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holybibly · 6 months ago

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𝔖𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔱 | San x reader

Pairing: Wolf cub San x Bunny reader

Summary: A wolf's hunger is unquenchable, especially with the heat approaching. And as it happens, you look too appetising in the mornings to resist tempting them to taste you.

Part of a series "𝔙𝔢𝔫𝔲𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔉𝔲𝔯𝔰" in the Pretty Flushed universe.

Genre / Au / Trope : Smut, hybrids!Au

Rating: 18+ / 21+ / MDNI

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Unprotected sex, сorruption kink, fingering, degrading, pet names, size kink, dirty talk, explicit sexual content, explicit language, oral, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, rough sex, rough oral, praise kink, squirting and more.

net: @cultofdionysusnet

A|N: All right, bunnies, are you all ready for the official introduction of our wolf pups? Well, here I am. And with me, a hot and hungry wolfie San who wants to taste you first thing in the morning.

Your mommy is back, bunnies and I'm lustier and more vicious than ever.

ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔅𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔗𝔞𝔤 𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 Part I @tiny-apocalypse @captain-joongz @alicedawitchbish @woohwababes @wlv-asteria @wisejudgedragonhairdo @mingisprincesss @lavishloving @teagietots @spooo00oky @sousydive @hwapou @bunnliix @softwsan @mjyungi @fantasy2wonderland @noirsfantasy @cassies-cookies @renaholicss @luffypants @hyukssunflower @watermelon2319 @peachygiku @bunnyxoxodarling @stolasisyourparent @soranosnowbunny @certifiedmoa @sanglix @slvtiny @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @hecateslittlewitchling @xxawl @pastellbunno @starlletsblog @seonghwasstar @hwanring @vtyb23 @pearltinyy @minjaeum @chasevixx @bomi-ja @onedumbho3 @sanglix @cursedeastern @itza-meee @pinkies-things @atinism @mxnsxngie @nenefix-on @therealcuppicake @annafeebou @sharksandminhos @@lixies-pixieboy @@vampzity @0rangemilk @yellow-foxxing

ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔅𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔗𝔞𝔤 𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 Part II @unholywriters @hey-syia @hrts4nohee @vnessalau @mlink64

Through a heavy haze of sleep, you feel a long, rough tongue sliding lazily across your warm pink pussy, leaving a wet trail of viscous saliva in its wake. A light touch to your clit causes your pretty doll mouth to open, and a languid sigh escapes your lungs, eventually turning into a pitiful, whimpering moan. Your eyes move quickly beneath your closed eyelids, long, downy lashes fluttering. Unconsciously, your hips arch forward in search of more of that delicious sensation.

"Bunny..." That one nickname sets the viscous, sweet moisture gushing from your vagina in abundance, filling the entire space of the luxurious bedroom with the rich scent of peaches and cream. Insistent, rough fingers slide over your moist mound, and your delicate, silky folds slip beautifully around them, so that the pointed tip of his tongue can just feel the edge of your oozing hole. Hot, intermittent, fever-like breath flows around your cunt before the plump lips leave a messy, open-mouthed kiss on your labia. "Wake up, my sweet girl. I want to play with you, Princess." The sound of the Alpha's voice is like warm, melted honey in your ears.

The thick scent of black orchids and powder, mixed with the sweetness of Alpha pheromones, wraps around you, embedding itself in your skin and settling in your lungs with every intermittent breath.

Even when you're half asleep, your submissive bunny nature sends signals of obedience throughout your body, forcing you to obey every command of the more dominant and powerful species. You don't want to provoke the predator at all, especially when he's got you in his strong, clawed hands. Your plump, cottony tail flicks up, and your long ears - limp, and soft - press uselessly against your head. Your small hand hesitantly reaches for the source of overwhelming pleasure, now even more obvious and palpable as consciousness begins to return to you, and you blink absentmindedly, chasing the sleep from your eyes. It takes a few minutes for your tiny, pheromone-fogged brain to comprehend what is happening and analyze the situation, and now the painful excitement that flows through your veins like thick, viscous honey finally makes sense—long, silky hair, soft, pointed ears with fluffy tassels at the ends — San.

As your little sugar fingers dig into the Alpha's thick, wavy curls and your nails lightly brush the sensitive base of his ears, San lifts his sharp feline eyes to you—heavy and half-lidded with lust. Those eyes, almost inhuman in their intensity, shine in the darkness of the bedroom. Your skin tingles at the intensity of the gaze, and you squeak softly, covering your eyes and feeling a scalding scarlet blush spread across your rounded, plump cheeks and pale neck. Even after months of living in their house, you still can't shake the feeling of embarrassment and humiliation that comes over you every time one of the wolves touches you.

Pleased that you're finally awake and able to give him your full attention, San velvety purrs, never takes his beautiful mouth away from your plump, luscious cunt. His deft tongue flicks along your slit, skilfully playing with your throbbing clit before his beautiful, devilishly curved lips engulf it, pulling it into his warm, craving mouth and beginning to suck slowly as the sharp tip of his sinful tongue penetrates your tight hole, stimulating your silky walls and licking up every drop of your sweet, creamy mucus. The soft taste of peaches is saccharine in his mouth, as San is tasting the most desirable treat on the planet—your fertile ripeness.

A new wave of lust sweeps over your body, leaving you feverish and helpless with the desire for more. The Alpha's mouth encircles around your sensitive nub, lightly grazing it with his sharp fangs before his slippery, rough tongue begins to aggressively massage you in circles; his hot, sultry lips devouring your pussy with a deep, animal hunger. You're trembling all over; crystal-clear tears begin to gather in the corners of your eyes from the intensity of the sensations, and you squeal out loud, unable to contain yourself.

"Ah-alpha, that feels so good." Your fingers get tangled in the thick mass of wavy hair between his pointed ears, which are twitching slightly, picking up on every little sound that you are making. You're so wet that mucus is falling from you like a waterfall, filling the room with the rich, sweet, creamy scent. You continue to sob and whimper, sending shivers of excitement through alpha's body as his thick, fluffy tail slowly swings behind his back. His jaw opens and closes relentlessly as he alternates between messy movements and lazy and lingering ones, just to drive you crazy with the contrast of sensations as he savours your cunt.

As his tongue presses flat against the quivering, glistening folds of your cunt, your hips begin to tremble, and your heel kicks into the silk sheet on the bed, causing it to crumple into a heap. San growls in a menacing manner and digs his claws into the plump, soft flesh of your thigh to hold you in place.

"Don't fucking move, bunny, or do you want me to bite you? Does the princess like pain? You are such a slut." For a second, San pulls his wet, swollen mouth away from your pussy, only to growl at you. You recoil in horror at the hidden threat in the husky, sultry tone of his voice. Your little fluffy tail quivers as the sharp tips of his fangs graze your delicate, sensitive folds with every word he utters. A reminder that no matter how well the wolves treat you, showering you with gifts and praise, they are still big and dangerous predators, especially for a gentle bunny like you.

"P-please forgive me. I'll be an obedient bunny, I promise. San, I will be a good, obedient princess for you." Your voice is a barely audible whisper, but you have no doubt that he heard you.

San responds with a low, satisfied growl as he continues to poke his tongue mercilessly into your swollen, tingling clit. Every nerve in your body is vibrating and tingling as he does it over and over and over again. You're so hot, so sticky, and so wet, and every movement of the Alpha's beautiful mouth causes more and more mucus to spill out of your little hole. Your juices run down his chin and down his neck, dripping onto the luxurious silk sheets that lie beneath you.

San's hands slide down your legs, his sharp claws leaving fierce, blood-red marks on your pale skin, until he throws your legs over his hard, broad shoulders and continues to eat you as if his life depended on it. The muscles in your legs and thighs stretch, and you feel so open, so vulnerable, and exposed to this beautiful, devilishly handsome Alpha, who reminds you more of a big wildcat than a wolf.

Awakenings like this morning were nothing new for you, especially in the last few weeks when the younger alphas started to warm up before their inexorably approaching heat. Despite Seonghwa's strict orders not to touch you without his or Hongjoong's supervision, everyone in the house still remembered the incident with Wooyoung a few months back, when your mommy and daddy had left you alone with the fascinatingly beautiful, crystal-blue-eyed Alpha. Almost every morning you awoke with one of the wolves cubs pressing their hot bodies against you in the bed.

Each of them had their own favourite way of waking you up, but most of the time it was down to their long tongues licking your little pussy insistently or their long clawed fingers slowly stretching your tight hole until you started to squeal and squirt. The number of hopelessly ruined sheets that Seonghwa had to throw away after all that was just too numerous to count. And something told you that those beautiful deep-burgundy sheets would suffer the same fate after San was done with you.

San moans loudly and shamelessly as he buries his face deeper and deeper into your pussy, greedily lapping up the thick, honey-coloured goo from your quivering hole. And he obviously won't stop until you've squirted your delicious cum all over his face. And the devilishly handsome Alpha lets you know it by the way his tongue begins to rub against your silky folds in a rhythm that is too fast for you and almost painful for you.

"Ah, a-alpha, this is too much...please be gentle." You whimper loudly as you feel his lips squeeze your clit tightly and suck hard on it before releasing it from his sensual grasp with a loud 'pop'.

"Gentle..." San growls as he sends waves of pleasure through your body with his sinful tongue and hot breath. His hands tighten their grip on your hips, pulling you even closer to his beautiful, predatory face. His slanted feline eyes are practically all black—glistening irises that flash with molten gold as he catches a glimpse of your wide-open eyes, the fat tears already beginning to gather in the corners of them. You look so fucked up already, and it's beautiful. Even if he can't fuck you properly yet, he'll do his best to make sure that every time he touches you, you'll have memories of it.

A pitiful sob escapes from your doll-like lips at the burning intensity of his dark gaze, and a shiver of fear, mixed with excitement, runs down the length of your spine.

"You want me to be gentle..." He repeats again, almost imperceptibly sliding the tip of his tongue over your soft folds before you feel the slight vibration of his husky laugh against the damp skin of your pussy. "I'm not your mommy to be gentle with you, my darling." The Alpha gives a deep growl before he presses his mouth back down to your cunt with even more hunger and aggression than he did a few minutes ago. San hammers away at you with such fervour and greed, as if all he wants to do in this life is savour the taste of you and eat your tender pussy until you start to sob and beg him to stop.

San tells himself that this insatiable hunger, this dark desire inside him, has nothing to do with the sharp, poisonous jealousy that eats away at him from the inside like acid every time he hears you moaning or begging for Seonghwa or Hongjoong when they fuck you into the mattress for hours. And of course, it has nothing to do with the fact that his teeth literally ache from the need to sink into your sweet, soft flesh and mark you as his property, his mate. The sight of the swollen, inflamed marks of the Seonghwa's claim on your fragile neck only fuels this animalistic need to breed and mate you even more.

"Please Alpha..." You sob, hot tears rolling down the round, pink cheeks of your face. You can't even think; a throbbing need is overwhelming you, completely taking over the rational part of your brain.

The Alpha growls viciously, sucking and licking your clit, all the while moving his tongue and making a foul noise. Your hips begin to move smoothly, following every movement of San's lips and tongue. It is as if you are having sex with his sensual mouth. You literally smother him as you wrap your legs around his head, burying his handsome face between your soft thighs, but judging by the purring moans and growing growls, he doesn't care if he loses his last breath, engulfed by the heat of your body as his mouth sucks your juicy, plump cunt.

"S-san..." Your voice is almost drowned out by his moan as the first letters of his name fly off your tongue with a choked-out scream. I'm too sensitive..." You are still too swollen, too sensitive to his touch and his sinful tongue after a hard night with Seonghwa, and waves of bliss wash over you too quickly, too suddenly, bringing you to climax without warning. Your whole body trembles in his tight grip, your fingers clinging to his hair, trying to hold his head between your thighs or push his face away from your sensitive, throbbing core.

San is holding you too tightly with his strong hands, digging his fingers into the flesh of your thighs, and drinking all the liquid that is pouring out of you uncontrollably, leaving the smooth, creamy taste of peaches on his tongue. "Ah! Too much, too much! Alpha..." You scream, but San still won't let you go. He swallows noisily, prolonging your orgasm and lapping up your juices as if he were dying of thirst and you were the only source that could satisfy him.

San is practically intoxicated by the sight of you right now, his pretty little bunny all flushed and sweaty, crying and begging. You're begging him—San, not Seonghwa or Hongjoong, just him.

The constant stream of "please" and "alpha," mixed with the soft ecstatic moaning of his name, drives San mad. He has you right where he wants you, and he will fuck you with his tongue until you're unconscious with bliss, and San loves it so damn much.

"Oh God!" Your voice trails away, high and whimpering. "I'm so close, Alpha! San!"

"Mine!" He growls; his voice is completely different from a human's; it sounds much deeper and more ferocious; and it makes every part of your body vibrate. You can feel a stream of wet flowing out of you, forming a huge puddle of sticky goo on the sheets beneath you.

Your head throws back, your back arching, and your hips lifting, pressing harder against the Alpha's face as the feathery movements of his tongue and the vicious sucking of his hot mouth send you into pure ecstasy, the overwhelming sensation of repeated orgasm coursing through your bones and nerve endings. You repeat his name over and over, basking in your delicious bliss as he drinks your cum down to the last drop, which you drown him in—the luscious goo splashing all over his face and the sheets—until San helps you to come down from your high with light, airy kisses around your swollen labia.

"There you are, bunny. Look at you, my princess; you have done so well. You are so sweet on the tip of my tongue—sweeter than honey or ambrosia. I am going to eat you up until your screams reach the heavens."

You're still trembling, the residual spasms of orgasm still coursing through your body, tingling on every inch of your skin, making your legs shake and your hips squirm as you try to free yourself from his grip. You're too sensitive, so much so that it's almost painful.

Your eyes flutter open, heavy and swollen with tears, and you meet the dark gaze that is fixed on your face. His lips are still hidden between your thighs, and you feel his weightless kisses around your folds. San gives you a smug smile as his kisses move down your thighs, causing a slight tingling sensation on your skin.

"I'm not finished with you yet." The Alpha purrs as he releases your hips and crawls up your body. He leaves kisses all over your wet, flushed skin as his gorgeous face hangs over your plump tits. San runs his tongue over each of your swollen, slightly damp nipples, wet from the milk that has come out, before moving up higher and lightly biting the skin on the side of your neck. You whimper in between intermittent sighs, completely softened up by the intense orgasm that you can still feel at the very bottom of your belly. San bends down to your face and takes your plump, soft lips in a deep kiss. He grins as he pulls away from you to look at the fragile, delicate body that lies beneath him.

As you look at his scarlet, swollen lips, glistening with your slime, your slutty bunny nature obligingly brings back the image of him tongue-fucking you. The memory causes your body to react in an almost instantaneous fashion, with a fresh batch of slime spurting out of your quivering hole. A thick wave of alpha pheromones fills the air, and you swallow hard in shame, knowing you'll never be able to hide your excitement, especially when his fingertips feel the wetness trickling between the silky folds of your pussy.

San smiles devilishly as he slides his long fingers along your soft petal-like folds, more and more of your sweet nectar oozing from you, coating his fingers. These feathery touches are enough to make you tremble in his arms once more. You almost curse your treacherous bunny nature, that it is so easy for him to turn you into putty just by touching you.

"A-alpha, I can't take it anymore. Please..." You sob as you dig your fingers into his shoulders.

He leans close to your ear, his hot breath brushing the sensitive skin of your earlobe and sending a tingling sensation through your body.

"Oh bunny, I know you can give me so much more because you are such a slut, aren't you?" His fingers continue to move at an excruciatingly slow pace, and your consciousness begins to fade as a new wave of pleasure washes over you. "Come on, fluffy, do the begging for me. Beg me to fill you up with my cock; beg me to breed you like a good thoroughbred bitch. Beg me to fill you with my sperm, my princess." You shudder as San's fingers push your plump pink folds apart, and he slides two long fingers inside of you. "We have all day, and I won't stop until you can't think about anything other than me."

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buldakcorn · 25 days ago

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In Your Embrace

LOONA/ARTMS Haseul x Male Reader

Genre: Mommy kink, Slightly Dom!Haseul, Sub!Reader

1426 words

The door to the bedroom clicks softly shut as Haseul leads you inside, her eyes gleaming with a mix of desire and mischief. She takes a step closer, her hand sliding up to your cheek with a gentle yet firm touch.

"Take off your clothes, baby," she whispers, her voice a seductive purr that sends a shiver down your spine. You obey, heart racing as you undo each button of your shirt, her gaze never leaving yours. Each article of clothing that hits the floor feels like a barrier dissolving between you and the woman who now stands before you, dressed in nothing but a lacy black lingerie that clings to her curves like a second skin. "Good boy," she coos, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she watches you expose yourself to her. "Now, come to Mommy."

As you approach the bed, your eyes are drawn to the way the dim lighting casts shadows over her body, highlighting the peaks and valleys of her voluptuous form. Haseul reaches out, her fingers tracing a path down your chest until they find the waistband of your pants. With a deft flick of her wrist, she unbuckles your belt and unzips them, letting them fall to the floor. You step out of them, feeling a sense of vulnerability mixed with excitement as you stand before her in nothing but your underwear. She gently tugs at the elastic band, her eyes locked with yours, and you can almost feel the heat emanating from her body.

"Let Mommy see all of you," she instructs, her voice velvety and authoritative. You slip off your last piece of clothing, standing bare before the woman you've come to crave. Haseul's eyes sweep over you appreciatively, her breath hitching just a little as she takes in the sight of your naked form. "You're so hot like this," she murmurs, her hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Now, climb into bed, baby. It's time for Mommy to take care of you." You comply, your heart thudding in your chest as you slip beneath the cool sheets, feeling them caress your skin as you await her next move.

With a maternal yet undeniably sexual grace, Haseul joins you in the bed, her body gliding over the sheets like a shadow. She straddles you, her thighs pressing against your hips, the heat of her sex radiating through the fabric of her lingerie and your skin. Her eyes are dark with want as she reaches behind her to unclasp her bra, letting it fall away to reveal her ample breasts, the nipples hardened with anticipation. Leaning in while holding her bosom, she is able to take one into her mouth, rolling it gently with her tongue before pulling away with a wet pop, leaving it glistening.

"Mommy's going to make all your naughty thoughts go away," she promises, her voice a low growl that sends a jolt of arousal straight to your core. Her hand finds its way to your erect cock, stroking it slowly, watching your reaction with a hunger that matches yours. She smiles, knowing she has you right where she wants you.

"But first, you need to tell Mommy what you want." she whispers, her breath hot against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

"What do you need from me?" she asks, her tone a siren's call, demanding yet soothing. You swallow hard, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you can think twice.

"Mommy, I need you to touch me," you confess, your voice trembling. Her smile widens, and she leans in closer, her breasts brushing against your chest as she whispers, "Then Mommy will, baby." With a gentle squeeze, she begins to stroke you in earnest, her thumb circling the head of your cock as you arch up into her touch, the sensation sending waves of pleasure through your body.

"Mm, Mommy's good boy," she praises, her movements becoming more deliberate and precise with each passing moment, driving you closer to the edge of ecstasy.

Feeling the warmth of her skin against yours, you can't help but moan softly as Haseul's hand continues to work its magic. Her touch is firm yet tender, each stroke a testament to her desire to satisfy your deepest, darkest cravings. You can't believe the reality of the moment, the woman you've fantasized about for so long now calling you her baby, her good boy, as she brings you closer and closer to the brink of climax. Your eyes drift shut, the sensations overwhelming as you give in to the heady feeling of her control. But she's not done yet. With a soft chuckle, she leans in closer, her breasts pressing into your chest as she kisses you, her tongue delving deep into your mouth, claiming you as hers. Her other hand reaches down to slip aside the scrap of fabric covering her panties, her slickness coating your thighs as she grinds against you. You feel her heat, her need, and it only serves to drive you wilder.

"Mommy wants to feel all of you, baby," she murmurs against your lips, her voice thick with desire. "Can I take these off?" she asks, her eyes searching yours for permission. You nod eagerly, and she stands, peeling the last of her clothing away to reveal her naked form, every inch of her skin begging to be touched.

She slides back onto the bed, her legs parting as she positions herself over you, her wetness coating your cock as she sinks down, taking you inch by inch until she's fully seated. You both gasp as she starts to rock her hips, setting a rhythm that feels like a sweet, sinful symphony. "Mommy's got you," she whispers, her eyes never leaving yours as she moves above you, her breasts bouncing gently with each motion. The maternal yet erotic power exchange has you on the edge, your hands reaching up to clutch at her hips as she rides you, her pace increasing as your moans grow louder. The room is filled with the slick sounds of skin meeting skin, the scent of arousal heavy in the air as you both chase the ultimate release, the one only she can give you.

"Mm, are you enjoying this, baby?" Haseul purrs, her voice thick with desire as she continues to rock her hips, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she watches your reaction. You nod, unable to form coherent words as the pleasure builds within you, a testament to her skilled ministrations.

"That's right," she murmurs, her hand reaching down to squeeze your cock as she rides you.

"Tell Mommy how good it feels."

You manage to choke out a "Yes, you feel so tight around me Mommy," the words feeling strange yet oddly natural on your lips as she continues to fuck you, her movements growing more erratic as her own climax nears. Her nails dig into your skin, leaving a trail of fire that only fuels your desire for more.

"You're such a good boy for Mommy," she praises, her voice breathy and filled with lust. "Now, cum for Mommy," she commands, her movements becoming frenzied as she pushes you closer to the edge. "Cum deep inside me," she whispers, her breath hot against your ear. The filthy talk sends you spiraling over the edge, your body tensing as you release, the warmth of your climax filling her as she cries out, her own orgasm crashing over her. She collapses onto you, her breath ragged as she nuzzles against your neck, her body trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure.

"Mm, Mommy's so proud of you," she coos, her voice a gentle caress in the quiet of the room. For a moment, you just lay there, basking in the glow of her praise, feeling more connected to her than ever before as she whispers sweet nothings in your ear, her heartbeat syncing with yours as your breathing gradually returns to normal. The room is filled with the sound of your mingled sighs, the air charged with a sense of intimacy that goes beyond the physical act you've just shared. This isn't just about sex; it's about power, trust, and the deepest desires of your soul laid bare before the woman who holds them in the palm of her hand. And as she kisses you softly, you know that she'll be there to catch you every time you fall, to cradle you in her arms and whisper sweet, dirty nothings that set your world on fire.

#haseul smut #artms smut #loona smut

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illness-cupid · 3 months ago

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ultraviolence — lee heeseung

heeseung is your manipulative, aggressive and self-centered boyfriend.

pairing: bf!heeseung x fem!reader

genre: smut | TW: abusive relationship, toxic boyfriend, bad words, emotional dependency, unprotected sex, mention of alcohol and cigarettes, rape.

author's note: heeseung is a jerk, this is HEAVY CONTENT, if you feel uncomfortable please DON'T READ. also english is not my mother language but i tried my best, thank you so much and have fun.

you're lying in your bed, tired as ever. your boyfriend was an idiot, your sleep was unregulated and you were full of academic content to study. you hear the door open and come face to face with heeseung, he had that expression you already knew, which made you feel chills.

"hey." he laid down next to you on the bed. heeseung was stinking of cigarettes and alcohol, it was the smell you hated most in the world, it made you nauseous.

"you stink." before he could say anything you already dismissed him, but it's not like that would do any good.

"what's wrong with you? look at me." he grabbed your chin and brought his mouth to your ear, you were nervous and stressed.

"you will do what i tell you to do." you froze, even though you were scared to death, it was somehow comforting to feel your boyfriend's touch, it had been weeks since he had shown any kind of interest in you.

"obey, whore." you felt like you were going to vomit at any moment, heeseung sniffed your neck and pulled your hair with some brutality. you were so tired and fragile that you decided to just let it happen, like other times.

"you're so good, i'm so proud of you, you know? i love it when you obey me without complaining, how about letting your owner satisfy himself now? it won't take long." he slipped his hand inside your blouse and squeezed one of your breasts, you trembled at his touch, heeseung had big and strong hands, your little breast fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. even though you felt disgusted with your own boyfriend, you couldn't say no, it was almost like a spell.

"u-use condom." you begged with a crying face making him let out the most sarcastic laugh you had ever heard.

"don't you trust me? don't you know me? i hate condoms, i can't even feel you properly, stop whining, you're annoying." he complained as he pulled down your pajama shorts, you usually slept without panties because you found it more comfortable that way, but that day you regretted not wearing them.

you wanted to scream, but something in your chest stopped you, it was a mix of sensations, at the same time you hated him, you wanted to be loved and touched by him. you feel your clitoris being massaged at the same time your chin was kissed and bitten.

heeseung then pulls down his own pants and forces his dick against your pussy, inserting it mercilessly and without any preparation.

"you know i love you, right? i only do this because i love you, why you're so mean? why don't you recognize this? why?" he thrust hard, you could feel his frustration as your pussy was fucked aggressively and without any care, it hurts so much. after a while, he came inside you, letting out a moan that sounded more like a growl.

"say you love me or i won't stop." he said, pressing his hand on your neck.

"i- i love you, heeseung."

#lee heeseung #lee heesung x reader #lee heesung smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen smut #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #enhypen hard thoughts #heeseung smut #enhypen x female reader #heeseung hard hours #heeseung hard thoughts

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marshallsgirl · 9 months ago

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Marshall revealing his new song to Y/N

Pairing: Eminem x Fem¡Reader

Warnings: 🔞 MATURE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

Recommended song: Remind Me - Eminem, In Too Deep - Eminem

Author's note: Hey, guys! I was so bored and I wrote this. I may delete it later or idk. Hope you all enjoy it. I love you guys so much! Sending all of you a warm hug🫂🤍

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"I have a surprise for you" Marshall said to me as he enter the living room. Inmediatly I turn off the tv and give all my attention to him. "Guess what" he said.

"What?"

"The song is complete!"

"Whoa baby!"

Here's the thing. He told me he was writting a song about us, but that's it. He didn't talk about ever again. Even if I asked him about it he had changed the topic. So, I was very nervous about it. Because this has happened before. It was with the Revival album. That one song called Remind Me. That one was for me. I still remember when he show me that song.

" did you...That's my fav rock&roll song!" I said when I heared the beat.

"Yeah, that's the song you kept singin' and singin' while you're cooking" he said wanted to laugh at me.

I loved that song. Perfect combination but it was crazy. I mean...he did that for me? He united rock&roll and rap that was so crazy.

"Damn, that's crazy babe" I said.

"See y/n, u make me do things I normally wouldn't do"

"Awww, I love it and I love you baby!"

So, this time I was really nervous because I've been singin' a lot and very different genres. And Marshall...Well, he is so crazy. I didn't know what to expect.

"Are we going to the studio?" I asked him ready to go change if needed.

"No, let's just get in the car". So, we got inside his car. "Are u okay?" suddenly he asked me.

"Yeah, I'm good! I need to hear your song!"

I got too excited and I get very excited when I'm nervous I don't know why, but It's like I got a lot of energy all of the sudden. Anyways, so he says:

"Okay, okay but you need to know that I just got the final mix and I haven't heard it. I mean I know the entire song but I didn't hear the final mix yet" he explained.

"Omg..."

"What?"

"Wait, let me just make myself comfortable" I said while adjustin' my seat a little bit.

At this point he doesn't even hide that he's laughing at me.

"Ready?"

"Yeah, ready"

"Wait, look at me" he ordered and I obey. "I love you"

"Okay, now play the song!"

"Yo, say it back!" he replied.

"I love you, babe!"

And so the music started and he is lip singin': "This could never work, " is what we said at first. But whatever this is, it's working. But we're in two different worlds and (yeah) I'm not your husband (nah), you ain't my girlfriend. All I know is that (what?) When I'm with you, I'm a different person, yeah. And I ain't never met a chick as perfect. Girl, you're a ten, so here I am (yeah)

I literely screamed and Marshall had to stop the music.

"No, keep it goin'!" I argue.

He laughed and let the music continue: ...Can't tell if I'm cheating on her with you or cheating on you with her. But really, nobody's at fault, can't help who you love. Hope they don't ever hear us talk

'Cause we both are getting sloppy. Probably subconsciously part of me's hoping we get caught 'cause I'm not happy here (nah)

With her. Rather have you (yeah) Rather have me too. 'Cause you're not happy there (you're not happy there) With him. Rather have me (I know, but) We just in too deep (I'm in way too deep)

Marshall started singin' it out loud and I was vibin' with it the whole time. It was a good damn song. Honestly, I loved it. It truly was about us, about the start of our relationship, but there were a few things that weren't true like me havin' a wedding ring. It should say: I got a wedding ring. So it's her instead of you.

"That's it. What do u think?" he said not being able to stop smilin'

"Please, play the song one more time"

And he started to laugh again.

"Marshall!"

"Are for real? Did you loved it?" he was surprised.

"Yes, I love it!"

"Y/n..." he laughs again.

"Marshall! You're being so freakin' annoying. Play the song one more time!"

"Yo, you are just sayin that. You didn't loved it!"

"What? I do love it! Marshall!"

"Okay, okay"

He played the song again.

"I'm gonna cry" I said.

"Yo, you're hillarious!"

"That song is good as hell!"

#eminem #eminemslimmarshall #marshall mathers #slim shady #the real slim shady #rap god #eminem pics #marshall mathers x y/n #marshall mathers x reader #marshall mathers imagine #eminem imagine #eminem x reader #eminem x y/n #eminem x you

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leefra98 · 2 months ago

Text

Phone call

PAIRING: bsf!heeseung x reader

GENRE: phone sex, fwb , pwp

WARNINGS: masturbation, degradation, multiple orgasms, hee is a perv

Heeseung's voice crackled through the phone line, the background noise of a bustling café a faint hum in my ear. "Hey," he said, the sound of his chewing echoing. "What's up?"

"Not much," I replied, my eyes scanning the room as I leaned back on my bed. "Just chilling. You're out?"

"Yeah, grabbing a coffee," he said, his tone casual despite the muffled sounds of a spoon clinking against the side of a cup. "How's the new book?"

"It's okay," I said, turning a page. "Couldn't say it's the best thing I've ever read, but it's keeping me occupied."

"You're always reading," he chuckled. "You need to get out more."

I rolled my eyes, smiling. "You know me, Heeseung. Besides, I don't think you're one to talk about going out."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, a hint of playful defensiveness in his voice.

"You spend more time gaming than socializing," I teased. "When was the last time you even talked to a girl?"

There was a pause, the clinking of the spoon abruptly ceased. "Well," he began, his voice dropping to a whisper, "that's what you're here for."

I raised an eyebrow, confused by his sudden shift in tone. "What do you mean?"

He cleared his throat, the line hissing with static. "I mean, I don't need to go out to get my... needs met."

A warmth began to spread through my cheeks. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," Heeseung said, his voice low and deliberate, "that you're my go-to when I need to unwind."

I swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. This was a side of him I had never heard before. "Heeseung, are you... are we..."

"Talking dirty?" he interrupted, a smirk evident in his voice. "Yeah, we are."

I could feel my heart racing, the room suddenly feeling much smaller. "But we're just friends," I protested weakly.

"Best friends," he corrected, the words sending a shiver down my spine. "Best friends who are about to share a little secret."

The line was quiet for a moment, the distant murmur of the café patrons a stark contrast to the silence between us. "Okay," I whispered, curiosity and anticipation warring within me. "What's your secret?"

Heeseung took a deep breath, the sound of fabric rustling faintly. "I can't stop thinking about you, Y/N," he admitted, his voice thick with something I couldn't quite identify. "Every time we talk, every time I hear your voice..."

The rustling grew louder, and it dawned on me what he was doing. "Are you... are you touching yourself?" I asked, the question barely audible.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice strained. "And now that you know, I want to hear you do the same."

My hand hovered over the phone, the realization of what was happening making my skin crawl with a mix of excitement and apprehension. "Heeseung," I breathed, "we can't..."

"Why not?" he pressed, the rustling now unmistakable. "You know how much I want you, Y/N. And now I know you want this too."

I bit my lip, the heat between my legs growing unbearable. "Okay," I said finally, my voice shaking. "Tell me what to do."

Heeseung's breathing grew heavier, the sound of his hand moving rhythmically over his cock growing louder. "Take off your panties," he instructed, his voice a gruff whisper. "Let me hear you."

I obeyed, my heart racing as I slid my underwear down my legs and tossed them aside. "They're off," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Good girl," he praised, his voice a dark purr. "Now, I want you to touch yourself. Just like I'm doing to myself right now."

My hand tentatively made its way down my body, my fingers brushing against my sensitive folds. "Like this?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Mmhmm," he encouraged, his own breathing now erratic. "Now, tell me, are you wet for me?"

I swallowed hard, my cheeks burning. "Yes," I admitted, my fingertips slipping through my arousal.

"Fuck," he groaned. "I knew it. You're such a slut for me, aren't you?"

The words stung, but the sensation of his degradation only served to excite me further. "Yes," I whimpered, my hand moving faster.

"Say it,"

"What?"

"Say that you're my slut," Heeseung demanded, his voice growing more urgent with each stroke.

I hesitated for a moment before giving in to the delicious dirty talk. "I'm your slut, Heeseung."

The sound of his hand moving over his shaft grew quicker, his breathing more ragged. "That's it," he said, his voice a harsh whisper. "Now, tell me, are you going to come for me?"

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. "I'm going to come," I said, my voice quivering with need.

"I want to hear it," he said, his voice a low growl. "I want to know how my words make you feel."

I closed my eyes, focusing on the sensation of my own touch and the sound of his breathing in my ear. "I'm going to come," I murmured, my hips rocking into my hand.

"Come for me," Heeseung urged, his voice strained. "Come for your best friend, you dirty little whore."

The words pushed me over the edge, my body shuddering with the force of my orgasm. I cried out, the sound echoing through the room and down the phone line to him.

For a few moments, we were both silent, lost in the aftermath of our shared pleasure. Then, Heeseung spoke again, his voice slightly hoarse. "Again," he ordered.

I opened my eyes, my hand still working my sensitive flesh. "What?"

"Come again," he said, his voice firm. "I want to hear you scream my name."

I took a deep breath, my body already responding to his command. "Okay," I whispered, my voice a breathless moan.

Heeseung's voice grew more demanding, his instructions more explicit. "Faster," he said, his own breathing erratic. "Imagine my cock inside you, filling you up."

I whimpered, my hand moving in time with his voice. The second orgasm began to build, my toes curling with the intensity of it.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice tight. "Take it all."

I moaned, my body bowing off the bed as I climaxed again, my name leaving his lips in a guttural shout.

As the tremors subsided, I realized with a start that my cheeks were wet with tears. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice concerned.

"Nothing," I lied, my voice thick with emotion. "It's just... it's never been like this before."

He chuckled, the sound low and intimate. "It's just the beginning," he said. "We're going to have a lot more of these moments, Y/N."

The call ended, leaving me lying in a tangled mess of sheets, my body still pulsing with pleasure. The line between friendship and something darker had been crossed, and there was no going back.

#enhypen #enhypen smut #lee heeseung #lee heeseung smut #enhypen x reader #kpop #heeseung smut

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leclsrc · 1 year ago

Text

decent incentives ✴︎ cl16, mv1

genre: this is. Smut, porn W plot, threesome, driver reader

word count: 6.9k

Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs. Or: You’ve been a brat, and only two people know how to mellow you out. title from this

auds here… hi hi hi! scanned my reqs last week, found a max/charles threesome one, and wrote this out in half a day after a friend showed me the challengers trailer (i love tennis and it drove me to write abt a sport that was not, in fact, tennis) also i truly cannot explain the phenomenon behind me finding smut/these kinds of works easier to suss out these days (long form fic i talked abt in the last drabble is not this one fyi) but it’s just ???? like i don’t… i’ve no clue. i hope u enjoy this anyway!!!! love auds :)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, double penetration, sexual tension, masturbation (f), teasing, praise central, reader is a MASSIVE brat, size kink, dirty talk, i don’t want to say brat taming but kinda kinda

Your first time in Max Verstappen’s hotel room happened after a tiring night of media and press, where you spent hours together smoking to calm yourselves down. You’d almost been caught by a manager, stepping on your sticks as soon as the back door swung open and your names were called out to do another interview. This was with ESPN, if you remember right. There’d been a muddled chaos of journalism in the venue, all the jumbled mess of the same questions. As young as you both are, do you feel intimidated by success?

It didn’t—and still doesn’t—help, you suppose, that both you and Max had stared, tight-lipped and deflated brows, and stated, with finality: no.

The afternoon stretched into an entire night, and by the time the clock ticked nine and everything had formally wrapped up, Max mustered up the courage and a half it took to invite you to his hotel room for a cig and half a Cuervo divided into three shots each. The conversation had progressed as he drove, the continuation of an otherwise unorthodox friendship between a Red Bull and Mercedes driver—a fact you’d both acknowledged but opted to ignore.

Drivers are friends all the time, you figure—you’re close with few drivers—but none of them are Max. You had made the lousy small talk, commented on how different the pre- and post-race processes have become since your entrance in 2018, which, back then, had seemed like forever ago. “It would seem like forever to a world champion,” he’d said, and his voice is all teasing and raspy and scruffed up. You had laughed, a scoffy little noise, and told him to shut up.

He obeyed, for two seconds, then added, “Do you mind if we meet someone there?”

The hotel room was what you might expect a high-level athlete to be bestowed with, wide and huge but not as wide and not as huge as yours a few streets over. There’d been a thing of cologne left uncapped on the table by the door, Adidas shoes on the floor next to Nikes, and then a low table housing a still smoking joint that left the entire living room smelling like grass.

Somehow, Max had managed to turn a neutral, sterile hotel room into a boy’s room. The scent of weed mixed with Tom Ford cologne. The rap music blending into the open balcony’s traffic noise. The socks on the floor, two pairs, both white. It’s a strenuous effort, you’d thought—and you were beginning to think this wasn’t the work of Max alone. “We have a guest,” he’d hollered when he managed to fiddle with the key card properly enough to leave the door alone.

No one had answered, or surfaced from the hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom, so you followed Max into the bar area. Bottles of booze in varying states of empty, lemon slices and salt now cold—“Do you not call housekeeping?” You’d asked, amusement concealing curiosity as you accepted a poured-out shot. He said they do—they—and sometimes hotel staff are just a bunch of pricks. He asked more questions. How it felt to win at twenty-one, how it felt to be driving, to be the youngest winner, the first female driver.

Ask me something I don’t hear fucking journalists say all the time, you’d replied back, half-jokingly. The August air nipped at your cheeks, chilling your warm face. He’d laughed, and explained that he re-asked the questions in case you have a more honest answer to give him. The most honesty you could offer is that you’d grown to hate your reputation because it precedes your skill. It’d been silent for a bit then, just the scent of the unclaimed weed. Then Max went, We have a new friend.

You turned to see who he was talking to. Charles was at the doorway, eyes on you already, raising a hand to say a silent hello. “H…” He trailed off. “Hey.”

He was shirtless, Calvins tight on his legs, his free hand scratching absently at his abs. Behind you, you had faintly picked up on Max introducing you and Charles rolled his eyes before replying, clipped, I know who she is, wiseass. He’d taken the weed and almost left, but you spoke next.

“Want to come sit?”

He paused, turned, and blinked. “I’m alright,” he rejected. “We have a meeting tomorrow, don’t forget.”

Then he was back in the bedroom area, leaving behind him a trail of grassy smoke. He was clearly rugged and fresh from sleep, the delicious sleep athletes have all grown familiar with: post-race, overcome with a terrible exhaustion. You’d only ever exchanged a few words with either of these two, and the fact that you were alone with them sent a warm, drawling thrill up your spine.

You were two and a half shots in when Charles reappeared, sans weed. “Any left for me?”

—

If you grouped the grid into years, you would be with Max and Charles—on the younger end, still at the ripe years of your careers. You entered first, though, then Max, thenCharles, which meant you were connected to, and friends with, relatively different people on the paddock. But the 2020 season and your many close calls with Max began the media and manager tirade of constantly lumping you and Max into the same interviews, press conferences, and media days, to maybe somehow elicit a bit of drama out (a tireless and unrelenting effort).

That’s how the rumors started. The rumor that permeates you most is one that asks about you, Max, and Charles. Some say you dated one then the other (a homie hopper, they’d branded you in 2021), others say they dated each other and you butted in. All of them were woefully untrue, in the same way all had some ring of truth to them.

And you suppose that’s what hotwired the beginning of your nights spent at Max’s hotel room, where Charles would nearly always be camped out, then eventually vice versa (Charles’ room, Max camping out; your room, solo, housing them for one night), drinking and/or smoking and/or playing some form of cards. And you suppose again that it was all this that radiated into everything else, all your wins and successes and bad days and near crashes, that just caused the entire universe to topple over, into itself, and creep up onto the three of you in Bahrain that year.

But that year is three years ago, and if you try to detail every last divot of it, you’re going to wind up rubbing a migraine out of your head. And you’re not interested in developing a headache—not when you’re celebrating the fifth race of the 2023 season.

It’s your fourth win this season. It’s all anybody ever talks about, how you had gone and secured a third championship for yourself last year, and how you’re gunning for four, the greatest the sport has seen in years. It’s all anyone can repeat and echo—you’re a fucking legend!—and you know from experience that praise does more than the most dangerous cocktail of drugs to get you high.

The afterparty is full and obnoxiously loud, dark and smoky and low-visibility. You’re wearing a flimsy dress and running a hand through your hair while you nurse a drink, feeling drunk on compliments and confused with certain absences. You can feel the bass through the tiled floor, heels clicking on it as you search, search, and come up short. Neither Max nor Charles have sent you a text, a play they always perform to break a routine you’ve become familiar with. You frown. Hey, somebody says next to you, you’re better than anyone else on the grid right now! You thank them, thinking to yourself—where the fuck is anyone else on the grid anyway? The relevant people, at least?

Half an hour later, you’ve ditched the party and are pounding with your fists at Max’s hotel room door in an effort to get them to open it quicker, after your knuckles didn’t seem to do the work well enough. You half—no, mostly—expect Charles to be the one who pulls it open. He’s more prudent. He gives in easier. He’s nicer and he can spare a thought for the other people on this floor (but the price of this room means there barely are).

“What.” His voice is gritty.

“You told me you would come tonight.” Your voice is steady—you’d chosen not to drink much, and what little you consumed wore off on the ride here. Even with your heels on and even in sleepiness, you notice his presence towers over yours. “You both said.”

“We were tired.”

You scoff and gently push past him into the room, where evidence of their existence rags the furniture. “Every hotel room you ever stay in is turned into a fucking frat house.” Beer bottles, cigs, gifts from fans stored with precarious care but peeking out from suitcases.

“We were sleeping. I am sleepy,” he says behind you, unamused by your sudden appearance. He shuts the door and stands still, looking as disappointed as he can. It’s unlike him. You’re buying time to find out what the problem is.

“Okay, I’ll go,” you say, relenting, running a few fingers over the mess of clothes strewn atop the armrest of the couch. “My driver’s downstairs, anyway. I wanted you there tonight, though.” You look up, meet his eyes. Tired and green and fed up. “Both of you. We could’ve celebrated.”

He pulls his lips tight and stands straighter. “I know, I know.” He softens a little. “I’m sorry, okay? Desolé. Just… tired.” You know he’s tired because his team is shit, and you know it has nothing to do with you, but you’re so wrapped up with everything that your irritance fails to quell.

“Where’s Max?” You ask roughly instead, thumbing at the strap of your minidress. He gestures to the bedroom. You’re quiet but stormy when you walk in, finding him, messy hair and tired eyes notwithstanding, fully awake, unlike what his roomie has been telling you since you arrived; you scoff out loud again. Des-fucking-picable. You sit yourself on the couch, crossing your legs petulantly.

They both stare. They’re mad, it occurs to you, which is weird because they had you in between them on that same bed less than forty-eight hours ago. You’d come thrice and begged for more, but they laughed and said you all needed sleep to get up for race prep. Race prep. Race prep.

“Okay, then.” You throw two hands up in a semi-shrug. “Let’s have it. What’s the matter? No use lying.”

They both look irritated. “Nothing,” Max says.

“Fuck nothing.” You trail a hand over the hem of your dress. “You’re pissed with me, but I didn’t do shit.” You try to rerack the race, but you hadn’t so much as collided with them in the slightest, apart from overtaking them a few times, but they weren’t man children to whine over that. You’d shared the podium with Charles, for Chrissake.

“You’re right. You just went and…” Charles blows a raspberry and makes an explosion gesture, opening his clenched fist. “Shat on us in your post-race interview.”

And there it is.

You huff out a laugh, momentarily losing control over speech, and it’s caught in between itself and a sigh, a breathy noise that makes waves in the quiet room. Okay, you think. I get it. Your eyes flit in-between the two men across you, your shoulders straight and eyebrows raised, posing a challenge. “What, are you jealous?”

They’re silent. And you know silence always means—

Your eyes relax, smug and a little teasing as you elaborate. “Because you know I’m better than both of you?”

—Yes.

Their silence is redeeming and rewarding and permissive and it speaks volumes louder than if they’d actually admitted to it. You stare back at them, eyes narrowed, amused, coy. You’d been joking around in your Sky Sports interview. Sure, you’re a bit of a tease, especially on the high of a win. But they should know that by now.

You know it annoys them more to leave the door wide open as you leave, than to slam it closed.

—

“Will you draw me a tattoo?!”

“I’d love to, but you are going to regret it,” Charles laughs, signing his name off with a heart on the frenzied fan’s outstretched cap. The busy, busy practice day had now worn into night, though nothing seems to be taking his mind off the fact that you’ve been giving him and Max the cold shoulder since last week. And he knows it’s stupid, he knows he and Max were being irrational and pissy—him especially—but now he just finds himself needing to apologize before anything becomes worse.

But his priority is getting to your hotel, which now seems like the journey of his lifetime. His bodyguard is a bulldozer and grips his elbow to traverse them through the sea of people who cheer him on, go Charles have faith in Ferrari and yeah, that’s been getting more and more difficult as the races pass without much good progress. There are flashes all around, noise and laughing and whoops and gifts he tries to receive, but he just—he needs to get to your hotel. Preoccupied, he remembers where he’d seen Max last, just seconds before leaving the paddock for the evening.

You spend a lot of time with a certain pair Ferrari and Mercedes drivers, says the interviewer in Dutch. Charles squints at the subtitles and waits for Max’s reaction.

He’s in the passenger seat, being driven around for a change, and maybe he’s a pessimist and he misses you and Max, or maybe the city he’s in is just. Dreary, so he opts to stare at his phone like every other person. The clip’s been posted by a fan on Twitter, and the caption is something jokey—something about a dream threesome. He can’t help but laugh as he watches. We are close, us three, Max says, nodding. In fact I will be meeting them later.

The media’s always speculated, rumors born out of a few close calls outside clubs where you’re tipsy and giggly and getting into one car. The fans, funny as ever, also make some fun of it—posting pictures of you three captioned with something like polyamory is real or her and the guys she told you not to worry about, but God if any of them knew the real picture, the whole three years of it, all the sex and hickeys and rumors.

He scrolls a bit more. There are a few photos of you leaving the paddock, hand poised atop your face to shield it from the paps. You get loads more of them wherever you are, loads morecompared to anybody else on the grid. You always attract the media, the press. He finds a picture with your face in it, smiling at your result during FP2. Fuck. You’re pretty, hair damp with sweat, lips stretched into a proud grin, suited hand raising a thumbs up.

“Where to?” The driver beside him asks suddenly.

—

“Fairmont,” Max says to his assistant as he pulls out of parking. “I’m hanging up, doei.” He presses the red button and sighs, shutting his eyes and driving the steady, increasingly familiar routes of the city. He’d called you this morning but you didn’t pick up. Last night he’d slept restlessly, which was no different from the nights before, anyway.

He gets to the valet parking of your hotel when purple is just settling into blackness in the sky, the beginnings of a civil discussion at the tip of his tongue as he exits the elevator and finds your room, opening it and finding it unlocked already. Charles must have done the brunt of it, or maybe you’d gotten an assistant of an assistant to pass an extra keycard to him. You always plan around them, thinking ahead. Both on and off track.

Like the hotel rooms he and Charles share or camp out at, your existence is terribly visible. Unlike them, though, it manifests differently.

It smells like your perfume, the pink bottle he’d found you spritzing on once, and everything is neat and tidy and gorgeous. A vase of white peonies on the low table, lipstick on the table by the mirror, even the pack of cigarettes you barely smoke is pretty and unassuming on the sofa. The only thing amiss—a pair of men’s shoes, those ones with stars on them that you bought Charles on a spur-of-the-moment shopping trip. He toes off his own beside them, eyes the alignment, and fixes it lest you scold them for it later.

Anyway. It smells like you. That’s the only thing he cares about right now. It hits him like a tidal wave, after being ignored the whole week and then some. Your perfume, your favorite linen spray—that black and white glass bottle you carry around like a rosary—your favorite lip balm, even. He swears he smells the vanilla, can recall the taste of it from kissing you ditzy.

It’s beginning to rain—it had been drizzling already, en route here—and the noise pelts the windows, an accompaniment to his footsteps down the hall. He’s familiar with the layout of a penthouse suite, but still he tries out the WC door, and then the closet with the ironing board, before finally he figures the bedroom should be at the end of the hall.

He’s reciting it. I’m sorry. Would you stop being a brat? No. No, just say you’re sorry and then he’s standing at the ajar door of your bedroom, pushing it open, and he can’t feel anything. The words have evaporated. So have his warm little sentimental feelings, and so the annoyance he’d come busting in with.

Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs.

He opens his mouth but nothing leaves. His eyes find Charles, standing by the door, propped against the desk, arms crossed and fingers digging into his biceps. Max looks at you again. You have a pretty flush high on your cheeks, a slight sheen of sweat on your exposed collar. He blinks and realizes you’ve been talking.

“I said, you can sit the fuck down.” There’s a couch to his left.

He pulls himself together and stays beside Charles. “I’m good here, thanks.”

You eye the two of them. They look like stupid twins in the same way they look like Republican husbands. You roll your eyes and allow it; anyway, you’re not in the mood to order either of them around too much.

Charles has been watching you for a while now, watched you fake moans and exaggerate whines, feigning pleasure over two of your fingers. It’s almost laughable—he’d allowed a smile, in fact, because he knows better. Once, he’d pulled your hair so hard you teared up, nodding, hand at his wrist, whimpering more, harder, do it. Another time, he and Max had gotten you all riled up and edged for half an hour, so riled that all you could mutter out were please and their names when they finally stuffed you full. You’re evidently playing your games again. You love to play around with them. It’s almost—you could almost call it a hobby.

“I’m not going to stop just ‘cause you’re both here.” Your hand moves, two fingers fucking into yourself, pink lace pushed aside. Your cunt is so pretty, they’re both thinking. “Did you think I would?” When silence greets you, you decide to address them directly. “Max. Did you?”

His voice is thin and tight when he responds, “Yeah, actually—so we could suss this out, at least.”

Your laugh is patronizing. “I prefer it this way. And you know what?”

Max stares. Charles has already been told this, several minutes ago when he found you in the exact same position. It’s not any easier for him to hear it again, chaste and sweet out of your lips. You can’t touch me.

See, they would’ve been content without touching you, if they sit and think about it. Max didn’t walk in here thinking he’d even be kissing you, and he knows Charles thinks the same thing. Maybe touch you—innocently, that kind of way. Sure, they’d been pent up, heady with arousal, but that came second to talking things out. But now you’ve told them they can’t touch, and that’s worsened them to their limit. Charles imagines touching you, the same touch he gives when it’s post-race and he gets you alone, to himself, nobody else’s, quick fucks in a dim closet, whispering some dirty shit in your ear and getting you like putty in his hands.

Max thinks of nearly the same thing. Imagines running his hand over your hair, gentle but firm, the same way he does when he knocks at your hotel room after hours and gets you from high-strung and bratty to begging for more. You notice their eyes, darkened; you realize their minds have wandered. So, they watch hopelessly as the smirk spreads prettily across your flushed face, and they remember the events of a week prior, when childishly, they’d acted out, and think, for a second, that maybe they deserve this.

You all know what it’s like to keep them from touching you.

It was both easier and worse then, in 2020 when everything started—when everything was brand new and thrilling and exciting. Easier, because they were satisfied as soon as they got you to come, maybe kiss them both, and they were content with slow exploration. Worse, because you were all insatiable. It felt like none of you could go minutes without some form of touch, during, in-between, after practice, quali, fuck—it was worse, much worse.

As you all grew older and got accustomed to the drivel of racing, you all got better. It didn’t get much easier.

Charles recalls how insatiable he was—and thinks, with amusement almost, that if he was insatiable then, he’s worse now. Now he knows where, how, for how long to touch you to get you wide-eyed and warm in the face even in the most serious of moments. Max, too. He knows how you taste, bend, tease. They love touching you. Just skin to skin. And you’ve gone and put a great big X mark over that.

“So,” Max says, voice flat, the way it is when he’s unamused with a reporter, “we’re in a time out.”

“You can call it that,” you giggle, and it segues into a huffy whimper when you angle your hand just right. “You were acting childish, anyway.”

Charles sighs, long and deep. “We—fuck.” His eyes can’t unglue themselves from your fingers. He knows he could make you feel so much better, fuck real moans out of you until you’re crying. “We were being childish, oui, and it was—we were just tense. I was unhappy with strategy. I could’ve been P2 but they pitted me at the worst time, putain. I took it out on you, and I’m… I was… I was worn out, and you called us childish in your interview.”

Ever the minx, you only smile. You’d been joking, you clarified that a day later; it was crass, spurred on by team radios of the two of them complaining in the latter half of the race. “It was a joke, Charles.”

“I know, baby, I know.” His lip curls and he breathes steadily, controlling himself. “It was unprompted though. You weren’t even asked about us. And yeah, a joke—but it felt shitty, love. I don’t mind it—we don’t mind it, but—” He needs to think about the phrasing, think about his intentions.

Your eyes are on fire, clearly still angry, but steadily softening.

“But in moderation,” comes Max’s raspy voice. “You’re running your mouth a lot in the media.”

“You’re one to—ah—talk,” you huff back, a futile argument.

“You need to understand that—that when you’re giddy, or angry, you can’t keep turning to interviews to express all that out. You need to sit with it. Just because we’re not…” your boyfriends, Max almost says, “…yours, doesn’t mean you can shit on us then expect us to be okay with it a few hours later. It’s a thing you do. A game you play. And it’s nice, it was nice then, but it’s annoying now, and it’s almost, like, do you even want this to keep going? To work—?”

You recoil. “You seriously think I don’t want th—”

Charles cuts in. “Well, when you play at us like this, yeah. Put in the work. If you’re high off a win, or mad for some other reason, just let it happen. Don’t fucking.” He exhales. “Call us names, then show up at our hotel acting like an angel.”

They’ve always looked out for you like this, known when to scold you or put you in your place for doing too much or not doing enough. They’ve never let personal things cross too much with business, which is a blessing of an ability when you’re three people having regular sex while balancing a ludicrous athletic career. It’s all sussed down to stupid ‘I care for you’ stuff that, frankly, they’re both too horny and angry to get into the grit of right now.

They don’t realize how quiet the room has grown until you eke out a noise, a thoughtful sound of agreement. You’ve pulled your fingers out, both hands playing with a loose thread on the hem of the sweater, rolling it into a ball. Your hair falls in waves. There’s a crease in it from the ponytail you wear when driving.

Your expression is still murderous, but much softer now; you cough, “I—I get what you’re saying. And I know I play… I have these games, or—but, honestly, I could say the same to you both.” You stutter through your totally shit explanation.

“How do you… mean,” deadpans Max.

“I mean, when I’m acting out, you two just take it.” Having them at your mercy like that is satisfying in its own right, but pragmatically, it’s unhealthy. “You don’t ever tell me off. Even now. I need you to tell me… to fucking,” you’re warm and spluttery now. “Fuck's sake, okay? I know I can be annoying. I know I say stupid shit when I don’t finish and I’m way less diplomatic than Mr. Il Predestinato,” you breathe. “But you two just let me be annoying!”

“Then don’t be annoying,” Charles says, diplomatic as ever—his voice rises, though, nearly matching yours.

“Not like that!” You huff, folding your legs and sitting straighter, and they catch a glimpse of your pink panties again. “When I’m out of line, you”—you point to them—“need to correct me.” They’re nearly blindsided by your request to… be told what to do, which is so different from how sex usually works. From how this whole dynamic usually works.

But Max remembers your manager, and Toto, and your teammate Lewis even, and your engineers, who have all, at one point or another, had to talk you down and tell you to calm down and correct your behavior. So he says, “People do that all the time, but it only works for a second.”

“Because th—” You suck in a lungful of air. “They’re not you two, you daft fuckers!” You’re at the centre of the bed now, sweater drooped over your folded thighs, eyes matching the rain outside. “Every time, I need to be talked down, and you never. Do it. So do it. Fucking—do it. I have to tell you everything.”

“You don’t—-”

“Oh, I do.” You say, folding your arms over your chest.

“This is despicable,” Max says. “We need to sort this out properly.”

“So what? This isn’t”—you raise violent air quotes—“putting in the work?”

They glance at each other for a minute. They feel you thinking you’re winning, thinking they’ll grovel and say okay we’ll do that next time, can we fuck you? Like all the other semi-resolved fights before. You’re sitting straight, eyebrows raised, defiant. But for them to do that—you just said it wasn’t what you needed.

And they’d have to be caught dead before not giving you what you need. If you want to be bossed around a bit, then they’ll do it.

“Sit down,” Charles goes. Unmoving.

“What.” You’re deadpanning, eyes narrowed.

“Sit the fuck down,” he repeats. You open your mouth, but he’s quicker. “Don’t make me say it again.”

You pout, leaning against the headboard and unfolding your legs. He rounds the room, sits at the foot of the bed. It’s a big bed, so even if he’s on it, he still needs to reach over a bit to be able to touch you. The distance is good, though, keeps them in control. Max sits opposite him, both of them on either side of you, and they’re so close, so scrutinizing, so handsome.

“Put your fingers in your mouth,” he says. You take a second, spreading your knees and obeying. You find a way, though, to make their little challenge all your own—you make a show of it, peeking your tongue out and licking your bottom lip all shiny before hollowing your cheeks. You stare at them the whole time and you don’t blink. It’s hotter than it has any right to be. “Suck on them.” You continue doing it, lips slightly curled.

“You’re a brat.” You try to conceal the whimper that leaves you but it fails pathetically. Charles presses on. “A spoiled brat.”

He’s the nicer of the two. Your whole threesome situation had began three years ago, and in almost every tryst since then, he’s been nice. In fact, if any of them were to ever ‘tell you off’ like you so desperately wanted, apparently, it would have definitely been Max. He’s firm, yeah, but he’s sweet. And he’d hate to boss you around too much, even if it’s something he wants. So he thinks, and he pretends he’s back to quali day of last week. It was a slow morning because of weather problems, so everyone was in a mood, and you were absolutely no exception. You come off as quiet to the public and to some of the grid, but to your friends, you’re anything but.

In an effort to lift the mood, you’d been mouthing off the entire day to your close circle of driver friends, in particular retelling the story of how you had teased Charles post-DNF in Saudi, and even gotten Lando to laugh about it at the time. What a season starter, you said when you were recounting it. You left out a detail: that night in Saudi, he’d fucked you and refused to let you cum, soaking your pillow with tears and goading a sobbed apology out of you.

Watching you joke about it again, even if it was a fucking joke and even if it was because you were mad at him and Max—got him all red hot, pissed off. Seething.

“Do you remember last race weekend when you joked about my DNF in Saudi?”

Cheeks hollowed, you nod.

“Fucking brat. That whole day. Ignoring me, ignoring Max. Didn’t listen to our apologies. Just noise all day.”

Your brows knit defiantly.

“I’m serious. You weren’t being funny. Just a brat. And if you were bored or pissed, you could’ve said so instead of making me look stupid.” You nod.

He glimpses at Max; the latter speaks next. “Open yourself up.”

You spread your legs out farther and sneak your spit-slick fingers down, pushing the flimsy material aside to rub at your cunt, two fingers sliding right back in. You breathe out shakily and wait for them to talk again. You’re still fussy, high-strung, not totally calm and mellowed down yet.

“When Charles and I aren’t here to fuck you into behaving, who’s going to make sure you’re acting proper?”

“Carlos,” you grit out in between thrusts.

They seethe. “Again,” Charles says, unamused.

“Nat,” you name your manager. “Lewis, or something. Fuck. Lando? I don’t—”

You asked to be told what to do, but you never said, they suppose, that it would be an easy job. “Guess again.”

“Toto.” You look delighted at that last one, knowing the implication. They’ve always been a bit jealous there. You thrive off disobedience, getting your two favorite boys all angry and flushed red with it. You open your mouth to try smartassing your way out of their orders, but Max beats you to it. “If you guess wrong, you’re not cumming. We’ll fuck you tonight, but no cumming.”

You whimper out loud, sinking your fingers farther in, adding a third.

“Don’t add another. Answer Max,” Charles says.

“Fuck,” you seethe, slipping the third out on your next thrust. “Me. I’m supposed to keep myself in check. When I’m mad. When I’m giddy and fuck—yeah. Me. It’s me.”

“Good girl,” he rasps out. “Good girl. You have to practice. How does it feel?”

I know, you mouth, eyes fluttering. You scissor the two fingers you’re thrusting in and out, wet with slick. “Feels good.”

“Not your fingers, love,” Max says. “How’s it feel hearing what we just told you?”

“Good, better,” you say in-between breaths. “I’ll practice. I like it. You’re not… letting me push you around. You’re—you can punish—fuck. Me.”

“Yeah? How, then?”

“Fuck me,” you repeat breathlessly. “Both of you.”

“Add another,” Charles orders, and you nod, quick and pliant, fucking yourself open. They’re both so hard, cocks heavy and uncomfortable in their jeans. You can see the thick shapes of them through the denim, and you thrust harder, a futile attempt to replicate how it feels when they’re fucking you.

“You remember how it feels, having both of us in you?” Max sounds amused.

“Yes,” you moan. Your pathetic imitation of moans and gasps earlier pales in comparison to this, voice dry and thick with pleasure and raw desperation. “Yes, pl—fuck, yes.”

“Why aren’t you feeling it now?” They need to hear you verbalize the reason why, admit it one last time before they give you what you want. You whine, rutting your hips up against your hand, catching your clit on the heel of your palm.

“Because I was being a brat, and I—you were being childish, but I didn’t want to talk things through either—and I’m always taking out my emotions on you guys, and I’m sorry, okay, would you just fuck me already?”

They’re on you immediately, all words and whispers, fingers at your chin turning you both ways to slot kisses on your mouth. Your free hand palms over Max’s bulge; he’s the one to your right. It’s hard and thick and heavy and you need it, need them. Charles’ hand takes over yours, thrusting deep and you’re whimpering into his sweet mouth.

“Feel my cock?” Max asks, “Could make you feel real nice, baby.”

“I know,” you sigh, breathless. “I want it.”

“When's the last time you took us both?” Charles asks, smile wicked. “Little thing like you.”

You grit out a moan, fuzzy and floating, letting them lift you up to straddle—one of them—you open your eyes and see Charles staring up at you, wonder and green eyes. “Got this, love?” You nod, yeah, I’ve got it, you say, little sighs. Both of you. Now.

This space you’re in, where it’s pleasure and fuzz and nothing else, is comparable to the high of winning. And you know you prefer that to sex, at least now, because racing is your life. It’s the slow satisfaction of being the best on the entire grid, despite everything. It’s the cheers, the raised fists when you climb atop your car and bring the crowd to a crescendo. The even louder screams when you pull your helmet and balaclava off and smile, trophy and all, champagne shiny and glowy on your face. All that shit—it’s addictive, and it feels just like this. So similar, in fact, because when you win, you finish on top of Charles and Max, and—

—Max is behind you, jeans tugged just enough for his cock to be pulled free, slick with lube and prodding at your ass—

—it feels just fucking like this.

“Like Max’s cock filling you up?” His cockhead is breaching your tight entrance and you moan out loud.

“I missed it,” you say, muffled by Charles’ free thumb at your lips, swirling it on your tongue. You flip him off for cutting you off and he laughs. “Give it t’me,” you goad, turning slightly. You want it so bad, missed being fed with their cocks. A week is too long. “I need more of it, all of it. In me, fill me up,” you beg, whimpering, desperate.

Max stares at your ass, grabs at the flesh there, at the string of your thong. You suck him in so hungrily, like you’re challenging him to not thrust in fully; you’re canting your hips backward too, and Max has to hike the too-big sweater up to watch the muscles of your back flex to meet his dick.

“So pretty, princess,” Charles says, because with them you really are a princess. Max begins to thrust into you from behind and you’re getting little moans fucked out of you, watching Charles unbuckle his jeans to tug his cock out, thick and pretty and you want—if you could, you would suck on it, let him fuck your throat, but you’re in the business of being filled to the point of blank thoughts right now.

You feel Charles at your cunt then, your slick making the slide easier, and Charles bucks his hips up and you—this is what you needed, to mellow you down, get you all loose and ready for more. “Take it, baby,” Max says, “all of it, all of us.”

“Ah,” you gasp out. “Ah.”

“Come on,” he grits, voice hardening. “You’re ruined. Pretty little girl. Come on.”

“Maxie,” you call out weakly, your fond little nickname for him. You remember Charles whining about how he doesn’t have one, so you save baby for him, had sussed that out on a night where they took turns fucking you. Your hips torn between the two dicks stuffing you, face sweaty and the sweater doesn’t help, gets you hotter; Charles gets the hint, and with effort, pulls it off you. Your skin is shiny underneath, matching bra sticking to your sweaty, sheened out skin.

“Love it,” you say, voice strained. “Split—fuck—me open.” Your holes clench around them and Jesus, they could have you all flushed and pretty and spread out like them, like this, forever. Charles grabs at the flesh of your ass, slaps you once and you’re tightening around them, breath impossibly still, thighs shaking. Max’s hands hold your hips tight, hungrily traveling up, groping at the wire of your bra to press at your tits. You’re pressed against both of them at a delicious angle that gets you dizzy.

“I’m gonna cum, I,” you breathe out, moaning, “I haven’t touched myself since…”

They both moan at that, delirious. Fuck. The thought of you holding it—for them—fuck.

“You’re so perfect, so—fuck—slutty,” Charles says, and you can’t hide the moan fast enough. “Feels good, having us in you, yeah? Getting you all noisy and… fucking—shit. I know how much you needed this, love. I know how much you love it. Us.”

From behind, Max snakes a hand up your abdomen, the column of your throat, and wraps there. You see white from the sensation of it alone.

“Tell me—I can’t—please, I—Charles—Maxie—” You’re increasingly incoherent, slick running down your thighs, twitching vigorously. You try to comprehend everything but you’re losing coherence and they get it, they get it, wiping your tears and sweat and coercing you to cum, yeah, pretty little pussy so fucking wet for us, cum hard, come on, you’ve been so good, baby, the best girl for us.

There’s no way either of them are lasting after that, after watching you fall apart and finish on top of them, stuffed full, stuffed pliant, stuffed fucking docile.

It’s your turn, then, to praise, your favorite boys, always so good for me, thank you for letting me cum, come on, let me taste it—and you’re stained with their release after a few minutes, Max biting on your shoulder, Charles’ thumb indenting your hip.

—

What. A. Podium, ladies and gentlemen! Max Verstappen of Red Bull, from P6 in the last race to a stunning P3 drive—Charles Leclerc, braving the team’s dismal strategy to get P2! What a knockout. Of course the Mercedes legend, gunning for four championships now, had crossed the flag first to claim her fifth P1 of the season.

What a legendary race, absolutely proper podium. They showed us what driving is, real driving.

The season is heating up.

Makes you wonder what happened over the weekend for them to get such good results.

This is F1. I’m sure they keep each other motivated.

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen smut #max verstappen imagines #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader

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eunseoksimp · 4 months ago

Text

Entangled; Jung Sungchan

made this on a whim after an excessive amount of listens to house of balloons by the weekend.

Pairings: Boxer!Jung Sungchan x Girlfriend!Reader

Genre: angst

Description: the relationship between you and sungchan is a tumultuous storm, a volatile mix of passion and pain, bound by an intense love that is as toxic as it is profound. sungchan, an underground fighter, using the ring as an outlet for his inner demons and you, clinging to him as you seek solace from your own unhealed wounds. two broken pieces clinging to each other in a toxic dance of dependency and desperation.

Warning: use of swear words, brief mention of substance abuse and alcoholism.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

sungchan shows up at your house, eyes bloodshot, knuckles bruised, and that signature smile of his, the one that always made your heart flutter despite the chaos it signified. but now it only brings a sigh to your lips. you sigh, not even wanting to know what kind of trouble he got into this time, simply opening the door wider, allowing him to lean into your side as you guide him into your dimly lit apartment. the weight of his body against yours feels both familiar and burdensome, like an old, tattered blanket that you can’t seem to discard.

you sway all the way into your bedroom, his weight heavy against you until you stumble into your bedroom. he looks at you for a second, as if trying to see if you would allow him to jump onto your bed the way he is. his gaze is a silent question, but he knows how much you hate outside clothes touching your covers. with a shake of your head and the best shot of a disapproving look, he clicks his tongue but nevertheless shrugs his jacket off of his shoulders, obeying your rules. his jacket lands on the floor with a soft thud, a harbinger of the troubles he brought with him.

you watch as he clicks the clasp off his watch, slipping it off his wrist in one swift move and placing it on your dressing table. there's a practiced grace in his movements, a dance you've witnessed countless times. he reaches one hand from behind him to grab the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head, ruffling his hair before it’s discarded on the floor. you’ve seen him many times in this state, his top always coming off first because he knew you liked to peek at his muscles. his body, a canvas of old scars and fresh bruises that littered the expanse of his back, speaks of a history written in pain and conflict.

‘want me to give you a little strip show?’ he teases, fingers brushing against the buckle of his belt, his eyebrow quirking up before he relaxes it. his voice, tinged with a playful mockery, is an echo of better days when his teasing would have made you laugh. now, it only deepens the chasm of despair between you.

‘hurry up and get into bed. It’s cold,’ you reply, your voice betraying a weariness that matches the dim light of the room. the cold isn’t just physical; it’s an ever-present chill in the air, a manifestation of the emotional void that has grown between you.

he obeys, giving you a two-fingered salute and a boyish grin before unbuckling his belt and slipping out of his jeans, leaving them in a crumpled heap on the floor. his body, though battered, still carries an allure that tugs at your heartstrings. you turn away, not wanting to let your gaze linger too long on the marks of his latest escapade, the reminders of a life he refuses to abandon.

sliding under the covers, he pulls you close, his arms wrapping around you with a desperate intensity. you nestle into his chest, inhaling the scent of sweat and faint cologne, a mixture that has become a bittersweet comfort. his heartbeat, steady but troubled, is a metronome to the silent symphony of your shared sorrow.

you both lie there, staring at the ceiling, the dim light casting shadows that dance around the room like ghosts of your past. His arm drapes over your waist, pulling you closer. you can feel the tension in his body, the unspoken pain he's trying to hide.

‘rough night?’ you ask softly, your fingers tracing the contours of his bruised knuckles.

‘you could say that,’ he murmurs, his voice thick with exhaustion. ‘but it’s better now. i’m here with you.’

you close your eyes, wanting to believe his words, to find solace in the illusion that everything is normal. but the truth is inescapable: you are both prisoners of a toxic love, bound together by pain and passion. his presence, once a source of joy, has become a reminder of the endless cycle of hurt and reconciliation.

it was impossible, for two broken people to try and mend each other’s hearts, and yet here you both were. sungchan engaged with underground boxing to keep his demons at bay, to control the anger that burned deep inside him to the ring alone. and you continued to be with a man whose habits of danger and thrill-seeking often left you in sorrow, the possessiveness he felt over you seeming like love due to the poor examples of it you had as a model.

‘ i wish you’d stop doing this to yourself,’ you whisper, your voice breaking. ‘to us.’

he sighs, a sound heavy with resignation. he doesn’t respond immediately. instead, he tightens his grip on you, as if holding on to you can keep him from falling apart.

‘i can’t change who i am. and you... you can’t seem to let go of me, even though you know it’s killing you.’

the words hang in the air, a bitter truth that neither of you can deny. you cling to each other, seeking warmth in the cold emptiness of your relationship. you stay because you can’t let go, because the pain has become a part of you, a twisted proof of your connection.

his hands, rough and calloused, move gently over your back, a gesture that once brought comfort but now feels like a plea for forgiveness. you shift slightly, turning to face him. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the mask he wears slips away. you see the vulnerability, the hurt, and the longing. it’s a mirror of your own soul, reflecting back all the things you’ve tried to hide.

‘maybe we’re just broken,’ you say, your voice barely audible. ‘maybe this is all we deserve.’

sungchan tightens his grip on you, as if trying to hold together the fragile pieces of your shattered love.

‘maybe. but i’d rather be broken with you than whole without you,’ he closes his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face as his voice slightly cracks.

tears sting your eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the pain you both carry. his words, though meant to be comforting, only deepen the wound. you lie there in the darkness, listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing, each inhale and exhale a reminder of the life you’ve built on a foundation of hurt.

he pulls you closer and there’s a desperate hunger in his kiss, a need to reassure both of you that this is real, that this is worth the pain. his lips are rough against yours, his hands clutching at you like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline. you respond with equal fervor, pouring all your confusion and heartache into the kiss, hoping to find some semblance of solace.

but the solace never comes. instead, you’re left with a hollow ache, a reminder of how broken you both are. you pull away, breathless, and bury your face in his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. it’s a rhythm you’ve come to rely on, a reminder that despite everything, you’re still here, still together.

in the quiet of the night, the apartment feels like a mausoleum, a resting place for the ghosts of your past. the dim light casts shadows on the walls, flickering images of the dreams you once shared, now distorted by the harsh reality of your love. the bed, once a sanctuary, has become a battleground where you both fight to hold on to something that is slipping away.

‘i love you,’ he whispers, pulling you out of your thoughts, his voice filled with a desperate sincerity. it’s a declaration that should bring joy, but instead, it feels like a dagger to your heart.

‘i love you too,’ you reply, the words tasting of ash. love, for you both, has become synonymous with pain, a beautiful lie that you can’t help but cling to.

sungchan’s voice, when he speaks again, was filled with a bittersweet mixture of resignation and affection. ‘we’re a mess, aren’t we?’ he said with a rueful chuckle, the sound tinged with a sadness that mirrored the shadows on the walls.

‘yeah,’ you agreed, a sad smile playing on your lips. but we’re our mess.’ your words hung in the air, a delicate thread of understanding that connected you both in your shared chaos.

he sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of his internal battles, and pulled you closer. ‘i don’t know what I’d do without you,’he confessed, his voice cracking with vulnerability.

‘you’d survive,’ you said softly, your voice a gentle balm to his wounded soul. ‘you always do.’ you traced the lines of his face with your fingers, each touch a silent vow of your love and commitment.

‘but I don’t want to just survive,’ he replied, his voice filled with a longing that tugged at your heart. ‘i want to live, to really live, and I don’t know how to do that without you.’

You don’t know how to respond to that. Instead, you just hold him tighter, as if that could somehow make everything better. But deep down, you both know it won’t. You’re stuck in a cycle of love and pain, unable to break free but unwilling to let go.

as the night stretches on, you drift into a restless sleep, haunted by dreams of what could have been. in your dreams, you see a life where love doesn’t hurt, where his eyes aren’t bloodshot and his knuckles aren’t bruised. but when you wake, the reality is unyielding, a stark reminder that you are trapped in a cycle of your own making.

morning comes, casting a pale light over the room and you watch as the sun slowly rises, bringing with it a new day. but there’s no sense of renewal, no promise of a fresh start. it’s just another day in the endless cycle you’ve found yourselves trapped in.

he stirs beside you, his movements slow and deliberate. you watch as he sits up, his back to you, the weight of his actions evident in the slump of his shoulders.

‘i’m sorry,’ he says, finally breaking the silence, not turning to look at you. the words, though heartfelt, feel like a cruel joke. sorry isn’t enough to heal the wounds, to erase the nights of pain and the days of longing.

‘i know,” you reply, your voice devoid of emotion. it’s a conversation you’ve had countless times, each one a repetition of the same hollow promises.

he stands, reaching for his discarded clothes, the bed feeling colder and emptier without him, ironically mirroring the effect he seemed to have on your life. you watch in silence as he dresses, the familiar routine a painful reminder of the transient nature of your moments together. when he’s fully clothed, he turns to you, his eyes pleading for understanding.

‘will you be okay?’ he asks, the question heavy with unspoken fears.

‘i always am,’ you lie, forcing a smile. it's a lie you both choose to believe because the truth is too painful to face.

he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. ‘i’ll be back tonight.’

you nod, knowing that the cycle will continue, that tonight will bring the same mix of joy and despair. as he leaves, the apartment feels even colder, the silence a deafening reminder of your solitude.

you sit there for a long time, staring at the door he walked through, wondering if there will ever come a day when you can let go. the love you share is a beautiful poison, one that you can’t seem to quit, even though you know it’s slowly killing you both. the echoes of your conversations linger in the air, a haunting reminder of the love and pain you share.

you finally get up, moving through the motions of your morning routine. but everything feels hollow, your heart heavy with the weight of your relationship. you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, seeing the tired eyes and the lines of worry etched into your face.

you think about the love you have for him, the way it consumes you. it’s a love that’s both beautiful and destructive, a force that binds you together even as it tears you apart. you wonder if things will ever change, if you’ll ever find the strength to let go.

but for now, you’re stuck in this endless loop, holding on to each other because the alternative is too terrifying to consider. you find a twisted comfort in the pain, a sense of normalcy in the chaos. it’s not healthy, but it’s all you’ve ever known.

you go about your day, trying to push the thoughts of him to the back of your mind. but he’s always there, a constant presence in your heart and mind. you can’t escape him, can’t escape the love you have for him, no matter how much it hurts.

as the day turns to night, you find yourself back in your apartment, the loneliness weighing heavily on you. you lie in bed, staring at the empty space beside you, waiting for him to come back to you, just like he promised. you know he’ll be back, that you’ll repeat the same cycle again. and despite everything, you find a strange comfort in that.

the living room is bathed in the soft, flickering light of a lone lamp, casting elongated shadows that stretch and wane across the walls. the clock on the mantle ticks away, each second echoing through the silence, a metronome marking the passage of time. you sit on the edge of the couch, a book in hand, its pages unread as your eyes repeatedly drift to the front door. the weight of anticipation hangs heavy in the air, a tangible presence that presses down on your chest.

outside, the night is alive with the distant hum of traffic and the occasional burst of laughter from passersby. it contrasts starkly with the oppressive quiet of the apartment, where the silence seems almost accusatory, reminding you of the countless nights spent in similar fashion. your phone lies beside you on the coffee table, screen dark and unbothered by any messages or calls. you don't bother picking it up to check; you already know.

the hours pass slowly, each one a reminder of your solitude, and yet he doesn’t return. it used to make your heart leap, bad thoughts circling your mind as you think about all the terrible situations he might have gotten in to. but you knew him too well now. you knew all too well that it just meant he was engaging in another night of his hedonistic pleasures, probably because he won his fight, surrounded by alcohol and loud music whilst consuming substances that he knew wasn’t good for him.

it wasn’t that you thought he would cheat, in fact that was the least of your worries. it was all just unhealthy, being wrapped up in a life of substance-fueled debauchery and distractions, a cry for help and it brings a bitter taste to your mouth. you’ve been here before, and the script always plays out the same.

you glance at the clock again—11:30 pm. each minute feels like an hour, and the realization slowly settles over you like a cold, damp blanket. he’s not coming home tonight. the knowledge seeps into your bones, a familiar ache that you've grown accustomed to. there's no anger left, no fiery resentment. just a dull, throbbing disappointment that pulses in rhythm with your heartbeat.

with a heavy sigh, you rise from the couch. the room feels larger in his absence, the silence more pronounced. you make your way to the bedroom, the soft thud of your footsteps the only sound accompanying you.

you slip under the covers, the cool fabric a stark contrast to the warmth you long for. the ceiling stares back at you, an expanse of darkness dotted with the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. memories of happier times flood your mind, unbidden and unwelcomed as you try to push them away, focusing instead on the present, on the reality of your situation.

the phone remains silent on the nightstand but you don’t reach for it. there’s no point. instead, you close your eyes, willing sleep to come and take you away from the disappointment, if only for a few hours.

you finally drift off to sleep, your dreams filled with images of him. in your dreams, things are different. there’s no pain, no conflict. just love, pure and simple.but dreams are just that – dreams. the reality is much harsher, much more complicated. you wake up to the same emptiness, the same ache in your heart and you know that nothing will change, that you’re trapped in this toxic dance with no end in sight.

the next night arrives, and with it, the familiar sound of a brisk knock on the door. you know who it is as you fiddle with your locks; sungchan, with bloodshot eyes and bruised knuckles, his signature smile plastered across his face and you feel the familiar pull in your chest. he’s your addiction, the one thing you can’t quit even though you know it’s destroying you. he steps into your embrace, and for a moment, you forget the pain, lose yourself in the illusion of love.

but deep down, you know that this isn’t sustainable, that one day the weight of your combined sorrows will crush you both. until then, you continue to cling to each other, finding fleeting moments of solace in the midst of your shared suffering.

the smell of alcohol wafts in with him, mingling with the night air, and you know immediately that he’s drunk. his steps are unsteady, yet his grin is wide, a mask that hides the weariness and turmoil beneath.

‘i’m sorry about last night,’ he slurs, leaning heavily against the doorframe and you’re pulled back into your reality.

‘got caught up in the moment. the partying, the fun... i didn’t want to disturb you, you hate when i drink, but i’m really trying.’

you stand there, feeling the weight of his words press down on you, each one a reminder of the empty hours you spent waiting. but anger is a luxury you can't afford anymore. instead, you focus on the task at hand, channeling your energy into taking care of him.

with gentle hands you guide him to your bathroom, peeling off the heavy leather jacket that clings to him, the one he cherishes so much. it smells of smoke and sweat, a testament to the night he’s had. next, you work on his jeans, the ones he wears like a second skin, stained and frayed from countless nights like these.

he tries to kiss you, his breath hot and sour against your cheek and his arms, though unsteady, reach for you, seeking solace in your embrace. but you turn your head, dodging his attempts at affection. each dodge feels like a small betrayal to your heart, which still beats for him despite everything. resentment tugs at your heartstrings, a discordant melody that drowns out the love you still feel. why couldn’t he be a normal boyfriend? someone who showed up when he promised, who took you out more, who came home more. someone who didn’t burden you with the weight of his absences and the chaos he brought with him.

‘let’s get you to bed,’ you murmur after helping him wash up and change into new clothes, hoping that sleep would sober him up as you take his hand and lead him to your room. he stumbles along, his laughter a hollow echo in the small space. you keep your touch gentle but firm, your heart a fortress against the flood of emotions threatening to spill over.

once he’s settled under the covers, you sit on the edge of the bed, watching him. his eyes flutter closed, a sigh escaping his lips, the bruises on his knuckles standing out starkly against his pale skin, a silent testament to the battles he fights, both inside and out. you reach out, your fingers brushing against the bruises, feeling the rough texture of broken skin.

the words you long to say choke you, each one a thorn you bury deep within. you love him—god, how you love him—but you’re tired. tired of the waiting, of the disappointment, of the endless cycle of highs and lows. you swallow hard, pushing the bitterness down, burying it beneath layers of resignation and care.

he mumbles something incoherent, his hand reaching out to find yours. you let him take it, feeling the warmth of his grip, the way his fingers curl around yours. in this moment, despite everything, you still find a small piece of solace. because even though he’s broken, and even though he breaks you a little more each time, you still love him. and that love, for now, is enough to keep you here.

as the night wears on, you lie in bed together, his arms around you, your heart is heavy with unspoken words and unfulfilled wishes, holding on to the fragile hope that somehow, love will be enough to save you. but in the silence, you both know the truth: love, in its purest form, is supposed to heal, not hurt. and yet, you choose to remain, bound by a toxic devotion that neither of you can escape.

in the end, the saddest part isn’t the pain or the bruises or the tears. it’s the realization that you’ve mistaken suffering for love, that you’ve built a life on a foundation of hurt. and as you drift into another restless sleep, you can’t help but wonder if there will ever come a day when you can truly let go.

you can’t help but wonder if there will ever come a time when he chooses you over the chaos.

morning light filters through the thin curtains, casting a soft, muted glow across the room. you wake up first, as always, lying in silent resignation as you watch sungchan sleep. his face is a picture of peace, a stark contrast to the turmoil of the previous night. you trace the contours of his face with your eyes, noting the faint lines of exhaustion and the bruises that mar his knuckles. there’s a fleeting moment of tenderness as you remember why you fell in love with him, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the weight of disappointment.

eventually, he stirs, eyes fluttering open, confusion swimming in his irises. his gaze darts around the room until recognition dawns, and you see the realization settle in. he doesn’t remember much, but he knows he messed up. T

the room is enveloped in a heavy silence, the kind that presses down on you, making it hard to breathe. you both look at each other, hearts too heavy to speak. he knows you’re tired of his apologies, and you’re tired of demanding them. the unspoken understanding hangs between you, thick and suffocating.

guilt gnaws at him, and you watch as he chews on his chapped bottom lip, a habit that betrays his inner turmoil. you furiously pick at the dead skin around your nails, needing a distraction, something to focus on other than the pain in your heart.

‘i’m—” he starts, his voice cracking.

‘don’t,’ you cut him off, your voice low but firm. ‘just don’t.’

he looks down, his shoulders slumping as the weight of his actions settles over him. ‘i’m sorry,’ he whispers, unable to stop himself.

your jaw tightens, and you shake your head, slipping out from under the covers, the floor cold against your bare feet as you make your way to the living room, the weight of his gaze following you. he scrambles after you, pathetically, desperately trying to make amends with gestures instead of words. he hugs you from behind, his arms wrapping around you with a familiar warmth, and places a kiss on the crown of your head. the tenderness of the moment is almost painful, a reminder of what you once had and what’s slowly slipping away.

‘please,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice thick with regret. ‘i’ll do better. i promise.”

‘you always promise,’ you reply, your voice barely above a whisper as you step out of his arms. ‘but nothing changes.’

he disappears into the bedroom with a sigh, leaving you standing there, a storm of emotions swirling within you. when he re-emerges, he’s wearing some of his old clothes he must have found in your cupboard. the sight of him in those familiar clothes stirs something in you, a bittersweet ache that tugs at your heart.

‘can we at least talk about it later?’ he asks, his eyes pleading, drawing close to you again, littering you with kisses down your neck.

you nod, not trusting yourself to speak. the words you want to say are lodged in your throat, too painful to voice. ‘fine,’ you manage to get out.

‘we’ll talk later, i promise we will,’ he says again, the words hanging in the air like a promise and a burden. then with one more kiss to your cheek, and a lingering look filled with pleading he’s gone, the door closing softly behind him.

you stand in the middle of the living room, feeling the emptiness settle around you. the silence is deafening, filled with all the things you wish you could say but can’t. you sink into the couch, pulling a blanket around you as if it could shield you from the reality of your situation. the ache in your heart is a constant, a reminder of the struggle between your love for him and the pain he causes you. and as the morning light grows brighter, you can't help but wonder how many more mornings like this you can endure before you break.

the cycle continues, the pain and the love intertwined in a never-ending dance. and you hold on, because it’s all you know, because letting go is too terrifying to consider.

you find yourselves in each other’s arms, seeking comfort in the familiarity of your pain. you whisper words of love and apology, trying to mend the broken pieces of your hearts. but it’s never enough. the wounds run too deep, the scars too numerous.

as the days turn into weeks, then months, the pattern remains unchanged. you both cling to each other, desperate and afraid, but unable to break free. the world outside your apartment moves on, but inside, time stands still. each day blurs into the next, a monotonous loop of fleeting highs and devastating lows.

one particularly stormy evening, as you sit alone in your apartment, the rain beating against the windows like a relentless drum, the stormy night outside mirrors the turmoil inside your heart. you hear a knock at the door and your heart leaps in your chest, a mixture of dread and anticipation coursing through your veins. you already know who it is before you even open the door.

he stands there, soaked to the bone, his hair plastered to his forehead, and that familiar, weary smile on his lips. his eyes are red-rimmed, and there’s a fresh cut above his eyebrow. you don’t ask what happened; you stopped asking a long time ago. instead, you step aside, letting him in, the warmth of your apartment a stark contrast to the cold, wet world outside.

you lead him to the bedroom, your hands gently guiding him, and he follows without protest. the routine is familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. he sheds his wet clothes, the fabric pooling on the floor like the remnants of a forgotten promise and you hand him a towel, watching as he dries off and slips into a pair of sweatpants.

his bare feet pad softly on the carpet as he approaches the bed, a vulnerable warrior seeking solace. you pull back the covers, and he slips beneath them, the warmth of his body mingling with yours. the familiar scent of him, a mix of cologne, sweat, and something uniquely his, envelops you. you lie side by side, the silence between you thick, a palpable presence that neither of you can ignore.

you reach out, your fingers tracing the bruises on his knuckles, each one a dark bloom of pain. he winces slightly but doesn’t pull away, letting you touch the evidence of his inner demons. you know his battles are as much with himself as they are with the world outside.

‘i wish things could be different,’ you say, your voice barely audible in the darkness.

‘so do i. i wish i was a better person, for you,’he replies, his breath warm against your neck.

but wishing is not enough, you both know that. the cycle will continue, a never-ending loop of love and pain, of passion and despair. you are both prisoners of your own making, trapped in a love that is as toxic as it is intoxicating.

‘you don’t have to do this,” you say after a while, your heart aching with a mixture of love and frustration. ‘you don’t have to fight. you don’t have to drown your problems with alcohol or burn all of your battles.’

he turns his head to look at you, his eyes dark and stormy. ‘and what about you? you think I don’t see the hurt in your eyes? we’re both fighting, in our own ways.’

you close your eyes, the truth of his words cutting deep. you’re both prisoners of this toxic dance, unwilling to let go even as it tears you apart. love, you’ve come to believe, is supposed to hurt. the illusion that everything is normal, that this is how it’s meant to be, is a comforting lie you both cling to.

‘i hate seeing you like this,’ you admit, your voice trembling.

he reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek. ‘i hate it too,’ he says softly, his thumb brushing away a tear. ‘but I can’t stop. and neither can you.’

the words hang in the air, a bitter acknowledgment of your shared fate. he leans in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that is both tender and desperate, a silent plea for connection amidst the chaos. you respond, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. the kiss deepens, a fiery exchange that speaks of longing and regret, of passion and pain.

you break apart, breathless and trembling. ‘stay,’ you whisper, your voice a fragile thread.

‘ i will,’ he replies, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that borders on obsession. ‘i always do.’

the storm outside rages on, mirroring the tempest within your souls. you know this is a temporary reprieve, a fleeting moment of peace in a sea of turmoil. but for now, it is enough.

the wind howls through the cracks in the windows, a mournful song that underscores the fragility of your peace. you hold each other tighter, as if by sheer force of will you can keep the storm at bay. his breath is warm against your neck, a stark contrast to the cold dread that gnaws at your heart. you can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat, a rhythmic reminder of the life you’ve built together, even as it threatens to crumble.

in the quiet moments, between the whispers and the kisses, you catch glimpses of the man you fell in love with—the man who makes you laugh, who holds you when you cry, who promises you the world even as he stumbles through his own battles. those glimpses are what keep you tethered, what make the pain bearable. they are the fleeting moments of sunlight breaking through the storm clouds, offering a ray of hope that things might one day be different.

but as dawn approaches, the reality of your situation settles back in. the night has given you a reprieve, but the problems remain, lurking in the corners of your mind, waiting for the light of day to bring them back into sharp focus. you know that the cycle will continue, that the highs will be followed by lows, that the love you share will be tested time and again.

the first light of morning seeps through the curtains and you know the illusion is about to shatter. he will leave again, drawn back to the battles he fights, and you will remain, your heart aching with the emptiness his absence leaves behind.

he turns to you, his expression unreadable. ‘take care,’ his words are a hollow echo of what you both wish could be.

‘you too,’ you reply, your voice thick with unshed tears.

he leaves, the door closing behind him with a soft click and you lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of your reality pressing down on you. the silence is deafening, the emptiness a stark reminder of the void in your heart.

because in this twisted dance of love and pain, you have found a perverse sense of belonging. you have convinced yourself that this is what love is meant to be, that the hurt is a necessary part of the equation. and as long as he keeps coming back, you will continue to believe the lie.

for now, you cling to the moments of tenderness, the fleeting glimpses of happiness that punctuate the darkness. you tell yourself that it is enough, that this is all you deserve. when you lie alone in the dim light of your bedroom, you whisper a silent prayer to a god you no longer believe in, hoping for a miracle that will never come.

the pattern of your lives becomes a relentless cycle, a vicious circle you cannot break free from. each time he leaves, the void he leaves behind grows deeper, the ache in your heart more pronounced. and yet, when he returns, battered and broken, you welcome him with open arms, unable to resist the pull he has over you.

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yeoosaangg · 1 year ago

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៹ ALL MINE || KINKTOBER ─ DAY 19

➛ PAIRING:: LEE JENO × FEM!READER

➛ NOW PLAYING:: ALL MINE — PLAZA

⤷ ❝MAN, I DIDN'T WANT THIS ALL, BELIEVE ME. I WOULD'VE BEEN SO GONE, BUT HER SEX SO STRONG.❞

➛ GENRE:: BOYFRIEND'S!BESTFRIEND, NON-IDOL!AU, SMUT

➛ WARNINGS:: SIZE KINK, BREEDING KINK, DEGRADATION, GETTING CAUGHT, INFIDELITY, ROUGH SEX, SPITTING, THROAT FUCKING

── ⋆ ⋆ ── 𔘓 ── ⋆ ⋆ ──

Jeno did not expect for this to go as long as it has.

You're his best friend's girlfriend, yet he folded the second you showed interest in him.

You are his own personal drug.

No matter how hard he tried to stay away, he comes crawling back when you ask him to.

And he can't help but love the fact that you're smaller than him. His hands and body engulf you, and it has his dick jumping for more.

That's why he's currently got you pinned against your boyfriend's mattress.

Just like he's always had you.

You're a moaning mess as he slams his giant cock into your tight hole. His hands push your legs against your chest, fingers digging into your flesh with a hiss.

Jeno: You're such a fucking whore, Y/n. Getting fucked dumb by your boyfriend's best friend. What if he were to come back early, hm?

You knew it was risky, always luring Jeno into his roommate's bedroom to fuck you. But you don't care anymore.

You just want him so bad.

Jeno: My cock keeps opening you up, baby. Soon, it'll fit me perfectly. You'd like that, wouldn't you? To be my personal cocksleeve?

You scream, clawing at the sheets below you as he pins you down in a mating press.

There's something about the way your mouth falls open with broken moans slipping out that keeps his cock hard. He just keeps fucking you deeper into the mattress, hips bruising your ass.

Both of you cum for the third time that night.

He moans into your mouth as he fills your cunt again, mixing with his other two loads inside you.

Jeno: What'll Jaemin think when you get pregnant, Y/n? Don't think I'd just let you run around playing house with my fucking kid.

You're crying in oversensitivity. He still doesn't pull away for you to take a much needed break. But he also knows that if you truly wanted him to get off, you'd call the safe word.

Jeno: He'll understand, won't he? Why the kid will look like me instead of him? Why your slutty cunt doesn't get wet for him anymore?

His weight on top of you was too much, but the way his cock hits the deepest part of your insides has you drooling all over yourself.

Jeno: Can't speak now, can you? Where's the bitch that was begging me to fuck her two hours ago?

You whine, squeezing your tits as he sits up and pushes your legs over his shoulders.

He presses his forehead against yours, staring into your eyes as he pumps his cock along your dripping walls. He kisses you deeply, both of you moaning in each other's mouth.

He feels you squeeze his cock, squirting all over him again. He smirks against your lips as he pulls out of your swollen pussy.

You whine at the loss of his cock, but gasp when he straddles your head.

Jeno: Come on, baby. Put your mouth to good use as my cum drips out of your cunt.

You obediently open your mouth for him to fuck your face. He always gets surprised at your lack of gag reflex - it just adds to his desire to destroy you.

His hips stutter against your nose, holding onto your hair so he can get as deep down your throat as possible. You look up at him with droopy eyes, moaning on his cock.

Jeno: You're so fucking nasty. Look at you letting me abuse your face.

He bites his lip, not breaking the eye contact as he shoots another load down your throat. The hard look in his eyes as he continues thrusting his hips has you cumming untouched.

He pulls away, grabbing your chin harshly. He spits in your mouth and demands you to swallow. You obey, opening your mouth for him to see that you listened.

Jeno: Good girl.

Jaemin: What the fuck?

Oh shit.

═══

a/n: i wonder if anyone's gonna notice what i did... ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎ thank you for reading ‹𝟹

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inkykeiji · 1 year ago

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character: jouno saigiku x fem!reader genre: smut warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, face fucking, boot humping, a lil degradation mixed with a hint of praise, dacryphilia, size kink/size difference, lots of cum words: 3.7k

He knows you’re up, the moment he steps through the flat’s threshold.

He can hear your gentle breathing, can hear the soft rustle of lace and satin against your skin as your chest rises and falls, can hear your sock-clad toes, overlapped and wiggling, weight shifting slightly from one foot, then the other, as you wait in anticipation.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” he asks aloud, not bothering to turn toward your hiding spot, attention focused on his hands as he slowly pulls a white glove from his fingers, one by one. “What are you doing up?”

“Missed you,” you mumble out through a pout, cheek pressed into the doorframe, face half hidden.

“Yeah?” he’s asking as he tosses the first glove onto the counter and begins work on the second, his features contrasted by shadows, but you can still see the smirk on his face. “Why don’t you come give me a hug, then?”

A sweet little squeal of affirmation sounds in your throat and then you’re off, bare feet pitter-pattering against the polished hardwood, body barreling into his chest only a second or two later, hard enough to knock a gentle chuckle from his lips, his arms catching you easily.

A deep sigh deflates his chest, his body melding into yours. His head droops, lips pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before he rests his forehead against your skull. A thick thigh slots itself between your own, your limbs twining together; a tangle, a knot of a single entity.

With a slow, steady, purposeful inhale, his ribs stretch against yours as he fills his lungs with your scent, breathes you in and gulps you down and holds you close to his heart, steeping his tissues in your essence, infusing his blood with you.

A beat or two passes, the two of you motionless but melting into one another, before he finally plants another kiss in your hair, arms tightening infinitesimally, squeezing you to his form.

“Hate that you work such long hours. Love this uniform on you, though,” you murmur into his chest, nuzzling your cheek against the starched fabric of his jacket.

A gentle laugh rumbles behind his sternum.

“Is that so?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How much do you love it on me?”

“I think you know,” you say shyly, peeking up from his chest.

He does know—he can smell it on you, can smell the arousal rapidly seeping into the silk of your panties, can feel the warmth on his thigh through the thin material, a swiftly expanding patch of slick.

But he wants to hear you say it.

“How much?” he repeats, slow, stern, an order.

A stringy whine sounds in your throat and your bottom lip juts out further, chin puckering, but you obey anyway, heat staining your cheeks.

“So much. So much it makes me wet,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut, scorching prickles of humiliation rippling beneath your skin. “So much it makes my clit throb and pussy flutter,” you grind against his thigh in emphasis, legs tightening around it. “Feel it?”

A hum of recognition vibrates on his tongue, head nodding. His cock twitches against your hip—just once, nothing more than a greeting—and you giggle, humping his leg with a little more vigour.

“Sit down, Daddy,” you say softly, delicate fingers unfastening his cape and pushing it from his shoulders. “Let me fix you a drink.”

“It’s late,” he says, but he goes willingly, collapsing in his favourite armchair. “You should be in bed.”

“And you work so hard,” you respond lightly, prancing over to the gold bar cart, filled with sparkling decanters and amber liquor. “Let me do this for you. Then bed, pinky promise.”

With a small resigned smile, he nods, accepting a crystal glass of scotch from you a moment later. Ice clinks against the sides as he brings it to his lips, taking a slow sip, another sigh seeping from his chest, the burn of alcohol eating away at more tension, liquifying his tired muscles.

You assume your designated position then, on the floor at his feet, between his spread knees, cheek laid against his thigh. A large hand cups your head, thumb stroking your hair in slow, rhythmic motions.

This has become somewhat of a habit as of late. The Armed Detective Agency case has been devouring all of Jouno’s time, and it has left him with mere crumbs to give to you.

He’s just about polished off his drink when your hands begin to wander, palms smooth as they run up his strong thighs, dainty fingers digging into lean muscle as they go, his legs instinctively spreading wider.

Your head shifts, eyes gazing up at him adoringly—he may not be able to see you, but he can feel you, your body welded to his shin as your hands work, your face nosing along his thigh, cuddling into him, desperate to be as close as physically possible.

He swears he can feel your stare, too, potent and powerful and oozing thick love as it slathers across his skin, dousing him in indescribable warmth. It saturates the air around you both, enveloping your tangled bodies in its dense embrace, permeating his flesh straight to his very soul, where it poisons him so sweetly.

It’ll always amaze him, how someone can look at him with such reverence, such admiration, like he’s a fucking god, so strongly that he can sense it—feel it on his body, taste it on his tongue. It’s fucking intoxicating, his cock twitching again in his trousers, a rush of hot blood fizzing through his veins.

Your fingers knead aching muscles steadily, expertly, climbing a little higher with each cycle through the routine, closer and closer to the apex of his thighs but never quite reaching it.

It’s utterly teasing, rigid flesh mollifying beneath your amorous motions as the pressures of the day leak from his pores, massaged from his body by your gracious hands, wrung from his soul bit by bit.

It’s utterly teasing, but it’s so good, a craving for more clawing at the pit of his stomach, igniting a mild itch in his veins.

Something sounds in his throat, the ghost of a whimper—something he’s hopeless at smothering, an instinctual, uncontrollable reaction to you—and he feels your body respond, a minuscule jerk of your muscles in response, a curious little gesture imbued with a question.

Gasping gently, your gaze slides down, watching with a sort of morbid fascination as his cock fills with life, as it strains, more and more, heavier and heavier, against his maroon trousers, yearning for your tongue, your touch. Grinding your fingers into tense tissue near his hips, you giggle a little at the way it jerks gently, begging you for attention. Another noise plays on the back of his tongue; a caution this time, not to play around too much.

Finally, you lean forward, hands clamped around his thighs, and nuzzle into his swelling cock, rubbing your face against it like a cat with a small hum of contentment.

A fond little melody falls from his lips, nothing more than a wisp of breath—so starkly different from his usual sharp snickers, most often kept sealed behind smirking lips and reserved for those who deserve it—something private, something just for him to savour and enjoy, his palm moving to caress your head again, urging you further into his groin.

“Really do love this uniform so much,” you mumble out dreamily, muffled by the material.

“Show me,” he breathes, just barely shifting beneath your touch. “Show Daddy.”

Fondling halted, you pull back slightly, staring down the bridge of your nose at his cock, almost as if you’re taking a moment to admire it before scattering a few well-placed kisses along the silhouette—underside, shaft, tip. It jumps beneath your lips in response, and you giggle again, snuggling back into it lovingly.

Tongue unfurling from your mouth, you trace the bulge slow and sloppy, dragging your the slick muscle along the outline of his massive cock and leaving a damp, gleaming trail across his lap. His hips twitch ever-so-slightly, a motion you wouldn’t have noticed had you not had your entire face pressed into his crotch, and you relent, tongue grinding over the head in hard, steady strokes—back and forth, back and forth—before your mouth closes around it as best it can, suckling at the tip.

And you swear you can taste his pre-cum, dribbling from his slit and oozing through the thick material of his work pants, bitter and strong like his favourite blend of coffee. A moan slips from your lips, the sound hot and wavering against him, your lapping turned desperately vigorous, starved for another drop of him.

You’re making a real mess now, he’s sure of it, threads of spit knitting your lips to his trousers, chin syrupy with your own drool, smudged across your mouth and jaw, a direct result of your burrowing.

He’s getting restless now, you can tell, can feel it in the way his thighs clench, can hear it in the gentle, barely-there hitch of his breath with each firm glide of your tongue over his cockhead. And eventually, finally, he snaps, just like he always does, just like every other night before.

“It’s not nice to get Daddy’s cock hard and then not do anything about it, baby,” he warns, amicable tone sewn together with an implicit threat. “Don’t be a little tease, now. Finish what you’ve started.”

The authority in his voice—not a statement, not a suggestion, but a demand, a direct order—sends spears of heady adrenaline shooting through your chest, body jolting, and you nod, fingers obeying immediately, instinctively.

The heavy brass buckle of his belt jingles as you hastily unfasten it, leaving it hung undone as you shove his jacket up and pop the button of his trousers, mewling a little at the way the smooth planes of his stomach flex, tightening in anticipation.

Hooking your fingers in his waistband, you tug his pants to his ankles, Jouno lifting his hips and aiding your efforts, cock greeting you eagerly a moment later, slit drooling pearly sap.

“Oh, gosh, Daddy,” you whimper, sounding almost on the verge of tears—you’re not, of course, he would know if you were—voice infused with sheer awe. “It’s—It’s so pretty.”

He’s sure it is, with its pretty pink tip, flushed a shade of rose, and its perfectly symmetrical shaft, straighter than Cupid’s arrow, and its delicate veins, ivied around his girth and softer than velvet.

Logically, you should already know this; you’ve certainly seen it enough times. But every time you pull it from his pants is like the first time all over again, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love your fawning, even if it is characteristic.

“I bet it looks even prettier in your mouth,” he says, and there’s a trace of melancholy in his tone, as if he genuinely regrets being unable to see it.

You take that as your cue to get to work, wrapping a palm around the base of his cock and taking him between your lips, tongue curling almost protectively around the shaft as you suck him in.

“That’s it,” he encourages, a palm cupped beneath your chin, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “Take the whole thing down your throat, as much as you can.”

And, really, you do try your very hardest, your very bestest, to take as much of him as possible, throat gorging on his cock.

But it still isn’t nearly enough.

Because you’re already coughing just before you reach the halfway point, spasming around his tip as your body tries to reject him.

And, oh, that just won’t do.

“Aw, is that all you can fit in your little mouth?” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s disappointed, though there’s a sharp smirk on his lips. “How pitiful. That’s alright, Daddy’s here to help you.”

A large palm finds its rightful place on the crown of your head, fingers splayed across your hair and digging into your scalp as he presses down, slowly, his breath stammering with each constriction of your throat.

This is how it always starts.

Leisurely but firm, you’re forced to take his cock inch by inch until the whole thing’s shoved down your throat, your nose pressed flush to his pubic bone—pause, hold, choke, release, repeat—enabling him to feel every single gag and gurgle his actions elicit, taking his time to savour them, to breathe in your pain and torment and let it marinate in his bones.

Because it’s all so heavenly, isn’t it? To feel every pulse, every choke, every squeeze of distress and know that, despite it all—despite the drops of crystal streaking your cheeks (he can smell them) and the viscous snot pouring from your nose (he can feel them, dripping on his cock) and the foaming little bubbles of spit collecting in the divots of your puckered lips (he can hear them)—you’re still taking him, you’re still doing the very best you can for your Daddy, to please your Daddy.

And that dedication, that utter devotion—that’s better than anything else in the world, that’s the best.

He continues like this, agonizingly unhurried, until your throat is grated raw by the sobs, and your jaw is aching, little muscles stiff and locked, and he can no longer tell which convulsions are from his cock and which are simply a result of your crying.

Christ, it’s so easy to make you cry, sweet little sniffles and shredded little snivels that dribble past the seams of your lips—pretty little mouth jammed full of him—and it’s such a beautiful sound, precious noises reduced to nothing more than a gentle stuttering in your throat as they’re pushed back into your chest by the steady driving of his cock.

Finally the pressure on the back of your head lets up, but you don’t dare raise a mere centimeter, whole body quivering as you struggle to stay right where he left you, mouth stretched wide at the base of his cock.

He ceases all action for a moment or two, forces you to hold the position, revels in the sweet sounds of anguish trembling around his cockhead, before his palms grasp your cheeks, fingers so long they nearly overlap at the back of your skull, holding your head steady.

And then, he truly begins, abrupt and without any warning, hips pumping hard and fast, fucking your mouth with a sort of ruthless vigour, a relentless voracity, the thick soles of his boots squealing against the hardwood as he uses his planted feet as leverage.

Your grip on his legs tightens with each piston, nails biting into the flexing muscles of his thighs, and he laughs breathlessly; how absolutely adorable.

And oh, it’s so messy, he can feel your stringy saliva drooling from the corners of your mouth to drizzle off your chin in fat, sticky cords, swaying and stretching with each ram of his cock. They splatter almost artfully across his bare thighs, cooling upon impact, inspiring a crop of chills to pebble across his skin.

He can feel your warm tears, too, dripping off your jaw to collect on his flesh in little puddles, can smell their potent salt—bitter and tangy and making his mouth water—as they leave crusted trails on your cheeks. Thick hunger collects in the creases beneath his tongue, a longing to lick them clean from your face, to sop his tongue full of your devout servitude and stain his tastebuds with your tartness, to swallow down any and every bit of you, let you take root in the pit of his stomach and bloom there, grow there, fester there, for eternity.

Everything must hurt, he thinks, all your muscles coiled tense and taut, but you pry your jaw open wider for him, just like the good girl you are, desperate to take as much of him as possible, devoted to your cause.

Because no matter how much it hurts, you’re enjoying this just as much as he is.

A moan catches in his throat as the dense scent of your arousal hits him, and God, it’s so strong, you must’ve soaked right through your panties by now, must be gushing slick all over your inner thighs, coating them in your essence.

He wishes he could taste that, too; mop it up with his tongue and saturate every inch of his mouth with you.

“You’re so wet from this, huh?” he says, question fading into a feathery breath, the only indication this is affecting him at all. “Naughty girl. Are you leaking all over our nice hardwood floor? Should Daddy make you lick it up afterward, punishment for making such a mess?”

You choke around his cock in response, and he groans, hips stuttering slightly before regaining momentum. The rubber toe of his boot nudges your thighs and they part instantly for him, allowing him space to wedge beneath your cunt.

“My poor baby,” he spits through a mocking pout. “You must be so horny from sucking Daddy’s cock. Here,” his toe pushes up, grinding into your hole and evoking a soft yelp, “why don’t you hump Daddy’s boot while he occupies your mouth.”

You comply immediately, hips snapping into action, rutting against his foot with a sort of greedy eagerness, ravenous for any little part of him he’ll give to you.

He can’t feel how sopping wet you are through the thick rubber of his boot, which is truly such a shame, but he can hear the embarrassing squelching of your drenched cunt as you rub it into his toe.

It’s probably leaving such a pretty sheen of your slick across the top, a thick layer that glitters as prettily as the tears on your face must.

“There you go,” he says, sugary sweet condescension dripping from his words. “Does that feel better, baby?”

All you can do is whimper in agreement, the gentle sound sending vibrations down his shaft, and his hips jerk, belt buckle clinking together as his thrusts turn vicious, such a delicate melody contradicted by the growls and snarls he keeps swallowing back.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he nearly gasps out, edges of his letters turned ragged. “Such a good little toy for me, aren’t you?”

He hears your heart jump in your chest, fluttering at his praise, a torrent of warmth rushing through his veins in response, leaving his blood tingling.

“You love it when Daddy uses you, don’t you, precious?”

You respond with another sloppy moan, tongue quivering around his cock, and a whine breaks in his throat, sharp and jagged.

It’s building in his gut, a heady rapture, stomach beginning to contract as the muscles draw up into firm knots, scrunched by cresting pleasure. Shards of hedonism escape his nose in uneven little huffs, matching the relentless pace of his hips.

It all harmonizes so perfectly, the sounds shattering on his tongue and the stifled sobs shoved back down your throat and the squeak, squeal, squelch of your cunt on his boot, of his soles on the hardwood floor, of his cock fucking your mouth.

His actions have turned clumsy now, a stark contrast from his usual prim perfection, palms slippery with sweat on your jaw, grip tightening as his fingers readjust, digging bruises in the shape of his prints into your scalp.

He’s sure they’ll be swollen tomorrow. He can’t wait to feel them.

Three more thrusts and then he’s forcing copious amounts of hot, thick cum down your throat, holding your head in place as his cock throbs on your tongue, each pulse spilling another rope of cream into your mouth.

And, oh, it’s so much, too much, cum collecting in the divots of your cheeks and the creases beneath your tongue, but you don’t waste a fucking drop, swallowing obediently around him with every surge, making room for the next load.

And then you don’t fucking stop, zealous in your quest to milk him for everything he’s got to give you, desperate to fill your tummy with as much of him as you possibly can, enough to sustain you until you get to see him next, at this time tomorrow night.

You suck him fucking dry, suck every ounce of cum from his balls, suck until a bristled shudder runs through his form and a hiss is spit through his teeth, the white-hot overstimulation now too much for him to bear, fingers tangling in your hair and pulling you up.

You collapse on his thighs the moment he releases your head, weeping into his soiled skin—a mess of salt and drool and snot and cum—your ribs hiccuping with frayed breaths and harsh sobs, nails scraping weakly against his flesh in a pitiful attempt to tug yourself closer.

A coo slips from his lips, the sound both compassionate and condescending, as if he finds your tattered soul so cute; slashed yourself to pieces for him, always for him.

“Come here, darling,” his hands slip beneath your languid arms and hoist you up, dragging you into his lap and cradling you to his chest, collecting the remaining ribbons of you in his arms, strong and protective.

“Da-Daddy!” you’re wailing into his neck, fingers curling in the collar of his stiff jacket, spit and tears staining the pristine material a chalky white. “Daddy, Daddy.”

Clinging to him, you bury your face in his shoulder, another rough sob hacking through your form, and he hugs you tighter, gentle hushes falling from his lips as they scatter kisses across the top of your head.

“I know, I know, I’m here,” he murmurs into your hair, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin. “You did good, sweetheart. You did so good for me. You always do.”

Tender fingers press into your sore muscles as he rocks your bodies; a slow rhythmic swaying, back and forth, back and forth, while sweet nothings pour from his mouth, voice hot against your skin. The words are even warmer, snuggling into your flesh between soft kisses, the little hitches in your breath—residual sobs that have your chest stuttering and your nose sniffling—ironing themselves out with each brush of his lips.

And although he loves returning home to you no matter what the circumstance, this is, and always will be, his favourite way to be greeted after a long, gruelling day.

Maybe he’ll sit here, just like this, for a little while longer.

#jouno x reader #jouno smut #jouno x you #saigiku jouno x reader #saigiku jouno smut #jouno saigiku smut #jouno saigiku x reader #jouno saigiku x you #i can't get him out of my minddd i swear to god it's a sickness

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neontokyoo · 3 months ago

Note

Could I request first kiss between halsin and tav? She has no experience and he decides to teach her. >///q///<

I apologize, I used AI to write this one because even I don’t know how to kiss. It’s one of those things where I just do it and don’t even have to think about it so I literally had to sit down and take notes so I could learn how to explain the process for the sake of the story. So I started writing on my own and then tumblr crashed and erased everything I had written down so I gave up because I ain’t playing these games today.

Anyway, I apologize in advance! If you want me to rewrite it and try again just let me know 😭

Pairing: Halsin x Fem!Tav

Genre: fluff

Summary: Halsin teaches his innocent virgin girlfriend how to kiss.

Warnings: I lost patience and took the small bits of my own writing I was able to save and made AI finish it. Perfection is not guaranteed, let me know if I need to fix anything that’s out of character or just doesn’t go with the bg3 setting.

Like this post? Join my community!

Under a sky dimmed by twilight, Halsin and Tav find a quiet spot in the forest, away from the world. The gentle hum of nature surrounds them, creating an intimate cocoon. Halsin looks at Tav with a mix of warmth and tenderness, sensing her nervousness. "If you’re willing," he says softly, "I’d like to guide you through this."

He reaches out, brushing a stray hair from her face. As he leans in, he pauses, giving Tav a chance to meet his gaze, ensuring she's comfortable. With a reassuring smile, he explains, "A kiss is a shared moment, a connection of hearts."

Halsin's fingertips linger on Tav's cheek, his touch gentle and nurturing. He closes the gap between them, their faces inches apart. His breath caresses her lips, warm and inviting. "First, close your eyes," he whispers, "Let your senses heighten, feel the anticipation."

Tav obeys, her lids fluttering shut. She can hear the beating of her heart, the rustling of leaves, and the soft rustling of his cloak. Halsin's breath brushes her lips once more as he continues, "Now, tilt your head, just slightly, to meet my lips."

As she follows his instruction, their lips meet in the softest caress. It's a feather-light touch, a promise of more to come. "Relax your mouth," Halsin directs her, "Let it open just a touch, to receive mine."

Tav complies, her lips parting ever so slightly. Halsin's lips press against hers, a tender dance of two souls seeking harmony. As they kiss, he coaxes her, "Gently, explore my mouth with your tongue. Taste me as I taste you."

Tav hesitates, then, with newfound courage, flicks her tongue out to touch his. Halsin's own tongue slides over hers, a gentle, loving stroke. The kiss deepens, their mouths entwining, a sweet dance of two hearts coming together.

As their lips part, Halsin lifts his head, their eyes locking once more. "You've done beautifully," he whispers, pride and love evident in his gaze. "A kiss, like nature, is a delicate balance. Treasure this moment, for it is a sacred one."

Tav's cheeks flush with a blush, her heart swelling with warmth. As they pull away from one another, the forest around them seems to hum in approval, the shadows and leaves bearing witness to their first, sweet kiss.

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holybibly · 10 months ago

Text

♡ℌ𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔦𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔤𝔦𝔯𝔩 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡♡

Genre: smut, cam boy!Au

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: StrawberryBoy_Hwa sent you a private message:

Congratulations you Shy_Kitty21 you have won a private video call with me.

Or where the universe crashes and you masturbate under the careful guidance of an adoring cam model Park Seonghwa.

WARNING: Cam Boy!Seonghwa masturbation, nipple play, nipple piercing, fingering, pet names, spit kink, dirty talk, explicit sexual content, explicit language, squirting, cum eating, overstimulation and more.

A/N: I can't help it, Seonghwa drives me crazy and I like it.

It's something between a prompt for a full-length work and a one-shot, but I'm not quite sure to be honest. It's all very rambling, sorry if it's not quite what you're used to seeing from me.

I could make a complete work out of this in 2-3 parts if you want. Let me know in the comments if that's something you'd be interested in reading.

Likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated, so if you think that your love and attention to my work will go by the wayside, you're wrong, I follow the blog very closely and I see all of your marks and comments.

Updates on my work will be a separate post. As always, private messages and questions are open. Feel free to write me about anything.

Have fun, bunnies. Love you all!

"Touch yourself, kitten; I want to see how you caress yourself." The voice is deep and velvety, rough around the edges, and it makes you want to obey without hesitating. A mixture of anticipation and embarrassment takes hold of your entire body and flows through your veins with frothing excitement. Your hand runs over your naked breasts. The nipples are pink and swollen.

It's never in your wildest dreams that you'd be so openly naked in front of a complete stranger. On any other day, you'd burn with shame just thinking about it. But the sight of his hard-dripping cock in front of you makes you more confident and seductive in the show you put on for him. As the pad of your thumb brushes over the hard bud, a soft moan of pleasure escapes your bitten lips.

To be honest, you couldn't call Seonghwa a complete stranger. He's a well-known сam boу, StrawberryBoy_Hwa, with hundreds of thousands of followers on Instagram and Twitter, not to mention the huge number of followers on his live streams. You've been watching him for months now, but you've always stayed in the shadows—too shy to leave a comment or make a dirty request. In that time, you've had the pleasure of seeing him in the most intimate, erotic images and suggestive poses, extolling the beauty of his slender, elegant body. But this was on a whole other level.

As his hand glides lazily over his thick, beautiful dick, you find yourself sobbing softly, unable to look away. You couldn't help but dream of replacing his hand with your own—much smaller—feeling that hot velvety length resting in your palm, making your hand look so tiny. In the soft pink and purple light of the room, his golden caramel skin shimmers faintly. Glittering powder mixes with sweat to make his body glow and shimmer sinfully. He looks so ethereal. So unholy. Almost pornographic. The piercings on his nipples flickered as his back arched, the sugar-brown flesh invitingly firm to caress.

You're sure you'd praise his entire body with your tongue and lips and leave him covered in strawberry-pink love bites if you had the chance to be near him right now.

Seonghwa seems to read your thoughts; his plump, glossy lips open in a low moan, and he reaches up to tug lightly at his nipple. It sends a slight shiver through his entire body, his hips rolling gently as he lets out a deep moan of pleasure.

Your hand finds your wet folds and slowly runs your fingers between them at that pornographic sound. The level of excitement should be disconcerting, but Seonghwa is smiling lewdly at you, licking his fuckable mouth in a languorous manner, and staring without interruption at the image in front of him on the large computer monitor.

How did you get so lucky? Did a cosmic glitch magically allow you to win a private video call with your favourite cam boy? It's all a little bit hard to believe. This must be some kind of incredibly realistic dream, but Seonghwa's hoarse moaning is evidence to the contrary.

When he speaks with you again, his voice is all purr and silky, and it sends a shockwave of excitement through your body. But something about the fact that only you can hear him now makes the situation that much more intimate and even a little forbidden. You have him all to yourself, even if it's just for a short video call.

"Show me, kitty, touch that sweet little cunt. Do it for me, my angel. I beg you…"His eyes are so big and pleading, the twinkle of a thousand stars is shining in them.

He'll destroy you.

The whimper that comes out of you is almost pathetic. You turn away shamefacedly, biting your trembling lower lip to avoid the vicious, burning gaze, though your fingers obediently pull the sticky folds apart, revealing the tight, wet hole.

"Oh yeah~ That's my kitty. Just as I imagined, all sweet and pink. All made for me." He praises you, tugging on his nipples gently, causing his hips to twitch weakly. Slowly sliding your fingers over your wet pussy, you continue to pleasure yourself. "Keep touching yourself, kitten. Keep touching yourself. Give me pleasure. I bet you're tight as hell; damn it, the thought of it makes me want to drool."

You don't think for a second that you should disobey him as you gently plunge a finger into your pussy, coating it with your own excitement before pulling it out and tracing a small circle around your sensitive clit. You tremble. You're so hot and ready for him. Seonghwa is watching you so intently that it's almost embarrassing, but your desire for his pleasure is a thousand times greater than any embarrassment or modesty.

His cock twitches, clear liquid oozing from the swollen pink head, which glistens faintly in the dim light, and his hips arch in a faint wave-like motion.

He's fucking beautiful. So much so that it's almost silly, but you can see why the rest of the world is so crazy about him.

His fingertips circle around the wet cockhead, catching the liquid and bringing his fingers to his lips, but instead of licking it off like you thought he was going to, he smears it all over his gorgeous, puffy lips.

"Mmm, it's sweet…" His whole body was glistening with powder, sweat dripping down the smooth reliefs of his heaving chest and contoured abs. The thick girth of his cock presses perfectly against his flat stomach.

"I want you to have a lick of my cock, kitten. I want you to taste me until I cum in your mouth. Would you like this, the feel of my big cock on your tongue?"

He is fucking you out of your mind without even trying, and you are falling deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole of temptation and desire. Without a second thought, you'd do anything he asked.

Your eyes follow Seonghwa's every move, and the golden muscles of his body are trembling as you knead your tits with your free hand. The sight of them on your screen makes Seonghwa moan with longing, the soft, plump flesh barely fitting in the palm of your hand.

"I want to suck them off, they look so delicious to me. Damn! God, would you let me fuck them, please? Those are the most amazing tits I have ever seen. I want to cum on them. Oh fuck, my sperm would look so good on those fucking puffy tits of yours".

But before you can do any more than that, he flicks his tongue across the roof of his mouth and gives you a new command.

"Put those tiny fingers up that pretty cunt. I want to see you fuck yourself nice and slow for me." You do as he says and insert two fingers into your quivering hole. The silky, fluttering walls of your vagina clench tightly around your fingers, building a pleasurable pressure between your legs. As you open yourself to Seonghwa, your pleasure echoes in the wet sound throbbing on your palm. "Mmm, that's right. What a sweet little kitten you are to open yourself up in front of me like this. Spread your legs even wider; I want to see more of that pussy of yours."

"S-Seonghwa..." You stutter out his name and spread your thighs even more wide. Seonghwa, as if instinctively excited by the sight of your fingers going in and out of your squirming cunt, leans closer to the camera.

"You look so delicious, my kitten. Such a delicacy. I bet your hot walls will be so tight around my thick cock; your cunt will milk my cum like the real slut you are, right, kitty?

"Yes, yes, Hwa. I'm such a slut for you."

"Go deeper." He orders you. Your lips quiver as you awkwardly push your hips forward, plunging your fingers in at a new angle in an attempt to penetrate deeper, like he asked. You're having such a hard time; your fingers aren't long and thick enough to hit the right spots, but Seonghwa is even more aroused.

"Oh, my poor kitty, your short fingers won't be enough, will they?"

"N-no, it's so empty." You give a whimper before you sink your teeth into your lower lip. You are practically on the verge of tears.

"Do you imagine that my fingers are fucking you right now?" He brings them up to his mouth, licking them slick and wet, drooling, and letting them run down the length of his phalanges and onto the palm of his hand. "I bet I could fill that tight cunt of yours with just one of them."

"P-please, Seonghwa…" You're begging him, and at this point, you're not even sure what you're asking him to do. Seonghwa's wet fingers start gliding over his beautiful cock again, gathering viscous droplets of pre-sperm and bringing them to his lips, this time dipping into his hot mouth.

The action is driving you mad.

Plump lips, glistening with saliva and lip gloss, close in a tight ring around the long phalanges, dipping deep almost to the base. He moans, his eyes rolling and his body shaking as he pulls his fingers out of his mouth, strawberry glitter tinting them a light shade of red.

Your mouth opens even though you don't want it to, your tongue flicks out, and your eyes drop to the bridge of your nose, giving your face a cute, lewd hentai anime grimace. Without even touching you, he fucks you completely. You could swear you can taste the sweet taste of his cum on the tip of your tongue.

You'd give anything to be under him or on top of him right now. Maybe even between those plush thighs, warming his beautiful cock in your mouth like an obedient kitten.

Unfortunately, that's a completely pipe dream.

"Will you cum for me, kitty?" He tilts his head with a sweet, sugary expression, but you hear the more than palpable command in his voice.

You nod thoughtlessly in hurried, repetitive motions, your hair bouncing in time.

Songhwa's plump, moist mouth opens in a melodious, prolonged moan. He gasps, his Adam's apple bulging from under the wide diamond necklace. His head is thrown back, a mop of silky pink hair shining like a halo around his angelic face. A graceful hand hastily caresses the hard length with a wet squelching sound, and you could swear the moans coming from his lips are the hottest you've ever heard. The whole spectacle, so fuckable and mesmerising at the same time, is hard for your brain to comprehend.

You start to moan along with him, trying to let Seonghwa know how he's affecting you.

It makes his gorgeous hips roll over again, his cock twitching weakly in the grip of his hand as the sound of yours reaches his ears.

"Seonghwa…I…I'm coming." You whimper as you stroke your hypersensitive clit with your thumb. Trying to match the rhythm of his hurried movements on his cock, your fingers sink deeper into your needy pussy.

"Sperm, kitten, do it for me. Make me proud of you. Squirt on those pretty fingers, and imagine my face instead, hell, I wish you'd smother me with that sweet cunt, right now".

His words are the driving force behind your mind-blowing orgasm. It's the best you've ever given yourself, supported by a hoarse, deep moan and Seonghwa's writhing body.

He cums with you. Pearly streams of semen squirt from his cockhead, staining his glistening naked chest and dripping down his abs. Without a moment's hesitation, Seonghwa's fingers scoop up his own cum and place it in his mouth. He slowly caresses his long fingers with his long tongue until every last drop of cum has disappeared in his mouth.

The result is a new wave of heat in your body, and your hole is shrinking on nothing.

"Taste it." He orders greedily as he watches you bring your hand up to your mouth. But if you're going to eat your own cum like that, you're going to have to put on a hell of a show for Songhwa in return for all the shows he's putting on for you. Your tongue slides slowly over each of your fingers, taking extra time to let the wet muscle run through each of the cracks between your fingers. Songhwa is watching you through thick lashes; he has the eyes of a bedroom, a gaze so full of lust that the iris is almost pure black.

"So delicious." You say it with a certain seductive note, pulling the last finger out of your mouth with a wet, lascivious pop.

"Damn, that was... you're a fucking hot kitten; I want to fuck you so bad." Seonghwa practically whimpers and sucks on the plush lip of his lower lip as if that's how he can taste you.

"I guess that's it, huh?" You ask. It's hard to hide the disappointment in your tone. But a deal is a deal, and that's all that comes with the winning video call. "I... I think I'll see you at the next stream, Hwa."

"Don't miss me, kitten." That's the last you hear before the screen fades and you're back in your bedroom reality.

Just like that, everything goes back to normal, and life goes back to normal. You'll be your normal self, and Seonghwa will be a popular cam boy with a small army of fans who are madly in love with him.

It will take a few minutes for you to come to your senses, and you will hardly notice the little text chat pop-up that appears on the page.

StrawberryBoy_Hwa has just sent you a private message.

"I want to hear you moan my name once again. Call me, Y/N. I'll be waiting for you. Seonghwa." And what followed was a series of numbers with a little glowing heart emoji on them.

It seems that the universe is still broken. You've got the personal number of everyone's favourite Park Seonghwa, the porn industry's most sought-after strawberry boy.

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