moonchild

rikiz's ᰔ

[vivawolftype]

viva, 20, she/her, entj

18+ blog. mdni.

all works is written by @vivawolftype / @vivatoxin . i do not give permission to translate my works. i do not use any sort of ai and do not support any use of ai.

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masterlist

⋆˚꩜｡ &TEAM (5)

⋆˚꩜｡ all ateez works (currently none pls jjongbear with me) can be found in this blog! @vivatoxin

[vivawolftype]

talk big, choke harder  .✦ ݁˖ hirota riki, wang yixiang

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

.☘︎ ݁˖ you're perfectly stuffed between Maki's throat and Nicholas's hunger.

maki x f!reader x nicholas | contains: explicit threesome, dom nicholas, teasing maki deep throat, p in v, breath play, dirty talk, consensual rough play

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The mattress yields beneath your knees with a whisper of cotton and compressed springs. Each forward shift drags a soft rustling through heavy silence.

Your heart thuds hard and wet against your ribs—thud-thud-thud—so loud you're certain Maki can taste the vibration thrumming in the back of his throat.

"Take what belongs to you," you murmur.

The challenge crosses the space between you. Refuses to retreat.

Maki's eyes flicker with amusement. That signature smirk tugs at his lips as he leans back slightly. "Are you offering… or demanding? Big difference there."

He lies spread at the top of the bed like a guillotine blade. Polished. Patient. Waiting for the neck to offer itself to the drop.

His shirt gapes open, sleeves slipping down slack arms to expose the taut stretch of his pectorals and the sharp, shadowed trough beneath his ribs—skin dipping in a dangerous trajectory toward his groin.

His sweats are shoved down. The band caught beneath the swell of his hipbones. Black fabric stark against the jutting flesh he holds in one loose, working fist.

The slide of his palm is audible—the squelch of suction breaking and reforming with each upward drag. Thumb swiping through gathering slick at the tip, spreading it until the head glistens like oil on water in the low light.

"Does it matter when I'm already on my knees?" you taunt softly, voice trembling with want even as you try to sound bold.

"You talk a big game for someone who's about to choke on cock."

The words arrive from behind you like thunder rolling across a dry plain. Nicholas's rough, gravelly timbre cuts through the room, low and dripping with dark promise.

Your stomach performs a sudden inversion. A gravity-defying flip that leaves you breathless and weightless.

The bravado in your throat dries up instantly.

Nicholas loves the way your body jolts at the sound. You hear the slow metallic rasp of his zipper—teeth separating tooth by tooth with a sound like grinding bone—followed by the soft rustle of fabric as he yanks his hoodie off and tosses it aside.

It lands on the floor with a muted thud. Strangely loud in the charged silence.

Maki's smirk deepens, eyes gleaming with amusement as he looks down at you. Pupils blown wide with anticipation. The tip of his cock already beading with evidence of his impatience.

"Suck him," Nicholas demands, voice sharp and commanding. Leaving no room for argument.

"Relax, man. She's down here already looking cute." Maki shoots Nicholas a playful look.

"Cute is nice," Nicholas murmurs, dragging his thick cock along your soaked folds, "but she looks fucking perfect stuffed full of cock."

"Maki… I thought you'd be just as greedy," you murmur, biting your lip as you glance up at Maki.

"Oh sweetheart," Maki coos, voice dripping with honey as he cups your jaw gently. "You really think I'm not dying to feel that pretty mouth?"

Nicholas spanks your ass sharply. "You hear that, baby? Maki's dying for your mouth. So stop talking and start sucking."

You lean forward. Lips brush the glistening tip in a soft, almost reverent kiss. The skin is fever-hot and velvet-smooth against your mouth. A bead of precum smears across your lower lip like liquid sin, and you taste him—salty-sweet. Addictive.

Your clit throbs in response.

Maki lets out a shaky exhale above you, watching you looking like sin made beautiful.

You part your lips.

Slowly circle your tongue around the swollen head, tracing every ridge, every sensitive edge with teasing strokes. You feel him twitch hard against your tongue, the thick vein on the underside pulsing as you lave over it again and again, coating him in warm, wet spit until he glistens obscenely.

"Look at you putting on a show with your tongue," Maki smirks. "Trying to make Nicholas jealous of how well you treat me while he's back there being mean?"

You open wider.

Sink down.

Taking more of Maki into the wet heat of your mouth.

"Oh, fuck—"

The stretch is delicious. Your lips drawn tight as bowstrings around his girth as you bob slowly, hollowing your cheeks with every upward drag. The room fills with filthy sounds—the slick glide of your tongue working him, the soft gagging when you push him deeper into your throat, the obscene wet noises of your mouth laboring.

You start to pull back up for air.

Nicholas strikes.

He drives forward without warning, burying his thick cock to the hilt inside you in one savage, merciless thrust. The sudden brutal stretch punches a sharp, muffled cry from your throat—the sound instantly swallowed, vibrating hard around Maki's length as Nicholas forces your head down at the exact same moment.

His large hand shoves firm against the back of your head, pushing you relentlessly forward until your nose is pressed flush against Maki's pelvis. Skin to skin.

Maki's cock slides straight into your throat. A sword sheathed completely, cutting off your air as Nicholas bottoms out deep in your pussy. Two invaders meeting through the thin wall of your body.

Your eyes fly wide.

The overwhelming double intrusion hits like a freight train. Your throat convulses violently around Maki, gagging wetly as tears instantly spring to your eyes, blurring your vision. Your pussy clenches hard around Nicholas's thick cock, fluttering and spasming from the sudden, too-full stretch, muscles gripping him like a fist.

Drool bursts from the corners of your stretched lips, spilling messily down your chin, dripping onto your chest in thick strands.

"Fuck— there we go," Nicholas taunts, voice smug. "One good thrust and she's got you all the way down her throat. You're welcome for speeding her up, man."

"You're such— an asshole," Maki laughs breathlessly, the sound breaking into a moan. "But fuck, I'm not complaining."

"Asshole, huh?" Nicholas smirks, thrusting sharply once to make you jolt. "Tell me, baby— how's—ah… my cock feeling buried all the way inside you right now?"

The words make it out to your tongue and no further.

Maki's hand tightens in your hair. Firm. Unrelenting. Keeping your head pinned down flush against his pelvis. His cock stays buried to the hilt in your throat, throbbing hot and heavy, completely cutting off your air.

You can't pull back even an inch.

All you manage is a wet, garbled moan that vibrates helplessly around his length as tears spill freely down your cheeks.

Nicholas doesn't wait for an answer.

He starts thrusting again in deep, punishing strokes that rock you forward onto Maki's cock with every snap of his hips.

You're completely trapped between them.

Your mind is pure static—can't breathe, too full, he's so deep, they're both so deep, I'm going to break—while your body betrays you completely. Your throat convulses wildly around Maki, and your pussy clenches greedily around Nicholas with every punishing thrust, slick dripping down your thighs.

"Can't answer me, princess?" he mocks, voice rough with pleasure. "That's okay. Your body's honest enough."

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masterlist

debrief time: apologies. if this chapter seems low in quality, please understand the author was navigating a crisis. the author was forced to write this under hostile working conditions (weno posted on instagram). get me out of horny jail or put me in solitary confinement atp.

✉ @andrealvsmakii @persephonesportal @jjjumizooomiz

[vivawolftype]

cunt drunk idiot .✦ ݁˖ nakakita yuma 

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.☘︎ ݁˖ he murmurs sweet filth while his fingers and mouth work you open

yuma (&team) x f!reader | 1.1k | 18+, mdni | contains: established relationship, smug service top Yuma, fingering, oral, teasing, dirty talk, needy whiny Yuma, lots of wet sounds, body worship

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

"You're soaked," Yuma says, as if he's commenting on the weather.

The mattress surrenders beneath his weight, a slow exhalation of springs that seems to prophesy the evening's trajectory, and you immediately regret having him over because you know exactly what that look means.

Yuma’s gaze carries something that says he is already three moves ahead in a game you hadn’t agreed to play, descending your body with the migratory certainty of a bird returning to warm climates.

His palms slide along your thighs like he owns the property, a man possessed of one useful skill and absolutely no shame about invoicing for it.

The sheer gall of it, the casual occupancy… you want to scream.

“Let me take care of you,” he says, already dragging you to the mattress edge by your hips, handling you like furniture. “That’s what I’m here for. Isn’t it?”

He looks up from between your legs with that expression—the smug bastard face that suggests he thinks he is doing charity work and you should be writing thank-you notes. You should close your thighs, make him work for it, make him beg. But your body has already opened, slick and traitorous, a convenience store with broken locks.

He thinks that look is smugness. He thinks he's counting coup, checking boxes, doing the bare minimum with maximum fanfare. He's half-right—he is performing. But not for your gratitude. He's performing because if he stops being theatrical for even one second, you'll hear his heartbeat in his throat. You'll see how his hands want to shake.

If he looks like he owns this moment, maybe you won't notice how utterly ruined he is for you.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" you manage, but the words emerge fractured, breaking apart on the last syllable because his breath is warm against your inner thigh, a ticklish heat that makes your hips jerk in a spasm you can't suppress.

"I'm pathetic, I know," he murmurs, and the vibration travels through your flesh like ripples across still water, reaching the center where you are already beginning to ache. 

The laugh that escapes you is unplanned, sharp as broken glass, slightly unhinged. "You know?" You try to glare down at him, but he is kissing higher now, ascending toward your core, and your vision is fragmenting. "Ah— Finally, some self-awareness."

He arrives at the apex of your thighs and presses his mouth against the cotton barrier, the fabric dampening instantly beneath his lips. 

The underwear is doing his work for him, soaking up everything you're trying to hide. You're still pretending to be demure, still acting like this is something happening to you rather than something you're drowning him in. The only question left is how long he makes you wait before he collects.

It’s somehow more obscene than nudity, this translation of flesh through fiber, the way he mouths you through the cloth. You feel the words form against your most sensitive skin: "Fuck, I can smell you. Open wider."

Your legs spread before you can stop them, muscles stretching, hips tilting up in offering. You watch him inhale, eyes closed, face slack with hunger, and the sight is ridiculous except your underwear is soaked through, clinging to your lips, doing nothing to hide the slick mess you have made.

Fuck it. You’re past pretending.

You hook your fingers in the waistband and pull the fabric aside yourself, exposing everything to the cool air and his stupid, pretty face. "Since you can't wait."

Yuma whines—actually whines, pathetic and grateful—and the sound makes your arousal and secondhand embarrassment fistfight in your chest. The cotton falls away and suddenly he’s staring at god—or whatever deity decided to make women look like this, open and glistening and furious about it. 

“Here,” you say, like you’re tossing him scraps. Like this isn’t the whole feast.

Then his finger is pressing against you, breaching your entrance with a slick resistance that gives way like silk tearing. The slide is mist and masonry, a single digit parting your slick folds with a sound that belongs in kitchens, in shame, in the wettest parts of night.

You want to become steam, to rise from your skin and condense against the ceiling, anything but remain here in this mortifying liquidity, this undeniable proof that you have been waiting for exactly this.

"Fuck," he says, looking up with dark delighted eyes. "I mean I wouldn't mind begging." His finger curls, rough pad dragging against your front wall with unerring accuracy. "But you saved me the humiliation." A second finger pushes in, stretching you with a burn that makes your spine try to leave your body. "So how's this for thank you?"

The fullness is devastating, a weight and presence that hits your most sensitive spot like a debt being collected, principal plus interest coming due all at once.

Then he begins to move. Not fast, not yet. But with the steady rhythm of tides reversing, of moons pulling oceans back and forth across the same hungry shore. Each withdrawal is a loss, each return a claiming. You are arching into it, meeting his thrusts, your body making payments in gasps and tremors, interest accruing with every slick slide of his fingers pressing that exact spot like he is reading the ledger of your nerves and finding every entry marked due.

Your head thumps back against the headboard with a sound you can't control. "Holy shit… keep going— so good—"

Your brain is screaming at you to shut up, to stop sounding so desperate, but your mouth has disconnected from the shame center entirely. You are gripping the sheets like you are falling from a great height, which you are, coming apart at the seams while he works you with the focus of a craftsman assembling something precious.

He keeps the rhythm steady because if he goes fast, if he gives you what you're begging for with every roll of your hips, you'll come and it'll be over. And he's not ready for this to be over. The wet sounds are loud, rhythmic, the slick friction of his fingers in your soaked cunt filling the room.

You might as well be making a puddle on the sheets. This is a crime scene.

"Shh." He leans forward, his breath a warm current against your trembling thigh, fingers still crooking in that rhythm that promises annihilation. "Relax, baby." Another devastating curl, his touch excavating something buried deep in your core. "I love you. Can you feel how much?"

Yes. Fucking yes and you feel it like a fever, an infection, something catching.

And you realise it because you’re already riding his face, hips rolling in circles, grinding down on his tongue with an orgasm already cresting like a freight train with no brakes.

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masterlist

✉ @andrealvsmakii @persephonesportal @jjjumizooomiz

[vivawolftype]

i'm logging off. i'm going to horny jail. i'm taking myself out.

[vivawolftype]

omg im like new but can you plss give me tips on writing smut i wanna start somewhere but idk

U THINK I CAN TEACH YOU ANYTHING?? STOP IT RN I’M STILL A BABY WRITER 😭

i can’t even read my own fics back without dying what makes you think i know what i’m doing lmao but anyways here's the tutorial below

step 1 be super horny and overly freaked out

step 2 realize you're writing at 3am and the horniness has passed but now you're committed

step 3 open wordhippo.com and search "thrust" - you will need alternatives

step 4 someone MUST "crash their lips" against someone else's or it's not legally smut

step 5 use the phrase "he groaned" like 89 times. this is non-negotiable

step 6 make sure someone sees stars, loses their mind, or forgets their own name. bonus points for all three

step 7 end with them cuddling and one person making a dumb joke while the other pretends to be annoyed

anyways sorry i should be serious since you asked so nicely...

the most basic rule i actually follow is for every single physical action, ask yourself "what does this do to them right now, emotionally and physically?”

then alternate between internal sensation (what the narrator feeling) and external observation (what the other person seeing)

rhythm hack: use short, fractured sentences when it’s intense and feral. and use longer, flowing, dripping sentences during the slow burn and teasing.

(tbh i don’t even follow this perfectly every time 😭)

also!!! read a ton of cliterature. like, a ridiculous amount. different languages if you can, different genres too (yaoi, fairy smut, dark romance, whatever). the more you read, the more you build a huge bank of phrases, rhythms, and ways to describe heat in your head. it’s lowkey the best cheat code

happy writing and my dms are always open for thirst questions and thirst traps 💋

[vivawolftype]

good girls keep their eyes open .✦ ݁˖ wang yixiang

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

pairing: nicholas(&team) x f!reader

rating: nsfw, 18+ (minors dni)

wc: 450+ (my first drabble(?)!)

synopsis: Getting fucked deliciously by Nicholas your head falls back and your eyes roll, except he wasn't having any of it.

contains : explicit smut, pwp, reader-insert, p in v, dom nicholas, dirty talk, eye contact kink, dumbification(?), slight degradation, slight size kink, teasing, no use of y/n | lmk if i missed any!

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Nicholas is filling you up so fucking good. 

Each ridge, each vessel-branched contour of him presses its signature into your inner walls like frost etching window glass—intricate, a language your body is only now learning to decipher through pure sensation. 

The drag is heavy, viscous, resistance giving way with a slick friction that sounds obscene in the quiet room. He pushes until there's nowhere left to go, until you're packed full and throbbing, your muscles fluttering along his length in staccato spasms, gripping and releasing with a mindless, hungry rhythm. 

Your chin snaps back, throat exposed, a reflex of avoidance. The ceiling is just texture, popcorn and shadow, but Nicholas's gaze would be excavation—he'd see the fracture lines spreading, the way you're coming apart like old cloth tearing along worn seams, thread by thread. Your eyes flutter shut, descending toward the generous darkness behind them. 

Jesus Christ, your body’s acting like it’s in mortal danger and heaven at the same time. Pick a fucking struggle.

"Look at me when I fuck you."

Nicholas says it like an order, like something owed, the words rough, scraped from his throat even as his hips piston forward with a violence that knocks the air from your chest. The impact carries, a physical theft of oxygen, your lungs emptying in a sharp gasp that sounds almost wounded.

You try to obey—you really do—but when he tilts his hips and pushes deeper, hitting the back of your throat from the inside, your spine turns to liquid. Your skull thuds against the pillow and his command dissolves somewhere in the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, packing you full. 

It’s a flooding. Your mind has gone underwater. 

"I said look at me,” he warns.

When you blink your eyes open, Nicholas is there—immediate, occupying the entire frame of your vision like a moon eclipsing the sun. 

His eyes are dark, depthless, holding that particular concentration of a performer who knows exactly where the spotlight falls. He waits, unblinking, and his stare holds you pinned. 

Butterfly to board. Specimen to glass. 

You cave.

Your gaze drifts downward, drawn by its own treacherous weight to the place where your bodies converge. You look—compelled by weakness, by curiosity, by something darker—to witness the moment of entry, the visual poetry of him being consumed by your body. 

"You think you can handle this cock but not my eyes?" nicholas pulls out, slow and torturous, then buries himself to the hilt in one thrusts. A sound breaks from you—fractured, desperate, beyond your control—and the sound seems to trigger something in him as you feel him swelling thicker, pressing against spots that make your vision spark. 

"Eyes on me or I pull out. The choice is yours. Got it?"

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hope you enjoyed it 💋 reblogs = my fuel, thank you in advance!

masterlist

debrief time:  yall i crashed out so bad over weverse con love song nicholas i wrote this in no longer than 15 minutes. sorry if this is unhinged nonsense lmao i was running on 2 hours sleep and pure horniness NANNEUN OTTOKHAE I’M NOT BUILT FOR THIS LIFE

tag list: @andrealvsmakii @persephonesportal @jjjumizooomiz | definitely accepting applications ♡ reply “add me” or send a carrier pigeon!

[fuuteam]

Perv!Taki headcannons

Content: NSFW, MDNI, sub!taki, dom!reader, taki x reader, creepy behavior, panty stealing, exhibition (?), just general warning cause he is a pervert

Perv!Taki Who you thought was the perfect roommate candidate. He was just so kind and shy, surely he wouldn't cause any problems!

Perv!Taki Who falls in love the moment he meets you at the cafe you work at to ‘interview’ to see if you two would be a good fit.

Perv!Taki Who jerks off the second he gets home hoping you noticed the tent in his pants while he was meeting you. Eyes rolling to the back of his head imagining his possible roomie

Perv!Taki Who answers your call back when you let him know a good time for him to start moving in his hand is already reaching under his waistband. The poor guy is just too excited :(

Perv!Taki Who is the perfect roommate leaving the apartment spotless! You never have to worry about cleaning your shared areas because Taki’s got you covered!

Perv!Taki Who confuses you when he offers to do your laundry also because “Its faster if we just mix the loads”

Perv!Taki Who pretends to not know where your underwear is going he always says he never saw them and “helps” you look for them in your room.

Perv!Taki Who keeps a stash of your “vanishing” panties in a box under his bed, he's gotta keep them safe somehow, rubbing the tip of his cock against the lace every night cause it feels too good. 

Perv!Taki Who starts "accidently" leaving his door cracked at night, causing you to hear all the pretty noises he makes before bed.

Perv!Taki Who wants you to catch him so bad, arching his back into the mattress, staring at the crack in the door begging for your head to poke through.

Perv!Taki Who loves watching how shy you get when you see him the next morning. Proud of knowing he has some kind of effect on you.

Perv!Taki Who starts following you around the apartment like a lost puppy, blaming his boredom on why he is following you.

Perv!Taki Who always seems to need to brush past you to get something, always being sure to drag his arm along your waist, maybe even pressing his hips against it if hes feeling risky/bold.

Perv!Taki Who freezes when he walks past your room hearing soft whines on the other side. Were you thinking about him? His hand rubbing his cock over his sweatpants listening to you touch yourself through the door. 

Perv!Taki Who starts making you breakfast every morning just so he has another reason to sit and eat with you.

Perv!Taki Who will brush your ankle under the table with his foot “accidently” so he can feel closer to you.

Perv!Taki Who notices you looking at him differently from before, something darker.

Perv!Taki Who is overjoyed when he finally sees you pushing his door open one night while he is being loud. 

Perv!Taki Who is even shocked when you grab him by the neck angrily, him whining in the process.

Perv!Taki Who now know you are sick of his shit when you wrap your hand around his cock, not even pretending to be nice about it, annoyance on your face as he gets closer and closer.

Perv!Taki When he finishes in your hand for the first time makes him see stars.

Perv!Taki Who whines when you push him back down into the mattress and leave him there alone.

Perv!Taki Who has become your personal stress reliever after that often finding yourself bouncing on his cock in his room with your hands in his hair tugging the strands roughly. 

Perv!Taki Who isn't even embarrassed when you finally find his stash of your panties in his room, the secret was gonna come out sooner or later, now it just depended on what you were gonna do about it.

Perv!Taki Who thinks he's in love when you stuff one of the pairs in his mouth his eyes rolling from that action alone while laying him back down.

Perv!Taki Who is definitely in love after you start teasing him using so many mean words to degrade him, he deserves it after being so invasive to you.

Perv!Taki Who has tears welling in his eyes when you deny him from finishing. He thinks he's going to pass out the dizzying sensation of holding his release.

Perv!Taki Who groans like crazy when you take the panties out his mouth and kiss him. 

Perv!Taki Who sobs out thank yous when you finally let him cum, pretty tears falling down him face, but don't worry you are there to wipe them away.

Perv!Taki Who dick still twitches when you call him a “Good boy”

a/n: i couldnt stop thinking about taki idk how this got here

[vivawolftype]

and that’s the way i like it cuz i’m equally just as perverted 😌 taki baby u and i both are going to hell hand in hand

[vivawolftype]

coffee with a side of cock .✦ ݁˖ hirota riki

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

pairing: maki(&team) x f!reader rating: 18+ (minors dni) wc: 1.5k+

synopsis: Coffee was the plan. Getting bent over and fucked senseless by Maki wasn’t. But when he’s whispering dirty praises in your ear and pressing you into the counter, you’re not exactly complaining.

contains : explicit sexual content, rough sex, kitchen sex, surprise sex, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, spanking, dirty talk, praise kink, possessive behavior, aftercare, come shot, light dom/sub, consensual but not consensual, pwp, rough then gentle | lmk if i missed any!

cross posted on AO3

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The coffee maker gurgles its last drop into the pot and you reach for your mug, except your hand never gets there because his mouth finds the back of your neck first, wet and open, and you jolt hard enough to slosh cold coffee over the rim.

Maki presses the full length of his torso against you, his sharp jawline catching against your temple when he ducks his head.

"I walked past and couldn't not touch you," he says, mouth at your ear.

There's pressure first, then the realization of what that pressure means—him, hard, seeking friction against you—and he's moving so slowly like he’s waiting for water to boil, testing how long you can stand there pretending this isn’t happening. 

He shifts, just slightly, and you feel the drag of fabric, the catch of zipper teeth, the way he fits against you like a key. You should find it annoying, probably, the way he assumes your body is just available for this, but instead your stomach drops and your underwear is suddenly too much fabric, too little relief, your body answering before your pride can object. 

"You're too available like this," he murmurs, not quite complaining, his fingers dimpling your skin as he pulls you flush against the hard line of him, "bent over, not paying attention. What was I supposed to do?" He laughs, low, against your neck. "I don't have that much self-control."

The denim does nothing to disguise his shape—thick, heavy, pulsing with heat you can feel through both your clothes. He rocks forward, just barely, and you feel him settle into the cleft of your ass, throbbing insistently with each tiny movement.

It should be infuriating, this presumption, this unspoken claim he's staking with his body. But your breath is coming shorter now, and your hips are moving of their own accord, pressing back into that rigid heat, seeking more contact, more friction, more of the filthy promise he's making without words.

He takes his time hooking your waistband, letting you feel the threat of exposure, the promise of it. Then he drags everything down. Shorts. Panties. Whatever barriers you thought you had. Cool air hits overheated flesh and you flinch, vulnerable, bare in a way that has nothing to do with skin.

But he's already moving, his hand insinuating itself between your thighs, spreading you open with casual entitlement. Two fingers slide through your folds and you feel him feel you—the slickness, the heat, the undeniable evidence of your arousal—and his groan against your ear tells you he's just as affected by your wetness as you are ashamed of it.

"Fuck, baby," he exhales against your neck, the words warm and pleased and filthy against your pulse. His fingers slide deeper, curl just so, and your head falls forward with a sound you can't swallow—a moan that escapes broken and desperate. "Look how wet you are.” You can feel his satisfaction in every line of his body. "Tell me why I should wait.”

He opens you like a stubborn jar lid—twist and pull, twist and pull—each scissoring motion sending starbursts up your spinal column. The slick friction sounds almost tropical, heavy as ripe fruit splitting. Somewhere distant, your favorite mug shatters against tile, ceramic shrapnel you won't discover until later, but right now your universe has narrowed to the counter's edge biting into your hipbones and the devastating fullness of his fingers crooking just so, just there, while your body responds with its own crude intelligence—hips rolling in figure-eights, chasing the drag of his calluses, the promise of deeper invasion.

"Fuck, you're sloppy. Look how you're trying to ride my hand. Can't even wait to be fucked properly." His free hand comes down sharp on your ass, the crack echoing. "Be. Still. Feel me inside you. Feel how full you are. And wait. Wait until I decide you've been patient enough to deserve more.”

Your body is making a sound it shouldn't—something between a sigh and a surrender, audible in the wet friction of him sliding deeper. You're yielding with an enthusiasm that feels almost visible, almost colored, like the deep burgundy of wine staining linen. The humiliation sits warm behind your pubic bone, indistinguishable from the pulse that's building there, both sensations thick and rhythmic and completely beyond your control. You're not just taking him; you're absorbing him, cells dilating, welcoming the intrusion like sunlight.

Then the emptiness hits, his fingers gone and your body clutching at nothing. You hear metal teeth separating behind you, and then his palm between your shoulder blades pushing you flatter. 

He spreads your footing wider, your pelvis tilting greedy, and the swollen crown of him—rigid and smoldering—presses where you're soaked and open.

"Arch that back," he commands. "Want to see every fucking centimetres disappear. Want to watch your cunt struggle to make room, watch you drip around me before I'm even halfway inside.”

Then he's entering you in one relentless advance that has you gasping as you feel every vein, every ridge, the detail of his cock taking residence.

You feel the momentum transferring through your skeleton, each impact traveling up your spine, rattling your teeth, making your vision stutter. He sets a pace immediately, hips snapping against your ass, each thrust driving you forward until his hand catches you, pins you, holds you in place for his use.

"God, you're trouble," he breathes, "always here. Always ready. I come looking for coffee and somehow end up buried in you."

The kitchen fills with the sound of skin meeting skin. His hands lock around your hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows above your thighs, pulling you back onto him with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. 

"Maki—please—slow," you gasp out, words fragmenting because he's hitting a depth that has you trembling, oversensitive, your body sparking like a live wire.

He leans in, chest crushing your back. His strokes get heavier, more demanding. "I can feel how swollen you are, sweetheart,” he says, almost apologetic, completely unmoved. "But I need to come. So you'll take it until I'm done.”

The counter becomes a third participant, unyielding, taking your weight as he takes your body, the three of you locked in this obscene collaboration. You feel your abdominal muscles contracting involuntarily, your pelvic floor learning his rhythm, pulsing around him with a cadence that matches his strokes.

You're aware of your hair sticking to your neck, your mouth open and gasping, the sounds coming from you reduced to something pre-verbal that communicates only more through pitch and breathlessness alone.

"Should I let you come?" he asks, breath hot against your neck, thrusts never slowing. "I'm not convinced you've earned it yet."

Your skin ceases to be boundary—becomes instead a field of sensation, each nerve ending firing independently, a constellation of tension and release.

He doesn't stop. He fucks you through your orgasm, through the moment your knees unlock and your spine tries to bow, your interior muscles fluttering around him in patterns that make him groan, that make him snap his hips harder, deeper, using your pleasure as lubrication, as invitation, as means to his own end. The sound you press into the countertop is his name, yes, but fractured, syllables broken by gasps, by the continued percussion of his thrusts.

He withdraws just as he breaks, hand guiding, and you feel the stripes—marking your lumbar, your hip, your thigh. He drags his fingers through it, leisurely, painting you with what he couldn't hold back.

Silence settles, thick and humid, broken only by the exchange of breath. Then his hand comes down hard on your ass, a sharp slap that stings, making you flinch and gasp.

"You took that so well," he says, voice still rough. He runs his palm over the red mark, squeezing once, possessive.

But then he's reaching for a dish towel, folding it warm and damp from the sink, and you feel him cleaning his mess from your skin slowly, wiping away the evidence with gentle strokes that make you shiver. 

Only when you're clean does he pull your shorts up, tying the drawstring with a little bow, his fingers lingering to rub warmth back into your thighs. 

"I'll make you a new cup of coffee," he says, and he does, right there, moving around you in the small kitchen without leaving your side.

He opens cabinets, fills the kettle, but keeps touching you—hand on your knee, fingers brushing your ankle, palm flat against your back. When he presses the warm mug into your hands, he wraps his own around yours, holding them steady while you drink, watching you with this satisfied, happy gaze. He'd added cinnamon, exactly how you like it, and the sweetness hits your tongue like an apology for the roughness.

"Better?" 

You nod. 

He hums, satisfied. "Say 'thank you, Maki, for the excellent orgasm.' No? Too shy now?" 

"See if you can talk after I do that to yo—" 

He catches your threat in his mouth, kissing you slow and deep, pulling back with a satisfied smack. "I'll take that as a thank you. Very creative delivery. A-plus for interpretation.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

masterlist

debrief time:  YALL… i can’t believe i actually posted this 😭 ITS MY DEBUT!!!! truth is, i don’t know how to write anything properly at all since english is not my mother tongue. but i love learning and writing and it’s also my silly little way of dealing with my &team parasocialism haha. i’ve actually filled so many pages in my album photobooks with these stories (handwritten and everything). felt brave enough to share one today. many more to come if i don’t chicken out!

hope you enjoyed it 💋 reblogs = my fuel, thank you in advance!

tag list: empty for now but definitely accepting applications ♡ reply “add me” or send a carrier pigeon

[vivawolftype]

500 LIKES???

YALL ARE P E R V E R T S (i finally found my people)

[vivawolftype]

Hi there!! I just found your blog and your writing is gorgeous (,; ⩌ ;,) It is so evocative and perfectly detailed and you write dialogue so naturally.

I look forward to your next post ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

oh this is so unfair because now i'm staring at this message with the dumbest smile on my face 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

i fear i'm still in the laboratory phase of writing where i'm mixing random ingredients together and hoping the final product resembles a coherent style. every time i post i'm convinced everyone will discover i'm just making things up as i go. hearing feedback like this makes me want to open my document and keep writing. i'm so glad you enjoyed it anon 💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗

[vivawolftype]

fuck you goodbye .✦ ݁˖ shigeta harua

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

pairing: idol!harua(&team) x f!reader

rating: nsfw, 18+ (minors dni)

wc: 1.9k+

synopsis: Harua’s dramatic ass is refusing to go on tour unless you give him something to really miss. So he does what any reasonable idol would do: climbs on top of you fully dressed, strips you both in record time, and spends every second of your last thirty minutes giving you the kind of goodbye sex that’ll haunt you (and him) for the entire tour.

contains : explicit (and detailed) sexual content, fluff and smut. established relationship, idol x reader, quickie, oral sex (f receiving), cunnilingus, fingering (f receiving), p in v, creampie, breeding kink (light), emotional sex, separation anxiety, harua is a dramatic little shit (affectionate), no use of y/n, porn with feelings | lmk if i missed any!

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

"If I don't get up, they can't make me leave." Harua is lying on top of you in bed, fully dressed for travel.

His airport outfit is crisp and wrong against the sheets, his leather jacket gone but his jeans still on, his t-shirt still tucked in like he is ready to walk out the door. Instead he has thrown himself over you, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, pressing down with his full weight like he can fuse the two of you together through sheer force of will and make himself impossible to extract.

"They'll just carry you out," you say. "I've seen your manager. He's scary."

"What if I just... don't get on the plane?" he asks. "They can't tour without me. I'm essential."

"You are essential," you agree. "To them. To me. That's why you have to go."

"But I'm going to perform terribly," he protests. "I'll be thinking of you the whole time. The fans will know. They'll boo me off stage."

You giggle. "Oh please."

"This is a tragedy!" Harua declares. "Shakespeare could write about this. 'Harua, who loved too much, taken away by evil company who tours too much.'"

You laugh now. "You're so dramatic."

"I miss you already," he murmurs. "I need to be closer. Closer than this. Why are there clothes between us?"

"I'm literally underneath you," you point out. "Being crushed by your ribcage. Physically impossible to miss me."

He can feel your heartbeat through his own shirt, through yours, through the cotton that's suddenly offensive. He finds the hem of your t-shirt with his fingers—it's riding up, just slightly, from the friction of him lying on you. He traces the exposed strip of skin at your waist. It's cooler there. Goosebumps rise under his thumb.

"Why are there clothes," he says again, but what he means is why is there anything. He wants to unzip his own skin and crawl inside. He wants to be the air in your lungs, the pulse in your throat. He wants to feel the way your artery jumps when he says "miss you", like the word itself is a touch, like language has weight and he's dropping it on your neck.

"Your skin is warm," Harua whispers, his lips brushing the curve of your shoulder. "Can I be under it?"

"That's not medically possible," you say, and your voice does that thing where it sounds casual but your heart is doing a drum solo against his chest, thud-thud-thud, traitor, traitor.

Harua's mouth twitches. He knows. He always knows when you're deflecting with vocabulary, using syllables like sandbags against the flood. But his thumb is still tracing figure-eights on your hip, and your body is voting against your better judgment, your spine already curving to give him better access.

"Then just... under your shirt."

The pleading does something to you, unclenching something in your chest that you didn't know was fist-tight. You could keep teasing. You could quote anatomy textbooks or make a joke about needing a scalpel. But his eyes are so dark, and his fingers are hooking in the hem with such deliberate care, like he's asking the fabric for permission too.

He ducks under before you can speak, the cotton lifting, ballooning, then settling over him like a shelter he's built to hide inside. You feel the drag of his stubble first, rough against your navel, then the heat of his open mouth pressing there, breathing you in like he's trying to steal your oxygen. 

"I need to memorize how you feel," he whispers, the word half-swallowed by your skin.  "Every inch. With my hands. And mouth."

He pushes the fabric clear to your chin, baring you to the daylight, and then his lips are there—sealing, warm, drawing you in with a hunger that makes you gasp. He sucks with his whole mouth, tongue pressing flat then flicking, while his palm spans your other breast, anchoring you to the mattress with the weight of his attention. The dual sensation—wet heat and rough palm—sends gravity pooling low in your spine, pulling a moan from your throat. 

"Make it hard for me to leave," he breathes, shifting to lavish attention on your other breast, teeth testing just enough to sting. "Make me want to stay." He drags his mouth lower, planting open kisses down the center of your chest. You feel him smile against your sternum when your fingers tangle in his hair. "Make me late for the airport," he whispers, the words vibrating against your heartbeat.

"Harua..." Your voice comes out broken, wrecked already, and he hasn't even—

"We have thirty minutes left. That's enough for three times." He kisses your jaw, your throat, grinding his hips against yours so you can feel exactly how much he means it. "Four," he amends, "if we're quick."

You smile, a little wicked, cupping his face as you kiss him deeply. "Thirty minutes is enough for one really good time," you murmur, pressing yourself tighter against his obvious hardness.

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest. “Yeah… I like that.”

You see his hands are actually shaking, trembling with need, as he untucks his shirt. He drags it over his head in one rough motion, revealing his dancer's build, every ridge of muscle, every frantic rise and fall of his chest.

He abandons his own clothes to get to yours. Palms sliding up your thighs, hooking fingers in your waistband and dragging everything down. Your panties go with them. Then your shirt is tossed aside.

The air hits you first, cool and indifferent. 

Then his eyes.

You are not someone who gets naked gracefully. You have a narrative about your body—softness in the wrong places, angles that catch light unflatteringly, the thousand tiny betrayals of flesh. But his fingers are trembling as he drags your shirt free, and when he freezes, you want to cover yourself, cross your arms, build the wall back brick by brick.

But he doesn't look disappointed.

He looks undone.

You are open, naked, and he charts you like territory he's losing. His fingers drag slow down your abdomen, counting your ribs like beads on a rosary, pressing into the softness where your legs meet your body. His breath comes jagged, too loud in the quiet room.

His shirt comes off and your brain shorts out—dancer's build, yes, but frantic, the muscle not posed but alive, chest heaving like he's running a marathon. You want to bite the ridge of his hip. You want to leave marks. The want is red, loud, drowning out thought.

He scrambles to the edge, stripping socks, wrestling his belt. "Stupid, why won't you—" He curses softly, metal catching. "I'm nervous," he admits, laughing breathlessly, darkly. "I'm actually nervous. I've seen you naked a hundred times and I'm nervous."

He stands. Lets his pants fall. Kicks them aside and climbs onto the bed—naked but for the watch, the leather band still fastened, the only proof he was ever dressed. He settles between your thighs, buries his face in your stomach, breathing you in like he's trying to get drunk on it.

"Perfect," he murmurs, the word vibrating against you. "You're perfect." 

He hasn't even tasted you yet when he says it.

He drags his tongue up in one long, flat stroke as he gathers your arousal. The noise he makes is ravenous, desperate, rumbling against your flesh like he might die without more.

"I'm gonna make you feel so good," he promises, breath hot and damp.

Then his lips close around your clit, sucking you between them with gentle pressure before his tongue starts fluttering rapid, relentless flicks. Your hips buck off the bed, but he is ready. His forearm pins across your pelvis, heavy and immovable, holding you still while he works you with his mouth.

"Damn," he breathes against you, the vibration making you whimper. "So sensitive today? Is this because I'm leaving?" His tongue circles lazily, teasing. "You gonna miss this tongue?"

You can't answer—can only gasp as he slips two fingers inside you, curling them immediately, pressing against that spot.

"Fuck, Harua—"

He looks up at you from between your thighs, chin shining with your arousal, eyes blown wide. "This is what I'm gonna think about," he says. "Every day. Every night. This right here."

His fingers work you in steady rhythm while his mouth returns to your clit, refusing to stop even when the pleasure borders on too much. He licks you through the aftershocks until you are whimpering and pushing at his shoulders.

He finally pulls back, dragging his mouth across your inner thigh. "Ready for me now?" he asks, crawling up your body, hard and heavy against your hip. "Ready for more?”

Harua crawls up your body immediately, mouth finding yours in a messy kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He doesn't break the kiss—mouths still tangled, breathing shared—while he notches himself against you, the blunt head of him burning, demanding entry. Then he thrusts deep in one unbroken stroke—no lingering, no delay—just the raw ache to be hilted where you're tight and welcoming and completely his.

"Goddamn," he gasps against your mouth.

His arms slide fully under your back, hands gripping your shoulders from behind, using the leverage to pull you down onto him even as he pushes up.

"You're blushing," he pants, forehead pressed to yours, eyes open. "All the way down your chest. Cute."

His breath comes faster, matching yours, sharing the air between you as he sets a deep, grinding rhythm.

"Three weeks without this," he groans, knees spreading wider, shifting the angle so he hits that spot inside with every thrust. "Without you. What am I supposed to do?"

One hand detaches from your shoulder to touch your face, your throat, then your breast—fingers pinching your nipple before sliding back to grip your hip.

"Fucking hell, I'm not going to last," he admits, the rhythm stuttering, losing its finesse as his hips snap harder. "I wanted to make this slow but you're—" He groans, long and broken, burying himself to the hilt. "—you're too good. Too fucking good."

He comes first, unable to hold back, burying himself deep and pulsing inside you with a cry that breaks against your neck, your name tangled up in the sound. He stays there, twitching and oversensitive, but before he is even fully soft he is moving again—thumb replacing his thrusts on your clit, circling with desperate precision. "Don't you dare leave me here alone. Come with me. Come on me."

You come apart around him, the waves rolling through you. You feel them starting where he’s pressed inside you, radiating outward like he’s struck a tuning fork at your center. Your spine arches off the bed, your fingers find his shoulders and dig in, anchoring yourself to something solid as the rest of you dissolves.

He doesn't look away. Even through your blurred vision, you feel his eyes—fixed, hungry, devouring your unraveling. His thumb keeps its rhythm, merciless, prolonging the shudder until you're gasping, oversensitive, begging without words for him to stop and never stop.

Then his hand shifts to cradle your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone with a tenderness that hurts worse than the pleasure. The kisses that follow are lazy, scattered, worshipful. Each one a stitch binding you back together.

"I love you."

The words land soft in your hair, and your chest does this traitorous little flutter thing—oh, we're doing emotions now? Great timing—but you can already hear the imaginary honk of his manager's van, so you shelf the feelings for later, next to the laundry you also need to do.

"Love you,” you say, already scanning for his socks. “Hate this. Please put your airport face back on."

"My hair's a disaster," he says, patting it down uselessly. "I look like I got electrocuted. Worth it, but still. The airport face is going to be slightly humiliating."

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

hope you enjoyed it 💋 reblogs = my fuel, thank you in advance!

masterlist

debrief time:  HARUA CHILL BRO IM EASY lord this man is too fine for my weak heart. wrote this entire fic being super self-indulgent and i fear i am down astronomically bad. harua i’m begging you just one chance i promise i’ll be so good… anyways as always, no beta we die like my proofreading skills. lmk if i made any mistakes or typos!

tag list: @andrealvsmakii @persephonesportal | definitely accepting applications ♡ reply “add me” or send a carrier pigeon!

[hnjowlf]

A COUPLE MINUTES

PAIRING: jongho x reader

CONTAINS: pure fluff

SUMMARY: jongho has baby fever after seeing you with your niece

AUTHOR’S NOTES: i've been a busy woman all the time . . so here's a little treat for you ! it's short but i thought it's sweet :-) also this is literally the definition of " i've always had a vision of us standing like this "

MASTERLIST

It was a warm Saturday night, and both you and Jongho were at a big family dinner, the house was buzzing with sounds of laughter and clinking dishes. The little cousins were sprawled on the floor as the adults were chatting over something you were too tired to care about.

Jongho sat beside you, stealing glances that made your little heart flutter. He complimented you all night, repeating "you're so pretty" and "I'm so lucky to have you" over and over.

Everything was normal until your cousin arrived carrying her baby daughter, "Look who's here!" you squealed. You carefully settled your niece on your lap while pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"There you are, princess," you cooed, playfully poking your nose against her neck, making her giggle.

Your little niece babbled happily as you played peek-a-boo and even made funny faces, her giggles filled the room.

Jongho watched the interaction with a small smile. He'd always known you were good with kids, but what he wasn't prepared for was how adorable you looked holding the baby.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?" you asked Jongho, who couldn't stop staring at you.

He blinked, "Huh?"

"You keep looking at me," you giggle, holding your niece as she continues to babble.

"No, I wasn't," he coughed, awkwardly.

"You literally were," a grin spread across your face. "Am I really that pretty?"

Jongho rolled his eyes, "Don't even start."

You laughed softly before turning your attention back to the baby. A few minutes later, her energy slowly disappeared until she eventually curled up against your chest, and you gently rubbed her back instinctively.

Somehow, Jongho's chest suddenly felt strangely tight. He found himself imagining a baby with your smile, a little version of you. He even imagined you holding a child that belonged to both of you.

By the time dinner finally ended, he was still thinking about it. The drive home was unusually quiet, but you assumed he was just tired and didn't think much of it.

After unlocking the front door of your house, you decided to ask him, "Are you okay?"

Jongho sighed, "I'm fine."

You narrowed your eyes, "Jongho."

"What?" he glanced at you.

"What happened back there?" Your voice was gentle. You noticed him hesitating for a moment, until he finally admitted it.

"You were really good with her," he murmured, his voice was low.

"My niece?" you chuckled. You leaned against the dining table, shrugging playfully. "I guess I'm naturally gifted at melting hearts, babies just know it."

He laughed softly, "Clearly, but watching you like that, it made me think," he stopped for a second. "When's it our turn to have that kind of joy? that kind of love?"

You looked at him with an eyebrow raised in suspicion, "Our turn? Are you saying that the baby fever has finally gotten to you?"

Jongho's cheeks flushed a hint of pink, "Maybe? I thought I'd been hiding it better, but yeah—I want it.. I want a baby with you.. our little one to love."

Your smile softened as you reached over and took his hand, gently stroking your thumb over his, "That's really sweet, honey, kind of surprising coming from a guy who thought babies were loud."

He nudged you gently, "Well, I'm full of surprises, besides, I guess you could say I'm a little jealous of all those babies stealing your attention."

"I love that you want this, but how about we just take a little more time? I want to savor us, our weird late-night talks, your warm hugs, before we add a new chapter in our lives," you looked up at him.

Jongho pouted in response, "So you want to keep me waiting so you can keep stealing my hugs?"

"Absolutely," you teased with a mischievous smirk. "And maybe I like to keep you all to myself a little longer."

He laughed, "Fine, I'll wait, but only if you kiss me?"

You immediately pressed your lips to his, standing on your tiptoes as your arms found their way around his shoulders. He returned the kiss without hesitation, pulling you a little closer by the waist, craving for something more.

You pulled away softly, "Okay, let's stop this before I change my mind about this whole baby thing."

He hummed in response, "Right, right, sorry about that."

CURATED BY @hnjowlf

[vivawolftype]

OH MY GOD HE'S NOT EVEN SUBTLE ABOUT IT SEND HELP MY BRAIN JUST ACCEPTED THIS AS CANON

[oldbutchdanielmolloy]

too perverted for the normies not perverted enough for the real perverts how am i supposed to make it in this crazy world

[nichopatch]

ruin my makeup - ot9 &team

in which your boyfriend doesn't care how long you spent on your lip combo ♡ requested by @elisa21sstuff—i ended up making it more suggestive more than smutty, hope that's okay with you and you like it!!

yudai

your boyfriend stops dead in his tracks when he walks into your shared bedroom and sees you. you’re standing in front of the mirror, debating between two necklaces to go with your outfit for tonight’s date. he’s taking you to an upscale restaurant and you want to look your best.  

you side-eye him but say nothing as he makes his slow way over to you, a smirk on his lips. he wraps his arms around your waist and rests his chin on top of your head, making your bodies sway lightly from side to side. “you look beautiful,” he says, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “and all mine.”

you try your best not to look visibly flustered. three years in, and he still makes butterflies erupt in your stomach with just a few words. “thanks, baby. help me choose my necklace?”

“sure. turn around for me.”

from the upward curve of his lips and the glint in his eyes, you should’ve seen it coming—but still, he manages to take you by surprise as you turn around to face him and are instantly met with his lips to yours.

“yudai!” you say, trying to sound chiding only laughing. “i spent so long on my lip combo,” you whine, turning back around to check your makeup in the mirror. you’re good to do your lips all over. 

“sorry, baby.” he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “you just looked too good, couldn’t help myself. here,” he says, reaching with a thumb, presumably to wipe your smudged lipstick—only to press his lips to yours once more.

fuma

you’re finishing up your makeup in front of the bathroom mirror when your boyfriend walks in. he seems only to be here to fetch something—but when he sees you, he changes his plans, coming up stand behind you instead, hands firm on your hips as he starts to press kisses to the side of your neck. you sigh, half letting yourself melt into his touch, half aware you have plans you’re going to be late for if you let him have his way.

“what did i do to deserve you, hm? i must’ve saved the country in a past life,” he hums against your skin. 

“don’t distract me, fuma. i need to do my lip combo.”

“hm? i’m not doing anything,” he says, pressing himself closer to you, arms coming to wrap around your waist.

you swear you feel something hard against your lower back. “fuma,” you say, your tone a warning—as much for him as for you.

“what can i do when my baby looks this good?”

“you can keep it in your pants,” you bite back, making him laugh.

you manage to ignore him until you’ve applied your lip gloss. you pop your lips, proud of your work, then turn around. “okay, i’m ready to—” you’re cut off by your boyfriend’s mouth on yours.

you’re just a girl—when fuma’s lips move against yours like this, so messy and desperate like he couldn’t wait a second longer, your lower back pressed against the sink, you can’t help but kiss him back.

“we’re gonna be late,” you mutter weakly.

“they can wait,” he says, pulling you into another kiss.

nicholas

“all this? for a girl’s night?” your boyfriend asks, sitting up on your shared bed.

“yes, nicho, all this.” you ignore his pouting—you’ve had this conversation countless times already.

putting his phone down on the pillow next to him with more force than needed, he crawls over to you, sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at your reflection in the mirror. “what do you need to look so good for?”

“it makes me feel confident. we’ve been over this.”

“you’d make a trash bag look sexy, baby.”

you sigh, picking up your lipstick. “that’s nice of you to say, angel. but i’m not wearing a trash bag to the club.”

with a discontented sigh, he gets up from the bed and wraps his arm around your neck from behind your, letting his forehead rest on your shoulder. that’s nicholas for you—always needy when it’s least convenient for you. “careful, baby,” you say gently. “i’m doing my lipstick.”

“i hate knowing other guys are going to see you like this.”

“who cares about other guys when it’s you i’m coming home to,” you say, probably word for word from the last time you went out without him. you’re coming off annoyed, but really, you love seeing him like this.

“i’m gonna miss you tonight,” he says, kissing your bare shoulder. it makes you shiver—he smirks at you in the mirror, fully aware of what he’s doing.

“i thought euijoo was coming over?” you ask, trying to keep your tone steady as your boyfriend kisses up your neck.

he hums. “still gonna miss you.”

then, without warning, he presses his lips to yours. “nicho!” you exclaim, leaning back. his grin is wicked as you check your reflection. “i’m gonna have to do my lip combo all over again.”

“fix it, baby. i’ll mess it up again.”

euijoo

you’re leaning toward the mirror, lips parted in concentration as you finish your makeup. euijoo has been watching from the doorway for a small while, arms crossed over his chest, a small, adoring smile on his lips. “you almost ready to go, baby?” he asks softly.

you nod. “yeah, just a minute.” you’re meeting his parents for the first time tonight at a fancy restaurant, and you want to make the best first impression possible. you’ve put it in your mind that your makeup needs to be perfect to do that. “do i look okay?” you ask, smoothing out your dress anxiously.

in a few steps, euijoo has crossed the distance between you, and plants himself behind you, one hand on your waist, the other brushing your hair behind your shoulder. he leans down to press a kiss to the crook of your neck. “you look gorgeous, as always. what are you so nervous about? i’ve only told them great things about you, they’ll love you.”

“i know, i just—i want them to think i’m worthy of you.”

he laughs light-heartedly. “worthy? baby, by the end of the evening they’ll probably wonder how i got you to date me.”

you pout, slowly letting yourself be soothed by your boyfriend’s words and gentle demeanor. “you really think?”

“of course. what can i do to ease your nerves?”

you recognize that tone—he wants something he won’t outright ask you for. but even if he doesn’t care, you won’t be late for your dinner plans. so instead of letting yourself melt into his touch, you offer your cheek to him. it’ll have to do for now.

euijoo smiles, pressing his soft lips to your cheek, and the simple touch has you relaxing already. but he presses another one, and another, progressively getting closer to your mouth—”not my lips, baby. i don’t want to mess up my lipstick.”

his lips find the corner of yours, and when he leans back, a little lip gloss shines on the corner of his lips. you shake your head, lightly admonishing him as you wipe the makeup up with your thumb. “juju…” 

he only gazes down fondly at you. “you’re perfect,” he muses.

yuma

after months of being with yuma, you should know that whatever you tell him not to do, he’ll take as a challenge to do. really, it’s your fault for telling him not to distract you while you’re doing your makeup, and not to kiss you after you’ve applied your lipstick. you even give him a minute to get it all out of his system—but it only does the opposite. after the kiss, he’s even needier, clingy as he wraps his arms around your waist tightly, burying his face in your hair.

“don’t go,” he mumbles.

“it’s for work, baby, i don’t have a choice.”

“i can’t just kiss you for a minute,” he whines. “it’s not nearly enough.”

“you’ll have all the time you need when i come back, okay?”

he frowns at you in the mirror—changing his strategy from whiny to upset? in any case, it doesn’t work. you ignore his glare as you apply your lipgloss. he plants kisses along your neck, your jawline, but every time he tries to get near your lips, you lean away.

he huffs. “what’s the point of having lips so pretty if your boyfriend can’t even kiss them?”

“the one time i ask you not to kiss me, i swear,” you mumble. “you’re not going to die.”

he rests his hand on his heart, fakes a pained expression. “i just might.”

you push him away with your hip, tell him to leave you alone—you’re surprised when he actually does. he’s waiting for you in the hallway when you’re done. you think that maybe he’s matured when he helps you slip on the shoes he picked out for you, and are about to thank him when he stands and, before you can react, traps your lips in a kiss. not even just a peck that won’t do too much damage—a full-on mess of a kiss, tongue and all, his hands firm on your hips so you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to.

when he leans back, his grin is wickedly smug. “uh-oh, baby. i think you’re gonna have to redo your lipstick.”

jo

if you explicitly tell him not to, your perfect baby never messes up your makeup. he saw how long it took you to get your lip combo perfect before the party, so when you tell him, “no kisses, tonight,” he follows that rule to a tee.

it doesn’t mean he’s not desperate to kiss you, though. as you get ready together, he has to content himself with pressing soft kisses to your cheeks and forehead, and stops himself from pouting when you can’t reciprocate. during the party, his eyes keep drifting to the lipstick staining the rim of your cup, and he’s always ready to wipe a smudge if you mess up your makeup while eating. he has the self-restraint of a saint when you use him instead of a mirror to reapply your lipgloss, dumbly nodding when you ask him whether it looks okay.

after the party, as you’re waiting outside for your uber, his jacket around your shoulders, he briefly wonders whether he should wait until you get home, then decides against it. you look so cute, slightly swaying on your feet from the wine you drank, a contented smile on your face, your hand warm in his. “can i kiss you, y/n?” he asks softly. you nod happily.

the feeling of his lips on yours is such a relief after waiting all night for it. by the time your uber arrives, he’s wearing as much lipstick as you are.

harua

“okay, baby, i’m off,” you call from the hallway, slipping on your shoes.

from his position on the couch, harua perks up. “aren’t you forgetting something?”

you look inside your purse. keys, phone, wallet. “nope, i’m all good.”

he frowns, then makes his way to you. arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed, he says, “you sure about that?”

your features relax into a smile. “baby, i’m sorry, i can’t kiss you. i spent too long on this lip combo to mess it up.”

your boyfriend is unimpressed. he glares at you without a word.

you walk up to him, ruffle his hair. “i’ll give you all the kisses you want when i get home, okay?”

clearly, this isn’t good enough an offer. too quickly for you to react, he leans in, presses his lips to yours firmly. then, with a huff, he walks back to the couch. you check your lips in your front camera—the damage’s been done.

“haru!”

when you look at him, there’s a small smirk playing on his lips. you’d be mad at him if he wasn’t so adorable. “have fun, angel,” he says, plopping some chips inside his mouth.

taki

the entire time you’ve been getting ready, your boyfriend has been gazing longingly at you like a lovesick puppy. it’d be distracting if you weren’t so used to it—rare are the moments you spend together when at least his hands or his eyes aren’t on you. from when you chose your outfit to now, as you’re sitting at your vanity, lips parted as you apply your liner, he’s been laying on your shared bed, staring at you like you hung the stars in the night sky.

he’s been quiet this entire time, so when he starts making his way to you, telling you how pretty you look, you know he’s up to no good. before he’s even touched you, you warn, “taki, don’t. the tutor is so strict, i can’t be late for this class.”

“who said anything about making you late?” he asks, a playful smirk on his lips as his hands find your shoulders, your hair. he presses a kiss to the top of your head. “i just wanted to admire you from up close.”

“you can do that without bothering me.”

he looks at you like a wounded puppy. you roll your eyes—you know taki isn’t really offended, he just likes to pretend he is so you’ll baby him. “fine. one kiss, okay? just one. and on my cheek.”

you shouldn’t have been so trusting. your boyfriend holds your head steady as he plants his kiss to your cheek, but of course, he doesn’t stop there. as you try to squirm away from him, he peppers kisses everywhere he can reach, your chin, your nose, your forehead, and, eventually, your lips. 

he grins proudly, admiring his work in the mirror—the lip gloss on his lips, the smudges around yours. “thanks a lot, taki,” you mumble.

“the pleasure is all mine, babe.”

maki

you’re sat on your boyfriend’s lap in front of your vanity as you apply the final traces of lipstick for you lip combo. you’re both staring at your reflection in the mirror, you in concentration, him in quiet, lovesick adoration. you’re apart for one evening and he’s acting like it’s the end of the world. his big arms feel warm and reassuring around your body, his chin a welcome weight on your shoulder, but if you told him how much harder he’s making it to go out without him, he’d find a million reasons for you to stay in. however, you can’t bail on bottomless brunch with your girls.

“i get that girlhood is important and all, but surely us boyfriends could tag along once in a while?” he mumbles, pouting against your shoulder.

you smile. “we can’t gossip about you guys if you’re here.”

he gasps dramatically. “you gossip about me? what do you say?”

you ignore him as you lean forward, admiring your work. satisfied with yourself, you shift on maki’s lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. “how do i look?”

his features soften into a fond smile. “perfect, baby.”

when he leans in for a kiss, you tut at him. “nuh-uh. i’m not letting you mess up my lip combo.”

he raises an eyebrow. “oh?”

suddenly, his hold on you tightens—you try to squirm out of his arms, but he’s too strong for you. “no! maki!” you exclaim, giggling. 

he peppers kisses all over your lips, and by the time he’s done, there’s more lipstick on his lips than on yours. you sigh as you check your makeup in the mirror. “great, i have to do it all over again now.”

he’s grinning wickedly, returning to his position with his chin on your shoulder like he hasn’t done anything. “and i get one more minute with you.”

[vivawolftype]

i love how taki's entire love language is inconveniencing and bothering his gf

[vivawolftype]

&TEAM masterlist 𑣲⋆｡˚

nicholas

good girls keep their eyes open (reader insert, smut)

yuma

cunt drunk idiot (reader insert, smut)

harua

fuck you goodbye (reader insert, smut and fluff)

maki

coffee with a side of cock (reader insert, smut | my first fic!)

[vivawolftype]

9 likes may not sound huge to you but to me that’s literally &TEAM collectively nodding at my work and going “nice one”

[vivawolftype]

coffee with a side of cock .✦ ݁˖ hirota riki

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pairing: maki(&team) x f!reader

rating: nsfw, 18+ (minors dni)

wc: 1.5k+

synopsis: Coffee was the plan. Getting bent over and fucked senseless by Maki wasn’t. But when he’s whispering dirty praises in your ear and pressing you into the counter, you’re not exactly complaining.

contains : explicit sexual content, rough sex, kitchen sex, surprise sex, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, spanking, dirty talk, praise kink, possessive behavior, aftercare, come shot, light dom/sub, consensual but not consensual, pwp, rough then gentle | lmk if i missed any!

cross posted on AO3

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The coffee maker gurgles its last drop into the pot and you reach for your mug, except your hand never gets there because his mouth finds the back of your neck first, wet and open, and you jolt hard enough to slosh cold coffee over the rim.

Maki presses the full length of his torso against you, his sharp jawline catching against your temple when he ducks his head.

"I walked past and couldn't not touch you," he says, mouth at your ear.

There's pressure first, then the realization of what that pressure means—him, hard, seeking friction against you—and he's moving so slowly like he’s waiting for water to boil, testing how long you can stand there pretending this isn’t happening. 

He shifts, just slightly, and you feel the drag of fabric, the catch of zipper teeth, the way he fits against you like a key. You should find it annoying, probably, the way he assumes your body is just available for this, but instead your stomach drops and your underwear is suddenly too much fabric, too little relief, your body answering before your pride can object. 

"You're too available like this," he murmurs, not quite complaining, his fingers dimpling your skin as he pulls you flush against the hard line of him, "bent over, not paying attention. What was I supposed to do?" He laughs, low, against your neck. "I don't have that much self-control."

The denim does nothing to disguise his shape—thick, heavy, pulsing with heat you can feel through both your clothes. He rocks forward, just barely, and you feel him settle into the cleft of your ass, throbbing insistently with each tiny movement.

It should be infuriating, this presumption, this unspoken claim he's staking with his body. But your breath is coming shorter now, and your hips are moving of their own accord, pressing back into that rigid heat, seeking more contact, more friction, more of the filthy promise he's making without words.

He takes his time hooking your waistband, letting you feel the threat of exposure, the promise of it. Then he drags everything down. Shorts. Panties. Whatever barriers you thought you had. Cool air hits overheated flesh and you flinch, vulnerable, bare in a way that has nothing to do with skin.

But he's already moving, his hand insinuating itself between your thighs, spreading you open with casual entitlement. Two fingers slide through your folds and you feel him feel you—the slickness, the heat, the undeniable evidence of your arousal—and his groan against your ear tells you he's just as affected by your wetness as you are ashamed of it.

"Fuck, baby," he exhales against your neck, the words warm and pleased and filthy against your pulse. His fingers slide deeper, curl just so, and your head falls forward with a sound you can't swallow—a moan that escapes broken and desperate. "Look how wet you are.” You can feel his satisfaction in every line of his body. "Tell me why I should wait.”

He opens you like a stubborn jar lid—twist and pull, twist and pull—each scissoring motion sending starbursts up your spinal column. The slick friction sounds almost tropical, heavy as ripe fruit splitting. Somewhere distant, your favorite mug shatters against tile, ceramic shrapnel you won't discover until later, but right now your universe has narrowed to the counter's edge biting into your hipbones and the devastating fullness of his fingers crooking just so, just there, while your body responds with its own crude intelligence—hips rolling in figure-eights, chasing the drag of his calluses, the promise of deeper invasion.

"Fuck, you're sloppy. Look how you're trying to ride my hand. Can't even wait to be fucked properly." His free hand comes down sharp on your ass, the crack echoing. "Be. Still. Feel me inside you. Feel how full you are. And wait. Wait until I decide you've been patient enough to deserve more.”

Your body is making a sound it shouldn't—something between a sigh and a surrender, audible in the wet friction of him sliding deeper. You're yielding with an enthusiasm that feels almost visible, almost colored, like the deep burgundy of wine staining linen. The humiliation sits warm behind your pubic bone, indistinguishable from the pulse that's building there, both sensations thick and rhythmic and completely beyond your control. You're not just taking him; you're absorbing him, cells dilating, welcoming the intrusion like sunlight.

Then the emptiness hits, his fingers gone and your body clutching at nothing. You hear metal teeth separating behind you, and then his palm between your shoulder blades pushing you flatter. 

He spreads your footing wider, your pelvis tilting greedy, and the swollen crown of him—rigid and smoldering—presses where you're soaked and open.

"Arch that back," he commands. "Want to see every fucking centimetres disappear. Want to watch your cunt struggle to make room, watch you drip around me before I'm even halfway inside.”

Then he's entering you in one relentless advance that has you gasping as you feel every vein, every ridge, the detail of his cock taking residence.

You feel the momentum transferring through your skeleton, each impact traveling up your spine, rattling your teeth, making your vision stutter. He sets a pace immediately, hips snapping against your ass, each thrust driving you forward until his hand catches you, pins you, holds you in place for his use.

"God, you're trouble," he breathes, "always here. Always ready. I come looking for coffee and somehow end up buried in you."

The kitchen fills with the sound of skin meeting skin. His hands lock around your hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows above your thighs, pulling you back onto him with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. 

"Maki—please—slow," you gasp out, words fragmenting because he's hitting a depth that has you trembling, oversensitive, your body sparking like a live wire.

He leans in, chest crushing your back. His strokes get heavier, more demanding. "I can feel how swollen you are, sweetheart,” he says, almost apologetic, completely unmoved. "But I need to come. So you'll take it until I'm done.”

The counter becomes a third participant, unyielding, taking your weight as he takes your body, the three of you locked in this obscene collaboration. You feel your abdominal muscles contracting involuntarily, your pelvic floor learning his rhythm, pulsing around him with a cadence that matches his strokes.

You're aware of your hair sticking to your neck, your mouth open and gasping, the sounds coming from you reduced to something pre-verbal that communicates only more through pitch and breathlessness alone.

"Should I let you come?" he asks, breath hot against your neck, thrusts never slowing. "I'm not convinced you've earned it yet."

Your skin ceases to be boundary—becomes instead a field of sensation, each nerve ending firing independently, a constellation of tension and release.

He doesn't stop. He fucks you through your orgasm, through the moment your knees unlock and your spine tries to bow, your interior muscles fluttering around him in patterns that make him groan, that make him snap his hips harder, deeper, using your pleasure as lubrication, as invitation, as means to his own end. The sound you press into the countertop is his name, yes, but fractured, syllables broken by gasps, by the continued percussion of his thrusts.

He withdraws just as he breaks, hand guiding, and you feel the stripes—marking your lumbar, your hip, your thigh. He drags his fingers through it, leisurely, painting you with what he couldn't hold back.

Silence settles, thick and humid, broken only by the exchange of breath. Then his hand comes down hard on your ass, a sharp slap that stings, making you flinch and gasp.

"You took that so well," he says, voice still rough. He runs his palm over the red mark, squeezing once, possessive.

But then he's reaching for a dish towel, folding it warm and damp from the sink, and you feel him cleaning his mess from your skin slowly, wiping away the evidence with gentle strokes that make you shiver. 

Only when you're clean does he pull your shorts up, tying the drawstring with a little bow, his fingers lingering to rub warmth back into your thighs. 

"I'll make you a new cup of coffee," he says, and he does, right there, moving around you in the small kitchen without leaving your side.

He opens cabinets, fills the kettle, but keeps touching you—hand on your knee, fingers brushing your ankle, palm flat against your back. When he presses the warm mug into your hands, he wraps his own around yours, holding them steady while you drink, watching you with this satisfied, happy gaze. He'd added cinnamon, exactly how you like it, and the sweetness hits your tongue like an apology for the roughness.

"Better?" 

You nod. 

He hums, satisfied. "Say 'thank you, Maki, for the excellent orgasm.' No? Too shy now?" 

"See if you can talk after I do that to yo—" 

He catches your threat in his mouth, kissing you slow and deep, pulling back with a satisfied smack. "I'll take that as a thank you. Very creative delivery. A-plus for interpretation.”

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hope you enjoyed it 💋 reblogs = my fuel, thank you in advance!

masterlist

debrief time:  YALL… i can’t believe i actually posted this 😭 ITS MY DEBUT!!!! truth is, i don’t know how to write anything properly at all since english is not my mother tongue. but i love learning and writing and it’s also my silly little way of dealing with my &team parasocialism haha. i’ve actually filled so many pages in my album photobooks with these stories (handwritten and everything). felt brave enough to share one today. many more to come if i don’t chicken out!

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