move of last-ditch desperation, he planned the boldest romantic gesture he could think of.

Cater rented out the photo booth in town, the one with the glitter backgrounds and soft lighting. He dragged you inside under the pretense of wanting “a bestie shoot,” and waited for the moment the countdown began.

Three…

Two…

One—

He turned, cupped your face, and kissed your cheek.

Click. Flash.

You blinked at him.

“Cater?? What was that for?”

He stared.

“No, seriously. Are you okay? Did you think I was sad or something? You can talk to me, y’know.”

Cater threw his hands up and groaned.

“You’re the one I like!! You! Not as a friend, not as a selfie buddy, not as a human pillow—I like you, you dense little cinnamon bun!”

Your eyes widened. “Wait. Are you flirting with me?”

He looked like he aged five years in five seconds.

“Yes. YES, BABE. That’s what the last four months were. Flirting. Full-throttle, heart-eyes, rom-com level flirting!”

“…Oh.”

A pause. Then, sheepishly:

“So… wanna take another photo? This time, maybe I kiss you on the lips?”

Cater blinked at your soft smile and the way your hand found his.

And just like that, every ounce of frustration melted into sparkly euphoria. “Oh my Seven,” he whispered with a grin. “Finally.”

Leona Kingscholar

Leona was not a man known for patience. In fact, most of the time, he prided himself on getting what he wanted with the least amount of effort. He was sharp, cunning, and confident enough to know that most people would bend over backward just to get a sliver of his attention. So when he set his sights on you—you, with your soft laugh, bright eyes, and completely clueless smile—he assumed it would be easy.

It wasn’t.

It started small. He’d lounge in the botanical gardens where he knew you always came to study. He made sure to growl off anyone else who might sit nearby, leaving the two of you in your own little secluded corner. He'd toss you the occasional compliment, his voice lazy and low.

“Tch. That look suits you, herbivore. Finally got some style.”

You’d blink at him with that warm, clueless grin. “Oh? Thanks, Leona. My friend helped me pick this outfit.”

He resisted the urge to growl. Again.

Then he escalated. He’d sit closer—closer than anyone would consider “just friends.” He'd drop hints laced with suggestion, his amber eyes narrowing when you remained oblivious. He once even played with your hair, idly running his fingers through it while you yawned and continued taking notes on magical herbology.

It got to the point where Ruggie cornered you in the hallway, shaking his head in disbelief. “You seriously don’t get it? He’s basically marking his territory every time you’re near!”

“Huh? Leona? Nah, he’s just... touchy sometimes.”

Leona nearly tore his textbooks in half when he heard that.

The final straw came one warm afternoon when you plopped down beside him under the shade of a sprawling tree. You smiled and passed him a snack you'd made, and Leona, in a bold move of desperation and hunger for your attention, leaned down and bit into it directly from your hand, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

You just blinked and said, “You must’ve been really hungry!”

Leona threw himself backward into the grass with a groan, covering his eyes with his arm.

“Seven hells, you’re dense,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

He sat up again, eyes narrowed, voice husky. “Do I need to spell it out for you, herbivore? I’m not just hanging around you ‘cause I’m bored. I’m trying to get you to notice me.”

You tilted your head, confused. “But I do notice you…”

“No,” he growled, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly, tugging you closer. “Notice me. As in, I want you. You. Me. Together. You seriously didn’t get that?”

You froze. And then it hit you like a freight train. The closeness, the compliments, the touches, the possessiveness—

“Oh... OH.”

Leona smirked, fangs glinting in the sun. “Took you long enough.”

Vil Schoenheit

Vil was always graceful, always poised, always in control. He calculated every step, every glance, every smile. So naturally, when he decided to pursue you, he did it with the same precision he applied to a stage performance or a red-carpet event. Subtle glances, gentle compliments, a brush of his fingers across your shoulder. It was a slow-burning courtship that he expected would sweep you off your feet.

But instead?

Nothing.

Nothing but your charming smile and occasional, completely unbothered “Thank you, Vil!” or “You’re so sweet!” before skipping off to your next class.

He chalked it up to modesty at first. Maybe you were shy. Maybe you wanted to play hard to get. But by week three, when he sent you a handpicked bouquet of enchanted roses and you gave them to Professor Trein’s cat because “it matched her fur,” Vil nearly fainted on the spot.

So, he got bolder.

One afternoon, he strode into your dorm’s common room while you were curled up on a couch with a book. Wordlessly, he slipped beside you and sat right in your lap, settling as gracefully as ever, legs crossed, arm lazily draped around your shoulders.

You blinked. “Are you tired? You can sit here as long as you need.”

Vil’s eye twitched.

“Tired? No, darling, I wanted to sit somewhere comfortable and charming. Surely you understand the appeal.” He leaned in, his breath tickling your ear. “Or is my lap too forward for your delicate sensibilities?”

You laughed lightly. “Nope! You’re light. I didn’t even notice the weight. Kinda like a cat. A really fashionable one.”

Fashionable cat?!

Vil nearly stood up right then and there, scandalized. But no—he took a deep breath. Composure. Poise.

Until you reached up and started patting his head.

“You’re so pretty, Vil. I hope I can be as pretty as you one day.”

“…I’m not trying to be ‘pretty like you,’ I’m trying to be yours,” he hissed in exasperation, face dangerously close to yours.

You blinked again. “Wait… what?”

Vil’s patience finally snapped like a taut ribbon.

“For the love of all that is radiant—I have been flirting with you for months. I’ve complimented you, made time for you, bought you gifts, and now I am literally sitting on your lap! What more must I do? Wear a sign that says ‘I want to be yours’?”

You gaped at him.

“…I thought you were just naturally dramatic.”

Vil groaned, burying his face in your neck. “You’ll be the death of me.”

You awkwardly wrapped your arms around him, finally catching on. “Wait, so… you like me?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, expression softening ever so slightly. “I more than like you. But you, sweet potato, are so hopelessly dense.”

You laughed nervously, cheeks burning. “I’m really sorry… but, um… I like you too. I just didn’t think you’d like someone like me.”

Vil huffed, but a genuine smile curled on his lips. “Well, you’re mine now. And you’ll never be oblivious again, because I won’t give you the chance to miss it.”

Rook Hunt

To Rook, this was a challenge—a delicious, exquisite one.

He was well aware of how utterly unaware you were. The first time he realized, it was during archery club. He complimented the way your arms flexed as you pulled the bowstring, his tone sultry, his gaze locked on you like you were his prey.

You grinned and said, “Haha, thanks! I’ve been working out my shoulders. Good for posture!”

He tilted his head, lips curled in amusement. “Ah, ma colombe, you are truly a creature of mystery~”

But instead of giving up, Rook only doubled down. He started leaving flowers at your desk with poetic notes—sometimes with metaphors so thick they practically screamed “I am in love with you!”

You just thought it was a Rook thing.

“You’re so sweet! You write such beautiful stuff. Have you thought of joining the poetry club?”

Poetry club…?! Mon dieu, I am baring my soul!

He even tried the "accidental touch" method—fingers brushing yours when passing a book, hands lingering too long during sparring practice. Yet you never reacted with more than a casual smile and a “You okay?”

And Rook? He found it thrilling.

“This unawareness… this resistance… c’est magnifique!” he whispered one day, watching you from the balcony like a Shakespearean ghost. “You are like a doe in the forest, unaware of the eyes that follow you in reverent adoration…”

The final straw was when he kissed the back of your hand under the moonlight after walking you to your dorm. With an air of mystery and drama, he looked into your eyes and murmured, “Bonsoir, ma lumière…”

You giggled. “Wow, you really should join the drama club. That delivery was incredible.”

Rook clutched his chest like he’d been shot, but he was laughing too. Of course. Of course you didn’t get it.

But that just made him want you more.

“I shall make it my mission to pierce through the veil of innocence that blinds you, mon trésor,” he declared to the stars. “You will see me—not as a friend, not as a fellow student—but as the man who has adored you all this time.”

Idia Shroud

It was exhausting trying to flirt with someone who didn’t even realize you were the final boss in their dating sim.

Idia never considered himself bold—not IRL, anyway. Most of his romantic experience came from watching his OTPs go through slow-burn arcs in visual novels or tragic anime love stories. But when it came to you, he was trying. Like, genuinely. In his own glitchy, socially awkward way.

He’d wait outside your classroom “totally coincidentally” with his tablet in hand, acting like he wasn’t tracking your class schedule to the minute. He even upgraded Ortho’s AI recognition software just to find excuses to walk past you more often. He quoted romantic lines from his favorite games to you, hoping you’d get it—but every single time?

You’d just blink. Smile. Nod like he was being cute.

“Oh, that line was so poetic! Is that from a movie or something?”

“B-bro that’s from Stellar Lust IV! The confession scene where the star-crossed lovers reunite under a dying moon! Are you seriously not…? Nvm.”

One afternoon, he got bold. He invited you to his room. That alone should’ve been a confession—no one entered his sacred gaming lair unless they had maximum trust level.

He cleared off a place on the bed, installed RGB mood lighting, even had anime OSTs playing softly in the background. He hyped himself up for weeks for this. He was going to drop a flirt so obvious, even a level 1 NPC could read it.

“So, u-uh, you ever wonder what it’d be like to… y’know… date a genius tech prince who could hack into the city grid just to turn all the traffic lights green for you?”

You tilted your head. “That sounds dangerous… but also kind of cool? Is this part of your new game concept?”

He.exe stopped working.

The blue flames of his hair turned pink for half a second before sizzling back.

He mumbled something incoherent and turned back to his computer, pulling his hoodie so far over his head he looked like a turtle. “N-no, yeah, that was just… haha… worldbuilding...”

He’d keep trying though. One day, he’d craft a cutscene so perfect, even you couldn’t ignore the affection coded into every line.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus was not used to being ignored. Or overlooked. Or, heaven forbid—misunderstood. He was the Crown Prince of Briar Valley, the most feared and powerful student on campus. And yet, here he was, casting ancient spells to conjure glowing roses and coaxing fireflies into hearts over your tea cup—only for you to respond with:

“Wow, Malleus! You always make things so aesthetic!”

He blinked. "Aesthetic?"

“Yeah! Super vibey. You should be a party planner.”

He nearly short-circuited.

This had been happening for weeks. He’d memorized your schedule, just so he could “coincidentally” be where you were. He’d offer to walk you home under the stars, hoping for soft-spoken confessions—but you only asked him if he thought raccoons had hierarchies in their little trash kingdoms.

...You were enchanting. But you were driving him mad.

One day, after finding yet another love poem he’d slipped into your book returned with grammar corrections (you thought he was practicing his prose), he decided on something bold. Direct. Unmistakable.

“Child of man,” Malleus said one twilight evening as you both sat beneath a tree, “if I were to tell you that my heart beats differently in your presence, that the night air tastes sweeter when you laugh—what would you say?”

You tilted your head, thinking. “I’d say you have a really poetic way of saying you like hanging out.”

“I do not merely like hanging out,” he said slowly, brow twitching. “I wish to court you.”

You stared. “Like… on trial?”

“…Romantically.”

“Ohhhh.”

Silence.

“Wait, me?!”

Malleus closed his eyes and inhaled. Patience. He could wait a thousand years more. But hopefully not.

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia Vanrouge had seen centuries of war, peace, love, loss—and yet nothing, nothing, had prepared him for the sheer unshakable obliviousness that was you.

It started innocently enough.

He’d toss a wink your way whenever he passed by in the hallway. He brought you little trinkets from the village during his off-campus ventures—flowers woven into chains, sweets with hearts drawn on the wrappers, one time even a hairpin shaped like a bat. You had smiled and thanked him with the kind of radiant purity that could blind a mortal man. And then you tucked the bat hairpin in your pencil case.

Your pencil case. Like he was a math worksheet and not a 700+ year old fae trying to court you.

Still, he found it endearing. You were cute in a way that made his ageless heart ache, and he loved a challenge. So he tried harder.

“You know,” he drawled one afternoon, leaning over your shoulder with a voice like velvet, “in my youth, a suitor might serenade their beloved beneath the moonlight.”

“That’s sweet,” you said, eyes on your textbook. “Did they ever get noise complaints?”

He blinked. “...Noise complaints?”

“Well, if it was late and they were singing outside someone’s window… I bet a lot of people weren’t exactly swooning.”

For a moment, Lilia just stared at you. And then he burst out laughing, so hard he had to wipe a tear from his eye.

“You are either brilliantly teasing me,” he chuckled, “or heartbreakingly naive.”

You smiled at him, not understanding in the slightest.

The final straw came when he invited you for a midnight flight—romantic, intimate, just the two of you soaring above the moon-drenched trees. You screamed with laughter and clung to him the entire way, yelling about how cool it was and how friends like him were the best.

“Friends,” Lilia repeated afterward, voice soft and low as you happily ate the little picnic he’d prepared.

You looked up. “Yeah. I’m lucky to have you.”

He sighed with a small, defeated smile, but his eyes were warm. “The luck,” he murmured, “is all mine, dear.”

[nanamisgirly]

part.1 part.2

˖ 𑣲 comments and reblogs are always appreciated ma girliiies <333

virgin!nerdjo, ever the diligent student, stumbles upon tutorial on nipple sucking—so what does he do? he goes to the nearest pharmacy and buy a baby bottle to practice on. he got a baddie to please, after all. one who's already let him come inside her by the way and in record time. but also one who's experienced. and he's…well, him.

virgin!nerdjo frowns at the taste the moment he tries it, straight-up plastic. but still, he follows the video instructions step by step, phone in one hand, bottle nipple in his mouth, trying his best to mimic the motions—rewinding it over and over determined to get it right.

but of course, he's super bad at hiding stuff :( so the next time you're in his room you spot it on his desk, half-hidden behind his clutter of notebooks and cables. it's sightly chewed at the tip. and it definitely got your attention. “satoru…is this…yours?”

virgin!nerdjo goes red in seconds—like a cartoon character caught with porn.  “w-what? n-no…” he tries, voice already cracking. you look at him, eyebrows lifted, tilting your head in amusement as a smirk tugs at your lips like you knowevery single embarrassing thought he's ever had. 

he groans in defeat, “yes…it is.” his eyes are glued to the floor, cheeks blazing. he feels like if the ground could just swallow him whole right now, that'd be great. but for some reasons, his mouth had other plans, seems like it can't just shut up for his own good, “there was this video. a bunch of them, actually. about,um…nipple technique.” he stammers, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, eyes still avoiding yours “y'know like…oral stuff. and one of the top comments said it helps to practice on biberon because…it's kind of squishy? and it has resistance…” 

you just stare at virgin!nerdjo, blank and expressionless. he feels so so dump. even dumper than when he cum in two seconds top-chrono in you. “i wanted to do it right!” he blurts, tugging his collar, desperately trying to get himself out of this. “last time i—uh—i lasted like one second. inside you. and you were so nice about it, but i wanna be better. I wanna make you feel good, not just…blow in my pants and cry.”

you walk slowly to him, eyes soft, voice lower. “so you practiced. on a baby bottle.” he nods, mortified. “and did it help?”

“no…it tasted like a melted barbie leg. i almost threw up.”

the next thing virgin!nerdjo knows, you're pushing him onto the bed as you pull off your top—he freezes in place, mouth open, glasses fogging like he's in the middle of a hentai scene he never thought he'd survive. and from where you stand between his thighs, you can see the bulge tenting his pants. poor baby probably got hard just thinking about this moment :(

virgin!nerdjo has his big hands clutching your ass, as your fingers tighten in his white soft hair—pushing his face to one of your nipple. “c'mon, nerd, show me what you've learned.” 

virgin!nerdjo starts so awkwardly. there's too much tongue, too wet and sloppy—his teeth scrape a little too hard and you flinch. “ah—! ‘toru…gentle, you’re not chewing gum.” he recoils instantly, looking like he just failed a final exam. “shit! i'm sorry—i didn't mean to—fuck, i'm such an idiot, i—”

“heyy, baby," you coo, cupping his cheek, brushing his hair from his eyes. "it's okay. try again, would you?” he nods quickly at your words, blinking hard. you swear there are tears building in those pretty blue eyes but you don't have time to think about it as this time he goes slower, sucking tentatively, trying to remember the tutorial steps : tongue flat, lips soft, light suction—add it progressively. he's shaking with focus, sweat dotting his brow as if he's taking an exam worth his entire GPA.

but it seems to work because your whimpers grow louder, virgin!nerdjo's tongue turns messy, fast. he's drooling and panting as his hand clutch to your ass like he might float off the bed. every gasp you make goes straight to his cock. he grinds on your lap helplessly, every moan from you like a five-star rating on his progress. he groans, mouthing at your other nipple, “you taste so much better,” he muffle, tongue flicking on the neglected nipple.

virgin!nerdjo is leaking through his boxers, one hand going to the nipple covered in spit—massaging with his thumb, watching it shine. the other hand drops to your upper thigh, where he humps like a dog in heat.

“you're doing so good, such a good boy, aren't you?” virgin!nerdjo moans your name like a prayer, sucking harder, hips stuttering against your thigh—he's leaking all over himself, so desperate and clumsy.

your sweet virgin nerd couldn't help himself. he had to make a sticky mess in his boxer :(

✩*:.⸝⸝>o<⸝⸝.:*✩

[gloomwitchwrites]

make out sesh with 141 guys pls??? 🥺🙏🏽🛐

A make out session? Oh, yes please. I will say, thank you for leaving the prompt open. I was able to completely run with it and make it my own. I really hope what I’ve cooked up is satisfying. It was fun putting this together!

You’ve got some undercover work and pretending not to know each other, to deny feelings and then admitting feelings, to being sold to pay off a debt (dubcon on this one), and a brief pretend relationship.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): dubcon kissing (Ghost & Price), arguments, uncover missions, suggestive themes, swearing, denial of feelings to admitting feelings, pretend relationship, Crime AU

Word Count: 2.5k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Come here.”

Kyle grabs your wrist and pulls you in the opposite direction. You spin into him, his other arm going about your waist.

“What are you doing?” you ask, volume spiking slightly in surprise.

“Follow my lead,” he murmurs, backing you into a dark corner of the packed bar.

The roar of the crowd is loud, but with Kyle caging you in, it all seems to dampen a little, as if the two of you are in your own world.

“Kiss me,” he says.

“What?”

“We need to blend in.” Kyle turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder., checking the room. “Kiss me,” he insists, lowering his head until the tip of his nose brushes against yours.

Kyle is leading this mission. It’s not like you to question orders, but you also aren’t sure what it is he notices in the crowd.

“Okay,” you mutter, grasping the back of his neck to pull him close.

Closing the distance, you press your lips to Kyle’s, expecting him to remain emotionless and passive. But he surprises, subverts your expectations. Kyle melts under your kiss, returning with more enthusiasm than with what you offered. You’re momentarily surprised, and in that opening, Kyle advances, turning the simple kiss into something more.

His tongue delves, and you taste him.

For a moment, you forget that you’re on a mission, and that this is Kyle, your coworker and teammate. A little moan escapes you, and Kyle responds by placing his hand on your ass, squeezing tightly, forcing you to remain still as he goes in for more.

Time stretches, and the sounds of the packed bar become distant memory. All you know is Kyle. All you understand is the feel of his hands and the way he devours you.

You’re completely lost. Spiraling. Slipping—

Kyle breaks away, and the loss is agony. His chest heaves, lips slightly puffy from your kisses. He laughs. Smirks. Rests his head against yours.

“Got lost there,” he whispers, and your heart flutters.

“Me too,” you affirm, wanting to say more.

Kyle draws back. Glancing over his shoulder again, he checks the room.

“Gone. Good. We can go.”

No, you think. Why can’t we stay here?

John Price

“Go on, doll. Sit in his lap.”

Hovering between remaining still or doing as your told, you glance at Captain Price for guidance. The man is your superior even if you don’t directly take orders from him. But in this moment, he’s not Captain Price, is he? He’s a customer sitting with a man looking to swap drugs for weapons. And you’re supposed to be a hired dancer.

When you agreed to the undercover mission, you expected to shake your ass, maybe even grind in a few laps. Ultimately, you’re there to listen and observe. Yet the target developed a liking to you, bought you so that you’d come dance for him privately.

And now he’s telling you to go sit in Price’s lap.

“Hey! You listening to me?” The target, Damon, snaps his fingers to get your attention. If you weren’t undercover, you’d punch him in his fucking face. “Go sit in his lap. I’m not paying you for fucking laughs.”

You try to give him your best smile but it comes out a grimace. Obediently, you turn, moving toward Captain Price, hips swaying languidly. You’re practically naked right now. Just platform heels, a thong, and a shiny bikini top that barely covers your nipples.

Captain Price watches you intently, and though he retains eye contact, his gaze slips a few times, moving downward before quickly snapping back up again.

With exaggerated movements, you kneel slowly, straddling his lap as you settle in his lap. Price keeps his arms outstretched over the back of the sofa, but his gaze never leaves your face.

“Sorry,” you whisper, because you know Damon can’t see.

Price remains silent.

Damon laughs. “Give him a kiss, doll.”

You inhale deeply, eyes closing as you do so. On the exhale, you open them, waiting for Price to give some sort of clue.

And he does.

It’s so small you won’t even notice unless you were looking for it.

Placing your hands on Price’s chest, you lean forward seductively, popping your ass out and arching your back. You press your lips to his. You expect him to remain passive and unmoving, but Price surprises you, grasping the back of your head to pull you in.

“Give the man some tongue,” Damon shouts over the music.

You want to turn around and hurl something at the idiot, but you comply, hands settling on the top of Price’s shoulders as you go in for more kisses. Price doesn’t push back or resist. If anything, he indulges each one, matching the energy and intensity. He tastes like whiskey and of the cigar he just smoked.

There is no end to it, only Price’s mouth, and the feeling of his hands as he brings them in to touch and caress. It’s not so out of place, there are two other dancers in the room, one of them is likely going down on Damon based on the wet slurping sounds you hear.

But all becomes too much—too intense—and you have to draw back to catch your breath. There is no anger in Price’s face, if anything, you find something unfamiliar.

A hunger.

Desire in those blue irises.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Every pounding step you take shepherds you away from Johnny. Beneath your skin is a buzzing as if your bones and blood vibrate.

“Slow down.”

Johnny’s voice is sharp and desperate. But you do not slow down. How can you? You can’t face him.

He yells your name and the urge to glance back is agony. Yet you remain steadfast.

“Fucking—bloody hell. Slow down.”

As you turn the corner, the exit appears, your freedom moments from reality.

You’re so close.

So—

A large hand grabs your upper arm. You’re yanked backward, dragged into a nearby conference room. Johnny shuts the door and pushes you up against the wall. He has one hand planted firmly against the wall next to your head and the other on your waist. His hips press against yours.

“I hate it when you run,” he growls.

“You didn’t have to follow.”

Johnny chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief. “Just admit it.”

“Admit what?” you snap.

He presses in even more, casting you completely in shadow. “How much you want me,” he murmurs, voice an inviting croon.

There is a wanton nature in you. It craves Johnny like a bird craves to soar with the wind.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you gasp.

It’s a lie. You do know.

The desire to close the distance, to press your lips to his is undeniable.

“Don’t lie,” he says, creating no room for movement.

Johnny rests his forehead against yours, the tip of his nose brushing your cheekbone. His warm breath teases your skin, dancing across your flesh. There is only a fraction of space, and all you need to do is tip your face upward, to present yourself to him.

“Johnny,” you whimper, and he groans in response.

“I know you love me,” he whispers, but he’s not really saying it to you, almost like he’s trying to affirm what he already knows. “You love me.”

Don’t deny yourself.

I know you love me.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you reply softly.

Johnny smiles as he closes the distance. The first kiss sends an electrical shot through your system. The connection is instant, a driving force that has your body stirring. Hands move to Johnny’s abdomen, circling to his lower back, pressing to get him even closer.

Each one is deep and suffocating. There is hunger in each one, but it’s the moment his teeth snag your bottom lip that you surrender entirely. Opening, Johnny slides his tongue inside, and you moan for him.

That one sound ignites something in him. Johnny’s hand against the wall drops, coming to rest at the base of your throat. He presses, shoving you harder against the wall and he claims your mouth. His other hand travels to your thigh, squeezes.

You’re grasping for him too, fingers digging into clothes and skin, wanting—no—needing him closer, as if you could fuse your bodies together forever. When you push against him, Johnny retaliates with pressure on your neck. You gasp, breaking the kiss, only for Johnny to go in and gently suckle on your tongue.

“Now,” he murmurs. “Tell me again that you don’t want me.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“I’ve come to pay off my father’s debt.”

A pause. Then—

“He’s already paid.”

You frown. “That’s impossible.”

“Are you saying I’m lying?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Never. Just—”

“The debt is paid.”

It’s impossible. Entirely unlikely. Your father is too much of a drunken risktaker to have paid off his debt to Ghost so swiftly. There’s something else going on. A deal, maybe. But you have the money—in cash—he can’t say no to you.

“But I brought the money,” you insist.

Ghost falls back against the cushioned lounge sofa, one arm resting along the back as he observers you from behind the balaclava. All you can see are his brown eyes, and you cannot read his expression.

“What makes you think I’ll take it?” he asks slowly.

Behind you is a black curtain. This area of the club is VIP. The fact that you were let back here at all is a miracle.

“Because I know my father didn’t pay off the debt in cash. He had to have paid some other way.” You twist slightly, opening up your bag to reach for the money. “And I’m here to clear it.”

Finding what you’re after, you present it, holding out in front of you boldly. It’s the only language men like Ghost understand.

He’s not looking at the cash at all, but at you. “You’re right. Your father didn’t pay with cash.”

“Then you can take it.”

You purposefully avoid making it a question. In this, must insist. Ghost could come after not just your father, but you. If you’re lucky, he might take some possessions. Worst case, your life.

Ghost casually spreads his legs, and lightly taps is thigh. “Come here. Sit.”

You blink. “Take the money,” you insist again, an exasperation leaking into your tone.

He chuckles, low and deep and harsh like whiskey. “No. But I’ll take you.”

Your arm starts to hurt, and that little ache weakens the muscles, causing your arm to drop slightly. “I’m not on offer.”

“You were when your father came to see me.”

No. No.

“You lie,” you whisper.

“And I accepted,” he says like it’s a non-issue. “Always had a bit of a soft spot of you anyway.”

Unbelieving, you move forward, this time holding the cash out like a weapon. The two bodyguards on either side of him move forward but Ghost raises his hand. They halt immediately, hands on their weapons and gazes focused in on you.

“Take the fucking money,” you growl.

This time, you see the smirk behind the balaclava. It’s in the way the skin around his eyes wrinkles slightly. Ghost finds this amusing.

When he says nothing, you throw the cash down on the table, and turn your back on him. It’s not smart to give a man like Ghost your back, but you’re pissed. You charge forward, intending to stomp right through the curtains and out of the club. But his bodyguards move to block your path, barring the exit.

“Let me through.”

“I told you,” Ghost calls out. “Your father paid his debt.”

You whirl, trudging forwarding, walking around the table to get as close to him as you can. “I will not—”

Before the sentence is even out of your mouth, Simon is grabbing your hips, yanking you into his lap.

“There,” he coos. “Just as I told you to do.”

You’re too stunned to move. Too surprised to speak. Here you are, straddling this man’s lap, his hands boldly grasping your ass, his gaze—interested.

Your mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again.

“Let—let me go.”

Ghost shakes his head. “Too late for that. You’re mine now.”

When he says mine, his hands lightly squeeze your ass and then drag downward to do the same to your thighs.

He glances over your shoulder, his expression becoming dangerous. “Leave us,” he commands, and the bodyguards disappear.

Ghost’s brow smooths, and then his tone shifts to a familiarity that makes you shiver. “Now that you belong to me, how about a kiss?”

“I’d rather kiss a donkey,” you snap, and Ghost laughs.

“Think you’ll find kissing me more pleasant.”

You scoff, but Ghost’s hands squeeze again, his pelvis lightly grinding against you.

“Go on,” he whispers, voice enticing and welcoming. “Push up the mask. Let me taste you.”

This violent man isn’t to be trusted. And you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But your hands move up his chest, traveling to the balaclava, fingers curling under the edge. Lifting slightly, you reveal his neck. It’s covered in tattoos, and as you bring the balaclava higher, you find scars and then—his mouth.

Ghost licks his lips, and a stirring heat rises in you. He leans in, and you find yourself giving in.

“I won’t be your whore,” you murmur as you descend.

“No,” agrees Ghost. “You’ll be so much more.”

When your mouth meets his, it’s nothing more than a kiss. Simple. Clean. No teeth or tongue. Just two people closing the distance. He is not tentative though, and when he goes for another, you accept without hesitation. That seems to be the shift, the thing that changes him.

With a low growl, Ghost drags you entirely against him, and there is no subtlety in it. He claims your mouth repeatedly, stealing your breath, making you question everything you know about yourself. A man this dangerous shouldn’t cause such emotion. It shouldn’t make your pussy wet or for your stomach to flip.

But he keeps kissing, and kissing, until you’re grinding against him, meeting Ghost with equal need. And when his tongue teases your lips, you happily open for him, tasting him as much as he tastes you. Each time you try to pull away, to catch your breath and create some distance, Ghost is pulling you in again, and you allow it.

Your father’s debt is paid.

And it’s you.

taglist:

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@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

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@unclearblur @kurochan3

[ari-ana-bel-la]

hiii how are you ?

can I request a dad Charles where his daughter tells everyone that she French instead of Monegasque (just like Arthur) and Charles is just losing it every time she says it

She's Monegasque, not French

It started innocently, as most things with toddlers do.

Charles was sitting in the Ferrari motorhome, his three-year-old daughter Yn nestled comfortably in his lap, her tiny hands clutching a crayon-streaked drawing of what she insisted was “Papa’s race car.” The sun was bright, the paddock buzzing with media and mechanics and laughter as the summer European leg of the season carried on in full swing.

And then it happened.

“Papa,” she said sweetly, tilting her head up at him, eyes wide and so heartbreakingly sincere, “I’m French.”

Charles blinked.

“Quoi?” he said, pulling back slightly, eyebrows lifting in gentle confusion. “Ma chérie, no, you’re not French. You’re Monegasque, like Papa.”

Yn looked at him, lips pursed, deep in thought. And then she gave a little shrug. “Non. I’m French, like Uncle Thur.”

Charles groaned softly and let his head fall back against the couch. “Not this again.”

From across the room, Arthur—lounging lazily in a chair, eating grapes like he was Caesar in a past life—choked on his laughter.

“I didn’t teach her that,” Arthur said through wheezes. “She came up with it on her own. Genius, really.”

“You encourage it!” Charles accused, pointing an indignant finger at his younger brother. “You always say you’re French!”

“Well, I am French,” Arthur said with a grin. “Monegasque passport and everything. And clearly, Yn has excellent taste.”

“Excellent taste in traitors. And Monaco is not France,” Charles muttered, pulling Yn closer as if cuddling her tightly would somehow absorb her back into Monegasque pride.

But it didn’t stop there.

No, Yn had decided. French it was.

She told the Ferrari PR team she was French when they asked where she was from. She announced it proudly to the camera when someone tried to film a cute moment with her and her dad. She whispered it solemnly to Carlos while sitting in his lap eating strawberries.

“Papa’s sad ‘cause I’m French,” she told Carlos.

Carlos, eyes sparkling with mischief, leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s okay, Princesa. I’m Spanish, and he still talks to me.”

“Does he love you?” Yn asked, dead serious.

Carlos blinked. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Then maybe he’ll still love me even if I’m French.”

Behind them, Charles face-palmed.

The drivers got wind of it quickly—because of course they did.

By the next day, the jokes were relentless.

“So,” Lando said at breakfast in the hotel, stirring sugar into his coffee like he was preparing to deliver a monologue. “Do I address her as ‘Mademoiselle Yn’ now or...?”

“She’s not French,” Charles groaned.

“She told my engineer she wants her birthday cake in the shape of the Eiffel Tower,” Max deadpanned, walking by and tossing Charles a sympathetic look. “Good luck with that.”

Even Seb, who was visiting that weekend with his kids, gave Charles a comforting pat on the back. “At least she’s not saying she’s German. Yet.”

And then there was Esteban.

“Oh, this is fantastique,” Esteban beamed, scooping Yn up in the paddock one afternoon. “You’re French, just like me!”

Yn squealed and threw her arms around his neck. “Oui!”

Charles practically melted into the tarmac. “Mon dieu…”

But it was Arthur who reveled in it most.

He started wearing a beret. A beret, for god’s sake.

One afternoon in the hospitality tent, he presented Yn with a baguette and a small fake mustache. “For my fellow French citizen,” he declared proudly.

“Merci, Uncle Thur!” Yn beamed, sticking the mustache crookedly on her nose.

“I am living in a cartoon,” Charles mumbled into his hands.

No amount of explaining helped.

“But Monaco is in France,” she argued one night while Charles tucked her into bed in the team’s motorhome. “It’s right there.”

“No, chérie,” Charles said gently, brushing her curls back. “It’s close, but it’s its own country. Like Papa said before, remember?”

“I like France better.”

He sighed and tried the next best tactic: bribery.

“If you say you’re Monegasque again,” he whispered conspiratorially, “Papa will buy you ten ice creams tomorrow.”

Yn narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “What kind?”

“Any kind. Strawberry. Chocolate. All of them.”

“Hmm…” she tapped her chin with exaggerated thought. “I still wanna be French.”

He clutched his chest. “Traitor.”

The situation hit a new peak during the Saturday driver briefing. Yn, accompanied by Carlos and Charles, had been allowed to come along briefly before things got official. She toddled in wearing sunglasses way too big for her face and a little Ferrari cap.

Yuki crouched down to her level with a big smile. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Yn.”

“I’m French!” she declared proudly, striking a pose.

Yuki laughed. “That’s so cool! Then you must know that Uncle Pierre is also French!”

Yn froze.

All the drivers went still.

Charles raised his head slowly, eyes narrowing.

Yn’s nose scrunched up.

“…Uncle Pierre?”

“Yes,” Yuki chirped, unaware he was about to break the world’s most stubborn three-year-old. “He’s very French. Like super French.”

The silence that followed could have swallowed a pit lane.

Charles watched her face shift—concentration, confusion… and then determination.

She took off her sunglasses, turned to her father, and declared solemnly, “Papa. I’m not French anymore.”

Charles blinked. “You’re not?”

“I’m Monegasque now.”

“...Why?”

She folded her arms. “I don’t wanna be the same as Uncle Pierre.”

“WHAT?!” Pierre shouted from across the room, utterly betrayed.

Arthur was on the floor, laughing so hard he nearly cried. “Nooo! The French alliance has fallen!”

Carlos, barely holding it together, whispered, “Monaco wins.”

Charles scooped Yn up with the biggest grin he’d worn in days. “You have made Papa so proud.”

Yn patted his cheek. “Do I still get ice cream?”

He laughed, hugging her tight. “You can have all the ice cream you want, mon amour.”

Behind him, Pierre was muttering in disbelief, “What did I do? What did I do?”

And from that day on, Yn was proudly, defiantly, loyally Monegasque.

Until next week, when she decided she wanted to be Italian because “Papa’s car is red like Italy.”

And Charles just sighed into his espresso.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🩷🎀

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Remmick x reader, established relationship, NSFW

Where Remmick returns home from a hunt still filled with adrenaline/bloodlust. So he seeks out reader but finds them fast asleep, still filled with hunger he decides to help himself to a meal 😋

I mean reader wouldn’t mind being woken up to some crazy head right? Basically somnophilia lmao

Gender neutral pronouns but afab if that’s okay :)?

Have a great day/night!

Midnight hunger||Remmick x Reader

Warning—Established relationship | AFAB reader | Gender-neutral pronouns Somnophilia kink | Vampire feeding kink | Oral (AFAB receiving) | Slight bloodplay | Consent within established trust | 18+ | Somnophilia | Oral (AFAB receiving) | Vaginal sex | Vampire feeding kink | Bloodplay | Biting/marking | Possessive!Remmick | Praise + feral energy | Slight breeding kink if you squint | 18+

Taglist - @abriefnirvana

The door creaked open just after midnight, hinges groaning under the weight of centuries and storms. Remmick stepped into the manor, boots silent on ancient floors despite the weight of blood on him fresh and hot, still drying on his lips and jaw. His pupils were blown wide, irises glowing faintly in the dark, wild with the rush of the hunt. He hadn’t fed enough. Not really. Not in the way he needed.

The bloodlust still clawed at his insides.

His nose twitched. Your scent warm and familiar called to him stronger than anything else ever could. You were asleep. He could hear your breath from the hallway, steady and soft. The thud of your heart, even slower.

He could picture you already, tangled in the sheets, mouth slack with dreams. Vulnerable. Soft.

His hunger flared.

He didn’t bother undressing. The hunt still clung to his skin, dried blood painting his throat like a collar. His hand trailed along the doorway as he entered the bedroom, eyes locked on your sleeping form. Peaceful. Unaware.

Perfect.

He knelt beside the bed, silent as shadow, exhaling slowly. The scent of you hit him hard, thick and sweet between your thighs, and his fangs ached in his mouth. He didn’t speak. Didn’t dare wake you. You’d told him once half-lidded and gasping that you liked it when he didn’t ask. When he took. When you woke up to pleasure instead of words.

His mouth watered.

He peeled the covers away, slow, reverent. Pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, trailing warmth up the length of your thigh. You stirred faintly nothing more than a sigh. He bit back a growl.

His hands were cold when they parted your thighs, but his breath was warm. So warm. And then-

God, his tongue.

He licked through your folds like he was starving, like you were the only salvation left in the world. Broad, hungry strokes, nose buried in your scent, lips sealing around your clit with a groan that vibrated through your whole body. You shifted, twitching awake, confusion melting into a moan.

“Remmick—” your voice was hoarse, sleep-rough, almost questioning.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t say a word.

He only held your thighs open tighter, tongue fucking into you like he was trying to consume you from the inside out, as if pleasure was a ritual and you were the altar. His fangs grazed your skin, sharp and teasing, not enough to break—not yet. Not until you were writhing, grinding into his face with broken little whimpers and hands clutching his curls.

When you came, he moaned against you like he was tasting holy water, mouth flooded with slick and the faintest edge of blood where his fangs had finally, finally pressed too deep.

He licked it up like sin.

And only then, lips glossy, eyes fevered, did he crawl up your body to whisper against your neck, voice still thick with need:

“Good evenin’, my love. Miss me?”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was on you his body caging yours, still fully dressed, soaked in the scent of the night. His thighs slotted between yours, forcing your legs wider, and the hard line of his cock pressed against your sensitive cunt through layers of dark, worn fabric.

Your hips bucked instinctively. Still oversensitive. Still needy.

Remmick growled, low and delighted, fangs flashing in the moonlight slanting through the cracked window. His voice was wrecked with restraint, like he was holding himself back by threads.

“Y’have no idea what seein’ you like this does to me,” he rasped, nuzzling into your neck, breath hot where it ghosted across your skin. “Laid out, slick and warm from my mouth… beggin’ without even speakin’.”

His hand slid down your body, calloused palm rough and grounding. He didn’t bother undressing you. Just hiked your nightshirt up around your waist and freed himself from his trousers, his cock heavy and hard as sin, leaking against your inner thigh.

“Still hungry,” he murmured like a confession like a threat.

He sank into you in one, slow thrust, stealing the air from your lungs. Stretching you full. Familiar. Possessive. You clawed at his back, dragging him closer.

He didn’t move.

Not yet.

Instead, he pressed his lips to the column of your throat, where your pulse fluttered beneath your skin. You could feel the heat of his tongue, the scrape of fangs, the way he trembled with the effort not to bite too soon.

“Can I, sweet thing?” he whispered. “Give me a little taste. Just ‘nough to make this last…”

You nodded, dazed and open, giving yourself freely. His name fell from your lips like prayer.

He bit.

It wasn’t gentle.

You felt the puncture sharp and possessive and the moan he let out as he started to feed sent a shiver through your whole body. Pleasure lanced through you, tangled with pain and adoration and need.

Remmick moved then. Thrusting into you with the desperation of something starved, wild, half-mad with lust and blood and love. Every stroke dragged against that perfect spot, filling you deep, his mouth still latched to your throat like you were his and only his.

“Such a sweet little thing,” he murmured between gulps, voice thick, reverent. “Letting me fuck you ‘n feed on you like this… You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You were trembling under him, crying out, nails raking down his back as the pressure built and broke—your orgasm ripping through you with raw, shuddering intensity.

Remmick didn’t stop.

Not until he felt you milk him, fluttering and soaked and spent. Not until he spilled inside you with a broken groan against your skin, hips grinding in like he could bury himself even deeper.

He licked the blood from your neck with slow, tender laps, savoring every drop, before finally pulling back to look at you.

Eyes blown wide. Hair a mess. A lazy, satisfied grin curving his stained mouth.

“My heart,” he purred, brushing your sweat-damp hair back. “You’re so good to me. Gonna keep wakin’ you like this every time the bloodlust hits. Reckon it’s the only thing that truly settles me.”

[rafessecret]

Bsf rafe smut plsss

⋆˚࿔ bestfriend reader && rafe cameron

YOU'RE NOT WEARING PANTIES.

He always tells himself it’s innocent.

You’ve been best friends forever, always trailing behind him in your little shorts, popping pink bubblegum and laughing like the world only ever felt soft. You wear your tank tops too small, your lashes are curled to perfection even when you swear you’re tired, and your lip gloss always tastes like strawberries. You’re just his friend. His soft, sleepy, pretty friend.

But tonight is different.

You’re curled against him like you belong there, like it’s your bed and your boy. Rafe’s heart thuds heavy beneath your cheek where you’ve tucked yourself into his chest, little fingers resting over his stomach like you don’t even notice how warm and hard his body’s gone. The TV plays some muted sitcom, but neither of you is watching. Your sleepy giggles melt right into the room like honey, sticky and slow.

❝You’re so warm, Rafe,❞ you mumble, voice syrupy with sleep, lashes fluttering against his skin.

He swallows thickly. Your thigh brushes his, bare and smooth, and then—fuck—it shifts just a little too high. You don’t even realise. Of course you don’t. You’re too sleepy to notice the way your body moulds to his, your breath slowing as you doze off, lips parting against his collarbone like a kiss without meaning.

But it means everything to him.

His boxers are too tight. His cock aches beneath the fabric, twitching each time you roll your hips in your sleep. It’s subtle. So small. But Rafe feels every movement like lightning, like you’re teasing him on purpose. He shifts just slightly, trying to think of anything else—literally anything—but your scent is in the blankets, sugary and warm. And then you let out this tiny sigh, your thigh slotting higher, brushing the bulge in his shorts. 

His breath catches. You don’t wake up. You just press your face deeper into his neck, lips barely parting as you breathe him in. 

That’s when he breaks.

His hand slips beneath the blanket, knuckles grazing your soft skin. You twitch a little but don’t wake. He swallows again, his fingers dipping under the hem of your shorts, soft cotton and heat waiting for him.

You’re not wearing panties.

Rafe nearly groans. Instead, he drags his hand lower, slow and cautious, until his thumb brushes your clit. You squirm just slightly, face wrinkling like you're dreaming, but your body doesn’t pull away. ❝Shhh,❞ he whispers, barely audible, lips brushing your temple. ❝It’s okay. Just me.❞

His fingers circle your clit in lazy, practised swipes. You’re warm and wet, even in your sleep, and he’s dizzy with it—how soft you are, how pretty you sound even as your breath stutters.

Then you shift, brow furrowed, lashes fluttering as you blink up at him all dazed and glossy. ❝Rafe?❞ you whisper, voice confused and sugar-coated. ❝You were grinding on me,❞ he murmurs, voice low and slow. His fingers never stop. ❝Didn’t want to wake you. Thought you wanted it.❞

Your hips roll into his touch instinctively, lips parting with a soft gasp, and you’re still barely conscious—confused and warm and pliable. He kisses your cheek. ❝Feels good, right?❞

❝Mmhm… but—Rafe…❞

❝Just me, baby,❞ he soothes, pushing the blanket off you. Moonlight spills across your bare thighs. ❝It’s okay. You’re always so sweet to me.❞ His voice is warm and slow, and your body listens before your mind does. You let him pull your shorts down your thighs, guiding you gently over his lap. The drag of your bare cunt against his clothed cock has him choking on air.

❝Come on, pretty,❞ he groans, peeling off his boxers. ❝Let me feel you. Just sit on it. That’s all.❞ You hover, thighs trembling, still unsure. But his hands are big, warm on your waist, easing you down until the fat head of his cock is pressed against your slit. He rocks you gently, spreading your slick. And then you gasp as he presses up, slowly. ❝R-Rafe—❞

❝Shhh, I got you,❞ he pants, forehead pressed to your collarbone. ❝You’re doing so well, baby. Just take it. Just like that.❞ He sinks into you inch by inch, your cunt clenching down around him so tight he nearly blacks out. You’re gasping, hands gripping his shoulders, unsure whether to pull back or fall into it.

❝It’s too much,❞ you whisper, but your hips twitch forward, needier than your voice admits. ❝No, it’s not,❞ he says, voice shaking. ❝You were made for me. Look how good you're taking' it.❞ You move slow, unsure and sticky-sweet, your body bouncing gently with each grind of your hips. He moans low in your ear, hands sliding under your tank top, palming your tits as you ride him with sleepy little whimpers.

❝You’re so tight, baby,❞ he groans. ❝So good, fuck—I'm going to cum if you keep squeezing’ me like that.❞ You let out a breathy moan, your cunt fluttering around him. Rafe bucks up hard, forcing himself deeper, making your eyes roll back. ❝Oh my god—Rafe—❞

❝That’s it,❞ he snarls, gripping your hips tighter, thrusting up into you with rough, hungry snaps. ❝Cum for me. Right now. Let me feel that pussy clamp down.❞ You cry out, nails raking down his chest, your whole body trembling as your orgasm rips through you. Your cunt squeezes him, milking his cock in desperate, wet pulses, and you collapse forward with a sob. 

Rafe doesn’t stop. He groans loudly, thrusting up into the heat of you with hard, desperate rolls of his hips. ❝Fuck—fuck, baby—gonna fill you up. Gonna fuckin’ ruin you.❞ He cums with a growl, cock buried deep, jerking inside you as he spills into your pulsing cunt. You feel it flood you—warm and thick, dripping out the second he bottoms out again, grinding up into the mess.

You’re both soaked and shaking, your body slack on top of his as his arms curl around you tightly. You’re fucked raw and full, slick still dripping out onto his thighs. He strokes your back, lips brushing sweat-damp skin. ❝You’re mine now,❞ he whispers against your temple, eyes half-lidded. ❝You know that, right?❞ You nod slowly, dazed and aching, brain fuzzy and pussy still twitching from aftershocks.

And he just smiles.

Because you’ll sleep here again tomorrow.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : i’m so sick right now angels 🥲 thanks for the request, they mean so much—especially since i’m not getting many asks lately. trying to answer the ones I have soon <3

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

[i-like-loserz]

favorite spots ⋆.˚

synopsis: i just want to talk about the most sensitive parts of their bodies...

featuring: hongjoong, san, and mingi

word count: 1.7k

warnings: SMUT (18+), soft!boys, oral fixation, biting/sucking lips, pda, french kissing, finger sucking, blue-balling (lol), groping, nipple play (m), hickies, for san -- reader has hair that fingers can grip into, mild choking, dry humping, premature orgasms, they're sensitive and aren't afraid to show it

masterlist

✧ HONGJOONG - MOUTH/LIPS ✧

Hongjoong isn't a big pda guy.

The most he does is rest his hand on your waist, hold your hand, or gently fix your hair. Words of affection or acts of service are big in your relationship, but kissing is absolutely a no-go.

Not in public, at least.

In the beginning of your relationship cute pecks on the lips were allowed, though Hongjoong would start acting more antsy and possessive after (you didn't notice as much as his friends would). Short kisses lasting less than a second he could handle -- or that's what he'd convince himself.

Beneath the surface, however, he was holding himself back. He was exerting a concerning amount of self-control over himself every time he tasted your sweet lips, willing himself to hold back from instantly melting against you.

His hands would squeeze into a fist as he'd watch you with dark eyes, going back to whatever you were doing, acting so unaffected -- as if you didn't leave him wanting for the rest of the day.

At the time, you could tell that he enjoyed the affection and attention (a bit too much), and you were more than happy to dish it out. But then one day, he started to shy away from your kisses, turning strategically so you'd kiss his cheek instead of his lips.

At first you thought it was because he wanted to keep your relationship private. He's never been the type of guy to flaunt you like an accessory, so it made sense why he acts so low-key about your love life when in public.

But then you started noticing how he'd act after you'd give him more than a peck.

---

A make-out between the two of you usually leads to sex.

Okay, scratch that, it always leads to sex.

It's like he can't help himself.

As soon as your tongue traces the seam of his lips, he's roughly pulling you against him. He overly indulges in tasting you, laving his tongue against yours as he moans wantonly into your mouth.

You thought he was just enthusiastic about sex, but it was something else that had him shivering against you.

So you began subtly experimenting with your boyfriend:

Tracing his lips with the soft pad of your finger as you feed him a juicy chocolate-covered strawberry (he'd look up at you with those adoring brown eyes as he obediently slurps up the sweet juices from your skin)

Playfully nibbling on his bottom lip to draw out a delicious growl from him (he couldn't hold himself back from grinding his hips against yours like a dog in heat, overwhelmed by the pleasurable pain)

Forcing him to suck on your fingers as you ride him roughly (you could feel the vibration of his broken groans as you pressed down on his silky tongue)

It became increasingly clear that Hongjoong's lips were a bit more sensitive than the average person. The real test was a kiss in public.

It was right after one of his concerts. You were so proud of your boyfriend that when he finally got off stage, you jumped in his arms and pressed your lips to his, eager to give him a deep kiss.

His hands, wrapped around your waist, tighten their hold on you as soon as your lips met his, pressing your body to be flush with his.

Barely a few seconds into the kiss, you feel it, pressing so eagerly against your stomach.

He's hard already, throbbing for attention under his tight pants as his slick tongue meets yours in desperation. His adrenaline from performing may be influencing his sudden boldness, but it's the kiss that was making him so hot and bothered.

"Mmph~" You try to break the kiss, worried that you were receiving stares from others, but he won't let you.

"Not yet, baby" He whispers hotly against your mouth.

"Hongjoong--!" You hit him playfully on the chest as you force him to separate from you. "Later." You grit out, handing him your jacket to use as a barrier between his obvious boner and everyone else.

Your face is heated with a blush as you turn to look around at the sly smirks that the others were sending you. It seems to sober him up a bit as he awkwardly coughs and starts a speech commending everyone for a great show.

So now you know -- Hongjoong's lips are for home.

✧ SAN - CHEST ✧

You were the one who sprouted a sudden obsession with his chest.

He's been working out a lot lately and he loves showing off, even if he doesn't admit it. He comes home in his tank tops or compression shirts with a shy smile, subtly flexing until you say something.

"Ooh, look at my boyfriend!" You tease, smiling as he saunters through the door. "He's so big and masculine~"

San laughs gently, shaking his head at your words (+ slightly fluffing his hair). He loves the way you dote on him, period -- small hands feeling over his biceps and showering him with compliments until he's pink in the face, begging with cute boba eyes for kisses and cuddles.

When you cuddle with him, naked -- or nearly there, your hands are like magnets to his chest. It's just so built and his skin is so hot and smooth, you can't help it!

San didn't get it at first, simply amused by the way you knead his skin like a cat. Sometimes you get particularly feral and start biting his biceps and shoulder -- another odd, yet endearing habit you've gathered recently.

He has started working out with longer-sleeved shirts because he's dotted with bite marks and bruises all over his upper body (with a few on his thighs and one on his cute butt).

You can't get enough of his body and he loves it.

But biting his chest -- that he wasn't expecting.

And he didn't expect that he'd like it so much either.

--

You were timid at first, placing soft kisses against his ribs and torso before gradually moving upwards.

He shivered as you brushed your lips against his right pec, his skin already buzzing from the lustful look you had in your eyes as you assessed his body.

You pressed gentle kisses over his skin, drinking in the soft sighs that fell from his pretty lips.

He gasped quietly when you gently licked over his nipple, flicking your soft tongue over and around his sensitive bud. Your eyes glanced up at him to see his reactions.

His pink lips were plump and shiny, bitten so deliciously from his attempts to ground himself, not used to this new sensation you were giving him. His flushed chest was rising rapidly under you, unwittingly pressing himself closer to your mouth.

He let out a whisper of a groan as you sucked his nipple in hot mouth, laving your slick tongue over him. A shock of pleasure traveled straight to his cock, making him achingly hard for release.

You squeaked as fingers were suddenly weaved into your hair, tugging slightly at the roots -- not pressing you closer or pulling you away.

You moved your mouth to the other pec, giving his other nipple attention. His hold on your hair became harsher the more you'd suck on him. And you loved it.

You moaned with him as you pulled him into your mouth, teeth just barely pressed against his skin.

"N-nghh~" He shivered, "Baby -- fuck -- p-please."

"What is it?" You swiped a finger over his hard nipple, finding the pleading look on his face to be unbearably adorable.

"I'm gonna bust if you keep going." He groaned softly as you pinched him teasingly, "Lemme get inside you."

"I don't know... I think I'd like to see you finish from this..."

✧ MINGI - NECK ✧

Mingi is a very sensitive boy, overall.

When your fingers intertwine with his, he can't help but squeeze your smaller hand in his, staring down your hands like he can barely believe that you're allowing him to touch you -- even as innocently as this.

When you press sweet kisses to his lips, teasingly and soft, he's instantly smiling against you from happy he is, pressing harder to deepen the kiss and eliminate the space between you.

When you drag your hand over his thighs, settling to your knees in front of him, he holds himself back from throwing you on the bed and fucking you into the mattress.

He's constantly overwhelmed with his affection for you.

Everything is intense for him.

But when your small fingers wrap around his neck, squeezing so gently as you pull him in for another kiss -- he almost makes a mess in his pants.

You sit above him, weight settling nicely over his lap, pinning him to the couch as you lick over his puffy lips.

Mingi whines against your lips as your grasp tightens around him, loving how his head grows hazy from the way you control his breathing.

His cock throbs under you as you start to pressing wet kisses on his chin, jaw...and his neck. Your slick tongue flicks over his heated skin, laving over fading marks that you've left over the past few days.

"Like it?" You whisper, staring up at his flushed face. He shudders as you drag the edge of your teeth against the crook of his neck, eagerly leaning into the feeling.

"You know it do..." He groans deeply as you suck his sensitive skin into your mouth. His large hands hold you by the waist, pressing your body down against his as he grind against your ass, making you feel how desperately hard he is for you.

You suck harder and his hips jolt against yours, stuttering deliciously as he mewls from the intensity.

"F-fuck -- wait --"

You don't. You go to that spot right under his ear, the one that makes him lose it, and suck another love bruise into his skin.

And it ruins him.

His back arches slightly as he throws his head back with a broken moan. You release his skin, licking your lips as you watch him shake under you, panting out heated breathes, coming down from his high.

"So sweet." You coo, comfortingly rubbing a hand on his chest as he starts to calm down.

"It's embarrassing..." Mingi whines. This isn't the first time this has happened.

You place a gentle kiss on the spot, pulling away when he starts to shudder again.

"I like it."

[sturnlace]

just one more - matt sturniolo

saying goodnight should be easy, but matt makes it impossible—especially when he keeps asking for just one more kiss. fluff, excessive kissing, playful teasing, soft and clingy matt

it starts with one kiss.

soft, slow, and lingering, like he’s trying to make it last forever. his hands rest gently on your waist, fingers barely pressing into the fabric of your (his) hoodie, warm against your skin. he hums contentedly as his lips move lazily against yours, not in any rush, like he has all the time in the world.

when he finally pulls back, you take a second to catch your breath, eyes fluttering open to find him already watching you with that familiar, love-struck look in his eyes.

you’re both already in bed, tangled together beneath the blankets, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of the lamp on your nightstand. it’s late, and exhaustion is settling into your bones, making your limbs feel heavy and warm.

"i’m tired," you murmur, resting a hand on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your fingertips.

matt doesn’t move.

instead, he leans back in, his nose brushing against yours as he presses another kiss to your lips, then another, and another. each one is softer than the last, like he’s memorizing the way you feel, the way you taste, the way your lips part so easily for him every time.

"just one more," he whispers between kisses.

you let out a small laugh, pulling back just enough to look at him properly. "you said that twenty kisses ago."

he grins, unapologetic. "okay, but i mean it this time."

you arch an eyebrow, unconvinced. "do you?"

he hesitates for a second, his lips twitching like he’s fighting back a smile. "no," he admits, then kisses you again before you can call him out for it.

you try to act annoyed, but it’s hard when he’s kissing you like this, so soft and sweet, like he never wants to stop. his hands tighten around your waist, pulling you even closer, and you melt into him like you always do.

"matt," you sigh against his lips. "i’m really sleepy."

"mm, i know," he mumbles, but he doesn’t let go. instead, he trails his lips along your jaw, down to the curve of your neck, pressing feather-light kisses against your skin. "just… one more."

you shiver at the feeling, your hands instinctively gripping the fabric of his hoodie. "you’re ridiculous."

"you love it," he says, voice muffled as he buries his face against your shoulder.

you roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. "maybe."

he smiles against your skin, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. his hands slide up your sides, his thumbs brushing gentle circles against your ribs. "so… one more?"

"matt," you groan, trying to sound stern, but your resolve is already crumbling.

he tilts his head, giving you the softest, most pleading look. "please?"

and how are you supposed to say no to that?

you sigh, feigning exasperation. "fine. but after that, we’re going to sleep."

"yeah, yeah," he mumbles, already leaning in.

except one more turns into two. then three. then four.

because matt is impossible. and you love it.

but at some point, exhaustion starts to creep in. you feel it in the way your eyelids grow heavier, in the way your body relaxes more against him, in the way your head naturally tilts into the crook of his neck. matt notices immediately, his hands stilling on your waist as he glances down at you.

"tired?" he asks softly, his voice quieter now, gentler.

you nod, your words slurring slightly as you mumble, "you wore me out with all your 'just one more' kisses."

he chuckles, pressing a final, lingering kiss to your temple. "sorry, baby."

"no, you’re not," you say sleepily.

he grins, adjusting his hold on you. "okay, maybe not. but you still love me."

"unfortunately," you tease, but the warmth in your voice gives you away.

he hums, pulling the blanket up over both of you before wrapping his arms around you again. his body is warm, solid, comforting, and the steady rhythm of his breathing is already lulling you to sleep.

"goodnight, baby," he whispers, pressing one last kiss to your forehead.

you hum softly in response, too tired to say anything else.

and just before sleep fully takes over, you feel him press one last kiss to your shoulder.

because he really is impossible.

and you really, really love it.

[vicorices]

hihi!! I can’t figure out if you’re accepting requests or not, however, could you write for Vi x Reader, except reader is really, really tight? Like, a slow sex fic. Love making! I don’t see enough gentle fics.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ cherry waves.

side notes — thank you for this anon, i’ll never forget you, i tried this to be kind and nice, so it is mostly? but i'm also a dirty slut at the same time so it gets tiny bit rougher by the end my bad, collage au, formal fuckgirl!vi now on a leash. masterlist.

18+ mdni, men dni, this is pure fluff and porn without plot? hell yeah, use of strap-on, dirty talk, fingering, soft!dom vi, praising, tight + bottom afab reader, vi is folded tbh — english is not my first language, any mistake let it be i won't care, comments, reblogs and likes are loved literally tell me your thoughts talk to me,, 1.6k

“shh— it’s okay,” the pleasant sound of her voice sends shivers down your spine as she presses soft kisses in your naked shoulder, breathing in the scent of your skin. the hoop of her nose piercing dragging across the moles she had learned by memory, the marks you utterly hate yet she finds so fucking attractive. “it's okay sweetheart, i got you.”

patience.

it's a struggle since she's so bad at it. trying her best cause she really really likes you, so indulging to your needs every time. it’s a big issue to restrain herself from taking you just the way she wants to, preparing your pretty pink hole to have her so deep inside, you won’t even notice where you begin and she ends, where limits finally erase and you’re melting in her embrace.

her fingers curl inside, and the sound you make tickles a part of her brain, that sultry whine, the dryness of your voice as she pushes and pushes until she's knuckles deep and she's so fucking close to you she can smell the lavender in your shampoo, the taste of your sweat in her tongue — "are you okay? talk to me baby."

she's so kind even when she's from mere seconds to lose it. gentle as she keeps you pressed against her bare torso "yes-yes, i'm good" you let your girlfriend know, burying your head against the pillows — "keep stretching me out vi, please."

she's such a sucker for it. when you start talking so bluntly about your needs and she stays silent for a bit, letting the weight of your words sink in her skull for a second. you clench around her digits and she’s so happy to give you just what you asked for, let her ring and middle finger rub against that spot she's well aware you're fond of by now, the same that makes you arch your back pressing your ass against the strap.

"that's it suck me in," it's such a sight vi could cum by just looking, giving yourself to her like a damn gift. "stretching out so good for my cock baby, fuck- you're doing so well for me."

she knows what she's doing. towering over you, talking against your ear as she finger fucks you into plain madness. arousal gathers on the palm of her hand and you roll your hips against vi's fingers, mumbling about how good she feels already, how you're sure you can take her, all pink cheeks and heavy breathing making her mind go blank.

violet’s fingers withdraw and you gasp at the hollow in your insides, spreading yourself wider to her view, to call her in, make her fuck you again until you're not sure about your own name: stop being unfair. yet, despite all annoyance, you cannot find time to complain when she’s grabbing your leg up in her arm, angling you to her liking.

obscene.

"you're always so sensitive, fucking hell-" vi curses under her breath, hips rocking against you now as she holds the base of the purple cock to rub it against your folds, teasing your entrance in a steady pace, wet, sloppy kisses being etched in the skin of your back almost in a soothing way. "let me fuck you," she asks you soon after, muscles flexing as she keeps you still, pushing the strap against your cunt — "gonna be gentle baby i promise, 'gonna be whatever you need me to be."

"vi-" you breathe out, and she's holding you at this point cause shit, you're a fucking mess, barely saying more than two-word sentences.

"let me fuck you, please" the pink haired begs once again. "you put on this nice set for me, took my fingers s'good. let me make you cum in my cock."

now, she's not usually right, but this time? vi hits the spot cause you did buy a shameful new set of underwear, you did wear it even when you're a complaining bitch always whining about being so tight, about your constant struggle to take her, how she has to use you like a damn toy if you wanted to be fucked until you got a noise complain, stretched out slowly.

when you nod however, it's like she's granted permission to rule the world.

"i got you pretty girl," vi says, leaving a soft kiss over your temple as her fingers take the already lubricated strap to your slippery entrance, forcing just the tip in — the intrusion however, makes your body tense as her lips leave a path of soothing kisses in your shoulders, breathing right next to you, holding you as close as possible — "get used to me baby, m'not moving."

and yes she's such a sucker for it. for the way your legs shake in her arm cause you lose control of them so quickly, pushing her hips slightly forwards again, the loud sound you make as she sinks in just enough. delicious. you make room for her, the skin of your back pressing just right against her chest, the friction of your spasms hitting in vi’s pierced nipples.

it’s so fucking good. she never gets over it, never find it boring — you’re making such an effort in taking her deeper she has to praise you cause you’re halfway through it now and vi loves to see that smile on your face, the fact you’re having a great time with her, your greedy hole sucking her cock in, relaxed now, insanely pliable.

“tell me when it feels good,” she says, looking down at you through half lidded eyes, an explanation of why her words are slurring together in the air as she talks you through it. “can you do that? so i can fuck you properly.”

patience.

violet didn’t even think about cockwarming until she has to stay there every time, filling your tight little cunt over and over again. she thrives now on the idea of keeping you full, how you must be clenching round the strap as you struggle to get used to the size of it.

“want me to stop?” she's so filthy by that point, looking down to notice how the strap is now covered by your arousal, lubricating down to the fabric of the harness on her hips. in all reality, she's asking so she can get an answer from you, hear how fucked she has you by now by the tone of your voice.

"no," you reply. "no, i can take it vi, please- need you inside."

god she’s so fucking patient in these times she should get a prize, sinking in painfully slow until there’s no room for more and she’s fully inside, balls hitting on your clit, teeth bitting to leave a mark in your shoulder you’re totally unaware of: patience.

"you look so pretty full of me," she whispers, and it's so intimate, the lack of space between you both, the sweat that makes your skin glow under the warm lights of your dorm — she angles your face up to kiss you, swallowing your whimpers as she moves beneath you, a gentle pace at first to see how'd you react. "that's my girl. breathe."

it only takes you a couple of minutes, overly enjoying her gentle touch, her way of taking care of you; soft bites in your neck, kisses over your shoulders, how her arms surround you as they hugged you, cause after that vi's moving faster, sloppier cause she's sure she's damaged at that point, malfunctioning at her worst.

she picks up her pace relentless, and your moans mixes well with her own, that need that pours on her stomach making vi's vision cloudy as her hips pistons until you can hear that clap filling each space of the room. her fingers rub against your clit in tight circles, matching her intense movements cause fuck — it's almost lame to admit she's so sensitive already it only takes friction to make her cum and squeeze around nothing but the view she has of you melting in her.

you shake as you cum, arousal gushing out even when she's still plunged deep in you, coating your tights as she keeps you spread, fucking you through it only to get you to that point of damn of insanity.

"feel better?" she asks after, and it's an understatement that makes you blush, almost laughing as you began to remember how to fucking breathe at that point — "looks like you enjoyed yourself, huh?"

"shut up," it's useless even try to defend you, cause you're leaning into her seeking for her warmth, even when she probably smells funny and is sticky. "i did enjoyed myself very much. thank you vi."

you're so fucking cute it's like a dagger to the chest to take, and it's weird cause vi craves this attention, how your heart beats right against her, to be close to you at the end of the day, not questioning anything as your body just fits against hers. silent and shared trust.

even when she might suck a little by saying it she's damn good at showing you at least, madly good when her hand slips against your neck and she's suddenly gripping it tightly, hips moving only to sink in deeper inside your cunt — "you're so open already, can you feel that? think m'gonna have to fuck you again."

and you giggle looking up to her like a fucking deadly sin, asking for more like a greedy, greedy slut, so deep down vi knows it, but it's really late to avoid it when she realizes she carries you like a tattoo right under the ink already on her cheek, squeezing your neck, pushing you against the mattress this time cause you can take it now.

all the pleasure always comes in cherry waves, you dig it now more than ever.

[xochosoxo]

husband!gojo ✮| headcannons

gojoxfem!reader

MDNI -> warnings: afab reader (but anyone can read yk), sfw&nsfw, arranged marriage, slight angst, comfort, pet names, flufflufffluff!, cunnilingus, gojo is pussy whipped, fingering, creamycreamycreamiest creampies, reader calls gojo daddy!, tummypushing

a/n: i had a dream abt this with some random guy and when i woke up i was so disappointed :(( LOL angwah heres some quick gojo headcannons bc i truly miss him and im so lonely.

husband!gojo who you married per each family’s request, making your marriage an arranged one.

husband!gojo who hated the idea of being tied down.

husband!gojo who couldnt wait for the ceremony to end, however when he watched you walk down the aisle, looking so innocent, he felt a tug at his heartstrings.

husband!gojo who didnt know what to do when on your honeymoon. he didnt know whether or not to interact with you or to keep his distance like he promised himself. he decides for the latter.

husband!gojo who enjoys coming to work everyday after his honeymoon because his cute little wife always delivers his lunch to him despite not asking you to.

husband!gojo who starts to soften even more when he sees that you wait for him to come home from work. youre usually sleeping on the couch. he gently scoops you up in his arms and takes you to bed.

husband!gojo who sees that you start getting tired of the routine after a while. making his lunches, waiting for him to come home late. you stop delivering his lunches personally, opting to just give it to him before he leaves in the morning. he doesnt see you when he comes home either.

husband!gojo who makes sure to wash up before slipping into bed with you, wrapping his arms around you . he missed you.

husband!gojo who feels you wake the next morning, obviously confused to see his arms around you. he sighs before bringing you closer to his chest.

husband!gojo who whispers apologies and sweet nothings in your ear as you settle yourself into him with suspicion.

he strokes your head as he says. “im sorry. i know you didnt want this marriage either. im sorry that youve been doing all this alone. i promise ill be here for you. just tell me what you need and i will do everything to help you. youve changed me y/n.”

you look at him, with creased eyebrows, obviously still not trusting him fully.

“ill give you time.” husband!gojo sighs as he lets go of you to get ready for work. you still make him lunch that day.

husband!gojo who comes home and doesnt see you on the couch. he understands that he needs to wait for your response but there is a small part of him that is wondering whether or not you have left.

husband!gojo who sighs in relief when he opens the door to your shared bedroom, seeing you all dolled up in a pretty pj set, sitting comfy on the bed.

husband!gojo who smiles when he sees your face brighten in delight. you walk up to him.

husband!gojo who is surprised when you wrap your arms around him and kiss him with your soft lips. he groans into the kiss, regretting the fact the he never kissed you after the wedding.

husband!gojo who melts to your touch as your bring him to the bed. you remove his jacket and tie as your straddle him, kissing him more harshly.

husband!gojo who makes sure youre okay with with what’s going to happen next. he kisses you again when you say yes.

husband!gojo who takes his sweet time with you. stripping you from your garments,leaving you bare infront of him. he sinks his long fingers into your sopping cunt, your head lolling back in pleasure.

husband!gojo who’s eyes roll back when he finally tastes you. youre addcitive. he laps up your juices, swirling his tongue on your clit. you cum twice on your husband’s tongue, his hands holding your legs apart so they wont close. his fingers continues to scissor you until youre screaming.

husband!gojo who fucks you in missionary position, making sure to watch your face as your react to the pleasure hes giving you.

husband!gojo who cums inside of you only to turn that cum into a creamy mess around your pussy as he pounds into you some more. he can feel his creampie dripping out of you and down his balls.

husband!gojo who enjoys how loud youve become. moaning obscenities and calling him daddy. he wants to fuck you till your dumb!

“fuck princess, youre so fucking messy. fuc—nghh..” he tries to speak but your pussy is squeezing him too well he can barely get words out.

“please daddy!! i need—aghh.. i need you! dont stopp—ahh…” you groan as you have your fourth orgasm of night.

husband!gojo who watches hearts form in your eyes when he cums inside of you for the final time. you can feel his warmth trickling into your womb.

husband!gojo who pulls out and watches his loads flood out of you. he presses on your stomach, watching as more cum gushes out of you.

husband!gojo who brings a warm towel to wipe up the cream around your sex. you moan as he does so, still recovering from all of your orgasms.

husband!gojo who wraps you up into his arms once again, praising you for how well you did.

“you did so good love..” he says stroking your back.

husband!gojo who reminds you that he has fallen in love with you and will do anything and everything in his power to make sure that you are comfortable in this marriage with him.

husband!gojo who knows the two of you will be okay when you peck him on the lips and tell him that you love him.

[enhaflixer]

bf! Enhypen x f! reader - MAKING OUT IN THE CAR.

fluff, angst, crack, suggestive.

-

𝐋𝐞𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠

You don’t even remember how it started. One second you were teasing him about his playlist, and the next—he was leaning across the console, hand sliding behind your neck, lips brushing yours with that soft, dangerous smile.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” he murmured, voice low. “Keep talking.”

You do. Until he kisses you mid-sentence.

The kiss is slow at first. Hot and deep. Like he’s trying to unspool you. His lips are so soft it’s criminal, his tongue flicking teasingly until you gasp—and then he really kisses you. Full pressure. Full tilt. His thumb strokes under your jaw while the other hand grips your waist, dragging you across the console like you weigh nothing.

You end up in his lap, straddling him, knees wedged awkwardly between the steering wheel and the seat—but he doesn’t care. He pulls you in like he’s waited all week for this.

“Fuck,” he groans, licking into your mouth, breathing heavier now. “Why do you always taste so good?”

Your hands fist in the fabric of his hoodie, grounding yourself against the slow roll of his hips. Heeseung kisses like it’s the only language he speaks—fluid, deep, greedy. He bites your bottom lip, then sucks it just to soothe it. He groans when you pull his hair. He whimpers when you moan into his mouth.

Every time you try to pull back, catch your breath—he chases you. Whispering, “C’mere. One more. Just one more.”

You’re flushed, dazed, lips swollen and aching—but he’s not done.

“Everything you do turns me on,” he mutters against your mouth, like it’s killing him. “You’re in my lap, making those noises, pulling at my hoodie like that—what do you expect me to do?”

You try to tease him—“Then do something, Hee.”

But your voice cracks halfway through, and he smirks.

“Say less, baby.”

His hands slide under your hoodie, dragging up your spine, fingertips hot against your skin. You squirm. He groans again, deep and filthy. His mouth finds your neck now, kissing and sucking, tongue flicking over your pulse until you’re gasping his name.

Your hips grind down, and he freezes.

“You wanna keep doing that,” he pants, “we’re gonna have to move to the backseat.”

You blink. “Is that a threat?”

He leans in, kisses you hard—biting, possessive, deliciously desperate.

“It’s a fucking promise.”

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠

The world outside is still. Streetlights casting soft gold through the windshield, low music humming through the speakers. You’re in Jay’s lap, knees on either side of him, your hands tucked into the collar of his sweatshirt.

His palms are warm on your thighs. Steady. Just resting there. His gaze flickers from your lips to your eyes, and he’s smiling. Just a little. That soft, private smile he only gives you when it’s quiet like this.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice a little raspy, thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He leans in, slow, like there’s no rush at all. “Can I kiss you?”

You whisper yes. He was gonna do it anyway—but he always asks.

The kiss is gentle. Warm. Deep, but unhurried. His lips part just enough to pull you in, tongue brushing yours in a slow, quiet rhythm. He’s not trying to overwhelm you. He’s just here, and so are you, and that’s all he needs.

He kisses like someone who could stay like this forever. No urgency. No agenda. Just the feeling of your hands in his hair, the way you sigh into his mouth, the soft sounds you make when he licks a little deeper and you melt against him.

You rock forward a little, accidentally grinding into his lap—and he groans softly, but doesn’t chase it. Doesn’t push it further. Just presses a kiss to your jaw.

Then—softly, with a lazy smile on his lips:

“You don’t have to do anything.”

Not as a warning. Not to stop you. Just… because he means it.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

His fingers trace the outside of your thigh, feather-light. He shrugs a little, still smiling. “I already like this. You. Us. Just like this.”

It’s not that he doesn’t want you. You can feel how much he does. But there’s no pressure behind it. No edge. He just kisses you again, gentle and slow, like there’s no finish line. Like being here, like this, with you in his lap and your fingers in his hair—is already everything.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he repeats, softer this time, thumb brushing your jaw as his eyes flicker down to your lips. “Just be mine.”

He kisses you again—deeper this time, hands firm on your hips now, breath mixing with yours—and it’s the kind of kiss that tells you everything.

He’s not going anywhere.

He’s not expecting anything.

He just wants this.

You.

𝐒𝐢𝐦 𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐮𝐧

You’re barely ten minutes into the drive when you notice it.

Jake’s unusually quiet.

Not teasing. Not humming along to the music. Just… sitting there. Hands tight on the wheel. Glancing at you every few seconds.

You turn your head. “You good?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s staring at your mouth.

Your glossy, plump, lip-glossed mouth.

You blink. “Jake?”

He swallows hard. His tongue comes out—just a little—peeking out the corner of his mouth as his eyes lock on your lips.

And stay there.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he finally mumbles, eyes still on your mouth.

“What?”

“That gloss,” he says, voice already shaky. “The peachy one. The one that smells like candy? That tastes like it too?” His jaw flexes. “You know what it does to me.”

You try to hide your smile. “You’re being dramatic.”

He lets out this soft, broken laugh—like he can’t believe you’re gaslighting him in this moment of genuine crisis.

“Baby,” he whispers, biting his lip like it physically hurts to hold back. “You don’t get it. I’ve been thinking about your mouth since you got in the car.”

His tongue comes out again, wetting his bottom lip. His hand lifts, fingers twitching, like he wants to touch your jaw but doesn’t trust himself to stop if he starts.

“You’ve just been sitting there all pretty and giggly and licking your lips like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You blink. “You’re literally sweating.”

“I am!” he cries, eyes wide, looking genuinely distressed. “You haven’t even kissed me yet and I’m already hard—what is wrong with me?”

You lean in slightly—just a bit—and his breath hitches.

“I’m gonna crash this car,” he says quietly. “I swear to God.”

Your smirk grows. “You want me to kiss you that bad?”

Jake nods, completely unashamed, eyes dropping to your lips again.

“Baby, please,” he breathes. “I’ll be so good. Just—fuck—kiss me before I die.”

When your lips touch his?

He melts.

One hand flies to your cheek, the other to your thigh. He kisses you with tongue, with teeth, with gratitude. He moans into your mouth like he’s being saved, like he’s home.

The second you pull away—giggling, smug, lips wet with his and yours—

He’s already leaning back in, whining, begging softly:

“Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. I’m so fucked up over you.”

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧

“You’re so annoying,” he snaps, tugging the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over his hands like a child. “You literally ignored me the whole time we were there. You didn’t even look at me when I got in the car.”

You’re trying so hard not to laugh. He’s full-on sulking. Legs pulled up on the seat, arms crossed, bottom lip sticking out in a bratty little pout.

“I didn’t ignore you,” you say, leaning back in your seat.

“Oh really?” he shoots back. “So you weren’t laughing extra hard at what Jay said? You weren’t pretending like I wasn’t there the second someone else gave you attention?”

He sounds like a freshly divorced housewife recounting her worst trauma.

You just blink at him. “Sunghoon.”

“You literally ignored me the whole time—like I was just there, watching you laugh with everyone else and pretend like I didn’t exist. And don’t even get me started on the way you smiled at that guy—like?? Did you see the way he looked at you?!”

You’re perched next to him, holding in laughter, watching him pout like he’s auditioning for a villain monologue.

“I wasn’t even smiling at—”

“Oh my God, YES you were,” he says, dramatically clutching his chest. “You were doing that fake ‘I’m so sweet and cute’ smile that you know drives me insane and—why are you looking at me like that.”

You lean in.

He freezes.

But only for a second.

Lick his nose.

A full, flat-tongue, slow little swipe up the bridge of it. Like a menace.

He freezes. Blink. Blink.

“…EW??” he shrieks, smacking your shoulder. “What the fuck is actually wrong with you?!”

You’re laughing so hard now you’re wheezing, and he looks so offended it’s like you committed a crime. But underneath the rage is the tiniest pink blush crawling up his ears.

He wipes his nose with his sleeve, still glaring. “You’re disgusting. You’re literally an animal. Like what goes on in that freak brain of yours—”

But he doesn’t get to finish.

“Wait no I’m not done, I—mmph—!”

You kiss him. Full and slow. Hand curling around his cheek, thumb stroking just under his eye.

He moans into your mouth for half a second… before pulling back to keep talking.

“Okay no, because seriously, I’m not trying to be annoying, but like—you do this, you always kiss me to distract me—”

You kiss him again.

He’s still talking. Lips moving against yours, voice muffled, pouting into your actual mouth.

You groan and slap a hand over his lips.

“Mmph!!” he protests, wide-eyed.

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter. “Why are you even talking while I’m kissing you.”

He just glares, still muffled behind your palm, mumbling like a brat.

So you do what must be done.

You climb into his lap.

Grab both sides of his stupid pouty face.

And kiss him so hard his entire body goes still.

One sharp inhale. One twitch of his fingers.

Silence.

He melts.

He goes fully boneless.

Hands sliding up your back, mouth parting, his whole body sighing under you like his brain just shut off. You lick into his mouth slow and deep and feel him whimper into it.

When you pull back, finally, finally—he’s flushed. Dazed. Blinking like he’s just seen the face of God.

You smile sweetly. “Are you done now?”

“…No,” he mumbles, but it comes out breathy and wrecked.

So you kiss him again.

And he forgets what he was mad about completely.

𝐊𝐢𝐦 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐨𝐨

Your face is still wet with tears when he kisses you again.

Slower, deeper this time. His hand cradling your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone like he’s trying to soothe you through every inch of skin.

The kiss is quiet. Messy. Tear-salted and trembling.

But he doesn’t stop.

He kisses you like you’re fragile—not like you’ll break, but like you already have, and he’s gently putting you back together.

You try to pull away, embarrassed, but he shakes his head, forehead resting on yours.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut. “Let me stay with you like this.”

And then he kisses you again—sliding his tongue slowly into your mouth, warm and gentle and real. It’s not perfect. Your breathing stutters. His fingers tremble. But it’s soft and tender and so full of love that it makes your chest ache worse.

He pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around your back, the kind of hold that says I’ve got you and I’m not letting go. His lips find yours again. Again. Again.

You’re still sniffling, still raw, but now you’re gasping too—because the kisses are getting longer, deeper. His mouth opens against yours, tongue brushing sweetly, and you can feel him pouring love into you with every movement.

His voice breaks between kisses. “You’re okay,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You fist your hands into his hoodie. You kiss him back, harder. You melt. You fall.

He lets you.

He kisses your cheeks between breaths. Your nose. Your lips again, slow and soothing, as his hand rubs your back.

Every time you start crying again, he kisses you harder.

Not because he wants anything.

Not because he’s trying to fix it.

Just because he needs you to know you’re not alone.

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” he whispers. “You just have to be here. With me.”

And when he kisses you again—it’s the kind of kiss that says:

Even if it hurts, I’m not going anywhere

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐰𝐨𝐧

The tension in the car is unbearable.

He’s angled toward the window, jaw tight, hoodie pulled halfway up over his mouth, the way he always hides when he’s not ready to talk.

But his shoulders are tense. His eyes keep blinking too fast.

He’s not mad anymore. He’s hurt.

It’s so much worse.

You slide closer in the seat, your heart pounding. “Jungwon…”

He doesn’t move.

You try again, softer this time. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Still nothing.

So you cup his jaw gently, fingers trembling, and lean in. Your nose brushes his. His lips are parted just slightly, breath shallow, but he doesn’t lean back. He doesn’t stop you either.

You press your mouth to his—slow, careful, trembling.

He doesn’t kiss you back.

But he doesn’t pull away.

That’s how you know how bad it is.

Your heart cracks open.

You kiss him again, your forehead pressing against his, your voice shaking. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t shut me out.”

Then he moves.

His hands slide to your waist. His mouth finally responds.

Not rushed. Not greedy.

Just… broken.

He kisses you like his heart’s still hurting.

Like it aches to forgive you but he can’t help it.

His lips are soft but tight. His breathing is heavy.

And when you deepen it—tilt your head, lick softly into his mouth—he makes the tiniest sound in his throat.

Like he’s been holding back tears.

You pull back, just slightly, resting your forehead against his.

“I know I hurt you.”

His fingers curl into your hoodie, gripping tight.

He kisses you again. Harder this time. Shaky and wet. Still not perfect. Still not even. But full of every unsaid thing.

You feel it in the way he exhales into your mouth like he’s been holding it in.

You feel it in the way his thumb strokes your side like he’s grounding himself.

You feel it in the way he pulls you closer, like he needs your heartbeat to match his again.

You kiss him back like you’re sorry. Like you love him. Like you’ll spend forever making it right.

And when you whisper “I’m still yours,” he kisses you again like

he never stopped hoping you were.

𝐍𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐤𝐢

You haven’t kissed him in like… forty minutes?

Which is, according to Ni-ki, emotional abuse.

He’s in the passenger seat, legs manspreaded like he owns the car, head tilted back in utter despair, hoodie strings in his mouth. He looks wrecked.

“You’re literally torturing me,” he mumbles, voice muffled by fleece. “You’re acting like every time I kiss you, my tongue tastes like battery acid.”

You side-eye him, scrolling on your phone. “Did you not act like you didn’t care the last four times I tried to kiss you?”

He groans like you’ve stabbed him. “Okay, yes. I did. But only because I thought it was funny. I didn’t know you were gonna get all revenge mode on me. I didn’t think you were gonna turn into a sexy little ice queen who punishes me by making me feel like a diseased boy on the street.”

You snort. “Maybe I like diseased boys.”

“I’M SICK BUT I’M CUTE,” he cries dramatically, slapping a hand over his heart. “I’m a treatable disease.”

You keep scrolling. Calm. Untouchable.

He’s spiraling.

“Fine,” he groans. “I get it. I’m sorry. I’m sooo sorry, baby. I’ll never be cool again. I’ll never act like I don’t care. I’ll tattoo your name on my ass and wear a leash with your initials. But please—please stop acting like kissing me is the emotional equivalent of licking a sidewalk. I am BEGGING.”

You shrug. “Dunno what to tell you bro.”

His whole body seizes. “DON’T BRO ME.”

You glance over. He’s fully pouting now, big eyes glossy, lips parted like he’s this close to crying. He looks like a kicked puppy in designer sneakers.

“Bro,” you say, just to be a menace.

“I’m gonna cry,” he whispers. “Y/N, I’m gonna sob in this car and you’ll have to live with that.”

You finally sigh, put your phone down, and tilt your head toward him. “Okay. One kiss.”

His face lights up. Like Christmas. Like salvation.

“Really??”

“One.”

He scrambles over the console like he’s climbing Everest, hands gripping the seat, hoodie riding up. He grabs your face in both hands and immediately crashes his mouth onto yours like he’s been waiting years.

And it’s a MESS.

He’s kissing you like he’s trying to prove something. Like if he kisses hard enough, you’ll forget you were ever mad. His tongue’s already in your mouth, greedy and desperate, lips sliding over yours wet and fast.

He groans—groans—into your mouth when you let him deepen it, fingers sliding into your hair, his whole body shivering.

“I missed your mouth,” he pants between kisses. “I was going insane. I’m so dumb. You’re so hot when you’re mean. I deserve to suffer. But also can you make out with me forever now?”

You pull back, dazed. “You’re literally out of breath.”

“I’m in love,” he wheezes.

You roll your eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

He’s already kissing you again. Slower this time. Wetter. Deeper.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “But you like it.”

You hate how right he is.

-

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @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 @jakewonist

[gojover]

“stop laughing,” you mumble against atsumu’s mouth, even though you’re giggling too.

“i’m not,” atsumu slurs, his grin pressed into your cheek as he tries to kiss you. his hand misses your waist and ends up on your hip, and he slides it higher, clumsy and warm. “i’m bein’ serious. so serious.”

“you just tripped over a shoe five minutes ago.”

his nose scrunches. “made you look, though.”

“you’re such an idiot,” you sigh, but you’re smiling, hands sliding into his hair. you tug him back towards you. atsumu hums into the kiss, messy and loud, his hand smoothing over your back before slipping under the hem of your shirt.

“yer so soft,” he murmurs, lips brushing along your jaw. “m’gonna marry ya.”

“you say that every time you’re drunk.”

“i mean it every time,” he says, beaming, and his mouth finds yours again, all teeth and sloppiness. 

he tastes like whiskey and mint gum, and his hands are so warm. so, so warm. your hands slide down his shoulders, and he’s laughing into the kiss, breathless and giddy. his nose bumps against yours when he tilts his head, trying to get closer. you tug at his hair, the dyed-blond strands slipping through your fingers, and he groans.

“you okay?” you ask, biting back a smile.

“never better,” he says, mouth pressed to the corner of yours. his hand slips beneath your shirt again, palm warm on your skin. “so, so soft.”

“you already said that,” you say against his lips.

“and i meant it,” he says, laughing, and you can’t help but laugh too. his thumb brushes your side, lazy and fond, and you feel like you’re melting right into him.

he kisses you again, sloppy and open-mouthed, and your head is spinning—partly from the alcohol, partly from the fact that his hands are everywhere—and you would probably let him keep going forever if—

“seriously?”

your head snaps up. osamu stands at the doorway, face twisted in disgust. 

“on my couch?”

#22. kiss that is leading to more, but is interrupted by a third party.