#so again you can look at who I rb from!! <3 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kodaiki · 3 months

Text

highlights! ⇢ luna had to stay in satoru's bedroom bc she could choke on the lego pieces :( no cameo from her today ⇢ gojo never told anyone any of that... ⇢ gojo was shocked to learn that those were y/n's first official bouquet of flowers given to her

author's note! ⇢ we love a deep conversation moment, bonding over legos <3 okay now kiss :] this was basically the talk they had mentioned in the last part!

꒰ 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 ꒱ ↳ as a rising star in the tumultuous world of hollywood, you're handed a golden opportunity to boost your career – a fake relationship. what your manager forgot to mention? your leading man is none other than satoru gojo, hollywood's notorious fuckboy. easy? well, not exactly.

PART TWENTY ½ | NEXT

ʚĭɞ rbs and interaction always appreciated! ʚĭɞ

to join the taglist: currently 50/50. CLOSED!

[below is the written alternative to the pics above! enjoy <3]

SATORU’S HOME — 10:08 PM

the soft glow of the dimmed lights over your head illuminates the cozy atmosphere as you and satoru sit, plopped on the floor, surrounded by lego pieces scattered around you both. convenience store meal containers are pushed aside, replaced by the colorful array of lego blocks for the assembling of the flowers you’re making.

you can’t help but chuckle softly as you clip a piece together. “who knew assembling lego flowers would be so therapeutic?”

satoru glances up at you from his craftsmanship, his face lifting into a lopsided smirk as he raises a brow. “therapeutic and much more enjoyable than a dinner at a five-star joint, right?” he asks in a sly tone.

“definitely,” you admit – but give an eye roll, too – finding enjoyment in the quiet concentration of your activity. “i mean, who needs caviar when you’ve got legos?”

satoru wiggles his brows with a drawled, yet all the same, teasing tone. “you expected caviar?”

“you brought up a five star restaurant place first! i’m just playing along,” you reply with a pointed tone, jabbing the start of a lego flower stem at him.

the atmosphere is light as you continue your tasks, planted in place as you furrow your brows in concentration and deep thought.

“you know,” you begin, trailing up your gaze to glance over at his progress. he’s piecing the petals to the stem of his first flower. “i expected hollywood glamour and red carpets when i signed up for a fake relationship…definitely didn’t expect this.” your tone remains light and amused, almost whimsical, as a smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

satoru snaps his fingers in an ‘aw man’ type of gesture. with mock disappointment, he juts bottom his lip out. “well, i’m sorry if you’re disappointed, princess.”

you scoff playfully, rolling your eyes at his exaggerated display. “oh, i’m terribly disappointed. no paparazzi, no fancy dinners, just legos and premade meals. what a letdown.”

you meet satoru’s eyes when you finish speaking, tone laced with sarcasm. he’s grinning at you, finding your tone amusing. as the playfulness subsides and you’re left in silence again, a more contemplative air settles between the two of you.

you don’t notice at first, but satoru sets aside his made flower and leans back on his hands, gazing at you, his blonde bangs brushing against his forehead. “in all honesty, y/n, the hollywood life can be exhausting. sometimes, a night like this feels more real that those red carpet events.”

the shift in his tone catches your attention, making you pause in your movements and look up at him more intently. you notice his eyes, usually filled with more mischief, now hold a smidge of… is that vulnerability?

“you ever feel like you’re playing a role even when the cameras aren’t rolling?” he continues, a genuine curiosity in his expression.

the legos forgotten for a moment, you nod thoughtfully. “yeah, sometimes, depending on where i am. it’s like there’s ‘public me’ and then the ‘real me,’ and they don’t always align.” you recall the amount of pr training you had to do in your agency, solely to maintain a specific image.

satoru’s gaze lingers on you as if searching for something deeper behind your gaze. “well, you’re not alone in that feeling,” he confesses in a low tone, his usual playful demeanor replaced by a rare sincerity you haven’t seen before. “sometimes, i wonder if anyone really knows the real me.”

his words make your head cock to the side in interest. “what about suguru and your other friends?” you ask softly.

"well, yeah, i guess they know me on more than a superficial level. but even then, sometimes it's like i'm still playing a character." he shrugs with twisted lips – a habit of his you realize means he's in deep thought. "don't get me wrong, it's nothing wrong with them but my guard is still up… it’s kind of like a default thing engrained in my head since i first started acting.”

your brows dip into a slight furrow as you take in his words. had acting really gotten him to a point of building a hypothetical shield around himself?

you can sense a hint of sadness in his admission, a vulnerability laid bare in his words. it’s a satoru you haven’t seen before, a crack in the facade of the confident, charming persona he presents to the world. truthfully, you didn’t think you’d ever witness this side of him.

“i get that,” you reply softly, setting aside your own lego flower to change your sitting position to hugging your knees as your chin rests against the top of them, giving him your full attention. with a bashful chuckle, you continue, “i mean– i can’t say i relate since i’m far from where you are… but i guess i can see how it’s easy to blur the lines between who you are and a role you’re trying to uphold. it’s like the more successful you become, the more layers you add to protect yourself.”

he blinks owlishly at your words, face appearing blank. you think, for a moment, that you’ve said the wrong thing but he releases a chuckle himself, head tilting to the side thoughtfully.

“exactly,” he murmurs in agreement. “you sure you’re an amateur actress?” he raises a brow, a teasing glimmer in his blue eyes.

you laugh again. “definitely an amateur compared to the hollywood veteran sitting across from me,” you tease, a genuine smile playing on your lips.

satoru visibly shudders at the word ‘veteran,’ shaking his shoulders and head as he sits up straighter.

"was it tough getting to where you are?" you ask, treading the water first, wondering if he's even comfortable sharing this side of himself to you.

"i wanna say i got lucky with my first role at just fourteen. but everything after that? I can’t even tell you which was media-driven and which was self-motivated,” he shrugs with a sigh, briefly looking away from you as if pondering.

"what do you mean?" you furrow your brows. it's no surprise he's technically a 'child' actor, having starred on a popular netflix show in his early teenhood, skyrocketing him to instant fame, a much starker contrast than the typical child actor on daytime t.v.. his viewership was massive from his debut, having scored such a prominent role.

"after my first show did well, apparently several representatives for different projects wanted me and, well, for my management, that was a lottery. and – it's all a blur now, really – but soon enough I was an overworked sixteen-year-old starring in some show I hardly couldn't care less about, and then-"

"savage satoru," you finish for him, connecting the dots of his story.

he snorts at the cringy title. “was that really what they referred to me as?" he visibly winces, probably wishing for a nickname that didn’t sound like dated twitter jargon.

you nod, remembering how he'd blown up for acting out and being messy, as told by online tabloids on twitter and other social media sites. it’d been so many years ago but it was a pop culture moment; one of those ‘you just had to be there’ moments.

"so you remember the headlines then. i turned eighteen and started being a complete asshole on set, dating around, y’know the whole ordeal. my management had to step in and have a whole intervention with me if you can imagine it. damage control, really. they blamed it on the fact that I was eighteen – young and dumb bullshit – and sure, that had a part in it. but it has more so to do with how exhausted and overworked I was...

but despite all this damage control, i gained the label of some bad boy in hollywood who was objectively attractive and had a fanbase full of girls, so hollywood went with it. as long as i wasn't acting out on set, they'd embrace this new version of myself skewed by the media. anything for some exposure and quick bucks. and me? well, I still needed a check of my own so... i went with it. i think that's when i put up my first layer, hiding myself behind someone who wasn't me but doing it anyway because realistically, what else could I do?”

“it sounds toxic,” you murmur with a frown.

satoru's gaze becomes distant for a moment, a hint of nostalgia or maybe regret flashing in his eyes. “yeah, it was. it's a strange thing, trying to navigate your identity in an industry that's constantly shaping and reshaping it for you."

you reach down to pick up a stray lego piece from the floor, turning it over in your hand as you absorb his words. “but why go along with it even now? couldn't you have rebelled against the image they were trying to create?"

satoru chuckles bitterly, shaking his head to himself. "it's not that simple, y/n. in hollywood, the image they build for you often becomes more real than your true self. it becomes a survival mechanism. if you're not marketable, then they find someone who is. it's a game, and sometimes you have to play along to stay in it. think about it, you’re part of the game, too."

you gnaw at your lower lip, taking in his words. what he’s saying is true. if it hadn’t been for this fake relationship, you wouldn’t have the place – the opportunities – you do now in hollywood. without you even realizing, it’s a story built by hollywood for hollywood.

satoru looks over at your expression, a rueful smile on his lips. "it's a double-edged sword. the fame, the adoration, it comes at a cost. and often, that cost is your own self.”

the room is filled with a contemplative silence, broken only by the occasional click of lego pieces coming together. the atmosphere shifts once more, a newfound understanding settling between you and satoru.

“i didn’t mean for this talk to get so gloomy,” he mutters with an awkward chuckle amidst the silence, rubbing the back of his neck.

“that’s okay,” you offer a smile of understanding. to be honest, you’d much rather have talks like these with people than a superficial one while brushing these topics under a carpet. “is it bad that i’m rethinking my whole career now?” you ask with a humorless laugh, picking up the flower again, now nearly finished.

“i’d be more surprised if you didn’t,” he retorts with an amused scoff. “but it gets better, trust me.”

“if it’s any consolation, i’m grateful i got to fake date you out of the other actors in hollywood,” you admit with a soft smile.

“yeah?” he raises a brow, partly in amusement, the other part in pure intrigue. “the infamous satoru gojo?” before you can answer, he leans back on his hands again, shooting you a smirk. “i knew you’d admit to my appeal one of these days. they always do.” he glances back at you, winking to let you know he’s partially kidding.

“oh, shut up,” you fire back, but a grin tugs up your lips. “i take back what i said.”

“too late!” he gives you a shit-eating grin, teasing you.

you can only roll your eyes, knowing if you tried to argue with him, your tone would give yourself away.

perhaps, amidst the legos and vulnerability, a genuine friendship is taking root, growing from the foundation of shared experiences and mutual understanding.

and surprisingly,

you don’t mind it one bit.

taglist!

@dummyf @vivi-loves-penguins @sadmonke @scaraslover @pleorexicz @sophluvspurple @fandomtrash5092 @tiredjuniper @satoruslipbalm @v3nusplanetoflove @semra4 @sorcerersseestars @thisisnotashley @sad-darksoul @itzjuliana @yanelis-world @giannitaa @sexeyess @sousblogga @swissy23 @awrient @nijirosz @shotovhs @m00nglad3-mp3 @hellomeow12 @saatorubby @44ina @sassy-cat-in-town @oneofthesevensins @chuyasthighs0 @tetsusangel @roselleviennesstuff @lilactaro @blvckxb3vutii @gojoreads @amnmich @misfit-megumi @mizzfizz @iluv-ace @zat0r0 @thenyxsky @qv4nx11 @tobaccosunbxrst @muoshui @kyufiber @startaee

those highlighted in pink were unable to be tagged! please solve this issue within a week or your spot will be given to someone else! 🤍

659 notes · View notes

meiieiri · 4 months

Text

water’s edge | 03

₊˚.༄ pairing: crown prince!gojo satoru x f!reader | setting: modern royal au

₊˚.༄ summary: in a world where titles define their fates, gojo satoru, the crown prince of japan, and his wife-to-be, face a tempestuous court of deception and schadenfreude. as they waltz on the edge of ruin, can their love endure the treacherous waters that threaten to pull them apart, or will the whims of the enigmatic chrysanthemum throne prove strong enough to drown them both?

₊˚.༄ author’s note: please don’t kill me omg this took too long. also, thank you to the warmest of messages, it really helped a lot. <33 i’ll see this through to the end. and thank you for sticking by me all this time. rbs are appreciated<3

₊˚.༄ warnings: physical harm/abuse, references to theft, adultery.

₊˚.༄ masterlist

He doesn’t want to wake up.

Not right now, when everything feels so real, so painfully tangible that he could make out her voice, her gentle breath, her plumose touch grazing his flesh as she leans in. “Satoru?” The woman in his dream whispers his name, and light seems to burst forth from that sound alone. It’s her; she iswas here, Satoru could almost touch her if he searched hard enough. If he imagined her face with just a little more effort, maybe she’d become real and not a figment of his guilt-ridden imagination. “Satoru, wake up. We can’t stay.”

I’ve missed you, I’ve missed who I could be when I’m with you.

Suddenly, he is brought back to light-hearted days when he used to sit underneath the imperial palace’s cypress, his fingers absentmindedly flipping through a book he found in the imperial archives while the love of his life sits beside him. His orbs gaze up at the chemtrails that paint the canvas of the turquoise summer sky.

He doesn’t want this dream to end. Shaking his head, he refuses her request the same way he did back then.

How cruel could she be to ask him to leave her again? He’s left her once, he wasn’t about to do it again. He hasn’t even begged for her forgiveness yet and now, she was telling him to wake up from this fantasy world his troubled mind created and to confront reality.

Don’t make me go, he begs her. Weren’t they happy here being together after being forced apart by those around them? Why would she want to go another minute without him being by her side? Did she still resent him? Stupid question, Satoru thought bitterly. Of course she does, after everything he’s put her through-

Suddenly, the hand that was reaching for her falls slack against his side. He doesn’t deserve her forgiveness, nor the very privilege of claiming to love her when every action he has ever committed said otherwise. Then, like a clock striking at midnight, the dream abruptly vanishes in a cloud of smoke.

Gojo’s eyes flutter open with a start.

“Shit,” he clutches his still asleep shoulder and sits up, looking at the empty room. How long has he been asleep? He looks at his watch — he’s an hour late — but he doesn’t really seem to care about the time. Immediately, he sends a quick text to Himiko asking where she is, only to receive a text with a picture attached of the cathedral. It seems she went ahead thinking it would only stir up more trouble if they arrived at the venue together.

Gojo’s mind wanders back to the dream before it is inevitably forgotten. Like a movie that he wants to watch over and over. He gazes at himself in the full body mirror with an empty gaze. All that is in his mind is to smash the reflective material into pieces, knowing that this is not the man his love wanted him to be: a prisoner in his own skin. When is all of this ever going to end? He huffs, slipping on his shoes and shrugging on his navy blue sash.

Not wanting to delay the inevitable any further, he turns on his heel to head to the cathedral reluctantly leaving the traces of his now corroding past behind for an even bleaker future with you as his wife.

“…Where’s Satoru?”

The entire nation is silent when only moments before, they were happily celebrating this supposedly joyful day. A reporter trains his video camera on you as you stand there motionless before an empty altar. Pretty soon, other members of the media who would get a huge scoop out of this travesty follow in his example as if you haven’t been humiliated enough by your groom who couldn’t even bother to show up at your wedding.

The empress who is seated right of the altar shoots you an apologetic look; she didn’t realize that Satoru could stoop this low. This wasn’t anything less of a transactional marriage and you thought that the prize that Satoru was promised he would get for marrying you would be enough for him to at least be civil with you. And here you thought that the earrings he gifted to you were a sign that things would eventually settle down.

Without warning, as the VIP guests start to chatter amongst themselves about how pitiful you looked, the woman you dreaded seeing bounds over to you, a solemn expression on her face. You would have believed that, despite the quiet rift between you and Chief-of-Staff Himiko Zenin, she felt a little sorry for you but her choice of wearing white on your wedding day says otherwise.

“Ms. (Y/N). I’m sorry there must have been a problem with the schedule, if you could follow me please—“ she begins to lead you to one of the cathedral’s private holding rooms before the grip on your hand tightens.

“—Suguru?” you looked at Suguru with a sad and confused expression. His heart clenches in his chest when he gets a good look of the damage Satoru dealt to you. He looks like he wants to throw something at the press for making a dogshow out of your agony — his hands are clenched into fists, his knuckles white — he takes a few deep calming breaths before he does anything rash.

At Himiko’s persistence, Suguru’s gaze hardens and he gently pulls you away from her as your feet remain planted firmly on the marble floor of the cathedral, leaving you frozen in place at Satoru’s betrayal. He hopes what he’s thinking isn’t true, but that’s proving to be a challenge since he doesn’t miss the hickey on Himiko’s neck which had been conveniently hidden by her long brown hair. Maybe she had a part in all this mess? She and Satoru had a history together after all and judging by the way you looked at her with apprehension — he doesn’t want to consider it — but perhaps you already knew that.

You are blinded by a camera’s flash and Suguru springs into action. Turning to the nearest guest, he politely asks, “Excuse me? May I borrow your suit for a second?” When the guest agrees, he shields your face with the Zegna suit to conceal you from the hounding eyes of the press who must be having the time of their lives right about now. Just one picture of the Crown Prince’s crying bride could sell for a good buck but not on his watch.

Not on his fucking watch.

Suguru looks at his father, and then his stepmother, and he couldn’t bring himself to be surprised to see them frozen in their places unable to do anything, much less act like they care. Their priority was to look good in front of all these cameras that were terrorizing you, not to comfort their future daughter-in-law. “Hey, it’ll be okay,” Suguru begins to urgently lead the two of you back to the car, his arm protectively around you while you hold the suit over your head.

“Will it?” You probably sounded like a child, begging for reassurance that all this was some sick dream but at that moment, it didn’t matter. You need someone - anyone - to tell you that everything will be alright. The question makes Suguru’s heart sink. In all honesty, he doesn’t know, but he didn’t need to make you feel even worse if he spoke the truth. So, he nods, choosing to lie to spare you from even more pain because he couldn’t count on anyone in this goddamn cathedral to do the same. He’ll have to talk to Satoru later on, this is a bad start to any marriage - no, bad would be an understatement, this is a catastrophic omen of what’s to come.

Pretty soon, Suguru requests that the roof of the car be reinstalled to hide your desolate expression. “Put it back up, please. The princess must be protected!” In his panic, he accidentally refers to you as a princess even before you are formally crowned Princess of Japan. The imperial household agents quickly get to work and pretty soon, Suguru helps you back into the car, putting up the tinted windows.

You can’t feel a thing. You don’t even know if you should harshly laugh at your foolishness or cry now that you’ve just been humiliated in front of thousands of people all across the world. Shrugging off the suit over your head, Suguru is surprised to see that you weren’t crying. You simply sat there, blankly staring at the ring on your finger.

“(Y/N)? Come on, say something…” He’s desperately trying to get you to express the tiniest bit of emotion, somewhat unnerved by your silence.

Turning to look at him, you wonder if he had been surprised by his brother’s behavior today or if a part of him expected this to happen. “He hates me.” You were numb. “I don’t know if you already knew but—“

“—-It’s arranged, I know.” Suguru scoffs under his breath, almost in disbelief that he didn’t figure it out sooner when he first heard about your engagement. Just when he thought his family couldn’t stoop any lower than they already were, they just had to drag a naive girl into their royal messes. His father and stepmother always preached about modernizing the monarchy but, their archaic ways such as actively banishing a woman of the imperial family should they marry a commoner and having some sort of proclivity for disastrous matchmaking through arranged marriages only say otherwise. “Fuck,” he buries his face in his hand, the thought of this predicament was making his head hurt.

You remove the tiara from your head, somehow feeling that a weight has been lifted when you do so. In a span of mere seconds, Suguru now appears exhausted. “I thought he’d at least wait until after the wedding to ignore me for good,” you muttered sadly. “That was fine, you know, him acting like I don’t exist; I know I never stood a chance…against her.”

You recall the way Gojo’s lips locked with Himiko’s in a searing kiss, and the way your heart seemed to disintegrate in your chest as you drove off that day, your eyes on the rearview mirror, heartbrokenly watching the both of them as you convinced yourself that you had no right to feel bad. And that is precisely what makes this situation so difficult; you feel like Satoru is cheating on you when in fact, he isn’t because he never once told you he loved you. You should be angry, furious, crestfallen at your fiancé’s betrayal, but you couldn’t bring yourself to.

“Himiko,” Suguru nods in understanding.

He knows her well, and while he doesn’t exactly have any hard feelings towards her, he acknowledges that having her around in the imperial family is a misstep on Satoru’s part; he’s seen her many times before cajoling Satoru into ditching his royal duties for the two of them to spend time together, he has witnessed how she blatantly disrespects the emperor and the empress, he has also been made aware of the many lustrous gifts she has received out of his younger brother’s pocket.

“Yeah.” Your shoulders slump in defeat. “I never asked him to love me, I’m a lot of things but I’m not a thief.” You begin to shed tears as you try to convince yourself that you were perfectly fine with Satoru never loving you. You were so confused. Did you want him to love you? Are you now finding yourself craving for his ocean eyes to gloss over with an emotion other than hatred, an emotion similar to love?

Suguru watches you intently as these silent questions fly over your head. “You’d never ask him to love you but you love him…otherwise, why would you be on the verge of tears all the time whenever we talk about something remotely related to him if you didn’t?”

You swallowed harshly. “Is it so wrong though? To feel cheated on knowing we were never together in the first place?” You’ve been wondering about that since the day of the public announcement of your engagement and you’ve searched your heart for answers from the minute you wake up to the moment you fall asleep on your tear-stained pillow.

Suguru looks pensive for a moment, taking a deep breath before he speaks. “No, there’s nothing wrong with that. The heart wants what it wants, it’s pointless to even try to understand it.”

“But I don’t want my heart to want him.” You shook your head. You were going to be in for a world of hurt if you even entertained the idea of falling in love with Satoru Gojo. “He’ll never forgive me for it.”

A sad smile creeps up your face at the thought of Satoru admonishing you, one day, for saying you loved him even at his worst. Being in your early twenties, this was the age of recklessly falling in love, like a car speeding on an empty highway showing no signs of stopping, while you desperately look for the brakes.

A larger hand eventually finds its place above yours, his thumb gently rubs your knuckles that have turned white as you clenched them into fists to stop you from crying and making an even bigger fool of yourself.

“It’s not your fault. To be loved by another is a privilege most people overlook.”

You glance over at Himiko again, and then at yourself: you wore the dress but you weren’t the bride. You had the ring but not his affection. Feeling your gaze, Himiko looks at you for a brief moment and an exchange of sorts occurs between you and her: two women desperately envying one another. You had the vote of the people, yet, she had his heart. Almost in condolence, she offers you a curt nod before turning away.

“You are exactly the kind of girl he needs, (Y/N),” Suguru offers you his handkerchief to dry your tears with. “He’ll need you.”

“He’ll never want me.”

At exactly 2:35 in the afternoon, two hours and five minutes after you set foot at the chapel, Satoru arrives in a proxy vehicle, disguised as some foreign dignitary who arrived late. He steps out of the car behind yours and a collective sigh of relief washes over everyone. You craned your head back to see him dressed in the attire you first saw him in, a blank expression on his face as he was approached by his courtiers who instructed him on what to do.

Suguru looks in the direction of your gaze and he hurriedly steps out, squeezing your hand a final time as he does. A confused expression flashes over Satoru’s face when he sees Suguru step out of the bridal car. What was he doing there? According to the protocol sheet, wasn’t Ijichi supposed to be the one to accompany you today?

“Suguru,” Satoru greets his half-brother. “How’s she doing?” He suddenly asks about your well-being which causes Suguru to be taken aback for a second.

“She’s been crying but I think she’ll be fine now that you’re here,” Suguru informs him, looking back at the bridal car where you were. The older of the princes pulls the younger aside for a bit. “Where were you? She’s been waiting for more than an hour and—is that—?” He suddenly stops mid-lecture when he sees a bruise on the corner of Satoru’s bottom lip. Then, he recalls the hickey he saw on Himiko’s neck. “Satoru,” Suguru bites his lip to stop him from scolding Satoru.

What irks Suguru is that Satoru doesn’t even bother to hide it with the palm of his hand or even show a scintilla of regret. Did he really just fuck Himiko on the day of his wedding? “It was a farewell gift,” Satoru shrugs. “Besides, I’m here now, does it really matter?”

“Yes, it does,” Suguru pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’ve no idea the amount of trouble you caused (Y/N) today, how are you even going to begin to make it up to her?” Not like Satoru plans to make it up to you. In his eyes, you should be on your knees thanking him for showing up at all.

Satoru clears his throat, fidgeting with his left epaulet. “I did nothing wrong.” He believes every word he says. He did nothing wrong, he has nothing to make up for when it comes to you. He never betrayed you, there isn’t a relationship to ruin in the first place. “Himiko did nothing wrong to her and still, she’s suffering the consequences of my actions which shouldn’t be the case since, if I can remember correctly, if it weren’t for her intervention, if she hadn’t stepped in at the last second, you’d be visiting your own brother in jail.”

“Well, if you deserve it, I’ll even bring some snacks,” Suguru counters, earning a harsh warning glare from Satoru. He takes a second to steady himself before continuing. “Look, Satoru, what you did that night isn’t something that’s easily made up for like your little affair with Himiko.” Gojo scoffs in response to that. “You didn’t just hurt our family this time, or that man you brutalized, you hurt the entire nation. And you have to at least make some effort to clean up after yourself—“

“—By making my life a living hell without the woman I love? Forced instead to be with the likes of her? How is forcing the two of us to marry for some shitty publicity stunt any more evil than everything I’ve done in the past?” Isn’t that what they all thought of him?

“—She’s not doing anything evil, she did nothing to hurt you—“

“—She did everything to hurt me by forcing me into this marriage, ripping me from the future I dreamed of with Himiko, so you don’t dare make her out to be some saint because she isn’t.”

A hush descends on the two brothers: one who’s made it his life’s mission to despise you and one who’ll vouch for your integrity. The two stare each other down, wondering how it was possible they shared a father yet they couldn’t be more different. Perhaps, it’s the fact that Suguru was never the empress’s child, rather, he was born of a common woman – a reluctant homewrecker, which would explain, at least to Satoru, why he’s so protective of you. A whore’s son will defend a whore.

Geto doesn’t see you step out of the car, you must have heard the commotion outside the car when Satoru arrived. You blankly stare at Satoru for a good minute who seems to have just finished up a heated discussion with his brother. He looked angry, but why should that surprise you? Some of the imperial household staff encourage you to re-enter the car until the prince has made his way to the altar, but you couldn’t listen, you were simply at a loss for words.

He was here.

Almost three hours late, but he's finally here.

Satoru scowls when he sees you. He’s tried his best to be civil with you, but from what he’s heard from Suguru just now, you were clearly turning everyone against him. Sensing his anger, you tilt your head down for any crime you could have committed whether knowingly or unknowingly, but it seems more like the latter since he always finds something new to hate about you, an act that came so effortlessly to him.

“I don’t want to hear another word about (Y/N) from you.” Satoru turns his wrathful gaze to his brother who simply matches his death glare with a bored and disappointed look. Suguru lets out a tiny ‘tch’ at Satoru’s command, his hatred for you is an established fact, after all, and not just some rumor he’s heard from a jittery bride — the very sound of your name was like nails on a chalkboard to him.

Suguru couldn’t believe this. Satoru has been the one willfully hurting you ever since the two of you had that under-the-table arrangement with the empress yet, he had the sheer nerve to act like he was the one being wronged. While he understands his brother’s sentiments, you didn’t want any part in this in the first place, and whatever has driven you to this point of gambling your entire future on a man who doesn’t love you must be something that could persuade you to put up with this torture. “Is that a request or a command?” Suguru says flatly, the two men watching you get briefed by the floor director like some actress for a commercial shoot.

“A command from your emperor.”

“Fortunately, you’re not the emperor yet.”

Suguru promptly leaves to take his place beside you, nodding to Satoru to get moving and head to the altar already. You shakily take Suguru’s hand, waiting for the doors to open to restart the ceremony. “He looks angry.” You watch your groom storm to the back of the cathedral. Suguru wants to kick himself, the last thing you needed was Satoru to take out his anger on you once the two of you are alone.

“Sorry, I’m sure it’s just another one of his tantrums. He’ll cool down.” You sincerely hoped that was true. The last thing you need is Satoru getting even with you by suddenly walking up to Himiko and obscenely reciting his vows to her, though you were unaware that the two of them had indeed made a vow to continue loving one another earlier today whilst you were being publicly humiliated by domestic and international media for your failure of a wedding day.

You watch as Himiko scurries to the back of the cathedral as well, and you feel bile rise in your throat at the mere thought of what they could be doing behind closed doors. “Don’t even think about it, (Y/N). Don’t,” Suguru says firmly. “Just keep your eyes forward, and concentrate on taking one step at a time.”

“I can’t. I just can’t.” You can’t shake them out of your head no matter how hard you try. “The more I try to forget about them, the more I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Think of something else,” Suguru suggests. “Anything else.”

The last thing you need right now is imagining Himiko and Satoru obscenely murmuring whispers of love to one another, assuming that that’s the worst they could do. But from what Satoru told him earlier, Suguru might need an anti-hypertensive, enraged at the thought of those two literally screwing one another while you were out here on the verge of an emotional breakdown waiting for a groom who can’t be bothered to show up on time.

“Five minutes ‘till the doors open. Everyone, please stand by now,” Ijichi peeks out of one of the cathedral’s entrances, eyeing you particularly, as the great double doors slowly creak open, again revealing the majestic interior of the cathedral. Ijichi holds up a hand, signaling you to wait for the Trumpet Voluntary to start playing. You hold your breath then at the sound of the first chord, you and Suguru begin to walk down the altar.

It’s a long way to the front but the sheer distance between you and him couldn’t dull Satoru’s inimitable contrarian beauty, a prose you simply can’t understand. “Don’t look anywhere else. Focus on the act, focus on what you can see,” Suguru reminds you but really you get what he’s trying to say. Don’t go looking for Himiko.

And the only person you can see right now is him, Satoru, the man you are falling for at such a dangerous acceleration that if you were in a car on the freeway, you’d crash and burn in a heap of scorched gasoline in your crazed attempt to outrun these shittyass feelings.

You gulp as you continue on. How is this taking forever? Step by step, you are racing to your own demise. You just know it. But the doors are closed behind you, forever separating you from your past, there is only him. A bitter future.

“Suguru,” The two of you reach the nave of the cathedral, and just a few meters away from the altar, you stop on cue and wait for Satoru to lead you up the steps, towards the altar where the Archbishop of Tokyo is standing. “Thank you for being there for me.”

“Well, it was either me or Ijichi.”

Satoru begins to descend down the steps and a look of annoyance passes through his features when he sees you and Suguru chuckling to one another like you’ve been friends for the longest time. But then again, he can’t really seem to complain, having you off his back because you’re all too busy being chummy with Suguru doesn’t seem to be too bad. Satoru casts a glance towards Himiko and then over to you.

“Let’s go.” Satoru takes your hand and you are surprised at how he doesn’t seem to have any intention to drag you towards the archbishop. Nodding, you follow your groom’s lead. The ceremony is foreign, no other imperial couple has ever been married in a Christian ceremony so, even Satoru, who has been born to know all the imperial customs, is left trailing off and even, stuttering at some points during the entire affair.

Eventually, the two of you tide miraculously through it and in just one hour, you aren’t (Y/N) (L/N) anymore, but instead, you are Princess (Y/N) Gojo, the wife of the crown prince. The usual kiss between the bride and the groom is omitted to preserve the usual custom for an imperial Shinto wedding. As the archbishop and the other key religious figures in Japan gather behind you and the prince, your maid of honor, Utahime, solemnly bows before you with your bouquet in her hands. You turn just a bit to greet her and something catches Satoru’s eye now that your veil was no longer obstructing your features.

It can’t be.

The Tokyo Philharmonic Orchestra begins to play the recessional and you and Satoru bow before the emperor and empress, traveling down the aisle, your hands interlocked. Somewhere halfway through to the cathedral doors, you feel Satoru gripping your hand a little more aggressively than usual. “Satoru?”

He’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Surely, you wouldn’t. How on earth did you find those earrings? Unless, someone had snuck into his room and nabbed it while he was asleep earlier. Something in Satoru tells him that you probably didn’t know and that you probably didn’t do it intentionally — stealing from him — but that doesn’t excuse the fact that you’re wearing it like it’s yours when clearly, it didn’t belong to you.

Satoru never thought he’d see it again, having kept it locked up in his drawer of memories past their due date to be completely forgotten. He never thought it would ever see the light of day again. But here they were, still in mint condition, reminding him of everything that has slipped through his fingers and everything he has destroyed thus far.

“Not here,” he hisses, glaring at you and that’s enough to get you to shut up.

Satoru has been indifferent up to this point, and sure, he may be seeing someone else but he is normally civil with you, with a few occasional snarky comments muttered under his breath, but he has made every effort to keep a handle on his emotions. Not once has he ever seemed as angry as he is now. But the scary thing is, you don’t even know what you’ve done other than wrench him away from Himiko and even that was unintentional on your part.

You make it to the car and he slides up the privacy shutter so the driver doesn’t hear a word. It’ll take a few minutes for the convoy to get moving en route back to the Asakusa Palace, the imperial palace that had been originally built to serve as the crown prince’s chief residence before it was turned into a state guesthouse by the National Diet.

Settling into the seat next to you, Satoru’s breaths are ragged trying to control himself from choking the life out of you. His voice comes out, a dangerous edge to it. “Where’d you get those?” He asks this question like one wrong move or syllable could cost you dearly.

“What—?” And as expected it does when you don’t reply quickly enough, not exactly knowing what he’s talking about.

With one swift movement, Gojo abruptly yanks off the earring off your right ear causing you to gasp in shock as it shatters in his grip. “I-I don’t know what you mean…!” you pleaded with him.

“You little thief,” Satoru stares down at the crushed earrings for a while before flinging it onto the car floor. “When did you steal this? Who did it for you?” He hits you with a fusillade of accusatory questions and you whimper in fear. Just like a kicked dog, Satoru rolls his eyes at you. “Answer me!”

“I didn’t steal them!” you protest your innocence. “Please, you have to believe me!”

Satoru punches the window of the car next to you, cutting off any more of your pleas, they’ll fall on deaf ears anyway. “Did you order one of the servants? Maybe Ijichi? Who stole this for you?” He asks again.

“N-no one I swear!” you inched away from him.

A huff escapes his lips when he realizes he isn’t getting anywhere with this and Gojo finally relents after what seemed like an eternity of him holding your head underwater. Your breath comes out in shaky huffs, utterly afraid. You look even uglier now with that expression, he rolls his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that.” The monarch sneers at the horrified look on your face. “Like you don’t deserve any of this.”

You wanted to speak against that but he’s right. You should have known that every one of your actions wouldn’t go unpunished on Satoru’s watch when, as he unfailingly implies every time the two of you are within ten feet of each other, you’ve single-handedly ruined his and Himiko’s entire lives.

“You’re right.”

He feels a wave of annoyance at how pliant you sound, struggling to remain calm after lashing out on you like that. He looks over at you, his mind filled with a mixture of anger and just a tiny bit of remorse when he sees your pained expression. He’s aware that what he did was out of line, and while he normally gets into spats with others, he’s never one to lay a hand on a woman much less even think about doing something of that magnitude.

“You know, when you ran away that night when we met at that restaurant, you should have gone straight home.”

That way, you’d be spared from all this despair. He almost sounds regretful for what he did and what he will continue to do, but he really didn’t mind if he never knew your name in the first place.

“That would have made the most sense, yeah.” It’s quiet in the car despite the thundering cheers outside. Satoru looks pensieve, his lips pursed into a thin line. “But there weren’t any taxis that night and the empress is pretty agile for her age.”

“What did she say? Did she offer you money?” Satoru casts you a disgusted look.

You wonder if you should tell him. You doubt there’d be another chance for you to tell him the real reason you agreed to marry him. There won’t be another vulnerable moment like this, you just know it. Satoru deserved to know why you’d kill yourself over and over again in your ill-fated quest to love him, to accept him.

Somehow, you can’t help but feel you’re so dishonest compared to him, at least, Satoru had the decency to be casually cruel and brutally honest about Himiko to you, making no attempt to hide the plain fact that he doesn’t love you and he never will. But at the same time, you don’t want to make things even more difficult for him by burdening him with the truth, so you settle on maintaining your silence. He could believe whatever he wanted to believe, not that he’ll ever change his opinion of you.

“You’re not even gonna deny it?” Satoru sneers.

“Even if I do, you’ll never believe me.”

How could he? All you’ve done and all you will do from this point on is lie, lie, lie. Lie that you married him without accepting any personal favors from the empress, lie that you don’t deserve half of what’s happening to you right now, lie that you don’t feel physically sick when you see Himiko — the very woman you’ve trampled on, the woman closest to his heart — lie that everything will eventually turn out alright, lie that you’re not dying every second a hate-filled syllable falls from his lips, lie that you could ever stop this mad freeway chase of loving Satoru Gojo.

But the freeway is empty, your opponents long gone, the stoplight to doomsday is perpetually green, and all that’s left is a husband that wishes you were dead. You dejectedly take off the earrings’ pair and set it down on the seat in between the two of you, returning another thing you unwittingly stole from him.

Eventually, the convoy reaches Asakusa Palace and on the historic balcony of the 19th century Western-style palace, he takes your hand as the members of the imperial family wave to the crowd, thinking this day to be a hard-won triumph. Satoru meets your lips for the first time, you are left taken aback at the forced gesture, but there is warmth in that eternal split second that you felt his hot breath against yours, maybe some affection even.

But then again, you are known to be a delusional optimist who still believes her mother who has been in a coma for almost three years now will one day wake up.

Satoru pulls back his eyes that have been wide-open during the kiss scanning over your face and he sees nothing. Nothing at all worth loving. You were just simply you, and that in his eyes, is your biggest crime. You don’t show up to the wedding reception.

That same night, Satoru doesn’t show up to your room either. Instead, he sits in the dark of his office, staring at the earrings he recovered from you under the yellowish light of his desk lamp. His fingers brush over the ruined bejeweled earrings; no one will be able to use it now. Somehow, he feels he should apologize to you for scaring you like that. You should, he could almost hear her say.

He sighs deeply, looking over at his ashtray. Not bad, he expected he would finish an entire pack tonight, but he’s only made it to four before he started coughing. She never really liked his habit of smoking anyway.

The door to the study creaks open breaking the silence, but Satoru doesn’t look up, only one person would be brave enough to intrude in his office past dark. The crisp floral smell of top-shelf whiskey fills the air. “Got you something to drink.” Himiko sets down the glencairn on the desk, planting a kiss on Satoru’s lips which he surprisingly doesn’t return with equal devotion much to her dismay.

Her eyes then fell on the jewelry piece Satoru was holding. “Did someone else go into my room today?” That alone could explain how the highly-revered Golconda diamond earrings fell into your hands. It wouldn’t be hard to steal since the night before, whilst he was searching for a lousy wedding gift he could give you, he accidentally left the earrings outside its dedicated safe.

Himiko stiffens at the question, but she quickly recovers her composure. A hysterical woman like you could never hope to win Satoru over the same way she has. “I don’t know, I didn’t see someone on my way out,” Himiko shrugs.

“Did you at least see them still sitting on my nightstand on your way out?”

“I didn’t notice.”

Somehow, Satoru finds that a little difficult to believe but he knows she wouldn’t lie to him. “I saw (Y/N) wearing these earlier today.” He places the earrings back in their respective box, tucking it away, and making a mental note to chuck it in the safe later tonight before he goes to bed.

Himiko’s throat runs dry as she wracks her head for a response. “Oh?” She moves to sit on his lap, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. “I’m guessing you got pretty angry.”

“I did,” Satoru sighs. “But I just can’t wrap my head around one thing.”

“What’s that?” Himiko asks softly. Her heart was pounding in her chest. The last thing she needs is for her little plan to get Satoru to be angry with you on your wedding day to backfire. “Look, haven’t we already established that she’s a golddigger? Are you really that surprised she stole them?”

Satoru shrugs.

It doesn’t add up.

He understands that you might have shown interest in it, and maybe it did cross your mind to steal them, but how could you have known these pieces existed? It’s not like you ordered one of your ladies or retainers to specifically steal the Golconda earrings, it just didn’t make sense to him, even then, some of your retainers might not even be aware that such a thing existed especially since most of them have only been recruited by the Imperial Household Agency recently.

“Look, why don’t we just forget about it, hmm? We could sneak out and go for a drive somewhere. I’m sure (Y/N) won’t mind,” Himiko presses open-mouthed kisses up Satoru’s neck, her hand coming up to fondle him through his slacks. “Come on, you need some cheering up.”

“I’m not driving at this hour, we could stay here.”

Satoru’s eyes flutter close at the sensation, his hand gripping Himiko’s slender waist, allowing her to continue her ministrations. He did need some cheering up after today’s dismal affair. But at the same time, he can’t stop his thoughts from wandering away from how Himiko is unbuttoning his shirt. Damn it. Satoru can’t focus on her, it’s like his normally calculated mind descended into a valley of fog.

Himiko grimaces at Satoru’s lack of attention. She quickly stops her futile attempts at intimacy. “Just stop thinking about them. You got them back, didn’t you?” she says, a hint of frustration laced in her voice. “Besides, even if (Y/N) did steal them, it’s not like you’d have any use for them anymore.”

Something stirs within Satoru and before he could stop himself, a flash of anger appears on his usually calm and flirtatious demeanor when he’s with Himiko. “That’s not the point. You know very well what those earrings mean to me.”

He’s shared it with her before. She knows everything about him, more so than anyone who has ever known anyone else on an intimate level before. There exists a version of Gojo that only Himiko knows, and keeps like a sacred prayer. Which is exactly why Satoru is livid about her downplaying the importance of everything he keeps in his safe, his personal mausoleum of the warmest spring of his youth that he would have longed for still had it not been for Himiko.

Himiko, for once, allows herself to be vulnerable even if for just a bit. And a look of pure hurt takes over her lovestruck demeanor earlier. But that is instantly replaced with anger. Anger at Satoru for continuing to hold onto things that should have no meaning anymore because she’s here now. Loving him is a dangerous game, what else could she expect from a man who is caught between the past and the future?

“Forget it.” Satoru stands up, shrugging Himiko off his lap. “I’ll find out one way or another. You should go home.”

Himiko painfully picks up on the fact that Satoru told her to ‘go home’ and not ‘head to bed’, meaning she won’t be sleeping with him tonight. Satoru runs a hand through his mop of white hair, calling Ijichi. He knows it’s late but Ijichi should still be in the premises right now.

“Ijichi? I’m heading out.”

“What now? It’s two in the morning. You still have a ribbon-cutting ceremony to go to with the princess tomorrow.”

“Just get over here right now, I won’t take long.” He’ll still show up to that stupid ribbon-cutting at the Tokyo University of the Arts with you tomorrow. Speaking of you, he should probably refrain from doing such things again. He begins to think of ways he could, in a way, make it up to you for his behavior but that doesn’t mean you’re out of the frying pan just yet.

Just because he’s suspicious about these circumstances doesn’t mean that he believes your desperate plea earlier that you didn’t attempt to steal an integral part of his past. No one could replace the person whom those earrings first belonged to. Not even the woman standing in front of him right now, the object of his desires, the source of your pain.

“What? You’re going there again? Don’t tell me you’re still hoping she’ll answer for once.” Himiko’s nostrils flared in anger at the thought of Satoru leaving.

“Don’t push it, Himiko.” Satoru takes a dangerous step towards her which causes her to somehow, for the first time in her life since she met the prince, shrink in fear. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You’re already hurting me!”

What Satoru says next is like a bullet being fired through a thin sheet of glass.

“(Y/N) is enduring far worse than you and not once have I heard her complain or throw a tantrum like you’re doing now.”

Satoru leaves immediately after, ignoring Himiko’s angry cries. He comes back at about eight o’clock the next morning to see your newly framed wedding photo shattered on the floor next to a crumpled up picture of another person whose name Satoru couldn’t even speak without bursting into bitter tears midway.

How ironic it is to be married on the day he lost her.

water’s edge taglist: @dummyf @kentokaze @esthelily @mandysfanfics @userbananababes @strawberryjimin13 @snowprincesa1 @naturallyspontaneous @kooromin @gojoist @dcvilxswish @13-09-01 @peachipeachy @iluv-ace @sawendel @helloitsshitzulover @jjuniescuderia @ackermendick @starrylibras @timetobegone @heelariously @idktbhloley @jeon-blue @8aif9sgbsnn @purpleguk @rednezvous @yeseurri @floralsightings @yoheyyosup @dontwannacry04 @dragonladyy @darling006 @ethereally-lyann @nikitopia (still open!)

536 notes · View notes

virgincels · 4 months

Text

SCHADENFREUDE !

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. p in v, kidnapper/victim relationship, stockholm syndrome, he puts u in the trunk of his car :3, sorta painal, squirting, slapping/hitting a lot.. of it, not non-con or dub-con but he keeps calling it that idk, painful sex, suicide mention cuz it’s leonnnn, sadism

note. haiii a follow up to rotten luck title has nothing to do w the fic i think :3 his character changes like every 5 mins im sorry .. readers character changed a lot too omg just blame it on stockholm! umm sorry for any mistakes please ignore them :3 rbs and feedback so appreciated :3

rotten luck

tumblr removes fics that use, for example, tw non-con and any nsfw tags in general from the tags. for this reason, as i’d like my fic to appear in the tags, please understand that this fic contains dark content under the cut. reading this comes at your own risk.

“What’re you doing?” With a foot in the door, Leon spots you hunched over the mantlepiece.

You jump like you do when he makes a noise over thirty decibels. Luckily, you’re housebroken now, just about, so there’s no piss. Or tears. He has no desire to deal with tears. Or piss or any fluid for that matter. Leon has bad days, and then he has worse days, then there are awful days– It’s only a bad day, but that doesn’t mean he wants to spend his time forcing your head into a puddle of your own piss. Fundamentally, piss is not his concern, he’s potty-trained and has been for a good thirty-four years. He’d like to think a good forty-three years, but he was a criminal bedwetter up until the ripe age of twelve. Foster system does that to you. You make the piss Leon’s concern when you do it on his floor–

“What’re you doing?” Leon asks once more when he wrenches himself away from his piss tangent. He decides to let you off for not answering the first time ‘cause he’s generous like that. Quietly, as everything you do is scarce and ghostlike, you point at the printed photos on his mantle with great interest. There’s three because Leon only really gives a shit about three people. They shouldn’t be out in the open like that. Leon doesn’t remember leaving them out, so he’d like to blame you, but maybe this is a sign of early-onset dementia.

“Who’s she?” You nod to Ashley first, pressed to his side so tightly, so lovingly, so sure that he loves her bombardment. Her affection, whatever it is that she insists it is. He thinks back to tearing her from the clutches of emaciated beings and wonders how he can stand here so normally. As if nothing ever happened. Ashley’s name is the one in the back of his throat, shattered and bloody like glass in a domestic dispute. Then again, he is face to face with his kidnapping victim and all. So it’s not very normal when he looks at the bigger picture. Far from normal, abnormal at the very least. Fucking deranged might be the right term.

“My ex,” Leon lies to see the look of disdain that crosses your face, the unpleasant curl of your lips that irons out when he pets your head. Whether it be for him or Ashley, he wouldn’t like to know. “Joking, baby, I saved her,” Leon settles on saved because there is no other way to explain it, and because he would love for you to know that they’re not his other kidnapping victims and that you’re his one and only kidnappee and he might be impulsive, but he’s not stupid enough to take pictures of and with kidnapped girls. Well, Ashley was a kidnapped girl, not his kidnapped girl, however.

Leon is very feminist, rescuing slender-ankled maidens is his speciality, you’re just an outlier. “I saved her,” he says when you nod at Manuela next, and then for Sherry, he pauses, “I saved her.” Sherry’s face goads him into cowardice, blowing his brains out is difficult when she’s sitting on his shoulder at all times like a Vatican cherub, covalently bonded to his heart or his soul. Whichever matters after you die. “You want a picture too, baby? Autograph?” He kisses your kidnapped little fingers with the guilt of a man who has been pointlessly guilty all his life - now literally guilty by CJS standards for the four months you’ve been captive.

You smile at him, and consequently his drops. “I’m good,” you say, smiling your real smile. It upsets him. “I’ve got the real thing.” When you talk too much he remembers that you’re not a toy or a plaything or anything of the sort. That you’re a real girl.

Sometimes Leon has these moments of startling clarity. You kidnapped a girl ‘cause mommy didn’t love you enough, but daddy hit you hard enough to knock the functioning parts of your brain out of place. You kidnapped a girl ‘cause you got touched back in boot camp, ‘cause you’ve seen a couple hundred people die.

At this point, he simply can’t move on, but he can give up. Every night the gun under his pillow digs into the hollows of his skull. It’s just that Leon can’t leave you, his lucky little girl, he feels responsible for the state you’re in. Stockholm and all. That wasn’t his intention, he’d rather you be dead out of sheer terror, your frail little heart would give out mid Leon’s fucked up chimaera that is part nasty, hot sex and part brutal beating and the most he would have to do is bury your bones in his backyard.

Pretend you never existed. Your name fades into obscurity like every other name does. Your face is just another face. And no one truly cares in the end. America’s love is limited, its affections will go elsewhere, to a prettier kidnapped girl in California or a younger one in Maine. The police will pass you off as a runaway soon enough, and no one would ever have to mourn a bodiless casket. What a mess. Leon didn’t mean to be so charming, didn’t mean to make you fall for him, he didn’t know girls these days were so into getting raped on the daily. Now he’s facing the repercussions of his sex appeal. God forbid he exists in sexy peace.

You gotta make everything his problem, don’t you? Lucky little thing. Leon wonders if you’ve ever had to do anything for yourself. Wonders, ponders, thinks, but he won’t pry. ‘Cause it makes him feel, like, really fucking sucky. That he plucked you out of your perfect little life ‘cause his life is the shittiest little life in this piece of shit world.

He struggles to even utter your name– Your name, god, he bets it was picked out so delicately, so carefully– And that pisses Leon off ‘cause his dad named Leon after his favourite hooker, remove the A from Leona and there you have it! Italian enough for his ma too, hit a perfect sweet spot. Now he’s upset, the perennial guilt has wilted and he’s just fucking exasperated by you. By your luck. By your shamelessness. What twisted little bitch sits there and gloats about having the real thing in reference to her kidnapper. In actuality, it’s Leon that has the real thing.

Leon knocks you down like you’re made of styrofoam. That little yelp never gets old. You see, he’s been struck by this awful migraine and he wants you to feel the same. You should ache like he does, but you don’t ‘cause you’re young and healthy and he makes you go to bed at an appropriate time ‘cause it’s his duty as your kidnapper to make sure you don’t die out of neglect - death via beating is fine and understandable.

You sit at his feet so sweetly, a stray dog that’s wandered into the shrine of a lonely god, curling up at the foot of a wooden statuette to seek some form of solace. Unfortunately for you, Leon is no god, just a normal man with a heart and a soul and a dick that thinks for itself. He does what any man with a dumb dick would do - grabs you by the ankle and lugs you towards the bedroom like a deer carcass. It’s slightly comical, and he knows that ‘cause he hears you giggle a little.

“Rape is nothin’ to laugh about, sweetheart,” Leon says ‘cause that’s the plan, he drops you down on the bed with a thunk. Is it even rape when the other party, a very much kidnapped party, is enjoying it? Truly, you suck the joy out of his life.

“Sorry, Leon,” you go slack and stupid the second he gropes your tit, he’s not one for foreplay, it bores him most days. He’ll eat your pussy ‘cause he likes the taste, but he’s old and his cock is on its last legs and the moment his shit jumps to life it’s best to get it in ASAP.

“It’s okay, baby,” Leon lifts the hem of your shirt, “I know you’re really fuckin’ stupid, so don’t worry ‘bout it, yeah?” God, he’s way too nice. He pulls the shirt over your head and you’re left bare.

“Thank you, Leon,” You’re well-mannered, he’ll give you that, polite little thing, it's terribly endearing, has the walls of his gristly heart caving in.

“You’re very welcome, baby,” he hums, unzipping his jeans to get his dick out before it ultimately droops. Your cunt is sopping, takes to his fingers easily, he curls them upwards to hear those slick clicks. “Spread ‘em.” Leon taps your thigh, and you bend your knees outwards, a foot flat on the bed. It’s nice that you’re wet for him and all, does wonders for his ego, but loose holes are no fun.

“Not there,” you’re so cute when you whine, would look so cute stuffed in the trunk of his car, god. He’d even put a pillow between your thighs to give that cunt some friction. Keep you entertained while he drives aimlessly.

“Baby, you should know better,” Leon chides, spreads your ass and eyes up your tighter hole. “Didn’t ask you, did I?”

“Nuh-uh, Leon.” Comes your automated response.

“What did I tell you?”

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” you relay the words like you’re reading from a rulebook.

Creepy. Makes him shudder. Maybe Leon did Stockholm you purposefully, he didn’t expect you to respond so well, he was just saying shit. Like, shit that comes out of his mouth when he’s horny, and your sick little brain took his word as law. So, like, that’s your fault and you’re making it his problem. ‘Cause everyone loves to make everything Leon’s problem.

“God, you’re such a clever girl, baby,” he coos because he is so kind and gracious, giving out praise left and right. The tip of Leon’s cock is sticky, drags it through the seam of your cunt to part your folds, kisses your clit with the fat head. There’s a slight gape to your puckered hole when he grabs your ass cheek to open you up. Leon’s forced his way in countless times before, it’s no different this time. With a cock lubed by precum and your drippy cunt, he pushes into your asshole mercilessly.

“That’s a cute face, sweetheart, you gonna do that for me again?” Leon asks, taking a handful of tit as he admires the pain washing over your face— The divot between your brows that he smooths over with his thumb, a quivering bottom lip, eyes screwed shut ‘cause you’re trying to take his fat cock like a good girl should. You make it so easy to hurt you.

“Leon,” you whimper when he bottoms out. His cock kicks inside you, he pulls out to be mean, carves out space and your hole flutters ‘cause it’s so empty— Leon forces his way back in, till the ring of muscle swallows up the base of his cock, and his balls smack wetly against the fat of your ass. Two fingers find their way into your sloppy pussy once more, he feels the ridges of his cock through the spongy, thin walls of your cunt, and you’re liking it too much, fucking him back far too enthusiastically when his thumb presses down on your pulsing clit.

“You’re gonna cum like this, sweetheart,” Leon tells you matter-of-factly, removes his fingers with a pop! and wipes the milky cream dribbling down his wrist on your tummy. “Can you do that for me?”

“No, Leon, I can’t,” you shake your head, trembling fingers wrapping around his wrist to guide him back to your puffy clit.

“Yes you can, baby, you’re gonna do it for me aren’t you?” He tuts, breaking free from your sorry excuse of a grip to lay a firm smack on your jaw. It sends your head to the right, hears your neck crack, he’s sure. “We don’t use words like ‘no’ do we?”

“No…”

Aw, that was a trick question— He gives you another smack to force your head to the left. A little brain damage goes a long way. Keeps you obedient. When you get over the dizziness and face him head-on, you try to blink away the tears to no avail, they roll down your cheeks in pearlescent blobs. Clicker training is unneeded when you have a firm hand. It’s worked so well, any mention of your life outside of the time spent in his home and he’s punching your lights out, now you talk to Leon about Leon, and you think of Leon, and you fuck Leon and you love him– Jesus, okay, he did Stockholm you real fucking bad. No wonder you’re so weird.

Leon rabbits into you, short and shallow thrusts ‘cause it’s harder for you to breathe that way with his cock constantly pushing and jabbing and— Fuck, he’s practically reshaping your insides at such a brutal pace.

“I knew you could do it,” Leon snickers, presses hard on your abdomen to help you cum— And you’re so cute when you do, writhing and lifting your hips up and just looking a little stupid. There’s a stuttered breath, then you’re squirting in sharp bursts, from his cock in your ass alone. “There we go— You did it, baby, did so well—“ He is so fucking sweet to you, talking you through your high and shit. “You love getting your ass fucked don’t you?”

When you don’t respond, too busy trying to recover from an orgasm that’s left you boneless, Leon knocks some sense into you. “I do,” you gasp, teeth clattering like they always do when he hits you. “I do, Leon, I do, I love it— Love you.”

Holy shit. He hates it. That’s what drives him over the edge, that’s what makes him fuck his load into your ass till it’s dripping back down his shaft, that’s what gets his legs all shaky? It sickens him.

“Do you love me, Leon? I love you so much, Leon,” you mumble to him feverishly when he dips low to rest his forehead on yours, a hand on your cheek.

“You’re growing on me, baby,” Leon says, kissing the spot on your cheek he hit less than a minute ago. “Go clean yourself up.” He checks his watch while you limp off to the en-suite. “I’m headin’ out soon.”

“What?” You poke your head past the door frame, genuinely distraught at this revelation. “But you just got home, Leon, I was so bored— Can I come with you?”

“Are you dumb, baby?” Leon blinks at you, and he knows the answer is yes already.

“I’ll just miss you, like, lots ‘n lots.” You’re padding towards him, seating yourself on his lap. He puts his hands on your hips to draw you in, you breathe in his scent. It can’t be pleasant, but you get something out of it. “I want to come with you, please. I won’t run away, Leon, I like it with you.”

“I know you won’t run away,” he hums, squeezing your hips. “What would you do without me? You’d just miss me, baby.”

“And I’m gonna miss you when you go now, Leon.” Your arms loop around his neck. This is fucking disgusting. You’re not his girlfriend, but his literal kidnapping victim and he’s all loved up, letting you stroke his hair and kiss his neck— Fuck, he hates it, hates that he likes you so damn much.

It’s not like he could get away with it. Claire’s got, like, a database in her head for all the fucking women in the world. One look at your face and she’ll know. And how the fuck are you meant to play that off? Bringing a missing girl as your date for the night.

“You can come with me,” he agrees, just not in the girlfriend way, but in the appropriate kidnapped girl way. With a gag in your mouth and your hands behind your back, tucked into his trunk like a cute, fleshy suitcase.

Zip ties are best, rope comes second, and Leon’s tie is probably not on the list of best kidnapping tools. He just wasn’t prepared to take you with him. He’s fairly new to the whole kidnapper thing, it’s quite exhausting.

The sun sets early these days, and it’s not like Leon lives in a crowded area. Only sign of life on the street is him. And you. Panties stuffed in your mouth as a makeshift gag, wrists tied together with the tie Hunnigan got him for Christmas. You could spit the panties out at any minute, but you don’t. You could break free from the shitty knot he’s tied, but you don’t. Leon must be good at this manipulation thing ‘cause you’re so damn docile, letting him lay you down like a corpse, move you around like one.

“All good?” Leon asks, tilts his head to the side as you stare up at him with glassy eyes. Not all good. You’re terrified. He can tell. You still nod though. “Good.” He kisses your head, then shuts you in.

Leon is already a bit of a nervous driver. His windows are blacked out at least. He always feels like he’s doing something wrong. Like there’s drugs planted in his glove compartment, or he’s got blood money on the backseat, or a cute girl in the trunk— Which he does, but he doesn’t usually have a cute girl tied up in the trunk. He usually does get a ticket or two though, able to charm his way out of it, flash his ID.

There isn't a single noise from you, not even a thump, and it worries him. Leon considers pulling over, but he drives on white-knuckled and shaky. Hopes you haven’t rolled out without him noticing. Been flattened by a truck. Jesus Christ, he thought something about this would be gratifying, but his nerves have spiked and unlocked a new level of anxiety. He should hand himself in right now– Obviously, he doesn’t do that, and he parks up outside Claire’s apartment instead, and he is going to check on you, he is, he was–

“Oh, hey you!” Sherry takes him by surprise, her hand is small in his, but it’s calloused. Doesn’t feel like it did when he held it the first time. Even smaller and bloodied. When she smiles at him, soft wrinkles form. “You’re on time,” she comments, and he wants to die because there is a girl in his trunk.

“Right on, kiddo!” He says to Sherry who is thirty-seven and married. Leon would like to think he does well in high-pressure situations, he does do well in high-pressure situations. That’s a fact. He’s great in end-of-the-world-type scenarios, great at saving America from impending doom, he could do it with his eyes closed– Facing the closest thing you have to family not as yourself, but as a creepy, old rapist is insanely difficult and he would prefer to never do it again. However, he is exactly that, plus a kidnapper, so Leon will continue to do it for the rest of his days.

“Are you okay, Leon?” The corners of her lips are downturned– She knows, oh god, she knows, and she’s never going to look at you the same, and she’ll hate you for the rest of her life– “You’re not sick, are you? I heard there was a bug going around, Jake got sick today that’s why he couldn’t come.” Fuck Jake. Leon dislikes him. Her hair is longer, long enough to fall over her shoulders. He’d tell her to cut it, in their line of work it’s a risk, but she looks how she used to look, and Leon can’t say anything to her.

“No, I’m just, I’m cold, it’s cold, right? It’s cold out here, let’s go inside– Claire’s waiting,” he says very smoothly, totally without a single fumble.

“What is up with you?” Claire scans his guilty face when she opens the door, scans it like a robot, not like an observant human. She steps aside to let Sherry in, kissing the shorter girl’s cheek, and then she blocks Leon from entering. “My pipes are bust, Leon.”

“Okay? Can’t help you with that, babe.” Leon is not a fucking plumber. Doesn’t look like one in the slightest. He’s handsome like a washed-up actor, he knows that much is true, does not fit the bill for a plumber.

“You look like you need to shit really bad.”

“God, I don’t, I’m just fuckin’ cold.” Leon shows her his shaky hands as proof. It’s not proof ‘cause these are kidnapper shakes.

Claire stares at him. Ineffable. Unflappable. She scares the shit out of him, might really end up on her busted toilet if she scrutinises him to this degree all night. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good, I’m great– I’m cold, I’m fine,” he says normally because he is a normal man with a heart and soul and dick and balls and credit. All the shit normal guys have. And a girl in the trunk, he’s got that too. The cast-iron doubt in Claire’s eyes has Leon on edge for the rest of the night. It never dissipates. Or she’s just looked that way her whole life and Leon’s overthinking it.

“Nah, Leon hates those, don’t you?” Sherry nudges his shoulder.

“Huh?” Leon says intelligently, he’s painfully aware of his blundering efforts at socialising. Painfully aware of you. In his trunk. Cold, scared, and wet ‘cause you’re fucked up. He hates a lot of things like assless chaps and seven-eleven beer and swans. He drinks seven-eleven beer anyway. Does not wear assless chaps though. And he’d prefer to keep it that way. Swans piss him off ‘cause they're beautiful and violent and beautiful things should be passive like you are. Beautiful things were put on this earth to be gawked at. Beautiful things belong tied up in his car.

“Parrots,” she smiles at him again and he’s hit by a wave of nausea.

“What about ‘em?”

“Me and Jake want to get a pet, I’ve always wanted a parrot, you promised to get me one when I was a kid,” Sherry says, it’s not even to guilt trip him, just factual, but Leon feels like the shittiest guy alive, he’s very good at feeling bad.

“I do hate them,” Leon confirms, “They talk too much.” Pets are pets. They roll over, show off their bellies, wag their tails, they shouldn't speak.

“That’s what I like about them!”

Leon gets a headache when you speak for even a minute, that’s why he couldn't deal with a parrot. Or any pet other than his lucky girl ‘cause at least she’s smart enough to know when to shut up.

“It’s not like they talk a lot.” Claire fills her wine glass for the nth time. “They speak when spoken too,” she says while blinking at Leon so directly he thinks she might’ve put cameras in his house to see if he’s being as feminist as he claims he is. “And you can teach them names, I think it’s cute.”

“We took care of a puppy last year, a friend’s one, but Jake doesn’t like dogs at all. Poor thing, she got car sick when we took her out, she was in the back on her own, and she must’ve been so scared-”

A dog in the back of a car all on her own. God, doesn’t that sound familiar? Did you get car sick? Should he have checked up on you? Fuck, you might’ve choked to death on your own car sickness by now. The clock ticks and Leon checks his watch about ten times within five minutes. He can’t leave first. He never leaves first– Oh, fuck, but what if you’re fucking dead? He prays you aren’t. He would appreciate it if you were alive.

“I don’t… I don’t feel great,” Leon says not convincingly when he stands up, then he bends to kiss Sherry on the head. “I love you, sweetheart, we’ll catch up next time, alright?” And he doesn’t give either of them a chance to respond properly. Collecting his keys from the table, his jacket, his gun.

Leon, don’t you want to finish– Leon, you’re leaving– Call me when you get back– I’ll miss you, Leon– Text me back– Should you be driving–

He would love to reassure Sherry, tell her that he’ll miss her so much he could die and that he promises to text Claire back on time, and that he’s perfectly capable when it comes to drunk driving. but he’s pretty sure he’s got a missing dead girl in his trunk. Leon wonders if they can see him clearly from Claire’s fifth-story window. They don’t care about what he’s doing, but the probability that they might be able to see what he’s doing, acting all shady, is scary. The street lights flicker, and when he opens the hatch, he’s bathed in the glow of your halo. Hail fucking Mary and Joseph and Jesus. You’re there, eyes frantic, and very alive, panties still stuffed in your mouth. Could’ve spat those out by now, but you’re a good girl.

“Fuck,” Leon sighs, he smiles like he loves you. “Hi, baby, did you have fun?” He hunches over to get a better look at you, you’re in the position he left you in, on your side, balled up, almost foetal. He slaps your tit, pinches your cheek, pokes your ass like he’s giving you a physical. You shake your head. “No?” Leon pouts at you, then he leaves you in the dark by slamming the lid. The thrill has sorta settled in, or he’s just tipsy, ‘cause he’s giddy about it, about having you back there. Highways are fairly empty at this time, and so now that he’s boosted by you not being dead and cognac, Leon parks up on the side of the road. Opens up his trunk, again, it’s the most he’s ever used it, shit is gonna fall off its hinges.

“You saved me,” you say when he takes your spit-soaked panties out of your mouth. “You found me, sir, I was so scared, I-I thought I was going to die in here.”

Leon’s confused for a second, then he gets it. You’re roleplaying as… as a kidnapping victim. Which you already are. So it’s like the Droste effect, or holarchy, or more simply a thing within a thing. You’re letting him take on the hero part, which he’s most familiar with, he’s good at being the good guy, that’s why Leon is a pretty crummy kidnapper. “I saved you,” Leon says flatly, he goes with it. “You should suck my dick to say thank you.” He didn’t mean to say that so soon, he was gonna play along for longer, but you made him really fucking hard just then. Teary-eyed, snotty, looking so cute and sweetly kidnapped.

Waiting for your response isn’t his style. Leon had his dick out before you even spoke, he was planning on just stuffing it in your mouth, but you went and made up a little story in your head to get him even harder. He shuffles forward, wipes the tip on your lips, slaps it on your cheek.

“C’mon, open up, baby.” You nose at the underside of his cock, then take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and giving it to him so well, how he likes it, choking once you get to the balls. Leon places a hand on the back of your head, forces you still as he pounds your throat, hearing you gag and heave brings him comfort, ‘cause you're struggling and he loves to make you struggle, loves to make you work for it. You've had it too easy, and now you’ve started liking the sex (read: rape), so Leon’s glad he can hurt you without you getting off on it. “Okay, okay, that’s enough, baby, you can stop that now,” Leon says like he wasn’t skullfucking you into a coma, his cock slips past your lips, strings of saliva beading your chin, your neck, your tits.

The trunk is kinda small, when he puts you on your front, your head rests on the backseats, and your legs dangle over the edge. “Can you untie me, sir?” You ask in a scratchy voice, throat shredded.

Leon ignores you. He’s busy scoffing at how fucking soaked you are, misses the days he had to spit on your cunt to get it wet, when he felt all big like his cock was imposing ‘cause you were so dry he had to force his way in, and you would scream so loud it sliced his skin, and he would groan for that contrapuntal effect ‘cause hurting you is the best thing he’s ever felt. Better than opioids, better than regular sex, better than a scalp massage, better than anything that feels mildly great.

Your cunt swallows his shaft too well, and it is hot to know you’re so far gone now, but would it kill your pussy to show some form of resistance? He knocks his hips forward so hard the car jolts, thrusts all his weight into you, so his cock is doing nothing but harm, breaking your cunt in, going past your cervix, womb-fucking and all that good shit. It doesn’t get further than your cervix for obvious reasons.

‘Cause his dick is not a knife, it’s a dick and it twitches when you clench. He likes having a dick, he likes to fuck with it, likes to stick it in places it shouldn’t be, likes to disfigure and wreck and ruin with it - fly in the ointment is that it’s not immune to stupid, sloppy holes that beg for it. Leon shudders, keeps himself buried to the hilt, rolls his hips forward so the tip jabs the fleshy, firm opening of your cervix in painful grinds.

“Leon,” you wheeze, twisting like you’re getting exorcised, “Leon— Leon, it hurts—“

“I know, baby,” Leon pats your ass, giving a sharp thrust forward to make you sob. “Keep talkin’ to me like that, turns me on.”

“Hurts so bad, hurts, Leon, ‘s gonna– ‘s gonna kill me, Leon– Don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die, please–”

“Shit,” he laughs breathlessly. That was hot. Girls begging for their lives ‘cause his dick is too good. When you turn to glance at him over your shoulder, his hips stutter. “Fuck, baby– You look fucked.” Like you’re terrified of him. That's how it should be. “Don’t go pushin’ me out,” Leon grunts, words punctuated by strokes that have you reeling in all the worst ways.

“I can’t–” Your head bumps the seats when Leon knocks you in the back of the head. Hard enough to stun you into silence.

“Can’t run from it, can you?” Leon bites down on your shoulder, momentary relief from the cruel drag of his cock inside your sticky cunt, now you can focus on his teeth. How he might tear into you. Eat you up. “Gotta take it for me, baby, ‘cause that’s what you're good for. No brains just got a stupid little cunt.” When he cums, you arch into him, and he fucks into you with all he’s got, till you’re stuffed full of his seed. Something to keep your belly warm for the ride home. Leon should get an award for being this considerate.

“Leon, can I sit in the front?” you sniffle, pathetic and floppy and orgasmless.

He sneers at you. “Do you want me to get caught, sweetheart? You wanna get taken away from me?”

“No, Leon…”

Click!

That was cathartic. Leon’s glad you’ve still got pain receptors, you’re not totally gone, clinging on for dear life, but still afloat. He carries his little body bag to the door. “Want a photo?” Leon sets you down on the ground, you cling to the back of his shirt as he struggles with his jammy lock.

“Oh, yeah!” You light up, “‘Cause you saved me!”

“Yeah, baby.” Leon ushers you inside. “I saved you.” From the boot of his own fucking car.

#leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut

491 notes · View notes

angelshimaa · 5 months

Text

━━ 𝐅𝐎𝐂𝐔𝐒 ;; 𝐈𝐈𝐃𝐀 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐘𝐀

✧ cw :: gn!reader, fluff, this was an excuse to write being kissed by iida 😔 iida calls reader ‘darling’ and reader calls him ‘baby’ once

✧ a/n :: he is. so very underrated. dear god iida sir please ONE CHANCE— thank you to the dearest @softiefeli who let me talk abt him endlessly

“tenya, are you working?”

you don't look up from the assignment you're busy with, lips curving into a knowing grin when you see his posture straighten out of the corner of your eye. iida’s eyes had lingered on you for a while now— for once, you weren't the one losing focus.

“i— uh— yes, i just got distracted is all.” he clears his throat, fingers picking up his pen to resume with his work; work that just didn't seem as interesting as you seated on a cushion right next to him.

it was almost routine for you and iida to co-exist while working; it helps you keep on track with work and it helps iida spend time with you without losing productivity. more often than not, you were the one derailing at times; how could you not when he looked so cute all concentrated?

“hm, by what?” you turn to look at him directly, smugness still playing on your lips. “little ol' me?”

oh, if only you knew the extent of it.

iida finally understood what you meant when you said concentration looked good on him, because he swears it looks even better when you wear it, fitting you seamlessly like custom made clothing. there's something about the calm on your face, your lips so soft looking that has him wanting to slide the concentration off and kiss you so very badly.

“i...” he pauses. “do you mind if i...” slowly, iida makes his way even closer to you than he already is, hand reaching out to tilt your face towards him by your chin. his thumb grazes over your bottom lip as his eyes hold contact with yours. impulsivity swims in the muted blue of his irises, and needless to say you're a little surprised at his actions.

“tenya baby, what are you doing?” your giggle is light and as breathless as the words you utter. colour stains his cheeks at the softness of your voice and at how you look at him.

“i’m admiring you, darling. your lips are... very soft-looking.” he feels it sounds awkward, but he can't care when he's so close to heaven.

“if you want to kiss me, tenya, just say so.” it's a small challenge of sorts and you hope he takes the hint you practically hurl at him. your smile is dizzying and iida feels as though he's about to go dumb with need.

“well then, i want to kiss you.” pretty eyes framed by his glasses dip down to your lips— the colour in his cheeks looks so pretty on him. “may i?”

you barely get your 'yes' out before iida’s lips make contact with yours and it feels as though he's been wanting to have his lips on yours for a while now. it's slow and bursting with passion that has you forgetting how to think right. perhaps that's a blessing— there isn't much to think of besides him and how right he feels against you.

when iida pulls away, it's only because he needs oxygen to survive. if he could, he would make you his oxygen— he needs you and your lips right now in the same manner. your foreheads rest against against one another as you steady your breathing, and god does he make you so breathless, so dizzy with infatuation.

“tenya...” you say his name like it's sacred and he hums, the blue of his eyes so gorgeous so up close. “please, kiss me again.”

iida slides his glasses off, setting them on the table before he obeys, lips brushing against yours before he fully commits again, and the small sound coming from the back of his throat tells you just how into it he is.

for once, as your hand cups the side of his face while he leans further into you, iida’s sure that work can wait a little while longer.

✧ — thank you for reading !! rbs and feedback are greatly appreciated <3

taglist (fill in this form to join!) :: @maeby-cursed @katsukismrs @himikoslove @pasteldaze @afairywithacrown

#— signed ⋆·ʚ⁺#iida x reader #tenya iida x reader #iida x y/n #iida x you #mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha x you #mha x y/n #tenya x y/n #tenya x reader #iida fluff #mha fluff #mha iida

761 notes · View notes

0oolookitsme · 7 months

Text

Daddy of Three

Type - A One Shot again!

Verse - Footballer!Harry x Art Director!Y/n

Word Count - 2.2k

Warnings - None that I can find! (other than the fact that this is pure smut ofc)

A/n - Lowkey hate the title (you will too when you find out the context) but I just hope you enjoy this hahah <3

Kinks - Daddy kink, Face Fucking, Breeding Kink, Praise Kink.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

Please rb to share!

Y/n was chopping up the vegetables she'd need for the meal she was going to cook tomorrow morning for Harry and Karan's lunch. Her eyes remained on her iPad's screen, on which she could see the page Carla was presenting in the meeting.

Clicking on the little mic icon by her knuckle, she unmuted herself. "Marla, don't you think that we should use red and yellow undertones? It's going to be a violent and a sad scene, I think it would work better," she said, not exactly agreeing with her idea of using green undertones.

"I agree," a few people wrote in the chat.

"But ma'am, we probably wouldn't have as much screen time for that scene. Plus, we have a scene inside the hotel's bathroom after that, which they tell us would give off green hues," Marla said, sliding photos till the bathroom set was on the screen.

Y/n hummed, laughing at how she'd absolutely forgotten about that. "Then I'd say that we do put green undertones but less. We need the switch between the scenes to be slightly puzzling – nothing like 'what the hell are they doing in the bathroom now' though," she said, making the other woman laugh and other people text the laughing emojis.

They agreed on trying the directory for the same the next day, and planned out a few more things before bidding goodbyes. Right at that time, Harry and Karan also got up from the couch as the show they were watching just ended.

"Are you done?" Harry asked her, walking behind Karan who seemed to be growing taller and taller everyday. It still mesmerized her, the resemblance between the two – same green eyes, same curly hair, same nose. Only his mouth matched with hers, other than that, he was a ditto copy of Harry.

"Yes," Y/n groaned while getting up, stretching the moment she was on her feet while taking a big yawn. "Not really, just a bit tired from all the screen time," she said when Harry asked her if she was feeling sleepy.

"Serve the dinner, will you? I just quickly need to wind my stuff up." She looked at Harry with pleading and slightly guilty eyes, kissing the corner of her mouth once he mumbled an 'of course.'

"Don't take too much time, though!" He yelled as she hurried up the stairs.

Karan climbed up in his chair on his own with a bit of struggle. He'd finally grown tall enough to be able to sit on the main dinner table, but still he needed a taller chair to sit on.

"Look at you going, already a big boy," Harry grinned at the little one, who was about to turn four this year. A breathy chuckle escaped his mouth when the boy's ears turned pink, he was born a shy persona but that never deterred him from speaking up when he wanted to.

Y/n watched from atop as Harry talked to Karan about the show they were just watching. It had shown some wild animals tonight, from what she could hear. She couldn't help but swoon a little bit on the inside as Karan climbed down the chair with a bit of grunting and helped Harry serve the table.

"Bring me a glass, please," Harry asked the kid just because he was eager to help. "Thank you," he appreciated him once the glass was on the table.

"Y/n –" Harry was about to call for her when he saw her watching him from the doorframe of their room. "C'mon, what are you waiting for?" He laughed, feeling a tad bit of shyness creep up on him when he realized that she'd been watching him.

They've known each other since childhood yet she still manages to turn his ears pink by just her gaze – it was yet another trait that Karan got from Harry.

"Could watch you be a baby daddy all day long. Just makes me feel so hot," she whispered in his ears, grinning when he slapped her bum sneakily.

"Did you tell daddy about the puzzle we solved today?" Y/n asked Karan and melted on the inside when his eyes lit up and he sat upright, suddenly excited and eager to tell Harry all about it.

And Karan's energized talking about the animals was how they spent their time eating dinner. Talking about Karan's puzzle, Harry's practice routine for the next day and Y/n's plans for visiting the set for a run-through were some add-ons in the talk here and there. Once they'd finished, Y/n took Karan up to his room to read him one of his nightly-stories, and lull him to sleep – it was Harry's turn to do the dishes tonight.

The toddler was extra tired today. He'd had football practice for a small upcoming match in his school, solved a lot of math problems and a whole puzzle in one day. So, it only took about four paragraphs of the story in the calming voice of his mother for him to pass out.

Y/n climbed down the stairs as silently as she could and pressed a feather-light kiss on Harry's neck, who didn't get scared in the slightest – probably because he heard her jam her toe in the leg of the dining table.

Harry hummed to acknowledge her presence, loading the last plate into the dishwasher. She stood back patiently, and once he was done, Harry turned around and leaned his bottom on the kitchen counter with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Then, y/n leaned in to press a chaste kiss onto his lips.

"Mm, someone's feeling needy," he smirked when she pulled back, pulling her in again by her waist when she nodded. "What do you need, love?" Harry asked her, pecking her lips again with a soft smile on his mouth.

"Need to taste you, daddy – been so long," she mumbled, slowly and slowly relaxing into his body.

He continued tracing the outline of her lips, "Is that so?" He asked again, and when she nodded he released her lower lip from under the weight of his thumb, watching it rise back to its place.

"Then we'll put that mouth of yours to a good use," he rasped, reaching for her mouth again as he slid one of his hands on the back of her head, pulling her hair back to give him space to litter her neck in kisses.

When her mouth met his skin, she left open-mouthed kisses on it and bit on a few spots before Harry started pushing her down on her knees. Once she was down, she pulled down his sweats on his command and watched as his cock stood up, already hard. She spit on her palm, lubricating his length as she stroked him.

"Hands behind your back," Harry told her, and started lowering her head on his length when she took him in his mouth. "Fuck," he breathed, watching her as he pushed her lower and lower on him slowly.

He cherished the feeling of her warm mouth on him, and when she reached his base, he let out a groan as the feeling of his tip touching the very back of her throat.

Y/n could taste his salty pre-cum that had started to leak from his slit. It would've been more convenient for her if she could've placed her hands on his thighs, but somehow, this position was only making her panties wetter.

When Harry asked her if she was ready to go, she quickly showed him a thumbs up before holding her wrist behind her back again.

Slowly and slowly, Harry started bringing her head back and forth by his grip on her hair. Her lips wrapped around him felt every vien as he brought her head up till his reddened tip. She managed to take a lick at his slit before he brought her down again, faster this time.

Now, her head was bobbing faster on his cock and with the way her saliva was starting to dribble down her chin, she could feel him pulsing in mouth as she hollowed out her cheeks when she hit the base.

She gagged a bit when Harry pushed in till the back of throat. And then, he quickened the pace.

He held her head in one place as she tried to swallow some of his arosual fucked into her mouth, the sounds of her gagging filling the kitchen. "Fuck- you're doing so well, darling," Harry moaned above her, creating a pace again – his eyes unable to move from the sight of strings of her saliva and his arousal moving with each bob of her head.

He fucked her mouth with a fast pace, his tips dragging along her tongue before hitting the back of her throat with each thrust. "Jesus- fuck," he choked, his hold on her head getting tighter as he began ruthlessly fucking into her mouth.

"Breath from your nose, baby," Harry told her, continuing to thrust his cock deep down her throat by now. She started gurgling on her own saliva and his precum, her arms starting to ache as tears leaked out of her eyes and she clenched around nothing, her pussy feeling like it were ready to be pounded.

"Oh lord," he grunted, slowing down his pace just when Y/n thought he was close to releasing down her throat, he brushed his hand through her hair.

Gradually, Harry pulled out of her mouth and just when she was beginning to think that something had gone wrong, Harry helped her get up on her legs.

She stumbled a bit, her legs a bit numb, and knees hurting because of the hard floor. She freed her arms then as well, holding onto his biceps as she balanced herself.

"Fuck you're such a wreck," Harry breathed, wiping away at her damp skin – not able to tell the difference between her tears and her sweat. "And because of me too," he chuckled, brushing her hair back as she caught up with her breath.

"C'mon, wanted to come down your throat, but I need something else more than that right now," Harry said as he picked her up bridal style in his arms, the veins in his biceps popping out.

"What is it?"

"Need to feel your pussy, darling."

When Harry dropped her on their bed, she immediately got up on her elbows, her knees touching but feet wide apart. "Fill me up, daddy? Want another baby," she whispered, looking at him through her lashes.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry groaned, climbing up on the bed while stroking himself. "Fucking hell – 'course I will," he told her as he sat back on his calves in front of her. "Gonna make me daddy of three, aren't you -- since you clear need one at all times, as well?" Harry teased her.

"Open your legs for me, wanna see ya." Y/n did as Harry told her and he swiped his middle finger through her folds, realizing that she was already soaking wet, ready to take him.

"Gonna give you all my babies, darling. Gonna fill you up to the brim and get you pregnant again," he rasped, lining himself against her hole, wetting his tip. "Fuckin' missed watching your belly swell up with a baby – my baby, " he said while watching himself disappear inside her pussy.

Beginning to thrust into her, Harry's hand came to knead one of her boobs. "Need to see you breastfeed a little one again – see those leaking nipples," he choked out, so turned on that he already felt close to climaxing.

"Gonna come for daddy, love?" Harry cooed at her, feeling her thighs begin to shake around his hips already. "Give it to y' husband."

Y/n lied there under him, shaking and moaning as the knot in her belly moved lower and lower. "Gonna cum- fuck –" she coughed, shaking harder as her skin felt like it was on fire when Harry started rubbing her clit.

"Come for Daddy, darling. Doing so good," Harry praised her, increasing his pace as he felt his own balls tighten. As he thumbed tighter and faster circles on her sensitive bundle of nerves, he felt her walls clenching around him.

"So good for me, so fuckin' good around me – fucking made for me," Harry grunted, feeling like he was going to combust.

"Co-coming daddy – O-Oh I'm cuming fuck-" Y/n stuttered, her back arching as Harry fucked into her pussy mercilessly. She could feel him pulsing inside her, and once he hit her g-spot again, she felt like she had been electricuted as she came on his cock.

Her cum went everywhere as Harry continued fucking into her, the bed creaking under his pace. "So good for daddy, look how much you came," he chuckled breathlessly, looking down where she had soaked him and the mattress, white strings of her cum sticking to his base.

Y/n intionally cleanched around him again, lying fucked out of her mind and breathless.

"Good girl- that's a good fucking girl," Harry cursed before he shot ropes of his cum deep in her pussy. Ramming into her pussy until she had milked him dry, he finally stopped when some of his cum started spilling out of her.

"Gonna fill you up again, make sure I put a baby in you," Harry told her as he wiped sweat off his forehead – grinning down at her when she hooked her arms under her knees, giving him full access to her pussy.

"Daddy's gonna give it to you good, sweet girl," Harry said gleefully, laughing when Y/n managed to swat at his chest.

549 notes · View notes

lazypanartist · 1 year

Text

Hobie Brown x Artistic/DIY Reader

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3

Warnings: maybe spoilers for ATSV, IDK. Reader's in the punk scene and from Hobie's universe. Whole lotta projection.

Features personal Hobie HCs I guess. It's just self indulgent. Also! Roommate Gwen?

Please RB, likes alone don't do anything for the algorithm!

-----

"Who's she?"

You barely whisper the question to your boyfriend, peeking past the dividing wall between kitchen and living room. He glanced up from whatever he's cooking - eggs, probably - to look at the girl flopped across your couch.

"Oh. That's Gwen. Spider-Woman from another universe - she needed somewhere to crash, so I offered her our couch."

Our. The word still made you fuzzy inside, even after he dragged his stuff into your life a month prior.

Even with the warm and fuzzies, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was a bit.. off.

"The new recruit you took a shine to."

He hummed a quiet affirmation, his eyes meeting yours after a second.

"There's nothing going on, I promise."

"You don't have to promise." He wouldn't do anything stupid, that much you knew for sure. Still.. "You don't normally trust people so fast. Not enough to bring them here."

He turned back to you, handing you a plate with a pancake and silently gesturing for a clean plate. "She's.. cool. I dunno. Not like the rest of the people in the Spider Society. Reminds me more of you, actually."

You blinked.

"Home life trash, emancipated at fifteen, got a lot of stupid jobs to stay afloat and support an artisan hobby?"

He chuckled, bumping your hand gently with his own as he takes the plates - plural - from your hand. "Not quite. Her old man tried arresting her." You suck in a breath, and he nodded. "Thinks she killed a family friend. That's why she joined up - the dad, not the friend."

He fans the plates slightly. "Two?"

You shrug, head tilting towards the couch. "Well. She probably needs to eat when she wakes up."

He smiles, and you can't help but return the gesture.

"She's already wearing off on you."

"Yeah, well, I've only heard good allegations."

You lean forward to land a peck on his lips before opening the fridge, and you hear a huff when you turn from him.

"I hope she can help with groceries or something."

He laughs full heartedly at your grumble this time. You feel him approaching before he's actually touching you, his chest - finally healed - pressing gently against your back as he helps you search for pancake toppings.

You lean back into him before grabbing a container of fruit, and he helps you pull away and shut the door before he's back at the stove, flipping the next cake over.

"Well. She might be able to help at the next show."

You nod, grabbing a spoon and scooping some of the fruit onto your pancake.

"The one with the sale?"

He nods with a quiet hum. "She might have patch ideas or something."

You look her over from the distance, her vest catching your eye.

"Yeah.. she has good style."

You can almost feel him look past you before he's laughing, eyes catching the same piece you had been looking at.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.. if she's stealing my stuff, she's gotta."

You can't help but laugh with him again, looking at your new guest-slash-apparent roommate.

"You steal my stuff all the time."

You nod gently, smiling. "Yeah.. she'll fit right in."

---

Part 4

#hobie #hobie brown spider punk #spider punk hobie brown #hobie brown #hobie brown x reader #spider punk x reader #spider punk #spider punk hobart brown #hobart brown #hobart brown x reader #spider man: across the spider verse #across the spiderverse x reader #across the spider verse #across the spider verse spoilers #across the spiderverse #x reader #xreader #spider gwen #roommate gwen

766 notes · View notes

vigilvntes · 1 year

Text

Home, Sweet Home – Dick Grayson x Reader

A/N: wjsksksksjd hi. almost 6k of dick grayson flirty fluff. restraint??? i don't know her. i've never heard of her. but i'm back on my dick grayson / jason todd bullshit so! is this ooc?? probably. do i care?? no. did i just want to write some fun flirty charming boyfriend dick grayson fluff because i'm in love with him?? yes. so here you go. shout out to @bvcksmunson for reading this for me before i posted i love you shan!!!!! sorry for any mistakes or typos or wHatever and sorry if you read this in advance !!!! <3 mwah big kiss.

W/C: 5.8k

Warnings: language, sex references because it's me what did we expect, slight references to violence (hopefully i got everything, if not let me know!!)

likes, comments and rbs are very much appreciated !!! <3

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Dick is quick to react to your harsh greeting, throwing himself against your refrigerator dramatically, one hand gripping at the metal corner while the other clutches at his heart through the thick material of his suit. You watch him with raised eyebrows as he sinks down to your kitchen floor with a groan, biting back a smile because you'd hate for him to see that his little display more than amuses you; you're not sure you could live with yourself if you let him have that ego boost.

Dick Grayson is a major pain in your ass, but you'd be lying if you said you're not happy to see your boyfriend.

The hand on his chest flops to the floor, his legs spread out in a V shape, and he leans his head back against your refrigerator, eyes closed. It's quiet between the two of you as you watch him play dead, occasionally cracking open his right eye to make sure you're still watching before screwing it shut again.

You've let him have his moment; indulged in the dramatics enough to satisfy him you think, so you fold your arms over your chest and cock your head, asking, "Are you finished?"

Dick gasps for air suddenly, hyperventilating and choking for at least a minute before hurling his body with a loud thump. He lays on his back, arms and legs splayed out across your kitchen floor. One final, strained breath, and he falls silent again.

Oh, the poor fuckers in the apartment below.

You unfold your arms and give him a slow round of applause as you make your way towards him, looking down at him from above. "Wow. That was really something. I mean, what a show. Truly."

Blue eyes open to meet your own. He's already discarded the domino mask, left it sitting on your countertop along with an array of loose items from his suit. You can tell he's trying so desperately to keep a straight face as you stare down at him. "It's not a show. You've wounded me." He tells you.

You pout, mockingly. "Aw. You poor thing. Give me a minute and I'll cry about it."

"Feels like I've been shot through the heart."

With a roll of your eyes you step around him, opening the cupboard above the sink and grabbing a glass. "Don't tempt me. I might think about actually shooting you next time."

He springs to his feet as you flip the tap on, your back to him while you fill your glass. "Wow. A cold welcome and a threat. Is that any way to greet your favourite boyfriend?" You can practically hear the boyish grin in his tone.

You spin around, leaning against your counter, finally getting a good look at him. He's standing just over a metre away from you, hands on his hips with a smile on his lips that reaches from ear to ear. His black hair is ruffled, falling in his face; probably a consequence of the wind working against him on the way over to your place. There's a few scratches on his cheeks, and one on his chin, but that does nothing to take away from the fact that he's so damn handsome. You know it, and he does too. It's something you curse him for whenever he's around; it makes you falter, you lose your edge a little.

"Who says you're my favourite boyfriend?" You raise the glass to your lips and take a small sip. You're not particularly thirsty, it's more of a tactical move to distract yourself from caving into him immediately; a way to mask the smile that's been teetering on the edge since you saw him stood in your kitchen, raiding through the fridge before you caught him and he began his little performance.

Dick is unfazed by your slightly cutting words, however unserious they are. He knows he's your only boyfriend, there's no one in Blüdhaven who could even begin to compete with him. That grin of his refuses to shift as he asks, "Did I crack the top ten?"

"Barely. I'd place you at number nine."

He shrugs, "Good enough for me. Just don't tell me about these other boyfriends. I don't think my poor heart could take it."

You'll never resist an opportunity to wind him up, so you glance up at the ceiling and sigh, heavy and dreamy, "Well, the guy at number one—..."

Before you can conjure up a fake name and story for your very fake other boyfriend, he's already taken two long strides towards you, trapping you between his body and the counter. He raises his gloved hand up to your face, running it across your cheek down to your jaw, before pressing his index finger against your lips. "Didn't I just tell you not to tell me about your other boyfriends?"

Had anyone else tried their luck in silencing you, attempted to tell you what to do, you're certain you'd have them laid out in ten seconds, flat. Maybe five, if you're feeling particularly vicious. Dick Grayson is the exception. You've known him for years, been dating him for almost three, yet you still enjoy the back and forth of it all; that 'thrill of the chase' feeling is still there, and it still excites both of you just as much as it did all those years ago.

So you play along, a smirk on your lips, "I've never really liked being told what to do."

Dick chuckles quietly, "Don't I know that."

"Yeah. You do." More than anyone.

Your history with him is a long one.

It started back when you were operating in and around Blüdhaven under the alias 'Thorn'. Not very original, you know, and Nightwing made sure to remind you of that every time your paths crossed. You were a little spiteful, feeling as though Nightwing's transfer to Gotham's so called 'ugly sister city' made all the hard work you'd put into protecting the city look like nothing in comparison. You got on his radar pretty quickly, tracking his leads and making sure you got to them first, just to see the look on his face when he turned up and realised he was too late, that you'd already handled the situation. Sure, you didn't have half of the technology that he had from the big, bad Batman himself, but you still found a way to get the job done.

It continued like this for a while; the two of you working against each other, trying to be smarter and faster – better – than the other. Until you came across a threat bigger than the both of you, and a reluctant partnership was established. It was supposed to be a one night only kind of thing, but it quickly spiralled into an every night ordeal, with a sexual tension between the two of you that could've given Hollywood a run for it's money. He'd try and give orders – Batman style – and most of the time you'd blatantly defy him, because you've never really been the type to follow orders, and you knew he got a kick out of it, too.

You really, truly tried to keep your distance, to not allow yourself to be taken in by his dumb flirty comments, his cheesy grin whenever he made you smile, or that light blush that crept across his cheeks whenever you decided to have your own fun with him and flirt back. You tried really hard not to stare at his ass when you thought he wasn't looking, too. But were you ever going to tell him no when he pushed you up against the wall in a dark, wet back alley after a particularly stressful mission, hopped up on adrenaline and just aching for a release?

No, you weren't; you definitely didn't deny him.

It was nice. You were fine with quick, desperate sex in the most private place you could find after a mission followed by a night of sitting on rooftops, talking about anything and everything. One night, he unmasked himself, told you who he really was, and you returned the favour with little to no hesitation because you liked him – despite the embarrassment you felt about having a silly little crush – and you trusted him, most importantly.

It was an unspoken thing for the most part; you were both more than okay with avoiding the 'boyfriend' label because you liked being independent, and Dick – well he seemed to have commitment issues that were, truthfully, unmatched. Which is why it came as a surprise to you when he slipped through your apartment window one night (the one you leave unlocked purposefully for him), crawled into bed next to you and told you very sincerely that he wanted to try 'the boyfriend thing' – he wanted it to be just you and him. You're not sure what brought on his little outburst of romance, but you never doubted him when he told you he loved you that night.

You hung up your suit a year later, choosing to move on from your days of protecting the city, opting instead for a life of normality. Well, as much normality as you could get whilst dating Blüdhaven's very own Bird Boy. It felt right, but a small part of you feared Dick would get bored of you and your new oh-so-normal life – that he wouldn't want to stick around and just exist with you. Your fears were unwarranted, though, because nothing changed for either of you.

Dick is still here, with you; he's still aching for your love and your touch and your everything. You share an apartment. The cupboards are stocked with continental condiments, shelves full of weird knick knacks and multicoloured ornaments he's found abandoned over the years on his nightly patrols. The walls are lined with little plaques that read 'Live, Laugh, Love' and 'Home Sweet Home'; things he claimed to find funny and you detested for the longest time until it hit you one day that he really just loves having a place – a person – to call his. Somewhere he can just be with someone who loves him unconditionally.

As you look up into his eyes, his finger still on your lips, you can't help but think how truly head over heels you are for him, and you know he feels the same. Blüdhaven is, to be frank, a wasteland. Full of grime and grit, with a tainted history that it just can't seem to shake off – one that continues to this day. Dick Grayson is the one thing that keeps you grounded to this city; makes you feel like all of the hours, blood, sweat and tears you poured into the city to protect the people was all worth it, because you found each other. He's the bright light shining above the darkness, the only thing that keeps you here and still has you calling it your home.

But despite your feelings towards him, you still take every opportunity you can to bite at him – literally.

You bat your eyelashes at him and part your lips, taking the tip of his gloved finger into your mouth. He visibly tenses when your tongue swirls against the leather; lets out a breath – almost a moan, when you suck ever so slightly. You're insistent on maintaining eye contact, but he's struggling to look you in the eyes as his face flushes bright red.

You bite down.

Not too harsh, but also not so gentle. It's enough to stun him, makes him jump away from you rather comically. You break out into a laugh while he shakes his hand, looking at you like you've just made him suffer through the ultimate betrayal.

"Ow." He pouts.

Through your giggles, you say, "Aw, did that hurt you, Bird Boy?"

"A little." He mumbles, trying his utmost to keep that sad, little pout on his lips as he watches you laugh at his misery.

"You're a liar, Dick Grayson."

Dick scoffs, "I'm not lying." He points an accusatory finger at you, the same one you sank your teeth into moments ago, "You bite hard."

"You never complained about that before." You say with a shrug, chewing down on your bottom lip.

He raises his hands in surrender, because he knows you're right. "And I'm not about to."

"Good." You let out a content sigh and push yourself off the counter, stepping towards where he stands in the middle of the kitchen. "So what are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be in Gotham?"

Dick shrugs, "Just got back. I thought I'd fly by our apartment. No pun intended." But that dumb smirk on his lips tells you that he meant all pun intended. His hands move to your hips, pulling your body close to his. There's earnest in his voice when he tells you, "I missed you. A lot."

You smile up at him, your hands on his chest, fingers tracing the blue symbol on the front of his suit. "Missing someone you love is usually what happens when you haven't seen them in more than two weeks." You joke, poking at his chest.

Despite your lighthearted tone, his face still falls. Guilt clouds in his eyes, and his smirk flips into a sad, little frown. "I'm–..."

You stand on your tiptoes and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your lips against his and cutting him off before he can even begin to apologise. He tastes like strawberry chapstick and all the coffee he's been drinking to keep himself awake over the last two weeks. It's a weird combination of flavours, but one that you've become so accustomed to that you wouldn't change it for the world.

You swear you hear him moan quietly against your lips as he kisses you, so desperate to touch you and be close to you and love you. He pulls you towards him by your hips, your body flush against his, so close you can almost hear – no feel, his heartbeat.

You relish in the moment, allowing him to take control for a second because you've missed him too. You started missing him the minute he left your apartment, Gotham bound. You've missed waking up beside him. His bed-head. His smile. The way he sings power ballads in the shower when he doesn't think you're listening, even though you are because how the hell are you not supposed to hear him? You've missed every single piece of him, and you're glad he's been returned to you in pristine condition.

You pull away from him before things can get too heated, before he can even think about slipping his tongue into your mouth and lifting you up on to the counter. Dick is breathless, already wound up. The pale skin of his cheeks flooded with heat that stains them crimson, and you can't help but take a second to appreciate how cute he looks like this. And he's looking at you – in all your glory, donning old pyjamas and a crazy bed head – like you're the most beautiful, precious thing he's ever laid his eyes on. It makes you feel weak in the knees.

"I missed you too." You mumble, pushing a few wayward strands of hair out of his face.

He sighs, "Listen, dove, I'm really–..."

You throw your head back, letting out a loud ugghhhh mixed in with a giggle. "Shut up. I don't need to hear the famous Dick Grayson 'I'm sorry' speech again."

"Things just got–..."

"A little crazy!" You walk away from him, heading out of the kitchen and into the living room area; he follows your trail like a lost puppy, as he always does. "I heard what happened. Read it in the Gazette. You don't have to apologise for it. I get it."

Dick stands next to the couch as you walk over to the open window that he slipped through earlier tonight, hands on his hips. "So... You're not mad at me? Not even annoyed?" He sounds unsure, as if he's just waiting for you to blow up at him, even though he knows you're past that point. Hell, you've never been at that point. You've always been understanding of him and his situation; you were in the same boat as him for god knows how long, struggling to keep a relationship because you couldn't seem to find a balance between your life in and out of the suit. You've never held it against him, and you wouldn't think about starting to.

You glance over your shoulder and give him a soft, sweet smile as reassurance while you try to shove the old, stiff single-hung window shut. "Your family's in Gotham, and they needed your help."

You've only met his strange, mis-matched Gotham family a handful of times, but you care about them like they're your own, because in a way they are. The first time you met them, after the initial surprise of finding out you're Thorn – 'the one Dickie-Bird never shuts the fuck up about', as Jason put it – they welcomed you with open arms, even Bruce. You receive regular check in texts from Cass (usually a meme), and Damian calls you demanding to speak with Dick whenever he suspects he's being purposefully ignored.

"I'd rather you be gone for two weeks straight than hear any bad news coming from Gotham. Especially about you or your family." You give the window one last, hard shove, stepping back when it finally closes with a thud. You turn your attention back to him, "So, no. Not even annoyed. But I do wish you'd close the window after yourself."

Dick shrugs, a small grin on his lips, "I think the breeze is nice."

You scoff, "It's not a breeze. It's wind. Seriously, if you don't start closing the window when you come in, I'm gonna lock it. I'm gonna make you use the entrance. You're gonna have to knock on the door to get in here."

He lets out the most petulant whine you've ever heard, one that you're sure he's used on Bruce one too many times to get his own way – it probably worked, too. "That's not fair."

You just whine back at him mockingly as you walk over to the couch and flop yourself down on your back. "Oh, how tragic. You'll have to use the door of the apartment we've been renting for over a year. My heart hurts for you."

"What if you're asleep?" He asks, folding his arms over his chest, eyebrows raised.

You shrug, smirking at him, "Then you'll have to wait outside allllll night until I wake up."

"What if it's an emergency?"

"Then you'll have to make sure you knock extra loud."

"You're so cruel to me. Always out to hurt poor Dickie's feelings." He climbs up onto the arm of the couch, knees pressing into the soft cushion, ready to drop his body onto yours and melt into you. But you stick your foot out before he can, pushing against his chest and keeping him stationary. He gives you a look of offence, slapping your foot gently in a weak attempt to make you move. You don't.

"Stop leaving the window open."

"I will." He affirms, tapping your foot again.

"Promise?"

"Yes. I promise." He says, with a childish roll of his eyes.

You narrow your eyes at him for a moment, a slight warning that tells him he better take his promise seriously, before dropping your foot. Without hesitation, he lets his body free fall on to yours, although careful not to crush you under his full weight. Still, you let out a quiet oof, because he's heavy – even heavier in that suit of his. You don't have time to think about asking him to shift his weight a little, because his legs are on either side of your body, hands have already found their way to your waist, and his lips are on yours in an instant.

Passionate and slow to begin with, making up for the weeks he's spent away from you; though it seems to turn heated quickly. You let him take the lead, allow him to nip on your bottom lip gently and slip his tongue into your mouth. You give him a minute to re-explore the familiar territory before you decide to have some fun of your own, biting down on his tongue gently and sucking against it. Dick lets out the most delicious, pathetic moan you've ever heard: one that has you giggling whilst pressing your thighs together in an attempt to keep yourself under control.

He pulls back, nose pressed against your own, shooting you a playful glare while your shoulders shake with quiet laughter. "What?" He asks, voice low and on the gruffer side, a bad cover up for what he'd just let slip from his throat seconds ago.

"Someone's excited tonight."

"Hm. Told you." He kisses your nose gently, then your cheek, trailing kisses all the way down to your jaw. "Missed you." He tucks his face into your neck, and you let out a gasp when you feel his tongue drag against the sensitive skin, your back arching into him. "'Nd m'sorry." He mumbles.

"I thought I told you not to apologise." You say, though it's strained; his lips are attached to your neck, and you're finding it hard to even think, let alone form sentences.

"I still wanted to."

You breathe out a laugh, though it turns into something of a moan when you feel his teeth scrape against your skin. "Can't help yourself, can you?"

"Nope." He says, popping the 'P'. Without warning, he bites down on the soft flesh between your neck and shoulder. You let out a noise – something between a yelp and a loud moan, and when you look down at him with a pout on your lips, he's grinning at you. "Payback."

"You're a fuckhead."

"You started it."

"....Touché."

You fall quiet, allowing him to continue on with his revenge attack on your neck, whimpering when he sucks down on your sweet spots; cursing under your breath when he slips his cold, gloved hand under the thin fabric of your shirt.

"Don't you have somewhere to be tonight?" You ask. A throwaway question, really. Just a cheap little dig at him to distract yourself from the fact he's getting you riled up.

But then he pauses, his whole body tensing for just a moment, before he answers with a, "No..."

And now your throwaway question is a serious inquiry. "So you do have somewhere you need to be tonight?"

He hums against your skin, "It can wait."

The truth is, it probably can't wait. You try not to read up on crime in Blüdhaven so often, try to keep your days of being a protecter of the city in the past as much as you can (Dick is the exception, of course), but even you know that the city has suffered massively from Nightwing's two week leave of absence in Gotham. Gang and mob activities began to rise the second he left; Blüdhaven always seems to deteriorate into madness when he's not around to keep everyone and everything in line.

With a sigh, you grab on to the back of his suit and pull him away from you, choosing to ignore his whiny protest, making him look at you. "If there's somewhere you need to be, you should go."

"I already told you. It can wait."

You smile at him, brows raised, "Can it? You've been gone for two weeks. You have a lot of catching up to do. Blühaven's really been missing its Boy Wonder."

Dick smirks, "Has it missed me as much as you?"

"I don't think that's possible. I've been crying, like, every day. Total devastation while you've been gone."

"And not a single word of comfort from your nine other boyfriends?" His jaw drops in mock disbelief. "I don't know why you like them more than me."

You hum, "I only like eight of them more than I like you."

He snorts, "Oh, well that makes all the difference."

You smack his shoulder playfully, "Get up."

With a groan, he uses the back cushions of the sofa to push himself off of you, "Can't believe I'm being kicked out of my own apartment. I've been here for, like, fifteen minutes, and I'm already being told to leave." He stands up, stretching out his back as he trudges back to the kitchen to pick up the discarded mask and gadgets he left on the counter. "I'm starting to think you're just dying to get rid of me."

You gasp, "Me?! Never!" You sit yourself up, back leaning against the arm. "I'm just looking out for you. You've already fallen behind schedule."

He chuckles as he straps his gear back into place, "Then why don't you dust off that suit of yours and help me get back on track?"

"Absolutely not. My vigilante days are over." You say with a scoff.

"Don't you miss it?" He asks, shoving his escrima sticks into the tight straps on his back.

"If by 'it', you mean having to haul your ass out of a mess every night because you can't help but bite off more than you can chew, then no. I don't."

"Hey! That's unfair!"

"Is it?"

Dick scoffs, "Yeah. We all know you're the worst at following orders."

You fling your legs over the side of the couch and push yourself up, "Yeah, I am. But you're impulsive."

He fits the domino mask on, and you can't help but feel slightly satisfied at how it sits on his face so perfectly. "Yeah, well, I'm doing fine on my own. Very much alive, actually."

You saunter over to him, wrapping your arms around his torso, looking up at him through your lashes, "Thanks to me. I kept you out of the shit for god knows how long."

"And I'm continuing to keep myself out of it." He taps your nose. "Learnt from the best." You smile softly at him, but then he follows up with, "I meant Batman, by the way." Before he can even gauge your reaction, he's already cracked himself up with his own joke, like he'd been planning it in his head the whole time. He probably – no, definitely had been.

You step back, folding your arms across your chest and shoving your tongue into your cheek to stop yourself from laughing along with it. "You're an asshole."

"I'm your asshole, though." Dick gives you his cheesiest grin as he struts over to the window, patting his body down to check he hasn't forgotten anything. You follow him, stand beside him as he slides the window open with ease and curse him internally because that window – the one he leaves open almost every night – is usually your greatest enemy. But of course, it plays ball for the golden boy. Typical.

With a rather dramatic sigh he climbs through, only partly though, sitting on the sill with one leg dangling freely above the city and the other still in your apartment, foot pressing against the hardwood floor. "I won't be too long. Promise." He tells you.

You snort, "That translates to 'I'll see you in the morning', in Dick Grayson terms."

Dick lifts his shoulder in a half shrug, a soft smile on his lips, "Maybe. But I'll be home for breakfast, for sure. What do you want? I'm feeling..." He pauses for a second, chewing on his bottom lip before he comes to a conclusion, "Pancakes."

"You're always feeling pancakes. They're like, the only thing you're good at making. Unless we want our whole apartment building to burn down because you decided to branch out for breakfast."

"Pancakes it is!" He announces.

"Cool."

He nods, "Yeah. Cool."

Then it falls quiet between the two of you. Dick rubs his chin, staring right at you – specifically a certain part of your face – as you chew down on that something and glance around the room, feigning cluelessness. He won't leave without a kiss goodbye; not once has he climbed through the window and disappeared into the night without planting his lips on yours. You'll give into him, because you always do, but you love to tease. Not to mention the fact he's only just come back, and although you're more than happy for him to go out and take care of whatever's going on in the streets, you're willing to delay Nightwing's return to Blüdhaven for a little while longer.

You're making a point to look anywhere but at him, and the longer the silence drags on, the more you begin to feel the giggles rising in your throat. You can't even look at him for more than a second, his lips pressed into a thin line as he tries to fight back hysterics because he knows what you're doing.

Eventually, you take it upon yourself to break the silence, covering your mouth with your hand and asking through stifled laughter, "Are you gonna leave?"

Dick breaks, bursting out into a fit of laughter. He leans his head back against the window frame, shoulders shaking. "I can't leave yet." You shoot him an amused look that says 'oh really?'. "You know what I want."

You let out a lighthearted groan which quickly descends into a giggle, "Do I have to?"

"Uh-huh. Got two weeks to make up for."

"And whose fault is that?"

He shrugs, "Mine, and I'm dead set on making up for lost time. Bring it here, Thorny." He leans over and grabs your hand, pulling you towards him.

"Don't fucking call me that." You try to say it with as much malice as you can muster, which is hard considering you can't seem to stop grinning at him.

"Wow. Someone's feeling prickly tonight. I can see why you called yourself Thorn." His hand rests on the small of your back, gently commanding you to stay put.

"Fuck you, Grayson. I'll push you out of the window."

His brows shoot up in amusement at your meaningless threat. "That'd be rude."

"Yeah?"

Dick nods slowly, "Yeah. Could kill me." That's a lie. Both of you know that even if you did mean it and you were planning to push him out, he'd find a way to counter. You live on the top floor of your building, but he's a trained acrobat and a quick thinker with enough gadgets on his person to ensure he'd be back at your window in two minutes, tops.

Still, you play along. "Maybe that's the goal."

"You love me too much to kill me."

"Oh, you think?"

He blows out his cheeks, "Wow. You're so mean to me."

You reach up and run your fingers through his soft hair, "Yet you keep coming back."

"Well, I do live here." He deadpans. You stare at him for a good ten seconds before you break out into another fit of giggles, punching his shoulder and breathing out a 'fuck you'. He raises his free hand, "I'm just saying. Wouldn't wanna go through the moving out process. Y'know, having to pack my stuff and hire a moving service—...."

"Get out!"

"Nuh-uh. Gimme a kiss first." Dick leans closer to you and puckers his lips, screwing his eyes shut. He gives you a moment, and when he doesn't feel you move he raises his hand and taps his index finger against his lips. "I won't leave until you kiss me."

With another groan, you lean in and plant your lips against his. You try to pull away quickly, short and sweet, but he keeps you close. He kisses you again, and again, and again. Until you're practically balancing on the heels of your feet, held up only by his strong hand on your back, and he's almost back inside of your apartment.

You let out a breathless laugh against his lips, your hands pushing against his shoulders, "Go, or I won't let you leave."

"Is that a promise?" He murmurs.

"Go."

With a sigh, he turns his body and lifts his other leg over the window, gripping on to the top pane to keep himself seated for the time being. He looks over his shoulder at you, "I'll see you soon, okay?"

You give him a smile, "Okay."

"I'm gonna make you the best pancakes you've ever eaten."

"I'm sure."

He rolls his eyes playfully, because how dare you doubt his pancake making skills. "See you in the morning, babe. Love you!" With that, he pushes himself off the window and free falls.

You've watched him do it countless times, but you can't help the way it takes your breath away every single time; panic sucker punches you right in the stomach and you can't help but yell out 'Richard John Grayson' as you throw yourself towards the window and lean the upper half of your body out into the cold city.

That wing-suit of his will be the death of you one day.

You look down at the dimly lit streets, looking for any sign of your boyfriend who's just allowed himself to drop from the top floor of the apartment building, but he's nowhere in sight. It's only when you hear his voice calling your name that you realise he's standing atop a lower roof across the street, a dumb grin on his lips.

"That was really funny, Dickie!" You yell out sarcastically, folding your arms across your chest.

"It's my party trick!" He shouts back, resting his hands on his hips. "You know what I always say: you'll never know if you can fly unless—...."

"You take the risk of falling! Whatever! Get out of here!"

You hear him laugh, despite the distance between you. He turns, ready to take off into the depths of the city, but not before yelling another, "I love you!"

With an eye roll, and a soft smile on your lips, you tell him, "I love you too! Be safe!" You're just about to retreat back into the warmth of your apartment, but you remember you still need to tell him something very important. "Close the window when you get back!"

"Yeah, yeah. I know!"

The next morning, you wake up to a sleep-deprived boyfriend cursing under his breath at a bowl of homemade pancake mix, and a very open window.

#dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #nightwing #nightwing x reader #dc comics #DCU #DC x reader #dick grayson x you #nightwing x you #dick grayson fic #dick grayson fanfiction #dick grayson fluff #fluff #nightwing fic #nightwing fanfiction #batfamily #batfamily x reader

2K notes · View notes

itadorey · 7 months

Text

☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ [𝟕:𝟑𝟗 𝐩.𝐦.] 𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐈 𝐘𝐔𝐔𝐉𝐈

notes: fluff, ~650 words

yuuji says "i love you" first.

he says it confidently, fierce determination shining in his eyes as he looks at you reverently. it makes you balk, almost, the idea of someone as perfect of him loving you so purely. but the dizziness you feel in your head at his words means that your heart easily overpowers any thoughts you have, so you find yourself leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips, earning a delighted hum from him as he links his hand with yours.

your silence doesn't bother him; he understands that those words aren't the easiest to say, especially not when the two of you are living incredibly dangerous lives. the fact that you've chosen to be with him is more than enough in his eyes, even if you feel differently.

you think that yuuji deserves the world, and you're not the only one. there's a kindness in his heart that makes yours ache, and you don't think the world actually deserves him. you idly wonder if you're even worthy of repeating those three words back to him.

but then he looks at you, eyes sparkling excitedly as he holds out a pretty flower he picked off of the sidewalk, and all your worries disappear. itadori yuuji is not a fickle person, that's something he has proven time and time again from the moment he was brought to tokyo jujutsu high.

and his loyalties lie with you, the very person who has stood by his side throughout everything that's happened since his grandfather's death.

you don't think that there are actually enough words in the world to describe itadori yuuji, or to describe the way you feel about him. he is brash and bold, leaving his mark on the world wherever he goes regardless of whether or not he's aware of that fact. he's left his mark on you as well, and you silently wonder what would happen to you if you were to ever end up in a world in which yuuji ceases to exist.

(you don't wonder what would happen if he falls out of love with you. that's impossible, he's told you that himself. and you find yourself believing him with every fiber of your being, especially when he looks at you with a stare so serious that you almost think he's been replaced by someone else.)

so you sit and watch him, smiling when his eyes light up with interest as he points out a new manga that he mentions he's been meaning to read. he's so terribly beautiful that it almost makes your heart hurt, and you realize that maybe it isn't as hard as you think to profess your love in return to the boy who seems to be sunshine incarnate.

"yuuji?" you call out softly.

"yeah?" he replies, whirling around to give you his undivided attention.

you're momentarily caught off guard by the way his hair shifts as he moves, the soft pink strands reflecting in the sunlight as he approaches you. there's a shine in his eyes that makes you grin at him, and you find yourself wondering just how far you would go to keep that same expression on his face for as long as you can. confusion floods his face when you remain silent, and you nearly swoon when he grabs your hand and pulls you in, tilting his head in a silent question as he wraps you up in a loose hug.

there's a brief pause as yuuji holds you and allows you to gather your thoughts, and your smile only widens in relief when you realize that there is no fear swirling around in your head about all the uncertainties you're certain that you'll face in the future.

and when you finally open your mouth and say those three words in return, you think that the brightness of his smile rivals that of the sun.

rbs are appreciated <3 ty for reading!!

#itadori x reader #yuuji x reader #itadori yuuji x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #itadori yuji x reader #jjk imagine #jujutsu kaisen imagine #itadori imagine #yuuji imagine #itadori yuuji imagine #jjk fluff #itadori fluff #yuuji fluff

925 notes · View notes

juyeonszn · 7 months

Text

JUST FOR ME

PAIRING ji changmin x f!reader

WORD COUNT 1.26k

GENRES kinda fluff ﹒smut

WARNINGS 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, mature language, apparently ji changmin has a secret, established relationship, a whisker away ref <3, dacryphilia lol, making out, oral (m!receiving), face fucking lol, cum eating lol, lmk if i missed anything!

SUMMARY ji changmin had a secret.

MORE hellaur hellaur!! i cannot believe i’ve written 8 of these in the past month like i’m actually sick in the head. but maybe u guys are even sicker for reading them idk… once fawntober is over i think i might spontaneously combust. ANYWAY i would like to dedicate this to the resident jichang lover <3 beam <3 consider this a late birthday gift <3 if u enjoyed pls rb!

PERM TAGLIST @winterchimez @maessseongs @itsbeeble @zzoguri

Ji Changmin had a secret.

A very big secret that he would never dare tell to anyone else. Not his friends. Not even you. Whether it was because he wanted to keep this to himself, take it to the grave type beat, or because he was embarrassed— the world may never know.

But as you cuddle into his side, sniffling over this stupid animated movie, he realizes that his big secret might be harder to keep to himself than he thought.

He’s seen A Whisker Away with you probably hundreds of times by now, and he’s seen you cry each and every time, but for some reason this is the one that gets to him. The sight of your pretty tears trickling down your cheeks, eyes slightly puffy and lips pouty, has his thinking clouded. Typical Y/N behavior, living in his mind rent free like it was your career.

He hopes the thick comforter of your bed hides just how turned on he is, licking his lips when a tear drips down your chin and onto your chest. Don’t even get him started on your pajama choice. Nothing but a thin camisole and flimsy linen shorts. Did you know that you were just one action away from sending him into cardiac arrest?

Changmin doesn’t even notice that the movie has ended and the credits are displayed, eyes still trained on the stray teardrops rolling down your sternum. It’s not until you’re reaching above your head to stretch, leg bumping into his hard on.

You turn to him with wide eyes and a gasp. “Changmin! No way you’re fucking horny right now.”

“I’m not?” His response comes out more like a question than a statement, so of course you don’t believe him in the slightest. You give him a pointed look.

“How could you possibly be hard after watching that?” Your eyebrows raise, judging him wholeheartedly without knowing the full story. Though, he’s almost certain you’d still judge him then, too. Who wouldn’t? Getting turned on by the sight of his girlfriend crying wasn’t exactly something that people would think is normal.

“That’s— uh— that’s not what— you know what, never mind. We can just go to sleep if you’re tired—” Changmin really wished you weren’t so persistent sometimes. Then again, your persistence was the reason you were together in the first place.

“No, I’m wide awake now,” you simper, a sly little smile that looks out of place paired with the tear streaks on your cheeks. “Lemme help you, Min.”

You peel back the covers, straddling his lap. Changmin groans, throwing his head back when your barely clothed warmth presses down on his erection. Your fingers card through his hair before you lean in to kiss him.

It’s slow at first, lips moving together gently as you work yourself up. One of the things Changmin loved about you was the fact that you were always so eager to please. He had a tendency of not asking for anything unless absolutely necessary, but with your keen sense of perception, you just knew when he needed a little extra care. Like right now, for example.

His hands find your hips, grinding them into his own as he nips your bottom lip. You sigh into the kiss, parting just enough to catch your breath. He slips his fingers under the waistband of your shorts but you shake your head.

“Mm-mm,” you start to pepper kisses all over his face and jaw, trailing down his neck. “Let me do the work. You just relax, okay?”

The service top he was, Changmin thought it would be a bit difficult to just let you have the reins. However, he pulls away his hands anyway, allowing you to exhibit your magic. You smile contentedly, shimmying down so your face was level with his crotch.

Changmin watches with bated breath as you haul his sweatpants and underwear down his legs in one go. He fists your hair in a makeshift ponytail, darting out his tongue to wet his lips when you leave a sweet kiss to the tip of his cock. He hisses as you wrap your hands around the base, pumping his length agonizingly slow.

His hips buck up into your hands, teeth gritted when your lips envelope the head. Your tongue drags over his slit, collecting the precum that’s begun to form. You moan when the taste of him settles, one hand sliding under his t-shirt to claw at his abdomen.

Finally, after what felt like eternity, you take him fully into the warm coziness of your mouth. Every time you gave Changmin head, you tried not to push yourself to swallow him wholly. You were afraid of embarrassing yourself by not being able to fit his impressive size down your throat. This time was different. You felt the need to provide him the best pleasure possible.

He thinks he might combust, focus zeroed in on your plush lips going further down his length and meeting your hand. Your eyes flutter open, making contact with his as you twist your wrist and start to bob your head. Changmin groans, using his free hand to fist at the sheets below you. You looked so fucking filthy like this, ass perked up in the air as you sucked him off like your life depended on it. But good God, you managed to still look absolutely gorgeous, even with the drool dribbling along your chin.

Instinctively, his grip on your hair tightens and he pushes your head down, forcing you to engulf his cock more than you already had. You gag, but steel yourself to power through. Changmin accepts his fate and lets himself loosen up, a conniving grin spreading across his lips.

“Gonna let me fuck your face, baby?” He coos, bending his knees and putting his feet flat on the bed.

You moan in approval, pulling off just to respond. “Mhm. Want you to feel good.”

“Fuck, you’re so sexy,” he bites his lip, bringing your face closer to kiss your swollen lips, your hand still jerking him off. “I’m gonna ruin you.”

He can taste himself on your mouth and it makes his release that much more exciting. You break apart, returning to what you were doing previously. This time, however, Changmin doesn’t hold himself back. He starts to fuck up into the wet heat of your mouth, cock sliding down your throat with a choked groan following each thrust.

Your eyes water, and before you know it, tears are tracking on your cheeks. He nearly whines, all sense of restraint lost completely as you continue to wrap around him, tongue swirling around the tip and running along each vein. Changmin feels insane, his orgasm building up higher and higher the more you take him— the more you cry for him.

It’s when one of your teardrops drips onto his stomach, your thumb swiping across his hip bone, that he cums into your mouth with a moan so out of character, you almost join him. You try to swallow everything he gives you, but it’s so much that you have to pull off of him, feeling it slip down the side of your mouth. Your hips roll into the bed to release some of the friction that formed.

Changmin wipes away the mixture of saliva and cum on your chin, stamping another slow kiss to your lips. You straddle him once again, whimpering when he presses up into your already sensitive cunt.

He smiles, fingers dipping into your shorts. “You did so well, baby. Let me return the favor.”

#the boyz #the boyz x reader #the boyz smut #tbz #tbz x reader #tbz smut #the boyz changmin #the boyz q #tbz changmin #tbz q #ji changmin x reader #ji changmin smut #changmin x reader #changmin smut #q x reader #q smut #juyeonszn #fawntober.2023🎃

288 notes · View notes

piftamere · 2 months

Text

part five - stunned (wc : 0.5k words if you don't want to read there's a tl:dr just under it!)

As you stepped off stage, still feeling exhilarated from your first gig, you saw a freakishly tall man approach you, a smirk on his face.

When you recognized who he was, you inadvertently grimaced.

Come on, let’s be mature, i shouldn't base my opinion of him on hearsay. You thought, taking a deep breath and replacing your expression with a polite smile.

"Hey!" he greeted with a toothachingly sweet voice "I just wanted to come by and congratulate you, it was a really good performance, for a beginner artist like you." He was probably trying to flatter you, but instead sounded impossibly condescending.

Ok, so maybe the rumors were true.

"Thanks." Your voice and expression were deadpan. "Can I ask how you got backstage?"

"No, it's a secret," he winked at you, flashing a playful smile. However, when he noticed that you didn't even flinch at his joke, let alone laugh, he quickly added, "The security guard let me in because he's a big fan of me."

You wondered if he could sound even fuller of himself… and made a mental note to hire stricter security next time.

Deciding to be polite you replied "I have to admit you make good music, I've been a fan of Geto since forever."

He noticed the hint of admiration in your voice, making him relax a little.

"Not of me huh? I'm hurt." he pouted, taking the liberty of teasing you. "Geto was the one who invited me and i'm glad he did… I really liked 'before you can', i think that's my favorite from tonight."

Your eyes widened a little, "Really? I'm… surprised, it's a little sadder than the others. To be honest, it's my favorite one too."

"Surprised I'm more than a pretty face?" He teased again.

"I never said that." You rolled your eyes but the corners of your mouth tilted up slightly, he noticed that too.

“Can i ask what it’s about or if it’s about your own experience?”

Even if he could be genuinely interested, you can't help but decline. "Sorry, but it's a little too personal."

“Shame.” he paused and smiled “Can i get your phone number?”

You couldn’t suppress the frown on your face. He choked a little at your visible disgust and laughed awkwardly, passing a hand through his hair. “For business reasons, sorry I should have clarified.”

Only half convinced, you gave him your number, worst-case scenario you could simply block him.

After typing it in his phone, a hint of mischief in his eyes, he continued “You didn’t have to look so horrified that i might be hitting on you though, I’m deeply wounded.” his voice dramatic as ever, a hand on his heart.

“How will you ever recover?” you retorted, smiling. Without giving him a chance to respond, you said "It was… nice meeting you, but i gotta go. Bye!!"

And with that you disappeared behind a door, leaving Gojo Satoru stunned.

[tl:dr : gojo comes backstage, he’s arrogant (and a tiny bit charming), he congratulates you, asks for your number for “business reasons”, you give it to him and you leave quickly.]

fun facts

gojo really didn't notice he was condescending until shoko pointed it out

y/n doesn't know what to think of gojo yet...

author's note

ilovegojosatoru

i've eaten cereals in orange juice and it's not that bad tbh

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ tugging on heartstrings ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

as an aspiring solo artist, you dream of making it big in the music industry. With your talent and unwavering determination, you find yourself entangled in a web of romantic pursuits amidst rumors and betrayal. Will you emerge unscathed and manage to navigate your love life in the chaos of fame?

Part five - Next

rbs and interactions are highly appreciated <3

taglist : open :) to be added leave a comment on the masterlist of the smau

@lysaray @swissy23 @d6za1 @minzxec @sleepy-waffle @saturn-alone @dreamxiing @reiluvr @nikkimvriee @mellozhi @cre8ing @ichorstainedskin @inosfavgf

#jjk x reader #jjk smau #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #maki x reader #megumi x reader #gojo smau #maki smau #megumi smau #jjk masterlist #tohs #maki zenin x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader

128 notes · View notes

virgincels · 4 months

Text

NYMPHOMANIA !

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. daddy-daughter incest, femcel reader :3, reader wants to get raped so she talks about that, dub-con for like a paragraph, suicidal thoughts, awful thoughts in general, tiny bit of somno, threats, spanking, slapping

note. HAII :3 back on my femcel shit… god i rewrote this like 15 times and restarted over and over so i hate this 😭 it’s clunky so ignore any mistakes!!! feedback n rbs always so appreciated <3 was thinking of og4 leon but.. honestly idk atp !! anyway sorry again for the slow decrease in quality in this .. title has nothing to do w the fic ack ok bye :3

There are two things you want to get off your chest.

You are not, under any circumstances, ugly. Your face just takes getting used to. (This is a cope.)

You have a crush on your dad. No excuse for this one. Cupid is a conniving bastard. That’s that.

These might not seem like related issues, but they most certainly are because being ugly is hard, and having a crush on your dad is equally as hard.

You’re a sweet girl, you didn’t choose to come out ugly, it’s not your fault you turned out this way. It’s unfair, but ultimately no one meant for it to happen

(Well, you hope no one meant for it to happen unless someone had a vendetta against your mother and cursed her firstborn. She’s an irritating lady, you can see why someone would do so.)

You won’t even be the kind of below-average woman who marries a mediocre man to have mediocre sex to make mediocre kids to live in caustic mediocrity. You have one friend, she’s an online friend, and she might be a lonely old man. To be entirely honest you would prefer that. ‘Cause that would mean someone out there wants to creep on you.

If you weren’t ugly, having a crush on your dad would be socially acceptable. That’s why daddy-daughter porn spans pages and pages and pages of Pornhub. Everyone loves to watch a busty, blonde slut on her dad’s dick. If you didn’t have a crush on your dad, being ugly would be perfectly fine— No, that’s wrong.

Being ugly is never fine. Being ugly is on the same level as being a rapist. Being ugly in the presence of people who are objectively not ugly is, like, worse than being a rapist. ‘Cause all the dudes in high school were rapists in the making. Ted Bundy-style shit.

Grope an ugly bitch in the bathrooms and she wouldn’t speak up, and if she did— She just wouldn’t actually. Would be burnt at the stake Salem style. Hung. Crucifixion perhaps. Ugly girls aren’t good enough to die like martyrs did, however. Especially not ugly girls who cry wolf.

Why on God’s green earth would a hot guy go out of his way to slap a freaky-looking girl’s ass, right? Got girls lined up down the halls waiting for him to sign their perky tits, he doesn’t need to rape. It must be wishful thinking on her part, right? A wet dream she took as reality.

Why would you say that? Do you want to throw what he’s worked for down the drain? Accusations like this, they’re not jokes, y’know that? He’s got a scholarship, college wouldn’t take something like this so lightly.

Aw, you miss her. This goth chick in senior year. Your sorta friend. When it all went down and she had nowhere else to go, you invited her over because you’re a nice girl with no nefarious intentions. None at all. When she lay beside you at night, and she opened up, and she thanked you for believing her, you totally did not have your hand in your panties. And you totally did not rub yourself raw while she spoke about it in excruciating detail. You did not treat her rape case as erotica.

The dude got away with it of course. He was on TV the other day in fact. NFL. Baltimore Ravens. Still stupid hot. God, you wish it was you he picked - wouldn’t have told a single soul. Would’ve sucked the sweat from his jockstrap without complaint.

You’re too repulsive to be touched or raped, and you’ve learnt to live with that. Passing out in alleyways would result in rapists who frequent the area to avoid those very alleyways. Only your hand knows the cushiony softness of your tits, the wetness between your legs, how great your mouth feels— Only your dildo knows that, but you can imagine it’s good. You’re a total catch. A nympho. Men love nymphos when they’re pretty, which you are not. So you’re a nympho without the sex appeal. So in other words you are a pervert. A degenerate. A fucking freak.

It’s time to start sticking your fingers down your throat. ‘Cause that’s what gorgeous girls do to achieve that grave-robbed look. Heroin chic. Modelesque. It’s all the same type of beautiful. Emaciated and sickly. Dead girls are the sexiest ‘cause they can’t say yes or no and if there’s no no then it’s a yes. A nymphetic loophole of sorts. Men love dead girls that double as nymphos. Unfortunately, you are well and alive. Walking into traffic seems like fun, but you would be classed as roadkill, and it wouldn’t be tragically beautiful, just embarrassing to get scraped off the concrete like that. Even in death, you would be ugly because you are ugly to your very core. Your bone marrow is so ugly no scientist would want to make stem cells out of it, polynucleotides so deformed— You’re ugly. No need to wax poetic about it. Nothing poetic about being ugly.

Dad is the closest a human being can get to perfection. A divine image. Michelangelo is, like, dead and gone. David should've died alongside him. Dad deserves to take his place in the Accademia Gallery. With the way people gawk at him, he might as well be art. You’re surprised he doesn’t sell tickets to merely exist in his presence. He’s hot like a Calvin Klein model, and mom is hot like a regular model. Due to how you’ve turned out, you have a few qualms with your mother.

Like, what the fuck happened to you in her womb? Did someone take a mallet to one side of her belly to ensure her child came out as asymmetrical as one can be? A lack of nutrients maybe? Was she dieting during the pregnancy? Did dad fuck her too hard? Busted her womb up or some shit.

It simply might be that two rights make a wrong.

Or you were a tester before she popped your siblings out. Little ichor-filled putto. They were child models, scouted in their diapers, and you would stand behind your mother and the cameraman so hurt you couldn’t even feel jealous. Now they’re all grown up, fully-fledged erotes, and they’re working and doing all this shit you still haven’t managed to get a grasp on. Navigating the world as an ugly bitch is terribly hard.

Rape kinks are developed, dads get crushed on - awful, terrible things happen when girls are ugly and alone and unable to leave the comfort of their bedrooms.

Pretty girls have daddy issues that are dealt with in standard pretty girl fashion - finding emotionally unavailable, salt-and-pepper-haired men to fill every hole, including the one in their doll hearts. The thing is pretty girls don’t go for their dads. ‘Cause a lot of the time dads are gross. Dads do not look like your dad does. And to be fair you don’t exactly have daddy issues. Your dad is present and he doesn’t hit or shout or do anything out of the norm. Maybe this is a you issue.

It is a you issue, not even an ugly girl issue or an any type of girl issue. It’s your issue and yours alone.

It is your issue that when Leon asks what you want for dinner you almost ask for his hand around your throat or his hand in marriage. Either would be fine. Both would be preferred.

Severing your relationship would be even better. Goddamn, girls with absent fathers are lucky. You wish he was anything but your dad— It’s just that if you weren’t his daughter, dad wouldn’t ever look your way, he would pass by you like every man does.

Dad is a busy guy, and he’s a strange guy in the sense that he’s never really bothered with you. He loves your sister, and he loves your brother. But everyone loves those two. You don’t think he likes you very much, you can deal with that. Doesn’t mean you have daddy issues ‘cause no one likes you very much. So it’s a you issue and you should try harder.

Leon’s home early today. He’s collapsed on the couch, withered into himself like he always is after business trips. Mom said not to disturb him. You don’t. Then you do. This is like crack to you. Dad.

More specifically, dad without mom hovering over him. Dad’s sleeping so your brain is not stewed by his intense gaze. It only ever lingers on you for merely a second, but your stomach flips like you’ve got appendicitis and your legs spread involuntarily.

He’s a light sleeper, you’re well aware. He’s also a living, breathing Ken doll so you don’t put much thought into it when you reach out to ghost your fingers along the bridge of his nose. So pointy it could pierce your clit. Your clit. His nose. Oh, it could work so well, you want to grind yourself to mush against it.

Until dad shifts, he’s so beautiful up close you almost forget he’s real, not a wax figure. You trace the straight edge of his jaw, then thumb his petal lips, dragging your pointer finger over the fuller bottom one to push the tip into his wet mouth. Your dad is a slut. ‘Cause he sucks for a good second or two. Heat licks at your insides. You might vomit. His spit glistens like cobwebs when you take it back. That hand is shoved down your pants. That finger finds your clit, uses what spit is left to get it nice and wet. Which is totally unneeded, you’ve been soaked since god knows when, your pussy doesn’t know when to quit.

Feels good knowing that a part of dad is in you, his spit pushed into your hole. You’ll give him something back, it’s only fair, you smear your slick on the spot you traced. His tongue pokes out, likely to combat dry mouth, it swipes along his bottom lip— He tastes you. Heat engulfs you, chars your body from the inside out, the scent of rotting meat is in your nostrils.

Dad tasted you.

Holy fuck. You sit there with a trembling smile, staring down at him and he does not rouse. Shit, you’re creepy and you know it, but you’re not stupid. What other chance do you have? You unzip his old shearling jacket, underneath is that compression shirt that fits him too well. You map out the ridges of his abs, the slight dip between his pecs, every hard line that makes up his body. He smells so sexy, lavender and leather, must be some sorta pheromone ‘cause all you want to do is drop your face into his tits to bathe in that scent, to have it stick to your skin. Shit. Holy fucking shit. You’ve got a sex doll instead of a dad. That explains the distantness. He’s made of silicone.

The door clicks the moment you find it in yourself to click open his belt.

“What're you doing?” Mom ruins everything. She’s had it out for you the moment you formed in her womb. “He’s sleeping, don’t disturb him.” She says tersely, placing her Coach Tabby on the coffee table.

“He was cold.” That’s why his nipples are peaking, piercing the fabric of that shirt. Should be illegal to wear that in public. He’s asking for it.

“Yeah?” She asks, unconvinced, bending down to unclasp her heels.

“Yeah.” You stand up, dad’s indirect kiss on your cunt, shoot her a nasty sneer before you scuttle away to your bedroom for the rest of the day.

There are stairs that creak and stairs that don’t. You hang around down here at midnight often so you know the right path to take as to not alert your parents of your presence. They’re speaking about you.

“—be careful around her.” Truly, you hate your mother.

“What is there to be careful about?” Right? You tell her dad.

“Just, just be careful. She doesn’t y’know.”

“She doesn’t what?”

“She doesn’t get off her ass, she doesn’t talk to anyone but, well, I don’t know actually, she doesn’t talk to anyone at all.” You could pretend and say it hurts, but it doesn’t. There’s nothing insulting about the truth.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“You’re a guy, she doesn't talk to guys.”

“We don’t talk much either.” Dad is too stiff to make conversation, and you collapse anytime he breathes in your general direction.

“Yeah, but, Leon.” Mom sounds exasperated, but she’s not getting her point across well. She should know better, dad’s skull is thicker than cement. “I’m worried.”

“What, for me or her?”

“Her, obviously, I don’t want her to… I want her to get out, like, I want her to do stuff,” mom sniffles, she is so putting this on to make dad feel guilty. “It’s so hard to watch your adult daughter just sit in a room and do nothing all day, Leon, she’s like a big fucking baby, why is she like that?”

“Babe,” he coos, and your knees buckle.

“Go talk to her.”

“What?”

“Go talk to her about it,” Mom repeats, voice shaking. “She doesn’t listen to me.”

They go back and forth for a few minutes, and then dad sighs and says fine. You make haste back to your hovel that doubles as a bedroom, crawl into bed and try to look natural.

Leon clears his throat before he knocks, when you don’t answer he pokes his head in. He says your name and you stir, sheets taut to your body as you peek up at him.

“You should open a window in here.”

When you don’t respond, he sits at the foot of your bed, looks around and nods. His gaze is scathing. Not purposefully. You just take it that way.

“Dinner’s ready,” he lies, then he leaves. His perfume lingers, and you touch the space he was sitting in, his warmth remains.

The day after that, you’re in the living room, tuckered out after mom forced you to help her with the groceries. You’re not cut out for this sort of life. The living sort of life. You were made to rot.

“Door wasn’t locked,” Leon says when he steps in, he puts his keys down, shucks his jacket off, tracks mud halfway down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Your shoes, Leon,” Mom groans, “she came in last.”

“Oh, sorry,” you say absentmindedly. If it doesn’t include tits or dicks or pussy it is none of your business. You have enough energy to keep up with one thing and that is your porn addiction. Groceries really took it out of you.

“You should be careful, rapists might come in, murderers or some shit.” Leon is speaking to your mother. Not you because he has seen your face and he knows very well that an ugly girl like you would survive out of sheer ugliness.

Mom snorts, “I think you’re the scariest thing that could walk through that door, honey.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”

You’d like to know what that means too. Well, you get the gist, ‘cause you’ve heard all those stories. Dad and his wandering hands.

“You know what that means.” The sound of lips smacking is enough to have you feeling sick, dizzy as you cling to the walls and make your escape. “Did she leave— Quit it, Leon— Hands off, can you go talk to her, please? Properly this time.”

He forgets to knock this time, or he can’t bother to knock. Dad sits in that same spot, he opens his mouth and closes it about five times.

“Mom’s worried about you,” Leon says robotically. “You good?”

“I’m great.” Your tone is unconvincing, but he clearly doesn’t care enough because you're his dirty little secret. Not in a sex way. You would do anything for it to be in the sex way. Dirty little secret as in the ugly kid he chooses to ignore purely because you’re ugly. Dad doesn’t like ugly girls, you know that. He doesn’t think they’re worth a second glance, even a first glance is too much. Dad is superficial and his love is plastic.

These are all things you’re making up in your head based on assumptions. This is how all attractive men think. Ugly girls aren’t worth rape, dirtying your dick in ugly pussy sounds like a hassle. If you were pretty, you wouldn’t fuck an ugly guy. Even as a self-proclaimed ugly girl, you still wouldn’t fuck an ugly guy ‘cause they’re gross, and it’s not like they want you. Ugly guys shoot high and aim for pretty girls. Duh.

So you get it. Honestly. Whatever. Dad doesn’t like you. That’s okay, you don’t like him as a dad anyway. You love him like an obsessive lover. A hallway crush that stars in your late-night rape fantasies. And you’re fine like this. You’re so fine.

“Can I… Can I actually have a hug, dad?” You muster up what is left in your hollow heart to ask him that. It’s a big deal.

Leon blinks at you, levels you with his blank stare. He’s so handsome you want to blow your brains out, it’s an easy feat because you’re always looking for reasons to blow your brains out. Every straw is your last and yet you’re still here.

“Sure, sweetheart.” Dad opens his arms, and you crawl towards him, head on his shoulder as his arms loop around your waist. Oh, god, you will your heart into giving out. Dying right here in dad’s arms is ideal.

He holds you so gently it’s brutal. He crushes you with the weight of his loveless love. Dad’s so good at pretending you almost think he cares.

“Can you… I want to stay like this.”

“Uh, sure, sweetheart,” Leon calls everyone sweetheart. Sweetheart is his default. Sweetheart ranges from Auntie Ashley to babysitters to lifeguards and retail workers who aren’t getting paid enough to deal with some old man making eyes at them. Not that anyone minds dad’s attention. It’s fucking unfair. Mom is babe, and your sister is baby, and your brother is buddy or sport or tiger or whatever shit he pulls out of his ass. And you’re sweetheart because you’re not important to him. His firstborn daughter is not important to him ‘cause she’s ugly. More of a specimen than a human.

You would do anything to keep him here.

“Dad?” You whisper into his neck.

“…Yeah?”

“I want you to…” Your lack of life flashes in front of your eyes. Bedroom. Bedroom. Porn. Bedroom. Porn. Porn. Dad. Not much. What have you got to lose? “I want to— I want to fuck you.”

Dad is silent. Then: “Oh.” He never makes the move to pull away, so you sit snugly in his grip for a few seconds longer.

“I— Dad, I touch myself thinkin’ about you.” Your stomach ties itself into a Gordian knot.

“Yeah, okay, why don’t we— Yeah, fuck, I see what she meant, okay. Wow, that’s a lot. Sweetheart, why… Listen.” Dad says a whole lot of nothing as he takes your hands off him.

“Please… I love you, dad. I really like you— I know it’s weird, dad, I do, seriously, I know, but please I just… I just like you.” There is no explanation for it. “Dad… Daddy.”

He full-on winces. It’s like you’re being flayed. Something inside of you just— Just shatters. Not your heart ‘cause it’s pumping more blood than it ever has. Fragments of your sanity splinter into even smaller segments until there is nothing left but nauseating levels of mental disturbance.

“If you don’t…”

“You seriously trying that right now?” Leon scoffs, and he’s so cocky you get hot under the collar.

(Between your thighs too, but that’s a different story.)

“Yeah, I’m serious— If you don’t… If you don’t do it- do it with me, I’ll tell mom you… I’ll tell her you raped me.” In actuality, you would never tell mom if daddy raped you. You would treasure it, keep it in a heart-shaped locket and think about it when you get off twelve times a day. Getting your pussy reamed by dad’s cock would fix you right up.

“Don’t— Are you okay?” Leon smacks your hand away, his tone is even.

“You do it too— I know you’ve done it, I know how you and mom met.”

His face drains, pallor yellowish. “That don’t… That’s different.”

“How is that any different?” Different ‘cause he’s hot and mom is hot. Leon passed it off as a drunken mistake and they end up getting together. It’s not rape if the perpetrator is a hottie. You agree, but still— It’s not fucking fair.

“‘Cause I didn’t do this.” Leon gestures abstractly.

You kiss him, hands braced on each of his tits, digging your fingers into the meat to feel him tense and harden like he’s wearing a chest plate. “You’re so hot dad,” you whine into his mouth, and Leon is quick to push you off, your wrists in his hands. Makeshift handcuffs.

“Listen, sweetheart,” Dad is using his dad voice. It’s like porn to you, only makes you wetter. “I don’t like hitting girls, but you’re givin’ me a damn good reason.”

“You can hit me, daddy.” You offer your face to him, stretching your neck forward, closing your eyes as you wait for the impact. It lands firm on your cheek, his fingertips catching the tip of your nose. Fuck that felt good. Shit. You think you’ve creamed your panties. “Again, dad, hit me again—“ He does. Harder than the last time. Your head knocks backwards, and your brain must have a dent in it.

Dad puts you over his lap and you’re so sure you’ve entered the pearly gates. Or the innermost circle of hell. Probably that ‘cause Jesus Christ are you steaming.

“I hate stupid little sluts that try it out on me,” Leon drags your sweats over the swell of your ass, “Do you have a dick?”

“What, dad— No!” You tell him, more mortified at his question than you are by your bare ass under his palm. Fuck— You’re so wet it’s disgusting, dripping down your thighs and surely staining his lap. Thick like treacle.

“No? Were you gonna rape dad with this stupid cunt?” Oh, you hope he spanks your pussy. Porn makes it look delicious. “You look like you might have a dick with that face of yours.” He traces the seam of your cunt through your panties. “Or is your pussy just fat?”

Good fucking lord.

“Dad…” You arch into him, only to have a hand come down on your left ass cheek. One. Two. Three. They all hurt bad as each other. Four. “Ouch!” That one hurt real bad. Five. You feel like a naughty child. This is not as hot as you thought it would be. More dull and embarrassing. Not even the good kind of embarrassing.

Leon puts you on your knees, the hand wrapped around your jaw forces your lips into a pout, and you think he is going to kiss you— God, you close your eyes and wait for it, lean into him, shit you’d pop your leg if you were standing up. He spits in your face and it trickles down the bridge of your nose.

“Got me dirty with that filthy pussy.” Dad speaks offhandedly, he speaks to you like you’re dog shit. Not dog shit stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Just dog shit on the side of the road. Like the sort that bothers you enough to complain about it, but it doesn’t ignite any real anger.

His hand remains tight on your jaw, then he drops it to fish his fat cock from his pants to slap the drippy head on your cheek. The sound ricochets off the walls. Hits you like a bullet. Holy fuck. Dad really just did that. You giggle, batting your lashes up at him as pretty as an ugly girl can, and he grimaces so it can’t be pretty.

“Christ, you nasty fuck,” Leon snickers at the look on your face, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Daddy,” you whimper, nosing the tip of his dick, he smells so good you want him in your mouth, “I jus’ love you lots.”

“God, I hate ugly little freaks like you.” He said that already, no need to rub it in. Another slap of his cock on your face. Your heart beats for him and him alone. “You know what I think?” Dad guides his cock into your warm mouth. “Shit, that’s good— I think your mom is a liar.”

His dick is all you’ve ever wanted. It’s heavy on your tongue, though the longer you suckle on the tip, the weightier it gets, and he’s wet. Dripping all over the place. You must get that gene from your dad.

“‘Cause I don’t think,” he grunts, palm resting on your forehead to push you off his shaft, “I don’t think I could make a kid this ugly.”

“No,” you say breathlessly, “No, you’re my dad, my daddy.” Crouched down below him, you lave over his balls, putting more effort into this than you have done with anything else in your life. Gargling dad’s balls is your best work. Nothing else you have to be proud of.

Your pussy is pulsing, shit has its own heartbeat, you drop your hand down to soothe your poor cunt, rubbing figure eights into the bulge of your clit over your panties. It’s not enough, you push them to the side, your fingers slip a couple times, not enough, only dad’s fingers are enough, only his cock will plug up your leaking hole.

“Get off me,” dad instructs, and you might be glued to him, but you detach yourself immediately. “C’mon, stand up.” You use his thighs as leverage, standing on shaky legs that threaten to give out at any second. He takes your shirt off. “Cute tits gone to waste,” dad sighs like it’s heartbreaking. “We could've done something about it, y’know? Could fix your face right up, just had to ask daddy.”

“Really, dad? I want to be pretty, daddy, I want to be pretty for you, you never call me pretty— Daddy, I want to be pretty, please.” You clasp his shirt, and he brings you into his lap once more, raising your legs to slide your panties down so you’re free bleeding on his lap. Free bleeding without the blood. Just good old pussy.

“Messin’ with you, sweetheart, can’t fix that dog face,” dad coos to you tenderly, and the plain-as-day insult flies right over you. Dad could get you to sell both your kidneys if he keeps talking to you like that. “Just gotta live with it.”

You have. You have lived with it. That’s what you do. Live with your ugly face. You could die, that’s an option, but you choose to wait it out. ‘Cause dying is pretty scary no matter how much you want it. And Leon’s dick is hard beneath your pussy so there are things to live for. The world isn’t all cruel.

“Up,” he taps your lower back, you raise your hips and he presses his cock to your stretched hole. Toy after toy after toy. All to ready yourself for dad. When you sink down on him, your body convulses. It’s the sweet release of death. Or an orgasm. Fuck. Dying on dad’s cock is— You haven’t died on his dick, he fucks you through your high, feet planted firmly on the ground as he thrusts upwards, dick angled just right.

Heroin is meant to be good. You’ve seen Trainspotting. Better than any cock— You don’t believe that for a minute. Unless he’s leaking smack straight into your pussy, numbing your walls. Could be that ‘cause god— You’re not really thinking, not that you think much, when you decide to shove your fingers into his mouth.

“Daddy, can you taste me?” You ask him, giving a languid grind of your hips down onto his cock, you regret it immediately ‘cause it’s so good your cunt squelches loudly. “Do you taste me, dad? Dad—“

“Yeah,” Dad says, muffled, “Shoving your fingers down my fuckin’ throat, you little psycho, ‘course I taste it.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Daddy looks so pretty with his lips wrapped around your fingers, you fuck them in and out of his pink mouth, his tongue runs along the length of your fingers like he’s sucking a nice cock. Treating your fingers better than you did his dick.

Daddy’s splitting you in two. He fucks you without a care in the world. ‘Cause he doesn’t care about you. One-time-use pussy. You’re disposable like the gloves you get with box dye. Like a plastic spork. His cock is so deep he might as well tear open your middle and fuck your guts. Leon grabs your hips, forces you up and drops you down. The air in your lungs has no time to build up— You grasp at his shirt, bouncing in his lap like you’re a fleshlight, and you would be so happy with that title. Dad’s personal fleshlight. It makes you giddy.

Leon’s cock twitches inside of you, when he lifts you off of him, your pussy clings to the tip, holding on for dear life, insistent on milking daddy’s dick, taking every drop of his cum.

“Daddy…” Your head drops to his shoulder. “Please, daddy, am I pretty? Can you call me pretty?”

His hips stutter, and you don’t have to see his face to know he hesitates. It’s a struggle to call a girl like you pretty. “You’re so pretty, sweetheart.” Then he dumps his load so deep— So deep, you warm to the thought of having your daddy’s baby. You already fucked so why not go the extra mile?

Dad doesn’t kiss you, but he lays you down and tucks you in like he never has before. “Your mom’s worried.” He goes back to the topic at hand and you groan, covering your face with a pillow. “Hey, we can, uh…” Leon scratches his head. “We can y’know…” He shrugs, glances down at you. “Can do that if you try pulling your weight a little.”

The promise of your dad’s cock is enough to have you applying for every job in a thirty-mile radius. Dad’s cock is a fix for an ugly girl like you. You’ve got a pussy only your daddy could love, and you think you’re more than okay with that.

#leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #resident evil smut #resident evil x reader #resident evil x you

451 notes · View notes