#Drag x pro
Text
youtube
Test des pod (cigarette électronique tout-en-un) Argus P1 VMate E Pod et du Drag x pro de chez voopoo. Je les ai achetés sur vapoter.fr. Je n'ai rien préparé ni lu sur le sujet. On va les découvrir ensemble. Je suis parti en direct freestyle sur le coup, bien brouillon et à l'arrache comme j'aime. Le tout rythmé par Crystal distortion - Live @ Fugitive future Caen (2019)
#psychiatrie#clinique#tuer#temps#apprendre#test#galère#impro#voopoo#VMate E Pod#Drag x pro#vapoter.fr#crystal distortion#Argus P1#Youtube
0 notes
Text
Me: *Looking up some Mileven fanfics*
The Fanfics have tags like “Mike Wheeler is an Idiot”, “Mike Wheeler Being an Asshole”, “Mike & Eleven Break Up” or “Endgame B*ler”
Me:
#I just want to read good mileven fics and they all hate on mike 😭#like leave my boy alone 😭#if you intend to drag one half of a ship through the mud don’t tag it as the ship#I have to filter through so much#mike wheeler slander is never allowed on my page#I will defend that boy forever#stranger things#stranger things memes#memes#eleven#eleven hopper#mike wheeler#pro mike wheeler#mike wheeler defence squad#mileven#mike x eleven#eleven x mike
129 notes
·
View notes
Text
— lush
It’s no secret to Bakugou that his friends think you’re hot, but he’s never allowed them to act on it before. Until they catch him using a remote controlled vibrator on you—
Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader, implied Sero Hanta x f!reader, Kaminari Denki x f!reader, Kirishima Eijirou x f!reader.
Warnings: 18+, toys, Bakugou let’s the guys control your lush vibe, dub-con (consent isn’t explicitly stated so could potentially be seen as non-con), long distance, sexting, public setting, nudes, squirting, dirty talk, the guys talk pure filth about you.
Word Count: 3.6k.
Bakugou did not want to be here, and frankly he wouldn’t have turned up at all if it hadn’t been for you. Especially when he knew what was waiting at home for him— you kissed him at the door with a promise to wait up for him when he returned home. Knowing that you’d more than likely fall asleep on the couch by the time he stepped back into the apartment, having to scoop you up into his arms and walk you into your bedroom.
This night out for Sero’s birthday had been planned weeks in advance, and rather than unwinding with him after your long day at work you practically forced him into the shower— alone no less, and made him get ready for drinks at a popular bar in central Musutafu.
Taking a sip of his cold beer as his friends talked animatedly around him in the plush booth, catching up with each other after a few weeks apart. Gathering as Pro-Heroes wasn’t as easy as his days back at U.A. Conflicting work schedules meant that it became near impossible to find the same days, or even evenings off as each other. So this was something to be savoured. Or at least, that’s what you told him as you watched him get ready. Sitting on your shared bed wearing one of his old Dynamight agency shirts and a pair of shorts while he pulled a plain black shirt out of his closet to wear tonight.
Nothing had annoyed Bakugou more than leaving you alone in your apartment to be here, the taste of your gloss still lingering on his lips as he thought about being home with you instead.
You’d made it abundantly clear what your plans were going to be tonight, pulling the little pink toy he’d bought for you out of your magic drawer (as he called it) and settling yourself on your shared bed.
“You put that in I ain’t goin’ at all, sweetheart.” He groaned, leaning against the doorframe as you shook your head with a laugh.
“You’re going,” You reached up to squeeze his cheeks together into a pout, the rough stubble on his face tickling your fingers as you pulled him down into a kiss, “I just need something after the day I’ve had. I’m probably gonna take a bath and wait for you to get home.”
“Then I’m at least controlling that shit.” He growled, pulling his cellphone out of his jeans pocket, “Give me access now.”
Maybe he’d be able to have one more drink before excusing himself early so he could get home to you and sink himself into your warm, wet cunt.
And god, you would be so fucking wet. You’d be soaked from the way his thumb continued to absentmindedly draw patterns against his phone screen. The pink cursor ascended for a few moments before dragging it back down. Picturing how you looked right now with the little toy stuffed inside your pretty pussy as you writhed on top of tussled sheets all because of him.
You[8.59PM]: Kats, stop teasing and let me cum :(((
The notification banner signaled at the top of the screen, causing Bakugou to grin. He’d been teasing you for the last hour with the toy, knowing that the settings he was using weren’t quite enough to have you coming undone for him. But just enough to have you riled up and begging for more—
Bakugou[9.00PM]: You’re the one that wanted to play these games, sweetheart.
You[9.01PM]: Yeah, but I wanna cum :((
The words had Bakugou’s cock throbbing in his pants, pressing against the rough denim as he tried to mask a groan through a tickly cough. Pressing the back of his hand to his lips as he typed another response to you.
Bakugou[9.02PM]: I promise I’ll take good care of you when I get home, baby.
You[9.05PM]: Turn it up a little please, baby? I need it.
With that text you’d sent an attachment. He’d been hiding the screen of his phone beneath the table all evening to avoid any prying eyes or accusatory questions, but this made him shield the screen from any unsuspecting gazes. A photograph of you staring up into the camera with needy eyes, your glossy lips curled into a cute pout as you pulled your shirt— his shirt, above your chest as the fabric bunched together to reveal your perfect breasts.
God, you were so fucking perfect.
Bakugou decided to take pity on you, his fingers pulling the circle up the screen to increase the vibrations. His free hand reaching forward to grab his bottle as he downed the rest of its contents. Determined this would be his last drink before excusing himself to come home to you, not that he’d have to think of any particular reason.
“Work still trying to contact you, bro? It’s gone nine.” Sero asked, leaning his forearms against the table.
“You have been on the phone a lot, is everything okay?” Kirishima looked concerned.
“He’s probably texting his girlfriend,” Denki practically sang.
“Shut up, idiot. Everything’s fine.”
Slipping his phone back into his pocket as he stood from the booth, smoothing his hands down the black denim on his thighs as he made a beeline towards the bar.
“It’s your round yeah, Kats?” Kirishima called after him, the sound drowned out by the loud bustle of the bar as Bakugou leaned against it waiting to be served. He could feel his phone vibrating in his pocket, knowing that it was texts from you. But he didn’t want to unlock it to read them now, not when anyone could look over his shoulder and catch a glimpse at what was his.
Forgoing a tray as he held the neck of the beer bottles between his knuckles as he carried them back towards the booth to a cheer and raised arms from Denki. Sharing them out as he resumed his seat and wrapped a palm around the cold base of the bottle, distracted as he pulled his phone out to finally respond to you.
You[9.21PM]: I can’t cum with this, baby. It’s driving me crazy.
You[9.23PM]: You are the biggest tease I swear, Kats. My clit is throbbing :(((
Bakugou grinned as instead of responding to your messages, he left them on read. Opening the lush app as he went back to dragging his thumb across the screen, increasing the vibrations to give you some much needed relief. Except this time Sero was quick to notice the app on Bakugou’s phone screen, quick reflexes snatching the phone from his hands.
“Is this what I think it is?” Sero’s eyes sparkled with mischief as his mouth settled into a wide grin, “No wonder you’re talking to us even less than usual tonight, Bakubro.”
“Give it back, tapeface.” Bakugou practically snarled, reaching across the table to try and grab his phone back. Knocking his beer bottle over in the process, which Kirishima’s quick reflexes managed to save with minimal spillage, the head foaming up from the movement.
“What is that?” Denki asked with curiosity as he leaned over Sero’s shoulder to look at the screen.
“You guys ever seen this app before?” Sero turned it to face the table, the circle still sat in the middle of the screen. An indication of the consistent hum of vibrations pulsing through the toy for you right now.
“No, what does it do?” Kirishima tilted his head slightly, “Is it like a game?”
“It’s an app for a remote controlled vibrator,” Sero explained, “So unless it’s inside you right now, man—”
“Piss off.” Bakugou snarled, baring his teeth.
“Then I’m guessing it’s inside your girlfriend.” Sero surmised, turning the screen back to face him.
“Oh,” Kirishima’s lips parted in surprise, and Bakugou could see the cogs turning in his mind as his thoughts clearly went to what you looked like with this little toy stuffed inside your pussy.
“Wait” Denki’s brows were furrowed as though deep in thoyght, the cogs turning in his mind, “So that means she’s got it in right now?”
“Looks like it.” Sero held the phone in one hand as he used his pointer finger to drag the circle down to the bottom of the screen, stopping the vibrations completely, “How many times has she cum already?”
None of your fucking business, Bakugou thought to himself as he sneered across the table. But he hoped you hadn’t cum at all, wanting to return home and experience the luxury of you coming undone on his cock firsthand.
“Oh fuck, man.” Denki whined, “Your girlfriends so fucking hot. How did you get so lucky?”
“Maybe you should give that back, Sero.” Kirishima shuffled beside Bakugou, clearly intrigued with the conversation but he tried to ignore the dark, depraved thoughts that were running through his mind at this moment.
“Yeah, give it the fuck back.” Bakugou snarled, swiping for the phone again as Sero held it over his head and away from Bakugou’s reach.
You[9.30PM]: Baby, why’d you turn it off completely that’s so mean?
“Oh shit,” Sero read the text that came through from you, “Happy birthday to me.”
“Give me the fuckin’ phone,” Bakugou practically snarled, venom laced in his tone as he hoped you wouldn’t try and send another selfie.
“Come on, man. Five minutes,” Sero pleaded, offering the phone back to Bakugou as a peace offering, “It could be my birthday gift, you know?”
Having his friends fawn over you like this had a warped sense of power rolling over him. It was debauched, depraved and downright scummy but Bakugou found himself falling into the sovereignty.
Bakugou knew he should call you to let you know that he was surrendering control to the app to his friends, or at the very least send you a message to let you know. But deep down he knew it was something that you would probably enjoy, maybe a bit too much, if you knew. Often talking to him about uses for the toy, and whether he’d ever share access with it with his friends. The thought of going home to tell you who had been controlling it just to see the wide-eyed look on your face had his cock throbbing beneath his jeans in anticipation.
“Five fuckin’ minutes.”
“That’s the spirit, happy fucking birthday to me.” Sero grinned as he began to slide his finger against the screen, “You shoulda brought her with you, that woulda been the best gift.”
“You’d never be that fuckin’ lucky, tapeface.” Bakugou snorted, taking a sip of beer as Sero’s tongue poked out from between his lips in concentration. Swirling his finger along the screen with such precision, but Bakugou was certain he had no real clue what he was doing.
“A girl online gave me her code to one of these before,” He grinned across the booth, “Let me watch her on video while I did it too—”
“Don’t even think about it.” Bakugou would rather blow his phone up completely than let his friends see you on video.
“How do you even know she’s got it in right now?” Denki asked, “You could just be messing with a dead toy.”
“She sent a text begging me to turn it back on.” Sero grinned, “He’s probably the one that put it in her, lucky prick.”
Bakugou wished he was the one that positioned the toy inside you, although he definitely wouldn’t have made it to the bar if he had. There’s nothing in this world that could’ve torn him away from your pretty little cunt.
“Can you get her to send us a picture?” Denki continued, “Do you have pictures?”
Bakugou had multiple pictures, and videos, of you using the toy. It had originally been a way for him to help you climax whenever he was called away on long missions, a fun addition to the already steamy video calls you’d have at random hours. The time differences were often large as he’d find himself fisting his cock for you on camera at four in the morning, helping you to cum just before you were getting ready for bed.
“Shut up, asshole.” Bakugou growled.
There was no way he was going to show them a picture of you, especially how hot you looked right now. Remembering the photograph you’d sent him just as he made it to the bar, of you spread out against soft sheets as you gave the camera a sultry gaze. Man, he really was a fucking idiot coming out tonight and leaving you at home.
“Oh, he’s definitely got pictures,” Sero smirked, “Look at the look on his face. I bet she looks hot in them too—”
“Don’t you dare, you fuck.” Bakugou made a swipe for the phone, but Sero was quicker. Handing the cellphone off to Denki as he leaned forward to pick up his bottle of beer with a chuckle, taking a large swig from it as he leaned against Denki’s shoulder to watch his friend play with the app.
“Have you used this when she’s out in public?” Denki asked, looking across the booth at Bakugou while his finger criss-crossed over the screen with speed— probably torturing your poor pussy with the intense changes.
“No.” Bakugou answered curtly. Neither of you had really toyed with the device outside long distance, but it’s definitely something that you’d both talked about before. You’d even suggested he wear it one night, so he could feel exactly what it did to you for himself.
“Man, that’s so boring.” Denki pouted, “If she was my girlfriend I’d have her wearing it to the grocery store.”
“That’s because you don’t know how to make a girl cum by yourself.” Bakugou scoffed, taking another sip of his drink as Denki scrunched his nose in response.
“Yeah I do,” Denki turned the screen to face him, giving anyone in the bar who looked over a glimpse at the adult app on the phone in use right now, “In fact I’m gonna make your girl cum without even touching her.”
Bakugou hoped you weren’t coming right now, especially with how intense Denki had the vibrations. He knew you were already riled up and desperate, and this was exactly what you needed to have you tumbling over the edge. But he’d never live it down if Denki was the one to make you climax, he’d never hear the end of it.
“You should invite her next time, man. We could do this with her here.” Denki continued, his finger pausing on the screen while the dot was sat at its highest point. Indicating that the vibrations were on the most intense setting as Bakugou pictured you writhing against the sheets while the toy buzzed inside you. Picturing the creamy slick that drooled out of your hole at the sensation and stuck to your plush thighs. Wishing that he was there to clean you up instead of fantasizing about it. His cock jumped at the thought as he palmed himself subtly through his jeans while shifting in his seat.
God, he had to go home and bury himself inside you.
“Can I have a go?” Kirishima mumbled shyly, his cheeks glowing as red as his hair as he fisted his beer bottle nervously.
“Knock yourself out, man.” Denki held the cellphone out to Kirishima like it belonged to him, the dot still sat at the highest point on the screen.
What Bakugou hadn’t been expecting is the amount of teasing Kirishima was doing for you. His thumb barely moving the circle above the slowest setting, the low rumble of the toy inside you would’ve been barely enough for anyone and Bakugou knew it had to be driving you crazy right now.
You[9.40PM]: I told you to stop being a tease. I was about to cum. :(((
“Oh, she’s texting you.”
Kirishima showed him the screen as he read the text, and Bakugou had never been so happy that Kirishima had managed to seize control of his phone and the app before Denki had a chance to actually make you climax.
Breathing a sigh of relief as he grinned in satisfaction, certain he’d never hear the end of it (from you or Denki) if he’d managed to make you cum.
Kirishima was gentle and cautious as he continued playing with the app, barely letting the vibrations go above the middle of the screen. But thick fingers continued to make it constant, pushing down to wiggle the line every few seconds as he began to make almost swirling patterns against the device.
“Come on, man. Turn it up to the max.” Denki whined, his arms going across the table in a silent plea to get the phone back into his hands.
“So you can make her completely numb?” Sero scoffed, “You know she’d stop being able to feel anything with you.”
“She’d be able to feel a lot.” Denki grabbed at his crotch crudely as the men sat at the table began to laugh, even Bakugou snorted as he took a large swig of his beer. He had to get home to you soon.
“You ain’t ever made a girl cum in their life so what makes you think you could make my girl cum?” Bakugou deadpanned as Denki pouted.
“I have too!” He whined.
“Oh yeah? When was that?” Sero pried.
“Come on, man. Don’t be on his side—”
“The girls on those camsites don’t count, I’m pretty certain they fake it too.”
“I don’t even use those anymore.”
“Oh wow.” Kirishima breathed deeply when Bakugou turned his attention back to his best friend. Noticing he’d opened the texting app and now a photograph you’d just sent sat open on the screen.
“What the fuck, man?” Bakugou grunted, grabbing his phone off Kirishima has he shielded the screen with his body. Curling over the table as he held the device beneath it.
“I’m sorry, it’s not my fault. I saw the notification and I clicked it—” Panic was evident in Kirishima’s tone as he begun a feeble attempt to explain himself. An attempt that would’ve been easier were it not for the alcohol currently circling through his veins, his voice slurred as his eyes glazed over. Trying to commit the picture he’d just seen of you to memory, as though he’d just had a near death experience and had witnessed the pearly gates.
“Let me see,” Denki practically begged, “God, dude. Please— let me see. Eiji got to see, it’s not fair!”
“Shut up,” Bakugou cut both men off, trying to focus on the picture you’d just sent.
It was a photograph taken from above your body, between the gap of your thighs and your chubby mound as he noticed the dark stain that now splashed across your bedsheets. Bakugou sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth when he noticed the text message that you’d sent with it.
You[9.45PM]: You just made me squirt omg
You[9.46PM]: You’re cleaning that up when you get home it’s not my fault :(((
“Fuck, she squirted.” Bakugou mumbled, eyes roaming your exposed skin and the mess you’d made on the screen.
That’s it, he was going home to you now.
“What?!” Denki gasped in surprise, practically jumping over the table in the booth to read the messages, “You made her squirt?”
“Clearly it was me that got her close enough to do it,” Sero grinned, “Eij just got lucky to get her last.”
“And she sent a picture? Can I see it, man? Please.” Denki looked as though he was about to cry, his knuckles turning white from gripping the edge of the table, “Please just one pic.”
Bakugou chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, debating on whether to show the personal picture you’d sent. A picture that had clearly been intended for his eyes only— but he’d explain to you later.
Turning the screen to the rest of the table, ensuring it faced away from the busy bar as his friends leaned in to look at it. Eyes darting across the imagine to try and memorise it in the few seconds that Bakugou had given them.
“Holy fucking shit.” Sero grinned.
“That’s not fair that you get to go home to that,” Denki threw his head against the back of the booth with a groan, “I’d lick it off the floor.”
“You’re such a fuckin’ freak.” Bakugou sneered, scrunching his nose at the debauched comment.
Locking his phone before leaning forward to pick his beer bottle up to down the rest of its contents, slamming the empty bottle back down on the table as he grabbed his jacket.
“Well, you’ve seen what I’ve got waiting for me at home, I’m out.” Bakugou fist bumped Sero as before shrugging his jacket back on.
“Any chance at a video call?” Denki pleaded, clasping his hands together as Bakugou shot him a glare, “What? I’m just asking.”
Bakugou text you as he left the bar, moving quick on his feet to get home to you as quickly as possible as he hailed a taxi.
Bakugou[9.52PM]: I’m not cleaning that up when I get home, I’m making it worse.
#bakugou x reader#bakugou smut#bakugou katuski x reader#katsuki bakugo x reader#katsuki bakugou x reader#katsuki bakugou smut#katsuki bakugo smut#bakugo x reader#bakugo smut#bnha x reader#bnha smut#mha x reader#mha smut#tw:dubcon#trigger:dubcon
8K notes
·
View notes
Text
Sleepless Nights
Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid
Description: Spencer is awake late at night while you're peacefully asleep. That's when he's reminded about a few little agreements you've had.
Content/Warnings: Course language, brief masturbation (m), consensual somnophilia, fingering (f rec), unprotected sex, creampie.
Word Count: 1.3K
Kinktober Day Seventeen: Somnophilia
Navigation || Kinktober Masterlist || AO3
Spencer spent his time at work more often than not, which you understood how important his job was to him. You’d known the inside and out of the job and all the darkness hidden within it, so you always gave an overwhelming amount of love and support. There was a lot of patience and trust placed within one another, your husband knowing that you were always going to be there for him and that he should show he would always be there for you as well. You never expected anything big out of him after cases, just willing to hold him and let him cry into your shoulder if the cases were overwhelming for him.
It had been three days since Spencer was home from one of his cases, the both of you laying in bed alongside one another as the both of you were looking forward to a good night's sleep. Spencer wasn’t getting much of it though, his head against his pillow while your soft breaths from peaceful sleep filled the room. With an arm behind his head, the male sighed in frustration. Insomnia hit him hard on nights like this one, when you fell asleep first and couldn’t exactly hold him due to you being dead to the world.
He had contemplated reading, however he knew the light would wake you up and irritate you. He definitely didn’t need a cranky version of you being angry at him for the remainder of the night and even the next day. So, he reverted back to his usual ways of making himself tired. His hands were slowly pulling his half-hard cock out of his boxers as he let his eyes flutter shut. Thankfully for eidetic memory, he could practically watch any past sexual encounter with you in his head like a dirty movie. Right now, he had a specific night in mind.
You’d been desperate and he was asleep, due to a previous talk of boundaries and consent for certain actions, you decided to try something new. He could remember his eyes slowly blinking open and being met with your face twisted with ecstasy, hands resting against his chest as your desperate and leaking cunt was embracing his cock while your hips were feverishly rutting against his. It showed how much you needed him, even getting to the point where you fucked him as he slept just to not disturb his sleep.
Just the mere thought of your tits in clear view of his gaze had Spencer letting out a low groan. He was fully erect now, his hand fisting at his cock as he let his mind continue replaying the same moments that so graciously flooded his brain. He’d continued with his movements before glancing over at you, the moonlight seeping in from the drapes shining against your sleeping silhouette. It gave him an idea, one that sent another rush of blood to his cock as he was slowing his movements with his hand. Gently tugging the duvet and sheets back, he was looking over your body.
You were wearing a silk lilac nightgown, one of his favorites. It was like you did this on purpose, as if you knew your husband would have an insomnia spell. With his hand coming up to his mouth, he was popping two of his fingers into his mouth as he was scooting towards you more. His free hand was sliding under the tempting nightgown, his hand slowly tugging down your panties as he kept his gaze on you. He wanted to see how long he could drag this out without waking you. After getting the cloth barrier out of his way, Spencer was using one of the slick fingers to slowly push into your cunt. The touch had your sleeping form let out a breath, the long digit being welcomed as your walls were squeezing around it.
He slowly thrusted his finger, a soft groan leaving his lips as you were responding well, probably having your dream taking a sharp turn as he was fucking you with his pointer finger. Your arousal was starting to coat his finger, the male smirking as he gently pushed in a second finger, a moan now falling out of your lips as you were shifting in place. The way your sleeping face twisted in ecstasy had your husband grinning as he pressed a few kisses along your shoulder. As his fingertips were brushing against the spongy button deep inside of you,your body was reacting accordingly as your thighs clenched around his hand, still assuming this was a dream as you were rocking your hips against his fingers.
“Poor desperate girl..” Spencer whispered while continuing to prod your needy cunt with the two long digits. Whenever he’d had enough waiting though, he’d carefully pulled his fingers out of your hole before bringing them up to his lips to clean your essence off of them.
There were desperate whines escaping your lips at the feeling of emptiness, your hips attempting to rock back. “Shh, I know.” Spencer murmured in your ear, one hand gently lifting one of your legs, his free hand helping adjust his cock at your leaking hole that was clenching around nothing. As the thick tip of his throbbing cock was slowly pushing into your warmth, you were letting out a breathy moan in your sleeping state, hand instinctively reaching back to grip at the back of your husband’s head as you were both still in the spooning position.
As your pussy swallowed his cock whole, he was letting his lips press a few kisses against your neck as he was slowly letting his hips rut into yours. Now it only took a few good strokes before you were blinking awake, hand lightly pulling at the curls that you had a handful of. “Good morning to you too.” You whispered, drowsiness in your voice as you were moving to rock your hips back against his.
“Couldn’t sleep.” He murmured against your skin, hand moving to squeeze your hip. “Was jerking off and then i remembered that your sweet pussy would be waiting for me.” He lightly bit down on the flesh of your neck that made a moan fall from your parted lips. “Mm, I’m not complaining. I love being stuffed with your cock.” The filthy words leaving your lips had your husband groaning, head lifting. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” He spoke through pants and whines, his thrusts speeding up as his hand was wrapping around your body, large hand taking one of your tits into his hand before giving a rough squeeze.
As the rhythmic sound of your skin smacking against one another filled the room along with your combined sounds of pleasure, it hadn’t been long until you could feel Spencer’s hand trail between your legs, finger finding your clit with ease as he massaged the desperate bud. He was close and you were too.
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” You spoke through moans, his hips thrusting snapping harder into yours as he nodded. “M-me too.” He’d stated the obvious, working to bring you to orgasm first. The feeling of your walls tightly clenching around him was enough to make his cock twitch inside of you before painting your inner walls with ribbons of his cum, hips slowly coming to a stop.
After he was pulling out of you, he couldn’t help but lift the sheets to look at your cunt, which had been stuffed with his cum to the point where it was leaking down your thighs. “We should get you cleaned up. Plus you have to pee.” He panted, moving to rub your hip while tugging back the sheets for you to get up. “I’m going to take a shower, care to join me?” You’d asked, legs wobbling slightly as you stood from your shared bed.
You didn’t have to ask him twice, the male sliding out of bed before he was heading over to pick you up with a smile. “Not too long though,” He began, a yawn now falling from his lips.
“I’m ready to pass out.”
#spencer reid#criminal minds fandom#spencer reid fandom#criminal minds fic#criminal minds fanfic#spencer reid fic#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid smut#spencer reid x reader#criminal minds x reader#dr spencer reid#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds smut#doctor spencer reid#spencer reid criminal minds#spencer reid scenario#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x reader smut#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x fem!reader smut#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid imagine#strawbeerossi kinktober 2023
8K notes
·
View notes
Text
──⯎ ˙❤🩹 ̟ after the fight
엔하이픈 | Enhypen | ot7
──Pairing: enha ot7 x reader
──Genre: angst, fluff
──Synopsis: After you have a fight, they try their best to make things right again
──Warnings: mentions of arguing, fake violence/play fighting, cursing, kissing
──A/N: yall i literally got the idea for this from a couple tiktok my bsf sent me... o_o
masterlist
이희승 | Heeseung
Immediately after Heeseung raised his voice at you, he regretted it. He approached you slowly like you were an angry lion. Slowly, he wrapped a gentle arm around your waist. He was quickly swatted away though. A look of shock washed over his face; eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Being cocky enough to try again earned him another slap on the arm. His lips press into a straight line. He grabbed hold of your wrist to restrain you from hitting him again. Before you could resist, his other hand was on your waist, pulling you towards him. His lips crashed onto yours and you couldn't resist kissing your precious boyfriend back. Heeseung whispered against your lips about how sorry he was and how much he loved you.
박종성 | Jongseong
You turned away from Jay, tears pricking your eyes. It was typical for him to be a bit irritable after a long day but he was pretty good at not taking out his frustration on you. Today, though, he had lashed out and yelled at you. The regret hit him as soon as you turned your back to him and he could hear small sniffles from you. His legs felt like jelly as he began to walk toward you. Jay's arms wrapped tightly around your waist as he dipped his head down into the crook of your neck. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby." he whispered, muffled from nuzzling into your neck. "I'll never yell at you ever again, I promise." he said, kissing your neck in between words.
심재윤 | Jaeyun
Jake wasn't one to get easily upset and definitely no one to yell but today something in him made him more upset than usual. He was pissed off and ended up shouting at you, ending in you storming out of your apartment. Now you were in your own living room sulking about it. You heard a knock, making you groan as you slowly dragged your feet to the door. As soon as the door knob was turned, the person on the other side slammed it open. There was Jake with several snack filled shopping bags in his arms. He knew that snacks always made you feel better. "Damn it, I had a whole apology speech but you're so pretty that I forgot it already." The bags were dropped to the floor as Jake attacked you with a huge bear hug.
박성훈 | Sunghoon
You turned your back to him, folding your arms across your chest. He placed a hand on your waist, attempting to hug you from behind. "Wait, baby I'm sorry. Don't-" He was cut off by you walking away from him. His eyes widened before he began to chase after you. Sunghoon reached out to grab the back of your shirt but you shook your shoulders, releasing yourself from his grip. He tried again and again but somehow you were a pro escape artist. He resorted to grabbing your hair to stop you. You winced and turned around to try to escape. Just what he wanted you to do. He quickly pulled you toward him, placing his lips on yours. His hand was tangled in your hair as he apologized over and over again between kisses.
김선우 | Sunoo
"I'm.. I'm really sorry." Sunoo whispered with sincerity in his tone. You ignored him though. "Hey. Are you listening to me?" He asked, poking at your cheeks. He cupped your face and put his own face super close to yours. Then he scrunched his eyebrows together as his lips curled into a pout. "Ya, answer me. I said I'm sorry and I meant it." All you did was avert your eyes, causing him to grumble. "Fine. Then I'm going to be unresistably cute until you forgive me." He grabbed your face and turned it towards as his lips formed a thin smile. You couldn't hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. As soon as he saw your smile, he cheered and hugged you tightly.
양정원 | Jungwon
"Oh shit-" he gasped, slapping a hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry, my love. I- I didn't mean that." Jungwons voice trembled as he reached for you, only to be met by your shocked expression. He bit his lip, trying to hold back the tears forming in his eyes. He was even more upset at his own actions than you were. "Angel? Will you please forgive me?" He whispered, hooking his fingers on the belt loops of your pants. He pulled you close to his body and placed a soft kiss on your lips. Then he began kissing all over your face, followed by an apology every time.
니키 | Niki
You furrowed your eyebrows after Niki had finished yelling at you. His ears turned red like they always do when he's ashamed. "Fuck, I'm sorry. You know i would never-" You cut him off by telling him to shut up. His mood changed like a switch as his tongue poked the inside of his cheek. "Alright, fine." His fist clenched before he threw a punch that landed just inches from your face. But for some reason it had just missed you. Out of pure instinct, you threw a punch back, hitting him in the stomach. You gasped, putting a hand up to your mouth in shock at what you did. "Nice punch, baby. Feel better now?" Then you remembered that he had told you once to just hit him if you were upset with him. "O-oh... yeah.."
© strawberrynull, 2024. Do not copy my work. Please DM for permission before translating or reuploading. Thank You
#enhypen heeseung#heeseung fluff#heeseung x reader#enhypen jay#jay fluff#jay x reader#enhypen jake#jake fluff#jake x reader#enhypen sunghoon#sunghoon fluff#sunghoon x reader#enhypen sunoo#sunoo fluff#sunoo x reader#enhypen jungwon#jungwon fluff#jungwon x reader#enhypen niki#niki fluff#niki x reader#strawberrynull#enhypen#enhypen scenarios#enhypen imagines#enhypen fluff#enha#enha fluff#enha x reader#kpop
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
SHITHEAD.
Art Donaldson x Reader.
warnings: a lot of them. 18+, slapping, begging, major angst, brat!Art, an argument with make up sex. Art is really manipulative because… he is a bit and we all know it. [Y/N] is very ill-tempered too. it’s dirty.
can be a part ii to SPONTANEOUS, or read as a standalone. this is my favorite piece of writing i have published on this account.
The bed was empty beside [Y/N]. She stared at Art’s empty side of the bed. The soft green sheets and mix-matched pillowcases went unoccupied. Not because he wasn’t home, but because [Y/N] hated Art so he had to sleep downstairs on the couch.
It wasn’t that she really hated Art. She did hate him right now. Not in a funny way. Their drive home had been silent. Poor Art didn’t know how to facilitate conversation that wouldn’t worsen the situation. His sorrowful eyes, but honest eyes kept glancing from the road to where [Y/N] sat in the passenger seat. The real showdown had started between them something awful when the door to their house slammed shut.
See, Art cried when he got mad. Or sad. Or profoundly excited. Their wedding photos were two-thirds Art crying and trying not to show that he was crying.
Art hadn’t cried tonight yet. That pissed [Y/N] off. She was furious and he seemed to feel absolutely zero discernible feelings about that.
They argued all the time. It rarely lasted all too long.
It was different this time. When [Y/N] started to say something cruel or shout or weep, Art got a little smaller, but he alarmingly stood his ground. He averted his gaze and said “I respectfully disagree,” or “What the fuck do you know about how I feel?” in a dangerously level tone.
Fighting with Art about this wasn’t fun. He was too cool about. He knew he was right. [Y/N] wanted to yell and scream because Art was so relaxed and condescending in his tone. When the man who had spent his teenage years getting referred at competition after competition as literally Ice tonelessly said: “Jesus Christ, aren’t you bored yet? What, going to over-explain the same information to me again, or…?” Finally, that had made [Y/N] drag herself to bed and yank the door closed violently enough that she felt the metallic vibration run all the way up to her shoulder.
And she was still laying there, staring at Art’s side of the bed.
At the Zweig’s party that night, there were a few hot topics in the Donaldsons’ sphere:
1) Lots of congratulations from people that had known them grow up, but hadn’t seen them since the wedding or prior.
This was mostly very kind. It dragged that smirk up Art’s face and caused his fingers to dig tighter into [Y/N]’s waist. That look of pride and tenderness on his face was more than welcome.
2) Lots of questions about Patrick. His lack of attendance was felt.
Both Donaldsons dodged these question as much as they could. Art kept an eye on [Y/N]’s liquor consumption. He knew how embarrassed she would be if she said something she regretted in front of Patrick’s family. Patrick had hurt them both, but Art’s heart went out to [Y/N]. Her world had been built around Patrick’s from a young age. Art was trying to engineer his own world higher around her so she wouldn’t be able to see the old place and people that had burned her over the walls.
3) “You’re married. When are we going to be seeing a little Donaldson running around?”
With Art keeping an eye on [Y/N]’s drinking, she hadn’t really been keeping an eye on him. She just assumed he would keep his shit together. Art drinking in public was never really a concern. He wasn’t a big drinker anyway. At this point, his career mattered more and he was approaching his mid-twenties which made him feel surely less young than he had once. He wasn’t a casual beer guy either. It was Patrick who liked beer and Art who would have a moledo or something sometimes. Art did like white girl drinks, though. Tequila and fruity stuff. He had been able to shoot shot after shot of vodka like a pro in college at a season-end celebration.
Art was a tight-lipped man, but he was a giggly drunk who he got pretty comfortable talking out of his ass from behind a glass with an umbrella in it. Art was rarely comfortable with anything, so a drink or two at a party was welcome to him.
Another important point of context is that the largest point of tension between Art and [Y/N] was starting a family. They desperately wanted a child together, but they disagree on when. [Y/N] felt like she was fresh out of college, so she figured they had plenty of time. Art felt that he was fresh out of college, so he figured they may as well get to it.
Their arguments about this were once semi-regular. In the last four months or so, Art timidly bowed out and hoped [Y/N] would tell him when she was ready (sooner rather than later). He got tired of the low-tier shouting matches. Instead, he would pick fights about things that were decidedly lower stakes when he was bored.
Art had let [Y/N] field comments about family planning throughout the night. Unfortunately, when Art was polishing off a second drink, he ran his mouth a little bit.
Knowing he was the designated driver that night, Art did go easy. Art was also, like, five pounds. While he could hold his liquor with grace, he always got giggly. He watched with heavy eyelids as [Y/N] walked away to collect another drink following the dinner portion of the evening. The paper placecards with their shared last name emblazoned on them rested comfortably in Art’s inner jacket pocket to be kept as a memory.
Some guy who sold boat insurance and liked to rub elbows with talent was talking Art’s ear off. Art couldn’t remember his name, but [Y/N] would know it.
This was the precise moment that got Art in trouble.
Because when the guy whose name Art was sure started with an R said: “So! You’re married. When are we going to be seeing a little Donaldson running around?”
Art said:
“Any day now, I hope. Tomorrow. I’m good to go. [Y/N] thinks now’s not a great time for her.”
He had said it with a smirk and a stupid little laugh. It was basically locker room talk. Big deal. He would’ve said it to Patrick with [Y/N] present in the room. This guy wasn’t Patrick and he was technically speaking behind her back.
Art had forgotten how close they were standing to the bar. He had forgotten that the frequency of his pitchy tenor was known to carry. He had forgotten that he was well known to be an instigator of fights even though he never actually threw the first punch. He had forgotten that he hadn’t been whispering. He had forgotten that this guy… Richy? Ronnie? was pretty much a stranger who had no business knowing their business.
Now, Art was sleeping on the couch and his side of the bed was empty.
Jackass.
[Y/N] stared still at the empty bed and didn’t know how to articulate her upset to an Art who had seemingly yet to feel ashamed.
She had a headache and was tired. But sleep wasn’t going to come easy and all she had to look forward to was a hangover.
Art didn’t really snore, but he was a heavy breather when he slept. The lack of his white noise made the A/C blowing and the stairs creaking too loud. Maybe all of this was on [Y/N] for making Art uncomfortable, she dared to think.
Then she reminded herself that it was Art’s fault for talking too much and for drinking when he knew he was supposed to drive home.
[Y/N] rolled over to face away from Art’s spot. All she could think about is how his hands always sleepily pawed at her to pull her back when she got too far away from him before he fell asleep.
“So, what’d you do?” Patrick asked.
“She hates me.” Art replied. It was almost a question.
“I asked what you did, not what she feels. She already told us what she feels and it’s that she hates you.” Patrick stated. When Patrick had stopped through town for a match, he had come by for dinner with, well, his best friends. This had been right after they’d gotten engaged.
Art sniffled. He didn’t want to cry in front of Patrick. Art would sooner cry in front of his own father. Both men would have laughed in his face, but it would have stung more from Patrick. “We got into a fight yesterday. A big one. Like, the first, uh, big one. She’s worried about the f—“
“The future? Please,” Patrick said bitterly. He frowned and his jaw tightened, but he combatted it by tossing Art a smile before the other man noticed the tension. “Stupid. You’re gonna marry her. You’ll play tennis. She’ll do her… columns? Articles. I don’t get what it is that she does—“
“She writes for—“
“Sure, yeah. You’re gonna have two kids so you can each pick a favorite one. And she’s gonna be a pain in your ass forever. Don’t be a pussy.”
Art sniffled again and stared at the floor. “I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I didn’t think I did,” Art said meekly. “I don’t get it. She gets so mad sometimes. At me.” Patrick stared at him blankly. Art had to know that he was usually at least a little bit the problem.
“Did she do the thing where she calls you a—“
“Shithead bastard?”
“Shithead bastard.” Both boys said at the same time. Art dragged his hands through his hair and looked up at Patrick. Both of them quirked a smirk at the other.
“See,” Patrick started. “You’ll be fine. Fuckin’ go after her.”
“And say what!”
“Uh… ‘I’m sorry?’ You do that kinda shit. She’ll like that.”
It was impossible to know how long [Y/N] laid there. The clock was on Art’s side and she would get spitting mad if she rolled back over.
She could just go downstairs and tell Art to come back to bed. He was probably sleeping just fine.
“Hey, hon, you don’t hate me, right?” Art’s voice whispered in the darkness.
[Y/N] was fairly certain she had imagined it. She had not heard his sweaty feet on the stairs or his fingers against the doorknob. Quickly, [Y/N] whipped over to face the door behind her.
There was Art. His sweatpants sat low on his hips and his shirt was long gone. Clothing didn’t often survive the night on Art’s back.
Really, she couldn’t help but wonder how long it had taken Art to work through coming upstairs so quietly. “Mm?” [Y/N] groaned in question.
Art rocked his right shoulder into the doorway to lean. His arms were crossed and his eyes straight ahead on her from what [Y/N] could tell in the glow of the hallway’s thermostat. “Please just tell me you don’t hate me and I’ll let you go back to sleep. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
With a sigh, [Y/N] sat up and rolled her cracking shoulders back. “I don’t hate you, Art.” Her heart melted a little bit. [Y/N] knew it was immature, but her special attack in arguments since childhood was to bandy around the word hate a lot. Not that she had said it to Art tonight, but she had no doubt said it before. More than once. More times than she could count, maybe.
She was surprised Art had never asked this before. That surprise hurt in an a way that was too complex to describe. “I could never hate you.” [Y/N] continued, voice hushed only because it was dark out.
Art’s posture relaxed slightly. “You promise you don’t?” Said Art’s evermore crippling lack of self-confidence.
“I promise.” [Y/N] replied calmly.
“Okay. Thank you.” Art said in a small voice.
“I love you, baby. I don’t hate you. You shouldn’t have to ask that. I’m sorry I made you feel like you even have to ask that.”
Art frowned sharply. “No, I’m the one that should be sorry. You told me nicely not to talk about—“
“Don’t play that. You have to know you don’t feel like you did anything wrong, so you don’t have to invent a situation where you’re some horrible person.”
Art was silent.
[Y/N] continued. “I’m pissed because you told Randy,” RANDY. His name was RANDY. That’s it. “Our business. My business, really. He’s an asshole. It’s fine. Well, not now, but eventually. But you kinda martyred yourself on it. You don’t have to do that and I don’t hate you. You know I don’t… Right?”
“I’m sorry.” Art said quickly. He was gifted at making every single minor problem his own fault. He knew he was a little bit of an awful person for that, but he would die before admitting it. Art would hide behind his martyring habit as long as his cross could hold him, though. [Y/N] hadn’t noticed before this moment, but she could see the shining of his eyes in the digital blue-green glow. Tears. This time, less than obvious waterworks. Aw.
“I’m sorry. I’m still pissed at you for running your mouth, but I’m sorry too.”
Art nodded, said nothing else and reached for the doorknob.
Here is a frustrating thing about Art.
He said he was going to leave for downstairs once [Y/N] said she didn’t hate him. He started to make good on that vow. If he says something, he’s going to do it, even though he doesn’t have to do it.
“Come on,” [Y/N] called louder than she’d been whispering. “Come here, pretty baby.”
Pretty Baby by Blondie had been their wedding song. She had been calling him that for almost as long as she had known him. Saying it, or hearing the song always made that stunning, small crooked smile stretch up beyond his sad puppy eyes all the way to his ears.
Art’s kryptonite was pretty baby. They both knew it.
He turned to look at her with a slight blush on his cheeks, almost visible in the dark. Art shifted one of his feet childishly over the other in apprehension.. “Don’t make me say it again. I don’t like to ask twice.” [Y/N] reminded him.
After a hasty nod, Art was in bed before he [Y/N] blinked. The blonde sat bolt upright beside [Y/N] with his eyes wide. Hesitant, but coyly so. He knew this pattern. The agony and shame from her brutality would only last so long. Housepets loved to cause trouble for treat.
Not to say that Art liked to start fights so he could play some low-status lapdog that got to feel his wife’s fingers comb through his hair the way he liked as a reward for an apology. The man bit his cheek to avoid a devious smirk. A part of him did like to do that sometimes, though.
He always got away with it. He was such a nice boy.
[Y/N] rolled her eyes and leaned back into the threadbare pillows. With a finger, she beckoned Art nearer. Hesitation eliminated, Art flopped slowly down beside [Y/N]; she on her back, he on his side, facing her. Delicately, Art’s fingers dragged down [Y/N]’s arm to curl in her fingers.
Not long after that, his plush mouth climbed down from her neck. Then shoulders and collarbones. Then bicep. Elbow. Forearm and wrist. Down her hand to her silver-studded ring finger. Each kiss with accompanied with an honest and dutiful I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He was sorry. Genuinely. Sorry for the upset he brought his wife, but not the cause. Art’s beautiful duel-colored eyes glanced up at [Y/N]’s blown pupils through her own fingers.
“I didn’t mean to talk about you like that… I just… I love you so much that I want more of you. That’s all, honey,” Art laid his head on [Y/N]’s upper chest and his mouth moved against the front of her throat. “I’m just a little stupid, huh…”
Under his lips, Art could feel the rumble of a laugh rip through [Y/N]’s throat. Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair to hold him in place. “Do-don’t talk about yourself like that,” she mumbled and gave his hair a lovely tug with both hands. He whimpered. [Y/N] wanted to bottle that sound. Art would always remember what she said next and how she said it: “Only I get to talk about you like that… St-stupid.”
This was the version of [Y/N] he was going to remember when he thought of her every day for the rest of his life. That sentence, the way her hair hung from where he had pushed it away from her neck. The sting of the cold metal from her wedding ring on the back of his neck and the stone of her engagement ring pressing into where he reached his palm to place his hand over hers. There was just the wrong amount of clothes between them. Her eyes ringed smoky from the makeup smudges and the exhaustion.
“Say it again.” Art whispered, swinging a knee over [Y/N]’s thighs so he could stare down at her. His forehead pressed softly against [Y/N]’s.
[Y/N]’s mouth fell open slightly with a breathy exhalation. Holy shit. “What, pretty baby, you want me to tell you how stupid you are? You like that?” [Y/N] almost whispered into Art’s still lips. He was too shocked to kiss her back, but too turned on to pull away. Art whimpered louder than before. [Y/N] felt him nod.
So she didn’t hold back. “You think I need to punish you after you behaved like that today or something? You need to atone for what a moron you were, shithead?” [Y/N] kept her tone light enough to just about tease as her nose trailed along the side of his. Her objective was to belittle. Her nails slid down Art’s muscular, sturdy back.
They both knew Art was a masochist on his worst days. Did he get off on being degraded sometimes? Sure. But this series of events was ridiculously new and exciting for [Y/N]. And shockingly obviously for Art too.
His hips pressed into her pathetically. “What? Did you need help with something?” She asked innocently when she felt Art’s hard-on against her thigh. [Y/N] kissed him distractingly warmly for how she was treating him. Art’s head spun and he couldn’t seem to make sense of anything anymore. He had backed himself into the best kind of corner.
Across Art’s hips and side went [Y/N]’s left hand, to the front of his sweatpants. Humiliatingly, Art blinked tears out of his eyes and screwed them shut. His mouth opened and closed, but no intelligent sound came out. [Y/N] planted a kiss at the corner of his parted lips. His strong arms boxed [Y/N] protectively in from above, but she had him locked into place, really. “Baby, if you want something, you know you have to ask for it.”
“Nnh,” Art tried, eyes stuck shut. His attention was mostly spent hold himself up over his wife. His insanely gorgeous wife. [Y/N]’s other hand grabbed his jaw tenderly. He still didn’t look at her. Art was gathering his courage. “Yo-you already told me I couldn’t have what I wanted.”
With a sharp inhale, [Y/N] grip went from gentle to nonexistent. At the lack of contact, Art’s damp eyes crept open one at a time to see if his brattiness had overstepped the situation. His frightened eyes caught [Y/N]’s. She popped the side of his face sharply with an open palm. Art blinked and tipped his head to the side like a dog.
That was big trouble, huh?
“Fuck,” he said. Both of them panted in sync. “I’m sorry.” He meant it.
[Y/N] pulled Art’s face to hers and kissed him hard. “I love… you.” She said.
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
Baby Mama Drama(jjk x reader)
Pairing: BabyDaddy!Jeon Jungkook x BabyMama!Female!Reader
Word Count: 3.2K+
Warnings: reader and Jungkook coparent, they have a daughter who is mentioned but doesn’t appear in the story, reader and Jungkook technically aren’t together but they still love each other and fool around🥴, reader irritates the hell out of JK but he can’t stay mad at them, reader is definitely a little toxic, Smut(18+ but I don’t control what you consume), oral(m and f receiving), 69 position, the sloppiest of top, face riding, fingering, reverse cowgirl, reader rides like a pro, missionary, reader has a tattoo🤭, reader is also dragging that wagon, reader also also has that certified WAP, reader is flexible, squirting, unprotected s*x(don’t do this and then turn into this couple), creampie, dirty talk, one face slap, multiple ass slaps like seriously JK is obsessed with reader’s badonk a donk, a little degradation and a dash of dumbification
A/N: I’M BACK EVERYONE!🥳for anyone who didn’t read my last post, my tumblr was suspended for a little while so that’s why I wasn’t posting. Anyway, it’s over so I’m back to work. This is a piece inspired by @joonberriess and their Sleazy!JK storyline. Shoutout to them. I love everything about the way they write JK and reader so definitely check them out if you haven’t already! Their stories make me want a sleazy baby daddy who can’t leave me the hell alone but I know I’ll never be able to handle that in real life so fictional is good enough for me!🤣this fic is just kind of a reverse of theirs where I made reader a sleazy and jealous baby mama. I know this kind of behavior is a stereotype among the black community but I am in no way condoning it. It’s just fiction and meant to be entertaining. Anyway, please let me know what you guys think as I am always open to criticism and please look forward to my upcoming posts! Much love and thanks for reading 🤎🤎🤎
~
“So, do you have any kids?”
Taking a sip of his drink, Jungkook nodded. “Yeah, one. A daughter. You?”
“Two. Their father is an absolute nightmare though. Thank goodness we have a court order. I can’t even be in the same room as him without wanting to pull all my hair out.” She bitterly laughed with a shake off her head, tossing the rest of her drink back. “What about you? Is your child’s mother a monster?”
Jungkook titled his head, a strained chuckle leaving him. “Um, well she’s…..something.”
The woman hummed. “I get it. A real bitch, huh? I hate women like that. Ones who can’t let their baby daddy’s go and are somehow always around. So annoying. Like don’t you have something better to do?”
“Yeah and I do it 4 times a week in my Queen sized bed.”
Jungkook stiffened at the sound of that familiar voice. There was only one person he knew that spoke that crassly to strangers.
The scent of your perfume and the smell of the mousse you used on your braids invaded his space and solidified that shit was about to go downhill.
The woman, who’s name he don’t think he ever caught, made a noise of surprise once you appeared before her. Your body stood right between her and Jungkook, forcing her to step back a little. Arms crossed over your chest and hip cocked out to the side, your eyes roamed up and down this woman’s body in a scrutinizing manner.
“And who are you?”
Leaning back a little, you plopped yourself right on Jungkook’s lap.
Looking her up and down once more, you answered simply with a big smile, “I’m unimpressed. Nice to meet you.”
Ignoring you for a moment, the woman looked around you to make eye contact with Jungkook who was shooting her a look that screamed, “please walk away!” She didn’t really understand what was going on. Who were you and why did you walk into their conversation on 10 like that? It was one thing to interrupt a conversation but to be that disrespectful to someone you didn’t even know? That didn’t go down well in her book.
Copying your previous stance, the woman replied, “Well I’m unimpressed with your attitude. Didn’t your mother ever teach you any manners?”
“No but she taught me to how to wrap a bitch’s hair around my wrist and keep swinging until my arm gets tired.” Your smile was sugary sweet but your words cut deep like knives. The woman was stunned. No one has ever spoken to her this way and it was a rude awakening. She didn’t even know how to respond.
Not wanting to see you demonstrate your mother’s teachings, Jungkook quickly stood to his feet. “Well, we should really be going. It was nice meeting you. Let’s go.” He grabbed your arms to start pushing you away from the woman.
“No it wasn’t!” You called out, both of you leaving the shocked woman by herself.
Once you two had made it outside, Jungkook’s frustration boiled over.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Why is it everytime I meet someone, you show up and scare them off? We aren’t together anymore. Is it not getting through your head? Like what the hell-“
His rant was flying right over your head because all you could focus on was how unbelievably sexy he looked today. How dare he walk outside like that? And he was going to waste all of that on some random stranger in a bar? Yeah right. Not as long as you had a say about it.
Your greedy eyes trailed from the top of his head to those bulging veins in his neck and down to his soft cock that was pressing against his jeans. Whew, just imaging that monster had your panties sticking to you. It was so big and warm and when he was giving you back shots…..
“Are you listening to me?”
You blinked a few times, your eyes slowing raising until they met the searing glare of your baby daddy.
“Uh yeah. Something about airline prices. So what are you doing tonight?”
Jungkook couldn’t fucking believe you. God you pissed him off to no end but he always had a way of letting off some steam.
“Let’s go. Now.”
“Yes sir.” You purred with that mischievous glint in your eye. Jungkook’s own eye twitched at the implications behind your tone but he decided to ignore it in favor of turning around to begin walking to his car, you hot on his heels and a Cheshire like grin on your face because you were getting what you wanted.
The drive back to his place was quiet, as was the ride up the elevator and the living room as he moved to sit down. He didn’t even raise his eyes to look at you once since you got in the car. Although you could see right through his petty act.
Flopping down on the couch next to him, your head leaning against your hand, you said, “come on, baby. You’re not still mad at me, are you? I said I’m sorry.”
No answer.
Moving closer to him, your hand trailed over his chest and up to his face to turn his head to face you, lips just centimeters apart. This wouldn’t be the first time you were on the receiving end of his heated glare and it certainly wouldn’t be the last but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on.
“What do I have to say for you to forgive me? I hate when you’re mad at me, baby.”
“Then stop doing shit that pisses me off and I won’t be.” He fired back, that low tone of his sending shocks down your spine.
“I’m sorry. Now let me make it up to you.” He could pick up on that sultry voice anywhere and those bedroom eyes you were currently shooting him was a dead giveaway as well.
He rolled his eyes. “You need to stop expecting dick everytime you come over here. It’s not gonna fix anything.”
Gasping dramatically, you moved back a little to hold a hand to your chest in faux offense. “You wound me, tater tot. I came here with pure intentions to apologize to you. Can a woman not apologize to her baby daddy without him thinking she has an ulterior motive?”
An unimpressed look crossed Jungkook’s face from your dramatics and from that stupid pet name you gave him all those years ago.
“Whatever.” He mumbled. “Fine. I accept your apology. Just don’t do it again.” A warning that fell on deaf ears because yeah, you’d definitely do it again if needed but for now, you’d bask in his forgiveness.
“Thank you, baby. You know I only want to make you happy.”
“You do,” he whispered, those doe eyes lifting to connect with yours.
Your lips met, your hands pushing Jungkook back against the arm of the couch to climb into his lap. He went willingly, melting into your touch and the feeling of your plump lips. His own hands traveled up your thighs to squeeze at the plushness of your ass, his grip forcing your covered cunt to rub against his growing erection.
His grunts mixed with your low hum of pleasure as you grinded against one another but Jungkook could only tolerate about a minute of that before he started getting impatient.
Groaning against your lips, he struggled out a, “fuck. Sit it on already.”
The sounds of your giggles made him pause, eyes cracking open and his eyebrow raising because what the hell was so funny?
“Oh nothing.” You said as if reading his mind. “I just remember a very certain someone saying not to expect dick everytime I come here yet that same person is telling me to sit on his dick. How the tables have turned.”
Rolling his eyes yet again, Jungkook suddenly heaved himself up, forcing you backwards. Your giggles increased, the contagion of your amusement finally breaking him and stretching a full blown smile across his face.
“You’re so goofy.”
“Then do something about it, Mickey.”
In a show of strength that turned your panties from a pool into a water park, Jungkook heaved you over his shoulder, hand coming down on the fat of your ass.
“I’ll do something about it alright.”
Once you made it to the bedroom, Jungkook tossed you down onto the bed and was about to climb on top of you but you were a little quicker. Grabbing his arm, you pulled him down until he was flat on his back with you straddling his waist—his hard cock pressed right against your clothed cunt, just waiting to be released.
Leaning down, you captured him in another kiss while he captured your ass in his grip.
“Damn I love this ass….” He murmured into your lip lock which made you giggle.
After deeming him throughly kissed, you sat up to take in his flushed face and reddened lips. Perfect.
“Forgive me yet?”
He hummed, fingers playing with the hem of your top. “Maybe after you take this off.”
Ever so compliant, you gripped both sides of your shirt and pulled it over your head to reveal your bare breasts to Jungkook. His eyes could have popped out of his head, the groan he let out a mixture of arousal and slight irritation.
“You’re not wearing a bra?”
Shrugging one shoulder, you simply answered, “I knew I was coming here. What’s the point? Do you want to know if I’m wearing underwear?” That cheeky smile answered the question for him and it only sunk him further into the already unhealthy infatuation he had with you.
Gripping your ass, he roughly grinded your cunt down on his erection. The friction made both of you gasp, the air starting to feel electric as desperation began eating at both of you.
It didn’t take long for both of you to undress each other. Jungkook helped you wiggle out of those tiny shorts you wore, letting out a curse as a little drip of sticky arousal snapped back against your inner thigh. Sitting up, he grabbed the back of his shirt to pull it over his head and toss it somewhere in the room. Now you could feast your eyes on the hard planes of his body and trace your fingers those intricate tattoos that marked up his skin.
Leaning down once again, you trailed kisses from that sweet spot on his neck, down his chest and over his abs until you reached your destination. Your eyes never left his as you began your descent, hands tugging at the waistband of his jeans to pull them down and Jungkook helped kick them off. You licked your lips at the sight of Jungkook’s hard cock slapping against his abs once you freed it from the confines of his pants . He could see that hungry look in your eye, smirking as he took hold of his erection and began lightly pumping it; a motion that drove you fucking crazy was watching him stroke himself. It just did something to you.
“You want it, bug?” He teased to which you nodded frantically.
“Yes, baby. Give it to me.” Opening your mouth, you held your tongue out to lick at it, Jungkook hissing at the contact. He slapped it against your wet muscle a few times before letting the tip slip in your mouth. You immediately wrapped your lips around it, suckling at it like a desperate whore. Which you were but only for him. No one else could make you act like this.
You replaced his hand with your own, licking and spitting all over his cock to lubricate it. Taking him down your throat, you began bobbing your head up and down, making sure to twist your wrist just the way he liked it.
Jungkook let out a series of low moans, curses, and the tiniest of whines everytime you went down. One hand gripped at the ponytail you put your braids up in and one hand behind his head, he let you take the lead. You knew just how he liked it, just the way to flick your wrist and tighten your throat to throw him over the edge in minutes.
Coming off him with a wet cough, you continued to stroke his cock, your spit soaking your own hand but that only helped the glide. Your hazy and hungry eyes stared right into his, your chin and mouth soaked in saliva. “I love this cock so fucking much.” You gasped before taking it back down your throat and bobbing your head.
Tossing his head back, Jungkook let out a strangled moan, forcing your head down. You let him, of course, relaxing your throat so he could fuck up into your mouth.
“Come sit on my face, baby. Right fucking now.” He demanded.
Pulling off him a little, you maneuvered your body until your pussy was right over his face—69 style. He gripped both of your ass cheeks in his palms, pulling you down until he could suck your neglected clit into his mouth.
You let out a sharp gasp around his cock, finally getting some type of relief. Sucking his cock made you a different type of horny and he could see that with the way your cunt was dripping.
His mouth and tongue started going crazy, ravenous as he alternated between sucking and licking, making sure to dip his tongue in your opening every once in a while. His hands continued to slap and grip at your ass, one wandering sometimes to pull your slippery lips apart so he could really get in there.
His hand trailed down from your ass to your tight opening, squeezing a finger into your spasming walls. He located that sweet spot with practiced ease, slipping in another finger in beside it and stretching your snug cunt open. The squelching of your walls was like music to his ears, adding to the salacious ‘gluck gluck’ noises your throat was making as you swallowed his cock.
Since you were horny on your way here, it didn’t take long for that feeling to start burning hot in your belly.
You pulled off his cock but continued to stroke him, your cheek resting against his thigh as high pitched moans left your lips.
Jungkook flattened his tongue, his grip on your ass guiding you to rut against his face. The fat of your ass almost suffocated him but Jungkook couldn’t imagine going out any other way. He hooked his fingers right into your gspot, your eyes rolling back and head hanging low as you used him for your pleasure.
“Oh yes! Oh yes, daddy! You’re gonna make me cum!” Lifting your head, you took his cock back into your mouth, burying it all the way to the hilt in your throat. Jungkook’s hips jumped, him groaning against your clit, the vibrations sending shocks right through you.
A few swallows around his cock and a few more jabs to that spot inside of you and both of you were cumming. Your body tensed, hips rutting faster against his face to ride it out. He thrusted his hips up once, twice, three times before letting out a drawn out moan as he pumped his release down your waiting throat. Your body shivered as buzzing pleasure raced down your back and to your toes. You don’t think you’ve had an orgasm like that since…….three days ago when Jungkook ate you out in his car after he had to pick you up because you forgot to get gas.
Amazing car head aside, the party wasn’t over yet.
“Sit on it, bug. Hurry.” Jungkook rushed you, tapping your ass a few times, his breath labored and tone dripping with desperation.
Good thing you were just as eager because you crawled forward on your weak knees until he was lined up with your entrance. Reaching between your legs, you held his wet cock steady as you slid down on it. Jungkook’s hands held your ass cheeks apart to watch, eyes blurring slightly as your hot, tight, and gushing walls wrapped around him. You weren’t faring much better, your head knocking back as his thick cock stretched you to your limits. It didn’t matter how many times you had taken his cock, the pure g i r t h always knocked the breath out of you. This is why you couldn’t leave him alone, his cock was just too fucking good. You’d be damned if you ever let someone else take it from you.
Once you were settled to the hilt, your body leaned all the way forward to rest between his legs and you began bouncing your ass on his cock.
Jungkook was mesmerized by how your fat ass rippled and moved against his pelvis. At this moment, he didn’t give a damn how many women you threatened or how much you pissed him off; just the sight of your ass and the feeling of your juicy cunt wrapped around him was enough to make him remember another reason why he couldn’t let you the hell go. He loved your pussy too much. And if that wasn’t enough, the sight of that tiny ‘♡JK’ tatted on your left ass cheek certainly let him know.
Jungkook’s hands came down to slap repeatedly on your bouncing ass. “Faster baby. Fuck, this ass is so good!” The seat of your ass was wet from a combination of spit and cum, the wet slapping noises filling the space. Your moans were in competition with the clapping of your ass, your cheek pressed against the sheets and your nails digging into his calves.
“Ahhh! This cock is so b-big,” you whine, “love it so much…..right there….! Oohhhh-ohhhh fuck!”
Lifting up a little and adjusting your knees to a better position, you began throwing yourself down on his cock, the head brushing against every spot you had and sending you reeling. You’d come all the way up until just the tip was inside before slamming back down, the bed shaking underneath the force. Jungkook’s toes curled, your cunt gripping him tighter than a vice.
He was about 98% sure his soul left his body, eyes rolling and head knocking back against the pillows as his lungs struggled for air.
Not able to hold it anymore, Jungkook was quickly flipping your positions. Now it was your turn to be on your back, your legs spread in a wide V shape, his cologne invading your senses and his lips covering yours. He was everywhere, all over you. Your skin was on fire from his touch, sweat soaking your back and air becoming sparse as he kissed away what little oxygen you had left. You were obsessed with him. He was yours as you were his. Nothing would ever change that.
His cock buried itself back into your walls, a deep moan of pleasure getting caught in your throat once he began jackhammering into you. Your hands gripped the bottom of your feet, keeping them apart so he could continue to plow into your soft spot. His hips moved like a well oiled machine, making noisy contact with your ass with every thrust.
Your mouth dropped open, “oh my…..fffucking g-god…!” Tears welled up in your eyes as blinding pleasure spread over every nerve in your body.
Jungkook grunted, his own pleasure peaking at the sight of your fucked out face.
“Yeah? You about to cum? Are you gonna what the fuck I say and stop acting so fucking jealous? Huh?” Drool dripped down the sides of your mouth as you tried to form sentences but hurried ‘yes yes yes’ were the only words you could manage. “How many times do I have to fuck you before you get that through your thick head? I only want you. Fuck you push my fucking buttons but I know it’s just because you want me to fill up this tight cunt, isn’t that right?” A slap came across your cheek, orgasm crashing into your body without warning from the sudden strike.
Jungkook could feel wetness soaking his pelvis and cock, jaw tightening as he began moving even harder—the headboard knocking into the wall so hard that he doesn’t think he’ll get his security deposit back for this place.
“Juicy fucking cunt squirting all over me. Mhmmmm….I’m gonna fill this pussy up. You want that? Want me to send you home with my cum running down your legs?”
Your ears were ringing, his dirty talk propelling you right into another endless orgasm, your toes curling in the air as blissful overstimulation began to take over.
Jungkook wasn’t far behind, a few more thrusts and he was burying himself deep in your sopping cunt. His cock throbbed inside you, the thickness pressing right into your abused gspot. Your hands released your feet to scramble against his back, sharp acrylics digging into his skin and making him hiss in slight pain.
“Ohhhhhh shittttttt….fuck baby,” He groaned out as he pumped creamy ropes inside your clenching pussy, your spasming walls sucking him in and milking him for everything he was worth.
Both of you collapsed from exhaustion, Jungkook’s face planting itself in your breasts and your legs falling weakly to the bed with a light thump. Only the sounds of your heavy breathing filled the room, both of your hearts beating wildly as you two came down.
~
“So am I forgiven?” You asked as you two soaked in the tub, the scent of an apple scented bath bomb wafting around the room.
Jungkook was behind you, head leaned back against the wall as he tried not to fall asleep. “I guess so. Just stop doing that, okay? It’s so embarrassing.”
“Deal.”
A beat of silence washed over the room, just the sound of water lapping against the sides of the tub filling the space.
“One more time.” You suddenly said.
“Huh?”
“You asked me how many times do you have to fuck me before I get it through my thick head to stop being jealous. I think one more will do the trick.”
Jungkook let out a chuckle, opening his eyes only to find your beautiful irises staring back at him with that playful and lustful glint.
“You’re impossible.” He scoffed with an endearing shake of his head.
“But you love me.”
“Yeah, I do.”
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
fever pitch
✩ mark x reader | pro baseball player!mark | fluff | smut | 8.4k
SUMMARY | your world is shaken up (literally) when you meet the handsome man guilty of the accidental baseball smack to your head. after a comforting meet-cute and realization that he’s the city’s ace pitcher, you two go on a date. and by the end of the night, mark thinks he’s falling for you faster than any pitch he’s thrown before.
WARNINGS | sexual content (near the end), arm riding (iykyk), breast/nipple play, oral sex (m and f receiving), fingering, piv sex, some drinking // this is 80% fluff-20% smut (with lots of corny writing); there's actually not too much baseball mentioned, but i did a little research on it; however, inaccuracies may be inevitable!
RATING | mature
AUTHOR'S NOTE | i am sorry this is so late </3 i hope y'all enjoy! please also check out (and maybe send in some prompts to) @nctpromptmeme!
TAGLIST | @curieouscapt @dearlyminhyung @infnteen
Under the warm, summer sun, you beam as you walk towards your close friend, Chenle, and his dog, Daegal.
Shining back, he nods in hello to you with sunglasses pressed against his face. The teacup Bichon by his side wags its tail and pants happily at the sight of you, but is easily distracted the next second due to the park’s stimulating surroundings.
Dogs running amok, families having picnics, kids chasing each other in circles, friends playing baseball—
Specifically, a group of absolutely stunning men playing, as if a model catalogue exploded onto the field across from you.
But one in particular catches your eye.
Kind eyes shine behind wire-framed glasses, paired with a wide smile. His soft hair bounces with his light jog across the area.
In his fitted white tee, he ends up in one spot and continuously throws the ball into his mitt. The game seems to be on hold as he speaks to a teammate. Absentmindedly, he rolls his arm sleeves up, revealing lean, yet defined muscles.
You silently gasp, struck by the beautiful sight, then gulp at the flexing of his biceps when he continues tossing the ball. His teammate must’ve told him a joke since the attractive figure throws his head back in joy.
And this is the exact moment you go into cardiac arrest because his laugh is the last straw of what you can handle from this man.
Suddenly, the sound of your name shakes you out of your daze and reminds you to breathe.
“Okay, which one of these guys is the one who made you do a full stop in the middle of the grass?” Chenle asks, coming up beside you.
Daegal welcomes you with loving rubs against your leg. You squat to pet her, but your eyes are still honed in on the handsome stranger. The teams seems to be switching now when someone hands the bespectacled man a bat.
Your friend tracks your line of sight and nods, impressed. “Okay, he’s cute. Your distractedness will be excused this time.”
Scoffing, you shove his leg lightly and he giggles in return. After a few more moments of gawking, Chenle wonders, “Why do I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere?”
Standing up, you reply, “Probably comes here often with his friends when you walk Daegal?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I feel like I know him from somewhere else...”
Deciding you should probably drag your attention away and not be a blatant creep, you begin to walk away backwards, heading towards the ice cream cart before the line-up becomes as long as the field.
“Want your usual?”
“Yes, please!”
However, Chenle’s brightness fades instantly, jaw falling and eyes widening. You’re about to turn around to see what caused his change of expression when you hear a piercing—
“WATCH OUT!”
With a throbbing in your head, you wake up, squinting at the blinding rays. Coming into view, the cute guy from before replaces the sun’s spot, staring down at you with concern written all over his face.
“Oh, my God,” he pants. His hands shake in front of him. “I am so, so, so, so sorry.”
You roll your eyes a bit, trying to center your vision. Groaning, you ask, “What happened?”
“I, uh...” The individual’s mouth, slightly open with gritted teeth, pulls to one side as he runs a hand through his hair, “may have batted the ball and it coincidentally went straight for your head.”
Carefully, he helps lift your upper body off the ground. He asks if you’re okay, and you nod. But a grimace comes after, causing the stranger’s frown to deepen.
“Maybe we should get you to the hospital. You might have a concussion.”
All of a sudden, he inches closer and gingerly runs his thumb over the source of the throbbing. It’s likely all in your mind, but you swear the pain lessens from his touch. You tilt your head further, angling into his palm and embracing the comforting gesture.
“I’ll obviously cover all the bills—”
You cut him off with a slow lift of your hand. “No. I’m okay, I’m okay.”
You know you’ll definitely be more than okay if you can steal some more time with his magical touch.
Continuing, you say, “And that’s too much. If anything, you can buy some ice cream for me and my friend.”
Glancing around for Chenle, you find him, crouching like the stranger, but a few feet away. With a raised corner of his mouth, you deduce he’s deliberately giving space for you to interact with Mr. Handsome Baseball Hitter.
Said handsome baseball hitter chuckles. Hearing it tugs at your chest, even harder now that you can experience it up close.
“I’ll buy you a thousand ice creams to make it up to you.” He retreats his hand and you don't hold back pouting from the fleeting contact you already miss. “But seriously, if there’s any long-term side effects, please reach out to me and I’ll pay for any expenses that come your way.”
“How would I know how to reach out to you?”
He rambles the following matter-of-factly, “Well, you can find my manager’s information online, there’s the team’s Twitter account”—he looks up cutely in thought—“and I guess I’ve been kinda active on Instagram—”
You tilt your head in confusion. What is this guy going on about?
“Okay,” you interrupt, “but who are you?”
His face flips through a few emotions in the span of seconds, but they’re unreadable. Finally landing on a grin, he says, “I think what’s more important is: do you know who you are?”
“Yeah, I’m—” And you properly introduce yourself.
“Good,” he says, “so we’re not dealing with amnesia.”
Your cheeks rise at his humour. Saying your name warmly, he adds, “Nice to meet you, I’m Mark.”
He lends out a hand for you to shake and you do so. With help from his knees, he rises upward, aiding you to stand on your feet in the process.
“Mark,” you repeat his name aloud, locking eyes with him, “the baseball batter with the strength of a thousand suns.”
At the odd line, you catch yourself, thinking how the injury must’ve loosened your filter. He laughs at the lengthy label. “You should see me pitch.”
You shake your head. “Nu-uh, nope,” you playfully say. “I’m going to be safe and stay far, far away from that sexy arm.”
Both you and Mark’s eyebrows rise at the remark.
Yep, definitely a loose filter. Maybe you really do have a concussion.
While Mark breaks out into a pleased smile, you snap your eyes shut, wanting to run away. Or disappear, if at all possible. “Strong, strong. I meant strong...”
Avoiding eye contact, you hurry and make way to a now standing Chenle. Trying to leave the embarrassment behind, you grumble, “Chenle, let’s get going.”
Your friend smirks and whispers by your side, “You sure you don’t want to dig your grave even further?” You attempt to elbow him, but he’s too quick and avoids it.
“It was nice meeting you, Mark,” you call out over your shoulder as you walk away. “Thanks for looking out for... my head?”
Cringe falls over, making you pick up your pace. Time to officially stop talking.
Chenle turns away, his body shaking as he releases a snicker into his fist.
“Again, I’m really, really sorry!” Mark apologizes in a shout. You can hear the sincerity in his voice, and also recognize his voice as the one who warned you to watch out before the incident occurred. “If you need to find me, I’ll be here over the next couple of weekends!”
When you’re far away enough from the scene of the crime, you smack Chenle in the arm. In response, Daegal chirps a bark at you. “You just had to watch me make a complete fool out of myself back there.”
He lovingly places an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into him. “I mean, Daegal’s great and all, but if anyone has any entertainment value out of the three of us here, it’s going to be you.”
You groan at his harsh, yet true, words.
“Your head good though?”
You note how the throbbing is barely there anymore. Touching the spot, you wince. At most, there’s likely just a bruise. “Yeah, it’s good.”
In a hopeful tone, Chenle sing-songs, “Think you wanna come to the park again with me next weekend?”
Reflecting on what Mark said, you ponder if he really meant it about coming to find him if anything was wrong. Even though everything would likely be fine, you’d love to see him again.
But how could you face him after the disaster of your mouth running free? You shake your head in defeat.
On Monday night, the next evening, your phone goes off right as you enter your apartment building. You drag your phone out, eyebrows furrowing at the notification that Chenle’s calling you. When was the last time he’s called you?
Actually, you’re fairly sure he’s never called you. Ever. You pick it up without hesitation.
“Hey, everything okay?”
“Find a TV playing the baseball game,” Chenle pants. “Right now.”
Out of all the things he could call you for, this is what he’s asking you to do? He’s not even into baseball; basketball is the sport he adores to death. “What?”
“Do it,” he orders. “Now!”
“Okay, okay.”
Thankful you haven’t gone up to your apartment yet, you stride over to the little in-house gym in your building near the front entrance. You haven’t used it much since you moved in, but you recall that the TVs usually play either sports or news.
And you remember right, except at the moment, the baseball game is the only event plastered on the screens. Most people in the room are fixated on the game while they’re doing their set or on their respective cardio machine.
“Okay...” you trail in uncertainty. A pitcher from your city’s team throws the ball and the batter misses. The camera cuts to the batter from the opposing team, shaking his head in disappointment. “Why must I need to watch the baseball game so ba—”
The camera’s now on Mark’s face.
The same Mark from the neighbourhood park yesterday, sans the glasses, and in proper baseball gear.
He’s on live, national television, playing baseball in front of the crowd of tens of thousands of people.
From a side angle, all eyes are on him as he tips his cap forward. His eyes mold into slits of concentration, his sharp jaw tightening after a lick of his lips. Sure, he’s different from yesterday’s care-free self, but you’d be lying if you said this serious side of him didn’t turn you on either.
Again, the camera cuts away, to the wide shot from behind him. Besides his great body (especially his gorgeous backside in those snug pants), you revel in the back of his white and dark green trimmed jersey, indicating his last name and his assigned number: Lee. 02.
He winds up for the pitch, raising his leg, and the ball is gone within a blink of an eye, landing directly into the catcher’s glove. The number 98 comes up near a rectangle on-screen, signifying the speed of his throw.
Mark wasn’t lying about his skills; he’s the pitcher with the strength of a thousand suns.
All the screens are filled with Player #02’s glimmer of a smirk, before he quickly stashes it away behind his cap. The camera lingers on him while the commentators in the background talk.
“A great put-out pitch for Lee,” one says. “His fastballs this season have been absolutely remarkable. Another great one from him.”
Cameras switch to another shot of Mark catching the ball, resetting once more for the next batter.
Another commentator supplements, “Aside from the slight hiccup earlier this season, he’s definitely on-track in making his mark on his debut in the league. A rookie ace indeed. It’s no wonder they’ve been calling him ‘The Tiger!’”
Understanding dawns upon you as to why he stated how easy it would be to contact him (and to be able to pay for any potential hospital bills). The city’s new star pitcher—how could you not know him?
“I knew he looked familiar!” Chenle pipes up from the other end, just as Mark’s nice figure takes up the screen once more. Awe and shock consume your voice, and you’re unable to create a coherent reply.
But you don’t need to, not when you have Chenle to talk your ear off about the game, but mostly Mark, for the rest of the night.
The week passes by, with you casually going through Mark’s Instagram (which, as he mentioned, he only occasionally posts on) and watching a few more of Mark’s games with Chenle in tow.
You fawn together over his plays (and his ass) and, despite not knowing much about the game, he must be having a great week from the commentators’ constant praises and the team’s overall wins.
Once Sunday finally arrives though, a wave of nervous anticipation rolls over you.
Because for you, it’s game time.
Sure, you may not have initially wanted to, but now that you know who Mark is, what is there to lose if you step up to the plate and see him again?
The scene of the park is quite similar to last week’s, except for the large presence of people staring at the men, many you recognize from the city’s team from all the games you’ve watched this week, playing baseball on the field. You wonder if you were too caught up with Mark last week because you didn’t notice how everyone else was this enraptured too.
As you stroll closer to the grassy area with Chenle and Daegal hovering behind, the players coincidentally take a breather. Some parents quickly take advantage of the break to bring their children up to receive autographs.
This is perfect timing for you too.
However, you stop in place, debating if this was a good idea to return. You’re surely going to make a fool out of yourself again (this time with no injury to blame) and Chenle, despite his promise of not interfering, will totally budge in and—
And it’s too late to backpedal, because Mark, although distracted by the little cluster of people surrounding him, lifts his head momentarily and his gaze lands directly on you.
Air seizes in your lungs when he flashes you a grin that could compete with the sun. He gives a small nod and wave. Like a star struck fangirl, you glance around to ensure he’s not gifting that nod and wave to anyone else.
But no, you’re not mistaken—his eyes are only on you.
Saying his thanks to his assumed fans, he jogs his way over to you, attired today in a fitted grey-mixed tee, ripped denim jeans, and thicker framed glasses compared to last time.
“Hey,” Mark says, still grinning beautifully. “How’s your head feeling?”
His smile is incredibly infectious. It’s a challenge not to do the same when you’re in the presence of this man. “Better. Had some bruising, but it’s all gone now.”
He nods in response, mumbling a “Good, good” under his breath. With his face turned away, he swipes some hair behind his ear and seems to be preparing himself to say something. But, you will yourself to address the elephant in the room first.
“So, why didn’t you tell me that you were in the major leagues?”
At the unexpected question, Mark darts his head up and draws it back in surprise, his lips pouting adorably. Your heart bursts.
Contrasting his cuteness, you notice the hint of stubble around his mouth. First the pout, now this. You’re captivated by it more than you should be.
He chuckles and lifts a shoulder. “Well, you didn’t ask.”
“I did,” you laugh. “I asked who you were!”
After looking up in thought for a moment, he concedes. “Okay, maybe you did.”
You two laugh in unison, and even when the moment is over, both of you stare into each other's eyes. Time’s filled with comfortable silence and equally comfortable smiles.
Mark breaks the silence, asking, “Are you still wanting to stay safe and far away from my sexy arm?”
“Oh, my God...” you groan, hating to hear the same words that left your mouth from last week.
“No,” he says through another burst of laughter, “it’s a genuine question.”
“I meant to say strong!” you argue petulantly. “I was just a little out of it from the hit, no thanks to you.”
“I know, I know,” he giggles. “I’m genuinely wondering though, cause...” Mark pauses and begins to fidget, this time rubbing the nape of his neck.
You tilt your head, intrigued. “Cause what?”
“Cause, I was, uh, wondering,” he says, eyes averting yours. “Since I owe you for your head injury—”
“You don’t owe me anything—”
“And I know it’s a long shot cause you’re absolutely gorgeous and you’re probably taken—”
This time, you draw your head back in surprise over the compliment and the grand assumption that you’re off the market.
“—but did you wanna go out with me sometime?” His hand moves through his hair before he shyly looks at you again. “Maybe?”
Before you can even process what's happening you hear a "Yes!" behind you, causing you to jolt upright. “Yes, she will absolutely go on a date with you!”
“Chenle!” you gasp, appalled but not surprised, in the direction of your close friend as he nears your side. You face Mark again and gesture in the direction of the incoming intruder. “Don’t mind him.”
As per his charming self, your friend holds out a hand. “Hi, I’m Chenle. Your newest number one fan. Great plays this week, by the way.”
“Mark.” He takes the hand to shake, giving him a small smile. “And thanks.”
Mark’s eyes wander down and notices the dog wagging its tail excitedly. His face lights up. “Aw, who’s this cute little guy?”
“Daegal,” Chenle answers. “She’s my little handful, besides this one.” he says, jerking his head in your direction. Mark's too focused on Daegal to see you slapping her owner in the arm.
Squatting down, he pets the lively dog. You follow suit and crouch down too, watching Daegal gift Mark tons of licks and enthusiastically rubs herself against his hands and arms. She’s never this delighted with strangers usually.
“What do you think, Daegal?” Mark asks, holding eye contact with her as if she could reply, then he glances over at you. “Do you think your friend should go out with me?”
Immediately, she barks happily, causing all three of you to laugh.
“Good girl,” Chenle whispers from above.
Although you pucker your lips playfully at Daegal’s betrayal, you reach out to pet her fondly along with Mark.
“But how will you guarantee my safety from your strong arm?” Your stare lingers on them. Not that he has to know, but you had to make a conscious effort to not say sexy once more.
“I promise I won’t be tossing any more of my balls in your direction,” Mark casually says.
After a pause, your eyebrows raise and his eyes widen.
“Wait, I mean—shit...” he hisses, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Your lips twitch, suppressing a laugh and finding him adorable.
“I know what you mean,” you quickly say, relieving him of his embarrassment.
He shyly glances up at you and you share a comforting look. Suddenly, someone from the field hollers his name. With a small frown, he begins to walk in reverse away from you.
“I probably should get back, but now that you know how to get in touch, message me on Instagram and we can figure out a time that works for our date?”
“Yes, definitely!”
Incredulously, you look up at Chenle for answering on your behalf.
“For sure, Mark,” you say. “Have a great game.” With the way he plays, you know he will.
Chenle and you wave your good-byes to him and watch him retreat to his friends.
“You do know that I'm the one he asked out, right?” you ask as the three of you begin to walk towards to the park's popular ice cream cart, except you're more vigilant this time.
Your friend grabs out cash, ready to pay for your order. Or at least you hope so, for all the trouble he caused.
“Yes, and that's why I will live vicariously through you!”
After messaging him over the last week (with Chenle hovering over your shoulder and backseat driving many of the messages), Thursday really couldn't come fast enough for your date with Mark.
As you step out of your apartment complex, your jaw drops and an impressed smile fills your face.
In a green bomber, black tee, and skinny jeans, Mark coolly pulls up on a red Ducati motorbike. You recall seeing a post or two on his Instagram with it, but it takes you by surprise to see it in-person.
He takes off his helmet and runs fingers through his hair, attempting to ruffle out the messiness. You're a little envious of how good he looks, even with messy hair.
Your date takes in your outfit—an off-the-shoulder floral dress that teeters the lines of being cute and sexy simultaneously—and beams.
“Wow,” he says, mouth agape. “You look gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” you say, then make an over-the-top attempt to check him out. “You don't look so bad yourself.”
After a moment of shared smiles, he tilts his head towards his mode of transportation. “Hope this isn't too daunting.”
You shake your head. “Not at all.”
As Mark helps you with your helmet, now that you're up-close, you notice he's clean-shaven, unlike the other times you've seen him, and you presume he opted for contacts for tonight.
You also can't help but relish in the proximity of his hands near your face, flashing previously to the first time you met only a couple of weeks ago.
Once he's done, you ready yourself for the ride by wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, holding onto him snugly.
He twists around with his visor open.
“Ready?”
You respond with a squeeze around his waist and a nod, so he closes his visor and you're off through the nightscape of the city.
Everything passes by in a blur, but when there are the occasional moments when he slows down or stops at the red lights, you drink in how beautiful your city is.
On the other hand, you're dying to know what Mark planned for tonight. He gave you a vague idea—dinner, a small post-dinner activity (no balls involved, Mark promised), and dessert—but that's all.
In a nicer part of the city, he stops and parks in front of a bumbling Italian restaurant.
Once inside, Mark gives his name to the greeter, stating how he has a reservation, and a sweet host immediately leads you to your table. As you walk through the restaurant, you admire its warm atmosphere with dim lights and candles spread everywhere, along with the many other couples eating their dinner.
The host stops in front of a secluded semi-circular plush booth. You shimmy in, and Mark follows. Both of you sit comfortably close near the middle of the booth.
Despite how much you have been talking through DMs over the last week, as first dates often go, conversation is awkward at first.
However, as dinner progresses and the extravagant wine (Mark insisted, “Only the best for my date, please.”) makes its way through your systems, it gets easier.
You learn more about his family, his team, and his love for reading. For him, he learns about your friends, your job vs. dreams constant conflict, and your love for music.
The easiness also goes beyond words. Underneath the table, your legs brush up against one another's. You throw your head back in laughter, and you bravely touch his forearm in response. Mark even leans in close to your body, sometimes the edge of your shoulders gently pressing into the other.
By the end of dinner, being the gentleman he is, Mark doesn't even let you glance at the check and pays it all without hesitation. Then, you're outside and on his motorbike again, off to the mysterious post-dinner activity.
When he reaches a particular end of town where there isn't much around except one place, you have an inkling where you're about to go.
Once you're there and parked, your hunch is answered correctly, but you realize something.
“Isn't the aquarium closed at this hour?”
He shrugs nonchalantly and begins to usher you forward with a hand lingering at your lower back. Whispering into your ear, he says, “I may have booked it privately for tonight.”
As you walk through, Mark and you stick to each other's side, shoulder to shoulder, and switch between revealing more about yourselves while reading and conversing about the informational signs on the aquatic creatures.
Both of you stop in front of the main showcase of the aquarium: the large tank that houses two beluga whales.
Mark leans in a bit closer to the tank, catches sight of one of them in a corner, and points it out to you. As he straightens, you feel the back of your hand brush up against his.
“You’re quite the romantic,” you state while glancing at the tank, almost as low as a whisper. Even with nobody around, there's something so serene about the aquarium that makes you want to be respectfully quiet. "Does everyone get this first-date, first-class experience from you?”
“Only the girls who get hit on the head by me,” he teases in a whisper, making you softly chuckle.
After a moment passes as you watch the tank, hoping and waiting for the beluga whales to move to where you're standing, Mark asks, “Would it be surprising to say I don’t go on dates as often as you think?”
Your eyes dart toward him, but you quickly keep your gaze fixated back on the tank. You nod. “A little.”
He hums, followed by a lengthy sigh. You can sense a shift in him. You hear how it's laced with sadness, maybe even a little regret.
“I’ve been working so hard to get to this point and of course being drafted’s been so worth it, but it also meant that I had to sacrifice some things along the way. But now that I’m finally here”—you feel his gaze now directed on you—“I definitely can rearrange my time for other things.”
Your breathing slows as you turn to face him.
Courageously, Mark intertwines his hand with yours and his free one raises, caressing the bare skin of your upper arm. The contact makes you gasp and hold your breath.
He drags himself forward, as do you, and his hand is about to cup your face...
Until the two belugas are now your front-row audience, glancing at you as if they were smiling.
You both chuckle softly and give them a wave, not wanting to lose this rare chance of seeing them this close.
And although the special moment has passed, you two finish off the marine life tour with your hand in his.
Once outside, Mark leads you somewhere nearby. After about ten minutes of walking, you're standing on a large cliff with a scenic view of the city. You've never seen the city from this height before, and all its twinkling lights and the starry sky beckon you.
An ice cream truck is also coincidentally there, and you assume Mark booked it for your date tonight.
You two grab your waffle cone orders and sit down on a wooden bench that overlooks the view.
“So,” you say, licking the cone on its side to avoid the ice cream from dripping down your hand, “does this go towards the debt of you hitting my head?”
“Of course,” he nods with his signature smile, doing the same as you and trying to avoid his sweet treat from melting. “It'll be one ice cream out of the many future thousands.”
The implication that there’ll be more than just this date hangs in the night air, almost as if it's a promise, and you really hope it'll be true.
At the very least, it feels true as you peer over your city, leaning your head onto Mark's shoulder while he casually drapes an arm around you.
Getting off the motorcycle, Mark walks you to the front door of your place and you don't even think twice about asking if he wants to come in. He says yes a little too enthusiastically, making you giggle, but it confirms that neither of you want the night to come to an end just yet.
Mark hangs his jacket as you grab beers from the fridge. Both of you make talk for some time on your couch, but the energy in the room is buzzing, especially since the almost-kiss.
The second you gravitate towards Mark, he rushes to wrap an arm around your waist and his free hand cups your face, dragging you in for the first kiss that's been itching to happen.
His lips are dangerously soft, addictive really. You swear he tastes like cherry (could be from the food earlier or maybe a lip balm flavour, you wonder).
It's a slow, yet deep, start. In the beginning, the kissing is with intent, wanting to know what each other tastes like. Naturally, the curiosity evolves into exploration, with Mark cautiously dipping his tongue into your mouth. You react with zeal, swiping your tongue against his and even experiment sucking on it. He shudders at the sensation.
Mark holds you close throughout, but your bodies move into a new position, letting you sink comfortably into your couch beneath him.
Here, passion rises. He grips your waist, whilst his body presses into yours, and he begins to trail down your neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses. Although it's already off your shoulders, he drags a sleeve of your dress further down, hungry to kiss as much of your bare skin as he possibly can.
Your fingers tangle in his hair and you arch into him, embracing his clear desire against you. You're falling and falling and falling, becoming more drunk with every touch and kiss from Mark. Ever since the first day you met, you couldn't help but yearn for his touch. Now, having a taste of him like this, you're desperate to experience more.
Although you're underneath him, you decide to take hold of the kissing. When he takes a breather for an instant, you steal the chance and fervently kiss along his jaw and rugged neck. Mark moans, gripping your waist harder, and grinds into you, his hardness dying to be free.
Shockingly, he suddenly tears away, sitting up and panting. Confused, you mirror him.
“Should we stop?” he asks. “Like, I know I might be being presumptuous, but I don’t wanna ruin our potential next date if we rush too soon?”
It melts your heart that he retracted because he's concerned over your potential future. You delicately rearrange some of his loose hair stuck to his forehead. “If you want to stop, we can.”
He pouts, reminding you of him previously at the park, followed by a cute whimper.
“But I don’t want to stop...” he laugh-smiles, leaning into you, about to drive his mouth into yours again.
“Neither do I.”
And with that, Mark makes the split-second decision to continue this good thing and not look back. Once again, he's leaving love upon your shoulders, at a measured pace currently, and he carefully lowers your dress. Drooping off your shoulders, you let it drop and bunch around your stomach.
Surprise is written on his face, as you didn't wear a bra underneath your dress, but the surprise quickly dissipates into enthrallment over the beautiful sight.
He lowers himself, mouth traversing across your chest while his free hand gently massages one of your breasts. You succumb to the rising pleasure, curving into him again.
When he arrives at one tip of yours, he looks up and asks, his voice low and gravelly, “Can I...?”
You whimper-nod, already on the verge of begging him to take the next step.
It kills you that he teases first, merely pecking the surrounding area and your tip; his mouth leaving goosebumps in its wake. Your patience grows thin.
“Mark, please, just—”
Air is depleted as his tongue swipes against your nipple in a broad stroke. He then wraps his mouth around it, sucking firmly. The other hand that was kneading your other breast turns to focus on your nipple, pinching it between his index finger and thumb.
The more he sucks, the more you hear the wet puckering of his lips, the more it makes you clench tighter. Bliss begins to boil in your abdomen when he flicks his tongue and mimics the same on your other tit with the pad of his thumb.
Your breathing grows heavier, and you sense you're close, but Mark abruptly stops. You're about to speak up, believing he'd be the type to finish you off if you ask, until you realize he's kneeling on the floor in front of you and stripping off his t-shirt.
With your help, Mark eases your dress to the floor and places it safely on the coffee table. Focusing on you, his gaze is dripping of lust—so carnal, so different than his regular self.
As Mark advances to your heat, your palms graze over his defined shoulders and back. He parts your legs further with his hands wrapped around your inner thigh.
“Wearing panties?” he inquires, his finger pulling the fabric a bit to the side.
“Huh?”
“No bra, but panties?” he smirks, making you realize the joke.
You roll your eyes and relax momentarily, leaning your head back. “Are you into that? No panties underneath?”
“Could be hot,” he shrugs, tugging your underwear to your calves and tossing them off to the side.
“Maybe one date I can do th-ah—”
Without warning, he dives in, one his hands now grasping you by your lower back, and you lurch forward to get a good view of his head between your legs. You've got a grip on his shoulder, the other tugging at his hair.
His tongue laps at your folds with agility, figures out what you like or don't like. There isn't much you don't like, Mark deduces. Languid licks. Penetrating patterns. Fast flicks.
You respond eagerly to them all with harsh tugs to his hair, notably when he spreads your folds to devour you entirely. The hair pulling hurts a bit, but he doesn't mention anything; he likes it a little rough.
Despite the positive reactions, he can tell you've been at a simmer with his moves, not quite reaching close to a high. He withdraws his mouth, and, through your hazy vision, you catch sight of his honeyed lips.
But your eyes blow wide open and an acute moan dispels as your lover of the night fills you with his fingers, alongside his licking of your clit.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Following a few more minutes of scissoring and a few sucks to your bundle of nerves, he asks, breathing into your inner thigh, “Does this feel good, gorgeous?”
Your lip is drawn between your teeth, digging so hard from the pleasure you wonder if it'll bleed soon. “Mm-hmm.”
“Good,” he says, kissing your thigh tenderly, “'cause I'm gonna need you to remember how good tonight is so you'll keep coming back for more.”
Not gonna be a problem, you think, but all you could muster is senseless panting.
“You close?”
You can barely release a whimper out to respond, and Mark orders you to tell him when you're near.
It doesn't take long to get there. The warmth in your abdomen encapsulates your body and your hips rut upward frantically, desiring your climax to take authority.
“Mark, Mark, Mark. Fuck, I'm close, I'm—”
Immediately, he stands up, fingers still inside you and somehow impaling you further and faster while his thumb lazily strokes at your clit when possible, and his ardent kiss is the needed catalyst to take you over the brink. Simultaneously, the kiss swallows your bountiful whines.
When you finally come down from your high, you kiss him deeply and feel him through his jeans against you.
“Let's take this to the bedroom, I need to grab—”
“Should I run to the pharmacy to—?”
In tandem, you chuckle over how in sync you are, and tip your perspired foreheads against the other.
Holding his hand, you lead him to your bedroom. You turn on your bedside lamp and gesture to the tissues, so he can clean his hands. You then bound to your bedroom bathroom and fumble around to find your condom packs somewhere in a drawer.
Upon your return, you're graced with the sight of Mark sitting naked on the edge of your bed, stroking himself. You almost salivate.
God, he's bigger than you expected, and that's only one part of his magnificent body. You didn't have the opportunity before to admire his muscular abs, but you take every chance to do so now. The way his arm flexes with each stroke. And those thighs...
“Sorry,” he murmurs and shyly shrinks a bit, in contrast to his lewd action, “hope it's okay that I took my pants off already.”
He really is quite endearing. Maybe even a little perfect.
“There is absolutely nothing to apologize for, Mark.”
You place the condoms onto your bedside table, but are so absorbed with Mark's cock and existence. Entranced, it's your turn to drop to your knees.
Fingers wrap around his cock, and Mark's groans rise. You delve in your enthrallment for a bit, squeezing and stroking to your heart's content until you finally decide to ease him into your mouth.
Your tongue works wonders, tasting the underside of his length with every bob of your head. Meanwhile, his hands lazily thread through your hair and he watches attentively.
More saliva develops and drips, especially when you relax your mouth to let him hit the back of your throat. Obscene slurps accompany his delicate moans, both of which permeate the room in melodious unity.
As his threading develops into tight pulls of your hair, you detract yourself to avoid the night ending right then and there.
Since he's still sitting on the side of the bed, you sit onto his lap with a plan to abate and elongate the tension. You're back to kissing him, allowing both parties' hands to roam each other.
“I love your arms,” you mumble into his mouth as you reach for them.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, “I know you love my sexy arms.” You punch him teasingly.
But an idea flickers in your head. You halt your actions.
“This might be weird to ask, but could I...” you trail off, picking at your hands, realizing maybe you shouldn't finish your question.
“Hey,” he whispers, holding your chin in his hand. “You can ask me anything, beautiful.”
You hesitate with closed eyes.
“Could I... ride your arm?”
Peeking a nervous eye open, an evidently puzzled Mark stares back at you.
“I—What? Sure?” His voice raises in octaves.
Embarrassed, you try to wave it off. “Never mind that I asked.”
“No, hey,” he says, his palm caressing the side of your face and angling it towards him. “I'm flattered and obviously, nobody has ever asked to ride my arm before. But if you want to give it a go, by all means, I'm open to it.”
“Yeah?”
Mark gives you the sweetest smile and a reassuring nod. “Yeah.”
Since you suggested it, you lead him to lay on the bed, more in the centre so there'd be enough room for you to sit. He watches you gingerly lift his hand near head-level, as if he's almost flexing to show-off or about to lay his head on his palm.
Carefully, you sit onto his left arm, facing the direction of his body. At the contact, you shudder. “Is this okay?”
He agrees, enticed by your ass near his face and the general exquisiteness of your being. “You can put more weight on it, it's okay.”
You comply, relishing in the pressure of his arm against you. After becoming more comfortable and placing most of your weight to an arm on the bed, you slowly rub yourself upon his arm.
Mark's fascinated by this foreign act, eyes watching your every move. With his free hand, he touches himself.
His favourite part about you riding his arm? The look on your face—fluttering eyes paired with your lip biting—and the fact that you find him this attractive, that using him this way can simply get you off.
“This okay still?” you breathe.
“Fuck yeah.” He squeezes himself harder. He knows the answer to the next question, but he wants to hear it from you directly. “Does it feel good for you?”
You assent with a sharp moan. Without notice, you lick your palm with the intent of reaching over to grab his cock. At first, he's confused when he notices your hand, but he happily lets you handle him.
“Oh, God,” Mark pants.
You fasten your pace on his arm, grinding greedily against him. As you do so, your arm attempts to match the pace for his desire.
“Fuck,” Mark twists his head to look at your hips, tries to focus on how wet you are amidst his own pleasure, “you really do love my arms...”
It's a sweet dream for you—no, sweeter than any dream or fantasy could ever be. This is real, this spectacular sensation spreading all over and it's all thanks to his arm. Your body winds up, tighter and tighter, and you eventually break, chasing your second orgasm of the night.
Cleaning your mess up, you wipe his arm fast, keen on what's about to happen next. You then draw him into your mouth a bit to get him up again before rolling the condom onto him.
Once the rubber is on, you tease him from above, sliding the tip of his cock against your pulsing centre.
Mark may be a gentleman, but a gentleman can only be patient for so long. He seizes his possession and you gasp as he holds you by your hip, forcing you to sit down onto him.
The feeling is heavenly, stretching you sweetly. You bounce on his cock, and the sounds from you two are louder than from before. There's a small voice inside your head, worried about a noise complaint from your neighbours, but future you could deal with that.
Right now, it's all about Mark. He plays with your breasts with every move you make, while you fondle his abs and arms. Both of you try your best to look at one another through the pleasure, but it's difficult when you're floating higher and higher.
He then clasps your lower back and skillfully rises upward with the help of his strong abs. This position provides an angle for him to do all the work to thrust into you, as well as continuing to rub your breasts and even suck on them again.
At this point, you're in absolute state of frenzy, drowning in all the stimulation. Mark's underwater, right there with you too.
He pulls away in the midst of licking your nipple, his eyes going round. Nevertheless, you lean into him, your breasts pressed into his face and your mouth hangs.
Together, you cry each other's names and swear in endless spirals and the bliss finally reaches its peak for the evening.
As Mark lays next to you in your bed, observing your peaceful sleeping state, he's obviously amazed by tonight's events, but he’s also unsure what’s in-store for either of you.
There are so many factors at play with his career, you're both essentially still strangers, the future is unknown...
And yet, despite these worries, the feeling blooming in his chest is more than a blossoming liking. It’s akin to the moment he steps up to plate, either ready to bat or pitch. Nervousness, determination, and...
It’s too early to call it, but when he’s around you, he swears it feels a lot like his love for the game.
He shakes his head, not wanting to jump into the deep end this fast. He doesn't want to ruin this good thing prematurely.
Nevertheless, he places one last kiss atop your forehead before he sleeps, praying you'll be a new constant in his life, at least in the near future.
EPILOGUE — FOUR MONTHS LATER
Today is game four of the World Series and your city has won the previous three. If they continue their streak, tonight will be the night where Mark and his teammates take home the championship.
Hours prior to the big game, the teams are having batting practice beforehand to warm-up.
With your chin perched in your palm, you watch Mark closely—of course, safely from a distance and from behind him—and nod with every ball he hits well at the mound. You're seated in the lower area of the stadium among many of the other team members' families and friends, including a gleeful Chenle.
“Stop checking out your boyfriend's ass,” he orders, nudging you with his shoulder as he tosses a piece of popcorn into his mouth.
“You stop checking out my boyfriend's ass,” you retort, nudging him back.
The two of you continue your little nudging contest until he says, “So when you guys get married—”
“Oh, my God, Chenle...”
“I'm just saying, we all know you two are going to have beautiful little baseball player babies! Anyway, as I was saying, when you guys get married, can Daegal be the ringbearer somehow? She's pretty much the reason why you guys got together in the first place.”
You shake your head, eyes still on your love. “Chenle, we'll have that conversation when and if we get there.”
“When we'll get there,” he states confidently, and you laugh, dismissing him.
Sure, it may have been a fresh relationship only four months in, but you couldn't deny that maybe the idea of marriage wiggled its way through your mind here and there. Despite your thoughts, it wasn't at the forefront; you were happy in love with Mark now, here in the present.
Player #02 hands his bat over to another player and jogs towards you. It makes you wonder why he hasn't done an advertisement with slo-mo running and wind blowing through his hair yet.
“How’d I do?” Mark asks, leaning onto the railing next to you. Chenle gives him two thumbs up with a large grin.
“Awesome," you agree. "Did you think about hitting my head with each ball?”
Mark chuckles and juts his tongue to a side of his mouth. “You’re never going to let me live that down, huh?”
“Never,” you quip, scrunching your nose. You reach out for him and hold the tips of his fingers in yours. “You nervous?”
“Yeah,” he exhales, closing his eyes. “More than usual.”
Your fingers progress forward and your thumbs rub the back of his hands lovingly. “You’ll do amazing, like always.”
“You’re too sweet, babe. But this might be the game and I might—”
You cut him off by cupping his cheek in your palms.
“And you are the Mark ‘The Tiger’ Lee”—you tenderly swipe some of his hair away from his face—“top contender for both the Rookie of the Year and CY Young Award. So no matter what happens, you will come out on top.”
In awe and in a little disbelief with how well-put that was, he stares at you with starry, doe-like eyes. He's so grateful to have met you, to have someone so supportive of him in his life.
After a few moments, he concedes. “I had a pretty great run this season, haven’t I?”
You admire how humble your boyfriend always is. It's one of his greatest traits.
“And you have me,” you add jokingly.
He tilts his head side to side. “I guess there’s that too...”
The two of you share a kiss, innocent at first, until he deepens it and you wrap your arms around his neck, which generates some of his teammates to holler and whistle. Likewise, you hear Chenle screech, "Save it for after the win!" and you swear you feel some popcorn being thrown at your back.
Finally, until you're content, you peel away and press your forehead against his.
“Go get ‘em, Tiger,” you whisper.
Mark nods, a little more confident than before. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“So much,” he punctuates it with a loving squeeze to your shoulder.
You don't think you'll see him before the game starts, so you grant him one last good luck kiss.
You wouldn't know it that night, but by the end of the season, Mark would indeed take home the Rookie of the Year and the CY Young Award, being the youngest recipient of both awards.
That evening though, your city's team works in unbelievable harmony (or maybe the opposing team is having its worst day) because the game is a perfect one. Mark shuts out the other team, not allowing them to have any runs whatsoever...
Thus, sealing his first title of being a World Series champion.
But certainly not without his beloved running out into the field to give him a congratulatory hug and kiss among the sea of people.
And at the end of that night in the confines of your bedroom (after earth-shattering celebratory sex), you would find out that Chenle was right (and later, that he was in on it) when Mark, merely in his boxers, gets on one knee with a little opened box in front of you.
He's visibly shaking, and not because he's half-naked. You've never seen him so unnerved. Your love spills the following in almost one breath:
“I know we just started dating, and we can be engaged for, like, ten years or whatever. I just know that, deep down, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and I may have felt this way since our first date. I really, really, really hope you feel the same, even if just a little bit."
Mark takes a deep breath, trying to regain composure for the important question he exhales.
Tears rise in your eyes as an ocean of feelings hit you, but within that ocean, no doubts rise to the surface whatsoever.
All you think about is how you will be forever grateful for the baseball that hit your head on that life-changing day.
You immediately say yes.
#mark lee x reader#mark lee smut#mark lee fluff#mark lee scenarios#mark lee imagines#mark lee fanfic#nct smut#nct fluff#nct imagines#nct fanfic#nct scenarios#nct 127 smut#nct 127 fluff#nct dream fluff#nct dream smut#yn brainrot
4K notes
·
View notes
Text
Quid Pro Quo | Michael Gavey x fem!reader
Summary: After being ditched by her friend at the Trinity College Christmas Party, she finds herself enthralled with learning the language of Michael Gavey | Word Count: 3.8k~ | Warnings below the cut!
Part Two: Carpe Diem
Part Three: Veni, Vidi, Vici
warnings: virgin michael, semi-public sexual conduct, oral sex (m receiving), heavy petting
If she has to listen to Professor Wardon swoon over Ancient Greek and how it ‘drove him to pursue his dreams in extending his passion to other students’, she thinks she might actually fall asleep.
She's in a good spot to do so, nestled between two other students, the one on her right seemingly just as bored as her, and conveniently hidden behind a tall, lanky first year, who sits straight, with his head perfectly obscuring hers as he fixes his posture regularly.
Several times throughout, she's checked her watch, and yet the second hand never seems to move an inch.
Professor Wardon is just about to go on a lovesick spiel about Homeric Greek when the lecture concludes with a heaved sigh from every student as they sling their hefty bags over their shoulders.
“Remember I want 2,500 words on Les Liaisons dangereuses in my pigeon hole by next Thursday, before your Christmas parties!”
“Oh joy,” she sighs with a grin to the girl walking shoulder to shoulder beside her as they leave, feeling noticeably lighter knowing that that's their last lecture before Christmas break.
“Christ, you're telling me. I can't be arsed to even right my own name at the moment, nevermind read 18th century fucking French.”
She gives a snort in reply, “Merry Christmas to us, eh? Should do what the French do and have a revolution or something.”
“Yeah, eat our lecturers or something.”
“Alright, I wouldn't go that far.”
“Anyway, I'm off to T Library, see ya, have a good Christmas and don't do anything I wouldn't!”
She waves her off as her friend disappears, the cold air of the outside nipping at her skin that manages to sneak beneath her coat.
Oxford University is not what she imagined at all. She came here very much feeling like an outsider, like there'd been some sort of paperwork mistake and it was supposed to be someone else in her place.
The imposter syndrome seemed difficult to shift, but she'd at least managed to make a couple of friends since starting in September.
Languages had always found her well, and seemingly the only thing she managed to actually understand. People were inconsistent, cruel and fickle. Languages, though they shifted and changed, were firmly rooted in reason and understanding.
As sad as it sounded, conjugating verbs, vowel shifts and rare dialects were the one thing she found herself itching to discover more about. The idea that there was more to uncover seemed exciting and scary at the same time.
And Oxford University was the best place she could be to do that.
All that said, her eagerness to get involved with her studies had left her social life with much to be desired.
In the first two weeks of university alone, she'd gained one friend and lost a boyfriend. And while they were drifting apart anyway, it was still a relatively large blow to her self-esteem and her confidence to actually get out there, socialise and make the most of her first year of freedom.
The only friends she'd made were those on her course. Priya, who'd just abandoned her to stick her nose in books about the Great Vowel Shift, and Anya, who…to be honest, rarely left her room. Seeming more like a ghost than anything else.
It was a wonder she was still a student, with how often she missed classes.
What Anya does do best, is manage to somehow rise out of her pit to drag her to Christmas parties that aren't even run by their college.
Which is why she finds herself somehow at Trinity College campus, where she eyes several scantily clad women wearing revealing Santa costumes adorned with itchy tinsel.
Anya is the sort of girl who, well, every girl kind of wants to be. So much so she sort of wonders why she hangs around with her. She's pretty, fit and fucking clever. Her only downfall is her taste in men, so often being Oxford pretty boys.
So it is absolutely no surprise at all, when two jägerbombs in, Anya has somehow slipped into the arms of one aforementioned Oxford pretty boy, seeming in every way a clone of the previous, with the exception of the way he pairs his Ayia Nappa top with his low rise jeans and the only effort to conform to theme, is a pair of plastic reindeer antlers on his head bobbling side to side.
She grimaces as she watches them suck each other's faces off in a dark corner of the room, ‘Stay Another Day’ by East 17 blaring with a cheap crackle through the speakers as she makes her way through the bodies to somewhere quiet.
She sighs, nursing the rum and coke Anya had sloppily poured her in one hand as she closes the door behind her, shutting out the drunken squeals and cheers for the peace of a quiet common room.
It's still decorated, she notes, but empty. Maybe she could lurk here until Anya is done, if she ever will be.
The deep clack of a pool ball being sucked into a socket makes her jump, realising perhaps that she was not actually alone, as she'd previously thought.
The cool light hung above the battered pool table illuminates his deep red jumper, and the first thing she sees is the way he leans on one leg, standing straight as if he was imitating the rigid pool cue leant before him. The yellow lined detailing around the cuffs highlights his small wrists and big hands that stretch from it as he rubs blue chalk onto the tip.
Her eyes trail up the back of his neck, past the lazy waves of dark blonde hair, clearly due a trim at some point, and to his face, even from this angle able to see how his features sit. With a sharp nose and jawline, and black skinny glasses perched above his cheekbones.
She almost laughs at the way he's almost as tall as the light that illuminates the table, half-thinking that she might never have seen such a strange and yet interesting looking guy.
“Didn't fancy the party?” she finally says, alerting him to her presence.
She doesn't quite expect the way the light bounces off his sharp features, sinking his blue eyes in shadow as his head turns to her with an expression of boredom.
“Not particularly, no.”
His voice is lighter than she thought it would be and part of her wonders if he's putting it on. He presses his glasses further up his nose before assessing his next shot, stalking around the table.
“Why's that?”
This time, when he answers, he doesn't look at her. He simply leans down, and aims.
“Not. Fucking. Invited,” he replies bitterly, missing a yellow, “that's why.”
Her fingertips moisten against the glass as the ice begins to melt, but she pays it no mind.
“So you're lurking about in here instead.”
He plays with the cue in one hand, barely sparing a second glance, a bitter, quiet laugh escaping him.
He misses another red before he heaves a sigh, straightening to look at her again.
“You here alone as well?” he asks dispassionately.
She smiles lazily and shrugs.
“My mate is…a bit preoccupied, if you know what I mean,” she replies, taking an awkward sip of the now watered down drink, “like you, I don't really think these are my thing either.”
He seems to consider her statement for a moment.
“Why come then?”
She shrugs again, “trying to be sociable.”
“With those vapid cunts? Good luck getting any intelligent conversation out of them.”
She watches as he picks up the blue chalk again, applying more when he doesn't even need it in sort of a nervous gesture, his blue eyes averted and pretending to assess his next move.
There's something about him. How judgemental he is and how he forms his words. Perhaps she hadn't expected this sort of guy to be so outwardly honest with his opinions, and for the most part, she can't say she disagrees with the message, just the way in which he said it.
“Can I play?” She asks, leaning over to put her drink down.
“What are you reading?” He asks so suddenly, and out of context, that she does a double take.
She raises her eyebrows, smiling, “Does my answer depend on if I get to play or not?”
There's no answer from him. Shocker of the century.
“Modern Languages.”
“Fucking hell,” he groans.
She's a bit too happy and dizzy on rum to get defensive.
“Is that one of those subjects that sounds way less interesting than it actually ends up being?”
She gives a breathy laugh, “just like languages.”
He hums, as if the answer didn't impress him, “more of a science and numbers man myself, obviously.”
For a moment, it's lost on her why it's obvious.
He takes a sip of his, no doubt, stale beer, wetting his lips after, “Your name is?”
She narrows her eyes teasingly, smiling as she leans against the table, “quid pro quo.”
She enjoys the brief confusion on his face, before he realises what she's said.
“Okay, okay, Michael.”
She smiles, “See? You know what that meant. Who says you're not a languages man?”
It's the first time he seems to duck his head, hiding a blush she's barely able to see.
“I don’t think the Ancient Roman idea of fair exchange warrants the title of ‘languages man’.”
The blue chalk comes off on his hands as he fiddles nervously with it.
“So, am I bestowed the privilege of playing?”
He raises his head, and she can tell he's trying his damndest to not let a little beer-induced smile pass his lips.
“I suppose I could allow you to embarrass yourself in front of me for a bit, if you insist. We'll have to share a cue though.”
She doesn't have the heart to tell him her uncle was a pool player, and so by extension, has played pool for most of her upbringing. Rather, he finds out himself when she pots three yellows in a row.
It's either the alcohol or pity that kicks in when she misses the fourth, holding the cue for him to take.
“You being good at pool wasn't on my bingo card,” he mutters with some nervous teasing in his voice.
They go back and forth for a bit, missing some, potting some, with interspersed conversation between.
“Thought you might have been a Norman-no -mates, like me,” he says quietly as he watches her assess her next shot. Bending to aim.
“You're not far off,” she replies, “first fortnight I was down a boyfriend. Since then, I've only been up two friends and one of them is in the other room having ditched me for the shag of a lifetime.”
She doesn't see it until after she takes the shot, the way his eyes flit back to hers quickly as she rights herself to stand.
Was he checking me out?
As if he was lagging, he only laughs now at what she's said.
“What about you?” She asks, “no girls, or boys, on the scene?”
He blushes a lot when she asks that. And she can't help the fluttering in her chest she feels that someone might find her attractive.
“Can’t say there is.”
She stands close, passing the cue to him, electricity warming her fingertips as she grazes his.
“And why not?”
He scoffs bitterly, “have you seen me?” he mutters, wandering around the table, suddenly unable to shake the feeling of her gaze, “Not too many girls out there looking for the stereotypical nerdy math boy, really.”
“Hm,” she hums, “how unfortunate for them.”
He sinks a red, picking at his red jumper.
“Yeah, they're clearly missing out, huh?”
The bitter and self-deprecating tone of his voice makes her heart sink a bit. He's not a bad looking guy, she thinks. His style, glasses, hair, she would almost say look actually quite cute.
Maybe that's the thing he doesn't like.
“No interest? Or is maths the only one for you?”
He misses the next shot and sighs, holding the cue for her to take, “clearly, the only one I need.”
She steps close to retrieve, taking her time, looking up at him as she does. At this proximity, Michael sucks in a breath quietly, his lips, which she can't say she'd noticed until right this moment, parting and his Adam's apple bobbing as his eyes flit rapidly down her.
A warmth swirls in her gut at that.
She circles the table, “what about in the past?”
He leans against the other side, his hand on the cushion, long fingers splayed on the green fabric. She has to shake her head to break her own trance.
“Can’t say my love life has exactly been a roaring success, honestly.”
The way he says it.
She wouldn't be surprised if he was…
Oh.
“So what? You're focussed on your studies?”
She misses. Too set on the conversation rather than the game.
He gives a mirthless laugh, “Sure.”
She rounds the table, holding the cue for him to take, but when he reaches for it, she pulls back with a smirk.
“So we've established you're not one for languages,” she starts, and Michael furrows his brows in confusion, “have you ever really asked for what you want? Ever?”
He seems to miss what she's trying to say.
“Have you been with a girl?”
At that, his eyes widen slightly, a blush crawling up his neck to the tips of his ears, cheeks near matching his shirt.
She knows she has her answer.
“Well…I…no, I haven't…”
At chest height, she can see the way his breathing elevates.
“And, hypothetically, if a girl expressed interest. What would you say?”
His lips part for a good few seconds before he gives a reply, “I’d…I um…I guess it depends who…”
It's like he's afraid she'll make fun of him for it.
“What about, if it was me?” She asks, her voice lowering as she reaches out to pick some lint off his jumper, like it's the most normal thing in the world. His body goes all rigid as she does.
This isn't normal in his world.
Michael swallows thickly, “you're not taking the Mick out of me, are you?”
She shakes her head, “I just want you to feel comfortable asking for what you want.”
For someone who had so often thought about it, now when faced with the situation, he feels as if he doesn't know what to do or say.
She's still stood with the cue in one hand, close enough so that when she shifts her weight from foot to foot, her knee grazes his leg. It's interesting to watch him think so deeply about it. Convinced he's probably never thought of anything so much in his life.
“What if what I want is…you?”
The tension deepens like the tone and volume of his voice. And without effort, a smile finds its way to her face when she looks at his expression. He's frozen stiff, for once, not knowing what to say.
So nothing shocks her more when he grabs the pool cue as a means of pulling her to him, and he has to duck considerably to press his lips clumsily to hers. He's eager, that much is true, but it's clear he's inexperienced. But instead of causing discomfort, she thinks it's quite endearing.
The pool cue clangs to the floor as she braces her hands on his shoulders and chest, guiding his lips with her own in a slower, more careful movement. She feels the edge of the pool table bite into her lower back when he presses her against it, clearly excited, if the hardness that's flush to her stomach is anything to go by.
The hands she had been staring at not half an hour ago are bruising as they trace her waist and hips, with a grip tight enough to tell her exactly how much he's enjoying the experience.
For a moment, they're not in a common room alone, against a pool table, with ‘Cheetah-licious Christmas’ playing in the room over, the bass of which rumbles through the floor and into their chests.
The kiss lasts a long while, and she has a feeling he wants to savour it as if it's the last time he will ever be able to do it.
One of her hands snakes its way to the back of his head, fingers gripping at his hair to pull him closer as either of them tilt to aid more contact between them. And at the little amount of tugging, Michael whines into her mouth, prompting him to pull away.
He looks halfway between mortified and pleased, his glasses having skewed to one side with the eagerness of what they'd done. And she laughs a bit, reaching up to fix them, which seems to make the mortification fade somewhat from his face.
Michael looks down between them, where his obvious erection is pressed to her, and pulls away slightly with a scarlet blush.
“Shit - sorry-”
“It's fine,” she reassures, “no need to be embarrassed.”
The words alone would be enough, if her hand hadn't snaked between their bodies to brush her palm over him. And if it were possible, his flush spreads to his neck, words failing him once more.
Her eyes flicker up to his, their lips all kiss-bruised and swollen.
“If you don't want to-”
“No, no, I want to…” he says, immediately embarrassed about how quick it was.
She smiles, one hand palming him through his jeans and the other trailing up his chest, “Sit down.”
He backs up to sit on a nearby sofa, watching with a kind of adoration as she makes space between his legs, her eyes glimmering at him as she slowly undoes his belt.
“If at any time, you need to stop, tell me.”
He gives a nervous laugh, his stomach muscles tightening, wondering probably if this is really happening to him, “Not sure I will want to…”
She smiles reassuringly, watching as his lips part as she palms him through his boxers, trying to suppress how impressed she is with his size.
It's always the skinny white guys.
“Well, the offer's there.” She smirks, pulling him from his boxers, Michael gives a suffered breath, feeling her touch on him and also her breath so close. He almost feels dizzy. The thought of this happening in this situation, with a party going on next door, is dangerous and exciting in equal measure.
She knows he has very limited experience, so decides not to tease him too much.
Michael gasps softly as she licks at the base of him, drawing a wet line with her tongue along the vein underneath, all the way to the tip. She concentrates her efforts slightly on the sensitive spot there before closing her mouth over the head of his cock, sucking gently.
She feels the way his thighs tense, and the blue disappearing as he closes his eyes. His fists are tight beside him, knuckles white, like he doesn't know if he should touch her or not. All he knows right now is that this feeling is brand new, and the sensation is so much already.
She pulls herself from him to run her tongue over his length, one hand moving to his hand, to encourage him. His blue eyes crack open just a bit, to understand what she's trying to tell him.
And she fights the urge to smile as his longer fingers swipe across her temple into her hair, his touch tender, soft and unsure as he holds her by it.
Her lips wrap around him once more, pushing him further into her mouth, taking him steadily and slowly at first. Michael's hips move barely, chasing the friction that he's getting on his cock when she bobs her head on him and hollows her cheeks.
He watches with parted lips and warm cheeks, moving her hair away so he can watch himself disappear into her mouth over and over. Her hand massages the rest of him, giving him two unique sensations in one, something that earns her a deep, throaty moan.
When her eyes open to look at him, he thinks his heart stops in his chest for a split second. He closes his eyes, not able to bear the way she looks with his cock in her mouth if she looks right at him, feeling that if he did any longer he wouldn't last.
The sounds he emits don't stop there as she increases her pace on him, pressing her tongue to the underside of him and taking him deeper into her throat, humming around him at the heady scent of his skin.
It's only when she takes him as far as he will go, working hard to control her gag reflex that he gives the first genuine buck of his hips, tightening in her hair and a far-too-loud moan. If anyone in the next room were quiet and paying attention, they'd likely know exactly what was going on.
“Fuck-”
It only serves to spur her on as she pulls back, moving in a more steady, quick rhythm, that she is sure Michael is loving judging by the rate of his moans and the way he chokes out his words.
His stomach clenches and unclenches, his high creeping up on him as her mouth tightens around his length.
“Shit - you need to - I'm gonna -” he chokes, weakly tugging her hair in an effort to pull her mouth off him before he cums.
If she didn't have his cock in her mouth she'd smile.
Her hand squeezes the base of him, and Michael throws his head back slightly, a long shuddered and choked moan reverberating through his chest. She swears she feels his thighs shake as she stills, warm ropes of his cum taste musky at the back of her throat.
His loud moan is followed quickly by more softer ones as her throat contracts to swallow as much as she can, briefly increasing the tension and friction around his sensitive length.
When she pulls off him with a pleased sigh, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Michael sits up slightly, having to gather his breath.
“Fucking hell…”
She takes it as a compliment and rises to her feet, her hands smoothing her skirt back down.
And she squeaks in delight as Michael quickly tucks himself away, barely doing up his jeans buttons before backing her up to the pool table again, kissing her fervently.
“What about you…do I…” he starts when he breaks away, panting softly. She smiles at the notion but shakes her head. This experience was for him alone.
“Not right now, don't feel inclined to,” she reassured, her hands on his chest, feeling the way his heart is beating rapidly beneath it.
“Right now?” he asks with a quiet, unsure tone, “does that mean…there's gonna be a next time?”
His tone is careful, and yet, she is able to detect something like desire there. An excitement for more, without seeming too eager so that he's not let down if she says no. Something that makes it clear he is 100% on board.
She bites back a grin.
“Quid Pro Quo, Michael.”
General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @virtualsweetsqueen @watercolorsky @fan-goddess
#michael gavey#michael gavey x reader#michael gavey x you#michael gavey x y/n#michael gavey x oc#michael gavey fanfic#michael gabey fanfiction#michael gavey fic#michael gavey smut#michael gavey x female reader#michael gabey x fem!reader#saltburn fanfiction#ewan mitchell#ewan mitchell characters#saltburn fic#michael gavey saltburn
1K notes
·
View notes
Note
Can you do a bakugou x reader, they share a moment together like on a trip to the beach with the class or something like an situation like there have to share a hotel room which cause them to have to talk or spend time together?
A/N: Lmao this look way longer than it should've- I beg for forgiveness 😭 Here's my masterlist!!
Warning(s): cursing, takes place during third year, reader and Shinso are apart of the hero course after being apart of general studies, reader has a mentioned and explained quirk, reader is in class 1-A, Shinso is in class 1-B, close friends to eventual lovers, Bakugou's a secret rom com lover, reader is gn but is written with f!reader in mind, not proofread D: + anything else I forgot
Pairing(s): Bakugou Katsuki x Reader
•─────•°•❀•°•──── ᴅᴜᴍʙᴀꜱꜱ ────•°•☁︎•°•────•
You know the feeling when you’ve been working so hard that when you finally take a break, it feels wrong?
That’s how you felt- right now- staring at the towering resort in front of you.
You were more than grateful for the effort the school put in to accumulate the funding for a beach trip for the entire hero course- something the other courses envied you all for, and in all honesty, you would gladly give up your spot for any one of them. It was your third year, a stressful time given that you were about to become fully fledged heroes by the time you all graduated in a few weeks – something you found ironic since you and your classmates have already seen more action than the average pro hero.
Though the circumstances were a little different for you, as you had joined the hero course later in the school year following Hitoshi Shinso, who joined Class 1-B. You were put in Class 1-A to keep the classes balances, allowing your dream to come true to become a pro alongside the others.
Your quirk, Eviscerate, let you release powerful blasts of pure kinetic energy that could destroy, explode and burn. Though while it was no doubt powerful, it was unstable, and dangerous. When you first got your quirk, you destroyed half of your home while sleeping, and the following doctors appointment suggested getting you a permanent support equipment that would act as a muzzle on your quirk to keep in contained.
However the company that supplied the gear was unreliable and neutralized your quirk to the point where it was practically useless. From then on, you used gear to amplify your quirk instead of restrict it, and yet, though the blasts had the same effects they used to, they would sap large chunks of your energy the more powerful the blast was, which is why you passed out after taking out 7 robots during the entrance exam and ended up enrolling in General Studies, despite your potential.
Once you managed to get into the hero course, you were paired with train with a certain Bakugou Katsuki, who was quite experienced in the explosions department and helped you develop your special moves. Bakugou pushed you to not only become a better hero but a better person, yelling at you to take care of yourself and scolding you if you didn’t drink enough water when you felt dizzy after training.
You two had grown considerably close due to that, and you felt more comfortable within Class 1-A, never feeling left out despite your late arrival.
And to be honest, you couldn’t help but harbor some feelings for the blonde too.
Now, here you were, standing in front of one of the most luxurious beachside resorts in all of Japan.
Dragging your suitcase and backpack, you gather in the lobby alongside your classmates, awaiting Aizawa Sensei’s instructions.
The ravenette in question pulled out his phone and starts to read out the sleeping arrangements.
“Ashido and Hagakure, Shinso and Tokoyami, Midoriya and Todoroki, Asui and Uraraka...” he drones on monotonously, and your brain subconsciously started to tune him out until a pair of names catches your attention.
“L/N and Bakugou.”
Almost everyone whips their heads in your direction, and your face turns bright red.
Bakugou?!
***
Your mind races a million miles a minute. I’m sharing a room with Bakugou?! Shit- what if I’m a bad roommate?! What if he thinks I’m gross! I’m going to have to scrub myself clean every hour now. Damn it I didn’t bring enough body wash to wash every hour of the week. You mentally groan to yourself.
You see Bakugou heft his bags, grabbing his room key from Aizawa, and you want to melt into the floor. How in the world were you supposed to inconspicuously keep your cool around the man you’ve been crushing on for months?! Especially since you were sharing a room?!
Sighing, you decide you should probably get your key as well, shifting your bags around, and approaching Aizawa who had your key in his hand.
Taking it from him with appropriate thanks, you turn around to leave, but you hear his voice, stopping you in his tracks.
“L/N.” he calls, and you look back at him confused.
“Yes, Sensei?” you ask warily, wondering what he could be asking you about.
“You might be wondering why you’re paired with Bakugou.” he paused, choosing his next words carefully. “We assigned rooms based on those who get along decently enough, and though Young Bakugou has most definitely mellowed out over the years, he seems to be the calmest around you.”
You feel your cheeks subconsciously heat up at the words, warmth spreading in your heart and butterflies erupting in your stomach. Did he really act that way?
No, he just likes you as a friend, you tell yourself, clearing your throat and looking at your teacher.
“I understand Sensei. I have no problem rooming with Bakugou-kun.” you smile reassuringly, and the man reciprocates with a wry smile of his own before dismissing you to your room.
“Go settle in, breakfast buffet closes at 12:30 tomorrow.” he says, grabbing his own suitcase and heading to his shared room with Vlad King.
You marvel the resort as you make your way to the elevator, ornate marbled floors the color of sea glass accented with gold. Two giant seashells the size of gargoyles stood at both sides of the elevator doors, and you step inside, soft classical music trickling through the space as you stare out the glass wall, observing the many people of the beach, and clear aquamarine waters that looked crystalline. It was...beautiful.
You hear a ding, marking your arrival to the 8th floor, where you and the rest of Class 1-A were sleeping, except for Tokoyami, who slept on the 7th floor alongside Class 1-B.
The floors were carpeted, a nice burgundy with simple gold waves that ran throughout the length of the hallway, simple, but elegant.
Trailing your eyes alongside the doors, you find the door you were looking for, Room 1076.
You fumble with the key card, pressing against the small black sensor by the door handle, hearing the beep that signaled it was unlocked, and you open it, taking in your surroundings.
There was a large painting of two seahorses, with their tails intertwined, hung in between the beds. The beds themselves were draped with such fancy comforters that looked like clouds, you almost didn’t want to sleep on them in fear of ruining it.
“Oi, close yer mouth, yer gonna catch flies.” you hear a familiar voice behind you, whipping around to come face to face with a pair of vermillion eyes.
“Oh Bakugou!” you laugh nervously “I didn’t see you there.”
He rolls his eyes, grabbing your backpack from your shoulders forcefully and plops it onto the nearby chair, effectively flinging you backwards in the process.
“Gah! Ah shit-” you yelp, falling backwards and losing your footing, only for strong arms to wrap around your waist and yanking you back just in time to narrow avoid breaking a very expensive looking vase.
Looking up you see Bakugou’s eyes on you, an impassive look on his face.
A few beats of silence pass before you burst out into laughter, Bakugou forced to shift your form in order to not have to fall over again from the ferocity of your heaving giggles.
“Pfft- you should’ve seen your face - you were like rahhhh and I was like AHHH” you rambled, finding it difficult to breathe as your muscles painfully stretched to accommodate how much you were smiling.
You feel a hand rest on top of your hand, effectively silencing you as Bakugou clicks his teeth impatiently.
“Tch- calm down dumbass, ya just got here and yer already trying ta destroy the place.” he grumbles, the tips of his ears turning red. “Aizawa said we can call up room service for free- let's order some dinner and watch a movie or some shit. I’m fuckin exhausted.”
You smile brightly, shoving down the butterflies that erupt in your stomach, and nod.
“Sounds good! You order and I’ll find something to put on.” you beam, flopping down on the bed closest to you, deciding that it was going to get messed up anyways. “Just don’t get anything too spicy. I’m not a weakling obviously, but you’re probably going to manage burning off my taste buds one way or another.”
Bakugou rolls his eyes again, flipping you off and receiving and indignant Hey! from you, walking over to the bedside table to dial room service on the provided phone.
Flipping through the channels, you surf through various news programs and sports broadcasts, already missing your easily accessible streaming services back home. Finally, you find a cheesy rom com you were familiar with, thankfully the timing was perfect, seeing as the movie’s opening credits roll through. The quality was surprisingly good, you thought happily to yourself, but given that you were staying in such a high-end resort, you shouldn’t be surprised.
You make yourself comfortable, mentally high fiving yourself for deciding to wear sweatpants and a t-shirt that morning, so you didn’t feel the need to change into your pajamas just yet.
Bakugou hangs up on the phone with a gruff salutation, sitting on his own bed adjacent to yours and raises his eyebrows at your choice of movie.
“This one? Really?” he asks, frowning slightly and you quirk up an eyebrow in return.
“It was all I could find, plus I know you like this one. You have the book copy of it you nerd.” you smile teasingly.
Bakugou’s ears turn red at the realization that you noticed his guilty pleasure of reading romance novels, chucking a pillow in your direction in retaliation.
“So what? Movie’s shit.” he grumbles, turning to watch the male lead being introduced. “S’true for all of em. Books are way better.”
You sigh, disgruntled as the pillow hits you in the face and falls off your bed out of reach. You did really want to throw it back at him, but right now, you were just too lazy.
“Stop being such a sourpuss.” you gripe, letting your arms dangle off the side of the bed as you lie on your stomach. “Obviously books are more accurate, but just try to enjoy a classic movie as if it were a standalone.”
The blonde sighs, making himself comfortable on his bed without another word, vermillion eyes locking themselves on the screen, just as the female lead complains to her best friend that her crush won’t like her back. He knew it was a dumb movie, just by looking at the male lead’s interactions with her, it was clear he was in love with her. Were people always so dense when it came to a guy’s feelings?
His eyes wander in your direction, watching you doze off , face half smushed against the edge of the bed. Sighing, he gets up, grumbling as he realizes his foot fell asleep, but works through the pain as he makes his way to your side, grabbing the remote and turning off the TV.
He places the remote on the bedside table and lifts you gently, adjusting the pillows and rearranging the comforter to safely tuck you in. However you weren’t fully asleep, your eyes blinking blearily as you weakly protest.
“No...not yet...” you mumble, frowning softly, and Bakugou resists the urge to smooth the cute crinkle between your furrowed eyebrows “Food’s going to waste...”
The blonde chuckles quietly, eyes softening as he tucks a strand of of loose hair away from your face. “S’not a problem dummy, I didn’t order anything. Knew ya were gonna pull this shit. We'll eat a big breakfast tomorrow.”
You nod sleepily in agreement, as he turns away to get ready for bed himself, only to be stopped by the feeling on your hand loosely wrapped around his wrist.
“Bakugou?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
His cheeks are tinted red, clearly flustered, not that you noticed, too tired to pick up on really anything.
“I...”
“I love you too dumbass.”
#katsuki bakugou x reader#bakugo katuski#bnha bakugou#bakugou katsuki#bakugo#bakugo fluff#bakugo headcanons#bakugo katsuki x reader#bakugou drabble#bakugou fluff#bakugou katsuki x reader#bakugo x you#bakugo x reader#bakugou katuski x reader#bakugou x reader#bakugou x y/n#katsuki bakugo x reader#bakugou x you#mha bakugo x reader#mha bakugou#katsuki bakugou#katsuki bakugou x you#katsuki bakugou imagine#katsuki bakugo x you#bakugo x y/n#katsuki x reader#katsuki x you#katsuki bakugo mha#bnha bakugo katsuki#bakugo x reader fluff
555 notes
·
View notes
Text
splish splash.
pairing. san x seonghwa x wooyoung x yunho x fem!reader
synopsis. they’re out to prove who’s the best at the breast-stroke- gets dragged off stage as the people boo over such a terrible pun.
warnings. no use of y/n, swim team au, lifeguard!reader, pro-swimmers!sanhwawooho, they’re all wearing speedos :), smut ( porn with unnecesary plot, degradation, m+f oral sex, piv sex, anal sex, double penetration, triple penetration bc u got 3 holes for a reason sweetcheeks, mxm interactions, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, hair pulling, way more warnings that there’s honestly no point listing, just know this is pure filth that covers most bases of stereotypical fanfiction smut, mother in christ what have i written? ) no verbal consent is given throughout this but all parties are willing participants !!
word count. 20k+ ( of literal porn. i need to leave this physical terrain bc i am not worthy of existing after writing this i fear. )
hyde’s input. hey girlie pops, long time no see.
it’s crazy, what some people will do for money.
take, for example, your roommate. she’s a smart girl. a beautiful one, too. with a promising future in criminal law, once she gets herself that pesky little degree. and, yet, she’s funding her tuition with money she earns distributing high-end drugs on campus. rather counter-productive, most would agree. or, in a far less extreme version, there’s that overly-hyper frat boy, who can always be found doing the dumbest dares at a party, all for a few bucks and a keg of beer.
and then there is you.
you would have arrived home twenty minutes ago at this point, had things gone to plan, a backlog of neglected assignments and a baby bonsai tree in need of watering desperately awaiting your return. yet here you are, stuck in your ugly flip-flops and uncomfortably stale shorts, whistle around your neck and a look of exhaustion on your face.
the swimming pool had closed, technically, an hour and a half ago. the sports centre seems to believe, however, that certain members of the college swim team reserve the right to use the pool for however long they require and desire, even if it is at your expense. if you were being paid overtime, perhaps you’d have a more positive outlook on things and less of a frown creasing on your forehead.
if the swimmers weren’t so irritating, maybe you’d enjoy the view.
“all that height, and for what?” the sophomore boy’s voice- jung wooyoung? you aren’t overly familiar with him, seeing him only in sporadic flashes when you pass each other on campus or at some uncivilised frat party- echos through the large room, his hair a wet mess. if you were gaining anything from being here, you’d perhaps muster up the energy to remind the boy of how a swim cap is necessary at all times in the water. “can’t even out-swim me with those long legs!”
“wanna know what my long legs are for?” jeong yunho, a junior with the face of an angel and the body proportions of a sinner, pipes up from across the olympic length pool. unlike the other boy, a crimson cap keeps his own locks out of sight. “climbing up the stairs to go fuck your mom!”
it’s impossible to stifle your laughter, no matter how hard you try to just play it off as a tickle at the back of your throat, a cough forcing its way out. when your eyes meet those of the glaring senior, however, you’re wishing you hadn’t made a sound.
“even the lifeguard can’t take you seriously, yunho,” park seonghwa speaks, eyes not leaving yours as his muscled arms work to pull himself out of the water, before letting his well-rounded behind sit down on the edge. a breath hitches in your throat as his gloriously muscled thighs come into view, drops of water cascading down them in a pattern set to hypnotise you, keep you staring a little longer than is good for your health. “bet she’s heard all about you and the boner incident of 2019.”
truthfully, you have no clue what the dark haired male is on about. that doesn’t stop you from laughing again though, this time a little out of malice and a lot because it’s quite endearing to see a loudmouth like jeong yunho be silenced so easily, head bowed and ears a little rosier with embarrassment.
this small moment of peace is soon shattered by the reality that these boys can’t spend more than ten minutes in a room- particularly one that includes a pool- without arguing. while one boasts about his speed, the other begins to jab at his lack of endurance, and the remaining of the three reminds them all of the fact he holds the most medals amongst them.
“are they always like this?” you jump, surprised by the cold drop of water that lands on your exposed thigh, all courtesy of the boy who’s invited himself to sit down next to you on the bench.
“not always,” you bite at the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to not look at san in all his wet glory. you’re afraid that, once you start looking at him, you won’t be able to stop. it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve fallen victim to the crime that is his enchanting smile. “guess they’re feeling a little feistier than usual, with the district championship just around the corner. rumour has it one of you guys is risking his scholarship if he’s not in the top three.”
are you and san close?
that’s a good question. see, by social standards, you’re not strangers. you share several classes, you attend the same parties, you’ve even texted a few times- mostly on the days one of you miss class (read as: san misses class thanks to his swim-meets) and you need a copy of any notes taken that lesson.
but, you aren’t exactly friends either. you don’t go out of your ways to spend time together, you don’t know more than the surface level about one another, you don’t check-in with each other.
so, is acquaintances the best word to describe you two?
that depends on how common it is for an acquaintance to suck another acquaintance’s cock. granted, there had been a lot of alcohol in the mix, on both ends, with you drinking to forget a botched assignment and san drinking to forget how badly his voice had apparently cracked in front of his crush.
a few weeks have passed since the incident and things haven’t exactly been the same. you’ve missed class twice and ended up contacting heather- a sweet girl who sits down by the front and seems to live with her hand raised in the air- for any notes. likewise, san has found himself declining party invitations, the knowledge that you would be there all too prevalent in the front of his mind.
the irony is that neither of you quite know the reason why you’re avoiding each other, you just are.
or, were, until san had walked in with his swim team buddies- if they could even be considered that- and spotted you in your lifeguard attire. he hadn’t been as slick as he thought he was, sneaking glances at you between laps and even gaining an undeniable smile each time he watched you blow that stupid whistle at some misbehaving kids.
he was slicker with the fact he didn’t need to be here, at this hour. but, he figured staying gave him the chance to stare at you a little longer and, maybe, think up an excuse to talk to you.
“i should-”
“i missed-”
you both speak at the same time, minutes after watching the three musketeers disappear into the locker rooms, with the smallest of them continuing to dig at them for not being able to out-swim him despite their ample amount of height. san’s quick to signal you to go first, a dimple making itself known on his face and reminding you of the deadliest part of him: the false innocence that drips off him like warm candy.
sweet, sticky, making a mess all over the place.
“i should probably start cleaning up.” it turns out san also isn’t discreet when it comes to hiding the disappointment in his face, because no sooner than those words leave your mouth, the dimple is gone and he’s sat a little straighter, a little more ridged, like when the professor points him out in the middle of the class and the golden boy can’t stomach all the attention being on him. “but, what were you gonna say?”
“oh,” and it’s like he’s just remembered that yes, there is something he wants to say. “i missed you in class yesterday.”
it catches you off guard, leaving you to almost drop the whistle you’ve been fiddling between your fingers for the past few minutes. something about sitting so close to him while both of you are dressed so scantily has you feeling unnerved, like you need to run away as fast as possible, yet also wanting to plant yourself right in his lap.
“i didn’t think,” you’re cut off by your own throat, dry and desperate for a drink under his intense gaze. san is a walking contradiction, you think, with his sharp cheekbones and soft heart, his intense eyes and his easy-going smile. his presence gives you never-ending whiplash, never sure if he’s more angel than devil. “i didn’t think you noticed.”
“how could i not? there was no one to laugh with me at professor nam and his weird toe-shoes!” his laugh is infectious, willing your own to make an appearance.
the sound of distant muffled yelling fills the air of the swimming pool and it isn’t hard to recognise wooyoung’s high-pitched laughter amongst it. clearly, their childish arguing has carried on into the changing rooms. it surprises you in no way, already more than used to their antics.
their rivalry is one for the ages, all of them constantly bumping heads for the spot of the top swimmer on campus, their sports scholarships becoming their pride and joy.
you suppose it doesn’t help that all four boys run in different circles, only really crossing paths when faced with swim-meets and days of practice. the senior, park seonghwa, runs with the richer kids of the college, all sharing their trust-funds and god complexes as a common interest. you’re not overly familiar with them, though you’re certain he and a particular blue-haired boy are rarely seen apart. jeong yunho, the tallest, is in with the jocks, which is mostly just because his taller friend is the captain of the basketball team. and jung wooyoung tends to surround himself with the stoners from the school, something you’d learned from kang yeosang, a dealer you shared a couple classes with back in your first semester.
san, ever the golden boy, drifts between a couple different groups but he can usually be found alone and enjoying his own company, if not being followed by a flock of his own little fan-club, men and women alike begging for just an ounce of his time.
your name echos around the room. your head snaps to the side and you find that san is now closer, staring at you in a way that’s making your insides knot up. you’ve seen that look only once before, and it done nothing but leave your knees and your ego bruised. “were you listening to me?”
“what? uh, yeah, i was,” you’re quick to lie, knowing it’s about to backfire when he breaks out in a challenging grin.
“really? what did i say?” he only allows you to stumble over words for a minute before cutting off your incomprehensible speaking when he grabs at your chin and tilts your head up, staring straight into your eyes. “that’s what i thought. you were too busy getting lost in that pretty little head of yours to pay attention to me.”
you stutter over a noise and settle for that as your response, though entirely incomprehensible and nonsensical. the way he continues to stare at you feels cruel, demons dancing around in those pretty eyes of his. demons that are telling him to tease, torture, torment the fragile eyes staring back at him, the same ones he’d delighted in watching fill up with tears a few weeks back, the pressure of his crown slamming against the back of your tight throat entirely overwhelming you to the point of crying, tears dripping down your cheeks and mixing with your own drool pooling over the swell of his balls.
“need me to repeat myself?” you’re slow to catch up to the fact he’s speaking again, and even slower to notice the hand resting on your knee. at first, you think you’re imagining things, the feather light tracing of nails over your soft skin a mere figment of your imagination. but, no, your eyes flash down to glimpse and his hand is there, fingers dancing over your naked skin like it’s their own personal stage and he’s intending to put on the show of a lifetime. he speaks your name. “questions are meant to be answered.”
“i-” san picks the perfect time to apply pressure on you, hand gripping the flesh on the lower end of your thigh. goosebumps spring to life at the feeling of his cold ring on your damp skin. it takes a shaky breath to try compose yourself but you do eventually manage to get a reply out. “sorry... please say it again.”
“huh,” he pauses to contemplate, slowly leaning his face closer to your own, giving you all the time to pull back if you want to. you stay still and his minty breath infects your senses while the hand on your leg replaces your thigh with your face, the grip he has on it forcing blunt nails to nip at your skin. normally, you’d worry about the marks it’s going to leave behind. right now, you want him to grip tighter, dig deeper into your flesh till he’s drawing blood and licking it off your cheeks. “how the fuck do you still sound so cute begging?”
“is that,” his other hand curls around the back of you, finding a resting place on your hip. the window of opportunity you once had to pull back or run away is slammed shut the moment he tugs you a little closer, the side of your body crashing into his naked chest. “what you said earlier?”
“oh, no.” san almost sounds like he’s cooing, a mocking tone in his voice that has your thighs clenching in a way you’re sure he notices. his eye flickering down to glance at them confirms your suspicions, the smirk taking over his features the metaphorical cherry on top. “i was just talking about how i’ve still not returned the favour.”
mind blanking out on you, you stare back at him in what you can only imagine to be a dumb-founded look, mouth slightly agape and teasing your answer.
what follows, however, is a resounding silence on your end.
“c’mon, princess, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what happened the last time i got you alone.”
forget? it’s all you’ve been able to think of every time you’ve seen him since, whether he was a figure in the corner of your eye during class or making his way down the campus car-park in search of his beaten up mustang.
each time, like an old record player, your mind plays on loop the way he looked staring down at you, long legs spread enough to fit you between them, closing in on you to trap you in place each time you swallowed him a little deeper; replaying the symphony of whiny moans and airy breaths you’d pulled from him, lips swollen and red from trying too hard to hold back his cries of pleasure; reviving the memory of his vice grip on your hair, tugging at the roots to tilt you back into the perfect angle for his hips to piston into your warm mouth, meeting his own crescendo in one final pathetic whimper of your name.
a whimper that’s pushed you over the edge several times since, fingers soaked in your own sins and mouth biting down on your pillow to keep your poor sleeping roommate oblivious to your actions.
“no,” an answer escapes you alongside a shaky breath, something about the way he’s slowly trailing his fingers down your neck and the intensity he’s staring at you with hypnotising you into forgetting all about the boisterous boys and their changing-rooms chanting. “haven’t forgot.”
it’s his turn to stay quiet and you begin to wonder if he’s recalling it too, if he’s reminding himself of how easily your bodies melted together, like candle-wax meeting a flame. the question of if he’s thought about the exact scene, hands stuffed down his pants while a dull ache builds in his wrist, burns the tip of your tongue.
but his eyes burn you more.
they’re usually wide, bright, full of that bubbly nature san is known all over for. but, if what people say is true and the eyes are the mirror to one’s soul, then san’s soul must be a dark pit made up of lustful glares and hooded eyelids, resting so low his eyes almost appear shut.
“then, don’t you agree that it’s my turn to have a taste?”
it’s the question to end all questions, no time to even think of forming an answer when his fingertips are dancing over your skin so rhythmically, like a practiced choreography when they curl and wrap themselves around your neck. they rest there for a heartbeat, and then another, before you feel it begin.
the pressure is dull, at first, and you think you’re imagining it. but it grows, like a seed under the sun, blossoms into thorns squeezing around your airways, a deformed rose made from the red marks his fingers will be sure to leave behind.
you try to breath in, only for it to get caught somewhere between your lips and his tightening hold.
“you’re too fucking pretty, you know?” the hand on your hip has found a new home on your cheek, palm warm and thumb rough as he swipes it over your bottom lip. “all i can ever think about around you, even when you were drooling all over my balls.”
you want to answer, you really do. but between the hand around your throat and the heat shooting straight for your core, burning up in a puddle of arousal, you can’t. all you can do is watch the man before you, raven hair a beautiful mess just begging for some fingers to be ran through it and stare promising to ruin you in the best way possible.
the silence pleases him.
“y’know, it’s so hard to get you alone. always got someone wanting to talk to you, stealing your attention. do you even know how many stupid parties i had to attend to finally get the chance to talk to you?” san pauses, like he’s waiting for you to relay an answer, guess a number. he loosens up the grip on your neck, teasing your skin with a few soothing strokes of his slender fingers, lulling you into a state bordering insanity. “no answer, angel? or are you lost in that pretty little head again?”
“i’m,” your voice is but a whisper, raspy with your new found thirst. “trying to figure out what you want from me.”
if it’s the wrong or right thing to say, you’re soon to find out, the sharp faced boy releasing a dangerously low chuckle as he takes a hold of your chin. like a pretty doll, you move any time and any way his fingers command you to, finding yourself staring right up into his eyes, a swirl of melting caramel that reminds you of how sweet yet sultry every inch of him is. lips near touching, he refuses to break eye contact as he speaks up once more, sealing both your fates when his breath hits your face.
“then let me show you what i want.”
his mouth comes down on yours like it’s the answers to all your prayers and, yet, all your nightmares.
it excites you how easily he works his lips over your own, captivating every inch of you when he tilts his head to the right and deepens the kiss. the rhythm to his kiss is a mismatch of beats, where one moment your lips are moving in a sensual waltz, grazing tongues and dipping heads to get rid of that inch of a space remaining between your bodies, and the next moment your tongues are tangled in a tango, the kind where his teeth send blood rushing to your lips with every bite he drags over them and his hand drags shivers down your spine as it makes its way down your body.
yet it terrifies you how willingly you succumb to san’s touch, intoxicated by whatever witchcraft he currently holds over you. there’s a deadliness to the way his lips part from your own only to begin a seamless descent down your jaw and the expanse of your neck, a poisonous element to the way his hand once again finds itself clutching the meat of your thigh.
the moment his fingertips meet the bottom of your shorts, you’re wishing you’d never slipped them on in the first place, every fibre of your being growing angsty under the weight of his suddenly halted hand. it stays still for an immeasurable amount of time, grazing over the bottom of your shorts occasionally while he continues to mouth at your neck.
like mosses and the great sea, san parts your legs with little to no effort, creating a pathway for his fingers to travel further up your thigh. blunt fingernails drag up your skin, a trail of goosebumps being left behind, a visible marking of where he’s touching you.
his movements halt too soon for your liking, too much distance between his lithe fingers and your body’s very core.
“have you figured out what i want yet, pretty?” his voice is a stark difference to the usual light-hearted, almost squeak-like tone you’ve grown used to hearing from the smiley boy. right now, there’s no trace of humour in the thick rasp and there’s no time for smiling while he’s glaring down at you through hooded eyes.
something compels you to nod your head, even though you’re a little too lost in the thoughts concerning what you want, rather than what the devil incarnate by your side wants.
“you have?” the words come out in a layer of amazement, and you have to wonder if it’s because of the lie you’ve just told or the way your legs have closed in around his hand, trapping it between them. “i want to know what you want, though.”
you want his thumb to stop stroking over the flesh of your inner thigh.
you want his eyes to stop gazing down at you like you’re the perfect prey.
you want him to stop teetering your impending pleasure on a string.
you want-
“you.” is all you manage to breath out.
it seems to do the trick, however, your point getting very much across to him. a softness flickers over his features, brows unfurling and smirk curling up into a full smile for what feels like an eternity, but is actually no more than a couple of seconds before his devilish aura is back.
lips meet lips again, the desperation and force behind each stroke of his tongue against yours the same as before. san, much to your delight, seems to grow just as impatient as you’ve been since the moment he welcomed himself into the empty space next to you on the bench.
one hand still resting between your thighs, his other seizes the opportunity to drag your body closer, so close that you have no choice but to swing one leg over him and slot yourself in his lap.
there was one time, in the middle of what you’ve deemed to be the most boring lecture ever, that you had thought about what it would feel like to sit in choi san’s lap. unintentionally, of course, for how could anyone look over at him in those grey sweatpants, legs manspreading like it was nobody’s business and pen tapping away at the table in front of him, and not daydream about being perched in his lap, head resting somewhere between his shoulder and his soft hair?
you’d imagined him to be the embodiment of soft and comfortable, warm and reassuring the way he’d lazily lay an arm over your hip to make sure there’s no risk of you slipping out of your new seat. you never, for the life of you, imagined you’d feel the outline of his dick resting against your ass the first time you finally claimed your throne.
choosing to not dwell on the heavy feeling of him pressed against you, you choose instead to focus on the way his lips trail away from yours and make their descent towards the top of your chest.
his hand abandons post between your thighs and rises to the surface, where long fingers begin to pull at the straps of your red swimsuit, successfully manoeuvring the nylon material till it’s bunched around your midriff and your breasts are exposed to the damp air of the swimming hall.
with no want left to play around, he dives right in to dragging his lips down the upper swell of your left breast. you imagine he can feel the beating of your racing heart beneath the goosebump littered skin. it doesn’t take long for his tongue to enter the scene, skilfully flicking over your hardened nipple a couple times before enveloping his mouth around the bud.
one, two, three sucks and he’s moving on to your right breast. there’s no lead up, this time, simply his mouth finding delight in toying with your body while he busies his hand with your left side, thumb and pointer finger rolling and tugging and spreading the remnants of his saliva over your heated skin.
the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and has you arching your own, is the faintest pressure of his teeth biting down on you. it dances on a thin line between pleasurable and painful, exhilarating enough to make you throw your head back as a moan slips past your lips. it echoes in the empty room, replaying your own sound for both of you to hear again and again before the chain is broken by a giggle.
his giggle.
“why are,” he picks the right time to trail his fingers down your body, dragging your swimsuit with them till it sits uncomfortably tight around the top of your hipbones, skintight fabric digging into the damp skin. “you laughing?”
“has anyone ever told you how pretty your tits are?” it’s crude and heartwarming all at once, quite like the man who says it and the little smile he shoots up in your direction as he rolls his tongue over your nipple once again.
“no, i can’t say they have.” the hands that have been resting on his shoulder, grasping them in a vice grip in fear of slipping off of him and and directly onto the concrete floor, gain enough confidence for you let one slide around to the back of his neck and thread your fingertips in the back of his locks, hair as soft as you’ve always imagined it to be. “you’re the first.”
“i’ll wear that title with honour,” he seems to delight in the way you’re carding through his hair, eyes closing while he tilts his head back further into your touch. a delighted sigh follows. “has anyone ever asked you to sit on their face?”
“again, no.”
“another honourable title for me, i guess.” san’s giving you whiplash, with all this switching between being his usual goofy self and the man that minutes before was speaking profanities on how you’d looked choking on his dick. he peaks his eyes open again, slowly, adjusting to the bright lights he stares up at each time he’s doing the backstroke. when he has the nerves to smile at you, all dreamy eyed and relaxed sitting beneath your body on the bench. “now, can you please stand up and get naked so you can fuck yourself on my tongue?”
this time, it’s your laugh that echoes in the air.
“stop, i’m being serious!” he seems to whine his way through his words, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly in a way you’re certain is going to drive you insane. “i can’t go another second like this, you literally sitting on my dick, without blowing my load. and i really don’t feel like having to explain to coach kwon why my team speedos are stained in cum.”
“you’re so-” you give up on trying to find a single word to describe him, knowing there’s no word that can quite capture choi san’s essence. “okay, okay, fine, but you kind of need to let go of me for me to, y’know, stand up.”
“oh, sorry bout that.” san’s sheepish smile shouldn’t be this cute, not when it’s followed by him removing his hands from your half-naked body.
reluctant, your feet meet the ground and you stand up from his lap. he seems to move quicker than you, no hesitation to be seen as he twists his body around and lays along the bench on his back, eyes all the while watching you expectantly.
your fingers are far from as nimble as his, and there’s a shake to them, meaning you’re a lot less slick with how you pull the swimsuit off yourself. you opt for killing two birds with one stone, dragging your shorts down alongside the red suit, till both are pooled around your feet and you’re begging with every cell in your body that you look more graceful than you feel, stepping out of the leg holes.
in all honesty, you’re more embarrassed with the fact he’d watched you remove your clothes than with how you’re now stood naked, legs a little shaky and the wetness gathering between your folds you’re suddenly so much more aware of, the cool air fighting against your pulsating heat.
“well?” san speaks with expectation, legs bent at the knee while the balls of his feet rest on the edge of the bench. “are you gonna just stand there or you gonna sit on my face?”
“are you... sure you want me to?” even you feel the idiocy behind asking such a thing, when he’s laying right there with eyes full of glee and a raging boner pressed against his hip, nothing but the familiar colours of your college to stop you from seeing him all his naked glory. still, you can’t help elaborating. “i mean, the bench isn’t exactly sturdy and, i mean, what if i slip off of you?”
“y/n, are you joking? you have to be joking!” his offence is playful enough to ease a little of the hesitation inside of you. “do you see these puppies, baby? these are my mad gains from flailing my silly little arms around in a pool six days a week!”
you think this can’t be real as you watch the golden boy of the school put on a show, flexing his arms in an effort to display his muscles and voicing the most ridiculous words that not even he seems to be taking seriously, a bubble of laughter popping in every sentence.
“i’m not gonna let you slip, now hurry up!” again with the whining.
“god, you’re so desperate!”
“for you? always.”
the following minute is made up of wobbled steps and a poor attempt at amping yourself up, repeating mantra after mantra in your head that you are the sex goddess and no man is going to make you feel nervous. not even if that man has a jaw one could slice diamonds with.
he’s got a firm grasp of your thighs before you’ve even got the chance to get comfortable, legs a little shaky as you hover over his naked chest and will your knees to find grip on the bench beneath them.
“come closer, my tongue’s not that long!” san’s pulling you up, closer, all the way to where his wanton mouth awaits you. as if to give you a preview of what awaits you, the kisses from before reduced to nothing, his tongue pops out to run over the smooth of his bottom lip. you repeat the process of trying to find balance, a position in which you don’t need to worry about toppling overboard. though, with the way his finger squeeze into your thigh, you doubt you’ll have to worry about that truly happening. “comfortable?”
“as i’ll ever be.”
“all the people that would die to be in your position, and you say that?” he tsks, tongue hitting off the roof of his mouth before a blow of air hits against your folds and, though it’s faint from the distance still between his mouth and where he wants it to be, it sends a jolt of excitement up your spine. “i’ll just have to make sure i over-perform, make you more eager for next time.”
neither of you choose to dwell on the words next time.
him, too occupied with getting his first taste, tongue licking a strip up your core and coming to a stop as the tip of it bumps against your clit.
you, too busy having the air knocked out of your lungs, hand unconsciously finding safety in gripping his hair as you lurch forward momentarily, mouth falling open in a quiet gasp that echoes around and around.
“hmm, make sure you hold on tight.” you know he’s teasing you, with his words, and with his eyes, and with his mouth that seems to find enjoyment in trailing itself over your clitoral hood and up your pubic bone. “you smell mouthwatering, you know? enough to make a man go feral.”
the chance to reply never comes, not when san makes his way back down to your clit and greets it with the stroke of his flattened tongue. every tiny nerve sparks to life under his touch and you feel yourself grow wetter, a wave of warm arousal leaking out of your hole. his tongue dives down to welcome it, not allowing more than a single drop- landing on his chin- to go to waste.
you don’t even notice the lack of his grip around your left leg until you feel it: the first few seconds of his fingertips probing around your soaked cunt, coating themselves in your liquid pleasure until it’s dripping down the back of his hand.
the first finger to enter your hole is gentle, tentative to the way your body receives him, his pointer and ring finger keeping your folds spread and allowing him the full view of the middle one slowly disappearing from sight, burying itself in the warmth of your pussy. distracted, his mouth pulls back and his head meets the bench again while his eyes soak in the sight above him, flickering up to catch your reaction when another finger enters you, this time with a lot less care as it forces you open around it.
“so pretty,” he mutters the words, more to himself than to you, delighting as he witnesses you struggling to bite back a pathetic moan when his digits curl within you. he repeats the action a couple times, flicking his wrist back and forth, fingers brushing over your tight walls each time and culminating in a curl that has him pressing against the spongy-like flesh inside. “so, so pretty.”
your hips begin to rut against his hand, meeting every one of his thrusts with perfect timing that has him reaching deeper, further, better places inside of you. all the while he’s just watching and admiring the furrow in your brow and the way the swells of your breast bounce in sync with you.
your pussy clenches tighter and his fingers fight to reach deeper before spreading themselves wider in an attempt to scissor you open. he’s giving it his all, a third finger slipping in despite the dull ache setting in his wrist while he coaxes you closer and closer to the tipping point.
san takes just as easy as he gives, and it’s that fact alone that drives him to pull his hand back, fingers withdrawing from you and the pleasure you’re pursuing.
“why’d you-” you heave through heavy breaths, brain fuzzy from the unvoiced orgasm you were so close to having, every nerve ready to tingle, every muscle ready to tremble, every toe ready to curl. “stop?”
“because,” the wet smack of his fingers hitting against your clit is louder than the whimper that drops from your mouth. san hears both, however, and grins, quickly landing another smack against your engorged clit. “the goal is to make you cum on my face, not my fingers. consider them the appetiser, something to awaken your senses.”
his tongue licks in an upward motion, starting from the tip of your taint and ending at your clit, and you get deja-vu to just minutes before, when you’d first felt his tongue on your melting skin, the saliva it leaves in a trail behind it serving to cool you down. a shiver runs up your spine as he blows air onto your cunt, the pressure of it doing wonders to stimulate your clit.
“would you stop?”
“look who’s whining now.” san, despite what he says, does as you ask and puts an end what feels like unending teasing- really, it’s hardly been a minute but the pulsing of your heat and the loss of a climax leave you no room to think about something as abstract as time.
his lips make a victorious return, wrapping themselves around your clit and sucking against the pulsing nub. every so often, he delivers a couple kitten licks- ups and downs, sides to sides, figure eights- before swiftly returning to kissing your most intimate parts.
in an attempt to make your toes curl, he dips lower and teases the tips of his tongue over your entrance, wet muscle moving over wet skin and tastebuds covering themselves in your essence, till the moans echoing off the walls are indistinguishable between san’s and your own.
“you can move,” he grunts into you after a few minutes of repeated alternating between kissing your clit and tonguing at your hole. it’s muffled with the way he’s holding you down against his face and you feel his lips brush against your lower ones as he speaks. “need you to move. wanna see you use me, pretty.”
and, who are you to deny the man?
you’re hesitant at first, just like you were all those weeks ago as you sank to your knees for him. you test the waters and give a single roll of your hips. it feels good, great, especially when paired with his own efforts at dragging his tongue over you.
it takes a few more attempts, and san’s patience wearing thin to the point he resorts to grabbing a firm hold of your arse cheeks and planting you flat on his mouth, tongue flat and eyes staring up at you in a demand to move, goddamn it.
move you most certainly do, grinding down on his tongue like you’ve done many a time with different men’s cocks. it’s messy, sloppy in the way that his spit mingles with your wetness, a cocktail of fluids sliding down his throat, and painting his lips, and dribbling down his chin as he eats you like a man starved that’s alas getting a taste of the sweetest fruit.
the rhythm of your hips is thrown off when the man beneath you switches from having you grinding down onto his flattened tongue to slipping the muscle inside of your hole, thrusting it as far as up as the length of it allows him to. with every time your body comes crashing down on his mouth, the tip of his nose bumps against your clit, forcing you to angle yourself upwards to gain more of the friction.
hands find hair, lips part in unabashed moans, thighs shake with the oncoming of an orgasmic state of mind.
the moment builds too quickly, too unexpectedly, like the ghost of your stolen climax is back with a vengeance and set on ensuring there will be no denying it this time.
“s-shit,” your eyes squeeze shut, too scared to look down at his ecstasy filled eyes in fear of it being what finally tips you over the edge. “i’m gonna- ah- gonna cum.”
san pays no mind to your warning. if anything, he takes it as a challenge, an invisible timer beginning in his head and forcing him to see how quickly he can get you to unravel all over his face. he’s getting everything he asked for, your naked body a mess above him as you fuck yourself on his tongue and your hands, with minds of their own, sliding up to grab and squeeze at your tits.
he watches how the pastel blue nail polish clashes with the darkened colour of your abused nipples, fingers working to pinch, and twist, and pull at them as you lose yourself in the moment.
when you cum, it’s with rolled-back eyes and shaky thighs, his hands gripping at you tighter to steady you as you sway above him, his tongue working at coaxing you through your high.
he licks up every drop of cum he can manage, until you’re cringing in overstimulation and reaching down to push him away. he let’s you move him, mouth moving to trail a couple kisses over your inner thigh, something akin to lipstick stains- yet so much dirtier in nature- being left behind on your soft flesh.
“told you i wouldn’t let you fall,” he’s the first to speak, partly because he correctly thinks you’re incapable of forming anything coherent in the afterglow of your orgasm, but mostly because he wants- no, needs to hear you praise him.
needs to hear you praise him like he’d done for you that night, eyes still hooded and chest visibly heaving as he finished processing watching you swallow every spurt of hot cum he’d shot down your throat. the praise never comes.
well, at least not from you.
at first he thinks he’s imagining the sound of clapping. it’s slow, and booming, and tinted with the slightest hint of sarcasm. it grows louder though, far too loud for it to just be in his imagination. the stilling of your body, going rigid as you fall back onto his chest, the sticky remnants of your orgasm cold against his heated skin, confirms that you hear the clapping too.
“bravo, choi. always thought your reputation with the ladies was a little overhyped, but i stand corrected.”
never has he hated the sight of park seonghwa so much, not even in the times they’ve been head-to-head in the final lap and the older male’s offensively bright swim-cap is all san can see every time he twists his head to catch a breath of air.
the three swimmers stand on the opposite end of the swimming pool, all in various stages of undress.
there’s wooyoung, who looks like he’s not so much as dried himself with a towel, still dressed in his team swimwear. and yunho, who’s got a towel wrapped around his waist messily, hair damp against his forehead and likely smelling of the cheap shampoo provided in the locker-room showers. lastly, seonghwa, who’s seemingly fully dressed spar for one of those irritating long coats san always sees him trailing around campus in.
one look into your panicked eyes is enough for san to spring into action, fumbling to sit himself up and pull your body flush against his, facing your naked back in the direction of his rivals.
he bites back a groan as you shift in his lap, unknowingly- or maybe you do know- pressing your soaked centre against his erection, which already strains inside the confines of the nylon material, leaving very little to the imagination.
“do you mind?” he’s glad the words come out clearly, booming across the pool at them and their unwavering staring.
“not at all.”
san holds you tighter against him, eyeing at your discarded swimsuit on the floor as he listens to a shuffle of footsteps. assuming the three men have made their way back into the locker-room, he’s speechless when he looks up to find them approaching the bench, seonghwa leading the trio with a secure grip on the back of wooyoung’s neck, whose eyes can’t seem to leave the floor, while yunho trails a little behind them, one hand grasping onto the towel around him.
“get your hands off her!” he leans back, pulling you with him, in an attempt to stray out of seonghwa’s reach as he extends his hand out. he fails, however, and the tips of seonghwa’s elongated fingers brush over your shoulder.
a shiver runs down you, one that san feels, the unexpected touch tickling your nerves.
“she’s a grown up,” the eldest of the men muses as he builds a rhythm out of how his fingers soother over your sweat slicked skin. “who i’m sure can speak for herself if she wants my hands off her.”
out of all the men, seonghwa has always been the one san despised most. between the constant boasting of wealth- money he acquired through labor, though not the working kind- and the disrespect he’s never had a problem showing towards others, he never fails to strike a nerve, awakening a dark part of san’s brain that activates his fight or flight response. by far, however, his arrogance is the worst, that sense of entitlement that drives him to think everything and everyone is a piece of clay for him to mold and manipulate till they fit his ideal shape.
the rich boy’s hand smoothes over your naked shoulder and san can’t resist glaring up at him.
“c’mon san, now’s hardly the time to be modest,” behind the oldest swimmer, yunho and wooyoung seem to be battling an inner conflict, yunho fighting to keep his towel in place and wooyoung fighting to keep the shame off his face while his dick visibly strains against the confines of his chlorine-covered swimwear. “not after the show you two just put on.”
“we didn’t,” it’s the first time you manage to speak since covering san’s tongue in your cum, breathing at last steady and face hidden from everyone’s view, much to san’s despair. “know you were watching.”
“and, if you had known, would you have stopped?” yunho is the one asking the question and, suddenly, san’s so much more aware of what exactly he’s hiding underneath his towel.
you give no answer.
“of course she wouldn’t,” seonghwa answers for you, hand moving to grasp the back of your neck. with no warning, he grips a little too tight for comfort and and yanks you backwards, till you’re staring right into san’s eyes and the only thing keeping you perched in his lap is seonghwa’s body pressed flat against yours. “there’s nothing a whore loves more than an audience, right?”
if put on trial in a court of law and sworn to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, over whether or not you’d just clenched around nothing at park seonghwa’s degrading name, you’d plead that you never did such a thing.
you’d be found guilty.
“poor woo nearly came untouched just watching you two. isn’t that right?” the eldest turns to stare back at where you imagine wooyoung to be. “pretty boy nearly whined just at the thought of being in san’s position, a mouth full of cunt and someone using him like the fuck-toy he is.”
the air grows thick, between you, and san, and every other living being in the room. it feels like the walls are closing in on themselves with every second that passes, the sweat dripping down your back and coming to a rest between your arse cheeks evidence that the space is heating up. or maybe it’s just your body, hardly processing the high it’s just come down from and there’s already another source for a new-found arousal, a source in the shape of three muscular men stood behind you and one beneath you, eyes wary as he gazes into your own, like he wants to ask if you’re okay but all the blood is too busy circulating in his crotch for his brain to be productive.
“now, i hardly think it’s very nice of you to get our wooyoung all riled up and not even offer to help him out.” you decide you’re being lulled into a false sense of safety the second you feel the pressure of seonghwa’s hand leave your skin. behind you, there’s a shuffling of footsteps that call you to crane your neck and catch a glimpse of what exactly is going on but san’s eyes beg you to keep staring into his, to count the galaxies that dance within them while he grips at your waist. “so the chance to offer is off the table and you’re simply going to do as told. doesn’t that sound easier, hmm? no having to make pesky decisions, just spread those legs and follow orders.”
at last, you get your first glimpse at jung wooyoung.
he sits down on the bench, no more than a breath of space between where you and san are perched. he’s a vision in himself, shoulders hunched and embarrassed face the same shade of red as the tip of his cock, an angry looking bulbous head poking out the top of far-too-tight speedos.
san’s grip tightens the longer you stare at the other boy, gaze dancing over the shape of his body and mouth-watering as, for the first time, you see the appeal of jung wooyoung. never before have you understood why eyes follow him in the hallways, like he’s more than just another pretty boy on campus- something that’s in abundance. but you see it now, understand the appeal of his stand-out nose; and the veins that run down his arms; and floppy style to his hair, that seems to be calling out to have your fingers running through it.
with no prior warning, the grip on your hips tightens even more, till san is digging crescents into the soft skin and he’s lifting you, off of his lap and right into wooyoung’s.
the usually boisterous boy’s eyes meet yours, no longer filled with that spark of defiance and, instead, glazed over in tears, a quiet pleading being exchanged between you.
only, you’re unsure what he’s begging of you.
“are you going to just sit there,” seonghwa speaks up, boredom in his tone that has you picturing him rolling his eyes and picking at his manicured nails. “or are you going to help the poor pup cum?”
“what?!” that certainly helps you find your voice, and the guts to turn around and look at the man.
you find him stood closer than you imagined, with tailored trousers hugging his thighs and a perfectly ironed shirt tucked into them, the last few messy buttons the only indication he’d rushed to dress himself. eyes looking past him, you find more of a friendly aura in yunho, who, despite fighting a battle against the towel wrapped around his figure, manages to shoot a smile at you.
and then there’s san, who stands with muscled arms crossed over his chest and a painfully obvious boner resting in the confines of his swimwear, though he’s done a better job at keeping himself concealed than the boy beneath you. his face appears indifferent, yet the twitch in his eye speaks of a tamed anger, a frustration he’s yet to unleash on the men who’d interrupted him amidst his feast.
“are you now deaf along with being dumb or something?” the eldest pulls your attention back to him with little effort, a smirk meeting the glare you shoot his way. “you made that brat hard, now do your job and fix the mess you’ve made.”
words of protest get lost in a surprised gasp as the boy in question takes your hand in his, veiny hand guiding you down to a veiny shaft. wooyoung wraps both of your fingers over his leaking cock, his holding yours in place around him while he ruts his hips up once, twice into your hold, the action sending his swimwear even further down the his length and exposing nearly the full sight of it to the swimming hall.
you don’t mean to compare, yet you’re incapable of ignoring the fact that while wooyoung may be on the slightly shorter side compared to san, he’s certainly leading in the thickness department, with a mushroomed head and the prettiest trail of trimmed hairs leading down his pelvis.
he guides you over his shaft a number of times, a little less shy now as he outwardly whines when your thumb runs over his tip, wiping away the fat bead of precum resting upon it. at some point, he moves his hand away, needing both of his free to lean back on the bench, yet yours keeps moving at it’s own volition, stroking him in a pattern of threes, interrupting every trio with a swipe over his tip or a fondle of his still-concealed balls.
“please,” the whine in his voice is so unlike the jung wooyoung you’ve watched week after week, hurling abuse and echoing boasts of his own talents while keeping himself afloat in the swimming pool.
“he asked nicely.” you’d just about forgotten about everyone else in the room, until seonghwa’s irritatingly unbothered voice serves to remind you of his presence. “rule number one: good behaviour is rewarded.”
“what do i,” you interrupt your own question to glance over wooyoung once more. “do?” you pinch your thigh, skin stinging as nails bite it, and confirm with yourself that this is not a dream but, in fact, very much real.
jung wooyoung is hard and begging you to do something.
“i don’t care how you do it, just put one of your holes to good use for once and make him cum.”
there’s still an echo of seonghwa’s voice by the time you successfully manage to rid wooyoung of his swimwear, the damp fabric clinging to the warm skin and the taut muscles of his thighs. the boy isn’t much help either, seemingly reduced to nothing but a writhing, panting mess instead of someone competent enough to raise himself off the bench just enough for you to undress him.
the sight is mesmerising, one you’re certain will remain ingrained in your memory till the day you die: wooyoung, disheveled and untouched, with his achingly hard cock pressed flat against his lower stomach, his swimmer-thighs spread with a set of balls between them that you find yourself near salivating over as a trickle of his own precum runs down them.
“your cock’s...” you begin to speak, yet trail off as your digits wrap themselves around his shaft, just to delight in the way his breath jumps when you drag your hand upwards and give a soft squeeze as you reach the head. “so pretty, woo.”
“youngie.” seonghwa cuts in from behind you. “he prefers to be called youngie when he’s getting his cock teased.”
“yeah, youngie?” you try it out.
instantly, he nods and something akin to a whimper flies out of him.
fascinated by his shaky breaths and his pretty chest, where warm, tanned skin appears to be near glowing under the swimming halls bright lights as his cheeks flush a palette full of reds and pinks, your eyes are completely fixed on him. there’s something vulnerable and breakable about the way he’s looking at your with the widest of eyes, his eyebrows furrowed and bottom lip receiving countless abuse from his teeth.
never have you been so desperate to push someone past their own limits.
officially running on nothing but pure instincts, you close your mind off to thoughts, like how the boy you’d spent weeks avoiding and missing is stood only metres away, witnessing the way the tip of your finger teases over the slit of his sport rival’s cock. or like how park seonghwa, perhaps the campus’ most infamous trust-fund baby, seems to have complete control of the situation at hand, yourself and jung wooyoung nothing but idolised dolls he’s moving into whatever obscene position he wants you in.
instead, you focus on how wooyoung’s eyes roll back and he lets out a gasp when you gather up fluids from within your salivating mouth and part your own lips, watching how your own spit drips onto his lower stomach, and your hand, and his painfully hard cock.
the saliva serves not only as a visual pleasure, something that’s awakening inside of you at the sight of it leaving you with whole new kind of excitement bubbling along your body, but as a physical pleasure for wooyoung, who seems to have no protest to how much easier it is to slide your hand up his length with the added lubrication of your own spit.
“fuck...” he curses under his breath and his hands find purchase on your body, one gripping your hip while the other grabs at your forehand, like he’s scared you’ll release the grip you have on him and strip away the sweet release of friction. “don’t just focus on the tip- shit, ah- play with my balls too.”
“wooyoung!” ready to oblige, ready to give the pretty faced boy anything he demanded of you, you’ve no time to think of a reply before the ringmaster of this circus reminds you of his overlooking presence behind your back. “stop speaking like an ungrateful brat and take what you’re given. or else... well, i’m sure you don’t need reminding of what happens to pups that misbehave.”
the way jung wooyoung’s whole body grows rigid beneath you, paired with the countless times park seonghwa has butted in to speak on the boy’s sexual preferences, leaves you with the sense that the two are not only acquainted with how each other’s bodies move underwater..
“s-sorry,” this is not the voice of boastful jung wooyoung, who near bounces down the college halls and airdrops nudes in class because he’s bored. this is a voice that’s soft and meek. like a beady-eyed puppy, so quick to submit to it’s owner. “just feels too good. i’m sorry”
“yeah, you will be sorry.” seonghwa’s hand is cold against your back and it lulls a shiver out of you as fingers trickle down your spine like water off a duck’s wings. part of you hates him for stealing wooyoung’s attention off of you just as you were beginning to revel in it, a larger part of you wants to know why the sternness in his voice is enough to have your clit aching to be touched. “spitfire, be a good cocksleave and sit on his dick.”
“ok, stop!” a sense of shame comes over you when it takes hearing san’s outburst to remember the fact he’s watching the scene unfold. “don’t you think you’re taking this too far now, park seonghwa? i know you and wooyoung have your... agreement on how you treat each other, but don’t drag someone else into it. not when she never even asked for this.”
“you had your tongue tasting the eighth wonder of the world on that bench twenty minutes ago, both of you knowing there was a chance you’d be caught, and you want to tell me no one was asking for this?”
“that was private! you guys are the ones who-”
“there’s no such thing as privacy in a public area. besides, it’s hardly like she’s not enjoying this. if anything, i think spitfire doesn’t like the way you’re getting in the way of her teaching youngie a lesson in obedience.” you’re naive to think no one would notice the way you’ve began to grind down on wooyoung’s cock, stealing whimpers out of him as the soaked lips of your pussy rubbed up against him and holding back your own moans each time his tip meets the bundle of nerves that make up your clit. “choi, if you’re that much of a pissy pants that can’t enjoy himself even just this once in life, then feel free to leave. i’m sure the four of us will be too occupied to notice your absence.”
you’re not paying close enough attention to figure out if san’s newfound silence is due to his departure, or if he’s simply too stunned to speak, your eyes focused on nothing and no one but the boy at your mercy.
the initial burn of wooyoung breaching your entry reminds you of how long it’s been since you’d been stretched open by something other than someone’s cold fingers or wagging tongue. it’s been more or less three long months of juggling test after test, assignments piling up on your desktop and a relationship with your now ex-boyfriend being tossed completely into the gutter.
not once had you thought your return to the world of sexual bliss would be in front of an audience, much less at the very place you work.
doubting that it’s been as long for him as it has for you, wooyoung still spares nothing when it comes to reacting to your touch. with eyes squeezing shut, head rolling back, abdomen muscles flexing along side every shaken intake of breath, the boy puts on a show so pornographic it puts the professionals to shame. a whine exits his lips, lips that carry marks of his own teeth and look like they’re in need of a healthy dose of chapstick, and look so disgustingly kissable that your own tingle at the thought.
all those rumours of jung wooyoung being a camboy rush to the forefront of your mind, feeling truer than ever when your eyes take in the bob of his adam’s apple, and the perfectly timed run of his tongue over his lower lip, and the pretty way in which the prominent veins in his hands looks as he clamps his grip down on your hips.
he’s a sight worth paying for.
“are you okay?” not the first thing you’d imagined saying after sinking all the way down on his cock, the need to check up on him taking over before you’d even noticed it’s existence.
“yeah...” he sighs his way through the word, eyes still closed and grip still very much tight on your skin, blunt fingertips likely leaving crescent moons you’ll find yourself staring at for days to come, memories of this moment replaying in a rose-tinted haze. “just need a second, you- you feel good, fuck me.”
“i’m kinda already doing that, youngie.” you giggle, like a lovesick adolescent speaking to their crush of the week, but the boy’s instant smile upon hearing it puts out the fire of shame building in the pit of your stomach.
“hmm,” he hums back, acknowledging your words without giving you the satisfaction of hearing him tell you how you’re correct. “are you okay?”
wooyoung flips the question on you and it parallels with the way he pulls the rains in physically, lithe hips thrusting upwards in search of feeling more, reaching deeper inside of you. in the back of your mind you already picture a look of displeasure on park seonghwa’s face, scowling lips loading up to berate you and demand you take repossession of jung wooyoung’s sanity.
“yeah, i’m-” with the eldest man in mind, you stop and compose yourself, as well as you can while wooyoung’s mouthing at your neck, your collarbones, the tops of your breasts. “i’m wondering who told you you were allowed to touch me?”
control is easily regained, all it takes is your hand squeezing around jung wooyoung’s throat and your soaked walls clenching around his aching cock and he’s melting like ice cream on a warm summer’s day, leaving behind a sticky mess.
satisfaction and pleasure come crashing in tandem, wave after wave moving in motion with each lethargic roll of your body against the swimmer’s, who seems to be a quicker learner than you’d believed him to be, hands flying off your body like it was made up of hot stones and, instead, now holding a firm and grounding grip of the bench beneath you both.
“harder.” you feel a hint of emotion within park seonghwa’s voice this time he speaks. it’s fleeting, and hard to make out quite what feeling it is he’s experiencing, but it’s there and it’s certainly a step up from the usual shameless, egotistical, megalomaniac tone he takes on. “squeeze his throat tighter.”
under the possession of his commanding tone, you find yourself caving into his command, fingers pressing a little harder into wooyoung’s warm skin. the boy gulps down whatever pride he has and delivers a pleasured whine. you grind down harder and an evil, twisted part of you you’ve never met before longs to laugh at the way he so desperately is struggling to keep his composure, fighting back the urge to meet your hips with his own upward thrusts.
so, you do.
“hear that, youngie?” seonghwa’s voice becomes less grating each time you hear it, once an unwelcome and intrusive thought but now a second voice and a valued player in a game of wreck the wooyoung. “you’re being laughed at. isn’t that just pathetic?”
“y-yes, fuck-” he falls victim to your walls clenching around him, gripping his cock in a vice grip. the image of confidence withers away so easily to reveal a teary-eyed, pretty-faced, cum-desperate man. “i’m pathetic.”
“yeah, you are.” seonghwa circles his way around the rocking bench, no longer out of view hidden behind your back but, instead, staring you down with piercing eyes that cut through you like a knife to hot butter. “he’s getting close. never lasts long, really, even seen him cum untouched just from giving me head. but that’s okay, isn’t it youngie? you’re a slut for having your sack drained, huh?”
the swimmer beneath you has never looked redder than he does right now, secrets of his sexual nature getting exposed to the people he likely considers his biggest athletic competition. though you probably should, you don’t push him away when his face finds safety in the crook of your neck, parted lips covering your burning skin in sticky drool.
“don’t let him fool you guys, he’s into the degrading nature of it all. trust me.” you wonder if it should concern you the way seonghwa speaks about jung wooyoung as though he’s nothing but a pet, a possession of which he just so happens to have complete control over. you’re more concerned with the fact it excites you. “call him a good boy, i dare you.”
the words haven’t even formed in your throat and the boy between your thighs is gripping onto your waist a little tighter, lips near pouting and eyes screwed shut in uncontrollable pleasure, burning down his spine and threatening to push him over the edge of sexual bliss.
you consider having mercy, the inexperienced side of you thinking the boy looks like he’s full of shame and embarrassment. the throbbing of his rock hard cock repeatedly stuffing your aching cunt reminds you he’s getting off on the humiliation.
“is he a good boy, though?” you stare up at park seonghwa, not even sparing a whimpering wooyoung any attention as he begins a rambled protest to defend his good behaviour. “i mean, i don’t remember telling him he could touch me. do you, hwa?”
the hands that grip you tightly let go quick, like your skin were an unexpectedly warm stove, scorching his skin right off him.
“i don’t remember either,” the eldest’s agreement has you reeling in a way you never expected, filling you with a new found sense of control.
a control that is ripped away far too quickly, like park seonghwa sensed you growing falsely confident over the situation at hand.
like a shark circling it’s prey, the tall man makes his way back around the bench, each fall of his shoe-covered feet echoing in the quiet swim hall. click, click, click, and he’s right at your back, not a word uttered as the soft of his palm lands on the nape of your neck. achingly slow does it travel down the expanse of your back, not a single noise filling the space other than the rise and fall of your body on top of wooyoung’s and the same boy’s poorly contained moans and mewls of pleasure.
the silence is interrupted by your own shocked gasp, mouth falling agape in shock as your movements come to a complete halt. his hands, no longer soft and delicate, grip you in an iron-tight hold, fingers greedy as they dig into your meaty flesh with no mercy or regard for the pain it may inflict on you.
“no, get up,” like a switch was flipped in as little as a minute, park seonghwa’s voice has lost all sense of the excitement it had whilst he spoke on jung wooyoung’s dirty endeavours and has returned back to the cold, callous, commanding tone it had originally.
he sounds angry, feels angry in the way the fingers of his free hand tangle themselves in the hair at the back of your head and give a harsh tug, forcing your head back till you’re met with his scowling face and perfectly groomed hair, even in it’s dampened state it seems to frame his face perfectly.
“what?” you babble out, dumbstruck, much like the desperate boy beneath you who’s began to mutter apology after apology between pleadings of please no don’t do this and i promise i’ll behave, i’ll keep my hands to myself.
none of it works.
“you heard me. get. up.” the fingers on your waist tug, pull, drag you away from the quivering mess that has become of jung wooyoung, who near sobs as the cool air hits his now painfully hard cock, tip redder than the bottom of your favourite heels and a vein more prominent under his sensitive skin than the ones on his muscular arms. you’re not given much of a chance to process what’s happening before seonghwa speaks again. “wooyoung, up, now. you’re not getting to cum, so get off the bench and make room for someone else.”
the boy makes no further attempt to protest, cheeks painted pink in shame and chest shining with sweat as he shakily rises to his feet, head hung low when you watch him walk out of your line of sight.
then, your knees meet the floor.
park seonghwa chuckles as you go down, hands finding grip in your hair and forcing you to sit up right. heart beating faster, your mind begins to race with questions of what comes next, who comes next.
what dirty desires are about to be unveiled within you, forced into the unforgiving fluorescent lights of the swimming hall?
“jeong, you’re up,” seonghwa’s knee digs into your back and his fingers tug until your scalp begins to sting a little. you don’t want to like it but, in life, you don’t always get what you want.
there’s a series of shuffles behind you, followed by heavy footsteps. there’s no rush, yet no hesitation, just calm and collected footsteps of someone making their way over to do god knows what with you.
when jeong yunho, with his towel that’s looking a lot tighter around his crotch still around his waist, steps into frame, an inexplicable sense of comfort washes over you.
maybe it’s the way he smiles down at you, or the fact his hands brush seonghwa’s off of you, or the way his fingers take a hold of your chin once he’s seated in front of you.
maybe it’s just the fact he’s jeong yunho, campus himbo with a reputation for walking girls home at night just to make sure they’re safe and for singing britney spears with no shame each time the karaoke mic gets passed around.
whatever it is, it’s turning you on.
your knees are burning with fresh pain as park seonghwa shoves you closer to the mammoth of a man and you can’t help but swallow down the ball of anxiety growing in your throat.
everything about jeong yunho’s demeanour has always seemed large, with powerful arms that drag his body through the weight of water and large hands that effortlessly carry countless textbooks through the university halls; a tall frame that helps him stand out in any crowd and a personality loud enough to set off alarms; his thighs a muscular stairway leading up to a well rounded, remarkably defined posterior. it’s safe to say he’s carried a reputation for some time, one that consists of whispers between girls on campus who recount just how well endowed he really is. 7 inches, 9 inches, 12 inches, you’ve heard it all, each girl claiming it to be bigger than the last.
unfortunately, there’s no ruler at your disposal to uncover the truth of the rumours, but you confirm he’s certainly large as you watch him undo the towel. larger than you’ve ever seen before, with a thickness to match, and two heavy looking balls decorating the base.
he wraps a hand around it and you watch how he gives a light squeeze at the head, slowly sliding down the length of it till he reaches the tuft of groomed hairs on his pelvic bone. one of his hands alone holds half of his cock, leaving you almost certain you’d need to use both hands on him.
“d’you want it, sweetheart?” his words are teasing but his voice is soft, a complete one-eighty to the verbal berating you’ve been receiving- and enjoying- from park seonghwa.
you’re sure he notices the way you clench your thighs as he slaps his cock once, then twice against his stomach, the precum leaking out on to his tanned skinned.
there’s an itch inside your throat, one you imagine only he can scratch.
“you wanna taste it?” he’s still speaking to you through the arousal that fogs over your brain, commanding your tongue to swipe over your bottom lip as you burn your gaze at the glistening liquid on his warm skin, tastebuds aching to have him paint them in white.
you nod your head.
his own throws itself back, a chuckle rupturing out of his chest as he continues to tease himself with his hand.
“fuck, yeah, bet you can’t wait to taste my cock, feel it stab the back of your tight throat.” a smile should never look so sweet while it’s part of the same mouth spewing out such filth. somehow, jeong yunho makes it work. “gonna get it nice and wet for me, yeah? make it sloppy, i love it when a pretty thing like you gets all messy over my cock.”
the knee that’s suddenly digging it’s way into your back has no mercy. you wince, pull in a sharp breath and inch just that little bit closer to the bench. like a glove fits a hand, you slip right in between the muscled tree trunks that make up jeong yunho’s thighs.
you wonder, if only momentarily, what sweet a death it would be to be crushed between them, taut muscles constricting the flow of air to your lungs like a boa with its prey.
but there’s a far more preferable way to be choked by the man before you, body carved out in such definition you fear michael angelo himself stands in admiration of it.
his hand snakes its way around your body, warm and heavy and imposing with the grip it settles for at the base of your neck. in spite of the sharp stab coming from behind- where you have no doubt one park seonghwa stands with disgruntled impatience written all over his irritatingly perfect face- there is no doubt in your mind that the man in front of you holds the reigns. with eyes of honey and lips of velvet, he peers down at you with a tendered expression, saying nothing yet everything with the gentle, repeated sooth of his thumb over your skin.
you need no verbal instructions this time around.
a hand grips the base of him as the other squeezes the flesh of your own thigh, piercing your skin with just enough pressure to assure you this is the reality you find yourself in, rather than some twisted, substance influenced dream.
the first taste is the sweetest, tongue a missionary sent into the foreign land of his body to discover the way he reacts as you drag it over the tip. he gives nothing but a squeeze to the back of your neck; and that crumbles you under his control.
with a few more kitten licks- for good luck, if anything,- the show begins with the parting of your lips, the widening of your mouth, the burning of your skin as you struggle with your ability to swallow him whole. you make it no further than a third of his length before he’s tugging gently on your roots and bringing you back to the surface of existence.
“breathe, okay,” his voice is gentle, calming your nerves yet sending your heart into a fit of patternless beats. “inhale, exhale, got it? through the nose, that’s gonna help you relax.”
doing as he says, you swallow three whole breaths. shaky, ragged, each feeling hollow in your chest in comparison to the weight of his cock on your tongue.
“pretty girl,” he practically coos, hand cupping your chin as his thumb smoothes over the swell of your bottom lip. it’s tender, sweet, and almost enough to make you forget the sight of his engorged cock that sits angrily between his tree-trunk shaped thighs, crying out for the return of your mouth’s affection. “someone’s gotta teach you to not be greedy, hmm? small little mouth of yours is no fit for me, don’t go choking on it.”
heat flashes between your thighs, your heartbeat dropping right down to your clit and leaving you with a burning ache, the kind only a gentleman like this could soothe. your fingers may have to do, however, if the stubborn arsehole behind you would be so kind as to let you enjoy yourself.
the way park seonghwa curls his hand round the front of your neck and flexes his nimble fingers- that goddamn family heirloom ring a punishing cold to your warm skin, near brandishing you as touched by some nepotism child- when you do so little as clench your thighs together to relieve the pressure, or lack-there-of, between your thighs tells you he’ll grant you no such fun.
“you’d need to have something big enough for her to choke on,” san, precious san. still here, still somewhere beneath this god-forsaken tin-can roof swimming pool, watching you bruise your knees and your ego for another man, another one of his team-mates. what must he think of you? has he lost whatever respect he may have had? does he think he’d been just another body to exchange fluids with, that night at the party? if you could just see his face, you’d not need to wonder all these things. his eyes, they always give him away, too earnest and pure for his own good.
“shut it, choi,” yunho’s bark isn’t half as loud as seonghwa’s booming commands have been, and are nowhere near as malignant. if anything, the gentle giant is humoured by his team-mate’s words, as if he knows they’re a preposterous thing to say about him. then again, you can’t imagine any man remaining humble about themselves if they were so well-endowed. “or do you wanna crack out the measuring tape again and remind yourself of just how much of me there is to choke on?”
silence.
it takes a few moments for the spotlight to return to you, a gradual shift from playful to lust driven energy encapsulating the broad frame of the man before. he cups your cheek, feather-light touch smoothing over your skin while his eyes burrow daggers into your soul.
why must his shoulders be so wide? it almost angers you as much as it sends a wave of heat between your legs.
almost, but not quite.
“‘s cute,” he half mumbles, distracted by the sight you paint below him on your knees, bruises already forming and thighs clenching for some relief of pressure. “your little pussy’s all wet just from having my cock in your mouth.”
“i think you’re forgetting she was bouncing on woo’s dick a few minutes ago, yunho,” the devil on your shoulder won’t let you rest, hand snaking through the threads of your hair and tugging on your roots. not enough to hurt, just enough to sting. “have some modesty.”
“sure, let’s act like i’m not the one who had her cumming all over my face a while ago.” san mumbles a string of words you wish you could unhear, face heating up as the shame burns through your bloodstream.
how had you gotten here?
you’re allowed no such freedom to ponder over previous actions as jeong yunho’s all encompassing frame works to remind you of where you find yourself: on your knees dressed in nothing but your own shame- shame which seems to slip off of you, piece by piece, baring you shamelessly to this pack of wolf-eyed boys’ for their eyes to feast upon.
strong, veiny hands reach out and drag you forwards, just an inch yet it’s all you need to feel the weight of park seonghwa’s domineering figure float off of you, rendering you under the control of this much larger, far smilier looking man. “eyes on me, okay? don’t wanna miss the way i’m about to make them roll back.”
there begins a game of push and pull, where jeong yunho pushes you closer and closer to his evident arousal, all the while teasing you as he pulls his hips back, keeping your waiting mouth open and empty, and oh-so frustrated at the feeling of being so close yet so far away from his dripping tip.
the first real taste you get of him does, in fact, nearly have your eyes rolling back. a kitten lick, barely there yet fully felt, running over the underside of his cock, a taste of salted skin, and musky sweat, and stale chlorine mixing in with the warmth of him flooding your senses. his reaction is no more composed than yours, blatantly parting his lips in a gasp and bucking his hips up, forwards, any direction they need follow to chase after your mouth.
happy to comply, you take pride in tasting him a second time, this time right over the growing drop of pre-cum pebbling on his tip. white flashes behind your closing eyes as his grip in your hair tightens, a pulse of heat firing straight down your spine as your mind floods with images of what it must be like to watch this man, this gentleman, this figure that so wholly encompasses what it means to be a himbo in this day and age lose his cool and revolt into his most carnal, basal instincts to take whatever pleasure he needs from you with a reckless abandon, burrow his throbbing cock down your throat till the beat of his heart takes over your own.
instead, you settle for wrapping your lips around him, at last, and letting him guide you just that little bit down his length. the weight of him feels nice, a strange sense of comfort birthing in your bones as you grow used to feel of him taking up your palate. his breaths seem to run in tandem with the inches he sinks deep between your parted lips.
a deep breath, he lowers you further, till your left cheek begins to bulge out.
tongue pinned to the floor of your mouth, you make use of it as best you can, rolling it over the bottom of his shaft and earning yourself a plethora of gratifying sounds, each deep and desperate and crooning straight out of jeong yunho’s broad chest.
another deep breath, another inch.
for all the false dominance you wield over the situation, with the heat of your mouth and spill of your own saliva slickening his cock, his real and visceral dominance doubles it by tenfold, with a hand on the back of your neck, guiding your every move, and a knowing, gentle look cast downwards at you from where he sits propped on the bench, thighs a heavy mass to case your body between. a silly little voice in your head whispers a seductive tale of how easily this man could get you in a headlock and suffocate your fragile windpipes. a wave of heat, this one going right down to your core and forcing you to pay attention to it, shifting awkwardly and clenching the muscles in your own legs in hopes of getting some pitiful amount of pressure.
all breathing stops as he hits the back of your throat.
hands pulling tight, a biting pain ripping through your hair and a tired gag creeping out of your constricting throat, yunho holds you still and strong, as unmoving as the mountains that fill the horizon from your bedroom window.
he’s not even fully in, an arguably obscene amount of him still awaiting some form of attention beyond the spill of the spit filling up your mouth. but there’s nowhere for it to go, not within your mouth at least, and so you manoeuvre your hand up and grip the neglected inches, the tip of your pinkie teasingly brushing over the swell of his balls.
he lurches forward, gasping in a breath of air at last. “fucking christ- shit,” he grits his teeth. “her mouth’s warm.”
“well, obviously. this your first time getting a blowjob or something, jeong?” god, the reminder of seonghwa being here, somewhere behind you, fox eyes judging your every move and keeping his cool, no matter how hard you’d seen his cock straining in those ridiculous pant-suit trousers he sports. it’s sickening.
“yeah, yunho, watch out before you have a repeat of 2019.”
if the taller jeong wants to snap at the other, you never find out, instead dedicating yourself to the glory of worshipping him between your parted lips and tight throat, jaw ready to lock itself in place so long as it keeps him inside.
you treat him differently than you’d treated san that night. you’d been tipsy then, buzzing off the colourful shots of who-knows-what you’d been conned into downing a half hours before, mind hazy as you kneeled between him and teased your tongue over every crevice of him it could reach, dripping him in drool and working an ache into your overused tongue by the time you got watched him spill over the edge of ecstasy. that wasn’t even about san’s pleasure, no real care put into getting him off, your own selfish need to indulge in the pleasure of feeling, tasting, worshipping him taking precedence.
but, right now, you’re overwhelmingly sober, mind hazed only by a cloud of inexplicable lust that rolled in the moment san shot you his stupid smile, and you care about making jeong yunho cum. in fact, it’s the only thing on your mind as you bob your head up and down, letting his own hand guide your pace.
“shh, shh,” he’s hushing your own struggles for breath and carding his fingers through the tresses of your hair, his legs clamping down on either side of you, pinning you in your rightful place. “taking it so good, baby. so fucking good.”
good’s not good enough.
you want to leave him mind-blown, exhausted, unhinged. you want him clenching his jaw, and baring his teeth, and stuttering over any praise he tries to give you. in fact, you need it, need that thrill-driven lust of collapsing the sanity of a man as broad and strong and capable as him.
so you pick up the pace, fight against the steady up-and-down of his grip and try to take just that little bit more of him in your mouth and down your throat, till you’ve no doubt there’s a visible bulge of where he sits down your windpipe. you think back on what he said- i love it when a pretty thing like you gets all messy over my cock- and work towards doing just that, mouth a fountain of over-flowing spit that paints lines down your chin and over his heavy balls. the hand at his base lightly drags the tips of its nails over his burning skin and you physically feel the way his cock jumps in your mouth, head twitching as his hips involuntarily jolt forwards.
eyes as wide as a deer in headlights, you glance up to stare into his own, only to find they’re rolling back in his head, too caught up in the headiness of having your mouth on him to visually focus. it’s erotic, tracing your eyes over the protruding vein in his neck and the unrhythmic heaving of his chest- like every breath he pulls is a rare gift and a miracle- and the straining of his muscled thighs that hold back his urge to buck freely into your mouth, use you as nothing but a hole to get himself off with.
your free hand stakes claim over your own sexual frustration, nimble fingers rubbing tight, slow circles over your clit in an attempt to just ease that heat burning you from the inside out.
“she’s touching herself, jeong,” not even the irritating, grating voice of park seonghwa’s unwanted commentary can take away the kick you’re getting out of working this man into a frenzy. “are you just going to let her, without your permiss-”
“shut up, park,” yunho is wrecked, voice divulging so far from that loud, boyish charm into a dark, broken sort of gruffed out thing, echoing straight out of his chest. but, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t listen to the other man, doesn’t force his eyes open to glance down in a hazed daze to witness your pathetic attempts to work your fingers over yourself.
only, he doesn’t tell you to stop.
he just... watches. and then smiles, squeezes out what can only be described as a broken whine, and tilts his head back once more, relinquishing all control of his body over to you. the scene divulging into a chorus of mumbled words, fuck and please and yes becoming the only word yunho knows, the only three you hear.
only as he cums does jeong yunho regain that bit of self-control he’s lost, ripping your mouth off him- a stuttered mumble of i wanna paint that pretty face- and erupting in a mess of grunted moans, cock twitching in his palm as rope after rope of white, hot fluid shoots out of it. it’s messy, and disgusting, and sticky, marking the skin on your cheeks, nestling in your hair, dripping over your shut eyelashes.
the last drops land in your parted mouth as his grasp shakes and you regain the right to wrap your lips around his mushroomed tip.
lips stained in pearly white, cheeks and neck matching too. the throb of your neglected cunt, clenching itself around nothing but the mere thought of having jeong yunho stuff you full, break you in two and leave you spent.
the man in question is in a no better state, head thrown back and chest a heaving mess glistening with the shine of his own sweat. his mouth hangs open, near heaving in breaths of air and his hands, adopting a mind of their own, grip harder in your hair and hold you firmly in place, tongue laving over his sensitive tip, pushing him closer and closer to the ledge of overstimulation.
“fuck- uh, fucking look at you,” sweet voice, foul words. two fingers drag over your cheek, coating themselves in the sticky substance he’s painted you in. “drooling all over me.”
he’s right, you are drooling. down your chin, an uncomfortable damp coat covers your overheating skin as you continue to stretch your lips around his length, ready to rip another thigh-shuddering orgasm out of the man.
yunho grants you no such pleasure.
instead, a grip tugs back on your hair and, before you can feebly attempt to catch your fleeing breath, he’s pulling you up into his lap, straddling you across the well-defined muscles of his thigh. those big, capable hands he pushes himself through pools, and rivers, and all other bodies of water manipulate your limbs however he likes, a rag-doll free for him to toy with for as long as he sees fit.
“yun-” you don’t even manage to say his name properly, not when he grinds you down into his lap, smothering his tanned skin in your juices. the friction runs straight for your pulsing clit and you’re rendered to sinking into his welcoming arms, head collapsing into the crook of his neck, parted lips panting up a storm against his sweated skin.
“that nice for you, angel?” the soft words, the rough hands, the perfect roll of your hips. you feel like you could sob, break apart completely. yunho tracing a hand up the curve of your spine and soothing his long fingers over a knot in you back doesn’t help your case. “bet it is. little bit of release to all that tension you’ve been feeling, yeah?”
you think you nod.
it’s hard to tell.
sparks fly within your loins, heating you from the inside out. yunho, at some point, has wound his fist into the tresses of your hair, nails scrapping along your scalp. it’s pleasurable, all over, soothing you into a state of utter relaxation, a being with no purpose other than to take whatever this mass of warmth and muscles and width offers you.
his hand makes a fist and gently tugs, forcing a whine out of you as you’re faced with the bright lights once more. traces of his own cum stain the very place your face had lay. it’s erotic to see, drying up your tongue with a need to lick it clean.
“no, no, focus, right here,” a single finger taps at your cheek, followed by the tilting of your chin that forces you to stare back at the hungry eyes of jeong yunho. “eyes on me. want a front row seat to watching your eyes roll back.”
god, he’s filthy, and delicate, and that just makes him all that more filthy.
swiping his digits through the remnants of his sticky cum, he makes sure you’re staring right back at him as those same fingers snake their way down between your grinding bodies and burrow themselves deep in your soaked heat. shallow pumps of his hand fuck his cum-coated fingers deeper, long and lithe enough he barely needs to move to have you feeling him all over, everywhere.
by the time he curls them, pressing against that spongy wall, you’re just about ready to cry.
“think she’s gonna cum,” oh god, no, why must he remind you of your audience? why does it no longer frighten you to have eyes watching you be defiled but, rather, have you clenching around him tighter, chasing that fever-like ecstasy the man means to deliver? “she’s gripping my fingers so tight- shit, almost makes me wanna bust my load just thinking how warm her pussy would feel round my cock.”
“don’t let her cum,” you vow, some day, to wring the neck of park seonghwa. “just cause she’s gone all cockdrunk doesn’t mean she’s earnt-”
“shut up, hwa,” the boy’s thumb pokes up and you can’t help the way you grind down into it, smothering your clit in whatever pressure you can get. “pretty baby’s more than earned it. stop being bitter that i’m the one who’s gonna give her it.”
give you it, he does.
three fingers deep, the cocktail of your wetness mixing with his cum-cated digits aiding the ebb and flow of his rhythm, jeong yunho has your toes curling, eyes rolling, thighs shaking. you blackout, for only a moment, lost in the wilderness of pleasure.
the aftershocks are barely kicking in when you’re suddenly ripped away from yunho’s hold. the sounds of your beating heart and heaving chest muffle the disgruntled exchange of words between the swim-team, inhibiting your ability to stay clued-in on the events that surround you. all you know is that when your body meets the bench once more, on all wobbly fours, jeong yunho no longer sits tall and proud.
a sharp sting hits your rear- a smack, that echoes in the empty space of the swimming hall. the only appropriate response is the shriek you let out, twisted in your own conflicting emotions of pain, and pleasure, and painful pleasure. a second smack meets the other cheek. this time, there’s no doubt a wanton whine escapes you.
“since the rest of them can’t take orders,” you’d already known it was seonghwa whose hands were suddenly all over you, pinning you in a position of submission. the sound of his grandiose voice sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine, top to tail. “i’ll have to do it myself.”
with no word of warning, he smooths his hands down the globes of your ass, teases the crease of skin where your inner thigh meets your dripping heat, and fucks two whole fingers into your sensitive core. knuckles deep, they sit still upon initial intrusion, basking in the warmth of you and coating themselves in the essence from an orgasm you’ve yet to even fully recover from and the cum yunho’d scooped off your own face.
then, at last, when your nails dig marks into the wood below, he curls them a come-hither motion.
with shame painted on your skin, you toss your head back and release an inhumane cry, eyes hazily gazing up at the horrendous white lights above. “oh god!”
“not quite. i do appreciate the flattery though,” there’s no need to glance over your shoulder to know that pompous, trust-fund baby is wearing the most earth-shattering smirk, some stupid strand of his perfectly groomed hair dangling over one of his eyes, like some 90s heartthrob boy-band member. you do it anyway.
park seonghwa is an unfairly attractive man, sporting a beauty so ethereal it almost makes you angry.
that anger seems to dampen the wetter he gets you.
his touch is slow, but by no means is it gentle. calculated and malevolent, he plays with your insides like they’re nothing but the strings to your puppet. a curl of his fingers and one of your hands shoots forward. the torturously slow pace that he pumps his digits in and out, and your jaw falls slack. his thumb bumps and grinds against your throbbing clit, and your elbows give out, sending you crashing face-first down onto the bench.
his free hand presses down on your lower back, bending you deeper, hiking your ass up higher in the air. and, at first, you think you’re imagining it, that trickle of warmth against your other entrance, believing it nothing but a trick of your melting brain.
you’re who-knows how many hours deep in a whirlwind of pleasure and penetrative stares, people have been driven to the brink of insanity over far less in the past.
but then seonghwa’s fingers leave your cunt, warm and wet trails following their journey over your skin. there’s no imaginative mind great enough in this universe to conjure up that initial shock to feeling how he prods and pokes at your puckered hole, lubricating it with the dirty mixture of both you and yunho’s cum and his very own spit.
the tip of his pointer finger ventures onward first, breaking through the surface of your tight muscles in a shallow intrusion.
the feeling has you frozen, frightened, intrigued. eyes widening, moans dying, pussy pulsating in an empty need.
“don’t go getting shy on us now, spitfire,” the collective language he uses brings back the weight of all the boys’ eyes on you. hesitantly, you angle your face off the bench, and regret it the instant you meet the brown comfort of his eyes. “fun’s just starting. ain’t that right, san?”
a tense energy takes over the large room, with san’s shoulders tensing, and yunho’s feet fidgeting, and wooyoung’s cheeks blushing. seonghwa seems impervious to the shift, whether voluntarily or not, and instead invites himself to further exploring the limits of your body.
he’s kind enough to spare a bit of care into the way his finger sinks deeper into your unexplored hole. another dribble of his hot saliva lands messily onto you, aiding the slip and slide of his hand. two, or three, or four strokes of his finger and you’re submitting to the intrusion, hips rutting higher and presenting yourself more to the man.
“come here,” the command calls over your body and, at first, you think its aimed at you. so you try scooting further back, only to be halted by seonghwa speaking once again. “yeah you, choi. come get under her.”
for the first time since this all began, you’re on the precipice of saying no.
they’d listen, all of them. wouldn’t push you, pressure you or force you to keep going, not if you truly voiced your negation. even park seonghwa, as big an arsehole as he may be, would have no qualms ending his fun and agreeing to never speak of this again.
and it’s not that you don’t want choi san under you. far from it, as you’ve already made pretty clear earlier, thighs his personal ear-warmers while his tongue delved deep for your honey-suckle glory. you’re hardly uncomfortable at the thought of him under you, chest rising repeatedly in frantic breaths and legs bent at the knee to give him just the right leverage to fuck up into your messy cunt-
it’s not till he’s three feet away from you, hands fidgeting by his side, eyes looking anywhere but you and your compromising position, and the world’s most obnoxiously boner-strained tent in his swimming gear that realisation washes over you. you’re hesitating because of him, because of his possible discomfort.
what if he wants to say no? what if he doesn’t want to get under you? what if his eyes will never look into your own again, too shocked and disgusted by all the things you’ve let be done to you? by his own team-mates/rivals, too?
hell, you’ve shocked yourself even, never in a million years had you pictured a day you’d be at the mercy of some rich prick, overdressed for every occasion and looking like a vogue-cover-model reject. but when he’s edging another finger into the already-tight squeeze of your ass, and pushing your buttons just enough to nudge you towards an edge that never seems to arrive, how could you ever dream of being anywhere else?
a hand touches your cheek.
soft. tender. it takes the extra time to soothe the pads of its fingers against your burning cheek.
“you feeling okay?” san’s quiet tone, meant only for you, is enough to move you to near-tears. you crave his hug. the position you find yourself in only allows you to reach out and grasp at where his knee bends as he crouches down to your level. it’s all the same, san knows. san understands. his own hand lands on top of yours, messily threading digits.
“she’s literally stuffed with another man’s cum and you’re worried about her? well aren’t you just the sweetest.” a cheap remark from seonghwa.
san purposefully ignores it, and everything about the man, instead choosing to keep his focus on what matters.
you.
“think you could make some room for me down there?” your nose wrinkles at his choice of words.
his giggle echoes.
“no, no, not... like that,” he guides you as he talks, grip moving to your shoulders and coaxing you up into a seating position. somewhere along the way, seonghwa’s hands leave you. he doesn’t stray too far, however, and your back soon collides against his chest. “here, pretty. want you to make space for me down here.”
within seconds, choi san’s back in his rightful place: splayed out beneath you, body fit snug between your parted legs and hair an unruly, sweated mess against his forehead.
no clothing sits between you both, blessing you with the mouthwatering drag of his cock through your folds. hard, and red, and leaking at the tip, a slight curve to the right, dribbling precum against his well-toned stomach. you’re biting your lip before you fully register your own thoughts, body a mind of its own as you grind down onto him.
control is limited and fleeting, that of which seonghwa reminds you without uttering so much as a word. instead, he clamps a harsh grip down on either side of your hips, rucks you up to where he needs you and guides you down onto san’s cock.
it’s thick, imposing and something that seonghwa blesses you no time to ease into things. instead, you’re slammed down, san buried to the hilt inside of you.
“hey there,” delicate fingers skim up the tense muscles in your thigh and find pleasure in delivering a teasing tickle to your sides. “come here often?”
the cheeky grin, the double entendre, the way san looks so goddamn proud of himself for saying it. you can’t help it, you wind up giggling uncontrollably.
wrong choice. bad idea. danger zone.
san contorts in pain, and lust, and something else you’ve never seen behind his eyes before, hissing through his teeth like some feral cat. his eyes match that of a feline too. “you trying to squeeze my dick off or something?”
you compose yourself upon the reminder of that san can feel you tensing around him, pull in a deep breath and find your voice again, at last. “or... something.”
maybe you’re a little out of breath. maybe you’re a little hoarse. it doesn’t seem to matter to the boy below, his only response being to cant his hips up and lick at the fire burning in your insides.
“you two are disgusting,” once again, park seonghwa wins gold in the nobody-asked-for-you-bum-ass-opinion olympics. let’s see if he’ll continue his winning streak and go for gold in the hypocrite-athon too!
the hands on your sides begin you guide you, with seonghwa squeezing his perfectly manicured nails into your plush skin and bouncing you down onto san. up, down, up and down, repeated strokes like the ones their hands deliver each time they breach the surface.
it’s easy, this pleasure. it’s a gift, hand-delivered by two god-like men that sandwich you between them- one a mass that fills you, the other a weight that controls you. liberating in every sense, you can’t help the way your head rolls back to find purchase on one of seonghwa’s shoulders, completely melting into the ways he winds you over san.
“shit, yes, you feel,” san’s no better than you, mouth agape and hands unsteady as they trace every inch of skin they can reach: the dimples of your back, the swell of your breasts, the hood of your clit. his hips are the only steady thing about him, not a falter in the way they grind up to kiss your dripping pussy with his cock. “so good. so warm, tight. love it.”
a hand curls round your front, travels up between your breast and over your sternum. it settled for a grip a round your throat, no pressure applied, it simply exists against your windpipe, a silent threat.
“look what you do to him, hmm,” a squeeze around your neck. seonghwa’s warm breath fans against your ear, taunting you. “look what you’re doing to them.”
through your glossed-over gaze, you trail your way past the sight of san and all his captivating beauty, settling instead on the equally erotic, not-at-all surprising image that stands just past where his head rests at the edge of the wooden bench.
a sweaty wooyoung, bent at the waist and whining up a storm, while a far more composed yunho pounds his hips into the boy’s arse.
your walls clench and san whimpers, a string of curses and pleads leaving him.
“think you’re finally ready for me?” the devil on your shoulder- at your back, more truly,- smirks into your skin, careless enough to not even feign it being anything but a rhetoric question. ready or not, park seonghwa is going to finally get his own fill of the thrill, his own satisfaction, beyond mere observation and controlling.
the spill of your own wetness slips down your thighs as san continues to fuck himself deep. it doesn’t travel far as seonghwa coats himself in you, wetting his fingers before they slip back inside your ass. a few generous, tempting pumps into your ring of muscles, fingers spreading a little further apart each time, till he decides that’s enough, he’s ready, you’re ready.
the unbuckling of a belt.
an unzipping of trousers.
trousers bunched down muscled thighs.
the first cut may be the deepest, but you highly doubt it’s as deep as seonghwa feels feeding his cock into your arse, stretching you apart to make way for him. a part of you feels like it can’t breathe, impaled on both these men who sit so deep inside you, you fear you’ll feel the ghost of their touch for weeks to come.
but what does it matter, really, when seonghwa pulls you back against him and whispers filth against your ear?
this is all you’re good for. cock-drunk whore. gonna let us cum inside?
and san’s coaxing you down to trail his mouth over your chest, the tongue flicking over your nipple a terrible juxtapose to his crooning words?
taking it so well, baby. so tight, and perfect, and god. ‘s that what baby needs, huh, for me to touch her little clit?
the two men find a rhythm, a synchronised routine to how they pull and push you around. their thrusts ebb and flow, no moment existing where you sit empty. they treat your body like they treat the pool, swimming through your waves of pleasure and effortlessly advancing to the finishing line, the winning stroke. then, san’s hand meets your cheek and your thoughts are dragged underwater, muffling the sounds of everyone else- the shlickt sound that echoes with each inch of cock fucked into you, the high-pitched whimpers of a fucked out wooyoung, the slapping of skin against skin- as he pulls you in for a kiss.
it’s a hungry one, all teeth and tongue and swollen lips. you pull away more breathless than before and fighting back a big dopey grin, toes curling as the swell of one of their cocks hits a nice spot inside you, body too on fire to know just exactly where the new wave of heat is coming from.
“h-how d’you do it, hm?” it’s almost a whisper, something meant only for your ears, yet you hear him loud and clear, voice stuttering off in a mess of whines and moans. “still got that pretty-girl smile, even while getting fucked silly.”
it almost makes you shy, till you remember what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with. you settle for a quick, short answer. mostly because you fear you’re losing the ability to think in full-sentences, much less speak one out loud. “can multitask.”
like your own words are the key to pandora’s box, your eyes widen, and your mouth dries, and your heart reels as a new desire burrows itself somewhere between the parts of you owned by san and the parts owned by seonghwa. the desire makes room for more, for someone more, and, without much chance for second-thoughts or hesitation, you find what little stability you can manage with one hand pressing down onto san’s toned chest and reach forward with your free hand.
fingers, light as a feather, curl around wooyoung’s solid shaft. the man’s hips stutter at the unexpected contact, eyes flying open to glance down in time to watch you reach out your tongue, licking up the droplets of precum that threaten to spill from his mushroomed tip.
“please, god, please!” he’s beyond the point of sense, poor baby, struggling to keep up with yunho’s hips’ repeated slamming into his tight ass. so, you can’t really blame him or shame him for the way he hastily rips his hand through your hair, tugging your mouth as far down his cock as the angle allows.
a few hairs rip from your skull in his grip. you reward him with a pleasant hum, moans muffled with the mouth-full he’s providing you.
“shit- look at that,” seonghwa pipes up from behind you, the motion of his hips never faulting or failing as he continues to take part in the filthiest three-way tango known to man, hands bouncing you down to meet each raise of san’s hips, plundering the other man’s cock deep, deep, deep, till he’s kissing your cervix and you’re seeing stars before your eyes. “should cup youngie’s- fucking christ- his balls, san, cup ‘em.”
you’re vaguely aware of his compliance, hand lifting off whatever part of you it was touching- your nipple, your hip, your jaw, it’s hard to tell when you feel like san’s everywhere, all over you, part of you- to graze the set of well-groomed spheres that threaten to slap your chin each time wooyoung thrusts forward.
barely two seconds, hardly any pressure against them, and the youngest of the four is nearly in tears, wailing and begging over broken whines that it’s too much, can’t take it, don’t stop.
there’s a ringing in your ear. because everything is becoming too much: wooyoung in your mouth, san rutting up into you and seonghwa’s hands clawing and pulling your body back into each of his overpowered thrusts. the boy in front of you is the first to fall apart, twitching in your mouth and, without a warning, choking you on the cum he shoots down your throat. a hand pulls you back, just enough to paint your face in the final drops released from wooyoung.
one of the other men is next, a string of curses and grunts filling the air. there’s a new stickiness between your legs, gooey white staining your skin. it’s all building up, and up, and up, until you topple over and are sent reeling into wave after wave of blinding pressure, toes cramping up and muscles spasming as you shoot off into another astral field, creaming around san and chocking seonghwa’s cock.
you don’t register the release of your hips nor the crash-down of your body. one moment, you’re pressed back against seonghwa, mouth dropped open in a silent scream for merciless pleasure, and the next you’re cradled in san’s warm embrace, a crooning tone to the way he hushes and calms you, unheard i got yous, and did so good for us, babys, and just let me hold yous falling on deaf ears.
for a moment in your own history, time ceases to exist.
there’s no ticking of the large clock on the wall, reminding you of how long ago your shift had ended. there’s no thoughts of your plant friend drying out in the staleness of your room, desperately awaiting you to revive it with some h2o. there’s no consequences awaiting your actions, no shame to be feared and leaving you unable to look any of the four swimmers in the eye ever again.
instead of being crashed against choi san’s body, a mixture of his, yours, and several other people’s bodily fluids serving as the adhesive that keeps you stuck together in your mess, you’re floating in space, not quite alive but not quite dead, just there.
nerves tingling, body aching, mind switched off.
four, or five, or ten, maybe even fifteen minutes pass by the time you regain focus on your surroundings.
your name, whispered. it’s his voice that pulls you back, sweet and soft and oh so like the san you’re used to, the one that sends teasing winks your way when your eyes happen to meet his in class, and the one who has the prettiest notes you’ve ever seen, a colour-scheme for his every highlight and the cutest of doodles to go along with the topic on the paper.
the one who’s hand is currently brushing through your hair, fingers careful as they catch on the tangles near the split ends.
“hmm,” you swear you want to say his name, say more than that, but there’s an ache in your jaw that hinders you from even attempting, your voice-box likely having taken a beaten in the throws of your pleasured moans.
“you okay there?” he giggles over the end of the sentence, and you feel your slowing heartbeat stutter at the sound.
he feels you nod into the crook of his neck and lets his free hand find perch against your hip, moments before giving it a light squeeze.
he’s warm, and pleasant, and soft.
and moving you both into an up-right position, hands splaying flat against your back and keeping you secure against him, your legs wrapping around his slender waist. you drift off again, between time and space, and come to at the first drop of water that lands on your back.
one drop, two drops, and then a downpour of heat crashing onto both of you.
you can tell from the colour of the pinkish tiles along the communal shower floor that you’re in the women’s changing room, and mentally note to thank him, even if he’s not aware, for bringing you somewhere you won’t have to shamefully stumble out of in the nude, your change of clothes safely tucked away within one of the lockers.
“i’m gonna put you down now, okay?” he speaks so gently that it overwhelms you, answering him only with an affirmative nod of your head.
neither of you speak while he lathers shampoo into your hair, nor when he’s dragging his soap covered hands over the cum that stains your skin, wiping it away and leaving nothing but suds where the liquid once was. he doesn’t speak while covering your eyes with his hands, blocking the sting of the shampoo. you don’t speak when you inch closer, head falling forward to rest against his chest.
when he does eventually speak again, both of your fingertips are wrinkled and bodies are clean, the water of the shower serving as nothing but a way to keep warm.
“you’re, uh, not” the echo of his voice in the empty lockers feels so much more intimate than how his cries sounded by the pool. “doing anything on wednesday, right?”
too lazy to move, you angle your face to stare up at him from his chest and take a moment to just stare, look at the way his hair is sticking to his forehead, at the way his eyes are back to being wide, at the way the marks you’d littered along his neck are becoming more prominent.
“how’d you know?” your question confirms his own, and a tenseness you’d not noticed melts off of his shoulders.
“wednesday is race day. you never work race days.”
it’s such an odd detail to have noticed, and it’s making you question everything you thought you knew about your relationship with san. do acquaintances remember each other’s schedules? do acquaintances bring each other soothing teas when they notice the other developing flu symptoms? do acquaintances waste time pulling faces at each other in lectures they should probably be paying attention to.
“i’m not taking part in the race this time, by choice. my grades are good enough, don’t need to worry about winning some championship to keep my education.” san is speaking unpromptly at this point, rambling in a way you’ve only seen him do when he’s nervous, or excited, or both. “it’s okay if you don’t want to, or you have better things to do or places to be! but, i was just thinking, maybe you’d wanna spend some time with me? there’s this medieval market down on main-street, it’s meant to be really cool, and i just think it would be even cooler to go with you? but, again, you don’t have to. forget it, actually, i’m being stupid and assuming you’re not doing something with your friends or your-”
the kiss you interrupt him with is far more innocent than the one you shared earlier, no hands rushing to touch and tongues desperate to taste, just two sets of lips moving as one.
you pull back and he chases after you, lips landing another peck before you’re grasping his cheek in your hold and forcing him back.
“i think you could have asked me to come help clean your apartment for you and i’d still say yes, just to spend my day with you,” you say, and he smiles as if on instinct, unable to stop it even if he tried.
“really?”
“really.”
“good, cause i already bought us two tickets and i really didn’t wanna have to go alone.” there’s drops of water dancing on his eyelashes, and laziness in his every movement, and you’re both still very much naked, but none of that seems to matter when he gives you another peck, like he’s awakened an addiction and your lips are now his favourite vice. “but, now that you mention it, my apartment could do with some cleaning. and i bet you’d look amazing in a maid outfit.”
a slap echoes in the showers.
“hey! don’t worry, i’ll be wearing a matching one!”
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
backspin | bbf!frankie
surprise! we're taking a quick detour to fuck around with our brother's best friend again. what else is new.
pairing: bbf!frankie morales x fem!reader
summary: you try to get even with frankie. it works.
warnings: reader is santiago's younger sister, she and frankie do not get along, enemies to lovers, mention of throwing up, alcohol consumption, cursing, oral, more dickhead frankie and more sassy reader
word count: 6.3k
part one: rack 'em | main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💙
So, you fucked around with Frankie.
It’s no big deal, right? It was just a one-time thing. There was tension, you guys relieved it. Scratched an itch. Served a purpose. You still fucking hate the guy, and he still fucking hates you.
Nothing’s changed.
Right?
Mal sprays wine all over the kitchen table when you tell her. Gargles a, Sorry – fuck – sorry, through what little of the alcohol is left in her mouth.
You wipe your face clean in the crook of your elbow. It’s in your fucking eyelashes. You blink the room back into focus, and – “Jesus, Mal!”
Dark droplets teeter around the edge of the table, threatening to plunge straight down onto your mom’s chair cushions – thus damning you to her very own personal hell for all eternity. You can feel the flames licking at your feet already.
Your best friend rips a sheet of paper towel and drags it over the wood – white bleeding violet at the first swipe. “Why’d you tell me as I was taking a sip?”
“I didn’t think you’d fucking hose me down,” you hiss, taking the soaked crumple from her hands.
“You didn’t think I’d be a little surprised that you and Catfish Morales hooked up? Are you fucking ser–? Actually, you know what? I’m not that surprised.”
You glare at her from the sink, upper lip curled.
Mallory Bennett has been privy to your every thought since you were six years old. Hand in hand, arms swinging as you marched into first grade together.
Most days, you barely have to open your mouth – one flinching expression, one flash of eye contact, and she can parrot your own thoughts back to you.
Francisco Morales going down on you two nights ago is the first thing you’ve ever had to confess to her. It’s the first thing she never saw coming.
“Shut up,” you breathe, eventually thawing and sweeping over to your chair. The table sticks to your arms when you sit back down.
“There’s a lot to unpack there, alright? A lot of tension. I mean, you gotta fuckin’ feel it. You two hate each other’s guts! And you’re both single, and you’re only here for two weeks. And – he’s Santi’s best friend. It’s just…it’s the perfect storm.”
Another exasperated sigh passes your lips. You settle back, eyes closed, and lift your palm. “Enough. I’ve heard enough.”
“You wouldn’t’ve told me if you didn’t wanna talk about it. Was he good?”
“Mal.”
“Was he?”
“I was drunk. I don’t remember.”
“Bullshit.” Her face screws up; the gold hoops wobble from her ears. “Like hell you don’t remember. Tell me.”
Your eyes slip from her over to Ange. The old pup pushes herself to her feet with a huff, her joints stiff and bones frail. She moseys over to your side. You scratch the back of the dog’s neck, shrugging to Mal.
“Maybe if you hadn’t cheated your way to a free round of drinks, I’d remember enough to share.”
“Fuck you,” she snorts, voice rounded by her wine glass. “Maybe that just means you gotta do it again – sober.”
You scoff.
Angie looks up at you – watery eyes blinking, tail slowly fanning.
Mal’s already recounting the time Frankie snitched on the two of you for raiding your mom’s makeup bag. She waves her hands in the air, eyes bulging.
Do it again. The thought actually makes you want to laugh.
You and Frankie – you and Catfish, hooking up again. As if the first time wasn’t a total mishap, the biggest mistake in judgement you think you’ve ever made.
He drove you home, he made you come, he left.
One nil, right? You have one up on him. You got yours, and he probably went home and jerked off to the thought of it. Alone in his room, tongue licking at the corners of his mouth where he could still taste your release.
You won.
You won, against Frankie Morales.
“…and then fuckin’ – Pope tried to help us tidy it up, remember? He was scrubbing the hell outta the lipstick on the mirror. But that asshole – Frankie,” she seethes, “he went downstairs as soon as your mom came home. As soon as she…And he fucking ratted!”
She growls, balls her fists. Screws her eyes tight shut like the enraged eight-year-old she was back then. She still has the same little crease between her brows. “What the hell got into you that night? We hate him, junior!”
Ange slumps to the floor with a sigh.
“Me too, girl,” you mutter to her, twirling the base of your glass. You look back up at the crazed woman opposite. “I don’t know,” you insist. “I was drunk, we were on our own…It just happened, alright?”
Her shoulders roll in a shrug. She lifts her glass to clink the neck of the bottle against the rim, purple wine spilling in a swirl. “Maybe it’s the start of something.”
You scoff. “Mal. Come on.”
“I’m serious. Perfect storm.”
“Nope. No storm. Stop that.”
She jabs a tipsy finger in your direction. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you messed around with your arch fucking menesis– arch fucking…with – with Frankie, and you just – still feel nothing for him?”
“No,” you admit, “I feel plenty for him. I hate his fucking guts. I used to wish every birthday that he’d disappear. One time in church, when Father Joseph told everybody to bow their heads ‘n pray, I actually asked God to kill him for me.”
“Not Father Joseph!” Mal shrieks, grinning. “He was so fucking hot, by the way, for a dude with no hair. When the sunlight caught that cueball just right…that was a real fucking miracle. Goddamn.”
You bat her snicker away. “Me and Frankie used to brawl so bad that our moms had to separate us,” you continue. “I had to sit in the front seat if we drove anywhere – and that still didn’t stop him! He’d reach around the headrest and flick my fucking ear.”
“You gave as good as you got, though. I’m surprised he can even still get hard, the number of times your foot…” She swings her leg and kicks your thigh softly. “He was an ass, I know.”
“He was an ass then, he’s still an ass now. That’s all there is to it.”
“Okay,” Mal concedes. Her dark, glossy hair surfs around the lip of her wine glass when she leans in. “But you wouldn’t’ve told me unless it was still on your mind. ‘s all I’m saying.”
You throw yourself back with a quick, angry shake of your head. Your tongue flicks over your top lip.
“All I’m saying,” she repeats, holding her hands up.
But I won, you think – in a petulant little whine. Like you could shake your fists and stamp your feet at the same time. You got one up on him. He – he made you…
He made you come. He saw you. Felt you. Tasted you.
He knows what you sound like, whimpering his fucking name. Drunk on him, begging him not to stop. And now, the image of him fisting his cock over the memory of it feels less like a victory, and more like –
Another fucking loss.
You have no idea what he looks like, coming undone. No clue what his fragmented moans sound like as they tear from the bottom of his throat and rain down over you. You don’t know the weight of him in your hands, the wet slip of his tip as he leaks over your tongue.
Mal’s onto something new. Taken by a Facebook post from some girl you went to high school with. Biggest head I ever saw on a fucking baby, she mutters, wincing and then sprinkling a handful of salted peanuts on her tongue.
Frankie’s cocky smirk clouds over the sight of her at the opposite end of your kitchen table.
Francisco fucking Morales. The asshole wins again.
All at once, you hear his rotten little jeers in your ear – curbed painfully by his middle finger searing across your lobe. You feel his heavy palm on your skull, fingers scrunching roughly into your scalp.
A temper boils between your ears, heavy over your head. It feels juvenile, as if it’s armed with a Barbie in one fist and a juice box in the other. Sunken and wallowing in shame and rage, red-hot waves which wash over you as Mal cackles at some video on her phone.
You feel Frankie’s hands around your legs; the flicks of his hair tickling the inside of your thighs. The swarm of butterflies deep in your belly as you watched his figure swagger back across the street to his truck.
Loss after loss after loss. Each one wearing a satisfied smirk and a Standard Oil baseball cap.
Each one staining deeper than red wine in varnished oak.
You grit your teeth.
Frankie –
fucking –
Morales.
Santi floats the idea of a barbecue. Because of course he fucking does.
He says his place is too small, too many neighbors in earshot – and as long as Ms. Teller takes both hearing aids out, she won’t even know it’s happening.
“Just the guys ‘n us,” he chirps. “You, me, Will, Benny…Fran-kie…?”
You gag down the line. Body instinct whenever his name is mentioned, worsened by the latest developments in your relations. Ange glances up from her spot beneath the oak tree – her milky fur stark against the velvet green grass.
Santi chokes on a laugh. “Mal, too, if that helps with the Catfish thing.”
You lean the phone on your collarbone, sitting forward to apply a second coat of polish to your toes. The red gloss shines in the early morning light. “He is not welcome in my house.”
“First off: not your house. Second –”
“My house for the next eleven days.”
He says your name flatly. It sounds like a door being slammed. It shuts you up as though you’re nine again. “…Second: he won’t be in the house. He’ll be in the backyard.”
“You owe me,” you protest. “For ditching me the other night. I’m cashing in, Santiago. You want a cookout? No Frankie.”
Your brother sighs. “And how am I supposed to explain that to him, hermana?”
“Don’t,” you tell him. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”
Santi mutters something incoherent, though you know from the razor-sharp tone of voice that it’s no compliment. Still – he’s a man of his word.
Eventually he agrees: no Frankie at the barbecue.
The store is chilly, plucking goosebumps along your arms.
You round the aisles, scanning your list. You’ve been battling with a janky front wheel which has squealed and veered off-course at every fucking turn. It almost mowed over an elderly woman in the meat aisle.
You’ve cleared most of what Santi told you to get. Drinks, ice, buns, meat, corn on the cob. He wanted to use Mom’s dinner plates – but that, you countered, runs the risk of them being scraped, chipped, or worst of all, smashed.
That’s not a risk you’re willing to take. So you’ve piled in some paper plates and plastic cutlery, too – just to be on the safe side.
The cashier cuts a familiar figure at the checkout: her navy apron and full-cheek grin. She’s a staple sight from your childhood – a pair of dimples and sweet giggle trailing after you as you’d follow your mom’s skirt back out to the parking lot.
Her eyes widen and she clasps her hands when she notices you approaching. “Well, would you look who it is?” she sings.
“Hey, Pol,” you say, fanning yourself with your scrawled shopping list. “How you doing?”
The belt jolts your supplies closer to her bejeweled fingers.
“Same as always, honey. Rockin’ and rollin’. What brings you back to town?”
“Housesitting, dog-sitting…Santi-sitting. Mom and Dad are on a cruise.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she says, nodding. “She told me last week. Caribbean, right?”
You nod, sucking a deep, unenthused breath in.
Pol hums, smiling to herself as she clicks the barcode for your hotdogs into her computer. She begins telling you what her granddaughter thinks of second grade – her two times table and the tadpoles they’re keeping in class.
Your eyes sweep around the store as she chats. Everything looks the way it always did, a time capsule from the nineties. Speckled floor and fluorescent lights; placards hanging overhead which sway each time the great glass doors pull open.
Baskets of fruit and veg lined alongside a lawn set on offer. Beside that, heaps of flowers and stacked planters. Beside those, a discarded shopping cart. And beside that –
Frankie fucking Morales.
Well – the silhouette of him. It’s pretty bright outside. But you’d recognize the outline of that dumb baseball cap anywhere. He’s talking to one of the assistants.
You hand Pol the cash Santiago gave you, and she trades it for a receipt. Dumping your bags back into your cart, you nod to her in thanks and stalk off towards the sliding doors.
Frankie tosses and twirls a pack of cigarettes in his hand. The assistant is telling him about some big college football game.
Your grip tightens on the janky-wheeled cart. You feel your skin begin to heat; prickling all over your arms, flushing down between your shoulder blades. Gathering somewhere south of there.
But you walk by him with purpose, choosing to ignore that warm feeling. Choosing to ignore…him.
He doesn’t turn. Thankfully.
The doors grant you exit and you give your cart one good shove across the threshold, back out into blinding daylight and sticky heat.
“Alright, man,” Frankie’s voice calls from behind. “Good talkin’ to ya.”
You nail your eye on the car. It’s, like, fifteen paces. You can make it fifteen steps without having to deal with him, right? If you take longer strides, it’s probably more like ten.
Ten steps, and then you’re in the sanctuary of your car. You don’t have to see, speak to, or deal with him.
So why are you slowing down?
You’re slowing down. You are. You’re borderline fucking loitering. Quietly hoping he’ll notice, catch up, maybe talk to –
You click the unlock button. The car beeps in response.
Five steps out. The front wheel is rattling. You’re doing your best to ignore it.
Four.
Three.
The wheel spins, flitting like a confused compass needle, and stops dead in the opposite direction. The cart hurtles out of your grip for less than a second before you recover it and haul it close to your car, cursing under your breath.
But a force – stronger, steadier – reaches around your body and takes hold of the thing. It guides it back to course. A force which, when it speaks, sounds a shit ton like –
“Woah, lil Santi,” Frankie mutters, and your chest leaps.
You freeze in your tracks. His weight is still around your back. He’s right fucking there, when you turn to look.
The brim of his cap bumps against your head. He steps back with a smirk on his face. He’s so fucking smug, you could slap him. “You tryna cause a goddamn accident with that thing?”
You pull a disingenuous smile. “Hey, Fish. Ever tried minding your own business?”
He feigns a wounded sound and clutches his chest. “Ouch. I’m just looking out for ya.”
“Feels more like you’re pestering me.” You pull on the door handle and slot the first bag along the backseat.
Frankie lifts his chin, peering in at the contents. The star-spangled plated, the dripping bags of ice. “Having a party?” he asks, one eyebrow cocked.
You yank the bag from his sight, spinning to push it alongside the others. “Nope.”
He crosses his arms. “Sure looks like you’re having one.”
“Well, I’m not.” You slam the door and turn back to him, staring blankly.
“Forgot,” he sniffs, “you need friends to have a party.”
“Hilarious. Those shit jokes how you make all your friends?”
He nods, impressed. Pouts his lips like an annoying little fish. Suits his stupid fucking nickname. “Then why’d Benny call ‘n ask if I’ll be at Pope’s parents’ tonight?”
Shit. Fucking – Benny.
You sigh, eyes rolling closed. Your fingers massage your temples. “It’s not…it’s…”
“Cookout, right? Yeah. That stings, baby. No call, no text. You owe me, remember?”
“I owe you jack sh–”
“Two drinks,” Frankie clips, holding a finger up to shush you. “Three, if you count saving your car from one hell of a scratch.”
“Fuck off,” you breathe, and then give voice to, “It’s a small gathering of friends, and – now you, apparently.”
He sways forward, bumping the cart into your hip. “You need me to bring anything?”
You heave it straight back at him, hopefully hard enough to bruise. “Tranquilizer gun, if you’ve got one.”
“Can get something even stronger, if it’s a party you’re after.”
Your eyes thin. “Wouldn’t be my mom’s favorite for much longer if she found out you were doing coke in her backyard.”
Frankie smiles. That trademark Catfish grin. “I’ve done worse in her kitchen, baby.”
He’s so goddamn cocky. So full of it, it makes you want to scream. He studies you, eyes shadowed by his cap. His hair flicks out around his ears, dark curls doused in golden sunlight.
When your eyes trace the shape of his jaw, the wiry hair above his top lip – the faint flicker of a memory glows across your skin.
The weight of his hand on your stomach, pinning you to the bed. The bristling feeling ghosting the inside of your thighs. Your desperate wet, his tongue covering ground across your body like claiming territory.
Every shade of wrong. Ignoring every atom in your body – betraying every version of yourself for ten minutes of euphoria. He brought every numb nerve under your skin to attention, the second he knelt between your knees.
But he’s looking at you now, the same way he did the other night. It’s boyish and dangerous. A naked match just waiting to fall.
Maybe you’re waiting for an excuse to drop it.
Frankie gives his cap a quick tug, and makes off for his truck.
“See you at seven, Garcia.”
Daylight melts into dusk and with it, goes the sharp sting of summer. A pale blue rolls across the horizon, covering the yard in a hazy sort of chill. A relieving breeze, like satin over newly burned skin.
You’re still fucking sweating.
“Are you going to help me, or you just gonna lie there and text your girlfriend?” you call across the yard.
The dark figure spilling over the edge of the hammock grunts in response.
“Santi.”
Your brother groans, rolling free from the marigold fabric. He strides across the lawn, swinging an arm down to ruffle Ange’s ears. “Not a girlfriend,” he says, slipping his phone into his back pocket. “She’s…she’s more of a…”
You lift your hand. “Not something I need to know.”
He laughs and looks at the spread on the table. He lifts the corner of a tricolor napkin, straightens a plastic fork. The foil over the hamburger buns crinkles. “We did a good job. Looks great.”
“We?” You scoff, slapping his wrist away. “Yeah, me and the fucking dog, more like.”
“How much did it all come to? The food and shit?”
You shrug. “Like, forty dollars. I don’t know.”
“Gave you sixty. Where’s my change?”
You frown, hands on your hips. “If you don’t know how to budget properly, that’s not my problem.”
“And if you don’t know when to just lie and say you spent it all, that’s not mine. Twenty bucks, kid.” He holds his hand out, fingers beckoning.
The squeal of the gate interrupts, followed by a barrage of voices. Will and Benny and Mal and – as you lean back to watch them parade through the yard, you spot the figure of Frankie at their heels.
“Pope?” Will calls. “Pope, do me a favor. Remind me which one of us threw up at Busch Gardens that one time. Remember – right after we rode Gwazi?”
Santiago chuckles. “I remember Mallory wearing her raspberry slushie.”
Will guffaws in Mal’s face.
“I spit up!” she protests. “I spit up in a flowerbed. I was not wearing my slushie.”
“You were fluorescent pink the whole day,” Will says. He slings an arm around your shoulders. “You remember, lil Santi?”
You frown. Yeah, you fucking remember.
You remember being forced to sit between Frankie and Mal the entire way home. Santiago got dibs on the front seat by pretending he was carsick, and Mal had to sit by an open window so she didn’t stink your dad’s car out with all her raspberry-flavored puke.
You and Frankie bickered the whole journey. Both absolutely certain that the other was leaning too far over your seats. Your dad vowed he’d never let you both in his car at the same time, ever again.
“Mhm,” you grit, shooting daggers at your best friend.
She mouths a Sorry, and then places her salad bowl in the middle of the table. “Enough about throwing up. I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
The boys spend twenty minutes arguing over how the barbecue works, before a single bit of food is cooked. You and Mal watch from the table, sneaking Ange slices of cheese and giggling when Will and Benny break into their fifth argument of the night.
Santi and Frankie take charge, shoving the brothers out of the way.
Pope passes over the meat, while Frankie mans the grill. He lifts his cap and wipes his brow with his bicep, giving his head a shake as he flips burgers and turns sausages.
And no, you’re not watching him. You’re focused on Mal and her story about some guy from work. Or – it might be a guy from her yoga class. The instructor, maybe? You’re not sure. Frankie just flapped the collar of his shirt and the hem lifted, exposing a sliver of his tummy.
You’re not watching him, though.
He runs his tongue along his top lip, focusing on the sizzle and spatter of the grill. His arm tenses, turning the tongs over and over. Wide shoulders stretch when he reaches for a plate.
He’s laughing quietly at whatever Santi’s babbling about at his side. His eyes are stuck on the barbecue in front of him. His fingers twirl around the tongs again. He never looked so lean and so broad and so fucking different, all at once.
Weird different. Good different?
You feel your cheeks flush with heat. This time, it’s not so much anger, as it is –
Oh, shit.
Mal gets up for a refill at the same time Santiago jogs inside to grab more meat. You and Frankie are alone on the patio – Will and Benny are kicking a ball for Ange to chase on the grass.
Morales turns, and you instantly stare down at your beer. You take a forceful swig as he approaches.
“Hotdog?” he asks, holding a plate down to you.
“Huh?”
He glares at you and scoffs. “Are you dumb? Hotdog.” He slips it onto the table in front of you.
You squint at the grill marks, and then squint up at Frankie. Puzzled and…offended, at the same time. You come back to your body with a jolt. “Why the hell are you–? Have you laced it with something?”
He shoots a glance over his shoulder, tongue between his teeth. “No, I haven’t fucking laced it with anything. I just figured you should have the first one, since you put all this on for us. But – Jesus, give me it.”
Your fingers lock around the paper plate when he tries to steal it back. For all that he’s a dick and might actually try to poison you – you’re fucking starving.
You figure you can stomach the poison.
Frankie sighs. He lets go. “I’m tryna be nice, alright? You know nice?”
“I know nice. You’re not it.”
“Shut up and eat your hotdog, lil Santi.”
You mimic him in a squeak as he strolls off, shaking his head. Still, the second he’s back at the grill, you rip into the hotdog.
Frankie stays at the opposite end of the table for the entire meal – closest seat to the barbecue, and furthest seat from you. There’s too much chatter, too much hilarity being thrown back and forth between you for either of you to kick up a row.
Probably better for the guys’ sakes, but – you want to fucking row.
It’s like a hit, now. A rush of electricity, any time Frankie looks at you for longer than it takes his face to twist into a grimace. You’re hunting for ways to ignite something – anything. Looking for an excuse to drop that naked match and set the whole thing alight.
Because it’s fun, when you’re in the heat of it. Feeling his eyes on you, as hot and angry as flames. Being suffocated by the smoke of it all; breathing in less and less air and more…him.
And, anyway – who knows you better than the one person who pisses you off the most?
As the sun is snuffed by the heavy hand of dusk, you disappear to a quieter corner of the yard. Tucked between two thick beech trees, you throw yourself into the hammock – one leg draped over the side, swinging idly through the night air.
A beer bottle balanced on your tummy, the round base seeping a chilled ring into your shirt. The swish of leaves overhead and the annoying midges at your ears for company.
That is – until the sound of footsteps over crisp grass, and the creak of an old, splintered garden chair disturb your peace.
Frankie adjusts his cap, flatting his fringe beneath it, and sits back. “You never change, do you, Garcia? Still the same little longer you always were.”
You hold your hands out, gulping back beer – and glee. “Can I fucking help you? I’m minding my own business.”
“Thought you might want some company.”
“Not yours, dickhead. You think I’m way the hell over here ‘cause I wanted you to come annoy me?”
He hums, picking at a flake of paint on the armrest. “Sure wanted me to annoy you the other night.”
“Alright,” you clip. “Cheap shot. You been practicing that one all afternoon?”
“Since I saw you at the store.”
You roll your eyes.
Frankie slips a cigarette from its pack and lights it, tipping his chin to blow a white cloud to the sky. “You’re too much fun,” he tells the stars.
You squint through the dark, staring at the glowing cherry. “What?”
“You. You get so pissed, so easily. Always have.”
“Well, you antagonize me. Always have.”
His cheeks lift. It’s something softer than a smirk, still laced with too much attitude to be a smile. “That’s ‘cause you were always around. Everywhere Santi went, there you were. Closer than his shadow.”
“Well,” you glower, “’s what happens when you have a big brother. You’re void of love; I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“No, I get it,” he says. “It just got fun to mess with you, after a while.”
“Uhuh,” you take another swig, “so is that what you’re doing? Messing with me?”
Frankie’s shoulders jump. “You tell me. There were two of us in your room that night.”
You swing your legs down to the grass. It’s brittle under your socks when you stand, still focusing on the end of his cigarette. “Damn, you really can’t shut up about it, can you? How many times have you tugged one to the thought of it?”
“Tugged one,” he snickers, but he seems nervous – watching as you approach. “What age are you?”
You push his knees wider, slotting between his thighs. “Which part does it for you? What sends you over the edge?”
“Come on, lil Santi,” Frankie says, averting his eye. “You’re embarrassing yourself now.”
One knee up, resting on the crease of his jeans. You lean forward and nudge his hip, lay your hands gently on his shoulders. “I bet you still hear me in your dreams.”
He scans up and down your body, lingering on your bare thigh. “Not – not gonna work, kid,” he promises, shaking his head. “You still annoy the fuck outta me.”
“Right, right.” You pinch the pale stick from between his teeth. “’cause nothing’s changed, yeah?”
His head sways in agreement. He’s distracted, watching as you lift your hand to your mouth.
You smile down at him. “’cept you know how I taste now, so.”
You slot the damp end of the cigarette between your lips and suck. Sharp, acrid heat sails over your tongue and down your throat, filling your chest in one inhale. You cough a little, batting the smoke as you blow it out.
“Tastes fucking disgusting,” you croak. “How can you smoke these?”
Frankie’s eyes never leave your lips. “You get used to it.”
You take another draw, letting the smoke soar through the space between you. “Gross,” you say, and prop the cig back between his lips. “Just like you!”
“Sh…shut up,” he groans, adjusting in his seat.
“Make me.”
But he doesn’t bite. Doesn’t flinch. He just stares back, rolling the smoldering stick between his thumb and finger. Running his tongue along his teeth.
You spill the last of your beer onto your tongue, cocking an eyebrow at him, and push from his lap.
You make it no more than five steps, before that same weight from the parking lot is around your shoulders.
He pings the cigarette somewhere in the grass, and grabs onto your elbow.
“Fran– Jesus – Where are we–?”
He drags you through the dull dusk to the other side of the lawn, ignoring the click of the motion sensor. You’re thrown through a wooden door onto cold concrete before the yard light floods over you.
It takes a second for your eyes to adjust. Weak slivers of moonlight illuminate each tool hanging from the wall. The fairy lights outside lose their battle against the darkness the second they creep through the window.
Before you can sling something mocking at him, Frankie has you pinned against the wall.
“You want me to make you shut up?” he growls, teeth grazing your neck. His fingers slip behind the waist of your shorts, plucking at the button. “I’ll make you shut up. Make you shut up all goddamn night.”
“Frankie,” you gasp, grabbing hold of his shirt. You push on his chest, walking him backwards over to the workbench.
The thing shudders when he rocks against it.
“The fuck are you doing?” he murmurs, watching as you kneel before him.
“Getting used to it,” you reply.
You pull his belt apart, loosen the fly on his pants, and pull until they’re low on his hips.
Frankie holds onto the bench with a white-knuckle grip. He lays his hand over the crown of your head, rubbing small circles. A laugh slips across his tongue. “This what you’ve been thinkin’ about?”
You ignore him, instead focusing on the solid shape in his underwear.
His hips flinch when you drag your palm along it. He’s hard already. He hisses at your cold fingers on his stomach, tensing as your knuckles skim below the elastic.
And then…he’s in your palm. All of him. Frankie fucking Morales.
You’re trying not to think too deep about it.
Your fingers wrap around him, barely meeting around his width, and you slip him from his boxers.
His cock springs free, swaying once, twice – then settling to the right.
Your mouth fills with saliva. Suddenly – there’s no way not to think too deep about it.
He’s…he’s big. He’s thick; smooth and sculpted, veins trailing around his shaft. It’s not like you ever considered what he’s walking around with before, but looking at it now – you can’t believe it’s him.
Without thinking, you lean in and kiss him all the way down to the hair at his base. A wet trail, lips curving around the size of him. You run your tongue up and down, circling the tip and toying with it.
Frankie cups your cheek. “Pretty little mouth,” he utters. “Put it to good use, huh?”
You don’t need him to ask twice.
You sink down on him. Every inch of him – every aching, choking inch. Your jaw slackens to take him; nails digging into his thighs when he bumps the back of your throat.
“Oh, shit, baby,” he hisses. His hand comes down on your head a little too heavily.
You yelp and pull back, gasping when he slips out. “Prick,” you breathe, closing your lips around his tip again.
“Just too sweet with it,” he murmurs, guiding himself back across your tongue.
You suckle on him, using your hands to pump the inches your mouth can’t take.
Frankie’s head tips back, panting at the roof. His hips thrust to meet your movements. “Feels so – goddamn – good,” he moans, and you hum with glee.
You take his balls in your hands, kneading them as you work your way lower. He’s so deep in your mouth that it makes your eyes water. Each slip of his tip against the back of your throat makes you gag, pulls a lewd, muffled sound from your chest.
It shouldn’t feel like this. You shouldn’t be enjoying it this much. But he’s falling apart under your fingertips, he’s unwinding right before you. He’s whispering your name, begging you not to stop. Just like that, just like that, just like that. Oh, fuck, just like that.
It’s addictive. Now that you know how he looks, how he feels, you’ll never go back to before. When the most thrill he gave you was a burning temper; feeling your pulse jump in your throat with rage.
This – whatever the fuck this is – is all you know, now. Pulling threads from one another, watching the way they unravel. Watching each other unravel. Flashes of eye contact, salt and slick and sex dripping from every secret word.
Frankie’s hips jerk. His cock spasms.
You don’t want him to come down your throat. You don’t want him to climax when he’s too deep for you to taste it.
You want him all over – your lips, your tongue, dribbling down your chin. You want to mix him with your saliva and swallow; warm, salty, Frankie.
He got his taste. Now you want yours.
You bring your hands up to his thighs, purposefully pushing back off him.
His grip loosens, and he looks down. Brows low and close, eyes blown wide like he’s higher than any drug could take him.
He’s as addicted as you are.
“My mouth,” you mumble, head of his cock circling your glistening lips. “In my mouth.”
“Yeah?” he says, and the weight of his cock slaps on your bottom lip. “That where you want it, baby?”
“Mhm.” You wrap your lips back around him.
“Fuckin’ filthy,” Frankie spits, laughing. “Shit – just like that. Yeah, that’s it.”
Three, four more soaking strokes of your tongue and he’s twitching again.
You pull back only enough to rest his tip on your tongue, feeling the pulsing heat as he comes. Watching the way his face tightens, the pull of his brows as it overcomes him.
His eyes stay locked on you. Your fluttering lashes, your puffy, glossy lips. He fills your mouth and then some – semen spilling from the corners and dribbling down your jaw. And the sound he makes – this broken, scattered moan, bordering on a fucking whimper – is fucking perfect.
Frankie’s hand locks at the base of your skull, holding you steady until he’s done. His cock slips from your bottom lip. He gives one last satisfied sigh, petting your head as you stroke him slowly, tenderly – swiping kitten licks at the dripping mess of him.
“Fuck,” he moans, letting his eyes close over. His weight slumps against the workbench. “The fuck do you spend so much time yapping for when you’re that good with your mouth?”
You hum in amusement, tongue dragging along the underside of his cock. He’s softening, but still a decent size. Still a weight to it that makes your cunt clench around nothing.
One last little kiss, and you tuck him back into his boxers. You drag the back of your hand across your chin.
Frankie holds his hands out, and you pull yourself up. He fixes himself into his jeans, turning away to do up his belt. He had his cock in your throat two minutes ago, and here he is pretending to be shy.
He turns back around, half disappeared to the dark shed. “I, uh…I don’t want you to think that I came here just to…just for that.”
Your tongue dabs at the inside of your cheek, all salty. “Then this is awkward, ‘cause that’s the only reason I hadn’t kicked you out yet.”
He laughs, dropping your gaze. “You…” he shakes his head, “…are such a little shit, you know that?”
It’s nicer than he would’ve worded it half an hour ago. But still – having an exchange with Frankie that doesn’t involve spitting insults or jagged glares, warms your blood in a way that’s new and…unsettling.
“We should probably…” You toss a thumb over your shoulder, eyes flitting to the string bulbs outside. “We don’t want them wondering what’s…you know.”
He nods and strides over to the door. The wood squeals against concrete as he pulls it open.
The summer swirls around you again, sweetening the stuffy heat of the shed. Mal’s voice surfs through the breeze – she’s still arguing over the Busch Gardens story.
You make to step out, and Frankie’s arm halts you.
He opens his palm. “Even,” he tells you. “We’re even.”
He seems sure of himself. Sure of you. He looks you in the eye and doesn’t blink.
You smirk. Your hand slips into his, letting him shake your fist once. You stare straight back at him.
“We’re just getting fucking started, Francisco.”
#frankie morales#frankie morales fic#frankie morales smut#bbf!frankie#pedro pascal#triple frontier#triple frontier fic
689 notes
·
View notes
Text
Downward Dog
Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI
Pairing: Joel Miller x f reader
Word count: 1.1k
Summary: Joel’s back in the window again.
Warnings: SMUT, voyeurism, creepy perv behavior, dirty talk, male masturbation, PWP, little sprinkle of daddy cause I love you.
A word from the author: 🤷♀️ idk, man. You tell me.
Read Part 1 Here 🧘♀️
Read Part 3 Here
Masterlist
For six days Joel watched you. Every afternoon at one o’clock your husband drove off and shortly after you’d saunter out to the yard in some skin tight little get-up and bend and twist your body in ways that were just between you and him. The sound of your husband’s truck became a Pavlovian bell, and Joel’s cock would rush with blood when he heard it.
Today he was ready and waiting when you made your appearance. He had switched off the light, dragged his two step stool into position, and sat perched in an old tshirt, shorts and boxers draped over the stair rail, and lube warming in the bottle between his big, paddle-like hands.
He had the perfect vantage point and a trusty routine.
Joel ignores his erection until you’re ready. He waits with anticipation prickling up his neck, silently urging you to get a move on.
It’s hot out and your yard doesn’t have much shade like Joel’s does. He wishes you’d come do your workout by his pool. Maybe he should mention it, he thinks.
Slowly you begin, as you often do, arms up, tits out. He likes that part. He likes it better when you bend forward onto your knees, hands outstretched and ass up. Joel imagines taking you from behind while you stay just like that. Naked and bouncing back onto his cock, crying out for him.
Joel pulls lazily at his cock as he watches you with interest. He can’t remember being so hard before. He isn’t a young man anymore, but your little display is like Viagra. He’s long and thick, never had any complaints from the ladies. Not about his cock, at least.
As you push your hips up into what looks like an upside down letter V, Joel reaches for the little bottle of lube that normally lives in his bedside drawer, but lately just sits on the bookshelf by the stairs.
Those big hands are good for a lot of things, but being good with small objects isn’t one of them. He fumbles the bottle and it rolls onto the stairs.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and tries to quickly weigh the pros and cons of tearing his eyes away from you to go after it.
He sighs, frustrated and impatient, but goes to get his lube. It’s easier to pretend his fist is your tight cunt with the added wetness.
Back in his seat, Joel quickly finds you again.
“Fuck me,” he complains, blinking.
His eyes must be deceiving him. He must be having a stroke, he thinks, it’s what he deserves.
He blinks hard and squints, cursing himself for not getting the binoculars so he can watch even more closely as you look around shyly at your empty, privacy fence-enclosed back yard, left to the Smith’s house, then right to his, never noticing your secret admirer. Apparently satisfied that you’re alone and hidden, you gather the fabric of your top and lift it over your head.
Joel thinks his heart may have stopped. He watches the bounce of your bare breasts as they drop from the tight fabric. Despite the warmth of the day and the sweat shimmering on your skin already, your nipples pebble when touched by the air. He wants so badly to take them in his hands, his mouth.
Joel’s mouth waters. He should look away, but his hand is already twisting up and down his shaft.
“Fuck baby. Yeah, get 'em out for me,” he mutters through clenched teeth.
You fan yourself with your hand, no match for the Austin heat, and flow through two more deep stretches. You’re moving slowly, and Joel matches the jerk of his fist to your pace, humming and groaning as he talks you through his fantasy.
“That’s it, spread those knees for daddy. Let me see that little pussy. Show daddy where you need his cock.”
He grunts, heavy breaths between ragged moans of your name and each new vulgar thought.
“You gonna take it all? You sure you can handle it? Suck it. Come on. Come on, show me how bad you want this big dick,” he speaks for no one to hear.
Joel knows how to get himself off. He knows how to edge himself just to the point of losing control then backing off to make the pleasure last. He breathes deeply and strokes gently around the thick base of his cock, cradling his balls.
It’s during this shift in momentum when Joel loses the battle. He can no longer be the good man he told himself he was. Not when you stand and shimmy out of your leggings, leaving nothing more to his imagination or his decency.
You’re barely into your lunge when his post is abandoned and he’s pulling his shorts on to dash down the stairs and opening the patio door as quietly as he can. He ducks down, skulking through his own yard to crouch down next to the fence, knees in the dirt, amongst the ornamental grass and the azaleas he planted for his ex wife.
Joel is hyper aware of every sound, every move he makes. He struggles to control his breathing as he leans his forehead against the fence, one crazed, lust-blackened eye peering between the slats to get a glimpse of you, barely ten feet away now.
Painfully hard, and smearing lube inside his shorts, he watches you. He will let himself feel guilt and shame later, right now all he wants to feel is the soft lips of your pussy dragging over his nose and mouth and chin. He wants you gushing over his face. You’re so close he swears he can smell you, sweet and damp, ready to be filled. On his hands and knees like a fucking dog, he thinks for a moment, then pulls his heavy cock back out to resume his torment.
You’re almost done. He can tell by the way you lie back on the mat, arms and legs loose and eyes closed. He can see the rise and fall of your belly with each breath, but his focus is on your cunt. He’s almost done.
His vision is tunneled, his mind is blank and when your hand drifts lazily to cup your pussy, tracing your fingertips up the seam. You lift one knee to open yourself to your own hand and Joel can’t stop the gasp that escaped him as he comes, painting the dirt below him with his spend.
Shame sets in fast, it makes his belly ache as he catches his breath, softening cock against his thigh, mud on his knees. He’s quickly consumed by it, swears to never do this again, this isn’t who he is, he scolds himself.
He wishes he could convince you of the same when you appear suddenly over the fence, eyes wide with understandable alarm at having heard your neighbor groaning as if in pain, and run to his aid only to find him peeking through the fence, dick wet and face flushed.
#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#joel miller tlou#joel x reader#joel the last of us#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x you#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fic#joel miller#joel miller x neighbor#joel tlou#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal character smut#pedro pascal characters#smut#bat writes#pedro pascal
555 notes
·
View notes
Text
balm — todoroki shouto x reader
summary: you help rub down your boyfriend's muscles after a grueling shift. and then a little more.
contents: established relationship, pro hero au, gn pronouns + afab reader (reader has breasts + vagina), emotional intimacy, aged up characters, nsft, riding, nipple play; mndi please! (2.2k)
You find Shouto face down in bed when you get home, handsome and adorably sleep-rumpled.
He's stretched out on his stomach in only his underwear, his hero uniform discarded unceremoniously across the chair in the corner. His bare back and broad shoulders span nearly the entire width of the bed, and one long leg is bent at the knee. One of your pillows looks like it's being suffocated between his bicep and face, bulging from being bunched up so tightly.
You smile, stomach fluttering with the sight of your pro hero boyfriend the way it always does.
Shouto blinks sleepily over his shoulder at you as you set your work bag and keys down on the dresser, his hair ruffled and face pillow-creased. He looks simultaneously like a model laid out for a magazine spread and a baby kitten awoken from a nap.
You are immediately drawn to him like a magnet, leaning down to kiss him. He makes a low noise in his throat like he's pleased, leaning up to give you easier access.
"Rough shift?" you ask when you separate, petting a hand through that split-toned mop of hair.
Shouto nods, long eyelashes fluttering. "I was pulled into a rescue effort. It took a long time. But all is well."
You let your fingers trail from his hair down to his back, tracing lightly over a shoulder blade. Shouto makes a sleepy noise of appreciation, rolling it out in a way that lets you know he's a little sore.
"Can I do anything?" you ask.
Shouto shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. He looks almost like he might fall asleep again right there. But your eyes are drawn to the jar of tiger balm he keeps on his bedside, its fiery orange logo all the more vibrant in the glow from the setting sun.
You reach for it, holding it out to him. "How about I do this?"
Shouto's mouth finds your wrist, a soft, warm press of lips. "You do not have to, love."
Oh yes you do. Taking care of Shouto is like a physical compulsion for you now. You might not be a pro hero or armed with a powerful quirk, but you want to protect him and care for him in every single small way you can think of.
You shed your coat, dumping it on the floor, and roll up your sleeves, nudging Shouto into a move comfortable position. He moves with you, the muscle in his back shifting prettily in the golden evening light.
You settle next to him, uncapping the tiger balm and smearing it across your fingers. A low groan escapes Shouto when you work it into the backs of his calves with firm strokes.
"Feels good?" you ask, kneading circles with your thumbs.
His reply is muffled in the pillow, but the tone is appreciative. You knead harder, smiling when all of his muscles tighten and flex, and another lower, longer moan escapes him.
"That's it, love," he says, syllables dragging out deliciously.
It's easy to lose time focusing on your ministrations, working the balm carefully and precisely into every muscle. Shouto is the most beautiful man on earth, the only man whose outside accurately reflects the loveliness of who he is inside. You love touching him, looking at him, feeling him firm and sweet beneath your hands.
You work your way up the backs of his thighs, and then climb onto them to reach his back. You work the balm into his waist, then shift forward to sit on his lower back to reach his shoulders, thumbs searching out any knots in the muscle.
You laugh when you notice Shouto is practically a puddle under your touch. His long eyelashes fan the tops of his cheekbones, and his mouth is slack in relief. You can't help but lean down and leave a kiss on his shoulder.
The kiss seems to rouse him. He shifts underneath you then, rolling his body between your thighs. You suddenly find yourself seated on his stomach, instead of his back.
Mismatched eyes flick up to yours, and one long-fingered hand finds your thigh, securing you against him.
Like this you can see even more muscle, the way his bicep tightens with the movement, firm pectorals, and the hint of his abs before they disappear beneath your spread thighs. You find yourself a little winded.
You dip your fingers back into the pot of tiger balm, then cap it and set it back on the nightstand. Shouto watches you quietly as you lean forward rub it over his shoulders, and the tops of his arms where his biceps begin. You're working it into the divots of his arm muscle when a set of elegant fingers gather up the hem of your shirt, rolling it up over your breasts.
You stop and peer down at your boyfriend, but he just stares back innocently, fingers still tangled in your hemline.
"Excuse me sir, I'm in the middle of treatment," you say, raising an eyebrow.
The tips of Shouto's fingers slide beneath one cup of your bra in reply. You shudder when they pass over your nipple, thighs reflexively tightening on his waist.
"It is working. I find I am feeling much better," Shouto intones. His voice is a low rumble when it leaves him, and it feels like it shoots right to your core.
His thumb slowly pets over your nipple again, a little more firmly. A whoosh of breath escapes you.
Shouto's other hand slowly presses at your lower back, guiding you to lean down closer to him. You abandon his arms, pressing your hands into the mattress at either side of his head so you don't fall onto him.
Like this, your chest is in his face, clearly what Shouto was aiming for. His fingers abandon your nipple to grasp the middle of your bra, pulling it up and over your breasts to band across the top of your chest like a harness, pinning your shirt up.
You shudder and gasp when he bends forward, his mouth finding your right breast. His lips close soft and hot over the same nipple, and it sends sparks streaking down your veins.
"Oh!" you gasp. "I thought I was the one who was supposed to be making you feel good."
"Mmm," Shouto hums into your breast, a delicious vibration. "You are."
His tongue flicks across your nipple, and his arm shifts more firmly over your back, pulling you even closer to him. He sucks a little, then swirls his tongue in a way that makes you feel suddenly lightheaded, teasing you the way he knows you like.
You feel your hips start to rock back and forth on Shouto's waist, thighs spreading a little wider to feel more of him between them. Shouto's hand guides you back and forth, as his mouth moves to your other breast, drawing out a gasp from you.
"Shouto—ah!" you say when his other hand finds your other nipple, smearing in the wetness his mouth left behind, pinching softly.
You feel something stiff nudge the back of your thigh as you move back and forth on him, and Shouto's hips cant, pressing him into you harder.
"Always make me feel good, love," he says, leaning up to catch your mouth.
You kiss him back eagerly, opening your mouth to him. His tongue tangles with yours, teasing like he had your nipple. You muffle a moan when the hand at your back presses you down on him more firmly and the hand at your nipple slides down to press against the front of your pants instead, touching you through the fabric.
You shift into his hand, chasing the delicious friction, indirect though it is.
"Take your pants off, love, I want to feel you," Shouto commands gently.
You obey immediately, leaning back to unbutton your work slacks. Shouto holds you steady while you maneuver them off clumsily, still perched over his waist. He's freed himself from his underwear too by the time you're done, his cock flush and full and as insultingly pretty as the rest of him.
He guides you down onto him, sliding home embarrassingly easily with how eager you are for him. He feels incredible inside you, thick and firm and delicious.
His hips lift as his hands pull you down harder onto him, and the feeling is enough to make your eyes almost roll back in your head.
"I want you to ride me, pet," he says, tone low and intimate.
You nod, cheeks flushing with the pet name he only deploys when he's deep inside you like this. Your hips move, sliding you up and down on him. The pad of his thumb presses to your clit, gentle but firm, drawing tight little circles the way he knows you like.
You move over him, panting with the instant, inescapable pleasure. Shouto knows exactly what you like and how you like it, and everything he does is designed to work you up to your peak embarrassingly fast. His thumb moves over you, unrelenting, and his hips buck and flex beneath you, driving himself a little deeper, a little harder with each thrust.
He leans up to take your nipple in his mouth again, sucking delicately. It shoots heat right down all your veins, settling in your core, mixing with the pleasure of what he's doing to your clit, what his cock is doing inside of you.
"So good for me, pet," Shouto says.
You feel yourself flutter around him with the praise, grinding down on him harder. Shouto alternates between praising you and driving you wild with his mouth, and within minutes you're riding him almost mindlessly, nearly delirious with the feeling of him.
"That's right, love," Shouto says, tone soft and pleased. "Let go for me, pet. Let me make you feel as good as you make me feel."
His thumb nudges you more firmly, and he sucks a nipple harder, tongue teasing over the tip. Everything about him is too good to be true, you think wildly, from the way his cock slides all the way inside you to the way his eyelashes flutter as he sucks you. He's beautiful, he's gorgeous, he is diligent and sweet and delicious.
He gives a hard thrust, no longer content with your pace, driving himself up and into you in a way that makes your blood turn to lava. Combined with the feeling of his thumb on your clit, with his mouth on your nipples, with his arm clamped tightly around your back, pinning you to him—it's all too much.
Another sharp, short thrust from him throws you right out over the edge. You arch into him, crying out his name. Shouto grinds up into you, taking the reigns as your hips stutter, fucking you through it. He gasps against your breast, driving himself into you.
He takes your waist in both hands, moving you up and down on him with his strength alone. The way his biceps cord and flex, and the easy athleticism he moves you with lights up another spark inside you, and a wild noise escapes you when slide right into a climax again—immediately on the back of your last one.
It makes the room fuzz and blur, your blood scorch like fire in your veins, and you shout Shouto's name.
He thrusts into you faster, harder, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows, growing pink-cheeked with the effort. And then his hips stutter, pace faltering. There's the flood of him inside you, sweet and hot.
You collapse onto him, sweat slicking your lower stomach to his.
Shouto pants into your hair, his fingers coming up to pet through the damp strands.
"Thank you, love," he says, mouth finding your ear. He sucks the lobe aimlessly, teeth scraping over the shell.
"I was supposed to be treating overworked muscles but I think I've made the problem worse," you sigh, shifting. You can feel him growing softer within you, but you're careful not to move enough to dislodge him, enjoying the intimacy of him still joined to you.
"A sacrifice well worth it," Shouto says, mouth mapping the skin behind your ear.
You smile, shifting your face into his neck. He smells like sweat and tiger balm—salt and camphor and menthol. You love it.
"I'll just have to find other ways to loosen you up," you say. Shouto twitches inside you tellingly, and you laugh, harder when he nips your ear in reproach.
"Perhaps a shower," he says. "And dinner. And then we will see who loosens who."
You grin into your boyfriend's neck, helpless affection pooling in your heart.
"The right kind of sex could be considered a balm for the soul. Among other things," you say, and Shouto huffs a tiny laugh into your hair.
"Then we must work it in thoroughly, for best effect," he says.
You smile and hum your agreement, knowing you will. You will always take your best care of Shouto, after all.
#todoroki x reader#todoroki shouto x reader#shouto x reader#shouto todoroki x reader#shoto x you#shoto x reader#bnha x reader#shoto todoroki x reader#todoroki x you#character: todoroki shouto#andie's writing
827 notes
·
View notes
Text
USELESS₊˚⊹♡
[•~AGEDUP!PROHERO!MIDORYIA X F!READER~•] smut/slight angst
synopsis: your pro hero boyfriend comes back angry and hurt and needs a way to relieve some stress
warnings: dom!izuku sub!reader degradation, spanking, use of "whore" and "slut", praise
a/n: pt.2?
the front door slams, which is soon accompanied by faint footsteps gradually getting louder and louder. they sounded urgent and quick. the suspense making your heart race and stomach drop.
you leave your room to further investigate the sudden footsteps, only to be greeted by your boyfriend, izuku sat on the couch. but something was off about him. he didn't have his usual soft and caring personality. his aura wasn't so welcoming and gentle.
"please izuku, baby- just talk to me..." you sigh. izuku had just came home from a mission and he seemed frustrated. and you had been urging the man to open up, after all izuku wasn't the type to get angry easily.
"I told you I'm fine." he shuts you off again. that's all he had been repeating for the last 10 minutes. he kept brushing you off, ignoring the obvious tint of worry slowly spreading all over your face.
"baby please- tell me-"
"fine. you wanna know so bad huh? just can't leave me alone. I'll show you then, since you can't mind your own fucking business." he snaps. you've never seen this side of him. he looked so angry, and frustrated. he was fed up with whatever it was bothering him.
izuku grabs your hands forcefully, his grasp making it impossible for you to even attempt to break through. but it wasn't like you would try to, seeing izuku so fed up and furious sorta turned you on, but you would never tell him that.
eagerly, the green haired man drags you to your sharfed bedroom, slamming the door as quickly as he could. he shoves you onto the mattress, his shadow towering all over you. before you could realize his rough calloused hands reach for the hem of your shorts, toying with the waistband.
"can I?" izuku always made sure he had your approval before doing anything, after all his biggest fear is hurting you. you nod, completely lost in the sudden adrenaline rush.
izuku sighs, his frustration grows even more, he delivers a soft but warning slap on your leg. "y'know better, use your words." it was evident he wasn't messing around. "you can..." was all it took before izuku slides your shorts off in one swift motion, leaving one small rip in them.
you sigh loudly at the sensation of the cold air hitting your naked legs. then a finger runs all over your panties, teasing your soaking hole, slick seeping through the soft cotton fabric. he smirks at the sight. "mm-, didn't know I could do this to ya, makes me feel kinda useful for once..." he chuckles, fingers rubbing your clothed clit.
deep breaths quicken as you ache for more stimulation, hips slowly grinding against his finger. izuku sucks his teeth before holding your hips down, restricting you from any movement. "if you want more, you gotta ask princess." he adds, a cocky grin painted all over his face.
"p-please zuku- more.." you mumble out. he scoffs loudly again, another slap meeting your thigh, this time a little bit harder. "for what? don't act dumb now." he snaps, fingers now rubbing over your clothed clit even slower. despite how humiliated you felt, you were so desperate for more. "please baby, I need you in me..."
panties are thrown across the bedroom, your bare pussy out for him. he lets a hand rub all over your inner thighs, collecting all the arousal which seeped out. "looks like I don't needa prep you huh, pretty girl? but what else did I expect from a slut like you.." he chuckles before reaching down to his belt.
he slowly unbuckles the belt, before stopping suddenly. "nah, since you wanted to piss me off, you do it." grabbing one of your soft gentle hands and placing them on his belt. and you oblige, you didn't care what it took, all you wanted was his cock in you right now.
you unbuckle his belt and slide his boxers off, freeing his girthy cock. his hairs were trimmed and his tip was a rosy pink, veins decorating the length. izuku shudders, "mmm, what do you want baby?" he cooes, hands caressing your cheek.
"I want youu-zuku please put it in" you beg, your eyes staring back up at him so gently. izuku smiles warmly for a split second, distracting you from the fact he had just pushed your legs all the way down to your chest, knees touching your chest. he slams himself in, the girth stretching you out, leaving you with a painful yet pleasurable burn.
the two of you let out breathy moans, which are soon disturbed from izuku's sudden harsh thrusts. usually when you two had sex, he was so gentle and sweet. slow but passionate thrusts as he whispered sweet nothings in your ears. but right now, you weren't even sure if this was the same izuku you knew before.
"everybody sayin im fuckin useless..." he groans, hips bucking into your even quicker, making you yelp out with pleasure. his cock moving in and out of your walls at an impossible speed. "always talking about m'not good for anything." he scoffs
you now were beginning to piece together what had happened earlier, what left izuku so angry earlier. you knew people would constantly mock him for his quirk, and his backstory. and usually he wouldn't care, after all why should he? but today was his breaking point.
"m'not useless though..." he mutters, hi thrusts getting sloppier, hands pushing your legs down even more. "isn't that right? nobody could ever fuck my girl as well as I can" he affirms, hands tilting your chin down, maintaining eye contact.
you nod, too lost in the pure bliss you were experiencing from the sensation of feeling his pelvis grind against your clit. not only that, but izuku was ramming into your g-spot in the right place too. making you sob for more.
"I asked you a question." he grunts, his thrusts getting harder and harsher as he slaps your thigh swiftly. making you yelp as you feel the sharp sting. "m- sorry! you- you fuck me so good zuku'" you cry out. you couldn't believe the erotic words leaving your lips right now. it was so embarrassing.
"yeah, dunno what they talking about. always talking shit. bet they none of them could even get you to the brink of an orgasm hm?" he grunts. at this point he was just mumbling to himself. too lost in his frustrated thoughts.
you could feel the edge of an orgasm overtake you. "f-f-fuck!! zuku! gonna cum-" you squeal. izuku groans, and sighs, an annoyed expression planted all over this face. "did I say you could? I wasn't done princess. hold it." he commands as he continues to fuck you into the mattress.
but you couldn't- not when he looked so hot all stressed and furious. the sweat beading off his forehead as he fucked you like a dirty whore. you twitch, body jolting up quickly. the overwhelming feeling of pleasure filling you up. your cum coats his cock quickly, making izuku whimper loudly.
"shit- didn't I tell you not to cum? dirty whore couldn't even listen to my directions. shouldn't have expected you to listen though, you selfish little brat." he scolds, harshly slapping your clit. leaving you sobbing loudly.
"guess I gotta show you how to be a good girl then."
#mha izuku#izuku midoryia#izuku x reader#aged up characters#pro hero#bnha izuku#midoryia x reader#smut#mha smut#mha x reader#mha#bnha smut#boku no hero academia#izuku midoriya#deku x reader#deku smut#deku#mha deku
483 notes
·
View notes
Text
Dawn Chorus [Higuruma Hiromi]
an: I woke up with Higuruma on the brain (I love him your honour). It was only going to be a few hundred words, but here we are… the man needs to sleep so he can love you thoroughly.
pairing: Higuruma Hiromi x female reader
warnings: some somno, established relationship, pussy drunk Hiromi, oral sex, creampie
Masterlist
Higuruma Hiromi is a passionate man. He cares about his work, about his contribution to society, and about his relationship with you. Higuruma is also a tired man, often awake at ungodly hours to meet deadlines or review cases that he is working on pro bono. You love your husband and the dedication he tries to infuse into every day, but sometimes he just needs to sleep.
On the evenings where you are able to tempt him into just another glass of red wine, another piece of creamy Gorgonzola atop a cracker and just one more kiss, you feel like you’re winning against all the odds. It’s always far more enjoyable to go to bed together rather than having Hiromi kiss you goodnight on his way to the study.
Cuddled up against his back, you laugh at his faux resignation at being the little spoon… again. In truth, he likes it. He adores being held and the little kisses you pepper across his cheeks when you lean over to wish him sweet dreams. He toys with your fingers, pulling your palm so it lays flush over his heart until slumber drags you both under its warmth.
Of course, you were right.
Higuruma needed sleep and after a full eight hours, his eyes spring apart rather than sluggishly creak open like broken shutters. For once, he can appreciate the warmth of the sun and the tangle of the sheets instead of cursing his need to get up and go. Most of all, he can appreciate you, his beautiful wife, still fast asleep and no longer clinging to him like a koala.
So pretty, he thinks whilst his lips caress the sleep-soaked crook of your neck, inhaling your intoxicating scent with gusto. Patient and honest, he admits when he peels back the thin cotton sheet to nose at your breasts. He continues to nuzzle until your nipples peak, a slow smile curving his lips and he can’t help but lower your top so he can taste you. Utterly perfect, he assures in silence, you are the salve to all of his wounds.
The morning dose of testosterone, that he would usually either quickly dispel by hand or with the aid of a cold shower, has him impatient and aching. His cock twitches inside his loose pyjama pants, but he ignores it in favour of taking his time. Flicking his tongue across your pert bud, he whines in his throat when you arch in sleep, straining to press yourself further into his mouth and he takes the invitation to suckle until you wake with a gasp.
Your eyes snap wide, belly aching with some unknown pressure that continues to build without faltering. A head of black hair decorates your chest, wet little suckling noises matched by the sensation of pulling tugged deliciously behind your navel.
“Hiro… mm, someone’s hungry this morning.”
Hiromi’s eyes roll over at the sleep affecting your voice, arms stretching overhead before lacing through his hair to tug at the roots. Instead of replying, he presses his pelvis against your hip, the hard length of his cock evidence enough that you are absolutely correct.
“Take what you want, love, I’m yours,” you coo softly, wriggling your hips in suggestion.
It’s one he doesn’t need clarifying, Higuruma has you bare and spread within seconds of your invitation. Amazed at the sheen of arousal already decorating your folds, he laps eagerly at the residue until all he can taste is you. He thumbs at your clit, using those slender fingers to peel you open like a flower in bloom only for his tongue to wet along your pussy.
You keen for him, driven on by his enthusiasm and the telltale rut of his hips into the mattress below. The hook of his nose replaces his thumb, dragging side to side over your pearl as it hardens from the friction and arousal. Grabbing great tufts of his hair, you grind yourself against his face and in turn his hold on your thighs shift to the meat of your backside. Hiromi palms your cheeks, pulling them apart until you feel more exposed than you thought possible.
“Fuck… Hiro!”
He can’t hear you through the muffle of your thighs by his ears and the wild beating pulse inside his head. With feverish need he bathes you in his spit, not content until your dripping down to the sheets. The tip of his tongue digs into your entrance, giving a strangled grunt at the squeeze you give around the wet muscle, and he pulls back to look up at you.
“Sweeter than ambrosia. I swear you would be more divine than any God,” he mumbles breathlessly, eyes hooded but not with fatigue for once.
Words fail you, becoming stuck in your throat at such conviction in his praise. All you can do is reach out and cup his cheek, skin soaked in your essence and his saliva but you hardly care. You watch as he fumbles with the drawstring of his pants, lowering the band to reveal his cock, purple and angry from lack of attention. Oozing pearls of translucent precum leak from his slit, and you’re ready to be filled but he lays flat once more.
Hiromi tongues at your sweet clit, teeth gently biting and tugging at your puffy folds while he wets his fingers and pushes two into you, right to the knuckle. You cry out at the sensation, more than ready for the stretch but not expecting this. His wrist rotates, fingers curling in a come-hither motion and when his fingertips pass over that deep mass of engorged tissue, your thighs tremble.
“Sing for me, darling. Be my morning chorus.”
If this was going to be the result of Higuruma getting better sleep, then you would drag his ass to bed every night if you had to. He humps the bed, strangled noises mingled with sharp little whimpers when you push his face deeper into the apex of your thighs. You could feel the wetness pooling between your cheeks and dripping to the sheets, Hiromi’s mouth making out with your pussy in a rhythm that matches his adventuring digits.
He was breaking you apart, masterfully unpicking every thread that made you whole and waiting with endless patience until you unravel into his palm. The heat between your hips grows too much all at once, the friction on your clit and the relentless thrumming of his fingers against your sweet spot blinding you without warning.
“Oh, I’m… fuck! Hiro—I can’t h-hold back!” Your voice warbles like a songbird, crescendoing into a shriek of bliss that could shatter glass.
Higuruma delights in your orgasm—revelling in it—stilling his fingers to feel your velvet walls clench and spasm around him and slowing the lap of his tongue to soft kitten licks. He massages your waist lovingly, stroking featherlight fingers across your quivering and soft stomach until you float back to earth.
It was all he could do to stave off his own release, his balls heavy with need and drawn tight to the base of his cock. He knew the moment he sat on his haunches there would precum staining the sheets, but he cared little considering the mess he’d already made from loving you so thoroughly.
Gingerly, he sits back and hisses at the slap of his cock against his stomach. You moan, squirming on the bed and he catches your eye. Your bottom lip pinned between your teeth, pupils blown wide and that’s all he needs to pump himself with wild abandon. His wife wants him. His wife is attracted to him. His wife always does the best by him.
His strokes were long but frantic, the slick sound of his foreskin rolling back to reveal his cockhead so sinful that he punctures his lip with his teeth. White hot heat drips from the small of his back, hips and backside tightening with the impending release.
“W-where?” He asks with a stutter, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Inside, Hiromi, please?”
“Shit, shit, shit.”
He lunges forward, bracing on one forearm whilst he notches at your still softly pulsing entrance and pushes inside. Your arms wind around his neck in urgency, kissing his face, his neck, his shoulder and anchoring your legs around his lean waist.
No sooner was he buried to the hilt, than his orgasm hit like a force of nature. His arms tremble, spine bowing and flexing under the pressure whilst he paints your most inner walls with thick, creamy seed. He collapses into your loving embrace, settling his warm cheek at your collarbone and damn near purring at the gentle stroke of your fingers through his hair and down his back, smiling dazedly.
Higuruma Hiromi is a passionate man, especially when he’s had a full night's sleep.
#delirious writes#higuruma hiromi#higuruma x reader#higuruma smut#jjk higuruma#higuruma hiromi smut#higuruma hiromi x reader#jjk smut#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#tw somno
805 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
batiramone
Gastón Ramone
victoirweasley-blog
lionheart
timbermansstuff
Thoughts from the Woods
saikava
чо
taraftarium-24
İsimsiz