#me: instant whiplash | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

justwinginglife · 2 days ago

Text

The LADS Men React To You Saying You Can't Have S*X Because Of Mismatching Underwear

NSFW WARNING

Sylus

Sylus knows in an instant that you’re messing with him but he plays along, a sly smirk sitting pretty on his lips. “Oh NO- your underwear set doesn’t match? Whatever shall we do?” After clicking a few buttons on his phone, he stands to grab his car keys (one out of many).

“Wait! What are you doing, where are you going?” You ask, brows furrowing. The sudden change in the atmosphere has you feeling like, at any moment, you might get whiplash. One minute, he’s kissing up your neck, squeezing at your thighs, grinding his raging erection into your crotch, and the next, he’s throwing on his jacket, zipping his pants back up, and getting ready to leave.

“You mean where are we going, kitten.” He speaks like it’s only obvious.

Your eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why are we leaving? I thought you just wanted to have sex not two seconds ago.”

“Of course, dearest, but we can’t have sex if you’re feeling embarrassed, now can we? So I thought I’d just buy the nearest lingerie store and we could go pick out whatever you like.”

You choke on your spit. “You did WHAT?”

“I said I bought the store. So let’s go.” His eyes are daring you to continue with your little charade.

“Well I…I kinda wanted to stay home tonight.” You say weakly. You know you’re making a pathetic case for yourself, but he’s really not allowing you the wiggle room to be more convincing.

“Then allow me to have all of their stock delivered to the house. Unless… you think that the mismatching underwear is no longer an issue?”

Oh, this son of a bitch. “You… you really don’t have to do all of this just for me.” You say with an awkward laugh. He knows you’re all out of moves and you’re just pivoting at this point. He knows and he has the audacity to be amused.

“Oh, but I did, kitten. I wouldn’t want to overlook this very important issue. What’s important to you is important to me.”

“It’s, uh, not actually that important…” You confess meekly.

“Say that again, sweetie?” He cranes his head to hear you better but you know damn well he can hear you just fine.

You glare at him. “I said it’s fine.”

He chuckles, sweet satisfaction clear on his face. “So then. Does this mean we can pick up where we left off?”

Caleb

You’ve been teasing Caleb all day.

Dancing into his field of view with that low neckline of yours, wearing a dress that’s so short, it’s a wonder it’s covering anything at all. Touching him here and there, your fingers grazing his skin with a feather-light touch, trailing up his biceps, or down his back, before flitting away like you’d never been there in the first place.

So, of course, after hours of edging him towards an excruciating erection, his self control still intact (though holding on by mere splintered pieces), you decide to reward his good behavior. You straddle him on the couch, and slowly begin to slide your hips back and forth, dragging your clothed cunt across the admittedly-impressive bulge in his pants.

He swears he’s seeing heaven, when you finally allow his aching cock some much needed friction. He’s not proud to say that a little dry humping is all it takes to get him coming into his pants, but he’s sure you’ll continue to show him such endless bliss as the night goes on that he won’t even remember how many times he’s come, let alone that the first time was in his underwear. His head dips forward, steadying itself on your shoulder as he allows the wave of euphoria to wash over him.

But the second the wave has come and gone, his arousal is already flaring back up in his gut, ready for round two, round ten, round however much you want. All he can think about is how perfect it’ll be when he finally sinks himself inside you, your wet heat enveloping him until all he can feel is you. He doesn’t even think that maybe you’re more devious than he gave you credit for.

After he’s come, you retreat almost immediately, pulling yourself off of him.

He whines pathetically and he fumbles as he attempts to grab hold of you.

“Baby, we can’t tonight.” You say, innocent as ever.

He tries to keep the disappointment from his voice, tries to restrain his very evident need for you, but desperation is quickly rising within him. “Why not?”

You try to keep the smirk from your lips. “It’s just…I’m not…”

“You’re not what, love? Not feeling well? Not in the mood?” He hopes you don’t notice how badly he just wants you to spit it out.

“I’m not wearing matching undergarments tonight. So we can’t.” And there it is. The goal you’ve had all night. The little trick you couldn’t wait to play on him. You’re thrilled to see how he’ll react.

His eyes darken in an instant. “Oh, you little minx. You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?” His tone has dropped to a low growl.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.” You say, feigned ignorance dripping from your lips.

He gives a short laugh. “Sure you don’t. Well, if your mismatching underwear is the only issue-” He begins to kiss down your neck harshly, not bothering to take care where he leaves his marks, “-I’ve got just the solution.” His fingers find your dress’s zipper with expert precision and before you can even process that he’s taken ahold of it, the dress is already laying in a pile on the ground. Along with your bra and panties.

“There. All better. Now your underwear matches- they’re both on the damn floor.”

Rafayel

You’re starting to think that you lie just a little too well.

You had only meant to tease Rafayel when you had told him that the reason you couldn’t have sex tonight was because you were embarrassed that your bra didn’t match your underwear, but you didn’t expect him to take you completely seriously. What was even more unexpected was that he would go on to give you an entire art lecture in the process.

“Take Picasso, for instance. Brilliant artist. One of a kind. You know him, of course you do, everybody knows him. His work is asymmetrical, and yet you don’t see anybody telling him that his work isn’t beautiful because it doesn’t match.”

“Raf-”

“And take my work. My work isn’t always symmetrical either, but would you tell me that I’m anything less than a true genius? No, because I am. See?”

“That’s besides the point-“

“The point, cutie, is that you’re gorgeous no matter what you’re wearing. It’s okay that you didn’t plan a matching outfit today. Some of nature’s most stunning scenes are spontaneous. You wouldn’t complain to the sunset that its pink doesn’t match its orange, would you?”

“No, but I-”

“Exactly. So it doesn’t matter to me if you’re wearing mismatching underwear; you could be wearing a trash bag and I’d still want you. Do you understand now, cutie?”

“Raf, baby, there’s nothing to understand, I was just jo-“

“Okay, if you don’t understand, let me put it in simpler terms for you. I’m hard for you regardless. That make sense now?”

When he puts it that bluntly, you really want to jump his bones. At this point, you figure you might as well. It’s useless to try and explain to him that you were only joking- not after he’s given you such a lengthy (though thoughtful) monologue. Though he’s a bit dense today, he’s still the same sweet Rafayel you fell in love with. So you think you’ll reward him for his kindness.

“You know what, baby? You made me feel so much better, thank you. I think, to show you just how much better I feel-” You strip yourself naked for him and his jaw drops, his eyes hungrily raking over your bare form, “-I’ll even let you come inside me tonight. What do you think?” You purr seductively.

You really didn’t have to try so hard to seduce him.

He’s already dropped his pants and begun stumbling towards you, rapidly hardening cock in hand.

Xavier

You’re in the middle of a very heated makeout session with Xavier when you decide to pick on him a little. You can tell where this is going, but you want to drag it out a little longer.

“Xav-” You whine breathlessly. “I think we should,” You return another one of his hungry kisses, “Probably stop for the night.”

He pulls back to examine you. He can’t tell if you’re messing with him or if you’re genuinely not in the mood. Of course, if you want to stop, he’ll stop. He can just fuck his hand later; he’s not so selfish that he’d make you do something you don’t want to do. But just in case he did something wrong, he decides to ask. “Any particular reason you want to stop?”

“It’s just…” You bite your lip, hoping it makes you appear timid, when really you’re trying not to grin. “My bra and my underwear don’t match. I’m a little embarrassed to show you.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Oh, is that all? Feel free to change them then. I won’t look.” Before you can even respond that it’s a joke, he’s turned his back to you to give you your privacy.

You shake your head, smiling softly at his back. You didn’t expect him to be so sweet. You may as well strip naked while he’s allowing you the time; you had planned to have sex with him anyway.

What the both of you don’t realize is that your bedroom’s full length mirror is angled just right so that he can still see you even when you’re behind him. He looks up only to get a perfect view of you undressing. When he realizes he’s seeing something he’s not supposed to, he starts to look away. But then he catches a glimpse of your mismatching underwear. Cherries decorate the soft material of your panties, while your bra is littered with little bows all the way around. Heat surges through his groin and he realizes that for some reason, this combination of mismatching underwear is doing something to him.

You finish pulling your shirt off all the way and reach back to unhook your bra. “You know, I appreciate you being so understanding, my love, but I have to admit- I was completely kidding about not wanting to have sex just because my underwear didn’t match.”

In an instant -you honestly don’t remember him even having the time to turn all the way around- he’s at your side, gripping your wrist tight and locking you in place. “That’s a relief. Now you don’t have to take off any more.”

You raise a curious brow at him. “What do you mean? Didn’t you want to have sex? I kinda have to take my underwear off for that.”

“No. You don’t.” His tone is low and thick with lust. “The undergarments stay on.” Before you know it, you’re pinned down to the bed.

You don’t know if it’s his teleportation ability or just his pure, unadulterated need, but he seems to be moving rather hastily today. You’ve barely even had time to blink before he’s slipping his cock under your bra, fucking your cleavage while it holds his cock in place.

Something about you, the girl who always settles for function over fashion, wearing the cutsiest, girliest underwear he’s ever seen makes him harder than he’s ever been before and he’s not stopping until he’s staining this particular set in his cum.

Zayne

“So we don’t strip naked then. That doesn’t mean I can’t still make you feel good.”

When you originally decided to play this joke on Zayne, telling him that you were feeling just a little too shy today to reveal to him your mismatching underwear, you thought he would see right through your little act. This is the man who has known you almost your entire life, after all.

But after you’d come so many times IN YOUR GODDAMN UNDERWEAR ALONE, all because he had insisted on tending to your needs even with your clothes on, after your clenching walls began to feel rather bruised, your clit increasingly more and more overstimulated with each passing second, as he fingered you through the (soaked) fabric of your clothes yet again, you were starting to regret this decision to mess with him.

You tried to confess so many times, to tell him you’d been lying, to beg him for his cock instead, but it was almost like he knew what you were trying to say, because he’d kiss you so deeply until you were so dizzy from lack of breath that you forgot what you wanted to say, and then he’d dry hump you until you forgot how to even breathe in the first place.

When you finally stutter out a pathetic, “P-please Z-Zayne…can’t t-take it anymore. Wanna f-fuck you,” Your hips thrusting desperately against the unsatisfying, thin air, he grins.

In that moment, you realize he’s known you’ve been lying all along.

He leans over to you and you think he might kiss you. That, or scold you. But either result turns you on, so you hold your breath, waiting for him to respond.

He merely peers down your shirt before tugging your pants down slightly to confirm something. “So your underwear does, in fact, match. What an interesting development. Now then…how should I punish you for such dishonest behavior?”

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @tbaluver @minasfwoopyponytail @ouiouimochi

962 notes · View notes

cloudyluun · 3 months ago

Text

Ruin me, Love me, Lose me| fratboy&playboy!harry

Summary: You hate Harry Styles. Or at least, you really, really want to. He’s the frat house king, the campus playboy, the smug asshole who always has a girl (or three) in his bed. You swear you’ll never be one of them.

And then one night, you kiss him.

And then another night, you sleep with him.

And then suddenly, you’re tangled in his sheets, in his arms, in his world, telling yourself it means nothing.

Until it does.

Wordt Count: 5k

A/N: Ah, yes. Another classic case of let’s make this as toxic as possible but pretend it’s fine because the tension is hot. This was supposed to be a slow burn, and then my brain said, “What if they suffered immediately instead?” Anyway, enjoy the angst, the mess, and the self-inflicted emotional damage. Love you, mean it. 💔 Based on this request!

Warnings:

Smut (18+ only)

Toxic relationships

Angst (like, a lot)

Jealousy & possessiveness

Alcohol use

Slight degradation & rough moments

Heartbreak (sorry in advance)

Some emotional whiplash

Questionable life choices

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The party is suffocating.

It reeks of stale beer, sweat, and something obnoxiously expensive, probably the cologne of some guy who thinks dousing himself in Tom Ford will make up for his complete lack of personality. Bodies are packed together like sardines, moving in drunken waves, grinding against each other to the bass-heavy music blasting from the speakers.

You feel completely out of place.

And honestly? You couldn’t give less of a fuck.

The only reason you’re here is because your best friend practically dragged you. Come on, she had pleaded, hands clasped together like she was making a sacred vow. You never go out, you never have fun, and I swear to God, if you don’t start acting like a college student at least once, I’m going to lose my mind.

So, against your better judgment, you let her shove you into a dress and apply a little makeup, hyping you up like this was going to be some life-changing experience. Spoiler alert: it’s not. It’s exactly what you expected: obnoxiously loud, unbearably sweaty, and full of people who are so wrapped up in their own egos that they wouldn’t notice if the house caught fire.

You’ve only been here for an hour, and you already want to leave.

You retreat to the kitchen, seeking some kind of escape. It’s quieter here, if only marginally. The countertops are littered with half-empty cups and sticky spills that no one will bother cleaning up. A couple is making out against the fridge like they’re in a fucking movie, completely unbothered by the fact that people are walking around them.

And then there’s him.

Harry Styles.

You don’t have to look directly at him to know he’s there, you feel his presence before you even see him. It’s like the air shifts when he walks into a room, demanding attention without even trying. He’s exactly the kind of guy you can’t stand: arrogant, entitled, and so used to getting his way that he probably doesn’t even remember the last time someone told him no.

Everyone here worships him.

It’s disgusting.

You finally glance up, and there he is, standing just a few feet away, leaning lazily against the counter like he owns the place. He’s wearing all black—ripped jeans, an unbuttoned shirt that shows off just enough tattoos to make girls swoon, and a smirk that tells you he knows exactly how good he looks.

His eyes flicker toward you, and in an instant, you know exactly what’s coming.

“Y’look like you hate it here, sweetheart.”

His voice is smooth, like whiskey on ice, laced with just enough amusement to let you know he finds this entertaining.

You exhale sharply, unimpressed. “That’s because I do.”

Instead of being deterred, his smirk deepens, like he finds your resistance amusing. He steps closer—not enough to be invasive, but enough to make it clear that he’s testing you, waiting to see how you’ll react.

“Then why are you here?” he asks, cocking his head slightly.

You don’t take the bait.

Instead, you roll your eyes, brushing past him with a dry, “Because some of us actually care about our friends.”

You expect that to be the end of it. Guys like Harry don’t waste time on girls who aren’t immediately fawning over them. He could have any girl in this house—hell, most of them would kill for the chance.

But he doesn’t let it go.

He follows.

And when you turn to glance back at him, you find his green eyes locked onto you like a predator stalking its prey.

It’s a look you’ve seen before—the kind that says he’s intrigued, that you’ve just become a challenge.

And you know, without a doubt, that Harry Styles never walks away from a challenge.

You should have seen it coming.

From that night on, it becomes a game to him—one you never agreed to play.

He makes it his personal mission to get under your skin, to test your patience at every opportunity. It’s not obvious at first, just small things that could almost be coincidental. A glance held for a second too long. A smirk thrown your way when you pass each other on campus. An overheard comment about some girl he hooked up with the night before, loud enough that he knows you’ll hear.

You don’t care.

(You do.)

But you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

The second run-in happens at another party, because of course it does.

This time, you arrive more prepared—mentally, at least. You’ve made peace with the fact that these events are unavoidable, that your best friend will always drag you to them, that the college social scene is a relentless cycle of alcohol-fueled chaos. You can survive a couple of hours. You’ll drink just enough to take the edge off, then find a way to slip out before midnight.

It’s a decent plan.

Until you see him.

He’s lounging on the frat house couch like it’s a fucking throne, an arm draped lazily over the backrest, legs spread wide in a way that’s both infuriating and devastatingly attractive. He’s surrounded by girls—of course he is—all of them leaning in, waiting for his attention, laughing too loudly at things he hasn’t even said.

You roll your eyes and turn away.

You don’t care.

(You do.)

You tell yourself you’re imagining it, but you can feel his eyes on you as you move through the party, can sense the smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t call you over, doesn’t make a scene—he doesn’t have to. The air shifts when he’s near, gravity bending in his favor.

And then, just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed—

“Y’keep lookin’ at me, sweetheart.”

The words send a sharp, unwelcome shiver down your spine.

You scoff before you even turn around, willing yourself to appear unaffected. “As if.”

His grin deepens, slow and lazy, like he enjoys watching you squirm.

You hate that it works.

You hate that the sharp cut of his jawline and the teasing glint in his eyes make your stomach twist in ways that aren’t entirely rooted in hatred.

You refuse to play his game.

You take a step back, ready to leave, but before you can—

His hand catches your wrist.

It’s not forceful, just firm enough to make you pause.

And then he leans in.

Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, close enough that his voice drops into something dark and slow, something meant only for you.

“You sure about that?”

The scent of whiskey and expensive cologne wraps around you like a noose, tightening around your resolve.

You rip yourself away from him, but it’s too late.

Your body has already betrayed you.

And it will again.

Another night. Another party.

By now, you should have learned your lesson. But somehow, you always end up here—another crowded house, another room filled with drunken laughter and cheap beer, another encounter with him.

It’s inevitable.

You don’t even know how it starts this time. It’s not some grand moment, not some life-altering realization. It’s just him—pushing, teasing, testing. Like he always does.

You’re in the kitchen again, arms crossed, a drink in your hand that you’ve barely touched. You’ve been avoiding him for most of the night, keeping your distance, but it doesn’t matter. He finds you anyway.

He always does.

“Y’gonna keep ignoring me all night?”

You don’t even look up. “That was the plan.”

A low chuckle, the kind that makes your stomach clench. “M’not that easy to ignore, sweetheart.”

Unfortunately, he’s right.

You take a slow sip of your drink, willing yourself to remain unaffected. “Try me.”

And that’s all it takes. That single challenge.

His eyes spark with something dark and dangerous. His smirk sharpens. And then—

“You act like you hate me,” he murmurs, stepping in closer, “but we both know that’s not true.”

Your fingers tighten around your glass.

“It is.”

“Liar.”

You finally look up at him, glaring. “Go to hell, Harry.”

He grins, cocky and infuriating. “Take me there yourself.”

And then—

It happens.

Fast.

Too fast.

One second, you’re standing there, glaring at him. The next, his lips are on yours.

There’s no hesitation, no slow build-up, no moment to think. Just heat.

His hands are in your hair, fingers tangling, tugging. Your back meets the nearest wall, the cold surface a shocking contrast to the fire raging between you.

It’s rough. Desperate.

You should stop.

You should.

But his body is pressed against yours, and you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except feel.

Your fingers find their way to the hem of his shirt, gripping it like a lifeline. His hands slide down, tracing over your hips, pulling you in like he can’t get close enough.

And maybe he can’t.

Maybe you can’t.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His lips are swollen, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” he says, voice low, wrecked. “And I’ll stop.”

Your lips part.

To say what?

To tell the truth?

But before you can, before you even know what you want to say—

Your hands fist in his shirt.

And you crash into him all over again.

You pull away first, gasping for breath, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven movements. Reality slams into you like a freight train, but Harry doesn’t move. He watches you, his pupils blown, lips parted, his breath warm as it ghosts over your face. His hands are still on you—one firm at your waist, the other curled loosely around the nape of your neck. Holding you in place.

Like he’s afraid you’ll run.

Like he knows you want to.

A smirk tugs at his mouth, something smug and knowing. “Told you,” he murmurs, his voice rough, dark, like he’s just swallowed gravel. “You don’t hate me.”

You should.

You should hate him. You should push him away, put an ocean of space between you before this turns into something irreversible. Something you can’t take back.

But your body betrays you before your mind can catch up.

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt instead of letting go. Your legs feel weak, but you’re not sure if it’s from the adrenaline or the way he’s looking at you. His green eyes flicker in the dim lighting, unreadable, but there’s something behind them—something waiting, something burning.

Something dangerous.

“This is a mistake,” you whisper, the words shaky, uncertain. You don’t even know if you believe them.

His thumb drags along your jaw, featherlight, and his lips barely, barely graze yours when he speaks. “Maybe.”

That single word is enough to send your stomach into freefall. Maybe. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe this is the worst idea you’ve ever had. Maybe you’re going to regret this the second the sun comes up.

Or maybe you won’t.

Maybe you’ll regret it more if you stop now.

Maybe that’s what terrifies you the most.

Your body makes the decision for you.

His fingers slide down your wrist, tracing the delicate skin there before his hand finds yours, fingers lacing together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like they belong there.

And you let him take you.

The party behind you becomes a distant blur—flashes of neon lights, the thud of bass vibrating through the floor, drunken laughter echoing from downstairs. It all feels like it’s happening in another universe, detached from this moment. From him. From you.

Each step up the stairs feels heavier than the last, weighted with unspoken words, with history, with everything you’ve been pretending isn’t still there. The heat of his palm against yours sends sparks up your spine, and you squeeze your thighs together, ignoring the ache building in your stomach.

You don’t stop.

Not when you reach the landing.

Not when he leads you down the darkened hallway, past closed doors, past muffled voices, past all the chances you could have taken to turn back.

And not when he pushes open a door, guiding you inside.

Then—

The door clicks shut behind you.

The world disappears.

The second the lock turns, something inside you snaps.

There’s no hesitation this time. No second-guessing. No thinking. Just feeling.

Then he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours, rough and insistent, swallowing the gasp that slips from your lips. The kiss is nothing like the ones you’ve shared in the past—those were controlled, careful, measured. This? This is raw. Hungry. Starving.

His hands find your waist, gripping hard, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the way his chest heaves, the way his heartbeat slams against your own. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging sharply, and he groans into your mouth, his grip tightening, like he’s trying to pull you even closer, like he wants to crawl inside you.

You barely have time to process before your back hits the wall.

You gasp at the contact, but he doesn’t let up. His lips trail down your jaw, hot and desperate, and when his teeth graze the sensitive spot beneath your ear, a sharp whimper escapes before you can stop it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His hands roam, sliding down your sides, gripping at your thighs, hitching them around his waist like he can’t stand the thought of any space between you.

You don’t think.

You move.

Your hands push his jacket off his shoulders, and he shrugs out of it without breaking contact. Your fingers fumble at the buttons of his shirt, but he beats you to it, ripping it open in one swift motion, buttons scattering to the floor.

Then his skin is against yours, and it sends a shockwave through your entire body.

Heat pools low in your stomach, a coil winding tighter and tighter with every brush of his hands, every press of his lips, every ragged breath against your skin.

Clothes disappear—hurried, impatient.

Your dress slips down your shoulders, pooling at your feet. His belt clinks as he unfastens it, the sound cutting through the heavy air like a gunshot.

You don’t stop him.

You don’t want to.

His hands grip your thighs again, lifting you effortlessly, and your legs tighten around him. You can feel him—hard, straining against the fabric still separating you.

There’s a pause, just for a second.

A breath.

His forehead presses against yours, his lips barely touching, his fingers digging into your skin like he’s trying to ground himself. His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

Instead, you kiss him again.

And there’s no turning back now.

His body presses against yours, firm and unrelenting, as he walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. He doesn’t let go. His hands are still gripping your thighs, still holding you against him like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

Then he lowers you onto the bed.

The world tilts, and the air thickens as he leans over you, his weight bracing against his arms, caging you beneath him. His eyes flicker across your face—like he’s memorizing every inch, every breath, every little way you react to him. His fingers trace up your side, slow and teasing, and the way you shudder makes his lips twitch.

“Still think this is a mistake?” he taunts, voice low and rough as his lips brush against your collarbone.

Your breath hitches, but you don’t answer. You don’t have to. The way your fingers clutch at his back, the way your hips shift beneath him, the way your body is already arching into his touch—it’s all the answer he needs.

He smirks against your skin. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he stops talking.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

It’s messy. Desperate. The kind of passion that comes from months of unresolved tension, from too much history, from too many things left unsaid.

He kisses you like he’s trying to claim you. Like he’s trying to burn himself into your skin. Like if he kisses you hard enough, you’ll never be able to forget this—forget him.

His hands are everywhere. Exploring. Learning. Worshipping.

Every brush of his lips, every drag of his fingers, every slow roll of his hips is deliberate, pulling you apart piece by piece. He takes his time, but not too much time—because patience is a luxury neither of you have tonight.

You feel like you’re unraveling beneath him.

He notices.

He thrives on it.

His mouth moves lower, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. His fingers leave fire in their wake as they trail down your body, mapping out every inch, every soft curve, every sharp gasp he pulls from your lips.

It’s intoxicating, the way he touches you—like he already knows what you need before you do.

He whispers your name against your skin, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

Your hands are greedy, desperate as they roam over him—his shoulders, his chest, the firm muscles in his back. You want to touch all of him. Feel all of him.

And he lets you.

He lets you pull him closer, lets you tangle your legs around his, lets you drag your nails down his spine, leaving behind faint, red lines that he’ll wear like battle scars tomorrow.

The room is filled with nothing but heavy breathing, quiet moans, the rustle of sheets, the sound of skin against skin.

And when it finally happens—when he finally, finally gives you what you both need—it steals the breath from your lungs.

It’s not slow. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.

It’s raw.

It’s rough, desperate, punishing. It’s weeks of tension snapping all at once, a storm breaking, waves crashing, a fire finally given the air it needs to burn.

His name falls from your lips like a prayer, like a curse, like something you were never supposed to say out loud.

He groans, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath ragged. His fingers lace with yours, pinning your hands above your head. His body moves against yours in perfect rhythm—pushing, pulling, giving, taking.

It’s the kind of night that changes things.

The kind you won’t be able to take back.

The kind that leaves its mark.

And then—

Stillness.

Silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, heavy and uneven, filling the space between you.

His body is still pressed against yours, warm and solid and grounding. The weight of what just happened settles in, thick and undeniable.

You should get up.

You should leave.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stay.

Just for a little longer.

But "a little longer" turns into something else entirely.

Because it doesn’t stop at one night.

It should have. You tell yourself that over and over again. That night—the way his hands fit so perfectly against your skin, the way he pulled you apart and put you back together, the way his mouth made you forget your own name—it should have been enough. A single mistake. A one-time thing.

But it isn’t.

It’s never just once.

It happens again. And again. And again.

It’s always late. Always secret.

Always a text, a glance across the room, a lingering touch when no one is watching. Always a whispered come here against the shell of your ear, a door clicking shut behind you, a tangle of limbs in the dark.

It’s never soft. Never sweet.

It’s fast, desperate, all-consuming.

It’s hands fisting sheets, breathless moans swallowed into pillows. His body pressed against yours, heavy and unrelenting, holding you down, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

And he knows what he’s doing to you.

He’s filthy, cocky, teasing—he draws it out just to make you beg.

“Knew you’d be so fuckin’ sweet for me, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough, wicked, smug.

His rings feel cold against your burning skin as his fingers trail down your stomach, between your thighs, spreading you open like a secret. Like something meant only for him.

You bite your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound.

He chuckles, dark and knowing.

“This what you hate me for? Hm?” His lips brush against your jaw, down your throat, his breath hot and taunting. “’Cause I make you come harder than anyone else ever could?”

You hate him.

(You don’t.)

You hate that he’s right. That he knows he’s right. That he’s so good at this—at ruining you, at making you fall apart over and over again until you can’t think straight, until all you know is him. His name. His touch. His body moving against yours.

And every time, you tell yourself it’s the last.

That this is it. That you’re done.

That this means nothing.

And every time, you end up back in his bed.

But then you see him with someone else.

It’s late, the party is loud, and the music thrums through your body, drowning out everything else. You’re just stepping out for air when you spot him across the street. A girl is clinging to his arm, laughing at something he’s said, and his hand is low on her back as he leads her toward a car.

He doesn’t even look at you.

Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t falter. Doesn’t even pretend to care that you’re standing right there, watching him disappear into the night with someone else.

And it shouldn’t hurt.

Because you knew he wasn’t yours. You never asked him to be. Never wanted him to be.

Right?

So why does it feel like the ground just cracked open beneath you? Why does it feel like something inside you just snapped?

You go back inside, down a drink, let someone else pull you onto the dance floor. You lose yourself in the crowd, in the music, in the way someone’s hands settle on your waist—too light, too unfamiliar.

It doesn’t work.

Because when he finds you later, when he corners you in a dark hallway, there’s still fire burning in your chest, in your throat, in the way your hands clench at your sides.

He smirks, like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just walk out of here with someone else a few hours ago. Like he knew you’d still be here.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” His voice is low, amused. “Jealous?”

The word makes you snap.

“You’re disgusting.”

His smirk widens, but there’s something behind his eyes now—something sharper, more dangerous.

“Funny,” he murmurs, stepping closer, eyes dark, predatory. “Wasn’t what y’said last night.”

He reaches for you, fingers curling around your wrist, but you yank yourself away like he burns.

“We’re done.” Your voice is ice, your eyes colder.

And his smirk falters.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for you to see something else flicker across his face—confusion, disbelief, something dangerously close to panic.

Then it’s gone.

And he laughs. Soft. Low. Infuriating.

“That’s cute,” he drawls, tilting his head. “Think y’can just walk away from me.”

You meet his gaze head-on, jaw clenched, shoulders squared.

“Watch me.”

Then you turn.

And this time—this time—you don’t look back.

Weeks pass.

You don’t speak.

Not a word. Not a text. Not even a glance when you’re in the same room.

And it’s fine.

It has to be.

You throw yourself into distractions—work, friends, nights out where the music is too loud and the drinks burn too much. You let other people flirt with you. Let hands that aren’t his touch you. Let lips that don’t taste like him press against yours in dimly lit corners.

You pretend you don’t miss him.

(You do.)

But you tell yourself this is better. Cleaner. Easier.

Until you start hearing things.

He’s been drinking more.

Fighting more.

Losing his temper over nothing.

You overhear his name in conversations, whispered between mutual friends. You see his face in the back of a blurry Instagram story, bottle in hand, eyes dark and unfocused.

And you tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

You tell yourself he’s not your problem anymore.

Until he shows up at your door.

It’s late. Too late for him to be here.

The knock is sharp, impatient. Like he already knows you’re home. Like he already knows you’re going to answer.

You shouldn’t.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the handle, breath caught somewhere in your throat.

And then—

“Just let me in.”

His voice is quiet. Rough.

You open the door.

And he looks wrecked.

Tired. Haunted. Something’s different.

There’s none of the usual arrogance, none of the teasing smirk, none of the sharp-edged confidence that he wears like armor.

Just him.

His hands shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight, his eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable as they drag over you like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

Your throat tightens. “Harry—”

“I know,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “I know, just—”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. His eyes flicker over your face again, and for a second—just a second—you swear you see something crack.

And then he looks at you like that.

Like you’re his last fucking breath.

Like if you tell him to leave, it’ll break him.

And you cave.

You step aside.

You let him in.

And maybe that should be enough.

Maybe the way he holds you like you’re something fragile, the way his breath stutters when you touch him, the way his lips tremble against yours—that should be enough.

But it’s not.

Because fear is still there. Lurking. Poisoning everything it touches.

And you should’ve known.

You should’ve known that no matter how much he wants this, no matter how much he means it in the moment—

He’s still him.

And you’re still you.

And happy endings don’t exist for people like you.

So of course, he fucks up again.

Not with another girl. Not with whispered names and lipstick stains and the kind of betrayal that you could at least understand.

No.

This time, he betrays you with his own fear.

It happens fast. A conversation that turns into an argument, an argument that turns into something worse.

Maybe it starts because you ask too much. Maybe it starts because he’s never learned how to let himself have something good.

But all you know is that suddenly—he’s cold.

Detached.

Suddenly, his walls are back up.

“I don’t do relationships,” he says.

Flat. Emotionless.

Like none of it meant anything.

Like you don’t mean anything.

And it hits you harder than any slap ever could.

You flinch, like you’ve been physically wounded, like he’s just driven a knife between your ribs and twisted it.

Your voice shakes. “Then why did you tell me you loved me?”

Silence.

His jaw clenches.

But he doesn’t answer.

And that’s the worst part.

Not the fight. Not the distance.

The silence.

The fact that he has nothing to say.

And that’s when you know.

That’s when you realize—

This is it.

This is the moment he chooses to let you go.

You shake your head, chest heaving, eyes burning, throat closing up around the words you don’t know how to say.

“You don’t get to do this to me.”

But he already has.

And this time, you don’t give him the chance to stop you.

You walk out.

You don’t look back.

And he lets you.

Weeks pass.

You try to move on.

You tell yourself that you’re better off. That you should hate him. That you do hate him.

But then, one night—he shows up.

At your dorm.

At your fucking door, looking like he hasn’t slept, looking like he’s been through hell and back.

His hands are shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, his jaw is tense, his eyes are desperate.

And you—

You want to slam the door in his face.

You want to tell him that he doesn’t get to do this.

That he doesn’t get to come back.

But you don’t.

Because you need to hear what he has to say.

So you glare at him, arms crossed tightly over your chest, forcing your voice to stay steady. “What do you want, Harry?”

He exhales sharply. “I lied.”

Your stomach twists.

You swallow. “About what?”

He hesitates. Shifts his weight. But then—he steps closer.

“About not doing relationships.”

And suddenly, the air is too thick, too heavy.

Your head shakes. Your throat tightens. “You don’t get to do this to me.”

“I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I know, I just—” He sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I was scared, okay? I didn’t know how to—”

A pause. A beat of silence.

He looks at you, eyes searching, pleading.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Your lips part. But you don’t say anything.

Because after everything—after all of it—how do you know?

How do you know if this time will be different?

So you stare at him, pulse hammering in your throat, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

And then—

“So prove it.”

The challenge hangs between you.

And for the first time in his life—

He doesn’t run.

He doesn’t push you away.

He doesn’t fuck it up.

Instead, he nods.

And he does. --

It’s not instant.

There’s no cinematic moment, no dramatic declaration in the rain, no sudden, sweeping realization that makes everything fall into place.

It’s slow. It’s awkward. It’s frustrating.

But it’s real.

The first time you see him after that night at your dorm, it’s different. He’s different.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t act like he already has you figured out.

Instead, he waits.

You’re the one who has to break the silence.

“You really think you can change?”

His jaw clenches, hands flexing like he wants to reach for you but knows he doesn’t have the right to.

“I know I can.”

And for the first time, you almost believe him.

It starts with the little things.

Like how he texts first. Every morning. Every night. Even when there’s nothing to say. Even when it’s just, Hey, eat something. Or, Are you sleeping? Or, I know you’re still awake, don’t lie.

Like how he shows up. Actually shows up.

Not just for the easy moments. Not just for the nights when he’s desperate for you.

But for the moments when you’re exhausted, when you’re in a bad mood, when you’re not the version of yourself that’s easy to love.

And he stays anyway.

The first time you test him, it’s almost accidental.

He calls, asks if you want to come over.

And for the first time, you tell him no.

A few months ago, that would’ve been the end of it.

A few months ago, he would’ve gone out, found someone else, let his frustration morph into recklessness.

But this time, he just exhales. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

A pause.

Then, softly— “Yeah, baby. That’s okay.”

And that’s when you realize—this isn’t the same boy who let you walk away.

He’s trying.

For the first time in his life, he’s trying.

It takes time.

Weeks. Months.

You make him work for it.

Because love shouldn’t be easy—not after everything.

Not after the hurt, the late nights spent waiting for him to choose you, the months wasted pretending it was nothing.

He should prove it.

And he does.

The first time he holds your hand in public, it’s instinctive. Thoughtless.

You’re walking down the street, talking about something unimportant, when suddenly—his fingers brush against yours.

And instead of pulling away, he just…takes your hand.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like he’s not even thinking about it.

Like he’s not the same man who once made you feel like a secret.

You don’t say anything.

But you don’t let go, either.

And neither does he.

One night, he’s driving you home when he suddenly pulls over.

You blink at him. “Uh. What are we doing?”

His fingers drum against the steering wheel. He won’t look at you.

“D’you know the last time I did this?”

You frown. “Did what?”

“Took you home.” He swallows, finally turning to face you. “Last time, I let you walk away.”

Your stomach twists. You remember. Of course, you remember.

He inhales sharply. “Not this time.”

And then, he says it.

“I love you.”

Not because he’s scared. Not because he thinks you’re slipping away.

Just because he does.

And for the first time, you don’t have to question if he means it.

Because this time, he’s not running.

This time, he stays.

And this time—so do you.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

current taglist:

@oscahpastry

@mema10

@angelbabyyy99

@iloveharrystyles04

@cinemharry

@drwho06

@donutsandpalmtrees

@panini

@mads3502

@imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa

@one-sweet-gubler

@rizosrizos26

@ciriceimpera

@everyscarisahealingplace

@hello-heyhi

@sexymfharriet

@lizsogolden

@hannah9921

@chicabonitasblog

@huhidontknowstuff

@berrywoods1245

@jennovaaa

@angeldavis777

@prettygurl-2009

@almostcontentcreator

@run-for-the-hills

@maudie-duan

@dipmeinhoneyh

@harrrrystylesslut

@watarmelon212

@georgiarose94

@mypolicemanharryyy

#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles x y/n #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff

683 notes · View notes

nomie-11 · 3 months ago

Text

Lover Girl

masterlist!

synopsis: vi was a loser, a lover girl, and head over heels for you

pairings: vi x reader (no use of y/n)

Vi was a loser.

She was always reminded of her pitiful stance as a random masc lesbian on campus when she passed by you on her way to her afternoon lab. She would watch you walk by, curls bouncing, heeled boots clicking against the pavement as you laughed along to whatever the gorgeous Kiramman girl on your side was saying.

Vi didn’t stand a chance, not against the Kiramman and not against every other gay within a 50 kilometer radius of you that so desperately wanted to get between your beautifully toned thighs.

But Vi had a plan. It wasn’t a good plan, but it was a plan nonetheless. Step one: casually run into you at the campus coffee shop. Step two: say something cool. Step three: make you fall madly in love with her, or at the very least, get you to remember her face.

Simple, right?

Wrong.

Because the moment Vi stepped into the coffee shop and spotted you at the counter—hair tossed over your shoulder, Caitlyn leaning in to say something that made you grin—her brain short-circuited. her heart pounded like she’d just run sprints, and suddenly, she forgot how to be a normal, functioning human being.

Ellie, ever the devil on her shoulder, nudged her forward. “Go on, lover girl. Say something smooth.”

Vi swallowed hard, adjusted her jacket, and sauntered up beside you, trying her best to look effortlessly cool. Instead, she tripped over absolutely nothing and lurched forward, her group on her coffee slipping. Time slowed as the cup tilted, then tumbled, and in an instant—

SPLASH.

A flood of piping hot coffee cascaded down the front of your pristine white shirt.

You gasped, eyes wide as the liquid soaked into the fabric, turning it completely see-through. Vi’s own traitorous eyes followed the path of destruction, trailing powder, until—

Oh. Oh no.

Your bra, lacy and delicate, clung to your skin in a way that should be illegal.

Vi’s brain short-circuited. Every neuron in her dumb, gay little head misfired at once. She was looking—she shouldn’t be looking—but she was looking, and oh god, she had to stop before you noticed—

“Vi!” Ellie hissed under her breath, jabbing an elbow into her ribs.

Vi snapped out of it so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.

“Shit! Shit, I—oh, fuck—I am so sorry!” Her hands hovered uselessly in the air, unsure whether to help, to flee, or to simply melt into the crack in between the ratty coffee shop tiles and hoped you forgot about her.

Your lips parted, eyes flicking down to assess the damage. “Well,” you said, voice amused despite the mess, “that’s one way to see my tits.”

Vi wanted to die. Just perish right there in the middle of the coffee shop floor.

Instead, she sprang into action. “Here—uh—take my jacket!” She shrugged off the worn leather in record time and practically threw it around your shoulders before anyone else could get an eyeful. “Just—yeah, cover up—uh, not that you have to! I mean, you look great—not like I was looking! Or, like, not in a creepy way—oh my god, I need to shut up—”

You laughed, warm and bright, as you pulled the jacket tighter around yourself. “Relax, Vi. It’s just coffee.”

Vi, who had gone stiff as a board at hearing you say her name, blinked. “You know my name?”

“You sit behind me in human physiology,” you said, smiling. “And you’re kind of hard to miss.”

Vi’s brain fully melted. She really, really thought she would just die.

Ellie snorted, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Congrats, lover girl. You’re unforgettable now.”

Vi was malfunctioning.

It had been a full five minutes since she’d doused you in coffee and humiliated herself in front of the entire campus, and yet—somehow—you were still talking to her.

She didn’t know how or why. Maybe the universe had finally decided to cut her some slack. Maybe she’d actually died of embarrassment, and what is was the afterlife. Whatever the case, she wasn’t about to question it.

“So,” you said, adjusting Vi’s jacket around your shoulders. It was comically broad on you, the sleeves dangling past your hands, the scent of worn leather and something undeniably her wrapping around you like a hug. “I think this means you owe me a coffee.”

Vi blinked. “I—yeah! Yeah, totally. Whatever you want.”

You smiled. “Cool. I’ll take a caramel macchiato. Medium.”

Vi scrambled to order, fumbling with her wallet as Ellie watched in barely concealed amusement. When the barista called your name, you plucked the cup from the counter and took a slow, deliberate sip, eyes locked on Vi the entire time.

“Thanks, Vi,” you said, licking a bit of coffee foam from your lip.

Vi’s soul left her body.

“Y-yeah, no problem,” she stammered, gripping the edge of the counter to keep herself from toppling over. “Sorry again about, y’know, ruining your shirt and, uh, your day—”

“You didn’t ruin my day,” you cut in smoothly, taking another sip of your drink. “Just my shirt. And honestly? If this is your way of flirting, keep it up. I like it.”

Vi forgot how to breathe. Ellie choked on her own drink.

“You should do it again sometime,” you added, winking before turning toward the door.

Vi watched you leave, slipping your arm into Caitlyn’s as you giggled, the coffee shop suddenly feeling a lot warmer.

Ellie whistled. “Holy shit, lover girl. You might actually have a shot.”

Vi, still reeling, stared at her with wide eyes. “I need to lie down.”

————————

Vi didn’t expect to see you again so soon, but campus had a funny way of throwing her into awkward situations.

The next morning, she was rushing across the quad, still half-asleep, when she heard someone calling her name.

“Vi!”

She skidded to a stop, heart already hammering. She turned to find you walking toward her, wearing her jacket.

Her poor, gay heart couldn’t handle it.

“Oh, hey,” she said, trying to sound casual. “Uh, how’s your shirt situation?”

You laughed. “Better. But I figured I’d keep this for a bit longer. Hope you don’t mind?”

“Mind?” Vi said, as if the thought of you wearing her clothes wasn’t currently rewriting her entire brain chemistry. “Nope. Not at all. Keep it forever, if you want.”

You raised a brow. “Forever, huh? You sure about that?”

Vi’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, before she managed, “I mean—you look good in it, so—yeah?”

Your lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

“Good,” you said, stepping a little closer. “Because I was thinking… if you wanted your jacket back, you might have to take me out to dinner first.”

Vi stared. You smiled. Ellie, watching from Vi and her dorm window, fist-pumped the air.

“I—uh—” Vi cleared her throat. “Dinner. Yeah. I can do that. Totally. Absolutely. When—uh—when were you thinking?”

You pretended to think, tilting your head. “Tonight?”

“Tonight,” Vi repeated, still buffering. “Yep. Cool. Great. I’ll—uh—I’ll text you?”

“Looking forward to it, lover girl,” you teased, before turning on your heel and strolling away, Vi’s jacket still draped over your shoulders.

Vi stood there for a solid minute, staring at where you’d been.

Then she pulled out her phone and texted Ellie:

Vi: I think I just agreed to a date???

Ellie: YOU WHAT!!!!

——————————

Vi was sweating.

Which was ridiculous, because it was cold outside, and she was currently standing in front of your dorm, hands stuffed in her pockets, trying not to hyperventilate.

She’d spent way too long getting ready—changing shirts three times, debating whether her other leather jacket was too much (Ellie convinced her it was ‘peak masc lesbian energy,’ and Dina agreed so she must have been right), and trying not to puke from nerves.

And now, she was here. About to take you on a date.

You swung the door open before she could knock. “Vi!”

Oh. Oh.

You were in a black dress, snug in all the right places, and Vi swore she momentarily lost all motor function.

“You good?” You asked, smirking.

“Yeah,” Vi said, voice cracking like a teenage boy. She cleared her throat. “Yeah. Totally. You look—uh—wow.”

You laughed, locking your dorm behind you. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

Vi absolutely wasn’t blushing. Definitely not. “I’m not nervous.”

“Mhm,” you said, linking your arm through hers as you started down the hallway. “So, where are you taking me, lover girl?”

————————

Vi had racked her brain for the perfect place and eventually settled on a nice, cozy little restaurant near campus. It wasn’t fancy, but it was real—warm lighting, a killer burger menu, and a jukebox playing old rock songs in the corner.

You slid into the booth across from her, propping your chin on your hand as you watched her.

“So, Vi,” You said, eyes twinkling. “You gonna tell me why it took spilling coffee on me to finally make a move?”

Vi groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Can we not talk about my tragic lack of game?”

You grinned. “I think it’s cute.”

“You think everything is cute.”

“Not everything,” you teased, leaning forward. “Just you.”

Vi choked on her water.

The rest of the date was… perfect.

You talked, you laughed, you stole a few of her fries like it was the most natural thing in the world. Hi was completely gone for you, and by the time you both stepped outside into the crisp night air, she was wondering how the hell she’d gotten so lucky.

You walked side by side, the streetlights casting a soft glow around you.

“This was fun,” you said, tugging Vi’s jacket around you a little tighter.

“Yeah,” Vi agreed, shoving her hands in her pockets. “I mean, aside from me embarrassing myself every five seconds.”

You stopped walking, turning to face her. “You didn’t embarrass yourself.”

Vi huffed. “I literally poured coffee on you, made an idiot out of myself, and nearly passed out when I saw you in that dress.”

You tilted your head. “Oh, so you liked the dress?”

Vi blinked. “Uh—yes? Obviously? Have you seen yourself?”

You stepped closer. “I have,” you said, voice soft. “But I like seeing myself through your eyes.”

Vi forgot how to breathe.

Then, before she could process what was happening, you reached to her, gently tugging her up by the collar of her jacket—

And kissed her.

It was soft at first, hesitant, like you were waiting for her to freak out—but Vi wasn’t that much of a loser.

She kissed you back. Harder.

Her hands found your waist, pulling you in, and you sighed into her mouth like you’d been waiting for this just as much as she had.

When you finally pulled away, Vi was dazed.

You smiled, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “Took you long enough, lover girl.”

Vi let out a breathless laugh. “With the wait?”

You grinned. “Definitely.”

And then you kissed her again, just because you could.

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

#arcane vi x reader #vi arcane #vi x you #vi x reader #vi headcanon #vi x y/n #arcane x reader #arcane x female reader #arcane x y/n #arcane x you #arcane season two #arcane s2 #piltover's gayest

510 notes · View notes

ce1estiall · 10 days ago

Text

dopamine

summary paige x teammate!reader paige helps give you what you need | part 1 | part 2

warnings smut, oral (r! receiving), strap (r! receiving), fingering (r! receiving), dirty talk

celestial notes someone requested part 2 of flowers, so this is it! im also going to write part 2 of “nothing left” later this week :) enjoy. masterlist.

“yeah you look so good standing next to me.

next best thing, i need dopamine.” - dopamine, aespa

the rush of lust was running through your veins throughout your body. paige kept kissing you, harder every time. moans escaped your mouth. she went down to you neck, sucking hickeys all over. your body became hot. she glared at you as she started to take your pants off, becoming wet by the second. "how bad do you want me?"

"bad, really bad." you whined, desperate for her to fuck you. "please paige, i need you."

that turned her on, unleashed a side of her no one saw. she pulled down your panties and spread open your legs, seeing the sight of your wet pussy. "that wet for me already and i haven't done anything. what a slut."

she slowly started rubbing circles on your cunt, moans filled up the room quickly. "mm, fuck. make me cum"

she smirked. "nuh-uh, i'm taking my time with you. you deserve to feel good, right?" she laid down, admiring you. she licked your fold slowly, giving you instant pleasure through out your body.

she got closer, eating your pussy like she was starving. her tongue started to spell out your name. she slurped what seemed like every ounce of bodily fluids. "don't stop, paige please don't stop" you said as you felt like you were in hell or heaven. your hands now tangled in the blonde, wavy hair. she slid her tongue inside you, now tongue fucking you. your head went back, almost giving yourself whiplash from the pleasure. "fuck! fuck!" you felt the orgasm on its way. "im gonna cum!"

"cum in my mouth baby." your eyes turned white as you cummed in paige's mouth. she continued you to eat you out until every drop of cum was gone in the moment. “you tasted so fucking good for me baby.”

post-orgasm, you broke out into a sweat, trying to catch your breath. "good girl. but i'm not done with you yet." you didn't want this to end, you had plenty of more orgasms in store, just for paige.

paige then slid 2 fingers inside of you while on top of you. "you look so pretty when i'm controlling you. such a good girl for me." the slowly slams increased and became faster as she slammed her fingers in your pussy. "yes, fuck, mmh" is all that you were able to say. you were slowly getting fucked dumb. your words started to slur and your brain started to become foggy, but you and paige were both enjoying every second of this.

"takin' me so good. you just wanted me to fuck you, hm? is that what you wanted? yeah?" just the sound of her voice was enough to make you cum. her fingers were starting to become pruny as how wet you were.

"yes." you said, out of breath

"what was that baby? i couldn't hear you." she just wanted to hear you praise her.

"yes, i wanted you to fuck me badly. you're fucking me so good, mmh." you felt an orgasm coming.

“gonna cum again baby?” as your orgasm was about to exit, she quickly pulled out. “you don’t cum unless i say so.”

“yes paige.” you sounded so desperate, just waiting for paige to give you permission to squirt.

“good girl.” she curiously went through a drawer in your room and found a strap. “have you let someone use this on you? or have you been waiting for me?”

cat was out the bag. “waiting for you.” you spoke as you looked guilty.

“figured.” she smirked while strapping herself. you face was in the pillow while your ass was up, waiting for her. she inserted the strap into you, starting slow. every slam, you replied with a moan.

“you can fucking take it. i’m gonna fuck you dumb you’ll forget your own fucking name.” she pulled your hair as you arched your back, feeling all of your walls and inside. at one point paige stopped, letting you ride her while slapping your ass.

“please paige, let me cum.” you said, desperately

“you wanna cum for me? fucking beg for it.” she snapped.

“please let me cum all over your cock. you make me feel so fucking good.” you cried.

“good fucking girl. cum all over this dick.” she said in an angry tone.

“paige, paige!” you were screaming her name as you squirted all over her cock. she smiled at the sight of you and your fluids all over the bed, eventually pulling out.

you still didn’t feel finished. you turned over and made paige now on top, sitting up. you spread your legs open, slowly riding her thigh. she was relaxed, now admiring you like you were art. “mm, fuck” you were riding her thighs hard. she felt your liquid all over her her, smiling. she gripped your ass as you had your arms wrapped around her neck. “you like riding me? fucking whore.”

“fuck p.” you felt her body heat, rising as you were on top of her. you couldn’t resist how hot she looked. you started kissing her, biting on her lips. she tasted the candy you had earlier.

you felt cold air hit your body as your third orgasm was happening, you cummed all over paige’s legs. she grabbed a finger and scooped your cum, then tasting it. “tastes like my girl. you did so fucking good for me.” she kissed your forehead as you felt her appreciation translate on you.

“does this mean you’ll be my girlfriend?” paige asked, looking innocently.

“you should’ve asked me a long time ago, p.” you smiled. “yes, absolutely.”

#dallas wings #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #uconn wbb #uconn womens basketball #wnba #paige bueckers x you #paige bueckers smut #paige x reader #paige x you #paige x oc #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers angst #paige bueckers x y/n #paige bueckers x fem!reader smut

355 notes · View notes

itsastrobixch · 9 months ago

Text

Astrology notes

- gemini / mercury / uranus / aqua change their identity a lot online. They place a lot of importance on their online identity and as they change so does their online personas.

- Mercury dominance if well placed Learnt to talk very early and saturn mercury aspects learnt to speak a bit late or may speak with a bit of hesitation.

- chiron in 1st have deep rooted identity issues and may also not be able to relax in photos and stuff. Some may even go to the extent of not wanting to take pictures at all.

- count yourself lucky if : air signs ask for your advice.. They don't ask option from everyone. Similarly if fire signs seek you out or show you their defeated side and depressed side. They Always want people to seem them as optimistic fiery and determined but like evryone they too go through down times but they tend to bounce back faster than others.

- Mercury saturn or Mercury rx may have great conversations with themselves in their heads but when it comes out it night miss the mark or.. Like not sound as good as it did in their brains.

- all mercury /gemini dominants open 3 to 5 tabs at the same time. And don't finish a single one completely. Change my mind.

- moon pluto tumultuous emotions. Whiplash. One extrene or the other. Mood changes just with a single event. The whole room can feel the shift as well. Moon and Pluto both give out unstable, watery and intense emotions. It can be difficult if negatively aspected. Even if positively aspected it can lead to the feeling overwhelming emotions.

- People with pluto in 1st, their emotions are hidden. No one knows how they feel. Mostly i see geminis get all the credit for their glib tongues. But have you ever seen a Pluto person toy with people when they know they truth ? They'll lie so effortlessly that even the people who know the truth will start to believe the lie is the truth. Their words and their facial expressions while lying is so controlled and natural it's scary.

- Asteroid Cerea shows is how we nurture. Aries ceres is the defender of the group and people who tend to protect people who are defenseless esp animals. Taurus is the comforter. And so on. But aspects and the house in which Ceres is in also plays a major role.

- Uranus / gemini in 3rd house have lots of ideas at the same time but many are unfocused and evrything is gone in a fleet. They may have a brilliant idea but Lose it in the next second. It'll be better if they scribble down their thoughts anywhere somewhere so they'll have a basic idea of what they thought.

- I fucking admire Aries women, esp as a Libra, like how tf..? i used to have a friend, she used to do some pretty controversial shit in high school but like never once let anything get iin her way and is now a part time business woman...like come on...how are you so headstrong ? And somehow things also tend to workout for them

- every mutable person has a box full of drafts all half done and of various types but all undone. Its a mess of ideas and posts half written and lost interest and motivation along the way...but I'll save it for another day when I will want to finish it up.

- If an air sign texts you daily, they like you. Especially instant replies . 🌝

- scorpio, and Venus Pluto aspects also tend to fall for someone who is out of their grasp. they like to torture themselves like that 😂 or they'll think that they don't deserve the person they're in love with. Its Always one or the other with them.

- venus neptune contacts produce the devoted worshipper type lovers. They will worship the ground their love walks on and will turn a blind eye to their faults. This is most definitely not a healthy patter of behaviour. Please don't indulge in this.

- mercury dominants can't fucking shut their brain off. they have a lot of nervous energy. And will Always be actively thinking about atleast two things at once.

- actually now that i think about it, my bffs in high are an Aries sun, me a sag rising and my frnd a leo sun. and i still wonder why the girls didn't like us 😂🌝 if fire signs get together whether they stir up drama or not, it'll either find them or people will hold them responsible for it even if they aren't.

- gemini and Mercury dominants can imitate very well especially the accents. Their adpative ability is out of charts and a bit creepy tbh. how they change acc to people, how they acclimatise to their surroundings ax cultures, they have this ability which allows to be another person if they like.

- mars - pluto negative aspects may have r*pe dreams often even if they haven't had any such encounters.

- pluto in 1st are ironically afraid of death and illness more so than the usual person.

- 11th house sign may show how we behave online.

-geminins have this weird ability to take and soak up information from all over the place and somehow put it together perfectly . they learn stuff from disorderly messes but they seem to understand it with clarity.

588 notes · View notes

all-purpose-dish-soap · 1 year ago

Note

lowkey I kinda wanna top gaz or ghost out of curiosity on how they would react 🤔

gaz or ghost? gaz AND ghost. ranked competitive sex. the ol' good cock/bad cock.

they're both confident almost cocky but they show it very differently.

you tell gaz you wanna be on top this time.

"i'm fine with that," he says.

cool cool cool. easy. too easy, in fact.

he's smiling at you. "you want to be on top, you're on top." he says. "easy as."

so... you get to be the dominant one this time. he knows that's what you mean. right?

mm, harder sell. you wanna do his job? you're gonna need to prove you have what it takes. you're gonna have to work for it. talk like you mean it. don't whine, don't ask, don't just tell him what to do. command him.

and don't mess up.

nsfw ⬇

order him to take his clothes off. top him like you mean it--bounce on him like you don't need any help, because he's not helping you. and control yourself. edge him. don't show weakness. make him keep his eyes on you. keep his interest with your body, your voice, your tone.

(it's tough for him, feigning such precarious half-interest. pretending like you don't have a visegrip on his every atom. pretending like he's not suddenly understanding how it might feel to be possessed by a succubus. it's tough, but he's soldiering through because he's a great fucking teacher. this is good for you, you just don't know it yet.)

he's teaching you to use your whole body to tell him you're in charge. you need to make the rules.

if you don't--if you slip up--he'll make you sorry. he'll give you a crash course in how a mean dom operates.

(you might be able to collar him, but god help you if you fumble. the second you do, that o-ring choker is going on your neck, and his thumb is already hooked in.)

ghost--

ghost is a little easier to entice. he's a visual guy. he's a little smitten with anyone who approaches him first. you're offering to top him? to put your whole damn body on display? that's an act of service, baby.

even if you're doing it because you want to control the pace and the position, even if you want to take your own pleasure and act like you don't give a damn about his... you're still giving him exactly what he wants. if all he needs to do is lay back and shut up, he'll play your game.

not a tough job, either. not half bad. he could get used to this. nope, he's already used to it. he's thinking ahead--wondering what other dirty fantasies in that pretty head he could help fulfill.

then he shifts his hips down an inch to hit your sweet spot. you snap at him not to move.

his eyes flick up--from your hole squeezing his cock--to your face. strange sense of whiplash you're giving him--the instant flip from almost ignoring him to focusing squarely on him. negative attention or not, it's arousing. you shouldn't have done that.

"yeah?" he replies, voice low and rough. "you gonna make me?"

you don't have time to reply before he's shoving his hips up into you hard. one stroke, then two, then more, so slow and hard and deep your vision threatens to go white.

he's challenging you to keep ignoring him now.

"say it again," he growls. "tell me what to do one more time."

he reaches for your clit, and you fight him, grabbing his wrist, using it as leverage to sink down on him again, redoubling your pace.

you're both fighting to stay in control. ghost could overpower you easily but he's having fun. and you're putting on a hell of a show for him.

he'll contend with your attitude later. for now he just wants to keep you pissed off and horny enough to keep riding him like you've got something to prove.

riding ghost and gaz together...

you just know they're both talking at you, trying to get your attention as you fight like hell not to fall apart.

gaz is instructing you to sit up straighter, to clench your thighs so they don't shake, to control your voice--or keep it up, sweetheart. keep moaning like a slut if you want to be treated like one.

ghost is egging you on, enjoying how furious you're getting, how it makes you clench up and stutter when gaz says something that really gets to you. he tosses in his lot every so often to keep things going. like throwing a lit match into a pit of black powder and lead azide.

you're doomed. until.

you tell ghost to move his hands already so gaz can maneuver you by the hips instead.

that turns them against one another in negative two seconds.

suddenly they're critiquing each other. gaz smugly insinuates you're enjoying his technique more. ghost replies smoothly that it hardly matters to him; it's his attention you're after.

their back-and-forth gives you the precious time you need to clear your head. once you can finally fucking concentrate, you can push past all this edging you've been put through by stupid competition they've been having on you.

they keep one-upping each other and only half-notice what you're up to--until you throw your head back and make a sound of pure rapture, riding them both to completion. you throw yourself into the best orgasm of your recent life.

they're dead silent as you come down, grinding your hips in bliss as the final sparks of pleasure fizzle under your skin.

it sort of humbles them. but then again, it also inflates both their egos just enough to keep them from learning their goddamn lesson.

...

more Gaz / more Ghost / more multi-141 and poly 141 / masterlist tag

1K notes · View notes

natalicss · 3 months ago

Text

kwon ji-yong x american popstar!reader headcanons

summary: just a bunch of random lore drops about reader & g-dragons relationship with american popstar!reader

warnings: tbh i don’t think there’s really any but if im wrong lemme know. just chaotic random nonsense. if this sucks it’s cause i wrote most of it half awake at 4am soo SORRYYY

nat’s notes: hey y’all!! i just wanted to put out random fun facts about jiyong & american!reader. i thought it’d be funny and unserious and i think yall might enjoy this!! if you don’t…don’t read it and don’t tell me LMAO. if yall want more of these lemme know??? i guesss???

“it’s hard to say who fell first—“ it was jiyong. you’d been hanging out together during your first time in seoul. you two talked about music, art, the industry, and every conversation jiyong found himself more and more fascinated. the way you shared so many of the same views as he did, the way you carried yourself so beautifully and confidently, the way you truly listened and hung onto every word he said. it all intrigued him, and by the end of your visit in seoul jiyong knew he was crushing and crushing hard.

you two didn’t get together right away, tho. no you two stayed good friends for a solid 2-3 months before any romance even started. and neither of you really know who initiated it. seemingly both? you two were at a dinner together as you were visiting seoul again (claiming to be working, but your truly wanted to see him). you both kept staring at each other. the tension was thick. you didn’t even know who kissed who first. one minute, you’re staring at each other like the rest of the restaurant wasn’t there, and the next you two were kissing softly under the dim lights.

taeyang is the first person who finds out about your relationship. not on purpose either. it was like he manifested it. he’d discovered your music and was listening to it. you two ended up having mutual friends, and you were visiting seoul for ‘vacation’, so you two had ended up meeting. you loved him and hyo-rin. but you struggled acting like you had no idea who they were. acting like you weren’t dating his group member. taeyang mentions his group to you, how he should introduce you to daesung and jiyong, how you’d love them. you try not to freak out.

how he found out is fairly simple (but he found it to be hilarious). he was heading to jiyongs home to hang out, something that they’d planned weeks before (it was hard with their schedules), but jiyong had completely forgotten about it. taeyang walked in, only to find you standing in the kitchen wearing jiyongs pajamas and drinking a glass of water. the two of you stared at each other for a moment, eyes wide and completely silent. then, taeyang bursts out laughing. the sound causes jiyong to come out from wherever he’d been, his face dropping in realization. “this makes so much sense!” taeyang exclaims. “i was wondering why you were traveling so much.” he points at jiyong, and then he looks at you. “and you! you kept telling me you were here for work! hyo-rin called it! we knew you were dating someone! we just didn’t know it was each other!”

you and daesung are jiyongs worst nightmare. the way you two become instant chaotic besties. at first, jiyong is even a little jealous. the two of you became friends so easily and so quickly it gave him whiplash. he gets over it pretty easily (after all, you are absolutely obsessed with your man & remind him of that), but he still partially regrets introducing you to daesung because you two are now both menaces in his life and constantly give the other new ideas.

jiyong loves visiting you in america. sure he’s famous over there, obviously, but it didn’t feel as intense as it did at home. plus, you had mastered the skills of avoiding the paparazzi. the two of you always going on trips to more rural areas to spend time together without anyone noticing you

he loves spoiling you. sure, he knows you have plenty of your own money. but he can’t help himself! when he sees a cute jacket that he knows would look good on you, he can’t help it but snatch it for you.

but its a mutual exchange. you can’t help but grab him gifts too. whether it’s fun scarves, or a one-of-a-kind sweater, you’re always getting him things. you never tell him, either. you tell a person on his team that he’ll be receiving a gift from you in the mail, and they keep it a secret until he’s opening the package. both of you complain about the other getting you things, but neither of you stop either

the first time a dating rumor spiked about you, the two of you were constantly waiting to see who. you were hardly seen in public anyways, so who in the world could they be conspiring you were with? when it turned out to be a famous musician who had recently asked you to feature on their album, jiyong felt both slightly jealous and relieved. relieved because he didn’t want you facing the wrath of knetizens & the media for dating him, but slightly jealous because he wasn’t blind to the comments shipping you and the other musician. talking about how cute you two were, how he was so talented, your babies would be cute, the couple made so much sense blah blah blah. dare i say he was a little bit of a pouty baby about it, which you teased him for relentlessly

you had your own jealousy moments! the two of you were at a chanel event, neither of you interacting or acknowledging each other at all as it was very early in your secret relationship. you couldn’t help but overhear as a woman asked jiyong if he was single. of course, he said yes. that part didn’t bother you. what bothered you was the way the woman’s face lit up as she continued to talk to him. jiyong, on the other hand, was completely unaware. he was usually attentive and noticed things like that, but in this particular moment he was far too aware of you to think about the woman’s advances. when he did eventually catch on, he kindly shut her down and excused himself. he didn’t miss the way you glared at her. and he certainly commented on it when you got back to your hotel room. “were you jealous, baby?” he’d say with some smirk that makes your entire body blush. “it’s a good look on you, but you know i’m in love with you.”

you offered to dye his hair, and the first few times he said no. when he started dying it around the time of the comeback, you were begging at that point. he lets you dye it mint<3 and you did a damn good job too

you don’t comment on his posts or on the 8lo8lo8lowme posts, but you DOOOO text him like a crazy person. “WHO LET YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE LOOKING SO FINE” “booking a flight back there rn. quitting the tour, quitting my entire career so i can come be your trophy wife. setting back feminism by 400 years” “ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME???” “hope you’re okay with being a dilf”

how he reacts depends. he’s either confused as fuck, flustered as fuck, or laughing at his phone and getting weird looks from his friends.

i feel like it wouldn’t be very often he’d match your energy, but when he does you get even more excited and probably up the insanity by a million. if he ever one-ups you you probably reply with something blunt like “👁️👄👁️ alright get back here rn cause we’re about to have the craziest sex-“ PFFFTTTT

when you two go public, you still keep the relationship private!!! you post him once or twice, you get featured a couple times on 8lo8lo8lowme’s instagram, but otherwise fans get crumbs from paparazzi & yall liking each others posts

however i definitely could see jiyong liking edits or posts about you because mans is always on there let’s be real

he joins you on tour & it’s definitely different for him. it’s not often he’s at a concert where he’s not one of the main focuses. but he does love it, watching you in your element. it helps when the crew doesn’t know who he is, and just knows he’s with you somehow. watching you get ready, watching you warm up, helping you with your hair and your wardrobe, he loves it all. what he loves most is watching you perform. sometimes he was backstage, but other times he’d find a spot in the VIP section and watch with the rest of the crowd. he thinks that might be when you’re most beautiful, doing things you love most.

overall yall are probably the fluffiest couple to ever exist it’s sickening. daesung reminds you of that every time yall act flirty in any way.

#kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon x reader #gdragon #bigbang x reader #kwon jiyong #big bang x reader #kpop x reader #kpop fluff

278 notes · View notes