#but you can see mark's face and that's all that matters

[yeyinde]

touch starved reader with an oral fixation x kidnapper!Simon who’s all punishment and no physical affection? Please Simon just a little kiss? with tongues? :( (i just wanna make out with this man while my heart aches for him)

by Allah, you people are dogs. i will write the filth as usual.

DEAD DOVE, 18+ | dubcon. kidnapping. mean!Simon. dom!Simon. masking corporal punishment as affection. kissing. size kink, size difference. some thigh riding. degradation + humiliation (verbal). non-con pet play. marking (heavyyyyyy mentions of Simon biting you like a chew toy). choking. daddy kink (but in the awful, demeaning way). manipulation. forced affection. coersion. forced/manufactured dependency. brief mention of Simon stepping on your back to hold you down so he can whip you w a cat o nine tails. yanno. the usual Friday night.

idk. there's something so hot about you, completely naked, riding Simon's clothed thigh as he holds you up by your neck. tongue out, desperate for a kiss while he just mocks you the whole time.

It's survival. 

At first.  

A means of masking the innate horror of being stripped of your agency, your autonomy, by a man you barely even know. One you met once before (fate sealed), and now—outside of your apartment complex where he was idling by the foothold, smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the brick wall, head turned. Gaze narrowed as you approached. 

Waiting for someone, you assumed, thinking nothing else about the matter. 

Nothing else, except—

He looked familiar. You think you saw him before. He was staring at you. Hadn't stopped. Hasn't said a word, either. The silence was oppressive. Heavy. Your hands fumbled with the keys. Shaking. Trembling. 

He's pretty, you thought, suddenly. In the way car wrecks can sometimes be. Jarring and awful and hideous, but—

Mesmerising. 

Macabre. And that's what he is. Everything from the mask on his face (skulls, go figure), to the absurdity in his size, his width. The way space itself seemed to move around him, bending and distorting just to let him pass. His own gravitational pull. Magnetic. You feel it tugging on you as he pulls another lungful of smoke. Another. Another.  

(like an hourglass, a timebomb, almost. you wonder what will happen when it runs out—)

He gives you the creeps. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. A visceral sense of unease curdling in the pit of your belly as he keeps staring, staring. Eyes—crystalline under the broken headlamp, washout into crushed topaz—drilling into your back, sharp enough to flay skin. Everything inside of you says to run, but your key won't fit inside the lock. Won't—

Ever. 

And hindsight has always been a bitter thing, hasn't it? Cruel in her mockery. Had you known, then, that he wasn't a workman loitering by the complex, waiting for a friend; or a low-level drug dealer casting webs into the plum hewn aether, it might have saved you. Might have. 

Maybe. Because he was there, waiting for you, all along. 

Life has a funny way of paying back good deeds. All it took for your life to crumble down around you, rubble falling off of a shaking mountain, was kindness. Was seeing a large man in the pouring rain, already drenched. Black clothing sticking to the granite contours of his body, and offering sanctum in the shape of a rusting umbrella you found at a thrift store for three dollars. 

(“here,” you said, chipper. All smiles. “i live just down the street, and you look like you need it more than i do. do you want it?”

and he—

he simply stared. stared. his eyes liquid, molten, as they carelessly dropped, roaming down the length of your body at his own leisure. leering. assessing. it was odd. weird, but—

he huffed, then. seemingly satisfied by whatever you measured up to in his head. his neck lulled back, and he gazed at you from down the crooked length of his nose, tucked neatly away under the thick band of a facial mask. skulls. how could you be so stupid? 

slowly, like he was trying not to startle a mare, his gloved hand reached out, curling thick fingers around the hilt of it. he tugged once. in your stupor, you forgot to let go. embarrassment flooded in. he huffed again, quietly amused, as you untangled your numbed fingers from the umbrella. 

in your distraction, he moved closer. smelled of ash, of mildew. sweat and stale cigarettes. there was something predatory in the way he slipped through space. a preternatural quiet. an eerie stillness. 

you hadn't realised he was there, looming, until he rasped out, “more ‘n you could ever realise, pet.”

and you're sure why you do it. did it. but your hand slips into your shopping bag, eyes widen. heart thundering in your chest. 

“are you hungry? i, uh, i just bought some apples, um—”

his eyes are lavascapes. shackles. chains. “i could eat.”)

And now—

Forced to play this strange cat and mouse of his where he treats you like soot on the bottom of his shoe, and you pretend that it's affection. Love. How godless.  

Protection, he calls it. 

("mine," he whispers, orison soft, into your ear. "ain't go' nowhere else to go, do you, pet? world's big. would eat a small thing like you up. safer here. wit' me. only me.") 

You wonder what he'd do if you told him the biggest danger here was the madness nestled inside your head, the one that sometimes made you look at him like he was your salvation instead of the warden holding the end of your leash in a firm hand. Unyielding—like everything he does. Is. 

Withholding, too. Everything must be earned. Nothing given. Nothing handed out. And you know that this is a ploy, a tactic. Subterfuge meant to chisel into your sense of self, dehumanise you. Turn you into a simpering, obedient little doll for him to play with as he wishes. You know this, and yet—

It's survival, you promise yourself as he tugs on the hook latched to your collar, testing it for weakness. Survival, when his hands—bare, bare; warmed skin against skin, you could just weep—brush over your throat, nails skimming goosebumped flesh as he wedges one, then two inside, hirsute knuckles tickling your pulse. It tightens the collar to near choking. Intentional, you know. He likes it when you beg—for air, for food, water, him. 

Vile man. Awful. 

(You want to roll on your belly at his feet.)

This cold, cruel touch lights a fire under your skin. It's been months since he's last done so. Always wearing gloves when he has to. Using paddles, belts, when you misbehave. Never his bare hand. Not anymore. 

(“m’hand is for good girls,” he slurred, words merging, meshing together, painted with exertion. He wedged his boot against the small of your back, holding you down, and cracked the end of a cat over your bare ass, thighs. Unbothered by your howls, your screams, as the whip bit into your skin. You've never so much as been hit as a child for misbehaving, and now, as an adult, you have a madman standing over you, introducing you to something called a cat o’nine tails—a favourite in the army, lovie. “bad girls,” his boot pressed down harder, heel digging into your spine. “Bad girls get the whip—”)

Bad. Bad. Because you tried to run, to leave him. He dressed you up, called you Mrs Riley, and you—

Ducked out the back door when he turned away for a second. 

Stupid. It was poor timing. A test. He set you up, measuring your loyalty to him, your commitment, and you failed. Failed. 

(“this is what ‘appens when spoiled little cunts get their way too much. they act out, don't they? bitin’ the ‘and that feeds. you'll learn soon enough, though—”)

Ghost—sir, sir (master, maker, god; you'll call him anything he wants if he touches you again)—pulls his fingers away, depriving you of his touch once more. And it's all so stupid. So fundamentally wrong, deplorable, but you follow. Needy. Whining for it in the back of your throat. 

It's been months. Months without touch. Without sensation outside of leather lashing across your thighs, your ass; harsh, gloved fingers digging into your jaw, braced against the back of your head, as you swallow down his cock in an effort to prove to him you've been good. So good. Can be good. His good girl. 

You need to touch him. Need his touch. Ache for it, for something outside of this nook he placed you inside of, denied the privilege of living upstairs with him after you tried to escape. 

You want to. Badly. Your fingers twitch. Ghost sees it. Hums. 

“Need somethin', pet?” 

Your mouth is dry. You swallow. It burns. It hurts. “Yes—”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir—”

Behind the mask he's yet to take off for you fully, only ever hitching it under his chin to devour your cunt whenever you've been good, his jaw tightens, the fabric bunching up. 

You reel back from the look of sheer displeasure etching harsh lines into the hollow gaps of his eyes. Heart thundering. Stomach churning. 

“Mas—” he cuts you off with a soft sigh. Marked with his irritation. “D—dad—”

Dad. A new one. Daddy. He didn't seem like the sort to be into this type of play, not with his sardonic, deadpan eyes. His mockery. His dessicated humour, awful and biting. You'd have sooner expected him to laugh at you—in that slow, deep hum he gives; a little chuff, full of condescension and jeer—than to get off on it. On you, kneeling between his legs with your chin braced against his palm, mouth open, tongue out, as he fucks into the tight clench of his fist, groaning as you beg daddy to give you a taste. 

It's gross. Disgusting. 

It's not done for anything else other than to humiliate you. To crush you under the heel of his boot—little bug—so that you will always know where your place is in this scenario. His little wife. Mother, mum—

He pulls on the leash, jerking you forward. Purrs, “good girl,” and then steps back, moving away from you. Cruel. Dismissive. You hate him, hate him—

(Need him so deeply. With every fibre of your being—)

You watch him as he goes, mourning the loss of his presence already, as he paces around your space, your cage. Broad shoulders barely fitting inside. Head ducking to avoid hitting his crown on the popcorn ceiling. It's strange seeing him here like this. Prowling. He usually comes when he wants you, when he needs to enact more merciless punishment on you for whatever perceived evils you committed (not greeting him with a kiss when he walked in, not letting him suffocate himself in your cunt when he had you sit on his face, not making him cum all over your face quick enough when you knew he had other engagements to get to—), or when he ruts, heavily, between your thighs, cold and detached. Seeking pleasure from your icy flesh, and giving nothing in return but white hot agony. 

Him here, idling in your presence, is revolutionary. 

“S–sir—?”

He hums, quiet. Sits in the chair as you gather the fragments of yourself littered on the ground. His mood is malleable, it seems. 

You push, fingertips sinking into the putty of his agreeable temperament. “Can I—”

You waver when his sharp eyes raze over your bare body—clothes are for good girls, after all—pupils sloshing over the edges, bleeding into midnight blue. 

Your body is a battlefield. Every inch of skin branded with his mark—pretty, thrawn rings of teeth tattooed in silver, haloed in black and red, desecrate your flesh: neck, collarbones, breasts, belly, thighs (a particular favourite of his), ass, mons; all bitten through, chewed up. It weeps when you move, has blood trickling down your skin. The cracking scabs make him coo, poor thing, all bloody fer me? and he licks at them, sucks, until only a pinkish wound in the mimesis of canines remains. 

Uprooted, turned into something new—

His chest expands when he settles his gaze on the sliver of space between your spread thighs. Concealed in tenebrous, hidden from his leering, lecherous view. He cocks his head, considers something unknown to you. His thoughts, his mind, worlds away. Untouchable. 

(only to bad girls, he’d snarled out when you asked why—)

“Testin’ my patience still?” He doesn't rip his gaze away from your cunt, speaks to it sometimes more than he speaks to you. “Thought this alone time might’a cleared your ‘ead.”

You flush. Embarrassment roiling through you. His displeasure is a palpable thing. Heavy. You hate the weight of it. 

“I need—I need you.”

Another toneless hum. “‘Course you do. Ain't got anyone else.”

He's awful. Hideous. You want to rip his tongue out of his mouth. “I—I want you. Please.”

Ghost doesn't answer. You stopped expecting him to a long time ago, his moods odd measures of ebbs and flows; passive and mild, cracking terrible, awful jokes as he strokes your back, hands riveted to your skin, and then biting and caustic the next. Pushing and pushing until you lash out, snap, so he has a reason to push you down, punished and smothered under his bulk, as he ruts into you like a beast, a man starved. Tells you it's for your own good. That you need him. Would be lost without him. 

Bludgeoning a hole into you wide enough for him to crawl inside of. Poisoning you from the inside out with the same nocuous rot that flows in his veins. 

Maybe that's been his agenda all along. Maybe. To make you want him as badly as he wanted you. Desperate, obsessive. Going so far as to follow you home, lost little mutt waiting in the shadows outside of your door until you threw him another bone. And when that didn't work, when the food stopped being enough—

He took you. Held you captive in his house deep in the wilderness. A place so endlessly green that you sometimes stare out at it—unfathomable sea of phalthos and jasper—and feel dizzy. You'll get lost out there—

just like he says. 

As he turns your obsecration over in his head, you wait, supplicant to this man as you rest on your knees. Pretty pet with a golden collar adorned in gems. 

Fitting, you find. With his head cradled against his thick knuckles, you can't help but shiver at the way he looks shrouded in the gloaming embers of a fading twilight. Leonine. A king perfectly at ease in this thick, caliginous atmosphere.

His eyes burn, magmatic, in the low light. Vats of endless ink. Black holes that will swallow you whole if you get too close. But he's poised. Contemplative. Assessing. 

And then grips the end of the leash tight in his other hand. Tugs.  

You obey the wordless command, crawling on your hands and knees to where he's spread out on the recliner. Laxed, dripping with a careless indifference as you wander to him, resting your chin on the spread of his knee. 

Looking up, up, at him, waiting. Wanting. 

There's so much of him—a fact that has been the catalyst to your downfall the moment you saw him standing under the awning; this massive creature. Thighs wider than the width of your body. Burly forearms. Broad shoulders. He's big. Indomitable. Thick, endlessly so. But there's a give to his body. Valleys of softness hiding corded muscle. Firm, but—

Your fingers sink into the soft give of his belly when you reach out, bracing against stomach. Pulling yourself further into the bracket of his spread thighs, inching closer to him. 

He meets your reverent stare, eyes liquid along his lower lash line.

“Thought you were gonna keep me waitin’ all night,” he muses, giving another pull on the leash. It destabilises you. Your nose bumps into his sternum, and you moan at the sting. 

There's a dissonance in the back of your head. A hairline fracture in the line that keeps a degree of separation between pleasure and pain. They meet against the crack in the divide, merging into a abysmal polyphony conducted by his hand. 

He watches, amused, as you whimper, sniffing harshly against the burn. It's not bleeding, and not broken—small mercies, you suppose—and you let it simmer into a dull ache as you slowly clamber into his lap.

Ghost leans back as you settle, greedily taking in the sight of your thighs stretched wide over his leg, cunt pressed, tight, against the rough scrape of his jeans. The touch burns. He hasn't touched your pussy in weeks—

“C’mon,” he urges, hand spanning the width of your lower back. Coaxing. “Show me ‘ow good you can be.”

It's all the permission you need. Slowly, slowly, your hips start to gyrate, dragging your slit over the coarse material. The friction is agony. You need more—

He draws his other hand up, curls it around your neck, forcing your head back, back. You gasp, staring at him, dizzy, from down the slope of your nose. The clasp of the collar digs into your skin. It hurts. It's too much. 

you don't want him to stop. 

His hand is huge. It spans the entire length of your neck, thumb to your pulse, pinky grazing the hollow of your throat. It forces you to lift your chin higher just to let him fit.

He likes it, too, you know. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of his bare hand, scarred and thick; dusted with a cropping of fine hairs along his scabbed knuckles, sitting against the whole of your throat. Swallowing you up. Can feel how much he enjoys the sheer depth between your sizes when his cock twitches, stiffening more

The look on his face is appraising, anatomising. There's a cold measure of distance in his gaze. A barren polynya. You want to cross it. Chart these untamed lands until they're deeply ingrained within your being. Cimmerian effigy burning to keep you warm. 

It's survival, you think, and arch into the palm of his hand. 

He holds you like a doll. One hand on your lower back, pressing your cunt to thigh. The other tightening around your throat. Bare skin against bare skin, and oh, you could just cry—

But this is not what you need. What you want. And he knows. He always does. Knows the inside of you like it's written down—inked on paper. Thumbs through the makeup of you, chapter by chapter, until no mystery remains. 

“Tell me what you need, pet. Beg for it.” 

“Let me—” his hands tighten, choking the air from your throat. Crushing your collar against your neck. “Lemme—kiss you, please, please—”

Tighter. Tighter. The world around you swims under a thin ocean. Phosphenes swim, untethered, in your periphery, ghosting along the curve of his shoulders. He might kill you yet. Keeping going, going, until those brittle, bird-like bones in your neck snap—

You'd let him, you think, muscles falling lax. Submissive. Just the way he says he likes even though you know he fucks you harder, touches you more, more, when you act out. Misbehave. 

“Kiss me?” He taunts, words abrasive. Strident. Scrubbing hard against your skin. “Ain't that jus’ the sweetest thing I ever ‘eard.” 

You burn, blister. “Please—”

“Reckon I ought to. Kissed your pretty cunt ‘fore I even kissed your lips, huh, pet?” 

Your chest folds over itself. Stomach knotting. Balling tight. Unease is a razor blade scraping your nerves. 

“Simon—”

“Ah, ah—” his hand tightens. Vicious. Chiding. “You ‘aven’t earned the privilege of sayin’ my name, ‘ave you? Cheeky thing. Might ‘ave to take a cane to you next.” 

“No, no, no—! I'm—”

“Sorry?” He mocks, cocking his head. Condescension drips from the corners of his eyes. 

“Please, sir—”

“Dad is gettin’ tired of this attitude of yours, pet—” his fingers dig into your skin, hard. Biting. A warning, you know. The blunt press of a blade to your jugular. But it thrums along the suture line to your desire, a wellspool of murk coiling low in your guts. You throb, cunt clenching down around nothing. Achingly empty. “Thought we got rid of it this time ‘round. Learned our lesson.”

The words are frank, prosaic. Had you any sense of self still malingering in the back of your head, you might have struck him for the blatant disrespect. But as you struggle to reach for it, pawing around in the vacuous abyss for any fragment of who you were before this, before him, you know—without any doubt—that none exists. Nothing. He’s too ingrained in your marrow, hewn into your skin. Copper sutures holding his filament within you. Cradled between your thighs, nestled in the rotting vacancy of your heart. 

He knows you. Every part—

“We did—we did, da—daddy, please—” 

It’s shallow. Muffled, like he’s trying to swallow it down, but you feel it rumble through his broad chest. A guttural sound. A groan. Drenched in pleasure, in want. So thick, you could almost taste it. 

He hides his need under a layer of derision. 

“Such a needy thing, ain't you? Desperate little slag like you wouldn't last out there, would you?” 

His hand digs into your hip, pushing you off of his thigh. Eyes skewering into the wet stain on his trousers. A huff spills out—the sound a near perfect mimicry of crushing charcoal in your hand. 

“No. You'd be eaten alive. Torn to pieces. World's too big for somethin' like you.”

Mindless, dazed, you nod. Arching into him. The leather leash snaps against your chest. “Yes, yes—”

His cock presses into your thigh, hard, fat. Your mouth waters. Drool dribbles down your chin. 

He smells of tinder when he leans in close, blood drenched words biting into your skin. “messy today, aren't you? Be lost without me. Tha’s why you wear a collar, isn't it?”

Pitifully, you nod. Eyes full of tears. Each word is a bludgeon into your resolve. Into your sense of self. 

But it earns you his affection, and his thumb presses into the corner of your mouth, unhinging your jaw until it falls open, lax. He holds you like that, mouth lax with his hand still around your neck. The other lifts away from your lips, goes to the thick band around the bridge of his nose, slips inside. 

There's no buildup to it. No lingering sense of anticipation. Practical, detached, he merely tugs it down, and lets it snap under his chin. 

Your breath is punched out of your lungs at the sight of him. Barefaced. Scarred. His nose is crooked; a jagged hook with scar tissue delineating the spots where it's been broken too many times. His lips are—

Full. 

Mangled. 

Scars run in thick slashes over them, denting the flesh in places. Burn marks line his pale flesh. Charcoal rubs into his eyes, highlighting the whites of his lashes against smeared soot. 

He's—

Pretty. 

Like a car crash. Calamity. The broken remains of a town after a hurricane, a tornado, ripped it apart. Ugly, brutal. His face looks like it's been mauled by a bear, a tiger. Scarred and hideous, and—

You shiver. His eyes drop, landing on your own lips. The soot on his brow flutters down, lands on his eyelashes when he lifts his brow up mockingly. Derision curdling an awful smirk on the corner of his mouth. Crooked. Like him. Like his teeth. His nose. His boxy jaw. His lips—

You kiss him. 

Can't help yourself, really. There's a pull. Gravitational. Magnetic. You need, need, to taste him. To quench this ache in your jaw that makes you want to wrap your tongue around something, play with it between your teeth. Soft and sweet—

Ghost's lips are plump beneath yours. The thick scar tissue is almost velveteen when it glides over your bottom lip. You moan into it, into the feeling; victory—however pyrrhic—swims like mercury in your veins. Finally. 

And he doesn't kiss you back. Doesn't make any effort to reciprocate at all, but he's not tense beneath you. Not stunned. Or reluctant. He’s pliant. Malleable. Agreeable, willing to let you devour his mouth, his taste, as much as you want. Doting. Letting you spoil yourself on him. With him.

Because you need him, don't you? 

Like the air you breathe. The food he gives you—apples, always, on rainy days; salmon and rice in a pretty bowl with your name etched into the porcelain—and the attention, the affection—

(suck my cock, pretty girl. don't make me put a gag on you—deeper, you can take it, can't you? take my fat cock all the way up inside your sweet little cunt—my pretty girl—)

—it’s all so divine. 

His hands on your body, your throat, spasm. Once. Just once. Against your leg, his cock twitches. Leaks prespend into the demin. You rut against his thigh, aching for it. Whimpering—

And then he's groaning into the kiss, snarling out your name until it wedges between your lungs, syphoned in from his scorching breath. Another brand in the shape of him. 

Ghost kisses the same way he eats—messy, sloppy; all teeth and tongue, and full pretty lips. Clumsy, like no one taught him how to properly hold his silverware and he's trying to mock what he saw on television. Brumish. A broken, contemptuous pastiche of sumptuosity. A starving dog, snarling around its plundered morsel. Protective. Possessive. 

It coils around you. Thick, smothering. 

He sucks your tongue into his mouth, catching it between his teeth. The sting brings tears to the corner of your eyes, and when you pry them open, you find him already staring at you (always, always, always—), lidded. Heavy pools of desire shaded in the brume of a winter dawn. A bonfire flickering in the distance of a whiteout. Sanctuary from the cold—

He seems to catch himself. Expression flickering. Warbling around the edges. It closes off in a blink. He pulls back. Locks into the ashlar veneer of this indifference he wears like a suit of armour. 

But you saw it. It was there. Within reach—

“Need me, don't you?” He drawls, timber a needlepoint between cruelty and desire. Sultry, low. Husky. He knows what it does to you. How he can unravel you at the seams with just his voice alone. “Need me so fuckin’ much, pet. Would be lost without me—”

“Please, Simon,” you whisper, feather-soft. Cunt throbbing, pulsing. Needy. “Please—”

The strident reprimand for using his name doesn't come. His hand tightens around your throat, unconscious. A paroxysm that has pleasure carving itself down your spine, electric. 

“Come get it, then,” he rasps, voice wrecked. Raw. Curling at the edges, thickening his accent until the words elide. 

Hand to your throat, he drags you close. Closer still. Keeps you sat pretty on his lap as he pulls you in for a bruising, hungry kiss. Tongue shoving between your teeth when you gasp.

His kisses are always hungry, but this is different. Greedy. He devours you whole. Eats you alive. His hand falls to your lower back, holding you tight to his chest.

You moan into it, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Squeezing until your knuckles blanche, joints twinging in discomfort. 

After months of nothing, this alone is bliss. His taste soaking onto your tongue, drenching it in the bitter tang of sage, wheatgrass, and stale cigarettes. Intoxicating. It leaks into you, nocuous. Infects from the inside out. 

His plan coming to fruition, you think. What he sought out to do all along, ever since you wandered close to this untameable Tartarean guard, and offered yourself up to the jowls of a starving beast. 

He pulls away with a heavy breath, eyes charing around the edges; brittle briquette. 

“Gonna be a good girl from now on? Come upstairs, be a good mum for dad? Or am I gonna ‘ave to cane this—” his hand drops, grabbing a fistful of your ass in his hand, fingers digging into the skin between your cheeks. Possessive. It cracks like a whip down your nerves. “—tight lit’le arse?”

You shake your head instantly. Quickly. “I'll be good,” you whisper into his chin, tongue flicking out to lick across his scars. The dried sweat on his skin tastes briny. Reminds you of the ocean on a brumous November evening. The incipient yawn of a ravenous hurricane gathering its lot on the shore. 

Sirens blare in the distance. Fear curdles in your guts, sits heavy like a stone. An anchor. 

“So sweet f’me,” he mutters, words deepening as his head falls back, letting you pepper kisses across the underside of his jaw. Mouthing along the constellation of scars. His voice is rumble. It shivers across your lips, tongue. Shakes the marrow in your bones. “Better stay this way, pet.”

Into his pulse, you murmur, “I think you like it better when I’m bad.” 

You can feel the snarl brimming in the back of his throat. Your ass stings with the phantom burn of when he lashed out with the whip. It drags a whimper out from deep within your chest. 

His hand tightens around your neck. A warning. “Got some guests over f’dinner tonight. Would love to finally introduce them to my sweet little wife—” deft fingers slip across the dewy skin of your folds, knuckles grazing over your drenched hole. The touch makes you squirm. “But if you’re gonna be bad, then I’ll leave you locked up down ‘ere.”

“I’ll be good,” you swear, words a hushed breath over his jugular. His finger flattens, drawls soft, slow circles around your clit. “Ah, I’ll—I’ll be so, so good, Simon—”

“Good girls deserve rewards, don’t they?” His palm flexes possessively around your throat when you nip at old scar tissue. “Maybe I’ll let you sleep in our bed tonight instead of in your dog house. We can ‘ouse together. I’ll fuck you proper—” he roughly shoves two fingers into your hole, leering when you gasp, back arching in a bow. “Know this pretty pussy has been achin’ for me, ‘asn’t it? Gonna breed it full—”

There’s static in your head, ringing in your ear. The noise distorted, pulled underwater. You think you say something, plead—no, no, no, anything but that—but his hand tightens around your throat, fingers pushing up, up into you, notching against that spot inside that makes your head swim, your vision flicker. The abyssal chasm inside of you aches, rages; its waters swell, currents frothing, slamming against the ceiling of its iron prison, and—

Simon pulls away. Fingers stilling inside of you. No friction, no relief. Hypoxia renders the world silent. Muted. Held in stasis, stagnating at the edge of a gaping precipice he holds you over, secured by the fragile curve of your neck, fine bone china. 

Phosphenes swim by. The chossy wobbles.

This distance is agony. You need to be closer, closer, to crawl inside of him, to live in the brackets of his ribs, safe and protected from the world he warns you about. Stone cold. You mewl, whine—

“Gonna be my good little wife?”

Gasping with broken lungs, you nod. Nod, nod until you’re nauseous. Dizzy. Sick—

His spit cools on your lip. Your hackles raise, body shuddering in revulsion—some primal part rears, hisses it’s infectious. Wrong. Get rid of it—

“Not gonna run?”

Slowly, you lick your lips, catching his sickness on your tongue. Swallowing it down until it sinks like a stone to the bottom of your belly. Heavy, for such a small, damning thing. 

How absurd, you think. How absolutely mad. 

Then you whisper, paperthin, “kiss me again, please, Simon—”

And he moves. Liquid in the gloam. Made more for shadows, midnight, than for golden apricity, where the light is harsh on his face, unveiling ruins and ravines; monoliths meant to be paid tribute to in the dark. Your hands lift to his jaw when he moves in, catching your lips in a bruising, biting kiss. 

His touch is searing. Owning. He isn't laying claim: no, you're already his. 

It's possessive and angry. No finesse. All slate teeth and tender tongue. They slide together in a strange game; little fawn stupidly nipping at the tiger's heel. He lets you, groaning into your mouth when you arch back, hips pushing into his fingers, taking him deeper. A pale pantomime of what's to come when he lays you on his soft bed, sweet and divine, and buries himself deep. 

It should scare you. Ought to. And maybe it does. Survival, you think, but you still pull him closer. Deeper. Because it’s bliss, you find. The world around you falling dead. Silent. Pulled into a vacuum. Teetering on the edge of a black hole, event horizon. He drags you in. 

Simon hums, pulling you closer. Touching you—soft, sweet. Palms a gyve. Shackles, chains. His fingers lift from your neck, trailing down the slope of your throat until he reaches the golden loop of your collar's hook. His gaze glides, magmatic, down to where your leash dangles between your heaving breasts.

It's almost tender when he grabs it into his fist. When he pulls, pulls—

Your back arching. His fingers slipping deeper inside your cunt. Obedient little doll.

When he lifts his eyes, the look you find is hot enough to char bone. You taste blood in the back of your throat—

Into the seam of your mouth, he purrs, “good girl.”

—and you swallow it down with a moan. 

(after all, you know better than to run from starving dogs—)

#when your kidnapper is mean and rude as hell but you've been dtf since day one: the manifesto #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #i forget where i put peoples hands sometimes and then have to go back and remind myself where everyone's at lmao #hope you enjoyedddddddddddd #i'm gonna go pour myself a glass of bleach bye #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod #ghost #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #ghost x you

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

34 / 3.2k / part 2 of shark mermen Gaz and Soap for mermay >:)

...

You wake up to the morning sunlight glimmering off Gaz's salt-glazed skin. He's leaning over you, watching you intently with those fathomless all-black eyes.

You gasp and immediately drag yourself away--or try to, given the way his tail is wound under your legs like a snake's. In your haste, you bump up against Soap, who lurks behind you, somehow again taking you by total surprise.

Your heels scrape against sharp gravel as you fight to get out of reach. Gaz's tail coils inward as if to drag you back in, and you almost collapse over it in your scramble. But you finally manage to get out of reach. You stare down at them, your heart pounding in confusion and panic.

Soap smirks like this is the most fun he's had in weeks. His tail swishes in the shallows behind him. "G'morning."

This is a nightmare. A hallucination.

"Don't look so shocked," Soap says. "You've still got all your pieces. You really should try being more thankful. We saved your life."

"Saved my--" You cough and sputter. Salt and sand coat your throat. "You tried to kill me!"

"You would've died anyway," Gaz says. His matter-of-fact tone of voice is somehow more terrifying than Soap's high-energy arrogance.

"We were havin' a little look at you," Soap says. "That's all."

"You bit me!"

"Just a nip," Gaz admits. "I was curious."

"I wasn't," Soap says with a flash of his sharp teeth. He looks down at the second set of teeth marks--his teeth marks--on your calf. "That's a love bite."

⬇ nsfw, monster mermen, overt predator/prey dynamics, blood kink ⬇

You pull your legs in, withdrawing further up the rocky beach as you get to your feet. You don't have much space to get away from them. Worse, this tiny cove will be all but swallowed by high tide. The only way out is either back into the water or up the rocky face of the cliffs on all sides. You can only imagine the rock cutting into your bare hands and feet--or worse, climbing halfway up, slipping, and landing on the carpet of glass-sharp gravel.

There’s nowhere to go.

Soap stretches toward you again as you back away. He does it in this motion like a shrug, like he's luring you into a false sense of security by making you think he just happens to be putting his hands near your ankle. He can’t hide how the muscles in his shoulders bunch, wanting to pounce. "You'd have a better chance jumping back into the sea and holding your breath than climbing those rocks, human. Maybe you outswim us this time, even. Want to try?"

"I'll take my chances," you snap. His claw brushes your foot, and you quickly backpedal, climbing up onto the biggest boulder you can manage. It's only about as waist-high, though, and unsteady. Not quite tall enough to boost you toward any solid footholds up the forty-or-so-foot cliffside. Still, you have to try.

Gaz watches with annoyance as you reach for a shallow indent in the rock. "You'll kill yourself. Be reasonable," he scolds.

Your fingers find uncertain purchase in the shallow ridge overhead, and you force your toes to get with the program and grip what might be a rocky shelf to your side.

The two mer watch you haul yourself up a few feet. Soap pushes himself up the beach to get a better view, tail curling. Gaz studies the muscles in your legs. Then he watches your hands grip the rocks. You look even more defenseless in the sunlight, skin battered from exposure and clothes torn from the waves. His eyes follow the curve of your calf to the blood that's dried on your ankle. It looks bad.

He doesn't see you making it high enough for the inevitable fall to kill you, but it irritates him that you're choosing to act like this. You're fragile. Obviously, if he and Soap wanted to kill you, you'd be dead. They did their best to not kill you. He did, anyway.

"You think we'd let you drown when the tide comes in after keeping your fragile human body alive and intact this long?" Gaz calls up.

You ignore this in favor of boosting yourself up another foot. Your fingers slip on the next hold. Gravel clatters down the rock and showers both mer.

Soap smirks. "Gonnae fall, aye?”

Gaz's voice is flat. "Let her."

You make it up another two footholds before you slip.

Soap's smirk morphs into a wild laugh as you topple backward. You land on the rocks, hard, air knocked out of you with a surprised gasp. Both mer prowl toward you.

You dig the heels of your hands into the wet sand to scramble to your feet again. A sudden, sharp pain makes you hiss. You rip your hands out of the gravel to see a shard of curved glass sticking out of your palm of your dominant hand. Blood stains the base and wells up, trailing down your wrist.

Soap clocks the smell of blood. "What d'you want to try next, hmm?" he muses, tail swishing behind him. "Hurry up before the tide comes in or that cut'll attract somethin' unfriendly."

You glare at him. You want to scream. Or cry. You need help, but what are the chances the rescue boats will come back this way?

"So?" you snap, hiding your hand against your chest as he leans closer. "What does it matter to me if you eat me or something else does?"

"We don't care to eat you," Gaz says. "And if we did, we wouldn't share."

"Don't know about that, Gaz," Soap purrs. "You think she looks delicious, don't ya?"

You look from one to the other, still clutching your bleeding hand. "Why would you bring me here if you didn't want to eat me?"

"Curiosity." Gaz's eyes dart back to your face. “I told you.”

Frustration burns in your chest. "You bit me. You dragged me around the water. What else is fucking left to be curious about?"

Gaz hesitates. To him, you are a sight. Tattered clothes clinging to your damp body, he can see more of you than when he first spied you on that little boat, sitting so carelessly with your legs dangling in the water.

He stares at the bite wound on your arm. It's not just a “nip” like Soap’s--it's deep. A bite that left a deep, dark, ugly mark surrounded by a ring of dark blue-purple bruising. It will scar. The memory of his teeth will always be in your skin. He can still taste you: fresh adrenaline, copper blood, and seawater.

"What you feel like." His voidlike eyes are half-lidded, his voice soft. "Up close."

You glance back at him, your heart pounding. You're defenseless right now--you have been since they threw you onto this beach. So there has to be some truth to what they're saying, right? You remember reading somewhere that sharks are curious. That they sometimes investigate with their teeth, biting without any real intent to injure. So... maybe...

Soap leans in behind you and skims his clawed fingertip up your arm, his voice just past the shell of your ear. "We can take you back to shore, easy. We just need to clean those wounds. How about it," he purrs into your ear. "Gonnae help us help you?"

You shy away from his touch, feeling goosebumps break out all over. "Okay. Okay, fine." You glance down at your hand, then at Soap. "But not... not you."

You look at Gaz, hesitant, but your meaning is clear.

Soap's smirk twists into a frown. "Why not me?"

Gaz snatches your wrist. "Come here, then."

You find yourself pulled into the arms of a shark again as Gaz shuffles you into the crook of his arm. You're awed at how much bigger than humans these shark mer are. He coils his tail under you both. He grips your bloodied wrist in one hand and plants the other firmly on your hip to slide you even more flush against him. Any protest you had dies in your throat as he repositions your injured hand in his and plucks the glass out in a single, rough motion. A gasp punches out of you. The noise has Gaz pulling you closer, his arm wrapped tight around you.

You tense up, watching the claws on his hands very carefully, but he seems to maneuver you in such a careful, conscientious way to keep from hurting you with them that, once he has you positioned on his tail, you relax somewhat. They really are being careful with you, you realize. Some of the tension leaves your shoulders. You breathe out through your teeth. You can let this happen. Some people would love to be in your position, even. There's something tender but not quite gentle in how he grips you and how his thumb presses into your thigh.

He tucks your head under his chin. A low hum vibrates in his chest. Something about the sound is soothing. Or at least distracting enough that you don't notice him moving your hand to his mouth until his hot tongue laves over your wound.

Your blood--in his mouth--and roaring in your ears. How did you let yourself be tricked into letting a shark lap up your blood while he’s holding you close enough that you can see the beads of sea water clinging to the scarred ridges of his chest?

Even Gaz is somewhat surprised at the way his tongue instinctively scrapes over your wound to stem the blood flow. It's not an entirely animal compulsion to lick the wound clean--it's a practical enough way to clear away the blood. Tasting you is a bonus. That's what he tells himself as he trails his tongue down your arm to catch what's dripping down in rivulets to your elbow.

You squirm at the sting. Gaz tightens his grip.

"Is that all you were curious about, then?" Soap asks, sliding closer. He's talking to Gaz but looks down at you with glimmering solid blue eyes.

"Steady," he breathes, his voice still rough. He can smell your nervousness. He can feel your heart pounding. "She's got cuts all over. Let me..."

You feel his hands begin to peel away your tattered clothes and slide under them. You bite down on a squeal, grabbing his wrist. "Hey--!"

Before you can voice your protests fully, Soap's fingers brush the small bite mark on your ankle. You jolt, pulling your legs away and hugging them to yourself. Distracted by this, Gaz lets his free hand glide over the outside of your leg. His calloused fingers follow the curve of your hip, your thigh, your calf. He tugs your leg free so he can study the underside, too. He runs the pads of his fingers all the way back up to the bend of your knee, along the flesh of your hamstring, across the inside of your thigh. You shiver.

At the same time, Soap tugs at the bottom of your tattered shirt with interest. "Why d'you humans wear cloth? Is it because your skin is too thin?" Before you can reconsolidate yourself enough to answer, he scoffs. "All the good it does you. Shreds easier than seaweed."

“Mm,” Gaz agrees absently. He shifts you so your back is back braced up against his chest, your legs bunched up atop his tail. This way, he can keep you here and keep his hands free. He’ll have as much access to you as he needs.

At this angle, you feel rather than see the smooth dark planes of Gaz's chest and stomach. It should be wrong to notice the scars that run over his arms as they pass over you. Or the way his muscles ripple under your back. His body is a dichotomy: warm to the touch and smooth as fine silk, but rough and coarse with scars. Plus there’s the shark half.

Soap snatches up one of your ankles. He prods at your foot. "You get around on these?"

You huff. "When I can, clearly."

He runs the edge of one of his claws over the top of your foot, follows the arched bone underneath, and presses into your instep. He pokes and prods and presses hard on the ball of your foot with a curious look. "Must be slow."

"Doesn't have to be fast," you mutter.

"Then how d'you catch food?"

"I don't have to catch my food."

"You're a predator, though. You've got eyes facing forward."

"I can hunt what I need to hunt.” Salads and instant noodles, but you don’t bother saying that.

"That's good." Soap's hands slide to your toes. He finds it weird how your feet sort of resemble his hands. Little fingers and claws and everything. "As long as you've got prey slower and smaller and softer than you are."

"If that's even possible," Gaz says.

You scowl. Rude.

Gaz seems to enjoy your sour reaction a little too much. "I suppose your prey must be stupid, too."

"Watch it."

A smirk plays at his lips as his gaze flicks down to the rest of you, curled up on his lap in his arms. "Do you think you can make me? What'll you do--scratch me with your claws?" He laces your fingers with his. Your soft, blunt human fingers and his thicker, sharper, callused ones. "Bite me with your razor-sharp teeth?"

"Maybe."

"How vicious." He nudges your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. "Go on, then."

You consider it. Then you realize it would just prove his point, so you turn your face away with a huff. You wish you'd paid more attention to all those National Geographic specials about mer. You don't specifically remember any real-life cases of shark mer eating humans, but there are definitely made-for-TV movies about it.

Soap's hands creep up to your calf. His thumbs prod your shin and then your kneecap. "I can feel her bones," he says in surprise.

"We both have bones.”

"Well, yours are like rock. Ye got thin skin, hard bones. 'Cept your claws." Soap's fingers wander up your bare legs past your kneecaps. When they make it to your thigh, he grips it with his whole hand and squeezes lightly.

He's fascinated--amazed, even--by your body. It's almost enough to make you feel self-conscious, but everything you'd cover up is a fascination for them. Bumps, stretch marks, pock marks, folds, fat, stubble--you feel yourself tense up when hands wander to those parts of yourself you've learned to be ashamed of, but they don't react. Of course they don't, but still. It feels strange.

Gaz notices your discomfort. He keeps his grip light and loose on you, but his eyes linger on the flesh of your thigh in Soap's hands, the way your skin dimples under the pressure. "It's like a seal,” Gaz says.

"My thigh is like a seal?"

"Soft and blubbery,” Soap adds. "And seals are delicious." He leans down and pinches a bit of skin in his teeth.

You squirm a bit at the harmless little nip, but moreso at the way his hand slides a little too far up your thigh. You put your uninjured hand over his to stop it from going any higher.

Unfortunately, that just seems to draw his attention to what might be up there. His eyes flick up to your shorts. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Doesn't seem like nothing." He grabs the hem of your shorts to slide them higher.

You grab his hands. "Hey!"

He grins. "You're a bit twitchy.”

"That's not allowed," you tell him, face burning.

"Isn't it?" Gaz says. He loops his long fingers under your thigh and lifts it up as if to give Soap more room. "Whose rule is that?"

You quickly snap your thighs shut anyway, curling your legs into yourself as best you can. "My rule. Don't touch."

A low noise of frustration rumbles in Soap's chest. "Why do humans cover up so much?" His hands slide up your outer thighs, and he bends until his face is almost level with your stomach. His frown deepens as if this were the thing he was really curious about. "Just let me look for a second."

"Absolutely not."

"Waste of nice soft human skin," he mutters. "Hiding it all away."

“Let us in,” Gaz says.

“No.”

"Not even me?" he asks.

"No."

They both frown.

"Why not?” Gaz asks. “What are you keeping there?"

You huff. "It's my-- my reproductive things. Happy?"

"Your... reproductive things." Soap furrows his brow and turns his head to Gaz. "Reproductive like a fish?"

Gaz's fingers continue to squeeze your inner thighs in slow, deliberate motions. "No," he says after a beat. "Like a mammal."

"Ah. So?" Soap gives you a blank look. "Those are all up inside you then, aye? Nothin' to see."

He takes hold of your knee again. You immediately pull out of his grasp and turn to the side, sitting up on your knees this time as Gaz shifts his tail to accommodate you. "Nothing to see as far as you're concerned," you respond, curt.

Soap continues to leer at you, but his prodding is less insistent at your clear refusal. "Just tell us then. Where is it exactly? In the front? Or the back?"

You cross your arms. "None of your business."

"Don't humans mate for fun?" Soap asks.

“I didn't say that.”

"They doooo," Soap singsongs. He smiles and bares his teeth, the sharp points on his canines glinting in the light.

All the heat that had gone out of your cheeks comes rushing back in. " Do you?"

Soap grins again in that annoying way. "We do. Very fun. So what's the big deal?”

"We're not mating is what," you snap. You push yourself off of Gaz’s lap and stumble a bit, catching yourself with a splash into the deepening tide. "When are you taking me back home?"

Soap looks disappointed at the possibility of being deprived so suddenly of his new toy.

Gaz frowns too. "Now you're talking like you didn't enjoy yourself." He pushes himself up and follows you into the water, his fins cutting through it smoothly. "But a deal is a deal. We’ll take you back to shore. Once night falls, of course."

"But it's morning!"

"So it is." Gaz circles your legs, forming a crescent around you as he comes to a rest on his side in the shallow water. He smirks at you like he finds your confusion endearing in a tedious way. "Night will come again. We've got time until then."

"But the tide will come in," you remind them, casting a look back at the tiny little cove.

"It will,” Gaz agrees.

You don't like the way his smirk grows. Soap grins, too.

A slow realization that you're being toyed with comes over you. "What am I supposed to do, then?"

Gaz's smirk turns to a lazy little grin to match Soap’s. "Keep letting us entertain you.”

You hem and haw, but ultimately, when they pull you back into the shallow water with them, you don’t fight it. You’d rather conserve your energy.

Soap's hands join Gaz's, running up your strange human legs again. "We're going to keep her. Right, Gaz?"

"Of course," Gaz murmurs. The sea doesn't like to release its gifts. "Why would we bother leaving a catch intact without keeping it?"

...

part 1 / [part 2]

more Gaz / more Soap / masterlist tag

#mine #story #mermay #mermay 2024 #monster lover #monster fucker #merman #kyle gaz garrick #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #fem reader #x reader #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #tf 141 x reader #teratophillia #terato #monster romance #monster x reader #soap x gaz x reader

[bunnys-kisses]

john price - a ramble cw: pwp, chokehold, daddy kink, breeding, possessive behaviour, baby trapping, drabble, dark-ish themes(?)

price can be a bit of a asshole. he loves seein' his girl squirm in his arms as he thrusts into your tight cunt. you couldn't fit him the first time you got together. he spent all night working your pussy until you were wet enough to let him fuck you. but you were such a good girl for him, weren't ya? he held you almost a choke-hold, not hard enough to cut the air but enough to keep you under him. he heard your pathetic little noises, 'you know when daddy's rough with ya? let me take what i want, because you're my good girl." his voice was like thunder in the back of your mind. you made a pathetic little noise and he moved your head up to face him. he heavily made out with you as his heavy balls hit against your ass. he told you he had breedin' balls and you weren't leaving his sights until he got you nice and bred. but don't worry, he'll take good care of ya. daddy makes sure his girl is right as rain.

"my girl." his voice was like heaven. your brain felt like goo that was daring to slip out your ear. you ignored all the red flags, the possessiveness, the willingness to breed you without as much as a conversation about it. you knew logistically he was tryin' to baby trap you. but the heat in your gut was yelling for the feelin' of price's cum in your pussy. to know he claimed you as his. a mark you couldn't get rid of. it made all the chemicals in your brain ignore the rational side of it. you choke out a moan as he squeezed your throat a little tighter. his cock rammed into your pussy. he spewed more filth into your ear as he moved. the bed squeaked under you. he said in a low ton, his accent thick on his tongue, "my good girl. ya, you know you are. that's why you'll never run and hide from me. because if you do, yeah? ya know what would happen?" his breath was hot on your ear, "i'd find ya, hunt ya to the corners of the earth. my baby girl ain't gettin' away that easy." he chuckled, "but you're just so good to me. you'd never leave me. you love me." love was heavy on his tongue. you whimpered in response, your head was swimming. he turned your head to look over your shoulder so he could kiss you. he was domineering, he was possessive and at times a man that you should be afraid of. but you could only bury your head in the pillows and let out a string of pathetic moans. his cock kept you full, you were drunk off it. the whole night you had been together, as he took you apart and examined what made you tick. what made his baby girl feel so good.

and you'd let him. as he came inside of you for the first time that night. you let him be the controlling freak he was. mark you, claim you, own you. if anyone saw you in that moment, they'd think you were a joke to feminism. but you moaned into the pillows and arched your back, so for the second round he could press against your cervix even. his soft words made you see stars, "that's it. that's a good girl."

but in the end, no matter how much you thought otherwise, you were price's good girl <3

#bunny writes #call of duty #bunny drabbles #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty smut #call of duty x reader #price call of duty #price cod #captain john price #captain price smut #john price smut #price smut #captain price #price x you #john price x reader #captain price x reader #price x reader

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Stricken 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, ostricization,and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you were scarred by a storm years ago and its bringer has come to upheave your life once more.

Characters: God of War!Thor

Note: I did this finally.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You always know when a storm's coming. The hairs on your arms stand and your skin burns hot. The smell of rain is tinted by another scent. That of burning flesh and ash. Your scars raze as if struck again and for a moment, you cannot hear or see. 

Slowly, the scent of rain returns to you and the noise of the patter, sometimes more a hammering, as if to remind you of its bearer. The thunder is his war cry. The lightning his wrath. You do wonder why then it should’ve come down on you. 

You keep your hood up, your chin low. Though you hide, the villagers know who you are, they know of your misfortune. The calamity wrought into your flesh in veined scars. Your face is marked with the storm, zigzagged with lines as your left eye is struck blind and white. 

Yet it isn’t your name they whisper as you stop at a stall to buy grain. It is his. The Prince of Asgard. The might God of Thunder. The monster who made you like this. 

The air is thick, roiling with unspent moisture, and the clouds threatening in a grey ripple. You should have come yesterday. You should not have waited so long.  

You trade your coin and move on, gathering the small rations you can afford. You’ll return to your hovel, gather what you can from the garden, and check the traps for rabbits. It should get you through, though the frost does eat away at your harvest.  

As you have it, between the chirping of your disfigurement, there is worse creeping from the north. The snows have fallen heavy and whole lakes have frozen to the silt. You do not believe all you hear but you know better than to disregard the nip in the air. 

Your basket remains like but you’ve spent your limit. Your cloak shifts with your movement and you shrink lower as you near the group of adolescents feigning at battle with sticks. Their audience glimpses your passing and you hear their voices mingle with laughter. 

“It’s that crone. The burnt one,” comes a bit louder than is meant. 

You don’t stop. You don’t show that you’ve heard it. There is nothing to be said.  

“Cursed, by Thor’s hammer,” another chortles, “it is said he was forging and struck the blade too hard. In his wrath, he sent a storm. A mongrel like her drew it upon herself, broken like the sword.” 

Certainly, that too is a story to be met with skepticism. One cannot guess at what the gods do in Asgard nor why they bring only misery and chaos to Midgard. You cannot disagree that the storm was no favour to you. A curse, certainly, though the meaning can never be known. 

You move along, leaving behind their whispers and their sneers. Off to your solace, to your safe. Out of the path of any wandering soul or any blowing storm.  

⛈

A storm rages without. Water swirls and batters your small abode, built against the wall of a cave on a carpet of peat. You cover your ears as the winds whistle and wail. You quake beneath your cloak, eyes locked shut as you cower away from the tempest so much as your own memories. 

The blinding white flash and the scalding hot pain. Your fingers creep up to your chin and feel the rigged scars. You can never forget, no matter how you try. You can never be as you were. You are marked, you are damaged, and as the villagers have it on their tongues, broken. 

Even your family would not have you. You remember your mother’s wail as your father drove you off like some beast. ‘The gods have smited you themselves. You cannot remain or you will wreck ruin upon us all.’ 

Days of walking and tears, like the very storm that scarred you, a haze through which you trod until you could go no more. Until your head would split and the burnt flesh began to weep. A woman found you on the forest floor, rotting away from the corruption spreading through you. 

You don’t remember much of her. Only her touch and how she healed you. She bid you off with the cloak you wear and some food for your travels. Then you were alone and thus you remain. Not even the thieves will steal from you, nor the criminals darken your door. A curse is worth no piece of gold, no drop of blood. 

The pounding of rain relents. A chill creeps beneath the slats of your door and seep into the walls. You fill the earth with what kindling you have, the clay chimney puffing smoke up through the center of the roof. You hold your hands out to warm but find little comfort. 

You settle on your side beneath your cloak and stare into the flames. You shiver. It’s cold. Very cold. Typically, the rain chases away the chill but this is different. You can feel it in the ground. You curl up tight, clinging to your warmth, let your eyes close. Sleep comes but for lack of and not peacefully. 

Your dreams are a maelstrom. There a flames and ice, one after the other, sometimes together. Sharp pointed shards frozen and hanging, then licking tendrils of heat from below. You are lost in the land of sleep, tortured by a world built of your own fears and follies. 

You wake stiff and frigid. The fire has gone out. Not even smoke remains in the pile of ash. You move carefully, bones aching, scars tingling. You touch the hard ridging along your cheek and your fingers pulse from the cold. You can see your breath. 

How can it be? It was sunny before the rain. You get your feet under you and stand with a groan. Near the door, a strange dusting of white powders around the door, flecking in from beneath and around the edges. Snow? 

Were the tales true after all? You wince as suddenly your scars singe and sting. Ow. You recoil and cover your face with your hands, hissing and wheezing through the pain. It hurts terribly. Worse than even the first strike.  

You pull your hands away as your eyes water and you blink through your tears. You can see, at least in your good eye. There is no lightning, it is only in your mind. You shakily turn and search around. You cry out again as the agony surges once more in your head. 

Why? 

Your legs quake. Something is amiss. The frost has come and this meagre hut cannot withstand it. You take your rucksack and put what you can carry into it. Your water skin is strung across your chest and your pack upon your back. You wrap your boots with rags and your hands too. You haven’t the clothing for the cold but you will need to find something. Perhaps skin a hare or two. 

The door blows inward almost as soon as you touch it, another gust nearly bowling you over. You sway with the wind and cling to the crooked doorframe. You shove yourself out, just as quickly flattened to the wall by a flurry of snow. It dusts your face coldly and you pull up your neck scarf over your nose and pull your hood into place. 

You set off, hunched, reaching with your arms as you lift your knees over the treacherous heaps. You keep close to the rock wall. The thought of turning back stops you but it seems as foolish an idea. The hovel cannot hold for much longer. You need to get to the mouth of the cave and chance a sleeping bear within. 

You sidle along, slowed by the snow and the wind, the former soaking through your clothing as the latter whips around your hood. Suddenly, a roll of thunder, like war drums, churns in the air. The word dims and the furor sounds again; louder, closer. 

You cry out and lift an arm to shield yourself instinctively. You curl your hand into the rockface and holler even louder, closing your eyes as your memory summons another storm. No, it cannot be. Not again.  

A deafening boom shakes the ground and knocks you to your knees. You crawl along, keeping low near the ragged stone, those hidden beneath the snow jabbing against your palms. You whimper and whine, blinded by the thickening curtain all around you. 

Yet you never heard of the god raining down snow upon the lands. Only the slaking rains and the hot violence of his bolts. Never this. What sword has he broken this time? Perhaps it was his very own hammer.

The thunder overhead continues its horrid thrum as more pulses in the earth. Boom, boom, boom. You feel it beneath your hands. Your knees come down clumsily as you scramble through the piling powder. You open your eyes and still cannot see. The world is smudge in gray white and black, the sky flashing and darkening from one moment to the next. 

You cry out again as your scars burn. You push yourself back on your heels and grasp your face as you shriek. It hurts! So bad! Your eyes well and flow over. Your body trembles and collapses. You writhe in the snow, contorting with the agony as your flesh feels as if it is splitting. 

Beneath the incessant pounding comes a rocky noise. Like laughter it curdles in the air and chases after you like the steady boom, boom, boom. Closer and closer, louder and louder, the earth quakes in tandem with the cacophony. 

“I’ve found another,” the deep voice scoffs and snickers, “ah, Heimdall, you must see this--” 

The craterous voice halts and the air still. The snow drifts but the wind stops and the thunder relents, the world seeming to hum. You scratch at your face as the flames grow unbearable. You must be alight. It can be the only reason for such pain. 

The large figure, a blurry silhouette in your skewed vision, looms like a mountain. He steps over you, sliding a foot between you and the cave wall and flips you onto your back. You stare up at the sky, rolling in sheets of grey and black, the dark figure standing above, blotting out the clouds. You sob and plead. 

“Make it stop!” You beg as your hood falls back, “kill me! Kill me! It hurts.” 

He bends as your eyes roll back and he grabs your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. He pulls you half off the ground, not a single grunt for the effort. You feel whoever, whatever it is, looking down at you; upon you. A rattle rises in his gritty throat. 

“And what are you?” He breathes. 

You feel another surge and babble, reining in your wild eyes as you quiver uncontrollably. You make yourself look at him. You shudder and shake your head. Shaggy red hair, a braided beard, and eyes so blue they jolt you. Ink marks one side of his broad face as he wears fur upon his soldiers beneath emblems of the godly lands. 

“It hurts...” you rasp, “I am dying.” 

“You...” he grabs your chin, holding you by your shoulder. His thumb extends up your face to touch the scars and you let out a shrill howl as the agony piques. You latch onto his thick arm and thrash. 

“It buuuuuuuurrnssssssssss,” you scream as your spine arches. 

“Hmm,” he hums and throws you into the snow. You continue your desperate wriggling, the fire softening but not leaving you completely, “Heimdall!” He calls out like a war horn, “get your skinny ass over here!” 

There’s a tinkle of coy laughter and lighter footsteps that land on the boulder above. Your eyes drift over and you see another shadow, this one hazier but smaller. A dusting of snow flies up beside you as the other man lands beside you. No, not a man. 

Heimdall? Son of Odin. 

“Oh, Thor, what trouble have you found--” 

“Another one,” the other growls. Not the other, Thor. The God of Thunder. The beast who marked you. “Father says they all must come.” 

“This one?” Heimdall muses as his voice spikes with humour, “why look at her. Pathetic—wait a moment... brother, is this your handiwork?” He squats to see you closer and snickers again, “why how very peculiar.” 

“Bring her,” Thor barks and spins on his heel, swinging his hammer, “we haven’t time--” 

“You bring her, brother. As you say, you are so much stronger--” 

“Just do it!” Thor snarls and a peel of thunder breaks through the clouds. “I need ale.” 

#thor #god of war #dark thor #dark!thor #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #god of war ragnarok #stricken

[flowercrowngods]

🤍🌷 @stevesbipanic and @the-winged-doe asked to see ugly unpolished unrefined words, soo—

cw & tags: past major character death, grief, attempted time-travel fix-it(s), eddie&robin besties || potential wip

Eddie takes a long drag of his cigarette, the biting hot smoke hitting the back of his throat and clawing its way into his lungs, going as deep as he allows and leaving a permanent mark that brings neither relief nor calmness tonight. His fingers shake where they’re pressed to his lips, but the rest of him is unmoving where he sits on the front porch of their new trailer. 

It’s quiet out here. It’s always quiet in Hawkins these days, the city a fucking ghosttown. 

And he knows it’s not because of the one they lost. He knows it’s not because of him. But still the emptiness is stark and the silence oppressivem more so than it ever has been. 

Everyone still looks for him, months later. Dustin still begins to speak, cutting himself off mid-sentence, and Robin still stands with enough space to either side, like she expects him to just show up and invade her space like the home he made for himself in there. 

And somewhere among all that is Eddie. With his very own history. Or, non-history, as it turns out. But history and non-history leave wounds alike, and the memories feel just as real. A small mercy, at the end of the day, for them to feel real when they’re all he has left anymore. 

He takes another drag, not quite exhaling before he obliterates the cigarette and fishes for a new one before the butt even hits the ground. 

Fumbling with the lighter in his pocket, he only gets as far as placing the butt between his lips before a hand snakes into his field of vision to snag it from his mouth. 

“Hey,” he complains halfheartedly but makes no attempt at getting it back, watching instead as Robin comes up to sit beside him, grimacing at the stink of tobacco that must be heavy around him. 

“You’re disgusting,” she says with no real heat behind her words.

Eddie shrugs, because yeah, sure. He’s been called worse things. Robin’s called him worse things. This is her being nice. Her complaininig about his incessant smoking is nothing new. What is new is what she does next, placing the cigarette between her own lips and reaching for the light he’s been holding in a loose grip since she arrived. 

She starts coughing immediately, pulling a face at the disgusting feeling of smoke in her lungs and tobacco on her tongue. But she keeps going. Eddie can only watch in surprise and mild horror. 

“These things’ll kill you,” he says then in an echo of her usual sentiment, aware that he sounds as bewildered as he feels. 

“Well,” Robin says, aiming for casual, but quickly interrupted by a wheeze and a cough that’s almost adorable. “Let them try.” 

Eddie huffs, a pale little smile lingering on his lips as he leans back against the stairs behind him, resting his weight on his forearm to watch her. There is something captivating about her. Eddie always wonders what it is, wants to study her forever. 

Maybe it’s only the lingering traces of Everything Steve Harrington that clings to her every breath, her every move, her every fucking cell, with how much he was a part of her and she of him. Maybe it’s their shared grief that has made Eddie fall a bit in love with her and with the way the moonlight catches in her hair and in the smoke wafting from her cigarette. 

But somehow he refuses to believe that all he loves about her is merely the memory of Steve. 

Robin, in turn, is kind enough to let him stare. Kind enough to let him find out what it is between them. If this friendship is more than a misguided projection of grief and mourning and trauma; more than co-dependence and the obsessive will to keep this one person in your life. This one person who understands. 

After a while of Robin just holding the cigarette between her fingers, becuase no matter how strong her will to self destruct, she never quite got it right with the smoking, Eddie snatches it back before it goes to waste completely. As if pulled in by a string attached to his hollowed out chest, Robin leans back and into him in one smooth motion. It’s too calculated, though, and Eddie can feel how much she sags once she doesn’t have to hold herself up anymore. 

He’ll hold her. It’s fine. She gets to rest if she wants to. God knows she needs it. 

The night is warm for mid-September, but still Robin shakes against him. Eddie holds her closer. 

Silence settles over them, and it’s not an easy one. Silence is never easy anymore, especially with them. He feels so deeply hollow that even the silence echoes in there, creating an ever-present, uncomfortable thrumming of apprehension and anxiety within him. A certain sense of doom, one that can’t quite decide if it’s only an echo itself. 

“I wanna stop time,” Robin says at last, the cigarette long dead between Eddie’s fingers, but he somehow can’t bring himself to flick it away. “I don’t want tomorrow.” 

I don’t ever want a new day. I don’t ever want another tomorrow. I just want Steve. 

They ring in his head still, another echo that only hollows him out further every time it reaches him — Robin, overcome with hysterical grief, screaming and crying, curled up on that hospital floor, her cries quieting down and making Eddie wish she would be loud again, because the quiet was what killed him. The quiet, the whispered words, the declarations that tomorrow could go fuck itself if it came without Steve made him wish, irrationally, desperately, that their roles were reversed. That he could have died and Steve could have lived, and Robin would never have to wish tomorrow never came. 

He’s not entirely sure if she remembers the words, too. If she even said them in this world. 

So he takes a deep breath, breathes away memories and non-histories, feels the heavy weight of his guitar pick hanging around his neck, resting on the scarred flesh of his chest, and tries not to think of the one string left on his acoustic guitar. Tries not to think of his one last attempt. One last try. 

“I know,” he tells her. “Me neither.” 

He peers over her head, lifting his left wrist to check his watch. Ten minutes until midnight. Ten minutes until Steve’s birthday. 

“It’s not tomorrow yet,” he tries lamely, and Robin huffs — the sound wet and bitter and hopeless, making Eddie’s eyes sting. 

“It’s always fucking tomorrow,” she rasps, her voice flat and wavering, and Eddie knows her well enough to know she’s about to cry. And she knows him well enough to do it. 

“I know,” he says again, and reaches for his necklace through his shirt. One more attempt. One more try. One more chance. His eyes burn. 

She turns to him after taking a moment to compose herself, peering up at him through her lashes. 

“Tell me again?” 

His heart falls, the tense apprehension vanishing from the air, bur quickly replaced by something a lot more heavy. Something that looks and smells and feels like grief. 

They both know he’ll do anything she asks. He can’t really bear saying not to her. And not about this, anyway — she’s the only one who knows. 

She’s the one who should have had the chance. 

“Which part?” he asks, holding a new cigarette out for her to light it. She does, and the both follow the flame of the lighter Robin always keeps in her pocket these days. 

She leans forward and takes a drag. Eddie lets her. 

“All of them.“

Eddie sighs, pain welling up inside him, and he closes his eyes against the night sky. “Robbie,” he pleads, but he doesn’t finish his plea. He’ll do it. He’ll do anything she asks. 

But before he starts recounting the tales of how he almost saved Steve Harrington, he finds himself saying something he never thought he’d tell her. 

“There’s one more.” The words hang in the air, and Robin doesn’t react. Has no idea what’s coming; what he’s about to tell her. The guitar pick is heavy on the necklace around his throat. “There’s one more try. One more chance. I’m… I have one more—“ 

He can’t even finish the sentence. Can’t bring himself to say it, lest it all be jinxed forever. He doesn’t want to hope. Wants to carry this weight for all eternity and never think about all those times he failed to save someone he was never meant to save at all. People like Eddie, they’re not made to save anyone. Hell, they can’t even save themselves. 

Steve was supposed to be the one doing the saving. 

And he did. God, he fucking did. But he was never supposed to— 

Cold fingers wrap around his own as Robin fits their hands together. 

“I hate you a little bit for telling me.” 

Eddie nods, trying to focus on the cold hand and the nicotine in his lungs, trying not to let panic and grief and guilt and the heavy weight of one more chance win. “I know.” 

“Hey, Eddie?” Robin says after a while, the silence stretching on, and it’s almost midnight now. “Can you— Would you do something for me?” 

He turns his head, flicking the butt of his cigarette out into the darkness beyond them. “What’s that?” 

“Don’t— Don’t try to, to save him. Don’t— Just… Just maybe, could you celebrate his birthday with him? Make sure he knows he’s… God, make sure he knows he’s loved? Last year, no one really made time on his birthday and we just moved it backwards but God, could you— It’s almost midnight, and—“ 

“Robbie,” Eddie interrupts her, his voice hoarse and wavering, his eyes burning with tears as he tugs her close and holds her to his chest. “You should go. Don’t you wanna…” 

But she’s shaking her head against him with a vehemence that can hardly be misunderstood. 

“No,” she cries, and it’s more of a sob than anything. “I think if I ever saw him again, I’d… I don’t know what I’d do. Burn the whole fucking world to the ground for him or some shit, I can’t— I’d probably just cry all the time and that wouldn’t be helpful, really.” There’s a weak, wet laugh that bubbles out of both of them, and Eddie’s wiping at Robin’s face, drying the tears and making way for new ones to fall. 

“I’d light a fire for you,” Eddie says, the same weak smile on his lips that Robin meets him with now. “Nineteen fucking fires, you hear me?” 

She laughs again, then buries her face in his neck in a way that never quite fit. In a way that Eddie always knew was supposed to be someone else’s neck. 

But he’s not here anymore. And Eddie can’t get him back. No matter how much he aches for it, no matter how much he learned over and over and over again how easy it is to love Steve Harrington and how hard, how fucking impossible it is to lose him. Over and over and over again. 

And to live without him. This one fucking time they all get. It’s not fair. 

And now Robin is asking him to go back one more time and make sure that Steve knows— That he knows. 

Somehow the thought of that feels nobler than any attempt to save him, to bring him back; to rewrite history from a lonely boy’s perspective and hope that no one else is reading along. 

It feels right, too. Fundamentally and suddenly, and with such an intensity that Eddie knows the decision has been made the second he started telling her. 

Still he hesitates. Robin’s sobs have calmed down, and Eddie’s hand finds its way into her hair. 

“Do you really mean it?” 

She nods.

He nods, too, but slower. Like he’s trying to sway himself. Which way, he doesn’t know. 

“Make him happy.” 

“Okay,” he decides after a while, feeling hollow and desperate, but feeling purpose burning underneath his skin again. “One last time.” 

He unwinds his arms from around her and heads inside to grab his acoustic guitar. The last remaining string, badly untuned because he never dared to touch it, stares back at him in both mockery and invitation. A dare. A chance. A promise. 

Outside, Robin is waiting for him, looking anxious. Eddie wants to hug her. He doesn’t, only tightens his grip around the guitar’s neck. 

“Listen, Eddie, if this is goodbye or something—“ 

“It’s a birthday party, Robsie,” he interrupts her, aiming for light, aiming for brave. “I’m coming back right here.” 

“I know,” she rushes to say, taking a step toward him and wringing her hands. It’s endearing. It’s genuine. Eddie really is a little in love with her. “But, y’know, you don’t mess with time, and I don’t know what all you already changed before and I don’t wanna know but… If this is goodbye, if something happens, I just wanna tell you that I’m gonna miss you. And that I think you’re really cool. And that Steve’s— he’s really missing out, okay. Okay?” 

Eddie breathes, taking in her words and letting them soak into his body, his every last fibre. 

“Okay,” he smiles. “Thank you. You’re… I’m kind of in love with you, Robin Buckley. So there had better be no change in the universe, ‘cause that would really suck.” 

They smile at each other, Eddie with his guitar and Robin with her lighter, and somehow this feels like a deja-vu. The antithesis to a moment forever burned into his memory.

Make him pay. 

Make him happy. 

Eddie tugs on his necklace and plays the string before he can think about it too hard; before he can decide otherwise. 

Distantly, he hears the church bells announcing midnight as the world around him fades. 

🤍 permanent tag list gang: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @cryptic-cryptid @hotluncheddie @gutterflower77 @auroraplume @steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important @stevesjockstrap @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround @pukner @i-amthepizzaman @swimmingbirdrunningrock @hammity-hammer @stevesbipanic @bitchysunflower @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @awkwardgravity1 @devondespresso @bookworm0690 (lmk if you want on or off, for this story or permanently)

#steddie #steddie fic #eddie & robin #eddie munson #robin buckley #robin and eddie are grieving besties now #me writing another story about death and the inability to grieve?? it’s more likely than you think #this one probably doesn’t make sense yet because they’re both refusing to think about what’s real or think about anything at all #so past present and future need time to develop above the damaged psyche of two entirely too young adults #so bear with me and give us time #anyway i’m posting this despite its unpolished ugliness bc this is as good as it gets #if i were anything like my self this would be a 7k study but as it turns out writing about grief is exhausting #(hi taglist gang i hope it was okay to tag you for entirely too raw a draft for anyone to lay eyes on lmao 🤍)

[onmyyan]

👋 You mentioned that Marcos killed the earliest out of his brothers and is the best at it, and even that he's gotten paid for it before. If you're still taking requests I'd love to see Marcos in a "falling for the mark" situation where someone hires him to "handle" the reader but during the research process he falls in love with her (or he can fall in love at first sight or even after their first conversation, whatever works best) and ends up killing the person who hired him instead

Loooove your OCs, especially the Delmonts! Super excited for whatever you drop next!

Marcos felt his fingers twitching in his coat pocket as he entered the building, making a b-line for the mahogany bar full of patrons he couldn't help but grin to himself, this was his favorite part after all.

Sure he was good at the killing bit and sure he was talented at it, man oh man did his skills shine when it came to the parts before that, the stalking, the studying, he relishes the feeling of getting to know his target, and today that target was you, a pretty little bartender who'd been unfortunate enough to serve Marcos client, Tito, see Tito liked to get hammered and run his mouth, turns out he said some things to you, his bartender, that really shouldn't have left his mouth and now to cover his own ass, he'd hired Marcos.

You were a classic case in his eyes, in the wrong place at the wrong time, overhearing something you shouldn't have, put you in the line of sight of a bad man like Marcos.

He came on a particularly busy day intentionally, wanting to see you in your natural state amid the chaos of rush hour, and he noticed a few things immediately, you were very attentive to your patrons, probably how you ended up in this mess he thought to himself, it showed a level of care not many people had in their jobs, the second thing he noticed was your laugh, it carried over the music and the chatter and the yells from customers, and he felt a twinge of guilt, the idea of never hearing that laugh again, of depriving the world from it, didn't sit well with him.

He shifts in his seat uncomfortable, lost in his subconscious he doesn't realize he'd walked up to the bar, sneakily taking his place amongst the crowd, he let his eyes drift to you from your Doc Martin's to the old jeans you had on, then up past your wonderfully sculpted ass, and finally settling on your face, this is when he knew he was really fucked.

You filled glass after glass never stopping, your motion fluid and smooth, he could watch you work forever, and he did. So long in fact the bar had closed, "you know I've never had someone take this long to decide what to drink." You joke making your way towards him, most of the lingering patrons were slowly, drunkenly, heading for the door, leaving Marcos and you alone. In theory this was the perfect time, he could finish the job and pour himself a drink before anyone noticed your body.

But he didn't.

Instead he smiled, his ringed fingers knocking into the wood of the bar, "Maybe I'm shy."

"A pretty boy like you? No way." Your response was quick, like your mind, your warm (e/c) eyes held him there where he sat, unable to lift a finger to do his job. "You probably say that to all your customers, but I know I'm the prettiest." He leaned into his chair, red eyes never leaving your gaze, "Well no matter how true that is, it's closing time gorgeous, order something now or hit the bricks." You leaned on your hand , nails drumming along to the music playing from the speakers above you.

"what takes the longest to make?"

"are you trying to screw with me?"

"No! I just don't know how else to stall long enough to get your number." He folds his fingers together, resting his chin on his hands, the pose makes you laugh, you shake your head ripping a piece of napkin, you jot down a number and slide it to him with two pretty fingers. "Here, now get out."

And he did, with a grin so wide it showed off all his teeth, he couldn't recall the last time someone had lit a fire under him the way you did, the piece of napkin seemed to burn a hole in his pocket, all he wanted to do was call you and really lay on the charm he knew he had, but first, he had a visit to make to his friend Tito. He whistles the song that was playing as he left the bar and thumbs the knife in his pocket, someone would be dying tonight, but it wasn't you.

#yananswers #anon submission #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x y/n #delmont brothers #yandere oc x reader #marcos delmont #marcos delmont x reader #yandere oc marcos #marcos x reader

[aces-parrows]

streaming love | mark lee

pairing: streamer!mark x fem!reader word count: 727 genre: fluff, imagine warning(s): not proofread summary: mark finally admits his feelings for you on stream, assuming that you're not currently watching.

mark sits in front of his makeshift stream set-up in his small apartment. in no way was he a professional nor did he have a large audience. his streams were just for fun, which he started to help y/n socialize more and have fun. his streams mainly consist of him conversing with his small audience, but he does sometimes play guitar for them or spend the stream discussing fun topics together. his audience jokingly ships the two of you together, as it's not uncommon for new viewers to assume you're a couple. he regularly sees comments such as "where's your girlfriend?" or "how's y/n?" when you aren't a part of the stream, which melts his heart. he adores knowing how much his viewers love you, especially when it's you with him.

no one in mark's life knows of his feelings for you. it's a secret he's kept for years, ever since you both graduated college together. no matter how much he tried to confess his feelings for you, the courage was never found, leaving him to sit back and watch you go out on dates and console you if you got your heart broken. he always told himself one day he will be the one to show you true love, and for years he couldn't find the right moment to do it.

finally, he accepted he needed advice.

in a late night stream, mark attempted to be vague when explaining his situation. however, his audience was not easily fooled, immediately realizing he was talking about you. it was embarrassing at first, but after some reassurance that they were supportive, he had felt a bit more at ease. as the chat flooded with encouragement, he felt more comfortable to explain his feelings for you. "i don't know man," mark said as he couldn't make eye contact with the camera, "i want to make it special, you know? it's what she deserves." as he watched the chat, one of his viewers had inquired as to why he hadn't already told you how he felt. "sometimes, i don't feel like a girl like her would be into someone like me. it probably sounds stupid, but you guys don't even know a quarter of all the things that make y/n so special." mark checked the chat to be sure you weren't watching. he had assumed you would be asleep by now, meaning that the chances of you catching this stream was slim, especially since he planned to delete the stream right after. the late night rain gently tapped his window outside, adding to his dropping mood as he wondered if he was even good enough for you. "she's the most important person in my life and i'm so damn tired of guys breaking her heart, you know? i want to show her true love, but how can i do that if i can't even be honest about my feelings? like, do i give her chocolate, flowers, or just go for it? like what makes a confession special?" mark looked over all of the chat's advice, opinions, encouragement, and overall support. he truly felt he had connected to his audience in this moment. he had found his people, who not only loved his content, but him as a person. and you as well.

he continued to pour his heart out, talking about his favorite memories with you and how much he adored you.

mark did not know that the whole time, you had been watching the stream. it was one of your sleepless nights, so you decided to catch mark's stream just as he had began pouring his heart out to his viewers. your heartbeat was the fastest it had ever been and you couldn't wipe the grin off your face. it all felt like a dream, but it wasn't.

admittedly, you had liked mark for a few months but never had the courage to confess either. you dated other men to try and forget him, but they just weren't mark, so, they never went anywhere.

as mark concluded his stream to head to bed, you knew you couldn't lose this beautiful moment. ever. so, you shoot him a text.

"hey, saw your stream. please don't delete the stream, i never want to forget the words you said. by the way, i'll accept those chocolates. let's talk tomorrow, okay?"

#mark lee #mark lee fics #nct #nct 127 #nct dream #nct imagine #nct imagines #kpop imagines #sfw interactions only #fem reader #fem y/n #this is a 5 am fic please forgive me if it's not the best

[sturnsbabie]

𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑: 𝐌𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: lil skies x sls!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: in which sls spent the night with skies and they talk about what they are.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: swearing,smut,smoking.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭:1.0k

i woke up with skies arms wrapped around me with our naked bodies intertwined.we both were naked from the waist up,i still had my panties on and he had boxers on. my phone was blowing up with calls and messages from my mom and brothers but i ignored it.

he pulled me closer to him his hands all over my body as he was pressing kisses all over my back and neck. “sleep good baby?” he asked.

“mmm yes i was beside you.” i giggled as i rolled over climbing onto his lap.

“cmere baby” he bit his lip and i leaned down kissing him a few times.

“wanna take a picture?” i asked.

“what kind of picture baby?” he asked as he looked at me.

“you take the picture, but your hands on my hips and my ass sitting on your dick.” i giggled.

“sounds perfect baby lemme put a shirt on though because my tats” he said and i nodded.

he leaned over and grabbed his shirt from lastnight slipping it on as i turned around so my ass was on his dick and handed him my phone.

he snapped the picture taking a few extras and he handed my back my phone and i turned back around facing him as we both were looking thru the pictures.

he stopped on one picture looking at then looking at me. “you can post it if you want, you cant see my tattoos and you my girl so post it.” he said and i nodded.

“you sure?” i asked.

“go ahead baby.” he said.

i went onto instagram and posted the picture like he said.

❤️5,000 💬3,000

YN.STURNIOLO: he love this assssss

VIEW COMMENTS!

christophersturniolo: what the fuck?

matthew.sturniolo: itd be nice if you could answer our texts

nicolassturniolo: sls.

user: WHO IS THIS.

nathandoe8: 😂😂

nathandoe8: have fun with my sloppy seconds bro.

christophersturniolo: nathandoe8 ????

yn.sturniolo: nathandoe8 fuck off

user: NATES COMMENT??!?

mickeymarieg: yessss bitch get it

user: what is going onnnnn

VIEW MORE COMMENTS…!

[PHONE]

1 missed call from nick🪩

2 missed calls from matt😵‍💫

10 missed calls from chris🦌

4 missed calls from mama💓

[IMESSAGE]

chris🦌: where the fuck are you sls.

chris🦌: it would be nice if you could answer us

chris🦌: what the fuck is nate talking about

matt😵‍💫: sls you need to come home.

nick🪩: girl ur ass is gon be in trouble if you dont come back home

i sat my phone down and kissed ki. i felt bad for ignoring my mom and brothers but all that mattered to me rightnow was me and ki.

i leaned down kissing all over his neck then slipping his shirt back off of him attaching my lips back to his neck leaving wet kisses all over his neck along with a few lil marks.

“let me fuck you baby” he said as i felt him growing a errection underneath me.

“please.” i giggled.

wirh that he flipped me over so he was hovering over me kissing me softly as he slid my panties off.

he slid off his boxers and pushed himself into me as we both let out a little moan.

he put his face in the crook of my neck as he started thrusting into me slowly but sensually.

he grabbed my hand interlocking our fingers as he pressed soft kisses all over my neck and face.

he then hovered back over me starting to pound into me causing me to let out a loud string of moans. his chains dangling in my face with our fingers still interlocked.

“youre my girl you know that right?”he said as he made eye contact with me.

“im your girl ki,all yours daddy”i moaned out as he kissed me softly

“all fucking mine baby.” he groaned as i was leaving scratches down his back with my nails.

i felt my orgasm growing closer as he was now pounding into me with his chains dangling all in my face.

“im gonna cum” i moaned out and i felt him pull out making me whimper at the loss of contact.

“i want you to cum on my tounge baby” he said as he laid on his stomach grabbing my thighs pulling me closer to him.

he attached his mouth to pussy starting to slurp and suck on my clit as he made eye contact with me.

i was a moaning mess as i felt my orgasm starting to grow closer as i started to grind myself on his tounge.

he pulled away for a second looking at me.“thats it baby cum all over my tounge”he said as he went back to eating me out.

with that i felt myself cum all over his tounge as he swallowed every drop licking me clean.

he hovered back over me kissing me a few times then leaving over on the nightstand grabbing two blunts handing me one and lighting it and he laid between my thighs lighting his blunt and puffing on it.

he handed me his phone. “here baby wanna take a picture so i can post it to my story.” he said.

i nodded puffing on my blunt and snapped a few pictures for him handing his phone back to him.

he went thru the pictures picking out which one he liked the most and posted it.

LILSKIES ADDED TO HIS STORY!

[IMESSAGE]

jacey:ki

jacey:i wanna meet your girl

[FACETIME]

INCOMING CALL FROM JACEY!

ANSWER DECLINE

“ki lemme meet your girl”

“hol on jacey”

he lays beside of sls covering them with the blanket and putting both of their faces in the screen.

he had already been telling jacey about how he met a girl at a show and had been seeing her.

“so you must be sls”

“yeah thats me”

“girl hows that dick”

“best dick ever”

“i can already tell we gon be bestfriends”

“girl i hope so youre so pretty”

“kikis gonna love her ki”

they talk for a while and jacey gets her number and then they hang up.

[FACETIME ENDED]

he looked at me. “i hope you know regardless if we end up together or not you still my girl.” he said.

“youre all i want ki, im all yours.” i said and he pulled me into a soft and gentle kiss.

we spent the rest of the morning cuddling and spending time together just talking about our feelings and everything. he was all i wanted.

TAGLIST: @sturniololoves , @delaneysturniolo , @a-m-b-e-r-r , @milesfordays11 , @sturniol0s , @riowritesitall , @kriissy4gov , @m0r94n , @laylataylor0910 , @delusional-4-fake-people

#sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets imagines #chris sturniolo imagine #nicolas sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #christopher sturniolo imagines #matt sturniolo imagines #chris sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo #matthew sturniolo imagines #nate doe imagines #nate doe smut #nate doe #lil skies fanfic #lil skies imagines #lil skies

[caelivir]

haze | suna rintarou

synopsis. on nights when you doubt yourself, suna rintarou reminds you who you are.

pairing. suna rintarou x fem!reader | wc. 2.6k | genres. timeskip!suna, fwb!suna, late night convos, insecurity, comfort | warnings. sex mentioned/implied, alcohol consumption on reader’s part and a little bit on suna’s

notes. i will be linking threads from twitter that contain ongoing fundraisers for palestine, sudan, congo, and many more. donate, and if you can’t, share the hell out of it. keep in mind these links are just one of many. please continue to look out for them, continue to educate yourself, continue to spread awareness, and continue to boycott. remember, our voices matter. we have to amplify our voices for the people who can’t. the hell these people are living through cannot end if nothing is done to pressure our governments and their oppressors.

one two three four five

on the nights you can’t sleep, everything hits you. failed relationships. bad decisions. thoughts of the unknown. it all piles on top of your mind until it crushes you. such worries make the room feel suffocating, like the air was suddenly stripped out of it. it makes your throat dry up and your skin itch. sitting in such a feeling drives you insane, and as much as you’d like to stay curled up under the covers to hide, you know that you have to find a way to breathe.

carefully, and without making any drastic movements, you slip out of bed. the cold air hits your naked body, sending shivers down your spine. you find your panties somewhere on the floor and slip them on. you pull the first shirt that you see over your head, and judging by its scent, you assume it to be sunarin’s.

at the thought of him, you fix your gaze onto his side of the bed. with your presence gone, sunarin’s face is illuminated by the moonlight that shines through his curtains. your heart jumps at the sight of him.

sunarin has always been beautiful. even a fool could acknowledge that fact. but it’s moments like these where you swear that he is unparalleled to any guy you’ve ever met.

you watch as his chest rises and falls with steady breaths. he has one arm folded under his head, acting as another pillow. the blankets you share cover him from the waist down, providing you with a partial view of his well-toned body and the marks you left on him. strands of his dark-brown, nearly black hair fall over his forehead.

seeing him so peaceful brings a ghost of a smile onto your face, but it falls just as quickly. you chew your bottom lip, opting to leave the bedroom. you carefully close the door behind you so that you don’t wake up suna.

you wander into his kitchen and open his fridge. to your surprise, there’s a selection of white claws sitting on the bottom rack. sunarin is not much of an individual drinker. he’d rather enjoy it with the company of his friends. the alcohol he does have in his possession are much more potent than a hard seltzer, which isn’t what you’re really looking for. you need balance. you need something that will calm you without you having to wake up to a throbbing head in the morning. hard seltzers are what you look for in those times.

you wonder what he got them for, but you shake that thought off quickly. it’s not your business. you pull the first can you see out of its place before nudging the fridge shut with your foot.

in sunarin’s apartment, a balcony is connected to the living room, separated by a glass door. in need of fresh air, you slide it open. the balcony itself isn’t anything grand. it’s spacious enough, but suna doesn’t care to decorate it lavishly. he says there’s no point. so all there is are two wooden chairs with a tiny, circular table separating them.

you pull out the chair on the right and face it towards the railing. you seat yourself on it before cracking open the white claw before taking a sip. the alcohol part of it tastes funky but it’s bearable with the help of what you realize to be raspberry.

you take a long inhale. the cold air fills your lungs and nips at your insides, but it feels good. you stare at the night sky, counting the stars and admiring the moon that shines above you. below you, you spot two buddies supporting each other, barely able to hold the other up because of the drunken stares of their bodies. you take a swig of your drink. you catch lights from inside buildings flicker on then off, a reminder that life exists everywhere.

for a while, it distracts you. it keeps your mind at bay from the pending worries that are waiting to pounce at you. there’s only so many things you can count until you get bored. the view from sunarin’s balcony is nothing special after all.

but who are you to complain anyway? sunarin has much more in his life to make up for it. he’s got the money to see better views. he’s got a career he loves, an olympic medal, and adoring fans. sunarin’s got it all. he’s got a life one could only dream about.

your life isn’t shitty at all, but it’s nothing spectacular like suna’s. it’s perfectly average. and now that you think about it, why did he settle in an arrangement with someone as plain as you?

before you can ponder that answer, the glass door slides open. you don’t bother looking back. it’s obvious who it is; there’s only one other person in the apartment. the second wooden chair scraps against the floor as suna moves it back. you stare ahead as he effortlessly lifts the circular table and places it on the side. with one arm, he picks up the wooden chair, setting it down next to yours.

his bare arm grazes you as he sits, and you just now realize that he’s still shirtless. you eye suna, and even in his barely awake state, he’s worth ogling over. his black sweatpants sit snugly on his legs, hanging a tad bit low. without the blanket, you’re granted full access to the muscles that your middle blocker friend has spent years honing. light catches around sunarin’s neck, and you register it to be the silver chain that you bought for his birthday. god, you wish you had your phone. his fans would start frothing if they saw him like this.

“bit cold out, no?” you finally catch his eyes, half open but focused on you.

“you’ve got my shirt, babe.” sunarin’s voice is still sleep-ridden, raspy even. “plus, you’re not even wearing pants.”

you look down. he got you. “fair enough.”

there’s a brief silence before you’re speaking again. “what happened? why are you awake?”

“bed was cold.” sunarin responds, and something about the response tugs at your heartstrings, but you ignore it nonetheless and sunarin doesn’t expand on it. “what are you doing out here?”

“thinking.” you say simply.

“about what?”

“you.”

it’s easy to spot that he wasn’t expecting that. sunarin’s eyes widen, and suddenly his brain wakes up. in typical suna fashion, he wipes his shock off, replacing it with an amused smirk. “i’m flattered, babe.”

you hum, opting for another downing of the seltzer. the middle blocker’s fox eyes follow the movements. “i see you’ve found them.”

“huh?” you glance at your hand. “oh. yeah.”

“let me taste it. i’ve never tried them before.” sunarin sticks his hand toward you. you raise an eyebrow but still comply.

the olympian takes a quick swig, pondering the taste on his tongue. he makes a soft noise of satisfaction before handing the can back to you. “it’s not bad.”

“what’d you buy them for?” you question. at least, you can get an answer now.

“they’re for you.” he answers, nodding his head toward you.

you chuckle emptily. “what?”

suna shrugs. “i’ve noticed. you’re the type who wants a drink after sex, but you don’t want anything ridiculously strong, but you’re also not satisfied with the juices i have in the fridge either. so i thought, why not meet in the middle?”

“you noticed that?”

sunarin furrows his eyebrows as if he didn’t understand why it’s so surprising. “‘course i did.”

“you don’t have to, y’know?” you whisper, suddenly feeling small.

“but i want to.” sunarin holds your gaze. it makes your heart pound a bit harder. “it’ll stop you from leaving.” he continues after a moment.

“what do you mean?”

suna clamps his lips shut as if he isn’t sure if he should reveal the reason to you, yet he does anyway. “it’s… weird… when you go. and yeah, you say that you’ll come back, but it feels… lonely in the minutes that you’re gone, and i don’t like it. but now that i think about it, i really should have gone with you. why the fuck did i allow you to leave alone?”

you shrug. “it’s okay. the convenience store is just around the corner. there’s cameras everywhere. i’m still here.”

“i know that.” suna sighs, slumping in his chair with a pout. “i know but still. either way, i just don’t want you going anymore. i feel more secure when i know you’re near.”

“oh.” you breathe out, feeling your blood heat up at those words. “thanks, sunarin.”

the middle blocker’s face scrunches up. “why do you still call me that? i’ve literally been inside you. you can call me rin. it’s fine.”

you roll your eyes at the joke, but the question weighs on you. you purse your lips together in thought. “it doesn’t feel right.”

“why wouldn’t it be?” suna adjusts his position, throwing his arm around your chair. his fingers hang down, barely touching your upper arm, and he’s trained solely on you.

“i mean,” you pause to gather your line of reasoning. “rin feels a lot more intimate.”

“and we’re not already?” sunarin smirks, but it only makes you sigh.

“no. fuck, how do i say it?” you point your gaze upward, poking the inside of your cheek as you think. suna lightly traces patterns on your arm while he waits, his grayish eyes never leaving your face. “it’s a lot more special, like it should be reserved for the people who really mean something to you.”

sunarin’s eyebrows furrow when he catches onto the implication. “are you saying you don’t think you mean anything to me?”

you shrug, beginning to chew on your lower lip. your leg starts subconsciously bouncing up and down. you swirl the contents of your white claw in the can before gulping more of it down. “i don’t know.” the line of formality and informality blurs and confuses you.

“(y/n). i’ve known you since high school.” sunarin reminds you.

“that doesn’t change anything.” you shake your head. “we didn’t reconnect until the twins’ birthday party six months ago.”

that seems to silence the olympian because he knows you’re right, and you let it run for minutes until your mind is gnawing at you, asking you to at least figure out where you stand with suna. “why me of all people, sunarin?”

“what?”

you gesture to the two of you. “this. our arrangement. why’d you choose me?”

“because.”

“because what? i mean, think about it,” you paint the picture for him. “models. idols. actresses. rich girls. you could have anyone you want.”

“sure, but none of them are you.” suna replies earnestly. you know he is, but a part of you is still not sold.

“but how could i possibly be better than them?” you press.

“because i trust you, (y/n). i trust you a lot more than i could ever trust them.” sunarin snaps back, causing you to blink at the outburst. he catches his tone, apologizes, and relaxes. he draws back the arm that was wrapped around your chair. “the spotlight has its perks, but it has its downsides too. it’s the same for anyone remotely famous. you have to keep your guard up at all times. if they find something to drag you for, it can ruin you and the career you’ve worked so hard to build.”

and when you don’t respond, suna ventures off into a different story. “did you know that you were the second person i consulted with about turning pro?”

“second?” you tilt your head, interested to see where this is heading.

“mhm.” he hums. “after kita, of course.”

“why?” you whisper. that seems to be the question of the night. why? why? why?

“you’re the realest person i’ve met, and the easiest to be around,” suna answers simply. “you’re reliable and honest, which is why i knew i could trust you to help me make a life-changing decision. you helped bring me into the place i am today all because you gave me a space where i could be insecure and vulnerable. i don’t need to keep my guard up when i’m around you. i can be me without any worry. you make me feel safe, (y/n). that’s why i chose you.” the middle blocker emphasizes.

you don’t know if it’s the alcohol, or the beauty of sunarin’s words, or maybe a combination of both, but you tears begin to well in your eyes.

suna frowns. his fingers instinctively reach to brush off the tears that cascade down your face. “hey, shh. it’s okay. don’t cry. it’s killing me, doll.” he whispers.

sunarin caresses your face with his large, somehow soft hand. the sight of you in this state makes his heart pound and his breath hitch. your glassy eyes catch every ray of light and the moonlight emphasize your beauty in ways that he never thought possible. you are a goddess bathed in light.

“you are so beautiful.” suna whispers before he’s pressing his lips to yours.

you reciprocate it instantly, eyes fluttering shut. two loose tears breach past, sliding down your face until they meet the corners of your lips. it mixes with the raspberry alcohol on your tongue, making the shared kiss between you and suna a flavor of bittersweet and salty, but neither of you care.

before, in moments of naked intimacy, kisses with suna were hot, desperate even. they made your body weak and took away your mind’s ability to function as his mouth dominated yours. it’s a result of the chemicals in your brain chasing a high.

this kiss is different. it’s a sensation better than anything you’ve ever felt before. it’s a combination of stars forming, tidal waves crashing, and butterflies flapping their wings at mach speed. this kiss makes you feel alive. you’re hyperaware of the heat suna’s touch lights on your face and throughout your entire body. the scent of his bodywash and shampoo intoxicate you. your heart pounds in your ears. sunarin feels so good. he always has.

and somehow, for a kiss that makes you experience every sensation at once, what really stands out is the way you feel comforted. every insecurity that plagued your mind dissipates with suna. he squashes them like they don’t matter because that’s what they are — insignificant.

is this what he meant? you think. is this what safety feels like?

when sunarin finally pulls away, you mourn the loss of him against you with a minuscule pout. suna reaches for your hands, bringing them up to his face so he can brush his soft lips against your knuckles.

“(y/n).” suna’s voice draws your eyes away from the olympian’s hold on your hands. “you are perfect just the way you are. you are exactly where you need to be. don’t let anyone, not even yourself, tell you otherwise, alright? if not, i’ll just have to hammer it into you until you understand. literally.” suna winks.

you roll your eyes at the innuendo, but a laugh escapes your throat, and sunarin grins. “there’s the pretty girl i know. come on, let’s go to bed. i’m fuckin’ tired.”

you down the last of your raspberry seltzer before standing up, discovering sunarin’s hand reached out towards you. without a second thought, you interlock your fingers with his, and you follow behind as the middle blocker slides open the glass door once more.

when you enter suna’s bedroom, you throw away the white claw can in the trash bin by his desk. you climb back into your side of the bed, pulling the blankets over your body, and scooting closer to suna’s warmth. sunarin hums as he slips his hand under your (but really his) shirt. his arm drapes itself around your waist. while you nuzzle your head into his chest, suna presses featherlight kisses on your forehead.

“good night, sweet girl.” suna whispers.

“g’night, rin.” you murmur back, not missing the way he smiles against your skin.

#anime #manga #haikyuu #hq #haikyu x reader #hq x reader #suna rintarou #suna rintaro x reader #suna x reader #from kor ; ♆

[valentine-cafe]

urrrrrghghhh the ask about the most hardcore things the herrera husbands would do has my mind spinning 😵 all i can think about is them each leaving their mark on you to the point nobody can deny you're theirs <3 biting into your flesh til you bleed, leaving pretty bruises that litter your skin... perhaps even taking things to a bit more painful and permanent route, all while they watch in delight from how into it you are, knowing just how much trust you'd need to have in them to allow the two to do that to you shhjbjdkfljbdfjkfbdkjndfk - @sonderrealization

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ᥫ᭡ verse 209 rishen & jìngyí

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍪 ꒱ spider monster x reader, mantis monster x reader, moth monster x reader, mad scientist x reader, villains x reader, yandere x reader, cw: biting and marking, blood mention ⊹ ۪ ࣪

it’s rishen leaving bite marks like necklaces all over your skin. it’s jìngyí digging his talons into your thighs and hips, dragging his nails down to leave pretty streaks. it matters not how many marks they leave, as long as everyone knows that you are theirs.

the husbands in general do not mind using their equipment on you too. their knives for instant. jìngyí’s surgical ones, rishen’s others. of course they keep every tool or blade with your blood on it. displayed somewhere to them so that they can look at it and remember that you are theirs.

bites in general. down your neck. your arms. sides. tummy. and oh the taste of your blood is so much sweeter when they know that it’s what you love. when they see the way that your face scrunches up in pleasure and how you plead them for more.

sometimes it’s permanent, sometimes it’s not. they love the bruises on your wrists and thighs. just as much as the scars on your collarbone and chest.

#⊹ ۪ ࣪ ᥫ᭡ daydreams — herrera husbands ꒱ #terato #teratophillia #monster oc #monster x reader #monster boyfriend #oc x reader #monster boyfriend x reader #monster love #monster fucker #spider monster x reader #mantis monster x reader #moth monster x reader #snake monster x reader #mad scientist x raeder #mad doctor x reader #grim reaper x reader #original character x reader #yandere x reader #jingyi 209 #rishen 209 #reader insert #asterism

[shuckinbeanz]

You make him feel…

…like his choices matter.

warnings/notes: he needs this and i i i couldn't delve any further it's too much 😭 sfw, very short, somft fluff somft. sexy consent & communication. Love language: touch and kisses. I might post more of this when feel up to it cuz he didn't deserve what happened in the manga 😭

MINORS 👏 DNI! 👏 AGE 👏 IN 👏 BIO 👏 OR 👏 DNI! 👏 Head on over to @candybowbeansies please for my SFW pieces, or be blocked if you interact here! 😇

~His Masterlist~

Tags: @dynamightsdaydream

You loved Tomura, wholeheartedly. You loved to spend time with him-to be by his side.

Often, it starts with one question;

“Can I see your handsome face, pretty please?”

Regardless of if he chooses to show you, you still shower him with well deserved praise.

“I love your eyes, they're stunning.”

“Those scars deserve all the kisses in the world.”

“I love your beauty mark…it makes you look so hot.”

“You look so sexy when you blush.”

Because you can't help it, you always end up asking; 

“Can I kiss you?”

He needs to be showered with affection. He deserves all of it and so much more. 

Find a lip shade that looks good on him. Because when it gets washed away, he can see just how many things about him you love in the mirror. It flusters him, it gives him warm fuzzies.

He's absolutely daring enough to show off faded, or even fresh kiss marks if you let him. 

But there's also those times. You're still human, so sometimes paranoia rears its ugly head. He can see your telltale fidgeting. You reply when he asks what's wrong; 

“Just…don't wanna overwhelm you.”

It's true. Sometimes, you could overwhelm him. Baby boy is so touch starved. 

So, so touch starved. 

So he takes your hand(s), and places the palm on his cheek(s). Then he reminds you; 

“That's why I always tell you when you do. Otherwise, you don't need to worry. I…love being this close to you.”

To your teary eyed reply,

“Really…?”

he gives a reassuring smile and says; 

“Really.”

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #mha #bnha #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki x reader

[blossom-hwa]

manège | k.th

pairing: Taehyun x gender neutral!reader genre:  fluff, a little angst and comfort, ballet dancer!taehyun and pianist!reader warnings: n/a word count: 1.4k notes: — this pairing's been on my mind for a good year or so, so I'm very happy to have finally written something for them :) please note that I've only been doing ballet for a couple years now, so if I've used any terms incorrectly, I'm very sorry! — for some clarification, mc and taehyun go to an arts school, and mc volunteers as one of the pianists for the ballet studio Taehyun finds his way back to you, again.  

TXT Masterlist

manège: a classical ballet term for “circular,” which describes a series of steps done in a circular pattern around the stage

. . . . .

"...Taehyun?"

The question of his name is quiet enough that if he hadn't noticed the opening of the door in the corner of the mirror, he would have missed it. As it stands, his mind barely processes your voice emerging from behind the door, and it takes a moment to shake off the double tours and pirouettes before he can even recognize the face appearing in the mirror. He blinks sweat away from his eyes. "Y/N?"

"It's late," you say, stepping into the empty studio. "You're still practicing?"

As one, you both look at the clock hanging on the wall. It's long past eight, when Taehyun initially told himself he'd stop—long past nine, even.

Suddenly all of the exhaustion of the day seems to hit him at once. His muscles ache, sweat keeps dripping down his face no matter how much he wipes away, and there's a small but consistent flare of pain in his calf that he should really stop and massage out. Really, he wants nothing more than to just sit down against the wall, or maybe even flop onto the floor and stare at the ceiling while seeing nothing at all. He's been here since eight in the morning and his body clearly knows it.

"Yeah," is all he says in lieu of articulating all of this, though, because his throat feels gravelly and words are hard. "What are you doing here?" he asks instead. It's at least as fair of a question for you as yours was for him.

"I had class," you say. Taehyun takes in your leggings, the loose T-shirt almost covering your shorts, and remembers yes, there was a lower-level class held almost immediately after you got off your shift. "I stayed after to practice."

He frowns. "For almost five hours?" You were playing the piano for his company class until it ended at three. Your adult beginner class ends at four thirty, and it's past nine.

"Not ballet." You shift the weight of several books in your arms, and only then does Taehyun see their worn paper bindings, the music markings on the covers, and remember that people practice things besides dance. "Evaluations coming up. There was a free piano in one of the empty studios."

Ah. Taehyun nods. And then the room falls into silence again, broken only by the sounds of your breathing.

"So." You walk to the empty piano in the room, placing your books on the top before looking at him expectantly. "What are you working on?"

It takes him a moment to register your words, to understand that you're not telling him to leave or go home or get some rest. All of which he should do, but the looming specter of the showcase next week won't let him. "You're not going to tell me to go home and rest?" he asks regardless, and even though his throat squeaks a bit after spending so many hours in silence, you don't laugh. Not at that, anyway.

"Well, would you have gone home if I'd said you should?" you reply, raising an eyebrow. He shakes his head and a smile curves his lips when you give a little laugh. "See?"

"Point taken," he says, and when you laugh again he laughs too. "Grand Pas Classique," he answers your original question. "For the showcase. Next week."

Your mouth parts in a little 'o'. "This one?" you ask, playing out a short melody. He nods. "Can I see?"

He should. He shouldn't. He at once wants to but doesn't, wants to let the melody sing in his blood as he double tours and entrechats around the room, spinning and leaping across the floor, but he also knows that you're here. And if Taehyun is his own harshest critic, he becomes even harsher when someone else is in the room.

You look at him, though, and he looks at you, and he knows that you see him for himself. See the sweaty hair matted into clumps, see the muscles aching behind his skin, see the work put into every effortlessly pointed toe and graceful finger as he takes his beginning position in front of the mirror. And when the music begins to play, the melody spilling into his ears and then into his blood, he looks into the mirror and smiles not because he has to, but because your watchful eyes will never hold judgment. Will never hold disappointment. Will only ever see him, see Taehyun Kang the person and not Taehyun Kang the dancer, and will cherish him for it.

When he's done, the applause of one person cuts through the labored silence of his breathing, and it's enough to keep the smile on his face, to let his muscles finally relax, to wipe the sweat from his brow and sit down. Or—not really. He's still a little too wired to sit, but he leans against the wall of the studio and gestures to where you sit at the piano like it's the most natural position in the world, ready to play but not. "Show me something," he says when he has enough breath to speak. "What are you working on?"

There's a moment when you're flipping through your books, skimming pages filled with music and your careful notes, where Taehyun loses himself, for a moment, in you. When you squint at a few pages, then put the book back on top of the piano, then position yourself at the keys. The preparation—the careful placement of your fingers just as deliberate as his pointed toes and graceful hands—the moment where time holds still, before you give in to the song in your mind and your heart and allow the music to flow through your veins.

It all comes back to you, Taehyun thinks as your fingers waltz and whirl across the keys, dance in enchanting patterns of black and white. From him, to you, back to him and then to you again—in manège, arabesques and jetés leaping about the stage, coming away from the center only to reach it again the way everything always returns to you. Your voice, your music, always there. Always constant. Pulling him back to earth when he threatens to topple over the edge, never once wavering in your strength or patience even when you see the worst parts of him over and over.

He's sitting down by the time you stop playing, fingers gentle yet unyielding against the piano, coaxing a last, wavering echo from its depths before your hands rise, suspended in the air, then fall to your lap. When you look up, the fluorescent studio lights seem to burn your figure into his vision, like the afterimage of a lightning strike behind his eyes. "That was beautiful," he says, and he means it in more ways than one.

And you accept the praise in more ways than one, in the smile on your lips, in the twinkle in your eyes, in the moment where you sit down next to him, back against the wall, and let him lean his sweaty head on your shoulder with no complaint about how gross it must feel. "Thank you," you say, and when you do, the melody racing through his veins finally calms.

It's almost ten, now, the clock still ticking away on the wall. But you make no move to get up and neither does Taehyun, even when you murmur "Home?" in a voice that only makes him lean further into you, even when he makes a noise of agreement in the back of his throat. In the end, it takes nearly twenty minutes for you to finally pat his knee and say get up, Taehyun. And then he disappears to change and wash up and collect his things, and maybe in the shower he can feel himself beginning to fade away again, but then you're standing right outside the locker room and when he slips his hand into yours, he comes back to earth. Manège. Circling you, always. Leaving. Returning. Orbiting. Joining.

Music dancing through his blood and yours, a song that he will always be able to follow back home.

Reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed this, and have a lovely day :)

#txt #tomorrow x together #tomorrow by together #txt taehyun #taehyun #kang taehyun #taehyun scenarios #taehyun imagines #taehyun fluff #taehyun angst #txt angst #txt fluff #txt scenarios #tomorrow x together scenarios #taehyun oneshots #taehyun x reader #txt x reader #taehyun fanfic #taehyun au #txt taehyun x reader #fluff #angst #ballet dancer!au #manège #blossom-hwa

[olliesoakberry]

Adam fantilli as a bf

boyfriend!adam headcanons

bf!adam who is the biggest fan of physical touch

bf!adam who is a sucker for head scratches

bf!adam who is grateful to have you there when he gets injured

bf!adam who brings you with him when he goes back to michigan so you can meet his teammates (and his brother)

bf!adam who loves having you at his games because he's convinced he plays better when you are there

bf!adam who is a sucker for pregame naps! especially if he can take them with you

bf!adam who will always open doors for you

bf!adam who during the summer time is not a morning person and pouts when you try to get out of bed before 10AM and will not hesitate to grab you by the waist and bring you back into cuddles

bf!adam who takes you to family skate as your first real outing as a couple

bf!adam who loves you no matter what

bf!adam who is a munch

bf!adam who is a sucker for having you ride his face

bf!adam who loves leaving hickeys on you

bf!adam who loves when you leave marks on him (despite the chirps he receives in the locker room because of them)

bf!adam who has a bit of a size kink when it comes to you (the bulge in your tummy when he's inside you)

bf!adam who is always kissing your thighs after he leaves beard burn on them (because he was in between your thighs for hours)

bf!adam who is a sucker for blindfolding you to make you more sensitive

bf!adam who has a bit of an exhibitionism kink (fucking in the penalty box at yost)

bf!adam who loves when you call him daddy (i will not be taking no on this)

bf!adam who is both a sucker for praise himself and loves praising you

bf!adam who calls you his "pretty little slut"

bf!adam who also degrades you while praising you (see above)

bf!adam who is a massive tease (such a little shit but we love him)

bf!adam who has spanked you whenever y'all get really rough (after a bad game for example)

bf!adam who is the best when it comes to after care, nothing but the best for you

i hope you all enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing this! this is part four of boyfriend! headcanons: nhl edition and the first nsfw! portion! i'm a sucker for adam and always will take request for him, i mean look at the man. anyways i hope you have a good day/afternoon/night wherever you are and mwah!

xoxo, s.m.

p.s. special shoutout to kei @mirrorballmcgroarty for helping me with this, we love her

#sam talks: requests edition #a.fantilli #sam talks: nhl edition #columbus blue jackets #sam talks: unhinged edition

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Dr. Y/L/N (Hannibal)

Description: Y/N is Hannibal’s doctor while he’s in prison and he’s obsessed with her.

Warning: Smut

Word Count: 1,421k

Request:

Hi,

I heard you are taking requests, could you please write (if you are comfortable) a Hannibal fanfic, where he is already imprisoned and starts obsessing over a doctor!reader,who comes to visit him after he got injured.This happens multiple times due to Chilton‘s ruthless care. After breaking out, he soon turns up to the reader‘s house. The reader also thought that he was rather charming and it ends with smut? (Again if you are comfortable)

Hannibal turned around as a beautiful woman came into the room to check on him. He had to go through this every week and at first he hated it but after the doctor got replaced by someone that was so beautiful he was actually okay with it. He would never admit this outloud but he sometimes would hurt himself just to see her. Luckily nobody caught onto that. “Dr. Lecter, have you kept yourself out of harm’s way?” She asked as she walked up to him. He chuckled, “Dr.Y/L/N I’m offended that you think so low of me.” He said to her as she wrote something down on her paper. “Well considering this is the 5th time I’ve seen you this week?” She asked and he nodded. “Can you blame me? I have a very pretty doctor.” His face turned red at his words. He loved to flirt with her any chance he got and though she did find him attractive she kept it professional. “Thank you Dr.Lecter.” She said and began asking him questions. 

Y/N had gone into work one day and had been informed that the FBI took Dr.Lecter for the day and that he would be back. She felt a little sad that she wouldn’t be able to see him that day but was glad he was okay. 

She watched the news in horror as she found out that he escaped and was on the loose. Sure he was attractive but she knew what he did and what he was capable of. How could the FBI be so stupid? That was probably his plan all along. But when she got a knock at her door she didn’t think much of it. She had neighbors that sometimes needed to borrow stuff no matter the time of day or not so when she opened the door to see Hannibal she gasped. “Hello Dr.Y/L/N.” She stared at him with wide eyes, “How did you find my home?” She asked the man.

He chuckled, “It took me hours to do so but you live close by.” She was confused on what he meant by that but was too stunned at the fact that he was at her door. “Dr. Lecter, why are you here?” She asked him. There had been tension between them ever since they met but right now it was stronger than ever. “Dr.Y/L/N or shall I say Y/N we both know that during our visits we may have acted professional but there was never professionalism between us.” He stated. “Dr. Lecter, you always flirted with me. I was the one to keep it professional.” She told him. “But you liked my flirty, did you not?” He asked, stepping closer to her.

This caused her to take a step back and accidentally let him into her home. He stared her down waiting for the answer that she didn’t have. She knew it was wrong but she did like it. “Y/N I know you are attracted to me. Don’t hide it.” He said and leaned down and kissed her. She didn’t kiss back. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to but it was wrong. “This is wrong Dr.Lecter.”She pointed out against his lips. “But it feels so right doesn’t it? And call me Hannibal.” He whispers and kisses her again. This time she doesn’t hesitate and kisses him back. Their lips were perfect together and felt amazing.

Her hands that were placed at her sides went up to pull off his jacket. He let her take it off him and picked her up causing her to squeak into the kiss. He slammed her against the wall as the kiss got more heated. Her hands were tugging his hair causing him to groan into her mouth. Once they needed oxygen they pulled away and he went to kiss her neck. She sighed as he kissed down her neck at some points leaving marks. As he sucked on her neck she moaned his name. It was a beautiful sound that he would die to hear over and over again. “Lift your arms.” He mumbled into her neck and she did so. He took off her shirt revealing her perfect breasts to him.

She watched as he leaned down to suck on one of her nipples causing her to gasp. His mouth felt so good on her nipple that she could imagine where it felt in other places. After he assaulted one he moved on to the other. He left marks all around her boobs as he came back up to kiss her needy lips. She began unbuttoning his dress shirt and pulled it off him. Her hands felt up and his chest as she traveled down to his pants. She tugged on his pants and he got the hint. He pulled away from her lips and asked her “Where is your bedroom?” She told him and he carried her into the room.

He dropped her on the bed and removed his pants. She pulled down her PJ Pants to reveal soaking wet panties. He chuckled at the sight and pulled down his boxers. His dick was huge; she was almost sure that it wouldn’t fit. But her panties got more soaked at the sight. He ran a hand up her soft leg until it came in contact with her panties. “My my you're very wet.” He said and pulled them down her legs until they were off. She sighed at the feeling of cool air hitting her pussy. He pulled her so that their crouches lined up. “Are you ready?” He asked, looking down at her as she was falling apart.

She nodded quickly and bucked her hips just to feel something. He chuckled and lined his dick up with her soaking wet hole. He sighed and slowly pushed in not knowing her experience. He watched as her face contorted different emotions. Some of pain and some of pleasure. She felt nice and warm and super tight. He loved the feeling of her. He loved it so much that he let out a groan of pure pleasure and admiration. Her hands looked for something to latch onto but she couldn’t until he was all the way inside of her. Her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands gripped her own thighs as she cried out as he started thrusting.

His hands covered hers as his hips snapped into her. He watched as she closed her eyes and her mouth opened into a perfect o shape. She looked so sexy that his hips snapped against hers even harder. His name fell from her lips in a whimper and her eyes opened to meet his. He watched as her lustful eyes stared back at him until they rolled back into her head and her body arched. Her pussy was squeezing him so tight, he was sure that if he tried to pull out it wouldn’t work. He let out deep grunts that were made at the same time her noises were. He was never super loud during sex but she was and oh he loved it.

Her hands squeezed her thighs so hard she definitely left bruises as her high was near. “Hannibal, I'm close.” She whimpers out as he groans out a “me too.” It would be magical if they came together. Her body started shaking and he knew that at any point she would come. “Cum for me baby.” He managed out as he was also close. Her back arched and he could feel her cum all over his dick triggering his orgasm. He only let out a grunt as he came but she screamed and whined as he rode out her orgasm until there was nothing left.

Both of them breathing hard and holding on to each other as they calmed down. She felt him soften inside of her and pull out causing her to whimper at the loss of contact. She managed to sit up and look up at him. He looked so good all sweaty and fucked out. Little did she know how she looked. “That was great.” She told him as she ran her hand up and down his arm. He smiled at her and nodded. “You are very attractive Dr.Y/L/N.” He tells her and that makes her smile. “I would like to get to know you better and not just as my doctor.” Her smile goes down a bit and she looks at him. “That’s great Hannibal but unfortunately I have to get you back to prison.” 

#hannibal #mads mikkelsen #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #hugh dancy #will graham #hannibal imagine #hannibal smut #hannibal lecter smut #hannibal lecter imagine #hannibal lecter x reader

[fmhobeus]

fwb!suguru who knew he wanted to fuck when he first laid eyes on you. then wanted to take you out to endless dinners to chat his ears off when he first spoke to you.

fwb!suguru who grew to like you without fucking you, almost forgot it was what he wanted you for – a life together or a night together?

fwb!suguru whose dick got painfully hard when you taunted him, rolled your eyes at him or outwitted him. he lived for your sassiness.

fwb!suguru who happened to fuck you on a random night unexpectedly and it changed the trajectory of his life.

fwb!suguru who stayed after every dick appointment. cuddled with you on the bed, watched movies or your favourite TV show, ordered take out and held you in his arms till you both inevitably fell asleep.

fwb!suguru who couldve sworn he wasn't in love with you. he would still fuck other people (and then come back to you, poor baby was thinking of you the whole time)

fwb!suguru whose grown accustomed to your presence. he calls you when he isn't feeling okay, you call him when something bothers you. he's grown used to you telling him all about work, how you got your nails done, how you saw a cute cat near your apartment. trivial details, which coming from anyone else he would hang up, but he looks forward to them with you.

fwb!suguru who eventually stops fucking other people and is just your man, without you knowing.

fwb!suguru who is determined to mark you up in placed people will notice. your neck, your thighs, your collarbones.

fwb!suguru who believes in giving you his all. all of his long girthy dick that pumps you full it should be criminal, his long slim fingers that have made you orgasm so often and hit that deep spot with unbeat ease, his long tounge... oh god his tounge. he thinks maybe even his long life ahead is yours too, all yours. his little kids too maybe? he doesn't like to think too much about that.

fwb!suguru who has to have your pussy checked with his tounge daily. he has to lap up your insides no matter any circumstances. his voice purrs across your body when he talks you through your orgasm.

"mhmm yeah cum all over my face beautiful, I know you want to"

fwb!suguru who gets sick at the thought of you sitting so pretty for another man when you tell him you're going on a date. suguru who looks so disturbed at the thought of another man even looking at his pretty girl who isn't really his.

fwb!suguru who takes you to corporate events just so he can call you his girlfriend, even if it's just pretend. when you question him it's always "easier explanation than a friend i fuck on the regular, isn't it?"

fwb!suguru who knows how you like your coffee in the morning. he knows what you like for breakfast, your comfort food, your hobbies, your favourite movies, your least favourite movies, your icks, your past. he knows you like he knows himself. he thinks of you when he passes your favourite cafe, he texts you when he sees something in the colour you like.

fwb!suguru who is sure he hasn't felt this way before, who is so vulnerable with you that it scares the shit out of him.

fwb!suguru who is afraid, angered at everything about you. he's angry at how you lull him into a sense of security, how you hold him, how sweet your voice sounds when you call him by his name, how you take care of him, how you listen to him. he hates how your pussy clenches his dick for dear life, milking it dry and how you never let a drop of his cum go to waste, licking it up like a little slut. he's fearful too. about losing you. about where loving you the way he does leads. loving you? wait. he loves you? fuck. fuck. fuck. this hasn't been according to plan at all.

#somebody lied to her #aniya writes ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა #jjk #suguru ♡ #jjk smut #jjk x reader #geto suguru #jjk geto #geto x reader #geto smut #jjk suguru #suguru geto smut #jjk ^ ~

[tonycries]

AITA For F*cking My Sugar Daddy's Son?! - G.S.

Synopsis. When your sugar daddy just isn’t paying attention to you, can you really be blamed for fúcking his son? Especially when his son is absolutely obsessed with you.

Pairing. Rich boy! Gojo Satoru x Sugar baby! Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected, jealous Satoru, créampie, dirty talk, manhandling, marking, Satoru’s dad is not really present, oral (female receiving), overstim, másturbation (male), thigh riding, cúmplay, Satoru is really really down bad and filthy for you, CEO’s son! Gojo,  pet names, swearing.

Word count. 8.1k

A/N. Will proofread later, lowkey scared to post this, but I just wanted it out of my mind. And in my mind, Satoru’s dad is FINE asl so-

The first time you meet Gojo Satoru is when you’re all dolled up for his father. 

Designer dress just a bit too tight, running on a few too many shots of tequila, wanting to be anywhere but at this stuffy gala. Everything was too bright - too polished.

And it really didn’t help that no matter how many scathing looks or whispers that followed you, you just had to be here - it was in your contract, after all. Because luckily for you, you just so happened to be the infamous little plaything hanging off the arm of the head of Gojo Corporations.

Well, usually. Right now your sugar daddy was too busy entertaining his business partners, leaving you off to the side, praying for something - anything - to save you from this-

“Damn if I’d come to these shitty galas a lot more often if it meant I’d get to see a beauty like you.”

You jolt out of your bored little reverie, eyes immediately snapping up to meet the tall man suddenly in front of you. When did he even get so close? 

You can’t help but drink him in from head to toe, from the overpriced, slightly-disheveled suit to the tiny dimple at the end of his mischievous grin. Strangely familiar white locks fell effortlessly to curtain his eyes. Eyes that were a startling blue - the kind of blue that had your cheeks flaring and knowing exactly who this was. 

Oh.

At your silence, he tilts his head with the air of someone that owns this entire venue and everything in it because, well, he did. Twinkling gaze searing into your skin as it roams appreciatively all over your body, plowing on, “Though, you look like you’re on the verge of an aneurysm around these old coots.”

You sigh, pinching your nose at the curious glances around you. Not even able to find it in yourself to put on that plastic smile anymore, “Oh y’know, just soaking up my popularity with the masses after being stranded here.”

“Oh? Here with anyone?”

“Yeah.” you blurt out, “Your father.”

You watch in amusement as Satoru’s mouth falls into a delicate oh! eyes flickering over his shades between you and the handsome man on the other end of the venue, oblivious and fully enjoying himself in the company of his secretary. A bit too much without you. 

“Y’know…” he starts, shaky and sounding only half the insufferable heir he was before, “I would say that’s a hilarious version of a ‘your mom’ joke but you’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

“Mhm. Though it would make a good punchline, huh?” You huff out a laugh at the way he was suddenly less of a smooth-talking playboy and more of a lost puppy. The gears turning in his head as he processes that oh shit you were the sweet lil’ thing his dad’s been suddenly rushing off to meet straight after work. And the reason why all those old fossils here were clutching their pearls in scandal.

He just didn’t expect you to be this…gorgeous. And for the first time in forever, he’s suddenly so intrigued.

Because ah, you should’ve known better than to think that this little hiccup would deter the infamous Gojo Satoru. No, in fact that million-dollar smirk only makes its way back onto his unfairly pretty face, like he’s about to spill the juiciest gossip of the century.  

“So you’re the latest armcandy my ol’ man has picked up, huh? I hafta say, dear old dad has good taste.” he muses, stepping in close enough that his expensive cologne makes your head spin. “Why don’t you and I ah-” You follow Satoru’s gaze to where he was staring at the way his father was now making a beeline through the crowd. Straight for the two of you. 

“Gotta run before I get my share of the company revoked.” he flashes you a quick smile, fulling intent on saving his father’s delicate ego. But not before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “But jus’ saying,” voice a pretty little purr, “I wouldn’t ever leave you standing here so alone and gorgeous, princess.”

You can only stand there, reeling from the sheer audacity as he darts into the crowd with a wink, not caring if he stepped on a few too many overpriced coattails than necessary. Wondering whether this was some bizarre dream induced by too much tequila and not enough common sense.

“Hi, sweetheart. Investors held me up, you know how it is. Having fun, huh?” A toned arm wraps around your waist as your sugar daddy finally arrives by your side. And as he went on about his latest business branch, only two thoughts ring through your mind - 1. You were seriously reconsidering this arrangement. And 2. This was going to be interesting. 

And oh was it interesting. 

Because Satoru always managed to find you, wherever you were. No matter if it was another droning function or a chance meeting at the sprawling Gojo Estate, Satoru always swooped in whenever his father was too busy for you. Which, fortunately for Satoru, happened to be a lot.  

Hell, he seemed to find you even when you least wanted him to. Like that time he had to drag you away mid-argument with a particularly rude one of his snobby aunts. That was not a fun family reunion. 

All unabashed confidence and pretty smiles where his father was cold, cold calculation. Ready with a smart mouth to bicker with you and bright eyes that seemed to linger on you a bit too long. But you didn’t mind - why would you? Because all things considered, Satoru was a very attractive man. Sure, his father was extremely handsome, too - in a clean-cut, DILF-y way, in fact. But his son was dangerously attractive.

So much so that sometimes when he swept you away from insufferable galas to talk, some strange little part of you wished it was him that you came here with instead. Just for a second. 

“So, what do you see in my father anyway? His company?” Satoru asked you one day. Draping himself over his cool office desk, so comically out of place in the stiff corporate room. Legs kicking in the air as he waits for your response.

You tear your eyes away from the way his biceps were straining so deliciously against his snug button-up to deadpan, “I mean, I am his sugar baby after all, Satoru.”

“But think about it,” he whines, batting those long lashes at you. Fully intent on driving you as dangerously close to a stroke as possible before his father finishes up an important business meeting. One that he missed - whoops. “There’s close to nothing redeemable about the man. His idea of a family bonding activity is a PowerPoint presentation on quarterly earnings.”

“Satoru.”   

“And either way- I’m getting the company in a few years, would ya be my sugar baby then, princess?”

Ah, there it was. 

It’s been a few weeks of knowing Satoru, and those little comments still made your head spin. Second-guessing the nature of this strange little…friendship? You didn’t even know anymore. Because yeah there might’ve been a few, stupid little lingering touches - like a trace on your hips, or your hand firmly in his as he led your (temporary) escape from another lonely gala. But those meant nothing, right?

“Nah, I’d poison you and take over the company instead.”

“Hey!”

Well, whatever, he was just your sugar daddy’s son. His sharp-mouthed, dangerously handsome son that just couldn’t seem to leave you alone. Not that you were complaining, really. Your relationship with his father was not exactly exclusive - you already knew that secretary of his was a bit suspiciously close - but that’s all he’ll ever be. Right?

Or, well, that’s what you stupidly thought. 

It wasn’t until one night late in the Gojo Estate, cursing those ridiculously long hallways, that you get an inkling of exactly how wrong you were. 

“Ugh, fucking rich people.” you mutter under your breath, wandering around trying to find whether the fuck the bathroom was. Because it doesn’t matter how many companies and businesses Gojo senior ran, the man still sucked at directions. You hiss, rubbing the tiny bruise on your neck - and aftercare too, clearly, even though that was in that damn contract. Something about an urgent business call with his secretary. Ugh. 

After three wrong doors, a trip around the in-home planetarium (seriously, who even needed that?), and chugging a full water bottle from the third kitchen in exhaustion, you finally find yourself walking towards what hopefully looked like the bathroom.

Hand reaching for the doorknob to swing it open. Ah, this better be the one or so help you-

Now, Satoru thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. And you - hair mussed, and dazed, standing there in nothing but a large button-up, falling just below your panties - looked like a sinfully beautiful lil’ demon here to lure him into hell. And oh how gladly he’d go if it means he got to see this ethereal view more often. 

“Ah! Wha- Sato-” 

You don’t even know if you want to scream or not - torn between taking in the sculpted chest smushed against your face and not wanting to alert security downstairs. Reeling backward you drink in the sight before you and God how you wish you didn’t - it wasn’t too good for your heart. 

Satoru’s hair was tousled, droplets of water glistening on his hair like diamonds. Skin soft and damp and smelling so delicious. Bathroom light bouncing off his rippling muscles, pecs flexing, as his strong arms reach out to steady you as you reel backwards. 

Traitorously, your eyes snake across his sculpted body. Dipping below once. Twice. Cheeks flaring as a pang of disappointment hits you at the damp towel wrapped around that slutty torso. Wondering what’s underneath-

“Y’should take a picture, it lasts longer.” Satoru grins, like the shameless bastard he is. Though he wasn’t in any better state - eyes flickering between you and any sliver of exposed skin his eyes could reach. 

“I should be saying the same to you.” you mutter, caught red-handed, shuffling your feet in embarrassment. 

Satoru lets out a low chuckle as he pulls you closer minutely, presence practically enveloping you. “Oh, me?” he says, voice dropping to a husky murmur. Thumb tracing that little spot on your neck, “S’hard not to when y’look so appetizing.”

And you don’t even try to pull away because fuck this is Satoru and he looks so good - so warm under your fingertips, even when you jolt at the realization of what exactly he was talking about. Your hand coming up to cover that tiny mark left on your skin from not-too-long ago. A shameful little reminder that this was his son. 

You grapple for some - any - sense of normalcy. Warning, “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Satoru.”

He leans down impossibly, quirking an eyebrow. Both amusement and something unreadable flashing across his face. “Oh, but it’s got my father somewhere?”

“Why? Jealous?”

“Yes.”

You startle, taken aback by the blunt confession. So direct and something so Satoru. The word hands in the hair’s breadth between you two now, sending your mind reeling. And you can’t help but repeat, “Jealous?”

“Fucking yes.” There it was again. 

But this time, Satoru plows on, voice barely above a whisper but ringing in the thick air. “Jealous he gets to have you all to himself but still doesn’t kiss you like you should be.”

“What do you-”

“Your lipstick.” he interrupts, swiping a thumb over your bottom lip, “Why’s it as perfect as since you came in?” And, indeed, you realize with a jolt that no you really haven’t been kissed the way you wanted - not enough to leave your make-up so sinfully ruined. 

Minty breath fanning your face so dangerously now, and you barely even realize that you’re leaning into it, “If it were up to me, princess, I’d ruin that pretty lil’ lipstick of yours every chance I got.”

A delicious little shiver runs down your spine, head spinning at Satoru and his words and Satoru- And it’s all you can do to get out a shaky, “So why don’t you?”

And then he’s kissing you. And you’re kissing him - like neither of you had the strength nor the will to stop. 

Satoru tasted just like candy, such an intoxicating sweetness that had you gasping as his soft tongue licked at the seam of your lips. Intertwining with yours as he breathes you in desperately. So sloppy. Such a sinful little mix of saliva and teeth and pure need.

His chest is soft under your greedy hands, lips searing against yours, and you could feel his hands wandering across every inch of skin they could find. Kissing you like he’ll never be able to again because fuck he knows that he might just not. 

Long fingers dance delicately underneath that shirt to feel- oh fuck, you weren’t even wearing panties. Such a pretty lil’ slut and by God was he a goner. 

Groaning into the kiss, he lets you loop your arms around his neck, hardened nipples rubbing against his abs as you tug on his damp hair. Honestly, fuck that thin shirt, Satoru thinks he might just pass out right here right now.

“S-Satoru.” you whisper against his lips, legs hiking up to grind your bare cunt against the throbbing erection straining against his towel. Already so wet from water or precum, you had absolutely no idea. You couldn’t give less of a fuck in fact, needing to see if Satoru’s cock was as pretty as the rest of him right now. Hands urgently dipping below the hem, starting to tug and-

“Hey, sweetheart. Did you find the bathroom?”

Shit. Fuck. Wonderful - perfect, in fact.

You would’ve thought Satoru burned you with how quickly you pushed him away. Cheeks burning, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Almost slipping on the tile as you try to compose yourself at a safe distance - one that wouldn’t end up with you jumping his bones again. 

But all rational thoughts of that and your sugar daddy - Satoru’s father - almost go out the window once you take in the heavenly sight before you. 

Satoru’s lips swollen, hair disheveled, towel hanging slightly too low off his hips. Giving you such a pretty peak of those tufts of snowy white hair at the bottom. 

“W-we shouldn’t…” you trail off, as the footsteps get louder and louder. Something prickly and uncomfortable pooling in your stomach with each beat. 

Luckily for you, Satoru probably catches on to how you looked like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole right now. Voice low and control as he agrees, “Yeah, we probably shouldn’t.” No care in the world for his steadily approaching father as he lazily adjusts his towel, a gesture so nonchalant yet distracting. 

You swallow hard as he moves to walk past you, thinking that if this just so happened to be a dream then by God was it a good one. But of course - when has Satoru ever let you have it easy?

Because he stops abruptly in his tracks, fingers only ghosting the doorknob. Immediately turning back to walk to you with two, big steps, eyes gleaming, dimple flashing. And before you even know what’s happening, his lips are on yours. Featherlight and fleeting. But so so addictive. Nipping at your bottom lip, savoring you on his tongue.

It’s over before you know it, and a pathetic little disappointed whine leaves you as he pulls away. A smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he mutters lowly into yours, “Y’look prettier like this.”

Ah, you weren’t happy to see him leave but how you loved watching him go. Bathroom light so pretty against all the dips and curves of his figure as he walked away. White hair reflecting the warm hue, muscles flexing, hips slightly swaying with such a slutty little confidence that only Satoru could have. 

As you watch him disappear around the door, you almost forget the unwelcome visitor hot on your heels any second now and - wait - what was it that he’d said? “Prettier like this”?

Turning to the mirror and- 

Oh. Shit. 

You better have brought your make-up remover.

God, Satoru’s never ran to his room as fast as this since that time he was caught using his father’s elite golf clubs to play pool with Suguru.

Because as soon as that goddamn door is shut, he’s ripping his towel off. Letting it drop to the floor in a damp pile God-knows-where as he immediately fists his swollen cock.

With a groan, he leans against the shut door.  Eyes scrunching in such sinful ecstasy as he squeezes the base, pulsing and so achingly hard for you. A warning and a reprimand. Shit, how the fuck did he get this hard just from kissing your pretty lil’ lips?

Ah, whatever, right now he doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity to think too hard about it. Smearing the precum beading at his weeping tip, wetting his palm so sloppily. 

Neat little crescents searing into his skin where you’d grabbed him before, only thing on his mind - how would you do it?

Would you ease him into it? Or would you start up a hasty, desperate little pace like he was doing right now? Shallow, quick tugs on his thick cock like you wanted to milk him deliciously. 

Satoru’s hand was cold on his angry, hot cock. And with how many times he’s slipped his into yours, he knew yours would feel better around him. Both hands wrapped around his cock but still not covering all of it. So soft and warm, your nails scraping gently across his throbbing veins. 

“Shit. Hngh-” he breathes out, voice almost-pathetic, “J-jus’ like that, princess.” 

And what would you say? Tell him to shut up and just take it? Would you whisper into his ear as you let him fuck himself into your pretty fists? “So hard n’ big all f’me?” Satoru’s knees buckle at the thought, hand speeding up. “Y’look so pretty like this, y’know.”

Slam! Palm slamming against the poor drawer beside him hard enough to make its legs tremble, desperately trying to keep himself from collapsing. 

But oh his fist doesn’t stop. No, he doubts he ever will - not that strong of a man to keep himself from getting off so filthily to the image of you standing at the doorway of the bathroom. You looked so ethereal - Satoru couldn’t help but imagine how even more sinful you’d look if he was the one done with you. Shit, you wouldn’t even be able to stand if he had his way. 

“F-fuck, princess. M’gonna ruin you, gonna fuck you till you don’t know anything but m’name.”

He grips tighter on the base, thumbing under his slit in a way he knows your devious little hands would do. Fucked-out little grunts leaving his swollen lips each time his fingers meet his flushed tip.

“Ah- Ngh, fuck.” he mutters hoarsely, letting out a low, broken little call of your name. “More. Need more, princess.” He wanted you so badly that it hurt.

What the fuck did that sleazy old man have that he didn’t? And that little bite? That would be nothing compared to what Satoru would do if he got his hands on you. Yeah, he thinks, body shuddering violently, he’d mark you up till everyone knows you’re his. Leave bites that peak out from your collar, all the way down to your pretty thighs.

“Y’belong with me pretty, could fuck you so much better.” Sweat drips from his brow, splashing onto his erratic fist. Thighs quivering, heart pounding wildly in his chest. 

Satoru would almost be embarrassed by how desperate he was acting if he was in any better state of mind. Head only filled with you, and your hand and you-

And fuck for the sake of his sanity he can’t even begin to imagine how it would feel inside your pretty lil’ cunt. All he can think of is the way you’d keen so prettily, mewling out a little, “Oh s’too big.” 

Would you take him all in one go? Look up at him with those beautiful, teary eyes as you milk his cock? Or would he have to ram his dick into you, because shit as much as he loves that  bitchy mouth, it would look so much better gasping and stuttering as he fucks you dumb. 

“Oh yeah.” he groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Such a good lil’ slut f’me. Taking m’so well.” 

God his hand was so sloppy on his dick that he didn’t even know what he was doing anymore. Just wanting to fuck you and have you do this f’him. 

Ah, your plushy walls would suck him in so nicely. One hand speeds up on his cock, while the other reaches down to cradle his balls. Tugging and pulling at the same jerky rhythm they would smack your ass while he stuffs you full. 

So much better than any other sugar daddy ever could. Oh how Satoru would love to mess up your pretty pussy and your lipstick. He’d fucking tattoo your lipstick stains on if he could.

And you’d be able to do nothing but gasp and whimper into his lips, cockdrunk and dazed, “Shit shit shit- Toru m’gonna - Hah- Wanna cum. Please wan’ cum-” Oh how he’d burn down this entire fucking world to hear you call him that. 

“Fuck,” he curses, bucking into his fist, tight balls twitching so sensitively. “Fuck...fuck fuck fuck. M’gonna cum- shit- gonna cum, princess.”

“Cum f’me, Toru. Fill me up with y’cum- wanna take all of it.”

And then he’s cumming. 

A ragged, raw moan of your name leaving his lips. Thick, hot ropes of cum that should be painting your pussy white - but, alas, he’s spilling into his fist so shamefully. And amongst the stars behind his eyes he’s sees you - you you you-

You, fucking your cunt deeper onto his cock to take every drop of his cum. You, whispering sweet little praises as his seed gushes down your thigh, telling him that oh he’s doing so well, and he’s the best boyfriend ever and you already want more-

You, at the arm of his father.

Shit, he needs to shower. Again. 

---

Ever since that little incident that night, everything changed. 

At this point, you didn’t even feel that usual little bitterness whenever your sugar daddy canceled for some urgent business. And, well, it made you blush to admit but you found yourself heading over to the Gojo Estate more and more frequently, often just to catch a glimpse of Gojo - or a quick kiss in the stuffy broom closet. Whichever left you more time to run away from looming security and his father. 

But that was exactly the problem. 

Because no matter how thick the tension lingering in the air between you two was, nothing had gone past heated kisses and touches. Either you were brought back to reality with the possibility of being arrested for indecent exposure at those galas, or someone just had to interrupt. Seriously, with how many times Satoru has had to pay off his poor personal assistant, you’ve been wondering whether he actively seeks you two out. 

And it really didn’t help that Satoru always tasted so goddamn delicious. Fingers searing on your skin, cologne heavy in the heady air, it was hard to keep your hands to yourself. 

But, hey, desperate times bring devious measures.

Which is why you were here right now - sinking into the plushiest bed at the Gojo Estate, clad in your delicate light blue lingerie. One that was custom-made in this specific shade of blue. Because while your sugar daddy preferred you in red, you’re sure he wouldn’t mind you using his credit card for other ulterior motives, right? 

You just hoped that Satoru would just so happen to get a peak when you sneak out to use the bathroom later. What would he say? Would he like it? Would his eyes roam over your body, fingers twiddling with the flimsy lace?

But more importantly - would it be enough to make him break? Even if just a little bit?

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You’re startled out of your little whirlwind thoughts by knocking on the door. Steady, and matching your racing heart. Ah, Satoru’s father, you hastily get up to fix your hair.

“Yo, princess, are you naked or can I come in? Or can I come in when you’re naked?”

That wasn’t your sugar daddy. 

Not even thinking of your current outfit anymore, you rush to throw the heavy wooden doors open to see that, yes, it really was Satoru standing at the door. All bright grins and flushed cheeks as he drinks you in. Brows raising as his eyes move down from your face once. Twice. Thrice. 

Success. 

“What’re you doing here, Satoru?” you bat your lashes deceivingly innocently. Trying to hold back the smirk threatening to curl your lips at the way he gulps.

“Uh- My father’s off to some urgent b-business.” he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. “Told me to tell you he’s sorry and wishes you the breas- best.”

Oh. 

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time Satoru’s father has canceled on you. But it would be the first time that he’s canceled on you so conveniently enough to leave you alone with his unfairly hot son. Now, you couldn’t let the opportunity go to waste, right?

You lean slightly against the door, body ghosting Satoru’s, teasing him, “Well, when is my dear sugar daddy coming back from his business? Tell him I miss him.”

It’s a joke - and both of you probably know it. But that doesn’t stop Satoru’s brows furrowing ever-so-slightly, suddenly a different man from the flustered one he was just a few seconds ago as he mutters, “I don’t think he’ll be back tonight.”

“Aww, must be some important business.” 

He clenches his jaw aggressively at that, gritting out a clipped little, “You do know that ‘business’ of his is his secretary right?”

“I know. What a shame, right? Guess I’ll just have to go home n’ wait for him then?” you mockingly sigh - God, someone give you an Oscar. Moving to close the door in Satoru’s face, only to be stopped by a large hard smacking into the doorframe - as you knew it would. 

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m gonna let you come out looking like that and let you go home without tearing it to shreds.”

And that’s all that is said before his lips are on yours.

The door is slamming shut before you know it, and you’re shoved against it. Satoru’s lips such a sloppy mix of teeth and spit. Hands just everywhere - cradling your cheek, teasing your nipples through your bra, running down to squeeze and grope your ass. He just couldn’t get enough of you. 

Fuck twiddling with the lace, Satoru seemed well and fully intent to rip it off of you. And you’d let him. Just like he was letting you shove his overpriced button-up down his toned shoulders. Soft little rips sounding in the heady air at the urgency but neither of you could give less of a fuck. 

All you could think of is the way Satoru was so pretty and muscled. Drinking in all the dips and curves of pale skin underneath your fingertips. 

“Fuck, princess. Chose this color on purpose, huh?” his fingers dive under the hem of your bra, “Wanted to drive me crazy, mm?”

“Y-yes, Satoru.” you gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. “Wanted you to look at it. Got it custom-made all f’you.” words muffled as he sucks on your tongue. Satoru was always such a messy kisser, licking at the seam of your lips and intertwining his tongue with yours with no shame or shyness. A delicate trail of drool already starting at the corner of your mouth. 

Ah, it was too much for him. Satoru almost thinks he could cum in his pants right now at your sinful little admission. 

Which is why he pulls away to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, letting out a broken little hum of appreciation into your skin. “Thought so.”

And then your bra’s hitting the floor, tits spilling out into the cold bedroom air. But only for a split-second because Satoru’s immediately groping each and every inch of skin he can find. 

“Look so fucking beautiful like this.” Rolling your swollen nipples between two fingers as he mutters - more to himself than you, “Was gonna let him see you in this slutty lil’ thing, too?” leaning down to tongue lazily little circles on one nipple. Words muffled as he wraps his lips so prettily around your tit - tugging, just grazing with his teeth, “Matching my eyes, huh? Fuckin’ gonna be the death of me shit-”

Satoru was insatiable. Wanting all of you all at the same time. And you follow his line of sight to see him locked on your dripping cunt - soaking through the thin fabric of your panties. Clenching around nothing as his pretty pink lips fall into a soft oh! at the sight. 

Like a madman, he immediately drops to his knees. But you don’t think he even feels the pain as he bites down on the hem of your wet panties. Looking up at you with dazed eyes - miles away. 

Breath ghosting your quivering cunt, tugging lightly with his teeth, “Next time, I’m gonna be the one buying you these.”

Then he’s pulling - tearing your drenched panties to shreds. Grinning so devilishly around it as he gets his first sight of your pretty pussy.  Oh you were so perfect for him. So mouthwateringly wet. 

“Shit, princess. Can’t believe you were fucking holdin’ out on me.”  he muses in wonder, eyes wide at the way your sloppy pussy was glistening in the dim lighting. 

“You were the one that-”

And usually, Satoru loves hearing you run your mouth, but this time he’s shutting you up by diving face-first into your dripping cunt. Cute little mewls leaving you as he presses so shamefully deep that his nose was against your throbbing clit, rubbing languidly as he licks a thick stripe up your swollen folds. 

And then it was like something snapped. 

Because one taste of you and Satoru’s going wild. Throwing a leg over his shoulder to lick more desperately all all over your cunt, lapping up all the juices that gush out of you. Already so addicted because shit you were so much sweeter than in his dreams. 

“Ah! Hngh- please.” you mewl, as he wraps his glossy lips around your swollen clit. All you get is a feral little grunt, his jaw parted, eyes looking like he’s on cloud nine as starts to suck harshly. Filthy little squelches filling the air as Satoru rolls his tongue across your clit. “Feels, s’good, Satoru.”

But your cute little whines turn into one of disappointment as Satoru pulls away ever-so-slightly. “Call m’Toru.” he slurs.

And he doesn’t waste any more time, tongue swishing in his mouth to spit on you once. Twice. Missing ever so slightly, and splattering on your thigh. You flinch, gasping out a breathless little, “Toru!”

“Oh shit, princess. Yeah- say m’name jus’ like that” he groans, ragged and raw. The last thing out of his mouth before he’s squeezing his soft tongue into your snug cunt. Dipping into your sloppy hole in and out in and out in and-

“He ever made you feel this good?” he moans into your cunt, the vibrations making you fuck yourself deeper into his unrelenting tongue. 

“W-what?”

“He ever made you feel this good? Cum so hard you see stars?”

You gasp out a pathetic little sob, “N-no. Want to- Wan’ you to make me cum, Toru. Make me cum around your tongue.”

And, well, what his girl wants - then she’s going to get. Because Satoru’s lapping at your cunt even more greedily than before. 

Stretching you out, breathing you in, looking up at your cute expression through his long lashes. Already so fucked-out for him. 

Nose rubbing purposefully in small circles on your clit. Fucking you with his tongue the way he wants to with his cock and he didn’t give a fuck if he suffocated in-between your thighs - he fucking loved it. 

“Hngh- shit shit shit yes!” your nails are digging into Satoru’s scalp at this point. The only thing steadying yourself to prevent you from collapsing onto the ground. And you really can’t help but angle his head just right so that his tongue curls against that one spot inside your plushy walls. 

Thankfully, he gets the memo. Because Satoru’s letting out a strangled little grunt at being so used by you as you drag your cunt across his pretty mouth. Body jerking into his as he hits that spot over and over-

“T-Toru- hah!” thighs quivering, Satoru’s grip bruising as he holds you up. “M’m gonna-” Your plushy walls sucking him up, thighs squeezing around his face. 

“Mhm?”

“Cum! M’gonna cum- ah- fuck fuck fuck-”

He groans huskily into your cunt. Throwing his head back ever-so-slightly to let your slick slide down his throat - greedily waiting for more that was to come. “Then show me how you cum, m’girl. Cum all over my tongue.”

And then you are - all over Satoru’s pretty face. And fuck he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked prettier. Holding his head in place as you rock your hips into his waiting mouth, letting him drink you in so greedily. Clamping down on his tongue like you were trying to milk him. 

And if you were in any better state of mind, you’d notice the delirious little heart eyes that Satoru was giving you, your cunt firm on his face and swollen lips letting out such pretty whines of his name. Toru Toru Toru - like a prayer as you fucking use him for your high. 

Ah, he could stay like this forever, he thinks. But no, an empty house and you all wet n’ pretty for him means there’s too much more to do. 

Which is why he’s pulling away, your slick decorating his lips so prettily. Smeared across the bottom half of his face and dripping onto the hardwood floor in a maddening little drip! drip! drip! 

And Satoru knows, with the way you watch him so intensely, mouth parted, eyes glossy. Which is why he runs a thumb along his mouth, pooling your juices on his fingers and popping them into his mouth. One by one. 

Your jaw drops a little in disbelief as Satoru licks his fingers clean, eyes rolling to the back of his head at your addictive taste. Oh he was ruining you without even touching you. 

“Not enough, princess.” he chuckles. “C’mon, gimme a kiss.”

And, really, how could you ever say no to that face? Because you’re pulling him to you as soon as Satoru stands to his full height. Capturing his lips in such a sloppy, filthy kiss - forcing you to taste yourself and you half-lucidly wonder whether Satoru loved the taste almost as much as you because it was so him.

Bodies so close that your dripping cunt was seeping into his unfairly tight shirt. Forming a lewd little dark patch when Satoru lifts you effortlessly to guide you to the bed. Tongue still entwining obscenely with yours as he splays you out on the soft mattress for him. Drinking in that adorable lil’ shock on your face as you bounce on the bed, so drunk off of him that you didn’t even realize he was taking you to the bed. 

“Shit, y’look the prettiest like this, princess. S’a wonder m’not fucking passing out right now.” he hisses into your lips.

“Toru-” you whine, and shit the way his cock jumps at the mere sound of your voice makes you think that this will be a little trick you’re using more often. “Wan’ your cock s’bad. Wanna-”

You don’t even have the patience to finish the sentence before you’re fumbling with his belt. Something hefty and overpriced but you can’t possibly think about that right now because fuck you get the first sliver of milky skin. 

Satoru’s thighs were so sculpted and thick. It made your mouth absolutely water to wonder what it would feel like to ride them to insanity.

“Y’wanna ride my thighs? Fuck princess, you really are driving me crazy.” 

Shit had you said that out loud? 

Ah, well, it doesn’t matter because Satoru’s pulling his boxers down - so tight with his swollen cock, a dark patch right where his weeping head was. And you almost pout at losing the opportunity to take them off but oh how you’re distracted by the sinful sight before you. 

Satoru was massive - so long and flushed your favorite shade of pretty pink. Shit, you were going to have to get a lingerie set in this color one of these days. He was achingly hard and throbbing, springing up to smear precum all over his abs. 

And before you can even react, Satoru’s pulling you to him. Manhandling your pretty self so easily to straddle one, large thigh. 

“Oh- hngh, Toru.” you look up at him all doe-eyed and teary as he doesn’t even wait for you to register what’s all happening. Grip bruising on your hips as he rocks your hips so sluttily on his leg. “F-feels s’good. Ah-”

“Yeah? Y’like it? Like getting yourself off like a lil’ slut on my thigh?” he groans into your ear, low and husky with need. 

You nod wildly, sloppy pussy dripping all over his thigh, seeping into his skin as you grind your hips to meet his movements. “Like it s’much- ah-”

“Mhm? Better than anything he could ever do?”

“Yes yes yes, Toru-” you sob, cheeks burning as you realize that you’re humping him like a bitch in heat - but oh judging by the carnal little glint in his eyes, he liked it. Loved it, even. Because Satoru could feel the way your swollen folds spread to grind against him, clit pulsing so maddeningly against his skin. So filthy and messy as you used him to get yourself off. “S’much better- the best-”

He just didn’t expect to feel a soft hand wrapping around his cock. Eyes flying open to see you - all glassy-eyed, and fucking yourself on his thigh - wrap a hand around his cock. Starting to move in shallow, unsteady little motions up and down his throbbing cock to get him off at the same time as you.

“Wan’ you to cum, too, Toru.”

“Oh fuck.” he grunts, letting his hips fuck up into your fist in mindless little motions. “Y’don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

And with that his fingers were digging into the skin of your hips, forcing you to hold on for dear life as he drags your dripping cunt faster and faster across his thick. Movements erratic and frenzied now. 

Of course, you were not one to be out-done. 

Satoru’s precum spilling down your hand, your wrist now aching and wet, becoming so, so sloppy trying to get both yourselves off. But you still tighten your fist around his pulsing cock, desperately flying up and down his length. Pulling in quick, jerky motions to milk him for all he’s worth again and again and-

“You’re so oh- good f’me, princess.” he hums. “Your hngh- hands are so p-pretty wrapped around my cock. So perfect for me.” Bucking his hips wildly to meet your hand now, fucking your fist with no shame. Pulling you harsher on his thigh. “S’such a shame you had to hah fuck- meet my father first. I’d have been so much better.”

“Toru!” you squeal as one hand moves deftly from your hips to draw quick, hasty little circles on your throbbing clit. The friction from his thigh and fingers too much to handle. 

“I’d make you happier.” Your body is shaking now, hands messy and trembling around his swollen cock. “I’d make you laugh more and give you all m’time.” You can’t even look at him at this point, eyes scrunched close in ecstasy as Satoru whispers these maddening little phrases into your open mouth. 

“I’d make you cum harder.”

Oh and then you are - tears in your eyes, body convulsing into his as you cum. And of course he’s smirking smugly as he watches you ride your high out on his thigh, brows furrowed and bottom lip bitten in concentration as he holds off cumming. Not now. Not yet. 

“So, better than him or not?”

But shit was it hard. 

Especially when you raise your pretty, barely-lucid eyes to meet his, whimpering out a soft little, “I don’ know yet, Toru. Gonna hafta stuff me full of your cock if you wanna know.”

And perhaps for the first time since you walked in on him after the shower that night, the great Gojo Satoru is taken aback. Eyes widening in surprise, kiss-bitten lips falling into a soft oh! of disbelief. But not for long - never for long - because a devilish little grin breaks out across his face immediately afterwards. 

“Shit, y’really are perfect f’me, princess.”

With a low growl, Satoru is easily pulling your body - limp and boneless in his hands - to straddle his toned hips. 

You let out a yelp at the feeling of his fat tip just kissing your swollen folds, dragging teasingly along them, collecting the slick beading out of your sloppy cunt. Back and forth-

“Who’s got you feeling this way?”

“You, Toru.”

And then he’s pushing in, swollen cock bullying into your snug pussy. Thumbs drawing steady little circles on your hips - yes to reassure you but also to fight off that feral little part of himself that just wants to stuff your pretty lil’ pussy full until his heavy balls smack your ass. Not even waiting for you to adjust. 

But no. No, it was so much better when you were the one desperately trying to suck up his cock. Gasping and moaning out strangled little whimpers of his name as you sink yourself down on his throbbing dick. Inch by fucking inch. 

“S’too big- Hngh! I-is it even halfway in?” you whimper out, and Satoru could almost laugh humorlessly as he tilts his head to glance downwards and shit- he was barely a quarter in. 

“No.” 

“F-fuck” cute little tears streaking down your face now, thighs trembling, “Toru, I-I don’t think I can-”

“You can. And you will.” Fucking up into you in short, rapid little jabs to squeeze himself deeper into your tight pussy. Shit, it was such a squeeze, you were milking the ever-loving soul out of him. And it only made him impossibly harder inside you, making you whine and grind down - torn between chasing the feeling of being so deliciously full and the sheer pressure. “Shit, love when your pussy’s sucking me up so good.” 

One hand is on your hip, sliding you farther and farther down his cock, the other drawing urgent, quick patterns on your clit. Not even circles anymore because shit Satoru doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity for that. Throbbing veins rubbing so sinfully against that one spot in your dripping cunt, splitting you apart to the same rhythm as the pulsing. 

And as soon as your ass meets his heavy balls - already so wet with precum and slick - Satoru doesn’t even know if he’s on planet Earth anymore. Mind spinning, he doesn’t waste any time at all. 

“Fuck yes.” Satoru hisses, throwing his head back. “Fucking finally.” He pulls his hips back, far enough that his angry, red tip is just kissing your sloppy entrance, surging forward, forward, forward- “Y’don’t know how fucking long I’ve wanted this, princess. Needed this s’bad, so so bad you don’t understand. Shit.”

And, hey, his girl deserved to be fucked dumb, right?

“Needed this ever since I saw you at that goddamn gala.” he whispers into your lips, ragged and so fucked-out. Each word punctuated by a harsh, heavy thrust. Ones that have you keening and grasping Satoru’s broad back for support. Nails raking down his shoulders as his pace gets faster. More purposeful.

And you can do nothing but take it, barely even able to form any coherent sentences. So prettily sat on Satoru’s lap as he fucks into you, babbling sweet little nonsenses made for your ears only. “Ever since I saw that murderous little glare you threw at those snobby guests.”

His balls smacking against your ass over and over. A quick, steady little tempo that you were losing your mind to. “Ever since you let me take your hand and drag you away to that secret bar to take shots instead of champagne.”

You don’t know whether you’re even crying at this point - all you know is that your cheeks are wet and your voice is broken as your let out a little, “F-fuck, Satoru- but your fa-”

“Fuck that.” he whines, and you could almost laugh at the adorable pout that makes its way onto his face. And at that you can feel him jolt so deliciously, head snapping up to meet yours. “I’m the better one.”

And as if he’s trying to prove it to your cunt, he’s drilling into you faster. Harder. Hips burning now as he fucks you like some animal. Hitting that sweet spot over and over. “I’m the one with the personality and the looks.” Long fingers almost a blur on your clit as he matches his place. Cock hot, and throbbing inside you. 

“I’m the heir, I get the company, too, if that’s what you like.” He’s bouncing you on his cock animalistically now. Hungry gaze taking in the way you’re sucking him up so well. “And I’m funnier one, I’m the one that should be by your side.”

You see stars behind your eyes at both the pleasure and sheer overstimulation as Satoru starts fucking your cunt as best he could without fucking breaking you  - but, honestly, he didn’t give a shit if you cried. He just wanted to stuff you full and have you cum harder than you ever have in your life. 

“Fuck- fuck yes m’gonna cum Toru- hngh.” You pull him closer to you, allowing him to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “M-make ah! Make me cum, fill me up please, Toru.”

You feel him shudder inside you, balls squeezing so painfully. Hips sloppy and absolutely soaked with precum and slick. “Sh-shit, you’re not too good for m’heart. Ngh, f-fuck- I should be the one to make you cum. Over and over until you don’t know what it feels like to not.”

“Toru!” your eyes fly open, “Yes yes yes- it’s you. Only you-”

Oh, like something snapped then Satoru’s surging forward to bite down on the crook of your neck. Hard. You’d almost think he was out to draw blood. And then with a low groan, and one, harsh little thrust, Satoru’s cumming and cumming inside your pretty pussy. And you are too - back arching as you milk his cock through his high. 

Fingers digging into your skin as he holds your hips to his, letting your cunt be filled up so sloppily. Pumping thick, hot ropes of seed that dribbled out of you each time he pumped his hips into yours. Fucking it deeper and deeper inside you. 

And then you’re both collapsing, the exhaustion suddenly hitting the both of you as Satoru moves you both to lay on the mattress. Fuck, Satoru watches in wonder as his cum gushes out of you and forms a wet little pool on the expensive sheets as he starts to pull out. One round might just not be enough. 

Yet not yet - he can feel his eyes drooping, muscles aching as he pulls your sticky body closer to his. And Satoru knows he should get up and wipe you both down. But right now, he’s too drunk off the heat of your body and that angry little bite on your neck. Distracted by the cute lil’ expression on your face, so tired and thoroughly fucked out. Fingers playing with his hair, looking at him with an expression so fond - just like in his dreams. 

Nothing more is said. And all is quiet in your strange little heaven. 

That is, until - “So, princess. Wouldn’t ya wanna be an heiress instead of a sugar baby?”

A/N. How we feeling???

Plagiarism not authorized.

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