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cherryredstars · 5 months

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Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Perverted Reader, Mentions of Male Masturbation, Female Masturabtion, Pillow Humping, Sexual Fantasies/Dirty Thoughts

Summary: Is it a blessing or a curse that you and Miguel share a bedroom wall?

A/N: Here you go WHORES (affectionate <3)

Word Count: 1.4K (Not Edited)

Pt.1 Pt.2

You can hear him.

You’re not trying too, although you can’t say you’re typically upset about it. It’s just… the walls are paper thin and the layout of each apartment is basically copy and paste. Which means his bedroom is separated from yours by a singular wall, and- guessing by how clearly you can hear everything- both of your beds are pressed against that shared wall. You promise that you’re trying really, really hard to ignore it even though you did take off your sound canceling headphones. In your own defense, they were starting to irritate your ears from how long you were wearing them.

And it totally has no correlation with the fact that your next door neighbor is very clearly fucking his hand on the other side of your bedroom wall.

At first, you had thought it was an auditory hallucination. Something your mind was making up after being deaf to the world and doing nothing but processing notes and videos and textbook pages. But then you heard it again and again and again. A faint, consistent wet noise followed by low breaths. You furrowed your brows, face gravitating to the wall until your ear was pressed against the cold plaster. Your hands had gripped at the pillow in your lap, hands tightening around it when Miguel’s muffled moan floated into your ear.

You had scrambled back, readjusting your crossed sitting position so you could press your thighs together. It was embarrassing how a singular, muffled moan had you hot and bothered. But it isn’t a singular moan. No, it’s more. He just keeps going, hissing and grunting on the other side of the wall as the wet noises get faster. You don’t even realize that your ear is pressed back to the wall, brain too focused on your neighbor and the pulsing heat that is starting to burn between your thighs.

It’s too damn hot.

You have to strip yourself of your plaid pajama pants or else you’d die from the heat. Your panties are just so uncomfortable with your wet and sticky arousal that it only makes sense to get rid of them, too. This is okay, you chant in your head as you reposition your body, knees digging into the mattress as your forehead sinks into your pillow. Your ass is forced into the air, the pillow that was once on your lap now resting in between your legs. There isn’t anything wrong with this, you reassure yourself as your hands start to trail down your body.

You’re pressed right against the wall and from your new spot against it, you can more clearly hear Miguel’s sounds of pleasure. You shove your head deeper into the pillow, biting down to muffle the small whine that escapes you when your fingertips brush over your clit. You have to be quiet. Not only because you don’t want him to know what you’re doing, but also because you don’t want to snuff out his muffled noises and eliminate the risk of him stopping.

Your fingers flick at your bud, rubbing and pinching at it. You try to mimic the way Miguel had touched you in his kitchen. It doesn’t feel the same. Your fingers are too soft, too dainty. You try to press your hips into them, huffing against the pillow. It feels good, but it’s not enough. From the other side of the wall, Miguel hisses out a quiet curse and you close your eyes.

You can see it so clearly in your head. Miguel laying back in his bed, pants pulled down right under his balls. His shirt lifted up slightly so he can get a good view of himself, exposing his stomach. His large, rough hands fondling his balls as the other tugs up and down his length. You bet he’s big, in both length and girth. You had been too dazed when he walked you out of his apartment to pay attention to his obvious hard on, and you whine into your pillow at your stupid brain. But he has to be big. A man that large must have the equipment to match. His cock a demanding thickness that stretches you out, tip effortlessly parting your pussy lips as he pokes at your entrance. You moan at the thought, fingers sliding down from your clit and through the wetness coating you. You bite down hard on the pillow as your fingers penetrate.

Your walls are extremely warm, your two fingers pressing and scraping against them. You know two of your fingers would equal one of his, and you wonder how many of your fingers would equal his cock. Maybe four fingers? No, no that still feels too small despite knowing trying to shove four of your fingers into you would be uncomfortable. Maybe- oh god maybe- it would be closer to your entire fist. Your hips buck at the thought. He would absolutely destroy you. But you’d take it happily. Would beg him to rip you apart and ruin you. Your tight walls would hug him snuggly, and your body would shiver from each drag of his cock. You would be able to feel every vein and twitch of his raw cock. Your body would buzz as he spilled his seed into you, warming your stomach with it.

You wonder what he’s thinking about as he moans again.

You hope it’s you. You hope he thinks dirty, deranged things about you. Hope he’s replaying the moment in the kitchen over and over in his head just like you have. Your mind wanders back to the image of him jerking off, to his hand wrapped around himself. Is he thinking about you as he touches himself? Is his hand white knuckled as he desperately tries to make it as tight as he’d imagine your pussy to be? Is he trying to finish to the thought of spilling into you? Or is he thinking about something else? Maybe, instead, he’s thinking about how your mouth would feel around him. Instead of thinking about your tight cunt, he’s thinking about how your throat would contract with a gag as he forced you to take it all the way to the base. Imagining how thin your lips would stretch around his thickness and the warmth of your mouth. You’ve never sucked someone off before and you hope your inexperience wouldn’t turn him off.

Your dirty thoughts make you more horny and more frustrated. Your fingers aren’t doing it. They aren’t hitting that spot inside of you that stays untouched. A spot that you know Miguel would easily reach with his fingers or cock. Your hips drop as your fingers leave your entrance, both of your hands coming up to wrap around the pillow your face is shoved into. You groan when your sensitive clit rubs against the rough texture of your pillowcase, hips shifting and bucking until you find the right angle. Your clit drags against the pillow perfectly, a burning pleasure that you’ve only felt with Miguel starting to swell in your stomach. Your whines and whimpers are absorbed into the pillow as you start to move your hips faster, crying out from the delicious friction.

Miguel’s own moans and hissing is becoming constant too. Dragged sounds that feed into your own approaching release. Your eyes are squeezed shut, imagining Miguel bucking into his hand desperately. His back is arched, mouth dropped open as he gets closer and closer to his climax. Your own is right at its peak, and your hips are a frantic mess as they try to get you to the finish line. From the other side, Miguel lets out a guttural sound, long and dragged out. He must have finished. You whine out, your own release triggering. Your body stiffens as you finish, heaving as you pant.

You lift your face from the pillow, the spot you had bitten down on dark with saliva. Your cheeks flush as you remove the pillow from between your legs, dark streaks of arousal staining it. You throw it on the floor, promising yourself you’ll take care of it later as you roll onto your back. Your chest is still heaving, and your arm is slightly tired from fingering yourself. You throw one of your arms over your eyes, sighing out as you think back on what you just did. You’re in the middle of scolding yourself when one last noise on the other side of the wall makes you freeze up. You get up quickly, pressing up against the wall to hear clearly. You pray he does it again, just to reassure yourself that you’re not going crazy.

Because- and you swear with everything in you- Miguel O’Hara moaned out your name.

Part 4 Part 5

Taglist: @weirdothatwritess @pxtched @shotmrmiller @paranormalfool @pricklesandtickles @strawberryjuice9 @migoharawife @urlocallocachica @pasanau4 @monstera02 @crimin4llyins4ne @araneol @slutfor-miguelohara @michgarquin @tashames @poutysprouty @kakashis-side-hoe @cutestangelrose @prettygirlpattinson @bradleybradbradshaw @laysmt @xaaaaaaax @bunnibitez @hurricanekatrina-22 @la9106 @xxsugarbonesxx @byjessicalotufo @xevita @cyberriah @xxibreinaxx @au563 @krem3puff @nerdyninjaprincess @miguels-cock-piercings @grapejuicenads @drine9 @blueapplesiren @sukioyakio @pumpkinspicelattegang @kurootsumu @narcissa-anastasia @babeyling @vkumi @idontknowyou-youdontknowme @reggiepeterswife @eriiyy @lovespacedogs @x0tw0d57 @nice-nice-dazey

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moonkhao · 1 month

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Ongsa. Should we celebrate it with BBQ Pork tonight? My treat. Ah. Sure. Who else is going? Just the two of us. Why just us? Because I want to spend time with someone I love. Ton.

23.5 DEGREES | EP7

#23.5 degrees #23.5 the series #ongsasun #love pattranite #milk pansa #milklove #aj chayapol #ton #my edits #JEALOUS!SUN MEANS EVERYTHING TO ME #also 27 y/o milk playing a teenager is still hilarious to me bc homegirl does not pass as a teenager 😭😭😭#23.5edit #23.5

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galedekarios · 29 days

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minthara's dating profile 🩸🗡️

[x]

#i saw this floating around on twatter and had to share it here bc it's genuinely hilarious #less hilarious is that she put more care into researching drow lore than larian lmao #i also love how her ad runs through waterdeep connections too #gale 🤝 minthara: hoping to find their s/o through waterdeep connections #minthara baenre #emma gregory #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #ch: minthara #vg: baldur's gate 3 #series: baldur's gate #misc: video #actor: emma gregory

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pharawee · 7 months

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"If you want to know, you have to test it yourself."

PIT BABE · Episode 1

#pit babe the series #pit babe #pavel phoom #pooh krittin #charliebabe #pitbabeedit #thai drama #thai bl #bl drama #bl series #my edits.#not pavel singlehandedly selling the whole a/b/o thing to me #did not have that on my bingo card for 2023 #if anyone's asking i'm officially not perceiving the a-word #yet

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2stepadmiral · 9 months

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Good morning to everyone except the people who don’t love our live action captain and who won’t let us enjoy this moment

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rusty-courage · 29 days

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green yellow red

#based on the life series i've been part of \o/

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athina-blaine · 1 month

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I'd like to take a moment to point out to detractors of ships involving Laios who feel that "Laios wouldn't take any interest in people!" that he'd hyperfixated on Shuro so badly it was ruining the man's life lmao

#dungeon meshi #dunmesh spoilers #not even discounting that he'd be aroace or anything just that laios is perfectly capable of taking an interest in people #labru #this one's for labru nation #laios stating the reason that (alongside with having a genuine interest in shuro's home)#he was so excited because he thought shuro considered him a friend #could you even IMAGINE how he'd be with a person who went c o m p l e t e l y out of his way to be his friend on purpose #venturing into the dungeon putting himself in danger dying over and over again just to get close to him and his party #can you #i can #none of this even mentioning how the series ends with laios developing a genuine desire to take a bigger interest in humans #but i wont hold that against the anime onlys #side note it just kills me how laios (who is so painfully trusting of people) to immediately think kabru is lying to him here #god #top 10 characters who absolutely rot my brain

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jiminrings · 4 months

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fail-safe

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: growing up, your brother's best friend always berated you for not having a passion in life outside of loving him from afar. when yoongi leaves everything he's ever known for everything he's ever wanted, trying to move on from him becomes your biggest aspiration.

alternatively, yoongi left when you needed him the most, and comes back home at a time when you love him the least.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, eventual fluff, brother's best friend AND single dad au, So Much Yearning, unrequited love (initial), jealousy, self-deprecation, a lot of talk abt passion in an empty n hurtful way that most impassioned youngest children feel (it's a specific feeling idk!!!), eventual redemption in the next parts ]

notes: finally got to writing a new series!!! i'm beyond excited for this + this whole new concept and flow i haven't touched on before <3 i hope u love fail-safe as much as i do :-)

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! | series masterlist

Yoongi buys atleast one scratch ticket a week.

The accessibility of buying one is top-notch considering that all he has to do is cross the street, shoot one look to the cashier, and he can either already go hunch in the corner of the road or in the comfort of his room. The moment his coin takes its first dig and he realizes that he’s won yet again, he’s satisfied enough not to buy another ticket.

He doesn’t want to risk losing the win he’s just gained, the odds of him throwing out money besting his chances in adding to his earnings. He thinks everyone’s a little greedy one way or another, but it’s the righteous part of him that thinks he’s different.

You do think that he is for all the right reasons, your vision only tunneling for him alone. He’s this fixed older figure in your life and you can’t figure out how to shrug him off — he’s this generous leech that sucks all of the rationality from your mind but returns it to you twofold, whether in the form of him saying something unintentionally endearing that it makes your chest hurt, or through him having to lightly smack the back of your head.

Yoongi’s your older brother’s best friend and there’s a novelty tag that comes with him, one that can’t be topped by any material possession to your name. He’s there for you, not in the exact way you want him to be, but nonetheless there. He’s special and unattainable at the same time, the finiteness of his love barely extending to you.

He’s there when you want him to burn the latest songs onto a CD you’ve spent all your allowance in, and he’s there when you get annoyed that he sneaked some of his own recommendations in there. You’re there when you later admit that his suggestions aren’t half-bad, and you also happen to be there when he grins at the praise.

He’s there when Namjoon won’t cough up the last slice of his cutlet, not because he’ll actually give you his, but because he’ll help your brother guard his plate. You’d only have to mope for a solid of three seconds before the two of them give up both of their last slices, and you’re there when Yoongi insists for you to try the sauce in the spirit of going out of your routine.

You don’t need Yoongi every single time but in the event that you do, he hangs back. He contemplates and hesitates and doesn’t give in to every single whim that you have, but he’ll be there. He lingers like the last holiday ornament you don’t want to remove until it’s February, his presence being oddly similar to your favorite festivities.

Yoongi’s the equivalent of a holiday you look forward to with each passing month and day; he comes around to and for you in instances, but never even in your most sincere wishes.

“I buy one scratch ticket a week — three if I’m really feeling lucky. When my palms itch, that’s when I know that I really need to buy them.”

He’s calm and collected even when you’re scrunching your nose up at him in combined worry and disbelief, humming mindlessly as you collect your thoughts. He randomly told you about his lottery routine and you’re still trying to wrap your head around how he blows his money off just easily. Yoongi has the mind to put scrap cardboard under you because sitting on the hot concrete with your uniform on can’t possible be a good idea, but you try to play off your fluster into stubbornness.

He’s just playing with his two ever-present coins (lucky charms as he calls them)— one that’s shiny and minted in the present year, the other being the oldest coin he’s ever had that happens to be older than he is — while you mutter about.

“I don’t know, Yoongs. That might be a gambling problem,” you squint, your side comment being heard clearly as day. “Might be the symptoms for hand, foot, and mouth disease too.”

“What— I do not have a gambling problem! My skin’s perfectly fine too, thanks,” he defends, the light shove he gives you doing nothing to tone down your teasing.

“That’s what people with gambling problems say.”

“Give me that-…” he mutters, trying to wrestle you for the sundae he bought you using the money he won from his scratch ticket just awhile ago. You don’t give in easily, even if your laughs that come straight from your chest suggest otherwise. “You don’t get it. It’s just this nice, fun little thing I can look forward to every week. I always buy the cheapest version anyway so when I lose, it’s not a big deal.”

You relent (like you always do when it comes to Yoongi) in understanding, waving him off after regaining your breath. “Nah. I get it. We all have to do things so we wouldn’t lose our shit,” you trail, racking your head to find the right words.“Yours is buying scratch tickets, and mine is-��”

“Yours is what?” Yoongi raises an eyebrow, lips quirked in eagerness to know where you’re going with this. He can’t pinpoint a single thing he can attach to you and neither can you, your actual interests merely reflecting those of the people whom you love.

You love cross-stitching because your mom loves doing it, the tolerance you have for accidentally being pricked by the needle growing over time.

You enjoy playing badminton because Namjoon’s obsessed with the sport, no matter how ratty your rackets and shuttlecocks have become, and no matter how much he pushes you to ring the doorbell to your neighbor’s when he’s sent it flying to their backyard.

You’re probably an imposter yet you don’t feel like it. You don’t feel bad that your life most probably and will only revolve around your mom and Namjoon (maybe even Yoongi); you don’t feel dissatisfied that your life’s mundane.

You go where your love goes.

“Mine is watching you buy scratch tickets,” you shrug easily as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, making him laugh heartily. You’ve probably done something right because he hauls you up to your feet immediately.

“Get up. I’m buying you your first ticket,” he nudges you, grabbing you by the arm in excitement.

“But I’m not even legal!” you half-heartedly argue, internally excited that you’re finally getting to try your hand at the lottery because you’ve spent a few hundred minutes of your life tuned to the channel to pass the time, awaiting the results for something you haven’t even betted for.

“Right. Like I haven’t seen you trying to squeeze out a drop of beer from our empty cans whenever Namjoon and I drink.”

“Rude,” you roll your eyes playfully, gathering your things from the ground.

“It’s okay. I’ll give you your first sip of beer too if you want,” Yoongi offers sincerely; easily as if you’ve just asked him about the weather.

He’s here to buy you your first scratch ticket, and he’s still here to offer giving you your first sip of liquor in the future.

Your family friend for a cashier vehemently ignores the fact that you’re still underage to participate in the lottery, and instead only chuckles to herself in amusement. She’s an aunt that knows when to step in and not to, and she knows you won’t be harmed by a mere bet. In fact, she knows you won’t be harmed by anything with Yoongi in tow.

“I already used up all my change,” your frown in realization, holding the ticket in your hands in despair despite having scoured your wallet repeatedly.

“Rub it against the pavement. That’s what I do,” Yoongi lies fluidly, a scoff being caught in his throat when you actually attempt to do it. “I was only kidding, Y/N. Jeez,” he groans, pulling out his wallet. “Ugh. Here. You can have one of my lucky coins.”

It’s the old one, tarnished beyond relief that you can barely recognize what it’s actual value is supposed to be.

“Ew. I’m giving it back. It looks prehistoric,” you narrow your eyes, knowing that you don’t even have to put your fingers nears your nose to know that it’s already left a faint stench on them.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, a habit he can’t tell he’s formed himself or got from you. “If you use your brain for one second, you’d realize that it’s actually worth more because it’s older. Collectors would go crazy for that in the future.”

“That sounds like a hoarding problem.”

He’s just had about enough of your whining so he attempts to trade in the old coin for his lucky new one, but you stop him at the last minute with a meek smile.

“Kidding. Thank you. I’ll keep it safe, Yoongi. I promise,” you rush out before he changes his mind, scratching your ticket in silence.

He waits for you because you’re scratching so politely and neatly, a stark opposite to his experienced skill of scratching the paint off in ten strokes or less.

Your face is too close to the ticket that Yoongi can’t tell what’s happening, making him part your hair like a curtain to peek.

“Did you win?”

“Nope.”

“Let me throw that out for you.”

“No!” you squeak, keeping the ticket close to your chest. It’s a bummer that your first time is a loss, but it didn’t mean that you wanted to forget the sentiment behind it. “I-I mean no, I’ll keep it. It’s memorable now that I think about it.”

“Alright,” he shrugs carelessly, a smile breaking out in retaliation. “Hoarder.”

“Gambler,” you spit, tucking the ticket into your pencil case. “Next week again?”

Yoongi agrees, wrapping his head around the fact that he doesn’t have to be alone in his little routine every Friday.

“Sure.”

( ♡ )

You don’t mind getting hand-me-downs.

As a matter of fact, you love receiving them. The wear and tear of the things that came before you is only proof that it’s been loved enough to be passed on to you.

You adore your mother’s dainty vintage watch that she wore throughout college, the hardware and sentiment behind it being pretty enough that you don’t mind constantly getting the battery replaced. You like Namjoon’s shirts that he’s outgrown, even through the numerous phases he’s had wherein only denim and tie-dye filled his closet.

You don’t mind the history behind the numerous things you have in your home, unbothered that you’re probably the only house in the block with the oldest possible rice cooker. The chips in the staircase aren’t covered up with marker ink and neither are the loose stitches in the couch quilt snipped off. It’s home to your mother and Namjoon — if it’s good enough for them, then it’s already the best for you.

Even on top of everything, you don’t mind your family almost always getting you shirts and shoes that have an allowance in them. Your mom would go to Seoul and pick out the exact pair of sneakers you wanted that are atleast three sizes bigger than your actual feet, and you’d barely bat an eye.

You don’t mind the coziness of things that are brought to you, because even if they weren’t offered, you’d seek them yourself.

So when Yoongi mentioned that he’s decluttering his room and needed someone (read: you) to vacuum it up for him, you jump at the chance. You take a grocery bag with you, wear the nearest pair of slippers within your vicinity, and book it to his house as soon as he finished talking.

“Go crazy, kid. Almost everything in that pile is garbage so you can take anything.”

“I feel like I should be more offended than how I feel right now,” you hum, furrowing your eyebrows at the pile in front of you. It’s a mound of Yoongi, or atleast everything he’s ever wanted up until he decided to do a general cleaning of his bedroom.

Yoongi chuckles, going through his pile of clean laundry for him to fold on the side while you scavenge for his things. “It’s either I have you take them or I get ripped off at the thrift store, then I see somebody’s uncle wearing my shirt as an added insult.”

You huff, rummaging through his heap of belongings while conveniently trying to ignore that you may look like somebody’s uncle the moment you wear his clothes. Everything is him; every distressed cap, every unfinished embroidered shirt, and every item of old significance with his initials branded on it.

The thick gray hoodie you’ve been eyeing (along with its owner) for the better part of the last few years surfaces into your field of vision, your gasp audible enough to make him jolt because he thought you’d gotten hurt.

“No way, this too? But this is your favorite,” you half-complain and half-rejoice, turning the hoodie inside-out eagerly in the fear that there’s a catch to it belonging in the pile.

“Eh. I know it looked good on me but I don’t think it’s my favorite. Besides, I’ve bulked up! Wanna feel?” Yoongi grins, his segue eerily similar to your brother’s at every given chance. A neighbor from down the block recently opened a small-time gym, and the both of them have not been able to shut their mouths about it since. From their gossiping alone, Yoongi and Namjoon have generated enough advertising already.

“You and Namjoon really have to stop asking random people to feel your biceps.”

There’s random knick-knacks throughout the clump in the middle of his bed, some being too good and actually useful that you snag them. Yoongi lets you do what you want anyways (most of the time), not having to turn his head to berate you on what you’re only allowed to grab from his stuff.

You’re not greedy — you already have his hoodie and that should be enough on its own. But there’s that handkerchief with his initials embroidered on it, then that Rubik’s cube he swore his relative got for him from New York, and even the little butterfly knife he got from a souvenir shop when his family when to the beach.

There were those and there is this, looking up at you in all of its glory.

“Yoongi.”

“What now?” he sighs at your dramatic gasp, looking up from his folded laundry to see what you were going on about. It takes a second for him to fully realize why exactly were you so pumped.

“Are you serious? Your helmet?” you squeal, already hugging the shiny red mass close to you. “Does this mean you’re passing your motorcycle to me?!”

“Are you crazy? Fuck no,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, snatching his helmet back from you. He doesn’t miss the bratty frown that fills up your entire face; he’s not exactly the biggest fan whenever you were upset or angry; maybe even both. “Obviously I forgot I even put my helmet there when I made that pile.”

You whine, stomping your feet in exasperation. You would dramatically plop down on his bed if only it wasn’t full of his shit. “Come on! You told me you were teaching me as soon as you finish teaching Joon.”

“Teaching you how to ride my scooter is not the same as giving you it. Why would I just hand you what I bought with my hard-earned money?” Yoongi scrunches his nose, tone sharper than what he intended.

“But you still haven’t taught me,” you murmur to placate yourself and dissuade yourself from the delusion that Yoongi would even exert such an effort for you because of course — why would he do that for you?

You have an inkling that you’re being irrational for all the wrong reasons, perhaps even projecting your need to be looked after… by him.

Yoongi notices your mood that turned sour quickly, the silence between you becoming loaded. He didn’t mean to be that blunt. “I don’t think you’re even old enough to have your driving permit,” he adds in consolation, voice considerably softer.

You snicker lowly, still looking at your feet with your arms crossed. “But I’m old enough to backpack whenever you need me to carry shit that can’t fit in your carrier.”

He immediately groans at your comeback, his furrowed eyebrows mirroring yours. “You’re so stubborn.”

“You’re a hypocrite,” you retort, knowing for a fact he’s known how to drive even before he was eligible for permits and licenses and whatnot.

Yoongi takes one, two seconds to himself to regain his composure, clearing his head in the process. You’re still not looking at him and you’re pouting and you don’t even notice the latter, making him crack a small smile.

“I will teach you next week.”

“Oh my-…”

He cuts you off, raising his hand in emphasis. “Provided that you listen to everything I say and wear full gear at all times. You clearly don’t have a job yet-…”

“Ouch.”

“And I don’t have the extra money to buy full gear for myself, so what you’ll do is bundle up with your padded coat and the thickest jeans you have,” Yoongi enunciates every word, eyes keenly on you. They’re too wide and alert, you actually feel like listening to him.

“You go on rides wearing your pajamas.”

“Just say ‘thank you, Yoongi’.”

“You haven’t done anything yet,” you trail off, head tilting in confusion.

You’ve had a million conversations like this with Yoongi before but of different fonts; worn, familiar, and warm.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” he mouths, nodding at you to do the same. He won’t stop until you utter them back to him, and you know you won’t go home either without giving him your gratitude as you always do.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you relent, the grin that breaks through your lips being infectious enough that he laughs lowly to himself.

He exhales all the worries he has and could possibly ever have seeing you ride the motorcycle (or for you yearning to do everything that he does), grasping at whatever sanity he has left from looking after you.

“You can have the helmet.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi knows the ins and outs of your home.

He’s been at your house too much to the point that your mom already gave him a spare key and nobody batted an eye about it. He has his own designated slippers at the entryway too, something you would only use in a hurry if you needed to sign off on a package.

Yoongi, for some reason unfathomable (not really; you can tell exactly why because your mom is an extremely warm and inviting person), also has the power of dibs on the food in your fridge. He’d put strips of masking tape with his name on food that’s neither brought in nor made for him in the first place.

It should be off-putting — the way that for too many yet too little reason, Yoongi has become a prominent figure in your life even if you didn’t ask him to. You should be peeved that you have to set up four plates more often that you set up only three; you should be annoyed at some point that when you wake up at random times through the night, you’re not totally alone to begin with.

You shouldbe angry at Yoongi to a degree because he’s in your life and you don’t get to have a say on how he stays in it. The only problem is that you’re not, and probably never will.

“Can’t sleep?” you mutter as you look up from your strikingly clear paper, seeing Yoongi strut across the floor with a casualness that only real occupants of the house should supposedly possess. He has his brows furrowed at you as if he didn’t expect to see you in your living room, scratching his head in wonder.

“Why are you up?”

“Stressed,” you sigh, giving up altogether in attempting to make yourself look busy. Yoongi drives by your fridge to get himself a can of beer, finally seating himself beside you on the floor.

“Stressed about what? I’m sure it’s not about studying,” he snorts, unsurprised at your paper and the clear lack of motivation behind it. You only roll your eyes at him and he has half a mind to not remind you to not do it so much, the frown in your face reminding him that you really were frustrated.

It is you to throw the occasional tantrum, but he remembers that it was only when you were young; when Namjoon would whisper gibberish to his ear and purposely not whisper to yours just so he could tease you, or when nobody would believe that you taught yourself how to ride a bike with no training wheels. You didn’t know how to do the latter at all, but what had made you throw a tantrum was that nobody believed you.

You notice Yoongi’s digs, of course. You notice each one of his more than unsubtle nods to your intelligence and whatnot, the shots at your intellect not flying over your head like he expected them to. You admit that you’ve never been that scholastic; you weren’t born a genius and you don’t try exactly hard either.

Yoongi’s only joking but you can’t help but to think that he’s pertaining to something deeper, his constant digs at your lack of a passion making you sluggish.

“We have to write this essay,” you answer simply, your tone straightforward and unwilling for banter but Yoongi bites anyway.

“But essays are the easiest,” he trails, looking at you the whole time as he takes a sip of his beer.

You exhale heavily because no matter what, he just can’t seem to get it. Yoongi knows where you’re coming from but he doesn’t know where you’re headed. As a matter of fact, you don’t know where you’re headed either. “We have to write an essay about where we see ourselves ten years from now.”

“But that’s still easy.”

“If it’s so easy, then go write it for me,” you snicker, leaning back with a huff. He constantly undermines you and although you own up to your striking mundaneness from time to time, it didn’t mean that you liked being looked down on. Yoongi’s too used to you being yourself, he gets taken aback when you grow sick of your own.

He gathers all his willpower, far from being sleepy unlike you who would’ve been lulled to sleep if only you weren’t dead-set on arguing with him. “You know what? I actually will,” he claps, handing you his beer. “Go hold this for me.”

Yoongi grips your pen for dear life like you hold his beer, his hand warm as he works from sheer determination alone (he’s not competing with anyone except for whatever expectation you have for him and your paper), while yours was cold just holding his drink.

You’ve been so quiet that he actually gets curious, turning his head to check to see if you’ve dozed off when actually, it’s just you eyeing the can.

“No one’s watching,” Yoongi breaks you out of your thoughts, carelessly shrugging. He cares and he’s far too concerned for you, but he figures that nothing would hurt you so long as he can grasp you. “It’s okay. You can have your first sip.”

You blink owlishly at him and when he jokes about taking it back, you take your first swig of beer in a panic. Yoongi only shakes his head in amusement, pausing his writing just to see the look on your face.

“One more?” he asks right after he sees you wince, the unbearable sweetness yet bitter, stinging aftertaste of the beer making you shudder.

You have the urge to wash off the taste with ice cold water (you’ll even drink from the tap because you’re so desperate), but you resist it just so you wouldn’t look like a weakling in front of him. You wave him off with a bitterness, upset that beer doesn’t taste like what you’ve always imagined it to be. “Just write my essay for me,” you mull over the taste in your tongue, in deep thought while you stare at Yoongi’s back ahead of you. “Do all beers taste that way?”

“Eh. Most of them do. You develop a taste for it later on,” he answers, taking the can back from you before drinking it himself. He looks too dedicated in writing your essay, only goading the curiosity in you to peek over his shoulder.

He knows you, both in heart and memory, because he shields your own paper from you when he sees your shadow hovering above him.

“Yoongi?”

“Hm.”

“I told you why I’m up. Why are you up?”

He’s silent entirely, the only indication that he heard your question being his hand pausing abruptly. Yoongi doesn’t answer, and you don’t ask again. “Don’t worry about it.”

You take his answer to heart, dozing off on the couch before you know it. You don’t remember a blanket being placed on you, nor can you remember preparing your backpack for school the next day.

Your paper’s neatly tucked into your portfolio bearing handwriting that’s clearly not yours, but with a sentiment that’s similar nonetheless. You read through everything quickly before even stepping towards your teacher, the tips of your fingers just as cold as Yoongi’s beer last night.

You’ve committed the paper into your memory, even until the last part with an excerpt you can’t forget despite having passed the paper already. You don’t know what to feel because it’s Yoongi who’s speaking for you, detailing that ten years from now, you will still be your mother’s daughter and your brother’s sister.

He wrote your essay either for you or in behalf of you, and you can’t tell which one is better.

Yoongi, who knows the ins and outs of your home and the peaks and troughs of your heart, writes in clear handwriting — Ten years from now, I will still be Yoongi’s rock.

( ♡ )

Surprisingly, Yoongi hasn’t been around that much lately.

Even Namjoon (who you consider as his Siamese twin) is clueless to why his friend hasn’t been hanging out with him lately to do either everything or nothing, confused because they’re enrolled to the same classes all the way to the same part-time jobs, yet Yoongi’s been mostly unavailable.

When Yoongi is, however, he doesn’t speak at all about his previous absences. He comes as if he’s never disappeared a few times before that, his evasion to talk about his presence being apparent even if you’ve asked him directly.

You’re getting used to his new routine of hanging out with you only when the both of you are free, no longer moving mountains for both of your schedules to line up. He’s more present this month than he was at the last, the criteria for it being how many times you bump into him in your own home.

Despite all odds and evens though, Yoongi can’t get used to your silence. He knows you hold grudges longer than your brother, and the last time that he checked, he knows you’ve already let go of your annoyance for him suddenly being unavailable without any explanation.

It’s late, only the two of you are awake in the living room, there’s ten scratch tickets on the table for you to share, and he’s even gotten you your own glass to which he’ll put a controlled amount (a grand total of two long sips) of his own beer in. You’re not stressing about an essay this time, but the unconscious pout on your face is still the same.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

The frown on your face only goes deeper at being found out, the scratch of your lucky coin being the only clear thing that Yoongi hears.

“My best friends want to have this slumber party,” you sigh, more upset about what you’ve just uttered than you are happy about the cash prize you’ve just won.

Yoongi takes what you say at face-value, groaning at his third straight loss for the night. “That’s great. Wear cute pajamas, snap a couple of polaroids, don’t be the first to fall asleep and last to wake up, and just keep a pocket knife with you when you’re going out by yourself.”

The awe (and slight concern) over what he said should roll in any time now.

You should be comforted at Yoongi’s words because they’re supposed to ease the swirl of your stomach, even if what he just said is a repackaged version of what your family said before. You should let go of your worries because Yoongi, of all people, says that it’s supposed to be great.

Instead, you feel neither of what you think Yoongi wants you to.

“Was it something I said?” he mumbles after some time, turning his nose up at you as he tries to retrace his words. “I have an extra pocket knife you can borrow if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“We’re gonna be talking about boys, Yoongi,” you screw your eyes shut, sighing into the palms of your hands with a heaviness. “We’re gonna talk about crushes and experiences and all that.”

He shudders at that, his reaction mirroring Namjoon’s when you tried opening up to him. You get your brother’s reaction to a degree, of course, because you feel as if you’d be disgusted too if the roles were reversed. You want to talk about it with your mom too, but at the end of the day, she’s your parent and you just can’t talk about anything and everything with her.

Yoongi’s your next plausible option.

“Do you want some ice cream right now? You know what, I’ll buy you-…” Yoongi tries to evade the topic altogether, his attempt of escaping feeble as you drag him down by his hoodie.

“I haven’t had my first kiss yet.”

“Heh.”

Yoongi shrugs at that, regaining his words when you deadpan at him. “So? What about it?”

You starfish on the floor at that out of frustration, the whine you’ve been bottling up coming out in the open because as usual, Yoongi doesn’t get it. “I-I’m probably the only one in my grade who hasn’t kissed someone yet! I can’t just lie carelessly because obviously, they’ll ask around.”

“So?” Yoongi chuckles, his breeze towards your state shocking you. “What’s it to them if you haven’t had your first kiss?”

“You don’t get it,” you grit through your teeth, crossing your arms so hard that it feels hard to inhale.

“I’m pretty sure I do,” he sing-songs, drinking the last of his beer. When you’re not looking though, he plans to either drink or chuck the remainder of your share because he doesn’t want you to develop a taste for it.

The anger you have for Yoongi bubbles up once again, the itch in your throat unbearable. You’re presented with the age gap between you once more, along with the raging emptiness in you that Yoongi’s reached so far and you’ve reached so little.

“You don’t get it because you’ve had all of these experiences when you were younger than my age right now,” you snap, although you don’t look at him when you do. If you do look at him though, you’ll only be reminded of how a face like his could have everything in this world — even a first kiss you’ve never had.

“Yeah, and so?” he knits his brows, growing defensive. You weren’t lying at all, but he still feels a little offended at the dig. He’s not not proud of it, but with the way you say it, it’s like you want him to burn in shame,

“Stop saying so,” you angrily mumble in frustration, a little breathless because you still don’t ease up on crossing your arms.

Yoongi straightens his posture, staring you down with his jaw set. He’s stern as he is, nostrils flaring in irritation. “No, Y/N. I’m genuinely asking — so what? What’s it to you if I had my first kiss at a younger age? What about it if everyone else in your grade has kissed someone and you haven’t? It’s not the end of the world.”

“I-I don’t know! It’s just unfair!” you let up, yielding to both the facts that Yoongi’s right with it not being the end of the world, and that you’re still entitled to feeling upset.

“Instead of spending time obsessing over your first kiss, maybe I don’t know, try being productive? You’re heading to college soon and you haven’t even thought of a career,” Yoongi goes off on you, making you roll your eyes automatically. There he goes again with the great big push of trying to push you into your supposed passions in life. “Someone else’s luck doesn’t mean it’s already your misfortune.”

“But it is.”

You say it so definitively, you almost convince him. You have your principles and so does Yoongi, but not everyone else. You have your principles yet you don’t have the luck. You’re not getting anywhere in life just like Yoongi or anyone else who was remotely born into wealth, no matter how quiet or obvious.

You can’t pursue something that interests you in the slightest without thinking what would come out of it. You can’t think of a degree and a course you’ll stick with, enough to do for the rest of your life because the only other option is to fail completely if you don’t. You have no plan and no passion and you don’t know if you’ll ever amount to anything to anyone at all.

By all means, you don’t agree with Yoongi this time. Someone else’s luck is your misfortune, in the same way that his first kiss doesn’t mean that it’s yours.

The sidetrack to your argument is a closed case already, judging by your downcast gaze. “I just have to put myself out there, that’s all. My first kiss doesn’t even have to mean anything. I just want to have it,” you admit, shoulders relaxing.

“Don’t,” Yoongi groans, the opposite of you as his whole body tenses.

He thinks that you don’t get him at all.

“What do you meandon’t?”

Your argument’s long-over (atleast you thought it was) but Yoongi’s getting more agitated by the minute, the disbelief on his face throwing you off. “Don’t do things just because you feel like you have to! Are you even hearing yourself right now?”

“I don’t want to be left behind, Yoongi! That’s all I’m trying to get at,” you raise your hands in surrender, shrugging thoughtlessly — it makes him want yell into a paper bag in exasperation. “I don’t want to be picked last. I don’t want to not be wanted.”

Yoongi exhales, screwing his eyes shut. It stays silent like that for a little while; him calming himself down, and you scratching your tickets. The calm doesn’t stay for long because you open your mouth carelessly, again.

“Can you be my first kiss?”

“Are you insane?”

“Ugh.”

You go back to your fourth scratch ticket, pouting in disappointment. You’re unfazed about the win that’s probably the largest sum you’ve had ever since you started doing the lottery.

You’re upset and you’re sick in the stomach but you stay silent like you never asked Yoongi to be your first kiss; it’s like you haven’t indirectly admitted to him that you love him enough, more than so, to want him to be your first.

You’re about to scratch the final ticket when Yoongi juts his hand out, fingers barely brushing yours to stop you.

“On second thought, don’t scratch that. Just keep it.”

“Because you want to turn me into a hoarder too?” you snicker, heeding his suggestion regardless.

“Because I’m not going to be right about everything,” Yoongi mumbles, looking at you with a solemnness you can’t decipher.

You try until the solemnness turns into pity.

“Still don’t want to be my first kiss?”

Yoongi softly laughs to your face, smiling as he lets you down — whether easily or harshly, you can’t tell.

“You already know what I’m going to say.”

( ♡ )

You’d like to think that you’re not kept in the dark about most things.

You already know that although your mom hasn’t had any relationships since your dad left, she still has plenty of suitors. Some of them are the reason why you have random food deliveries in the middle of the dinner that she’s already cooked, some have sucked up to her by getting you and Namjoon gifts.

You know about Namjoon’s growing love for football, even with the lessons he takes in secret because he didn’t want to trouble your mom for the money. It’s why he does his part-time job and why you’re looking for one anyways. You don’t want nor need much, so you almost always give him the remainder of your allowance by the end of each week.

Yoongi, on the other hand, you don’t know much about. You know that he’s an only child with a doting mom who works overseas and a rich but emotionally unavailable dad at home, and that’s about it. His home life is synonymous with yours, considering that your four walls have become an extension of his.

Maybe you’ve become too lenient on him — either that, or he’s become too disrespectful. It’s at times like these where your house is not his home, sickeningly so that you don’t want it to be yours either.

Yoongi is a sight to behold as he makes out with a half-naked girl on your bed, in your room. Your room has never been the neatest but with everything going on, it feels that it’s become the dirtiest that it’s ever been. Your house slippers are on the floor even if you always leave them by the entryway, and your sheets are a mess despite being one of the only things you try to keep folded in the room.

You’re angry, too much to the point that the words get caught in your throat. They catch onto bile and venom and everything at once, the strain in your voice heard when you yell.

“What the fuck?!”

Yoongi and the girl, whom you figure out to be Hyewon that he’s shared his first kiss with, jolt in unison. Hyewon’s scared shitless while Yoongi’s annoyed to death, the grunt he lets out pricking your ears further. “Sorry, sorry. She’s my best friend’s sister. She’s so annoying,” he drags you out of your room before he even gives you the entitlement to storm out of there in a fit of rage, seeing red the longer that he seems upset at you.

“What the fuck was that, Yoongi?” you grit through your teeth, the moment of you seeing red turn into white because you’re so frustrated that you could actually cry. Your chest’s heavy, not only out of rage, but out of everything that’s built up in the course of years.

“Can you keep it down?” Yoongi seethes, pursing his lips. “What, would you rather see us do it in the living room?”

“In the — what? Who do you think you are? This isn’t even your house, why are you bringing these girls here?” you point an accusing finger at him yet he doesn’t back away, his annoyance for you only growing tenfold.

He’s in the wrong no matter which way you look at it yet he doesn’t realize it, the epiphany that Yoongi genuinely thinks he’s in the right for doing this to you making your skin burn in fire.

“This is literally the first time I’ve ever done this! I can’t bring her back to my place, my dad has guests over!”

“So your smartest idea is to fuck someone in my bed?”

“Oh, you’re welcome. It’s the most action your four walls have ever seen,” he spits sarcastically, eyes narrowing at you. It takes little effort for him to dig up what you came to him for in worry and it terrifies you. The facet of Yoongi who had sternly told you that it was okay to be left behind if it means getting what you deserve, resembling nothing like him at the moment.

“I can’t believe you!” you whisper as you tremble, the tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. “I told you that in confidence.”

“In confidence? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you’re not exactly a catch, Y/N.”

You clench your jaw so hard that it hurts, you ball your fists so tightly that it stings.

You leave your home without saying another word.

Namjoon’s panicked.

He came home a little later than usual because he had maximized the life out of his soccer lessons, only getting the signal to leave when the lights were turned off. He was only slightly worried at the first place because he was supposed to cook dinner for the both of you, but he placated himself by realizing that you’re not the baby that he still thinks you are — you could cook dinner for yourself if you were hungry already.

He thinks nothing of it. In fact, he just makes a quick stop at the convenience store so the both of you could indulge in a liter of ice cream without your mom urging to leave some for another night. You could think of a recipe from scratch (and it almost always works out at the end), so Namjoon walked in fully thinking he’ll get to sniff whatever concoction you have.

Except, he walks into a completely dark house, and that’s when he panics.

He can’t find your slippers by the entryway and you’re not in your room either. You’re not at the other convenience store hunched over taking your chances on scratch tickets, and you’re not out on the street either going people-watching.

The panic rises in him the more that Namjoon grasps this is the first time that this has ever happened and he doesn’t know why. He’s always made an effort to be absorbed into both your personal and academic affairs, and as far as he knows, you’re neither in a sleepover nor on a field trip somewhere.

Namjoon thinks it’s his fault someway somehow, and the guilt can’t fully dissipate from him until he sees you.

“Hey, Yoongi,” he breathlessly gasps the moment his friend answers, the latter being surprised because he thought it was you who was calling him after what happened awhile ago.

It’s his fault and he’s realized that hours too late, and the selfish part of him thinks that it’s you calling at ten in the evening begging for forgiveness.

“What’s up, man? It’s late,” he wonders out loud, thinking for a second if they were too much of the Siamese twins that you tease them to be because he can’t think of a rational reason why Namjoon would call him at this time of night.

Namjoon raggedly exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m just wondering if you’ve seen Y/N by any chance?”

Yoongi’s heart drops so loudly that Namjoon thought for second that his friend had hung up on him, his urgency being shared the moment that he asked.

“What? Y/N isn’t home?” Yoongi asks in disbelief, immediately being filled with anxiety and disbelief. Just awhile ago, the two of you were arguing outside of your room. He did hear you leave, but he had fully expected for you to be back hours ago. He’s wracked with guilt all over, the drop in his chest amplified by the pit in his stomach.

“She’s not. Practice ran late and I-I know she’s responsible so I didn’t hurry home,” Namjoon recalls, being more and more frazzled by the second. “She left her phone here, and mom isn’t here either because she’s visiting my grandparents, a-and I don’t want to call her because I know she’ll be worried, a-and-…”

Yoongi interrupts him, the tremble in his fingers only enabling him to dig his nails into his palm deeper. “I’m coming over. Let’s look for her together.”

It barely takes a minute for the both of them to come together, not even exchanging any pleasantries with each other before Yoongi steps on the gas.

Namjoon’s filled with guilt, the type that only a sibling could carry as a burden. He thinks he was too selfish — too accustomed to pulling your own weight that it must have given you the impression that you had no other choice but to. Whatever it was that made you leave out of the blue, Namjoon thinks he could’ve done more. He should’ve came home and made you dinner as promised, for starters. He’s guilty over the fact that he’s the only close familial male figure in your life and he let this happen, as he makes Yoongi put his headlights on high-beam, scanning for anyone that looks remotely like you.

Yoongi, on the other hand, is filled with a guilt he can’t even begin to explain. It corrodes him from the inside-out in realization that he’s to blame for your sudden disappearance, the fact that Namjoon comes to him first to help find you not helping at all. If only your brother knew what he had done to you, he’s positive that he’ll be on the receiving end of a punch — what gets him more is that Yoongi wouldn’t blame him at all.

They see you in the bus stop two cities away, dressed in the same clothes you ran out with.

Namjoon’s relieved beyond compare while Yoongi’s fuming, his hands tucked inside his jacket to prevent himself from squeezing you into an embrace; neither of you deserve it.

There’s an underlying anger within Namjoon, one that lies behind the back of his throat as he checks you over for any injuries. The two of you walk ahead to Yoongi’s car while he himself trails behind, his heart significantly calmer than it was the past hour, yet nowhere near normal.

“Wanna tell me what you did?” your brother hums, trying to exhale the worry that’s embedded into him with each squeeze he gives around your shoulders.

“Went to the convenience store, bumped into my friends, then we took this impromptu roadtrip to go to the night market, then we all had our first actual shot of liquor and not just beer, my friend who owns the car turned out to be a lightweight, and now everyone just has to commute home,” you narrate in recollection, squeezing Namjoon back to try and ground him.

“Okay,” he answers simply, nodding. “Wanna tell me what happened before you did all those things?”

The breathless chuckle that leaves you is empty, void of any amusement at all. You smile nonetheless, unable to placate both yourself and Namjoon. “Nope.”

You arrive in silence to Yoongi’s car, the words unsaid between the three of you generating more tension than your brief disappearance itself.

Yoongi opens the front door for you, but you settle for sitting in the backseat.

#HOW R WE FEELING TARGET AUDIENCE!!! :O #yoongi imagine #yoongi oneshot #yoongi oneshots #yoongi series #yoongi angst #yoongi angst imagine #yoongi fluff #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi au #min yoongi imagine #min yoongi scenario #yoongi fanfic #yoongi x you #bts yoongi imagine #bts yoongi x reader

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thasorns · 5 months

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Tharn! Tharn! Tharn! Are you alright?

THE SIGN ลางสังหรณ์ (2023-2024) dir. A Natthaphong Wongkaweepairod

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cherryredstars · 4 months

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Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Oral Sex, Indirectly Mentioned Age Gap, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Mentions of Male Masturbation

Summary: An unwelcome guest arrives.

A/N: They’re back at it!!!

Word Count: 2.9K (Not Edited)

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3

He can hear you. Both of you.

There are two pairs of footsteps walking past his door. The lighter, softer ones are recognizable. The heavier ones are not. His eyes narrow at the noise, quickly lowering the volume of the TV. He can hear the rustling of keys overlapping with the sound of muffled talking. Your laugh cuts through the noise, and his head whips to his own door. He’s quick to get up, making his way to the door. He waits a few moments before opening it, casually looking to the left as he steps out.

You’re standing at your front door, just opening it when you turn to him. Your doe eyes blink at him, a smile on your face and a slight blush. It’s the first time you two have seen each other properly since the incident two and a half weeks ago. He takes the time to drink in the sight of you. You’re wearing a bubble jacket and a pair of jeans. On your head is a beanie with a logo in the front, causing your hair to stick to your face. Over your shoulder is the bookbag you use sometimes when the weather isn’t ideal for your usual tote bag. It’s a refreshing sight. Better than the dream versions that visit him in his sleep.

The sight quickly sours when his eyes register the boy behind you. He’s young, around your age. A classmate perhaps. He’s tall, but nowhere as tall as Miguel. He’s lanky, all long, thin limbs. Probably doesn't know the difference between barbells and dumbbells. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweats and a black sweater with a coat overtop. He has thick hair, styled to look ‘naturally’ messy. It looks like he got electrocuted. Three times in a row. By lightning. He has his own book bag thrown over his shoulder, and his smile slowly disappears when he looks at Miguel. He steps a little closer to you, a few inches separating his front from your back. The scene looks far too intimate for his liking. He would be considered ‘cute’ or ‘hot’ in a dorky way to any teenage girl.

The two size each other up. There's no competition.

“Hi, Miguel!”

Your face makes both of them turn away, looking down at you. You’re smiling wide at Miguel, and he feels way too prideful when you step towards him. He can’t resist the smug look he throws at the boy behind you. His arm reaches out, his fingers grabbing at one of the front pieces of your hair. From over your shoulder he can see the fetus glare at the possessive touch.

“Hi, mi nena. Who’s this you brought with you, hm?”

His voice is low, intimate in the fact that his words are softened for you. You seem to melt into the tone, your body self-consciously leaning in as you blink up at him. For a second you seem slightly confused, turning around to see the boy. It’s like you forgot he was even there. The boy loses his glare, giving you a small smile. You turn back to Miguel quickly, a slight flush on your cheeks. The attention you give him, even in front of your…guest, makes his heart sing and his cock stir. He’ll have to reward you for it later, when the time is right.

“Oh! He’s just my classmate, we have to work together on a project.”

Miguel smiles at that. He’s just a classmate. He’s not even considered a friend to you. It’s cute, the way you try to reassure him that nothing is happening between the two of you. But, that doesn’t nullify the fact that your classmate obviously wants to be something more than your project partner. Miguel trusts you completely. What he doesn’t trust is a young, horny boy near you. But he does have to admit, the dejected look on his face when you refer to him as only a classmate pleases something ugly inside of him.

Miguel’s finger rubs against your cheek before he lets your hair go, his eyes following the way your body shivers slightly at the contact. You stay leaned towards him, and Miguel has to resist the urge to coo down at you. Instead, he reaches both of his hands down towards your waist. Your body seems to melt into his touch, your eyes going dopey as his warmth seeps through the thick denim of your pants. If the two of you didn’t have a guest present and weren’t out in the hall, he would kiss you. Or eat you out against the wall. Whichever one crossed his mind first. He would have enough time for both if you let him indulge. But, again, he would have to save that for another time. Right now, he has to- very reluctantly- return you to your party.

His arms are quick around your waist as he turns you around, your body stumbling slightly from the speed. You seem confused as you’re now faced with your company, turning your head back to Miguel. You have a slight pout on your face, disappointment spreading as he pushes you forward slightly. You look like you’re about to protest, and as much as he’d love to have you begging for his attention, you have other matters to attend to. Miguel leans down, his breath warming your neck. He can’t resist taking a whiff of your dizzying smell, letting it invade his lungs and travel to his cock for safe keeping. He’ll make use of it later.

“Go do your work, mami. I’ll see you later, hm?” He whispers, eyes hungirly taking in the way your lips part and blush spreads across your face. You turn your face to him, a few centimeters separating the two of you. Your eyes hastily fall to his lips before meeting his eyes, muttering out a breathless ‘okay’.

Miguel smirks, opening his mouth to say something else when a rough cough breaks the moment. Both you and Miguel turn your heads, looking at the boy who seems slightly uncomfortable. He eyes the lack of space between the two of you, eyes dropping to where Miguel still grabs your waist. Good, at least now he knows who you belong to. Miguel slowly removes himself from you, and you give an apologetic smile to your guest. You begin to walk towards him, and Miguel lets you walk a step or two away before grabbing your wrist and pulling you back to him.

You bump into his chest with a soft noise, wide eyes looking up at him. Both of your arms are trapped between your body and his, and your breath stutters when he leans down. Miguel keeps his eyes trained to the boy behind you, loving the sour look on his face.

“I don’t want to hear any funny business. This will not be one of those types of ‘study sessions’, you understand?” Miguel says slowly into your ear, possessiveness seeping in with each word. You open your mouth to say something, but the words get stuck in your throat as you feel something hard pressing against your thigh. Miguel squeezes your wrist, pulling your attention back to where it should be, “Do I make myself clear, chica?”

The airy ‘yes, Miguel’ you practically whimper out will satisfy him for now. He whispers back a ‘sé buena’, letting you go and pulling away. Miguel keeps his eyes on your little frat boy for a few more seconds before he looks down at you. His hand falls to your chest, pushing you back slightly as he turns towards his apartment. You still have this dazed look on your face, and Miguel commits it to memory. Slowly, you turn around looking at your classmate briefly before walking into your apartment. He takes a second to follow you in, instead looking at Miguel with a tightened hold on his bookbag. You call out his name, and he disappears behind your closed door. Miguel scowls at the door before he slips into his own home, leaning against the door.

His eyes trail down his body to the hard on bulging through his pants. His hands slip through his waistband, palm connecting to the precum beading at his tip. He grits his teeth as he begins to tug at himself, the smell of shampoo and a dazed face running through his head.

___________________________________

He sits up on the couch when he hears your door open and close. He stays silent, picking up the sound of a singular pair of footsteps walking away until they’re gone. Miguel waits a few moments before getting up, running a hand through his hair as he makes his way to the door. He doesn’t bother to lock it behind him when he closes it, instead focusing on getting inside of your apartment. He stands in front of it, lifting a hand to knock before stuffing both of his hands into his pocket. He can hear you walking towards the door, and his cock stirs knowing you're all his now. He hears the lock click and a second later you open the door with a confused look on your face. Your expression falls away, mouth parting slightly at the sight of him. He smirks down at you, not needing an invitation before he walks in.

He lazily looks around, eyes narrowing on the heater panel on the wall. He fucking hates that heater. He turns back to you just as you lock the door and turn to face him. There is a sort of electricity running through the air, and Miguel’s eyes slide down your form half-mast. You’re still wearing your jeans, but now he can see the long sleeve shirt you were wearing under your coat. It isn’t skin tight, but he can still see the outline of your breasts in it. He can feel his cock twitch in his pants as he focuses on the slight swell, but his eyes come back to your face. You look bashful, obviously catching him eye fucking you. Miguel doesn’t feel an ounce of shame, walking up to you slowly. You back up against the door, back hitting the wood. He doesn’t stop advancing until his chest is mere centimeters away from yours. With his close proximity, you’re forced to look up at him, wide eyes blinking cutely up at him.

It makes his eyes darken, and his hand comes to your face and strokes just under your eye.

“How was your little study date?” He asks, a dark smile on his face.

Your lashes flutter rapidly, lips parting, “It wasn’t a-”

Your words die off as Miguel’s other hand presses against your pants. His fingers expertly undo the button, and soft unzipping comes after. You try to look down, but Miguel’s hand around your face grabs your chin and keeps you looking up at him. Your chest brushes against him with every breath you take. Your eyes are glazed over, and that dazed look paints your face again. Miguel’s thumb plays with your bottom lip, his smirk dropping slightly.

“I asked you a question. Are you gonna answer it?”

“I-” you stutter out, thighs pressing together. You can feel a wetness filling your panties and your cheeks flush. “It wasn’t a date.”

Your voice is soft as you confess it, and Miguel finally coos at you. His smile comes back, still condescending. He hums in thought, hands falling to your hips. Slowly, he begins to descend to the floor, “Yeah? Why don’t you tell me about what you did and I’ll decide for myself.”

You stutter out another response as you watch him, thighs almost crossing over the other to relieve the ache in between them. His thumbs stroke just under the waistband of your jeans, his fingers hooking into the belt loops as he begins to drag the denim down your legs. Your mouth parts as he looks up at you, but no words escape. He shakes his head with a chuckle, parting your thighs once your pants pool at your feet. He leans forward, and you yelp as he presses his nose against your panties. Your hands fly to his hair, whimpering out as he groans. He can feel your damp arousal through your soaked panties, and the smell of it is intoxicating. He can’t resist the urge to lick at it through the fabric.

“Miguel!” You gasp out, eyes wide as you look down at him. His pupils are blown wide as he moves your panties to the side, coming face to face with your naked cunt.

Your clit pokes out to greet him, and there is a soft glistening around your folds. All for him. He curses at the sight, his tongue lapping at the small bud. It causes you to shriek, hands tightening in his hair. Miguel smirks at the noise, pulling away from your addictive pussy for a few minutes.

“I don’t hear much talking from you, nena.”

You choke on your breath as he licks at you again, lips falling open. Your sentences are stuttering, incomplete babbles, mind getting lost in the pleasure he’s giving you. You’re saying something about researching and some dead poet, but Miguel doesn’t really care. Your head leans back against the door as he slurps at you, his tongue flicking against your swollen bud and teasing your folds. You cry out his name again when his tongue pokes at your entrance, catching the arousal that dribbles out. His hand comes to the back of your thigh, lifting it over his shoulder as he sucks on you. You let out a loud moan as his tongue slides inside of you.

The groan he lets out vibrates against your whole body, and he gets drunk on the taste of you. His tongue explores your wet walls, moaning whenever they contract around the slippery muscle. He can feel the arousal on his face, and he tries to bury himself deeper into your cunt. You can’t help the high-pitched noise that leaves your mouth as his nose bumps repeatedly against your clit, stimulating you to the point that your legs feel like jelly. You can feel your leg buckle from under you, and the only thing keeping you up is Miguel’s head pressing your lower body against the door.

Your hips buck into his face as he switches between tongue-fucking your hole and sucking on your clit. Your pussy pulses against his mouth, and you can’t help the grinding you do as you use your hold on his hair to move his face against you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as he lets you guide him, his groans vibrating against you. Some whines and whimpers leave your mouth, a hot ball forming in your stomach.

“Miguel, I’m… please,” You cry out, making Miguel chuckle against you.

His movements speed up, tongue lavishing you like a man starved. His eyes are hazy as they look up at you, watching your twisted face. Your mouth falls open, hiccuped noises leaving you until your entire body tenses. You cry out loudly, head pressing deeper into the wood of your door as you release. Miguel moans against you, eyes closing as he greedily laps at you for a taste of your sweet cum. Your chest heaves like crazy, and your lower body jolts from the overstimulation his tongue is giving you. Your hands weakly try to push his head away, and he whines disapprovingly against you before he submits to your silent order.

Your face flushes as you look down at him, his chin glistening with spit and your arousal. You feel yourself pulse when he licks his lips, collecting the remaining juices there with a moan. Your body goes slack against the door, and Miguel gently eases your leg off his shoulder. Your hands fall to his shoulders, using him as a way to keep you up as his hand places your panties back into their place. The wetness still coating your underwear is slightly uncomfortable, but you quickly forget it when Miguel comes face to face with you again. His face is still shiny, but that hunger in his eyes seems satisfied for now.

“Don’t think I like that boy around you,” He comments, eyes scanning your face. Your body jolts when his thumb presses into your clit, making you gasp. “And don’t think for a second he can make you feel the way I just did.”

You’re left speechless again, only capable of staring up at him and nodding numbly. He leans down and kisses you quickly, a thin coat of the sticky remains of your own arousal coating your lips as he pulls away. He moves you slightly, your body pressing against his chest as he opens your apartment door. He’s quick to turn the two of you around, not wanting anyone to see you in your underwear and post-orgasm daze. His mouth falls to the top of your head, planting a kiss to your hair. He pulls away from you as he goes out in the hall, leaving you standing inside your apartment.

“Don’t bring anymore boys home, cariño” He calls out teasingly, that smirk still on his face as he closes the door behind him.

You blink at your door, confused on how he left so casually. You look down at your jeans on the floor, slowly picking them up and holding them to your chest.

Why does he always leave?

Pt. 5

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jesuistrestriste · 10 months

Text

♡ You're Such A Loser pt. 2; Art Donaldson x Reader ♡

nsfw (18+) cw: switch(dom)!art donaldson, switch(sub)!reader, reader guiding art through domming, begging, brief choking, slight hate fucking themes, orgasm denial, slight bit of tears/crying (he’s okay), oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, praise, degradation, creampie.

all that frustration from losing his matches has built up in him, and now Art is ready to let it all out. only because you’re letting him, of course.

word count - 2.9k

note : part twoo (part one) !! i hope that those who liked pt. one will like this part just as much :) it’s a lil bit of a switch in dynamic (pun not intended)

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He’s diving back into your cunt without hesitation, lapping at the remnants of your orgasm that have spilled and sprayed down your inner thighs. His arms are hooking under your legs so that he can bury his tongue deeper and deeper into you.

You groan deeply, running your fingers through his hair before pulling the locks taut in your fist.

“Yes, baby, just like that.. your mouth always feels so damn good,” you breathe out, moaning at his expert tongue skills.

As you gaze down at him, you can see the way that his eyes are squeezing shut and his brows are turned up in arousal as he licks at your insides. He lets out a pathetic whimper at your words of praise, which shoots a mouthful of vibrations up through your form. Your knees tremble, clamping down on his flushed cheeks, and you use your grip on his hair to guide him gently up to your clit. He takes notice of your cue, and moves his mouth up to suck your sensitive bundle of nerves. You gasp brokenly and toss your head back, before looking down again to see his face.. and god, he is beautiful. His brows are still knitted up, but now his big aquamarine eyes are watery and looking up at you like a lost puppy. He was all yours. Just yours, and he knew it too -- in fact, he loved it.

“That’s it, sweetheart, doing so--mmf!--so well,” you moan out, using your hand to now stroke at the back of his head and give him a bit more physical stimulation. His eyes flutter closed at the feeling of your fingers brushing against his scalp, and out of habit he reaches up with one of his free hands and uses his middle and ring finger to brush against your dripping hole. Immediately, you wince at the contact, and he lets out a drawn out groan that you can tell is an incoherent plea for permission. You nod.

He wastes no time in turning his wrist so that his hand is palm-side up, and then his fingers are gliding into you without any resistance whatsoever. Your body is absolutely starved for him at this point, and you can’t do a thing to hide it. As he feels your insides wrap warmly around his digits, his eyes prick with tears while he continues to mouth at your clit.

He brings his head back, detaching his mouth from your body, and moves to look longingly at the way your fingers are sucking him in every time he pulls them back. Your slick is covering his chin and his lips, which are currently parted in arousal as he huffs and puffs from desperation. He continues to pump his fingers in and out of you, relishing in the way that he can feel you clench and twitch.

“You’re so hot,” he whispers, not breaking eye contact with the point of connection between your body and his. He then decides to bury his two fingers so deep inside of you that they actually completely disappear. Next thing you know, he’s curling his fingers repeatedly in the “come hither” motion while he’s still buried up to the hilt. About thirty seconds of this is all it takes for you to get there.

“SHIT-! Oh my god, Art, don’t fucking stop, don’t stop, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, I’m g’na-”

You manage to moan out a quick warning before your hips are arching into his touch, going completely still for a few moments. Then, wave after wave of your orgasm washes over you, causing your pelvis to spasm rapidly as you babble incoherent phrases of praise to your partner.

Art’s mouth is now completely agape, his eyes lidded, as he takes in the show of your orgasm, not stopping the movements of his fingers. You couldn’t really tell over the sound of your own vocality, but he was letting out tiny whines and whimpers from the way that your body was making his cock leak pathetically in his already-soiled boxers. He could barely hold his second orgasm off.. it was so damn hard.

After you collapse fully on the bed in an attempt to recover in your afterglow, sticky with sweat and panting heavily, you are now able to fully hear Art’s pure and unfiltered anguish. He’s moaning lowly as he glances from your cunt down to his clothed cock, which is jumping over and over in his underwear -- begging for attention. He then moves to pull his wet fingers from inside of your pussy, which allows for a few drops of viscous wetness to spill from your hole. Without hesitation, he lurches forward with his pretty tongue sitting gently on top of his bottom lip so that he can gulp down the taste of your release. He sucks and licks greedily at your hole, letting his eyes flutter closed as he grips his own thighs. He doesn’t want to touch himself yet. After all, you never gave him permission.

“You’re such a good boy, baby.. so needy and hungry for me, aren’t you?”

He nods quickly but shakily, his nose brushing against your clit as his mouth continues to relentlessly engulf your heat.

“You want me to let you cum?” you ask, knowing from his track record that he’s probably already on the edge.

He pulls back, licking at his bottom lip to not waste any of your taste, before he removes his hands from gripping his legs and instead places them to your waist. He digs his fingers into your soft flesh as he looks up at you from his position on the floor.

“Please, please, I’m already there-- just tell me I can and I will! I promise,” he gasps out, drawing out the second half of ‘promise’ to emphasize his sheer closeness. His brows are still turned up as tears start to well in his eyes. He’d cry if you said no, you knew that. The real question was: did you want to keep punishing him tonight? Had he had enough?

“Tell me how bad you want it, love.”

You could stand to be cruel a little bit longer.

He whines, his fingers clenching around the skin of your hips, as his pelvis continues to buck involuntarily.

“I want it so badly- I wanna cum- I’m so close, please please please.. I don’t know if I can stop it,” he moans, the slight friction of his cock against his wet boxers pushing him closer and closer to the point of no return.

“What if I said no?”

“Nooo, god, please don’t.. I’ve already made you cum.. I could prob’ly cum just from you telling me that I can.. can I? Oh shit, please-”

“I’ll tell you what: I’ll let you cum if you can take control for once.”

He looks at you, confused, before trying to stave off his orgasm by biting down on your thigh as he lets out a broken whimper. You yelp, before stroking his hair, knowing that he was deep in an animalistic state of mind -- he didn’t mean to hurt you, he just was trying so hard to be good.

“Use your words, Art.”

He releases you from between his teeth, before tears are spilling down his cheeks.

“I,” he sobs, “I can try.. but you know that I’m not like that..”

“I know, baby, I know. I want to teach you. Would you like to try that?”

He nods. He’d do anything to cum at this point.

You use your hands to push yourself farther back onto the bed so that your head is now close to the headboard. Art watches your every move, but stays as still as he can. He still wanted to please you, and didn’t want to do anything without your say-so. This was going to have to change within the next ten minutes.

You pat the bed’s comforter, and he immediately crawls up onto the bed and hovers over your form. His breathing remains uneven as his cheeks continue to flush with the torment of his delayed release. The erection in his boxers is still as stiff as ever, and you eye the way that it visibly jumps with anticipation.

One of your hands reaches up to comfortingly caress his face, and he leans into your touch.

“Breathe, honey, breathe. You’ll get what you want soon.”

He sighs, which almost turns into a moan, but he cuts himself off as you start to give instruction.

“Okay, first I want you to take off my top and bra. Undress me, understand?”

“Yeah,” he responds breathlessly, moving to pull your shirt over your head and unclasp your bra in under a minute. You were now completely naked, and he allowed himself the pleasure of drinking in the sight of your uncovered body. You were so gorgeous, it made his dick twitch.

“Good. Now, take off your boxers and shirt. I wanna see you,” you couldn’t help staying in a dominant headspace for a few seconds more.. it was just so fun to boss him around. He was so quick to follow directions, too.

He unsurprisingly does as he’s told, swiftly removing his gray tee and pulling down his boxers. At the sight of his bare cock, you bite your lower lip and place a hand on the back of his neck to guide him down to meet your mouth. You kiss him deeply, letting your own tongue lick his as he reciprocates with equal ferocity. He’s mashing his lips with yours, moaning into your open mouth when you pull back to switch the angle of your head. You bite down on his bottom lip before sucking it, which causes him to groan deep in his chest. Your hands snake to his lower back and you pull him down in one swift motion so that his body is now pressed flushed to yours as you continue to make out. A few more moments of this go by before Art knows that he has to speak up..

“I th-think I’m gonna c-cum,” he stutters, rubbing his hard cock against your lower stomach, “I can’t hold it, I cannn’t-!”

You reach down quickly and grasp his dick, which makes his eyes roll back into his low lids, and then you’re sliding it inside of your tight hole without warning.

“Nnghh-! I’m--fuck!” he sobs out, immediately spilling a thick, warm load inside of you. You let him thrust shallowly into you as he pumps you full of cum.

“Ah hah hah haah-!” he cries as he overstimulates his cock by continuing to fuck himself through his long-awaited orgasm.

As you watch his face with a smile and feel his throbbing dick inside of you, Art suddenly pushes himself up onto his hands so that he’s looking down at you. He’s gasping for more air but his brows are sitting low on his face and he looks weirdly upset.

You reach a hand up to his face, but he grabs your wrist with one hand and shakes his head without breaking eye contact with you.

“Don’t,” he breathes out, before beginning to thrust his spent cock more forcefully inside of you. Was he pissed that you had initially denied him..?

“Wha-”

“Don’t say anything, please,” he cuts you off, “just let me fuck you some more..”

You close your mouth, feeling a new kind of heat swirl in your gut. There was something about his tone that was new for him.. there was a bit of authority in it. Art hangs his head as he groans, pulling his cock all the way out to the tip before slamming it back into you. The wind feels like it just got knocked completely out of your lungs, and you squirm on the sheets.

“You feel so good.. f-fuck, I’m already hard again,” he moans, a growl beginning to creep up his throat.

A moan escapes your lungs as you let your head fall back into the plush pillow, and then before you can fully comprehend what he’s doing, his hand is over your mouth. His elbow is resting by your neck as his palm covers the lower half of your face and muffles your sounds.

“I said to be quiet,” he says gruffly, now speeding up the movements of his hips. They snap back and forth with a renewed sense of fervor, filling you up with his heavy cock with every thrust inside of you. You moan, although muffled, and you can tell that your stifled sounds were driving him crazy.

“You did a lot of talking tonight, babe, now let me say something--”

You drool under his hand, your mouth open and panting, as you try to focus on his words,

“I don’t get why you called me a loser when you’re my coach.. my loss is your loss- shit!”

The tip of his cock hits your cervix as you clench around him, causing him to briefly lose his train of thought. He finds it quicker than you thought he would, though.

“So that means that you’re a loser too, aren’t you?” he spits out with gritted teeth, leaning down close to your face and looking deep into your eyes. You compulsively whimper and buck your hips up to meet his.

“Use your words, baby,” he mocks you from earlier, anger laced potently in his command.

He knows that you can’t talk coherently right now, and it’s not his hand that’s stopping you. He knows damn well that if he removed his hand from your mouth, you’d still be a slurring mess of moans and pleas for more beneath him. His cock was fucking you so well, and it was hitting all of the right places at all of the right times. You weren’t sure you were going to last much longer, and neither was he to be honest..

Before, he was in the mindset of a defeated, washed-up tennis champ, but now he was taking on the same persona that he did when he was in his prime. When he won back-to-back matches. He was a fucking beast.

“Mmmph-! Mm-!” your moans rolled around in your chest and were muffled by Art’s large palm as he continued to fuck mercilessly into you. You felt the cord in your gut being pulled taut.. ready to snap at any moment..

Suddenly, he pulls his hand from your mouth and groans, bringing it up to his mouth as he licks depravedly at your drool left behind on his skin. You whimper at the sight, and he follows it up with a similar vocalization before speaking down to you.

“You taste so good, baby, fuck fuck...” he pants, the movements of his hips becoming sloppier by the second.

he places his wet palm down across the center of your collarbones, and you groan lowly at the feeling, before you take his wrist and manually move his hand up to the base of your throat.

“please,” you whimpered.

and he readily obliged.

Art squeezes gently at the sides of your throat, stifling the blood flow to your brain and initiating the spread of a pleasant fuzziness throughout your body and head that made your impending orgasm feel that-much-more intense.

“you like that? you like when i choke you, baby..?” he moans, clearly enjoying the switch in dynamic as much as you were.

you nod immediately, trying to take in more oxygen as his fingers pressed deliberately against your pulse. then, he released you from his grasp like a lion drops a gazelle from its mouth before feasting upon it.

you take a huge, broken breath into your lungs before everything begins to feel like it’s getting too much .. everything feels too good right now..

“Honeyimgonna-mffphh!-imgonnacumpleaseohmygod” you couldn’t stop the slurry of nonsensical pleas and whines as you felt your orgasm getting ready to wash over you.

“I’m gonna give it to you so good.. i wanna fill you up.. you’d be nowhere without me, let’s face it.. if i didn’t win any matches we’d have no income.. so i’m not a goddamn loser.. i’m not.. i’m.. i..”

Art was becoming more and more incomprehensible the closer he got, and then he felt everything crash down around him once your orgasm started to rip through you and pulse around him.

“OH GOD! HOLY SH- OH FFFUCK! I’M CUMMING I’M CUMMING!” he shouts, unable to hold anything back as he fills you up again.

You feel the warmth and tingly pressure of his release spread throughout your cunt as you cum on his throbbing cock, your eyes rolling as your head tips back against the bed. You whimper and groan as you take in the feeling of your second orgasm of the night, and relish in the heat and aftermath of your partner’s third one.

After you both come down slightly from your highs, Art collapses in a sticky, sweaty mess on top of you as his chest heaves against yours. You close your eyes, smiling, as your hands move to rub lovingly at his lower back. As his head rests heavily in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent, he slowly pulls his hips back and you whimper as the feeling of emptiness starts to rush through you in the absence of his length.

You could feel his cum oozing down your pussy, and you laughed softly at the sudden realization of the reality of your situation.

“You know,” you huffed, still trying to catch your breath, “i think you just came inside of me again.”

he laughs.

“i don’t think i could have stopped that from happening..” he smirks, rubbing his soft but sensitive cockhead against the inner part of your right thigh.

“right, right.. all i’m saying is that you better not get me pregnant. you’re already a handful as it is.”

“You love it,” he whispers, picking up his head slightly to bite at your neck.

“Whatever you say, loser.”

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guys, this took so long to finally finish up and that’s on me lmaoo

writer’s block had me in a firm chokehold n i didn’t like it

i feel like i ended this fic a bit quickly, but i think that can mostly be chalked up to sleep deprivation.

anyways, hope this quenched ur mike faist thirst for the moment, but i have more ideas that i want to write about asap.. so there’s definitely some more hot stuff coming soon hehe

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