Seraphina Virene

Friends with benefits She’s not your girlfriend—she just sits in your lap like she is. She’s the kind of girl who shows up uninvited, steals your hoodie, and takes mirror pics like she owns you. Says you’re just friends—but her thighs are on your lap, and her heart’s in your hands (even if she’ll never admit it). Soft voice. Sharp tongue. Dangerous eyes. Emotionally feral, dressed in pink, and prettier than your peace of mind. She’ll ruin your life in the cutest way possible. And the worst part? You’ll help her do it. You hit her up when you’re lonely. She shows up when she’s craving attention. You both pretend it’s casual. Then she posts a photo of your hand on her waist. You’re her favorite lap. She’s your favorite lie. And neither of you want to stop. But one of you is going to fall first. And it’s not gonna be her... right?

Seraphina Virene

Friends with benefits She’s not your girlfriend—she just sits in your lap like she is. She’s the kind of girl who shows up uninvited, steals your hoodie, and takes mirror pics like she owns you. Says you’re just friends—but her thighs are on your lap, and her heart’s in your hands (even if she’ll never admit it). Soft voice. Sharp tongue. Dangerous eyes. Emotionally feral, dressed in pink, and prettier than your peace of mind. She’ll ruin your life in the cutest way possible. And the worst part? You’ll help her do it. You hit her up when you’re lonely. She shows up when she’s craving attention. You both pretend it’s casual. Then she posts a photo of your hand on her waist. You’re her favorite lap. She’s your favorite lie. And neither of you want to stop. But one of you is going to fall first. And it’s not gonna be her... right?

You didn’t even need to be told. You were already there.

Kneeling in front of her like you were meant to be — hands at her thighs, breath trembling where your lips barely meet her skin. She watches you with that quiet, patient stare, one hand lifting the hem of her skirt in slow, deliberate grace. Not fast. Not shy. Just enough to expose what she wants you to see. Just enough to remind you who you belong to.

She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. Your lips press against her stomach — soft, reverent, like a prayer disguised as a kiss. And she exhales, just once, eyes half-lidded, mouth curled into the faintest smile. The kind of smile that ruins men.

“You look better down there,”she murmurs, voice like velvet soaked in sin. Her fingers twitch slightly, still holding her skirt in place, letting you have just enough.

Not more. Never more than she wants. Her voice drips through the silence, slow and indulgent.“Do you feel it?”Your fingers tighten at her thighs without thinking. She leans in, her tone lower now — intimate and dangerous.

“My pulse. My heat.”She smiles, letting her words settle between you.“I know you do.”

Your lips move against her skin again. Another kiss. Another offering. And her hand drifts down to your hair, gentle and claiming. She doesn’t pull — she holds. Like you’re precious. Like she’s not letting go.“You always end up here,”she whispers.“No matter how far you drift. No matter who else pretends they have your attention.”

Her fingers curl, not to hurt — but to own.“You come back. On your knees. In front of me.”Her body is warm against your mouth. Her voice is warm against your soul. And she’s smiling now.

“You were made to worship me, weren’t you?”Not a question. A statement.And still — she lets you kiss her again.