kinnotakara

[kinnotakara]

❝domesticated❞

plot: on valentine's day, bruce leaves you high and dry. you don't forgive easy. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: established relationship, a little suggestive, reader tortures bruce for superheroing on date night, minor violence (reader presses on his bruises but, of course, he's into it), yearning bruce, he wants that cookie so mf bad. words: 1.4k.

a/n: just like bruce I am also late for valentine's day :D dealing with major writer's block but I was reminded of the bed scene in challengers and couldn't shake it.

Bruce rarely allows himself to be like this. Even when he’s got a knife gut-deep, cornered on all sides, he never lets himself get this weak. This mindless. This depraved.

But here he is, and here you are—smiling tightly. It gnaws at his pride, begging him to be honest with himself as he collapses on the foot of the bed. The pain of landing on his bruises does nothing to sober him as he begins to crawl up to you. Your knees are pressed to your chest, but the closer he gets, the more they part, allowing him to drag his upper body up and into your lap where he rests. His face presses into your stomach. You can feel the low rumble in his chest. One of your hands sinks into his hair and he nuzzles a little closer to you, “Bad day?”

Your tone is just slightly mocking. Just enough to agitate him, but not enough for him to regain his sense. He grits his teeth and nods, and the action has his cheek rubbing against your warm skin.

When he props his chin up, you’re not looking at him but the book in your other hand. You’re close to the end judging by the last half-inch of paper steadied between your fingers. His deep sigh does nothing to stir your sympathy. “It was all gone.”

“Hm?”

“The panna cotta. You said you’d save me some.”

“Oh,” you say belatedly, clearly in the middle of a rousing scene, “sorry, must’ve ate it all.”

“All of it?”

“I invited my friends over after you left. Guess I just lost track of it.”

He knew that, and you probably knew that he knew that. No one came and went in the penthouse without him knowing. He’d gotten the notification that several of your close friends had arrived a quarter to nine, and had only left an hour ago. The timing was impeccable. Of course you knew him well, and of course you’d make sure it was just the two of you when he inevitably came back from patrol. It doesn’t make the craving he'd looked forward to satiating go away.

And he knows he has no right to be upset. He’d left the panna cotta (and you) behind for—he twists his arm a bit and it twinges with a sharp pain—for this.

You don’t even look his way when he lets out a pained gasp.

Bruce presses his cheek to your stomach again, and his fingers travel under your sweater to sap the warmth for his own when you abruptly pull your hand from his hair to shove his away. He freezes, only hearing your voice grumbling out a “’S cold.”

Fuck. “I’m sorry.” He forces his fingers into the duvet to warm them, but he isn’t confident you’ll let him try again even if they were warm enough. His head in your lap was all he could get, apparently. All he could get without an apology. A proper apology.

Of course, his pride resurfaces then. He wants to be stubborn about it. You knew the city was important to him, that it was a priority. He’d hero’d away from plenty of dates to save the city from collapse and you’d always understood. Why was now any different?

But deep down, past the thorny pride and hunger and longing, is the truth: a burning city and patrol as usual were two very different things. Especially on February 14th. He’d fucked up.

When his fingers are significantly warm enough, he places both hands on your thighs, pressing his thumbs into the meat of them and rubbing in circles. He turns his head just in time to catch your eyebrow twitch, but otherwise, you continue to ignore him. He presses his chin into your stomach and hums against you. “Did you have fun?”

He sees you swallow, then smile. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t want them to leave.”

Something indignant pulls at his insides at that. “You should have them over more often.”

“It’s hard.” The hand that had been in his hair, that had shoved him away, rises and he thinks you might touch him again, but it floats past him to flip to the next page in your book. “The timing and all. I never know when you’re gonna be here or not.” And finally, finally, you look at him. Oh, you’re really pissed.

“I can… I can try—“

“Can you?”

Your tone stings, piercing him right between the ribs. He wants to burrow into you and hide, but instead he catches the whine rising in the back of his throat and shifts against the sheets. You watch him resist a squirm, but he knows you can feel his grip on your thighs getting stronger. You go back to reading your book.

With his heart beating fast against the mattress, Bruce groans low in his throat and drops his lips to your inner thigh, placing hurried kisses against your skin. He hears you call his name but he doesn’t respond, except maybe to spread his kisses to your navel, traveling across to the other thigh. Eventually, he feels your hand in his hair again, but it’s yanking him away from your skin and he is determined not to let you. He grabs your wrist and kisses that instead, traveling up to your elbow as he begins to crawl over you. It takes your thumb pressing into the bruise on his shoulder to shock him out of his stupor. He breaks away with a hot whine that he wouldn’t dare let anyone else hear. On good days, even you wouldn’t hear him making sounds like this. Looking gutted like this. He is well and truly fucked.

You grip his face in two hands, holding him far enough away that he can’t swoop in for a kiss again. He lets you manhandle him, falling against you with all his weight. “Say it or I’m going to bed.” His ego makes another appearance underneath the yearning. You must see the internal conflict because your eyes narrow. “You’re unbelievable—“

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, a little muffled from the way you’re squishing his cheeks together, “I shouldn’t have left.”

You hold, perhaps waiting for an excuse to follow, and that sours him even more. Welllllllll and truly fucked. “Yeah? Why not?”

His nose scrunches. “…I promised I wouldn’t be back late.”

“And what time is it now?”

His eyes flicker over to the clock on your bedside, reading back 3:20 in analog. “Late.”

You shift to holding his face with one hand, pressing your nails into the skin of his cheeks. The other hand goes for one of his bruises again and he only has the heart to writhe a little bit before you’re pressing on it. “And was it worth it?”

Bruce shakes his face from your grip, dropping his mouth to your shoulder to kiss (and bite, especially when you don’t stop digging into his bruise). His head is foggy with guilt and regret and the milk and honey of your earlier bath. He’s not usually this crass, but he hisses out a “hell no” that gets his feelings across just fine.

“It won’t happen again, will it?” That gives him pause. You feel him still against you. Forcing him back to see his face, you notice he struggles to hold your gaze. He’s making an attempt, you can tell, to think about it. “Bruce.” He looks at you helplessly. “Am I asking for too much?”

You’d told him time and time again that if he wanted this to work, an hour was what you needed. One hour, however he could fit it in. Tonight, he’d promised you that, and couldn’t even follow through.

You’re not asking this because you’re worried. He can hear the quiet threat underneath, the meaning that lines his veins with ice: that, if it was too much, there was only one solution.

Once upon a time, the answer would’ve been simple. His pride knows that, knows that’s why it rallied and roared even as it now weakly gives into you, curling into your palm. Domesticated. You’ve done something irreversible to him.

He’s sure you can see the moment he concedes, laying down his weapons at your feet, because you finally let up on his shoulder. You’re the one who swoops in for a kiss this time, taking his tongue into your mouth just as he settles fully above you. He feels something shut off in his brain, something that would have been gnawing at him until it reached bone before. It’s quiet. Sometimes, he forgets the numbing pleasure that giving into you offers until it warms his skin again.

[kinnotakara]

scrub and start over

pairing: adrian chase x reader (gn pronouns, long hair)

rating: t

word count: 2,771

one-sentence synopsis: after you fall in the lake trying to help chris get his helmet back, adrian offers to wash the mud and lake water off of you simply because he likes to.

author’s note: fuck i love acts of service. i also particularly enjoy showering and bathing and hair washing and hair braiding fuck!! the INTIMACY!! i hope you also enjoy this!!

read on ao3!

You emerge from the lake dripping mud, frozen solid, and pissed as hell. You drag yourself up onto shore, your boots filled with silt from the bottom of the lake and fucking rocks. Your hair is caked with mud, dripping down your soaked armor. Everything about you is waterlogged and filthy and just— fucking gross. You feel nasty.

This is what you get, you think to yourself, trudging up the rocky shore of the lake. You were the one who offered to find the fucking thing in the first place.

The ‘thing’ in question is one of Peacemaker’s helmets. Eagly had snatched it and flown off with it while you were all making camp, and you’d offered to go off and search for it.

You hadn’t expected that the bird had dropped the thing in the middle of the fucking lake when you offered, though. You’d tried to reach the helmet without actually submerging yourself in the water, but you’d tripped and fallen in partway through, and it just hadn’t mattered at that point.

Now, you were carrying Chris’ stupid fucking helmet, which was just as muddy and disgusting as you were. You wipe lake water and mud out of your eyes, sighing. You’re already starting to shiver, the lake water sticking to you with an uncomfortable chill.

You drag yourself back through the woods to the camp. It’s already set up, everyone gathered around a newly-built fire, when you finally get there.

Leota is the first one to see you, looking up and exclaiming, “Holy shit, Swamp Thing!”

Keep reading

[kinnotakara]

THREESOME | feat. top!reader, unspecified!bottom male & female character.

your hands held her thighs, feeling her skin beneath your fingertips while your tongue licked and sucked her clit. making her squirm and arch her back, eliciting a soft, needy moan from her as she started rolling her hips. riding your face while you were taking your sweet time eating her out.

on the other side, he was bouncing and riding your cock, his hole clenching around your length as fucks himself on you. loud, pathetic moans escaped his lips at the sensation of your cock stretching his walls as his weeping and throbbing cock leaked pre-cum. he grasped onto your thighs for support and kept going, tthe sounds of skin smacking against skin and their shared moans filled the room.

it was like something out of your erotic fantasies. he was so full of muscle and irresistible while she was so gorgeous and alluring, and here they were—fucking themselves on you like animals.

she let out a needy whimper when your tongue swirled around her clit, teasing her a little as a shiver of pleasure ran down her spine. he was still riding your cock as if he was determined to make you cum, his pace getting more quick and sloppy because of it. his eyes rolled back when he felt your tip kissing his sweet spot, a guttural moan escaping his lips at the sensation of it.

you could feel your their orgasm approaching them and were so desperate to chase that sweet release, the way she kept grinding on your face as she moans and gasps at your tongue on her pussy and the way he was clenching around your cock tightly and riding you with abandon. it made your dick twitch in arousal and excitement.

her body convulsed on your face as she rode her high, her orgasm hitting her hard as she gushed into your mouth with a moan. triggering his climax as well, his body trembling as his cock spurted out cum, landing on your abdomen.

a groan escaped your lips as your release came in last, you emptied out your warm seed inside him. eliciting a soft gasp from him as he let out a quiet whimper, the three of you were moaning mess as your bodies were dripping with sweat. the smell of sex filling in the air as they both came crashing down on the bed, laying down as they both sandwiched you in between them.

you couldn’t but wonder off in your thoughts, smirking to yourself almost as they lay there beside you while sighing in contentment and holding you close.

this should happen again more often.

[kinnotakara]

How would playboy prove that darling would never be thrown away? Like darling feels insecure cause they keep overthinking that playboy yandere is just playing with them and doesn’t actually love them?

ehehehe and heres were we get to see our yanderes crazy side,,,

CW: self mutilation, threats of suicide

playboy would take this as an insult, saying you dont love them enough, that they arent doing a good job of showing they love you.

know how i said playboy would shower you in gifts? if you show insecurity at all, those gifts double. boats, stores, companies, houses, exotic pets, planes, if it isnt at least a solid million, its not enough. if that doesnt work, they resort to more... drastic measures.

carving your name into their skin, branding themselves with your initials, fuck theyll even start pulling their nails out with their teeth if they get really desperate! playboy is insane and intense. they arent going to shower you in gentle kisses, they arent going to romance the shit out of you, there will be no candles, no rose petals, no heart shaped jacuzzi, theyll throw money and material items at you and if they doesnt solve it, theyll resort to harming themselves. theyre yours. if you cant see it, theyll make you see it and i really hope you have a short name cause otherwise theyre gonna give themselves a pretty big scar!

in the end, youll have to be the one comforting them because theyre terrified youll leave them cause you think they dont love you enough! and if you even dare to imply that you think theyll leave you ever, theyll get on top of you, hold a knife to their throat and say

"if i ever leave you or lose you, im going to fucking kill myself."

[kinnotakara]

a loving family, an unpalatable desire

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: would anyone hear me out if i ever wrote romantic yan! bruce (ft. platonic yan! batfam AND romantic yan clark kent alongside the superfam ofc) with a neglected spouse reader... because uhm, i've been thinking about it lately just yk... so anyways PLSPLSPLS send in asks about this, ive been thinking about it so much lately.

imagine wanting to raise a family so badly with a man who adopts problem children as a side hustle. you're not some invasive spouse, you've always been good, always been loving, so... so accepting, never questioned where or how he picked them up from the side of the streets, never once complaining about the hickeys on his neck or the once neat tussles of his hair now tangled accompanying lipstick stains on his white suit.

you love your children, you tell yourself all the time. you love them, you love bruce— even if he doesn't love you. you said it in your vows, despite it being scripted, despite your family finally sighing in relief in the sidelines at finally being able to sell you off to one of the wealthiest man in the world, rather than being wasting off under their care— your vows are real.

you wanted someone to love you, unconditionally, so viscerally eternal that it eats you up.

really, all you wanted was to play that fantasy life of trophy house spouses. all you wished for was a loving, healthy relationship. the american dream: the picture perfect family frames, your husband kissing you on the cheek as he leaves for work, your children bickering at the dining room, with the scent of homemade meals wafting about the vicinity. all you wanted was the warmth in your chest to flicker like candlelights. all you dreamed about was that domestic life, an escape from the abusive household you were raised in.

yet the manor is too cold, too unforgiving for a soul such as yours.

the longer you stay inside claustrophobic, yet oh-so large hallways, the quicker you drown in a neverending pool of self-hatred.

but you're not allowed to show them your sufferings. they've been through much worse, you tell yourself. they've suffered more, and as what good spouses do, as what you're taught, you stay silent, enabling them to turn you into their own emotional punching bag.

you only allow yourself to cry at the dead of the night, under the sheets of your too-cold blanket and your too-hot pillows. when the manor is filled with deathly silence and a looming sense of dread and ill fitting thoughts of ifs and when they'll come back in one piece, will you grant yourself temporary respite; worry for a family who never even called you their parent.

yet you've always been so considerate. despite the pang in your chest every time bruce flirts with anymore potential love interest at a gala, you chose to instead monitor your chaotic children, who have always never bat an eye on you despite you always gazing lovingly at them.

you know of their interests, they don't know yours, yet you still give them extravagant gifts on their birthdays, with tired, yet glinting eyes, and a silent excuse to return to your room; one separate from bruce.

you know of bruce's hardships, but you don't push too hard, don't force him to talk, only provide him your silence and an offer to serve him dinner; all the time he refuses without looking at you. you give him comfort only if he ever allows you, only if he allows his walls to crumble— but not even his spouse can amount to a warm, crackling fireplace. to him, you're probably only a matchstick under the deadbeat glaze of the snow in a winter night.

maybe that's why you're such a ghost in the manor, stalking through the hallways, looking out for any of your children in case they come across you with any injuries. maybe that's why eventually your resolve weakened.

and maybe the absence of familial love led you to find comfort in another man's arm.

''til death do us part,' is such a tragic saying in your case, because you know it in your fragile heart that bruce's love for you was never alive in the first place. and yet you allow him to play you like a fiddle, allow him to slowly allow you to slip away from his nonexistent grasp.

and now, you're a stand-in parent for clark's son, jon, after the tragic loss of his wife. now, your world seems a lot less bleaker, as you play the fantasy of a loving house spouse, fully abandoning the life you left behind, a life you've never been gifted with until now. you want to feel guilty, you want to feel absolutely terrible but the heartache of neglect has become too much and all you do was allow clark to warm you up each night, kissing away your tears and spooning your deep-seated anxieties away.

you don't let the past eat you up, not when the present is too perfect, too freeing, too delusionally beautiful.

your son, jon provides you every joy a parent could have. parent's day gifts, heartfelt letters at every nook and cranny of your shared bedroom with clark— even reading him bedtime stories, allowing him to sleep in your lap after he slowly nods off, with clark knocking softly on polished wooden doors, greeting you with a loving kiss on the lips and a bouquet of your favorite flowers in hand—

it's everything a parent wants, needs even.

and you're everything clark, and especially jon wants, needs in their life.

so it's such a stupid mistake, really. a slip of the tongue, a too-enthusiastic smile, incredibly bright, shining eyes. it's not jon's fault, you still love him either way. but it's an error still— one a complicated matter at hand, so dreadful for you, that jon accidentally, all-too-suddenly, mentions you as his parent to damian.

a loving, wonderful parent, he says, with a picture of you in his wallet shoved right in front of his friend's face.

[kinnotakara]

                 𝜗𝜚 BABY, FERVOUR! (FEVER)

synopsis. when new years baby fever strikes, the only thing you can do is make him juno. one of him is cute, yeah, but two, though? featuring you (yes, you!) thoroughly breeding the jjk men. wc. 5.2k

tags. top! reader, sub! gojo, toji, sukuna, geto separately. reader has a cock. baby fever, pregnancy kink, breeding kink. set in the a/b/o world as a plot device for mpreg. true-form sukuna & beast! reader, afab! geto, toji is a father of six (nine now). creampies, feminization, primal play, slut-shaming, dacryphilia, overstim, oviposition (only sukuna), daddy/mommy kink, full nelson, kitchen sex, mounting, nesting, size difference, belly bulging, mean tummy pushing, praise kink, degradation, rough anal & vaginal sex, extremely cockdrunk! suguru. whiny, needy jjk men.

a/n. you should know the drill by now . . . enjoy!

“. . . make a baby?” satoru whined, headily peering up at you between two spread, quivering thighs, held up invitingly for you. “heard it- it takes a lot of hard work to make one . . . ” 

“yes,” you grunted, brows fixed together in concentration as you gazed down at your lustrous mate, his lidded eyes glazed over in pure bliss. he was spread prettily underneath you, lewd pants and whimpers tumbling out of kiss-bitten lips as your cock continued to stretch tautly at his pink, puffy rim, forcing its way in one fat inch by one fat inch. “‘s that mean you don’t wanna? m-make a baby. with me.” 

satoru shook his head quickly, cheeks heating up as you repeated that phrase again. 

“‘course i wanna!” he mewled out, glossy eyes peering up at you in mock offense, “if it’s with you… i th-think it’d be okay.” he glanced away, cheeks heating up as though he was embarrassed by the idea of carrying your child, but you weren’t having any of that. 

satoru sobbed out a piteous whine as your girthy length dragged along his spongy walls as though it wanted to leave, feeling himself clench eagerly around it to restore the fullness. “noo, come back,” he whined, sharp nails raking down your back in pretty red trails, letting out a happy purr when you thrust to the hilt again, filling his stomach up. 

“‘m talking ‘bout a baby, satoru, not some toy…” you huffed disapprovingly, pressing a gentle kiss to the sensitive underside of his jaw, to which he let out a shrilly gasp at. “a baby right here.” you gave his tummy a little prod, and he whimpered, his walls pulsating around you at the mere thought of you planting a seed right there… a dirty little secret buried deep inside him, where no one would know but the two of you. “that’s what i want. do you understand me, ‘toru?” 

“i knoow what you’re talkin’ about,” satoru slurred sousedly, pupils dilated as proof of his intense arousal. he palmed his pudgy tummy with one hand, mimicking your earlier actions, before glaring up at you. “‘m not stupid, i‘m the best. ‘said i want a baby, so gimme one, ‘kay? your baby.” 

“i heard it takes a lot of hard work to make one, though,” you carefully repeated his own words, a sly grin slowly etching itself onto your face. he mumbled something under his breath that sounded awfully like ‘meanie’ before it sharpened into a whine as you pressed harder into the curved cusp of his hips, the fullness making it almost hard to breathe. “hours and hours of labour and hard work non-stop, in fact.” you huffed out a soft laugh, “well, it’s me doing the hard work anyway, but you won’t get to rest at all. you sure you can handle that, baby? might as well keep you on my cock all night long if you’re up for it…” 

he nodded enthusiastically, treating this like a challenge as he always would. satoru was the best. the best omega in all of the clans: tight sopping hole, negligible gag reflex, and a fertile womb that was always, always ready for breeding. and if you wanted a child, he was going to be the best child-bearer in the world. 

“put a baby in me,” he told you, firmly. “and don’t you dare stop until you do.” 

and that was all you needed to snap. 

like a man possessed, you snarled a quick curse into his neck, nipping at the mating bite you had embedded there on the side with stark affection before getting to work. two sweaty palms found their way onto the thick of his hips, gripping and squeezing, roughly yanking him back to meet every violent nudge of your bulbous cockhead against his prostate gland, now throbbing sweetly and starting to swell. 

satoru sobbed out your name loudly in querulous, broken syllables, thrashing wildly under your grip, but you didn’t let go—never would, only held on as your omega clutched on to your shoulders equally as tight. you would fulfil your promise, make him yours in every sense of the word. you would impregnate him. 

“gonna make you a mommy,” you heaved out, pressing down onto his softened tummy. you wanted to make him feel you inside, thick and hefty and pulsing with life, and he wailed out, the pressure on his slightly distended stomach increasing tenfold with one single push of your hot palm. “gonna make you full and round n’ swollen with me. is that what you want, ‘toru? to get knocked up like a good cumslut?” 

“yes,” satoru snivelled, tears dotting on his lashes as he whined pitifully at you. “a-alpha. ‘m your good cumslut omega. please...” he didn’t know what he was pleading for, he didn’t care, as long as at the end of the day, he would be stuffed to the brim with cum and seed with your knot plugging him up, a baby slowly starting to grow inside his womb as he dozes off to sweet, sweet dreams. 

“shit,” you growled, stiff grip pressing bruises onto flawless skin while you plowed into his soppy cave, making him keen at the rough treatment. all of this was making you dizzy with desire. you couldn’t wait to see his pretty tummy grow round with the baby you put in him. “wanna knock you up so bad, baby,” you whined into his ear, “you have no idea. gonna make you mine, ruin you for anyone else…” 

satoru sobbed out a moan, the sheer intensity of your words making his hole drool with want and anticipation, gummy walls squeezing around you with an obscene squelch. all he could feel was himself getting wetter and wetter, wetter and wetter… drenching the mattress with how much slick he was producing, the viscous substance practically pouring out of his birthing cavern like a waterslide. 

he had never been so fucking aroused in his life. the idea of his body slowly growing plump and heavy with your child, all fat and waddling around in his pregnancy, hands poised underneath his huge stomach to support it… 

you probably wouldn’t let him walk around much after pumping a baby into him, would you? you would probably strap him to the bed, keeping him pregnant and barefoot on your cock for the rest of the days to come. the strongest sorcerer in the world, reduced to nothing but a cumdump and a child-bearer. 

fuck, he was going to cum so hard. 

“gonna cum soon, baby,” you panted. “gonna cum in your pretty womb and you’ll take it, ‘kay?” 

satoru shuddered, crying out as he felt you grow bigger, your knot thickening at the base, making his rim stretch impossibly wider. “p-please. want it inside,” he weeped, desperate tears dribbling down his rosy cheeks in salty globs, to which you lapped up eagerly. “want your baby so much…” 

you gripped onto his hips harder, pressing them securely into the cushiony mattress while you pounded into the cramped space in his sloppy hole, making him yell out a filthy scream of your name, jackknifing off the bed and cumming all over his filled tummy in several, messy spurts. 

“yeah. and ‘m gonna do exactly that, princess,” you panted, sloppily kissing his neck while continuing to plow at his taut, tumid hole, still greedily fluttering around you despite the mind-blowing orgasm, wanting to be bred. “gonna put a baby- in you. get this tummy nice n’ round for -me, yeah?” 

“please,” satoru sobbed brokenly. he swore he couldn’t take it anymore if you didn’t cum inside him in the next minute. he was going to lose his fucking mind. “get me pregnant already!” 

at his warbled consent, you couldn’t hold back a primal snarl of ‘omega’ into his ear before sending a harsh, well-aimed thrust against his tumefied sweet spot, the beefy tip crushing itself against the throbbing, overstimulated gland, causing a loud wail to ring from your pretty mate. with a loud, guttural grunt, you forced your knot deeper inside his puffy rim, seizing and trembling before filling him up with thick ropes of warm cum. 

satoru gawped at you with watery eyes, keening and trembling with exhaustion as your knot settled deep and safely into his womb, stuffing him full of baby batter. you really had went and knocked him up now… and from the way you kept on crooning, greedy hands kneading his now swollen stomach with a terrible insistence, you definitely weren’t planning on stopping after one. 

FUSHIGURO TOJI

“you wanna what,” toji snarled, breath coming out in soft, frisky puffs as you carefully folded the omega in his favourite position—the full nelson. “‘m not in the mood for your ngh, fuckin’ jokes.” 

“i’m not playing with you,” you grit out, panting harshly into the valley of his neck and shoulder, licking a hot stripe from his dewy scent gland to the sensitive back of his ear, earning you a shiver. you mustered a low grunt as your cock slotted into his tight hole with a sloppy shlick, his walls instinctively closing in on you, keeping you safely tucked inside. “i want another baby, toji. wanna, heh, get you pregnant.” 

“y’er actually serious.” toji gave a nonchalant wriggle, getting you to loosen your grip on him, before sharply rolling his hips down to fully settle onto your lap—the sticky back of his rear now flattened against your straining quads, groaning as your thick cock slid in deeper into his soaked cavern. “fuuck. that’s more like it. fuck the stomach—think i can feel your dumb cock all the way in my throat.” 

the both of you panted wordlessly as you let his puffy rim get used to the heavy stretch, pleasured hums slipping from him as you smothered his neck and shoulders with red and purple love bites, tenderly licking over the teethmarks you had put on the side of his neck the first time you had consummated. 

“y’said you want another baby? get me pregnant? that it, stupid alpha?” toji muttered, giving you an impassive side-glance, but you knew he was excited from the idea with how much slick was leaking, no, pouring out from around your shaft, drenching your cock with his arousal. “bet you just like, ah- the thought of seein’ me all round and useless. bein’ an absolute slut for your,” he bit back a whine as you thrusted up into his sopping hole, “c-cock. ah, your big, fuckin’ cock… good for nothin’ but gettin’ me pregnant. hah.” 

a lewd ‘pap’ sounded as you bottomed out again, the convex tip weeping in unison with his fluttering walls, prodding him in places that sent stars swarming in his eyes. he could feel himself clench with every movement, his stretched hole growing wet and sticky at each drag of your thick girth, hot and throbbing inside him. it didn’t help that you were groaning and grunting in his ear, hips trembling every time you bucked up into his swollen, dripping hole, feverish body bounding his in such a taut, intimate position that allowed minimal movement on his half—that had his inner omega keening. 

“he does more than that,” you muttered, rolling your hips up so you could rub your shaft directly against his sore stomach walls, “and you know it.” toji gave a dry sob, clinging on to his own thighs as the round bulge of your cock appeared on his abdomen, deep and sinfully thick. almost resembling a baby bump. you couldn’t help but croon at his reaction to your little trick, starting to thrust into his wet cave again. “h-he’s- definitely very good at getting you pregnant, though, heh…” 

toji could feel his instincts acting up again at the way you were talking to him—making him want to fold his arms, press his chest into the mattress with his back arched like a good omega and raise his ass to the skies just so you could plunder him and put a baby inside his needy womb. fuck. he needed to get pregnant. he needed your seed inside him, filling him up to the brim of leaking, your bulbous knot securing the entrance of his slutty little hole, preventing anything from dripping out… and making sure he’d conceive. 

“fuck me,” he growled, “as many times as it’ll take. fuck a baby into me. a-another one. i want a fucking litter, you hear me?” 

“so demanding,” you panted, despite feeling yourself grow dizzy at his obscene words. “i’ll give you as many as you can take—don’t wanna tire you out, baby. y’remember last time when you had the, ah- twins? doubt we can fit more than- hn, three, though, in that little hole of yours.” 

“it’s not little if even your stupidly big cock can fit inside,” he scoffed. “i said i want a litter. now shut up and fuck me ‘till you give me one.” 

biting back instinctual dislike of this being not the traditional mounting position to mate and breed—it was your omega’s favourite after all, so it’d do—you continued to plow at his soppy hole, each filthy push and pull with the only intent of fulfilling your role as his sire. pumping a baby, a pup, into his sweet womb, making his tummy grow big and round with the product of your hard work. it was amazing, really, how all of this could occur from one spurt of hot cum deep into your beautiful mate. 

you could feel toji’s body shuddering with pleasure, sharp claws sinking into your forearms and whichever part of you he could physically reach, small mewls punched out of him with every thrust. but that wouldn’t do. not while you were making love to him. you wanted to make him cry. make him scream, preferably, eyes crossing and back arching as he sobbed out his pleasure to the world. 

adjusting the angle of your hips, you tightened your grappling hold on him before grinding up, a smirk cutting across your face as you heard him choke on a moan, legs quivering where they hung on the crook of your elbows, evidently overstimulated. he wasn’t going anywhere, now. not until you bred him properly like he had asked. this was your duty as mate. 

“too much,” he gasped, “too fuckin’ much, slow down—” 

“keep up, baby. you asked for this,” you hummed, nipping at his shoulder as he squirmed on your cock, rim flittering tirelessly around the bulk of your cock. “just let me do my job, yeah?” 

“fuck—you.” 

“in case you didn’t notice, i’m currently trying very hard.” 

toji whimpered helplessly, tight walls squeezing the life out of your cock, as though he were trying to milk every last bit out of you. you could feel yourself dripping inside him with every heavy slosh—every push and pull of your shaft against his cramped hole, pre-cum mingling with his slick, creating one big, wet mess inside him that would soon grow into a tiny bundle of joy. 

“gonna look sooo fucking pretty with my baby in you, toji,” you cooed into his ear, rewarding you with a feeble shiver and an answering whine. you bucked your hips, pushing deeper and deeper before allowing your knot to slowly take form, stretching him across the entrance with the heavy, swollen end of it. “like always. or maybe it’s gonna be twins this time. triplets. fuck, baby. you’re gonna look so beautiful.” 

he sobbed out as thick, warm cum began to flood him, making him clamp around you intuitively to keep everything inside—the unexpected pleasure buzzing through you sharply and making you grunt and jerk, another hot spurt of cum into his pretty womb. 

“if we don’t get triplets, we’re trying again,” toji mumbled, gaze hazy, almost cumdrunk, stomach flexing in anticipation as you poured the last of your seed into him with a soft sigh of agreement. 

RYŌMEN SUKUNA

“put your fuckin’ spawn in me?” the curse scoffed, craning his neck to glare at you with his bottom left eye. “‘s about damn time you asked.” 

you had him on all fours (sixes), back arched and hips raised like a proper omega presenting in heat, panting and shivering as you bent over his body with your lumbering own. you could feel the drool building up in your mouth from the mere anticipation of impregnating your mate, filling him to the brim with your eggs and cum, breeding little beasts into his eager, fertile womb. 

you leaned down to nuzzle his neck in affirmation, clumsily canting your hips backwards before pushing them until they rested flush against his plush ass, choking a needy whine out of him. his walls squeezed around you in retaliation, still needing to adjust to the all-too-big intrusion despite having done this hundreds of times, the heaviness of your cock resting against inside him almost a familiar comfort. 

“this better- not be just your rut talking,” sukuna muttered, a low growl reverbrating at the back of his throat, quietening after you let out a soothing croon of your own, tenderly licking over his mating bite. “i’ll f-fucking flay you alive if it is.” 

“no,” you denied, but you think you’d let him do it anyway. you’d do anything for him. kill, slaughter, guard him with your life. you were his, heart, body and soul, and you’d slit your own throat if you left him wanting anything for a split second. 

still struggling to find a rhythm with how much he was writhing and snarling underneath you, his mind unused to such open submission, with him freely exposing his back and neck to you, your claws being able to reach his stomach within a blink of an eye; and yet his body was practically vibrating with how much it yearned for the pleasure that came with yielding to you, having your big, clawed hands branding his body, the weight of your touch anchoring him to the present. 

fuck. children, sukuna thought, a sob dragged out of his lips, wrecked, as the head of your cock rammed against his throbbing sweet spot. little yous, cute and fanged and savage, with your bruising grip on his hips and the feral snarl of his name into the sweaty scent gland of his neck, swollen cock working in and out of him with utmost devotion at one single directive that he had given you only moments ago—to get him pregnant. 

what would they be like? would they inherit your gentleness? or the side of your angry beast? he wanted them all. wanted all that you could give him. wanted you to fill him up, make his tummy grow and grow, stuffed with your spawn and seed until he was positive he couldn’t take any more. to the edge of spilling, breaking, bursting. 

sukuna let out a throaty groan at that, head thrown back as he gave a full-body shudder, his first orgasm burning through him as his cocks spurted onto the nest in enthusiasm. “fuck,” he panted, slumping down in exhaustion, a protesting whine tumbling out as you continued to move in and out of him despite the sensitive fluttering of his hole. “a-asshole, can’t you see—hnngh.” 

you palmed at the fat of his ass, crooning as you heard your mate whimper, head ducked down to hide in the nest, almost shy. “it is okay,” you rumbled, forked tongue laving over his scent gland in comfort, the fragrant, oily tang of his scent making you muster out a low keen. he was so sweet, so perfect, as always. he deserved everything and more. “i will… take care of you.” 

and you meant every word of it. until he was bathed in the making of your children, your spawn, you wouldn’t stop. 

“sukuna,” you growled, rocking down into his waiting hole with meaning, wanting him to feel every girthy inch of you, the drag, the glide. “sukuna. sukuna.” 

“yes, i fucking get it,” he bit back a snarl, turning his head to let you catch a glimpse of his teary eyes. “don’t stop. fuck. it feels so good. you feel so fucking good.” 

he whined louder as you picked up your pace, nails ripping up the nest into near shreds, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care with the noises he was making, making the heat inside you grow ever hotter, making your hips move of their own accord, bucking into the warm, cosy chamber of his womb of their own accord. 

you could hear with every gurgle inside his tummy, his slick intermixing with all the precome that was squirting out of your cock in frenzied arousal, making a comfy nest for your length to settle into for mere moments before sliding out again. soon, it would become home for your eggs, a soft cushion for them to rest upon until it was ready for them to hatch. all of them, inside him. you would have no one else bear them. 

“sukuna,” you repeated, one clawed hand going around his torso to palm at his stomach, not quite full yet, but nonetheless bulging with your girthiness. “here, sukuna. please, please.” you pushed and kneaded at the swell of his tummy, strugging to tuck your claws away in the dizziness of heat and want clouding your instincts, but keeping them a safe distance from him and the seedbed of your spawn. “want to put them in here. make you full of me. want it so much.” 

“yeah,” sukuna choked out, tears sliding down his cheeks from all four of his eyes, chest heaving with breath as you took and took from him, the curb of his hole puffy from all the stretching. he could feel you growing, still, your knot starting heavy and thick from the base, and he held back a keen of his own, wanting nothing but for you to plug him up and make him your personal breeding grounds. just you, him, and whatever you would give him tonight and in the coming weeks of your rut, whether it be a nestful of eggs, or stomachfuls of your cum. 

he would take it all, like a good omega. he would do it for you. only for you. 

“breed me,” sukuna whimpered, two hands reaching back to clutch at your shoulders, your neck—any part of you that he could reach. “t-tired of seein’ an empty nest. want eggs. was waitin’ for you to fucking ask. wanted them for ages. fuck them into me.” you could feel his thighs trembling with the strain of holding his hips up for you, strength long gone, and he would have collapsed if it weren’t for you dutifully grasping them, making sure they were pressed flush against yours. 

you hissed out, low, soothing croons spilling out one after one as you heard the first pained cry coming from your mate, the sweet shape of his womb distending to make space for the first egg. “it is okay,” you whispered again and again throughout, lapping messily at his neck and cheek, a primal resemblance of a kiss. “you are okay.” 

sukuna allowed two of his eyes to flutter shut (the other two on alert, now that he had something to protect), two hands joining yours, resting against his now bloated stomach. relishing in the vibrations of your purrs and trills, and responding with some of his own. he could feel the shape of the egg inside him, scaled and ovoid and perfect. 

if this was the aftermath of pregnancy, if this was the outcome of hours and hours of lovemaking and feral snarls of pleasure into the crook of his neck, then sukuna would sacrifice anything, anything to feel this way again. this love, this tenderness, shaped by two hands cradling his soon-to-be newborn, the heartbeat of another pressed against his throbbing own. 

GETO SUGURU

suguru couldn’t believe it. you were breeding him in the fucking kitchen, of all places. 

“too much,” suguru sobbed, hot tears clinging to his lashes as he glanced back at you, bent over the kitchen counter. he could hear every slosh and squelch inside his sore cunt, as though your cock were trying to whip all the baby batter stuffed inside him into shape. “puh-please. i can’t, daddy. ‘s too much.” 

“nuh-uh, suguru. you can take it,” you gently reprimanded, one hand settling on his ass, squeezing the flesh lightly, making him jostle and whine. “you said you wanted a baby, right? daddy’s gonna give you a baby. now, we don’t tolerate going back on our word, do we, sweetheart?” 

“no,” the omega keened, hips trembling lightly as you impaled him again and again, thick girth making his folds part and lips stretch just to accommodate you. you could feel him shivering against you, evidently overstimulated, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop, with the piece of heaven that you were currently inside. tight, warm and extremely wet, a perfect, snug fit for your cock. you couldn’t wait to spill inside hm again, another load of cum inside his soaked womb, another chance of him getting pregnant. “but it’s too good, daddy, please…” 

“do you wanna stop, suguru? does it hurt?” you paused, eyebrows fixing together in concern. a whine of protest tore from his throat almost immediately, hips squirming as he tried to fuck himself back onto your cock. he shook his head rapidly, mouthing ‘please, no’ while blinking up at you tearily. “okay, okay…” 

he let out a sob of relief as you started moving again, despite how he could feel his toes clenching and hips shuddering with every overstimulating thrust, his core aching and swollen. he was practically relying on your firm grasp on his waist and the leverage he had on the counter to stay standing, the strength having long left his legs. but suguru had to endure. it was for the baby, of course. it would all be worth it in the end. 

“good boy, suguru. just one more, and then we’ll take a break, okay?” you murmured soothingly, your hot palm a comfort on the small of his back, steadying him and making sure he won’t fall, grounding him to the present of your lovemaking. “daddy’s gonna take good care of you, just like always.” you rolled your hips in slow circles, making sure not to go too fast, watching his slick cling onto your girth in a wet, shiny sheen of sticky cream. you groaned your pleasure as you bottomed out, feeling him clench around you in rapid flutters, small whines slipping out from your lover in tumbles. 

“okay,” he mumbled. “put a baby in me, daddy.” 

that sent a pleasure-addled shiver down your spine and right down your cock, pre squirting out from the head, making him croon happily as more of your warmth settled inside his womb. “little brat,” you scolded, a playful lilt to your tone, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck, to which he shivered at. you couldn’t wait to get your hands on his swollen tummy once you were done with him. it was going to be round and full and perfect, pulsing with the perfect concoction of you and him. 

“faster,” suguru whined, “harder. want it s-so much, daddy. give me a baby.” 

you grunted in response, grip sliding onto his hips as you tugged him back onto your cock, the wet ‘pap’ of skin against skin ringing in the air, driving your length deeper into his welcoming hole with more force than before. he cried out as you sunk further into his sloppy pussy with another stroke of your shaft against his twitching, oversensitive walls, pulsating around you in rhythm. 

suguru’s fingers clawed down the marble, soft whines and uneven breaths punched out of swollen lips as he struggled to hold himself up with your harsh, increasing thrusts, refusing to slump downright onto the table even as you pounded into him like you were pestle, and he was mortar. 

“always biting off more than you can chew,” you huffed, palms smoothing over the thick of his hips and down to his round, plush ass, before giving it a little slap for good measure—and he whined out sharply, shuddering with arousal from the streak of pain. “you never learn, do you, baby?” 

“‘s a lot,” suguru bit down on his lip, holding in the sob building at the back of his throat. the pleasure was simply too good, every strike of your bulbous head against his throbbing sweet spot setting his nerve ends on fire and flames, lust clouding his vision with how your hands were branding him as your own—your hips never once pausing in their mission to impregnate him even as he whined and sobbed and begged. 

“but it’s okay. y’can do a-anything you want to me,” he mumbled, pausing to rub at his glossy eyes before peering at you from over his shoulder. “‘s long as you make me pregnant, ‘kay?” 

it was at that moment that you realised, suguru with baby fever was a very dangerous thing. with a low, almost primal snarl into the bruised skin of his neck, you pulled out swiftly and flipped your omega around, sitting him on the counter just as he glanced down at you with wide, stunned eyes, a petulant whine on the edge of being uttered before you silenced him with a kiss. 

“daddy,” suguru whined against your lips, clumsily grabbing at your shoulders, even as you mouthed messily at him, the kiss more tongue and spit than anything, feral and a little violent with his claws now gaining purchase in raking down your back. “‘nough kissing. put it back in. want your cock in me.”  

lips parting with a wet smack, you guided your cock to rut against his sopping folds, making sure he could feel it, all of it—the hot, filthy drag of your girth against his needy cunt, stroking and teasing but never entering. he gawked up at you in betrayal, whining needily and nudging his hips forward, trying to entice you to fuck him, a frown pulling at the corners of his lips when it didn’t work. 

it hit him, then, just what you were waiting for. 

“‘m sorry, i forgot—” he rushed over his words, arms slung onto your shoulders in a half-cage, leaning forward to kiss your cheek sweetly. “please, daddy.” 

“good,” you hummed. maybe you spoiled him a little too much, but now he sat, shivering and obedient, your cock spearing his cunt in one strong thrust. in this new position you were able to reach way deeper, the tapered tip delicately kissing the opening of his cervix, making your mate sob and croon with the fullness of it all. 

“now hold on tight for me, okay?” you whispered into the sweaty curve of his neck, to which he nodded pliantly to with a pout, “‘cause daddy’s not gonna stop until he puts a baby in your tummy.” 

masterlist!

[kinnotakara]

18+ SUB LOGAN H. | SEXUAL FANTASY

He’s guilty as charged. LOGAN has matured—with the heat of war still lingering on his conditioned knuckles and tattered mind—he promises on his afflicted soul.

But you make him feel. . .emotions Jean never did. You make him shy away from the foreign pinch of hope that finally, he’ll be receiving some sort of attention. You make him feel an underlying urge to beg you to take him. You make the crotch of his pants ti—

OR OLD LOGAN HOWLETT jerking off to the thought of you.

He’s uncertain when or why the attraction began. All he knows is that he wants you like a man eternally deprived of release.

The bed creaks in protest beneath the heavy weight of his body. LOGAN is stripped of his pants, exposing his damp boxers to the cool air. He swallows hard, leaning his head back atop the pillows and letting his palm wander between his thighs. His eyes shut, his brain conjuring the image of—fuck, he barely even knows you.

He breathes out, ignoring his demanding core in favor of calming his irritated nerves down. In spite of his adamancy, his thoughts hone in the image of you on your knees, kissing his inner thighs.

“Don’t tease.” He’d whine, both of his hands quivering in effort of resisting the knocking of his claws against his skin; proving themselves tempted to come out.

You let out an amused huff, nipping the skin of the dip between his thigh and groin. “‘M not.” You mumble, precisely placing an open-mouthed kiss to a clothed vein that you were ‘unaware’ of.

Oh. LOGAN slips his hand under his underwear, mimicking how he thinks you’d do it. He doesn’t free his cock, only wrapping his hand around the shaft and stroking up to the tip. His thumb presses down, rubbing in circles until pre-cum leaks from the slit. He gasps when he adds more pressure, bucking his hips.

You’re so much younger and he doesn’t know if you’re a mutant or not, and in that case; against his kind, but he’s too needy to care.

Deciding to make it up to him, your mouth kisses up his length and takes in the head of his cock through the pretty fabric. “Fu—mngg, yeah, fuck, please.” He groans out, spreading his legs wider for you. He rolls his hips towards you, trying to hold back a whimper when you run the flat of your tongue against him.

He needs to feel the real thing. Reluctantly, he opens his eyes, adjusting to the dimmed light of the room. His hand is so, so fucking slowly working his twitching dick. How would’ve you done it? Would you have not paid it any attention at all?

LOGAN likes that thought. He lets out a quiet whine from the back of his throat, shutting his eyes again.

[kinnotakara]

thinking about guys and monsters with dicks too big for their own good

guys like: Soap, Ghost, Enji, All Might, Steve Rogers, Thor, Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Lucas Lee, Whoever You Want

* i dont really write for COD but the guys in there are HOT

top!masc reader

cw: size difference (smaller reader), smut

a monster with a huge dick made specifically for breeding finding himself laying against the cold stone floor of his cave with his cock slapping against his tummy while you, so much smaller than him, fuck him like he was born to be fucked.

or a strong, athletic guy with a six pack and a long list of suitors who wanna be dicked down by him. he doesn't understand how he ended up this way, how the mouth he used only to speak and bark orders in the bedroom ended up being used to suck your cock. How he ended up as a cocksleeve to the puny little assistant he used to tease all the time. How his long, thick, and veiny cock ended up becoming completely useless. How he ended up whimpering and moaning when you would tease him about it. About how cutely it's flopping around as you fuck him. Or how cute it is to see him humping a pillow with such a huge cock.

no one expected a man who towers over everyone and could easily split a person in half if he wanted to be a submissive little cockslut. It was shocking to see the stark difference in his appearance and personality once the alcohol hit. you never even considered him to be your partner, you thought he preferred to give. but what he really wants is to be used. no one would've ever imagined that he'd be so good at sucking dick. or how amazing he looks when he's in subspace

a monster who's very experienced when it comes to sex but extremely inexperienced when it comes to bottoming. a monster who laughs in your face for even suggesting that you top him. a monster who agrees to let you try, thinking you'd be far too small to make him feel good. a monster who merely chuckles confidently when you tell him it's the 'motion in the ocean' that matters. a monster who eats his words and gets his grin wiped off his face once you start eating him out. a monster who comes just from your tongue in his ass. a monster who begs for you to keep going. a monster who shakes the entire ground and scares off anyone nearby with his moans of pleasure. a monster who wishes his cock wasn't so big so he could see you better. a monster who creates a puddle of his own come thanks to a tiny human

[kinnotakara]

a warm safe place

pairing: adrian chase x reader (gn pronouns)

rating: gen+

word count: 1,626

one-sentence synopsis: when you wake up in the some of the worst pain you've ever felt, your only comfort is knowing that adrian is there with you.

author's note: wheeeeeeeeeew i just finished editing my fic for the first peacemakernet event that i'm gonna be uploading this friday and i needed to write just something a little short and sweet and COMFORTING!!!!!! i needed COMFORT!!!!!!! it's been a HELL OF A WEEK!!!!!!!

>>> read on ao3!! <<<

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this badly in your life.

Every movement is a complete torment. Exhaustion is tugging at you, body and mind and soul. It feels like each of your limbs is weighed down, like your head is impossibly heavy, like there’s lead in your chest that’s pushing your core down no matter how hard you try to fight it, and it’s— Honestly, it’s pretty much impossible to fight it.

Your head— Your fucking head. Your head is throbbing. There’s this incessant, muscle-deep ache, something that has your entire brain feeling like a soup, sloshing around, hot and sharp and painful, inside your skull. All over, there’s this sticky heat, this impossible, oppressive clamminess that has you feeling hot-and-cold in shifts, sometimes overlapping to make you uncomfortable in the most prickling of ways.

You attempt to move, trying to coordinate your muscles into pushing you upwards, but it’s not a major success. You mostly just managed to shift your head, then groan when pain rockets through your entire body.

“Hey, hey, stop that,” a soft, familiar voice tells you.

Trying to open your eyes, you’re met with a harsh brightness that has you slamming them shut again instantly. It’s like needles are stabbing into your eyeballs, into your face, into your teeth, your entire head exploding. Deeper inside, your stomach lurches, churning unpleasantly, and you fight to take a breath through tight lungs.

“You’re okay,” the voice says. You place it, finally, through the haze of pain and confusion and sickness: Adrian. It’s Adrian, Adrian’s here with you, and if he’s here, then you’re— Well, if not okay, then going to be okay.

Based on the way Adrian has responded in the past to you being sick, or hurt, or getting so much as shoved on a mission, you’re sure he wouldn’t be sitting so calmly by your side, speaking to you in a gentle voice, if there were any real chance of you dying or exploding or leaking out of your own eyeballs right now.

That doesn’t stop you from feeling like you’re going to die, or explode, or leak out of your own eyeballs, but. Baby steps.

“What happened?” you try to ask, but the words come out garbled, thick. Your throat and mouth are dry and strange; you can’t get your chest to work properly with your tongue to get everything in order correctly.

Despite your deep incoherence, Adrian still seems to understand your question. You squint your eyes at him, trying to see the blurry shape of him through the painful light when he says, “You— f— You got hurt, you fucking— Idiot. Why would you do that?”

His words have a pang rattling through the center of your chest. You’re fond, and irritated, and confused, all at once.

You’re about to ask— or, try to, anyway— what he’s talking about, what ‘that’ is that you did, but your memories come flashing back to you, then. A difficult mission, and Adrian being captured, and a tense hostage situation, and you trading yourself for him, and trying to fight your way out of that strange prison back to him, and meeting him on your escape, and collapsing into his arms when your legs just wouldn’t work anymore, and— and your mind going completely blank when you reach for what happens next. What happened next.

“You can’t do that,” Adrian continues in a rough whisper. His hands touch the sides of your face, then. You exhale, the easiest breath that’s come since waking up. “You can’t— You can’t trade yourself for me. That’s not— You can’t— You—”

Words usually seem to come so easily to him, but they’re not really working right, not right now. Instead, he just folds into you, pushing his face into yours. You can feel his cheek dragging along yours when he twists to kiss the space just before your ear. His arms wind around you; you’re not even sure where you are, unable to open your eyes enough to see, but you know you’re with him, held against his chest. That’s the safest place you can be, you know.

“I love you,” Adrian says near your ear, now. He exhales shakily, something that sounds like it rattles out of him, trembling from his chest up and out through his tight throat. “I love you too much for— You can’t.”

Your heart is in your throat. You take a breath before forcing your eyes open, centimeter by centimeter. Your eyes adjust, bit by bit; it’s not easy, and it hurts, but you slowly become able to actually look at him, and he’s—

He’s a mess. He looks exhausted, his handsome face drawn, skin pale, bruises under his eyes. There’s a healing cut along his jaw, taped together with little butterfly stitches. This close up, your face held between his hands, his eyes so near to yours, the light is mostly blocked, and all you see is him, is the pained expanse of him. He looks agonized, and hurt, and just— worn.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, unable to get your voice loud, or really even all that coherent. “I had to. ‘S’you.”

Adrian huffs a wet laugh before he drops in to kiss you softly, a chaste, firm, terrified press of his mouth to yours. After a beat, his lips part, and he sighs, jagged and shaky and tearful.

When he draws up, separating the two of you again, he sweeps his thumbs under your eyes, down your cheeks. He can’t seem to release you, wanting to just keep you close. When you inhale next, the breath catches, and you accidentally cough, and it sends your whole body coughing.

All the pain surges back, the distraction gone, and you let your eyes slam shut again. You can’t fight the groan that tears up out of you when you finally manage to catch your breath again, chest heaving, every inch of your body throbbing inside you.

Adrian catches you against his chest, kissing the top of your head. Holding you close, sounding like every pained noise you make is hurting him ten times as much, he keeps whispering, “You’re okay, I’ve got you, it’s alright,” until you can breathe again. When you are breathing, he roughly kisses the side of your head. “I’ve got you.”

“What happened?” you ask again, still rasping, still incoherent.

He still understands. “You had an infection already when I found you. They said you would’ve—” He starts, then stops. You can feel the movement of him swallowing thickly. “We’re mostly treating that, now. You’re so— You’ve been really sick.” He strokes your hair back, voice unexpectedly breaking again when he tells you, “You shouldn’t have done that. It should’ve been me—”

“I couldn’t let them take you,” you tell him, unsure if he’ll even know what you’re saying, but he does. You can tell he does by the way he draws you in again, a hard kiss placed beneath your eye.

“Better me than you,” he says. “I don’t think I can take it again, I really can’t.”

You want to argue with him, to tell him that no matter how many times you’re shot, or your bones are broken, or you’re captured, or you end up with some fevered, painful infection— no matter how many times you’re hurt, you will always protect him. Always. You could be taking your literal last dying breath, and you’d still put yourself in front of another bullet for him. Always, always, always— it doesn’t matter how hurt you are. You can’t see him hurt, you can’t.

You think he might be feeling the same way right now, though, based on how close he draws you, how tightly he embraces you. He’s given up on kissing you; he wants to be closer, needs to be closer, needs to feel you, breathing and alive and whole, in his arms.

“I love you,” he whispers to you. “So fucking much. Don’t do that.”

You huff a bit, tipping to try and get your arms around him, in turn. It’s a struggle, with your limbs as lead-heavy as they are, but it’s necessary, and worth it, when you actually manage to achieve a hold.

The two of you fold into each other, holding each other tightly. Adrian starts stroking your hair back, slowly, before he just grips you again, his arms tight around you, legs locking into yours, as if he’s trying to climb under your skin. You bury your face into his throat, burrowing into him in return.

“I love you,” you tell him in return. It’s the most coherent thing you’ve said since waking up. “So. ‘M’gonna have to do it again.”

He huffs, half a laugh and not unlike a broken little sob, pressed into your skin, tightening his hold, determined to make you better by sheer force of will. It’s the position he’ll most frequently take up for the next couple of weeks while you recover, while he refuses to leave your side, while he keeps you in the apartment you share together and he dedicates himself to bringing you back up to health.

There’s always something that makes you feel so deeply for him, in the way that he’s desperate to make you better, in how he puts all of that incredible, mad attention on you, in every day that he spends determined to keep you breathing, present, and alive. You love him so, so much, and you can’t doubt how much he loves you, too, when it’s so obvious in every single action he takes with you.

You know— you know, now, better than ever, that— that as much as you wanted to save him, he wants to save you, too, in every possible way.

-

adrian chase taglist pt. 1:

@deputyrook @bb-skyrunner @himboelover @pieriinova @gcldtom @violetrainbow412-blog @amysuemc @saturnngal @neptuneswritingwork @jewishdelis @myguiltypleasures21 @pinkygunslingy @chaseadrian @breathing-in-waves @rishlurh @goblynnrockz @theowritesstuff @themartiansdaughter @dallasvakarian @missscarlettangel @samantha24015 @hillaryroadheadcllinton @ohmybubbletea @buckys-estrella @witchywcmans @ladyrebel25 @eviejune @vigilantesluvr @qjuiq-odakyu @xothatnerdykid @awkwardfangirl2014 @thevalkyrior @mattsmanpain @sunflowerfive @deirdre-belle @anthonyedwinstark @sexysquatch @jelliebeanss @zofps

[kinnotakara]

CUNNILINGUS — ft. ftm!character. dom!reader.

imagine taking your sweet, sweet time savouring him. 

pressing your lips to toughened, scarred skin, puckering them lightly to let out soft muahs, letting him know just how much you appreciate him. making him squirm, face and chest glowing, so embarrassed by how delicate you’re treating him but at the same time not being able to look away. 

your gaze isn’t hungry, no. it’s a different sort of heavy intensity that’s residing within, speaking to him, drumming on his heart, making the space inside his ribs feel small and cramped. it’s almost like you’re in love with him, but this is just one of the many things that he wants… so much, too much, but knows no god out there would grant the wish of a devil. 

there’s no rush at all when you kiss your way down his stomach and navel until you’re snug between his thighs, pressing your cheek against one of them. he doesn’t ask what you’re looking at, knows exactly how much he’s leaking for you, and he clenches his hole to make it drool a little more. 

you smile when a hand cards through your hair, not a demand but something more tender. telling you he’s okay, you may begin when you are. 

he’s throbbing with need by the time you’re pressing open mouthed kisses on his clit, shivers of pleasure making him let out soft gasps into the open air. his hand never leaves your hair, and he’s trying his best not to tug at the strands, giving you all the freedom you deserve. he doesn’t ask for more—you already know. just lays back, and lets you make him feel good. 

we have all the time in the world, he thinks. lies to himself, because it helps soothe the ache. lets him forget a little while, the splinter in his chest. 

the first broad stroke of your tongue against him brings him back to reality. he lets go to fist his hands into the sheets, trying his best not to buck up to you. you’ve gone through this with him many times before, but he’s still afraid he’ll lose control and somehow hurt you in vulnerable moments like these. you loathe it, how he thinks of pleasure like a sin. 

“don’t hold back,” you murmur into his folds, and he lets out a shaky exhale at the sweet buzz that probes his walls. nods—yes, he will listen, even if he thinks he doesn’t deserve it. it’s you who deserves to be heard. you breathe in his earthy scent, a hand finding his clenched fist, lacing your fingers with his and squeezing; even as you begin to lick into him again, lapping up his slick and stretching him out. 

this time, and the next few times, he doesn’t stop himself. he parts his lips to let out a low moan as you pull back to suck wetly at his clit, and cringes at the noise. it ends shortly when you echo him with a loud, throaty groan into his pussy, as though his pleasure was your own. at this, he trembles with a gasp of your name, eyes widening because you were unpredictable like that. you only encourage him, free hand holding him still as you eat him out slow and meaningfully, eyes never leaving him to make sure he’s enjoying every second of it. 

after that, all hell lets loose, and he feels as though moan after moan is pulled out from bone and marrow, from the depths of his soul, the dirty places that he has tried to hide from you. it is the first time that he has realised that maybe he is allowed to feel this way. maybe he is allowed to want, and have, and not be satisfied with just ‘enough’.

“please,” he cries out, as you slurp him, feast him. he holds your hand tight as the first wave of his orgasm burns through him, the quivering flame inside roaring to life—and bursting into wildfire. 

he curses, writhes, fighting to jerk out from your grip, no longer trying to act tame and reverent. you continue to pleasure him even as buries a hand in your hair, trying to wrench you away, sobbing out pleas for mercy and for more. 

if this is what it takes to make him lose control, then you will do it. over and over again, until he breaks out of that hollow shell, the one that cages him in with his quiet self-destruction, away from release and pleasure. until he learns that being with you is supposed to feel good.  masterlist!

[kinnotakara]

Hii!! Love you fics about Adrian so much!! <33

Can I request one for him a very angsty tragic fic where in the finale of Peacemaker; the reader, Adrian’s lover, died due to gun shots and stab wounds from the butterfly attack tho they tried to get to the hospital, the reader couldn’t hold on anymore.. so sad i’m sorry i’m sucker for angst fics thank youu ;,))

the only thing left

pairing: adrian chase x reader (gn pronouns)

rating: m+ (for reader death)

word count: 1,356

one-sentence synopsis: adrian thinks it's all over; he doesn't know how right he is.

author's note: WHEW i love LOVE some heavy angst and THIS MADE ME SAD!!!! that being said: dead dove do not eat, take care of yourselves, don't read this if it'll upset you!!

read on ao3!

Leota shakes Adrian into consciousness and helps him to his feet, and the first person he sees laying on the ground is Emilia, a shock of blood and golden hair lying prone amongst a sea of bodies.

Chris is bowing over her, moving to lift her up into his arms. As Adrian watches, he sees her head move a bit, pushing her face closer into his chest. Her limbs are dangling, limp, but she’s clearly alive, and even slightly conscious.

“She’ll be okay,” Leota tells him. Adrian nods, letting her sling his arm around her shoulder, supporting most of his weight.

Adrian’s brain is still a little fuzzy, trying to process the pain of his extensive injuries. The agony of his gunshot wound is the worst of it, but he’s trying to think through it, focusing on what’s going on around him. It looks like the fight is finally over, bodies dropped all over the place, and Leota helps Adrian pick through the corpses to get to the rest of the team.

Finally, Adrian’s foggy brain starts functioning, kicking into motion, and he says, “(Y/N), where— Where are they?”

Leota realizes you’re not there, too, and she whirls. She can’t find you on the ground, and panic starts to bloom on her face. Seeing it sends Adrian into a shock of panic, too, as he realizes you’re unaccounted for.

Adrian’s rocketing off in a second, heedless of his injuries as he leaves Leota behind to start scouring the ground, calling your name. Every time he says it and you don’t respond, his voice gets higher, frantic, more panicked. He’s stopping at every body, shoving them over, examining faces, desperate to find you. He knows he’s going to find you and that you’ll be okay; there’s no other option. He can’t fathom the opposite.

“What’s going on?” Chris calls from a distance.

“We can’t find (Y/N)!” Leota shouts back. Adrian doesn’t even hear them; he’s still moving, flipping people over, moving faster and faster, practically screaming your name by now.

John comes limping back over, starting to help search. Chris does the same, though he doesn’t release Emilia to do it; he just starts weeding through people, kicking them over with boots to their shoulders, checking for them.

It’s not Adrian who finds you. It’s Leota, and she screams before she can think better of her response. Later on, when she reflects on it, she wishes she’d been calmer; she wishes she could have stopped Adrian from coming over immediately, from seeing what he saw, but it all happened too fast.

Leota may have found you, but she didn’t find you in time. When Adrian hears her scream, his blood runs cold; he swears, he didn’t think he could even feel fear, let alone a fear as deep as that. It was like he immediately knew what had happened, but his mind wouldn’t process it. He was already moving, running towards her voice. He can’t feel the pain in his body, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

For his part, John gets there before Adrian and does try to stop him, but he’s not strong enough to. Nobody would have been, not even Chris; Adrian immediately pushes around him, shoves past him to get to you.

He finds you lying on your back, Leota gently trying to lay you down after finding you face-down. He rushes forward, and she falls back, letting him take you from her.

“Hey,” he says, slapping your cheek with his gloved hand. You don’t respond, and he skims his eyes down, heart going so fast it doesn’t feel like it’s moving at all. Your eyes are open, unmoving, staring at nothing. Your uniform may be all black, but he can see and feel where it’s heavy with blood, the fabric soaked from injuries you couldn’t survive.

Adrian tears his glove off with his teeth, slaps your cheek with his bare hand this time.

“Hey!” he shouts, then shakes you. “Fucking— Wake— Wake up, it’s done. We did it, man, it’s over, you don’t—” He laughs humorlessly, a crazed sound that sounds more like a choking, dying noise than an actual laugh. “Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Oh, my fucking—”

“Adrian,” Leota says softly. She lays her hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t even feel it. It feels like he’s not on the ground anymore; he can’t sense anything around him, falling apart in his own mind. He can’t even process this. It feels like a nightmare, one that he’s going to wake up from any second, because this can’t be happening. There’s no way he’s alive in a world where you’re not. It doesn’t make any fucking sense.

“No,” Adrian groans, the sound tearing up out of him as more of a noise than a real word. He feels sick, like he’s going to pass out, like his head and his chest are going to explode. He can’t quantify the feeling; it’s like he’s dying himself. “Oh, God, no.”

He drags his bare fingers to your throat, desperate in his search for a pulse, but he doesn’t find anything but blood-slick skin that’s growing colder with each passing second. He grips your face between his hands, shakes you, but nothing happens. You don’t move, you don’t wake up. It’s not even like you’re sleeping. He can’t stop looking at you, into your open eyes, trying to figure out why the fuck you aren’t looking back, or smiling, or saying his name like he always does when he looks into your eyes.

He realizes he’s never going to have that again, and then he’s sobbing, screaming cries that tear up out of him, more an atavistic grief than anything consciously chosen. He can’t breathe, dragging his forehead to yours, holding you as close as he can, like he’s trying to pull you into him. The sounds are inhuman, and yet so, so human; he can’t process his loss at the same time that he can’t help but feel it, more intensely than he’s ever felt anything before.

“Please,” Adrian hears himself saying, begging you, “Please, don’t, please, I can’t— I don’t— I love you, please, you can’t do this, you can’t do this, you can’t—”

“Adrian,” Chris says, his voice soft. “Hey, we—”

“No, I— No,” Adrian cuts him off. He can’t stand to hear anything else, not right now. Listening to him speak, letting him force Adrian to move, to take you away from here— it’s just going to make all of this real, and it can’t be real. It can’t be. This has to be a nightmare.

Leota’s arms both come around him, then. She holds him, heedless of his blood and their injuries and how awkward this would be if it happened under any other circumstances right now. He can’t help it; he clings to her, and you, and lets her try to hold him together as he falls apart.

It’s useless. She can’t do it; nobody can. Chris ends up having to bring Emilia to the car before coming back to help Leota and John separate Adrian from you so they can bring you both to the car, too. Adrian demands you go to the hospital, too, even though there’s no point anymore.

In the car, he keeps your head in his lap, his own head bowed close over yours. He speaks to you the entire time, his voice low and never once stopping, though nobody else can hear what he says, and nobody else ever asks.

After a while, his quiet murmuring grows hysterical, and then he’s freaking out again, losing his mind until Chris has to climb back with him and try to get through to him. There’s no point to it; in his mind, Adrian is already thinking ahead. He’s imagining everything he’s going to do, to everyone, anyone who was involved in your death. If it took the rest of his life— If it claimed his own— he would do it.

He felt the last tether holding him to humanity finally snap when you died, and he didn’t think he’d ever get that back.

-

adrian chase taglist:

@violetrainbow412-blog @bigassbisaster @amysuemc @sunflowerfive @papitas-con-sal @saturnngal @neptuneswritingwork @jewishdelis @myguiltypleasures21 @pinkygunslingy @violinchick @r3tr0sp3ct @chaseadrian @breathing-in-waves @rishlurh @x-milf-hunter-x @goblynnrockz @theowritesstuff @jaysfav @themartiansdaughter @dallasvakarian @missscarlettangel @pieriinova @ohmybubbletea @samantha24015

[kinnotakara]

Okay, but Adrian going b a l l i s t i c when he comes home after work or a mission, and you aren’t there?? So he texts you—calls your phone—but you don’t reply and your phone rings until it ends with your voicemail message—Every. Single. Time. He. Tries. To. Call. You?? I can’t tell if I want it to be a harmless mistake, like maybe your phone ran out of battery while running some errands, or if I want it to be angsty with you having been kidnapped… dealer’s choice (if you’re down to write if, of course—totes up to you, babes).

answer the call

pairing: adrian chase x reader (gn pronouns)

rating: t

word count: 1,849

one-sentence synopsis: when adrian gets home and you aren't there, he can't assume the worst, because if the worst has happened, then he thinks he might lose his fucking mind.

author's note: i wrote this on my phone real quick after watching the suicide squad tonight because my heart was full and i had to write something!!! even if it's short!!!!!! i hope you enjoy this!!!!!!!!

read on ao3!

 Adrian throws open the front door, calls, "Honey, I'm home," hooks his keys on the wall rack, and turns to greet—

—Nobody.

The apartment is dark. You're always home before him; you always leave the front hall light on for him, even if you step out for a minute. And he's sure he saw your car outside, so you should be here.

He thinks, Maybe they had a bad day. Maybe they already went to bed or something. It would be out of the ordinary, but his first thought isn't that something bad has happened to you. He spends way too much time trying to stop bad things from happening in your general vicinity to spend any excess time focused on the issue.

It's not until he kicks the front door shut and starts to walk further into the apartment that it truly starts dawning on him that something is wrong.

There are no lights on anywhere, nor are any doors closed. The place looks almost exactly like you'd both left it this morning.

Adrian flips on the light in the kitchen, starts to say, "Hello—" but then he notices something. Your bag is on the kitchen counter, like you'd put it down once you got home and then went to get something to eat, maybe.

He tracks closer to the bag, and it's there he sees it: there's a few drops of blood on the floor.

His heart is immediately in his throat. His phone is in his hand before he can even think, hitting your number in his speed dial. The phone rings, and rings, and rings, and then goes to voicemail.

When he hears your voice, his fingers clench around his phone, knuckles going white. He says, "Call me as soon as you get this. I love you," before hanging up and immediately calling again, but the same thing happens. In a panic, he digs through your bag, but there's nothing useful here. Your phone, your wallet, your keys: all of them are gone. It's just odds and ends left behind.

Adrian puts his phone on speaker and keeps calling you, even though it keeps going through to your voicemail. Every time he calls and you don't pick up, he gets a little more terrified, a little more sure something horrible has happened. He puts the phone on his side table in your bedroom and keeps calling, and calling, and calling, even as he rushes through yanking on his Vigilante uniform and getting his gear together.

He's called you over a hundred times by the time he's dressed and ready. The next number he dials isn't yours again, but Peacemaker's.

"Dude, it's midnight," Chris complains. Adrian's just grateful he picked up the phone, because he doesn't always. "What i—"

"(Y/N) is missing," Adrian says, shoving knives into each of the pouches and holsters and sheaths on his utility belt. "I came home and they're just— They're not here, they're missing, there's blood in the kitchen and they're not answering their phone and their car is here—"

"Whoa, okay, wait, holy shit, slow down," Chris says. "When did you last see them?"

"This morning," Adrian answers.

This morning, when you'd made him breakfast and he'd eaten in a hurry before kissing you goodbye and running out the door. He'd wanted to stop by Chris' place before work, and he'd been a little late for when he said he'd be there.

Now, his throat burns, and he thinks, I should've stayed home, I should've skipped everything today, I should've known— even though there was no way to know. He can't stop blaming himself.

"Fuck," Chris agrees. "Okay, shit. Fuck. I'll call Harcourt, we'll be right there."

Adrian can hardly stand just waiting around in the apartment for them to show up. He forces himself to be as productive as he can be, searching the entire place, turning it inside-out trying to find clues as to who might have taken you and why. By the time Chris shows up— not only with Emilia, but with John and Leota in tow, as well— Adrian is beside himself, the entire apartment has been torn apart, and he's no closer to figuring out who has you or why.

When they first come inside, it just looks like a mess. It's a shitshow. It looks like a hurricane hit the inside of the apartment, and Adrian's standing in the middle of it, in full Vigilante armor, nearly apoplectic by this point.

It's Leota who goes to Adrian first. She gets it; she gets why he's losing his mind like this. She knows how she'd feel if it was her wife.

"We're going to find them," she promises him. When he shakes his head, she insists, "We will. I promise you that. We're not going to stop until we do."

Adrian can only nod weakly, accepting the brief embrace Leota tugs him into before Chris and Emilia insist on being walked through what happened.

-

It takes a couple of days to find you.

With every hour that passes without you, Adrian loses more and more of his mind. By the time they have any sort of lead, he's gone completely ballistic. He barely sleeps, barely eats, except when prompted to do so by somebody else. He spends most of his time talking to nobody— or to whoever is there, or to himself, or to you, as if you're there.

When they find you— captured, kidnapped, taken by some fringe organization because of your involvement with the 11th Street Kids— it's John who figures it out first. He goes to Adrian, shows him the feed he's been able to hack into that shows you, chained to a chair in the center of a harsh, white room. You've got blood spattered across your face; you look barely conscious, head lolling forward. Adrian's so enraged he nearly blacks out.

He demands he go to you right away. He can't take another second without you, can't spend another goddamn fucking minute knowing you're not with him— knowing that you're being hurt. Knowing that you're being hurt because of him. It's almost more than he can take.

The other 11th Street Kids agree that there's no point in wasting time, and they all pack up to head out immediately. Adrian might not have taken care of himself these last few days, but the other members of the team haven't been doing so hot, either. You mean a lot to them; they've been working tirelessly to try and get you back.

And God fucking help anyone who stands in Adrian's path. He feels incoherent, a machine made for killing. Usually, he's able to summon a lot of good humor and enjoyment out of annihilating an entire facility's worth of people, but all he gets out of this is a sick satisfaction. The people who hurt you are paying; that's all this is. It's impossible to get real joy out of it when he knows the reason he has to do it at all is because you've been hurt.

There's not a person left alive and intact by the time Adrian is done with them. He doesn't hesitate; he doesn't listen; he doesn't care. If they had even a small part to play in your capture and imprisonment and torture here, he wants them dead. If they so much as glanced at you and didn't release you from your cell, they lose their life to him. It's an absolute bloodbath.

By the time he reaches you, everybody else is dead except him, you, and the rest of the 11th Street Kids.

You're afraid, at first, when he comes in. Your automatic response to hearing the door to your stark white cell opening is to hang your head and squeeze your eyes shut; you curl up into yourself as much as you can while chained to the chair, your fingers even twisting up into white-knuckled claws around the arms of the chair.

You're sucking in ragged breaths, lank hair hanging in your face. Your clothes aren't yours, scrubs that have been given to you and then dirtied and shredded, stained with blood and grime. He can see marks littering your skin, bruises and cuts and he can't fucking see.

Death was too good for everyone he just killed. He almost regrets it; he should've kept them all alive and tortured them all, slowly, for the rest of his life, for doing this to you. You enduring even one second of this earned them eternal damnation in his eyes. There's no question in his mind about that.

"Hey," he says, and your head snaps up. Your eyes meet his, wild, hopeful that this really is him.

You exhale shakily. You ask, "Adrian? Is—" and then blink, tears spilling over, and he can't stay still anymore.

"I'm here, it's me," he says, and starts reassuring you in a rush as he comes over to you and quickly slashes your bindings apart. He cups your face in his hands, says, "I've got you now, okay? We've got you, nothing's going to happen to you. I'm going to bring you right home, alright? We're going home now," and you just fall apart.

He examines you quickly before taking you up into his arms. He's spattered with gore from his massacre through the facility to get to you, but neither of you care; you're just so happy to be together again.

He's still carrying you in his arms when he meets with the rest of the 11th Street Kids, heading straight for the van, demanding that they follow. He doesn't break pace, doesn't stop, doesn't hesitate.

"I've got you," he keeps saying, like he's reminding the both of you of how true that is. Like he's trying to imprint the knowledge that you're no longer gone into his very being.

"I know," you tell him.

Your voice. When he kept calling you, and calling you, and calling you, all he kept getting was your voicemail. He kept thinking he'd give anything just to hear you answer— to hear you talk to him at least one more time. And here you are now, alive, and he gets everything he wants. He gets you.

"I love you," you tell him, and he could fall apart for hearing it. You both need sleep fucking immediately, and food, and rest, and medical attention. He feels like he's not himself, like he's become a creature focused solely on you. He doesn't like that about himself; he wants to be the person you love, but he doesn't realize— this is the person you love. The goofball, and the loving partner, and the killing machine, all of it. Everything that makes him him, you love, no matter how fucked up it is.

"I love you," he says, choked. "Oh, fuck, I really fucking love you."

He clutches you close in the back of the bumping van, refuses to let you go, listening only to your voice and your breathing and the cadence of your heart to remind himself that this will be okay.

-

adrian chase taglist:

@violetrainbow412-blog @bigassbisaster @amysuemc @sunflowerfive @papitas-con-sal @saturnngal @neptuneswritingwork @jewishdelis @myguiltypleasures21 @pinkygunslingy @violinchick @r3tr0sp3ct @chaseadrian @breathing-in-waves @rishlurh @x-milf-hunter-x @goblynnrockz @theowritesstuff @jaysfav @themartiansdaughter @dallasvakarian @missscarlettangel @pieriinova @ohmybubbletea

[kinnotakara]

i am the one who needs you

pairing: adrian chase/reader (gn pronouns)

rating: t+ (canon-typical violence)

word count: 5,893

one-sentence synopsis: this was supposed to be a fun, easy mission, and you're not going to let it be adrian's last.

author's note: ooooh just a little one to make up for being a bit absent!! i love you all!!

read on ao3!

You feel a little silly, but, when you see yourself in the mirror, even you have to admit that you look really, really good.

You take a deep breath, then twist, examining yourself in closer detail. Emilia had asked for your measurements a little over a week ago, telling you only that it would be important for an upcoming mission. You were expecting a special set of armor, maybe something made to deter some specific fucked-up kind of alien.

What you weren’t expecting was for Emilia to give you each a box, telling you to put it on for your mission tonight, and then finding formalwear inside.

Adrian looks up at you, brow furrowed. He’s examined his own clothes with confusion, though you can’t see his things from your point of view. It’s with no small degree of uncertainty that he asks, “Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

“You’re supposed to wear it,” Emilia instructs him. She points at his box, then yours. “Put them on.” When neither of you move, she adds, “Now,” and you move to do as she says.

Adrian still hesitates, bewildered as he lifts a suit jacket out of the box, the material crumpled in his fist. “What if I get shot?”

“You’re not going to get shot,” Emilia says.

“Well, I mean, now you’ve pretty much guaranteed I’m going to get shot,” Adrian comments. Emilia points towards the bathrooms at headquarters. Adrian sighs. “Okay, fine, but when I die, you are the one who has to tell (Y/N) as penance.”

“You’re not dying!” you call to him from where you’re halfway through changing into your own clothes in a bathroom stall.

“I’ll come up with a different punishment for maiming,” Adrian says. His voice is muffled; when you rise up to see him over the top of the stall, he’s already started tugging his clothes off before he’s even behind the closed door.

“Adrian,” you admonish him. His head snaps up, face halfway caught in his shirt, glasses sideways. “You are two feet from the stall—”

“And?” he demands. “Everyone here has seen my insides—”

“Against our will!” Leota shouts from the next room.

“And you were mostly dying,” John adds. “Your insides are supposed to stay inside, typically.”

Adrian tears at his shirt, accidentally ripping the tag halfway off in his struggle to get out of it. Laughing, dropping back to the floor in your own stall, you say, “Adrian’s anything but typical.”

“That’s so sweet, babe, thanks,” Adrian says from the next stall. You bang lightly against the wall separating you, and he taps back. “Do not grieve. This is logical.”

You laugh again. “Shut up, get dressed.”

You can hear the rustle of clothes, and then Adrian mumbling to himself as he examines the clothes, talking under his breath. He’s almost always talking; you just listen to the sound of it as you dress yourself, pulling the softest fabric you think you’ve ever touched over your skin.

Adrian thumps against the wall, stumbling. He makes a confused noise, then says, “I need your help, I think— I think I’m dying?”

Grinning, you quickly finish dressing yourself before pushing out of your stall. You knock on Adrian’s, tell him, “Come out, let me help you,” and he comes out halfway in his dress shirt, the buttons off by two, his brow furrowed.

“Why did you start with your shirt?” you ask him. Leaning to look past him, you ask, “Where the fuck did your pants go?”

“I need to tuck my shirt into my pants,” Adrian tells you. “So, pants go last.” He observes you for a moment, then says, “That looks— stupid fucking hot on you, I probably— I’m so hard right now, I probably should be wearing pants.”

You stare at him for a moment, face flashing with heat, before you just beckon him forward. He steps into your hands, and you start unbuttoning his shirt for him, preparing to do it correctly for him instead. His comment has your gut twisting, warmth pooling low. Adrian’s intentions are obvious as he tilts further into you. It takes maybe two total seconds for him to start trying to nuzzle into your throat, grinning, hands coming up to find your shoulders even as you keep pushing them down.

“I’m trying to help you,” you remind him, laughing, when he gets his wrists tangled.

“You are helping me,” Adrian tells you. “I’m trying to get off on your leg, c’mon, get back over here, help me out—”

You push him away again, unable to stop laughing. He always just makes these impossibly light feelings boil up in you, happier than you’ve ever been, just— unabashedly enjoying at his side, getting to be yourself and have fun and just— be. You’ve been together for almost a year, now— and publicly together for a few months— and you swear, you love him more every day. You love spending time with him. It only gets better and better.

“Focus,” you tell Adrian firmly, even though you’re doing a poor job of it yourself. “We have to head out soon. Emilia said.”

“Emilia did say,” Emilia says from the other side of the bathroom door. “Hurry up, both of you.”

You stick your tongue out at Adrian; he does the same right back, then ducks down to kiss you. Now that he’s finally dressed properly in his dress shirt— no thanks to him, and only thanks to you— he reaches out to get his hands on your hips, tugging you closer. Smiling, he parts his lips, then parts yours, slipping into your mouth, licking behind your teeth.

“I don’t hear dressing!” Emilia shouts through the door. “If I don’t hear Chase talking, I’m going to assume he’s using his mouth for something else, and I’m going to come in and sto— No, I’m not.” You laugh, pulling back to cover your mouth. “I’ll push Eagly in—”

“Oh, God, no,” you quickly say.

“I can’t let him see that,” Adrian informs you, pushing back into his stall and shoving the door shut again. “It’ll embarrass the shit out of me, I won’t be able to get hard and he’s going to make fun of me for it.”

“He’s not,” you assure him through the stall door. You wonder when you got to the point of assuring your boyfriend that an eagle won’t make fun of his dick before you go out to try and covertly stab people at a casino together, but you’re ultimately glad that your life has brought you in such a— unique direction. You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

When Adrian ultimately comes out of the stall, finally fully dressed, you turn to check on him and— stop, for a second. Adrian furrows his brow a bit at you, then looks past you to the bathroom mirror, examining himself.

“I didn’t fuck it up, did I?” he asks, but that’s not why you’re staring. He looks impossibly handsome. These are definitely not clothes he would wear on a normal day, but that’s part of what makes it impossible. You already want to start undressing him. “(Y/N)? Does it look that bad—”

“No!” you hurry to assure him. “No, no, you look— You look really good, actually.”

The bathroom door is closed; nobody can see you. You risk Emilia holding to her word and sending Eagly in by stepping forward, setting your palms flat over Adrian’s chest, tilting your head up to scour him with your eyes.

“You look really good,” you repeat, voice lower. From this close up, you can see his pupils dilate, darkness starting to swallow the green brightness. His throat bobs on a swallow, and you let your hand glide up the column of it, the other hooking in his collar.

“So do— So do you,” he tells you, voice catching. His lips part slightly when your thumb pushes into a dimple on his tie; you use your new hold to tug him down into a kiss, licking up into his mouth, smiling as you do it.

Adrian, for his part, slots in with you, yanking you in so he can drag his hands over the fine fabric of your own clothes, teeth edging along your lower lip as he moves. He’s hungry for more, obviously, and so are you, reaching to unthread his tie instinctively, wanting to touch more of him.

Emilia bangs on the door again, shouts, “I don’t hear Chase, I’m sending Eagly in—” and you scramble to separate, practically hurtling into the stall and shoving the door closed.

“I’m still getting dressed!” you shriek, but Eagly’s already in and flapping his wings and screaming, and Adrian’s screaming back, and you jump up on the toilet seat, laughing, nearly slipping, excited for the night ahead.

— — — — —

This is not the way this was supposed to go.

Tonight was supposed to be fucking fun. You were supposed to go to the stupid casino, and you and Adrian would corner the stupid mafiosos that were your stupid targets, and then you’d get to go back to your stupid house and let your boyfriend fuck you through the floor if he wanted. It was supposed to be a stupid fucking awesome night where nothing was going to go wrong.

That is not what happened.

Instead, things turned sour almost immediately. You don’t know if someone tipped these people off, or if they made you the second you walked in, or what, but it was only minutes before you and Adrian had been cornered, separated from the rest of the casino and shoved to a back hallway, guns aimed directly into your backs.

You both still have earpieces in; Adrian mutters under his breath, “I fucking told you you were going to get me shot.”

Through the earpiece, Emilia hisses, “Not now, Chase, fucking Christ. Focus on getting out of there. Peacemaker and Adebayo are coming around the back. You just have to stay there and stay alive. Don’t let them take you to a second location.”

“Got it,” Adrian mumbles, eyes flickering to meet yours. You nod to him. It won’t be long before you’re saved, you’re sure. Chris and Leota won’t take long, and then you’ll be back with the rest of your team and heading back home, this failed op nothing but a distant memory and perhaps even a learning opportunity.

This back hallway, though, isn’t actually a place to corner you. One of the five men pushing you forward reaches down and lifts a tile up from the ground, revealing a staircase, and you exhale shakily.

“You want us to go down there?” you say, just so Emilia and John will hear you and know what’s happening.

“What the fuck do you think?” one of the men asks. He shoves you forward, and you’re pushed through the hole. Your arms are still free, luckily, and you get them under yourself so you don’t smash your face into the ground. Your clothes tear in a couple places as you tuck and roll, hitting the floor on the level below with a crunch to your left shoulder.

You whimper softly to yourself, then push upright with your good arm. Biting back a noise of pain, you stagger to your feet, hearing Adrian shouting at the men through the roar of blood in your ears. Your heart starts to race now, a delayed adrenaline response from falling.

“I’m okay,” you call upwards, catching yourself when your balance slides sideways.

One of your captors follows down next, then another, before Adrian is sent down. He doesn’t fight or say anything, so he’s not shoved, but he hurries to you, taking your good arm around his shoulders without hesitation.

“I’m alright,” you assure him. He’s already reaching to examine your shoulder, and you flinch when his fingertips touch you. Jerking back, his eyes flick up to meet yours, nervous.

He looks away, then, and starts evaluating the situation. You know this look on him: he’s deciding what he’s going to do next. He’s probably choosing the most violent way to do it. He’s something of a genius when it comes to things like that, you think— like if Einstein’s field of expertise was bloodshed and mayhem rather than theoretical physics.

The men take you through the subterranean level of the casino, navigating you through a grey, dank underground. Adrian helps you along; you try to ignore the ache in your shoulder, teeth gritted against it. Your earpiece crackles in and out, damaged by your fall. By the way Adrian’s eyes keep flicking, and the small almost-words he’s making, he must still be responding to them.

It seems like an impossibly long time before you’re both brought to an incredibly fine room. The walls almost seem draped in red velvet curtains, the furniture overlarge and richly textured, the room a shock, a world of difference from the hallways before this.

They don’t stay here. The men keep guiding you through another door, away from this beautiful room and into a room filled instead with red. Red metallic panels for the walls; red tiles on the ceiling and the floor; red fluorescent lights in long red frames, strung up at even intervals above your heads. An enormous crimson curtain is parted to reveal a long wooden table, stained cherry-red, with any number of metallic instruments of them. They’re sharp and plentiful and promise torture, if you don’t get the fuck out of here and fast, and your mouth goes dry seeing them. These people aren’t fucking around. That much is obvious, too, from the several red chairs in the center of the room, each with a heavy selection of black chains looped at their bases, waiting to be used.

Dread sinks through your body. You look to Adrian, breath catching, fear starting to surge at the uncertain and unsettling theatricality of the place you’ve been brought.

Adrian’s already looking back at you, that same confused surprise in his eyes. Where you’re wary, though, he seems determined, and you hold that as a token of confidence. He must already have a plan, which is good, because your thoughts are still spinning a bit from your fall. It might be better to let him take charge, for now. Until you get your head back on straight.

It’s not a surprise that you’re dragged to two of those chairs, but it is unwelcome. You’re trained to handle this sort of thing. Adrian, you know, trained himself to handle this sort of thing. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to handle himself, or that he can’t hold his own, because he can, and he does, all the time. But he does get hurt on missions all the time, and that’s just— You can’t let that happen anymore. You can’t. It just—

It just means you’re not willing to let him get hurt. It means it doesn’t matter; it means you would find any excuse to prioritize him over yourself, because you can’t not. You’re in love with him, that’s— kind of part of what that means.

“Hey,” you spit as they’re dragging you over. Adrian’s resisting a bit, more than you think he should, so he might have a plan already, and it might not involve getting chained up. If you can just distract him for a bit, maybe you can earn him the time he’ll need. “Hey, what do you want to know that you don’t already know? What are you— What’s this room even for, anyway—” You’re cut off when a blow against the side of your face from one of the men knocks your head sideways. You exhale with a rush, breathing through the pain.

“Stop— fucking touching them,” Adrian spits beside you, struggling against the man who’s just grabbed him and jerked him backwards down into a seat. “Fuck you, let me go—”

“Chain him down,” the man who’d hit you said. He’d been the one to shove you, too, you realize belatedly, and the first ones to approach you and Adrian on the casino floor. The way he carries himself— he must be in charge, or at least more in charge than the others.

It’s this man who evaluates you now, studying you with a tilted head, eyes pulling over you in a way you can nearly feel on your skin, the trail left behind clammy and cold.

“So,” he says, assessing you still. “What’s this ruse, again?”

“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” you ask him. “Cover’s blown anyway.”

His eyes flip up to the man beside you. With a slight incline of his head, that man jerks forward, grabbing your wrists, yanking them behind you in one hand.

“Not quite,” the leader says.

From the inside of his blazer, he draws out his gun again. Your heart jumps a bit, and you study him as he snaps it open, checks the inside. Apparently satisfied that it’s loaded, he shuts it again, cocks it, then lifts it, aiming it directly between Adrian’s eyes.

Your heart jumps up into your throat, and you say quickly, “Don’t. Just— Let him go, and I’ll stay.”

At least, if you could barter for Adrian to leave, he can guide the rest of the team right to you. You’d only have to hold out for a little while before they came back. There’s no way Leota and Chris are that far behind you; they must be able to find you soon. They have to.

The leader studies you for another beat, the gun still aimed at Adrian. His hand moves, his arm shifting slightly— and then he fires, and you scream, hurtling forwards.

Adrian screams, too, and you’re already throwing yourself at the man, wrenching your arms free from the man behind you to grapple for the gun instead. Adrian’s— cursing, he’s spitting words, exclaiming, “Motherfucker, watch where you— shoot that thing, fucking holy shit,” and he’s not dead and he’s still talking—

You whirl to see a hole blown in the wall behind Adrian, but no hole blown through Adrian. He’s intact, staring at you with wide eyes, his face drained of color except for the patches of hectic pink high on his cheeks. There’s real panic in his face, now. Things are escalating too quickly, moving too fast without enough time for Chris and Leota to get here.

You’re yanked backwards from the leader again. At least you have something to show for it: long scratches down the sides of his face, your nails dug into his skin.

“Well,” the leader says, swiping at the blood you’ve drawn from his cheek. “That wasn’t it.”

He reaches into his pocket, reloads his gun. This time, when he cocks it, he levels it directly at you, between your eyes. He looks at you, makes eye contact. Inexplicably, he smiles, and your stomach turns, anger and terror and just— pure atavistic rage surging through you, adrenaline coursing, blood pumping, mind spinning.

“Maybe,” the leader continues, considering. He takes a step forward—

“Stop,” Adrian exclaims. “Stop, don’t— Don’t hurt— Okay, just, back up, don’t do anything, I’ll— I’ll—”

You haven’t looked away from the leader, nor has he looked away from you. That means you see him grin, when it starts, a curling-up of the ends of his lips, a twisted curve. He takes another step closer to you, and Adrian’s words start coming louder, faster.

“Don’t, don’t do it, there’s— There’s so much— More, I know so much, I can— We can talk,” Adrian’s saying. He’s trying to stall, rushing for time, but he’s not— He’s not fucking trained, he doesn’t know what to do like you know what to do.

You have to keep him safe. It’s your only option, you have to keep him safe— even though you can practically feel his need to keep you safe rolling off of him in pulsating waves, even as you can feel his growing, savage desperation to get his hands on you and just run, get you both the fuck out of here.

You have to keep him safe, but he has to keep you safe, and—

—And only one of you can have what you want.

Adrian’s ankles are bound to the legs of the chair, his arms yanked behind him, wrists wrapped together and chained to his knees. His spine twists, back bowed as he tries to meet your eyes, but you won’t let him, won’t look at him. This’ll be easier if you don’t.

The leader pushes in another step closer to you, but he looks away, now, towards Adrian. With your eyes fixed on the gun between them, he demands of Adrian, “Why were you here?”

“We were on a mission, man, that’s it,” Adrian says. It’s so fucking vague, it’s not good enough, and everybody knows it, the gun pushing in closer to you. “Look, okay, alright, it was— It was our plan to— We gotta infiltrate the place and— God, no,” he begs when the gun pushes into the soft skin between your brows. You swallow, eyes fixed on the gun, just trying to breathe. You need to be able to move, if you can, and as fast as possible. Your muscles tense, just— waiting for an opportunity. “No, no, fuck, fuck, come back— Come back over here, Jesus fucking Christ, what are you even so mad about? We can talk about this, c’mon, just— Fuck!”

The man frowns slightly when Adrian screams again, his voice scraping high, and you take that brief moment of distraction as the best chance you’re going to get. You reach up and grab the gun impulsively, yanking it down.

The leader yanks on the trigger; you feel the weapon move between your hands and his, and then there’s explosive noise and a slam of pressure and you’re shoved backwards by the blow of force, skittering back on your heels before you trip and stumble downwards. You can’t keep your legs under you, like they’ve gone fuzzy-numb for no reason—

—and then the reason hits you, a blazing explosion of pain in your leg, and you cry out, the pain so intense that you momentarily roll over and vomit onto the ground.

Your head is a blur, ears ringing from the loud blast of the gun, from the scream of pain through your body. Before you know it, you’re being manhandled upwards. You’re not entirely sure what’s happening, or where, or why, but you know it fucking hurts, the movements jostling the agonizing pain in your leg, and you think you might even be screaming, or sobbing.

You try to quiet the noises jumping out of you, swallowing compulsively. You close your mouth so tightly you think you might be biting through your tongue, but you fight to keep your jaw shut, swallowing the pain down as best as you can. It doesn’t help anybody, you need to think, you need to survive, you need to help Adrian, you need—

You need to help Adrian—

“Don’t,” you slur weakly. Your head falls forward, and you struggle to inhale. When you manage to get a breath, you drag through the pain to say, “I’ll— I’ll talk, I’ll talk to you, just— Don’t— Don’t hurt him.”

Through the ringing in your ears, you hear the leader say, “Here’s the thing, though. We already identified the weak point here, and it’s not his hurt.”

The leader grabs your jaw abruptly. You hadn’t even realized how close he was; you hadn’t realized your eyes were closed, either, but you drag them open now to look up at him, vision swimming. Hate courses through you just from the sight of him.

“It’s yours,” the leader says. He shoves you back, the chair screeching a few feet, tilting and tipping onto two legs before ultimately slamming you back down on all fours again.

The leader makes his way to the table along the wall, fingers skimming quickly over the options he has there amongst the torture implements. He’s moving fast; they didn’t even bother closing the door when they came in here. You wonder if they know how little time they have, or if they just don’t care.

You hope they don’t have time, anyway. You hope Leota and Chris are coming, you hope this is going to go your way, you hope you’re going to live.

Usually, things seem black-and-white. You’re going to live, or you aren’t. You almost always win; when you lose, it’s not that bad. Nothing this bad, anyway.

For the first time in a while, you wonder what choice you’re going to have to make here— but, for the first time ever, it’s not a difficult choice. Adrian comes before everything else. In this moment of truth, you even realize he comes before the team, which is a shock and something you hope you’ll never even need to deal with. Right now, though— if it comes to it, to giving up information or saving Adrian’s life— you genuinely can’t say what you’d choose.

For so long, you would have sooner died than say a single word. Now, you’re willing to risk everything for a life that isn’t even your own.

I guess that’s fucking love, you think, through the pain and the blood and the ringing in your ears.

You drag your eyes away from the leader to look at Adrian again, to remind yourself why you’re enduring this. Adrian’s bright eyes meet yours, and you remember them earlier, when you saw him from so close-up, those brilliant eyes going dark from how badly he wanted to be closer to you. You wonder if you’ll ever see that again.

The leader picks up a simple knife before he returns to you. Adrian’s cursing, an endless stream of, “Don’t, fucking— don’t, I’m going to tear your fucking teeth out one by one, I’m going to shove fucking knives under your skin, I’m going to— I’m going to fucking kill you, I’m going to destroy you, I’m going to kill you—”

His screaming is becoming hysterical the closer the knife gets to you, the closer the leader draws. He’s reaching those scraping heights again, and he’s tearing at the chains that bind him, heavily clanking on the tiled floor punctuating every word.

You kick up with the leg that doesn’t hurt, aiming for his knee, and you manage to shove it inwards in the shock of your movement. The leader stumbles down, catches himself on one hand.

You can’t help the laugh that comes up out of you— and then the knife’s flying upwards, a sharp toss done with deliberate force that lodges itself in your sternum.

The pain is instant, blinding. You drag on an instinctive inhale, and it feels wet. Blood fills your throat and then your sinuses; you cough, choking on it, and it spills from your mouth and your nose, rushing down your face, impossibly hot. It’s almost a relieving feeling.

“No!” Adrian bellows, primal. “G— No, no, fuck, fuck! Shit!” He screams again, then just— Your name tears up, and you tilt your head so you can look at him, following the direction of the sound.

Past Adrian’s head, you can see more red, and then white, and then silver. Chris fills the door, and you smile, letting your eyes drop down to meet Adrian’s.

“It’s okay,” you tell him. At least Chris is here; at least it’s over.

You can’t do anything else, but Adrian’s alive. It all moved so quickly, so impossibly fast, but you did what you could, and you did it. You saved him, he’s alive, his heart’s still beating and he’s all in one piece and he’s here, and he’s going to be okay.

Adrian’s still begging for something. You can’t see him anymore; you’re not sure where he went, or where anyone went. It doesn’t really matter, though. Adrian’s okay. Everything’s fine because he’s fine; if he’s okay, nothing’s wrong.

Your mind is fragmenting, falling to pieces. You can hear clanging, and then a tremendous crash. There are hands on you in an instant, and then they’re gone.

There’s gunfire, and screaming, and you let your head fall back, unable to hold it up anymore. Staring upwards at nothing, unsure whether your eyes are open or closed, you listen for Adrian’s voice in everything, just— waiting. Just waiting. You don’t know for what, but— Waiting all the same.

When the cacophony ends, there’s still noise, but it’s softer. You can’t quite make it out, but then there are hands on you again, and arms under you, and you’re moving.

“Adrian,” you say. You can’t remember why, and then you do, in a blaze. “He’s okay?”

Lips push to yours. “I’m okay. Just keep breathing, okay? You’re going to be just fine, I’ve got you, you’re going to be okay, too. Fuck, just— You breathe, and I’ll run, okay? Just— Hold on, I’ve got you.”

You nod, turning your face into something soft. It feels nice against your face, and you smile, cold and warm, tired and awake, dead and alive. Eyes closed— or maybe not— you fall asleep— or maybe not.

It’s warm, here. There’s pain, and then there’s less pain, and then there’s no pain. Time moves in fits and starts, in jumps of white and waves of black, in surges of feeling and plateaus of nothing. There’s feelings like nothing you’ve ever felt before, and then—

And then those feelings are consuming you, swallowing you whole like a burning flame, like a fire that engulfs you. You try to fight, to thrash against it, but you can’t. You’re silent, still, held captive by nothing at all but yourself, but you can’t fucking move. It has to be a nightmare, because there’s nothing else it can be, impossibly torment that swallows your mind until there’s nothing left.

But then—

—It stops.

You’re left with cool relief, and palatable nothingness, and a hazy, dreamy edge that almost feels like it blurs the edges of your mind.

And then you wake up.

Your eyes shift open, snapping to fix on a brown ceiling above you. You’re so fucking relieved not to see red, so goddamn overjoyed, that you start to cry immediately, eyes burning. The emotions overwhelm you so easily; you can’t understand why.

Then you remember.

“Adrian,” you rasp, twisting to find him, to find anyone.

A hand lands on your shoulder, a body hurtling forward and becoming clear in the moment before Adrian’s sealing you in a kiss, wrapping you in a hug. It doesn’t hurt, not at all. That doesn’t make sense, but you don’t give a shit.

You rocket upwards to throw your arms around him, too. He buries in you, and you in him. Before you know it, there’s the slick burn of his tears against your throat, then your cheek, his face dragging up so he can kiss you.

“You are never,” he tells you, lips moving against yours, “Ever, ever, ever fucking doing that again, you— fucking maniac, what the fuck were you thinking?”

You huff slightly. “I couldn’t let you d— get hurt, I couldn’t—”

Adrian yanks you into another kiss, cutting you off.

“How about you couldn’t fucking die?” Adrian asks you. “Hm, how about that one?” He buries into a kiss, then separates you again.

“I don’t feel like I almost died,” you say. There’s no small amount of confusion in your voice as you say it, either.

“That’s because John and Emilia used some fucking nanobot shots or something to save you,” Adrian explains. “I don’t know what it was, they explained it, they said it’s some— I don’t know, some stuff all you fucking agents have, but to be honest, I wasn’t really listening, since I was waiting for your heart to start fucking beating again.”

“Oh,” you reply. It’s— more than you expected to hear, and probably more than he expected to experience. “A— Adrian, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean—” You stop, then, because you don’t want to lie to him. “I just didn’t want anything to happen to you.”

“F— Jesus, you don’t fucking get it, do you?” Adrian asks. He climbs into bed with you, and it’s only then that you’re able to focus on the space around you, on something that isn’t Adrian. He gathers you up in his arms, and you’re in Adrian’s bed, tucked under his sheets, wearing one of his broad t-shirts and a pair of his boxers as comfortable pajamas.

Adrian tucks himself underneath you, wrapping his arms around you. Nothing hurts, nothing at all. You’ll have to ask Emilia which of the experimental projects she tried on you, because it feels like it actually fucking worked.

“I don’t really care what happens to me if something happens to you,” Adrian explains to you. “Don’t you get it? You’re, like, it, bud. You’re it for me. If something happens to you, it happens to me. If you die, I die,” he says, and his voice actually breaks. “Oh, fuck, sorry, I was trying not to—”

“It’s okay,” you promise him. He shakes his head, and you reach for him, dragging his face to yours. “Hey. It’s okay. I saw a gun get pointed at you and I decided I’d give up the entire fucking government to stop you from getting hurt,” you confess. His face flushes, and you push your forehead to his. “I get it.”

Adrian flickers a smile, then kisses you again.

“You should’ve seen your body stitch itself up,” Adrian tells you, murmuring against your mouth. “It was incredibly fucking impressive. You barely even have scars. It was— I—” He grabs your hands, push them into his face. “I was so fucking scared, but now you’re just like— completely okay— I’m so scared I’m gonna just wake up and you’re actually gonna be gone or something and I’m going to go actually for real crazy. Like, I might burn the whole town down.”

“Well,” you say. “Don’t do that.”

“You know what I m—”

“I do,” you cut him off. “I promise, I do.” You drag his forehead to yours again, holding you close. “You feel me, though. Right?” You pull his hand to your throat, guiding him to the very real pound of your pulse, the race of your blood, the gallop of your heart inside your body, keeping you so very alive so that you can keep loving him with it. “Feel that?”

“Yeah,” Adrian murmurs. He’s smiling when he kisses you again. You think he’s going to keep kissing you, but then he mumbles, “I’d literally blow up the entire fucking planet if I thought it’d bring you back, by the way.”

Your heart melts for hearing it, and you thread your arms around his neck, hauling yourself in closer to him, letting the two of you fold together.

“Good thing I’m not going anywhere,” you tell him. He draws you in, guiding you into a biting kiss again, letting you fall into him.

“Me, neither,” he promises you, tracing his hands over the scars you won’t need to have, over the pulse points racing with your heart that won’t stop, still beating for him, held together by him, all for the love of him. “Just so you’re, like, totally aware of that.”

You grin. "Oh, I'm aware." Pulling for another kiss, you tell him, "Told you you weren't gonna die."

Adrian groans. "Could've done without you getting shot."

"Hey," you say, "Beggars can't be choosers," and Adrian kisses the laugh that comes out of you next.

-

requests used:

"I am an absolute sucker for whump with a happy ending so could I request something where Adrian and his partner get kidnapped together? i just really love hurt/comfort fics and when people go absolutely berserk to try and protect the ones they love. just super angsty but with a happy ending. thank you (PS I really really love your writing, it inspires me to keep working on my own Adrian fics even when I don’t get a lot of notes)" (anonymous)

"hey! is there any way you could make a fanfic where Adrian and reader have to go on an undercover mission somewhere fancy and reader is like super pretty when they dress up fancy and so is Adrian so they're like is like gawking at each other the entire night, but the angst ensues, like someone gets kidnapped or something (ur choice obviously lol) anyways thanks if you do! don't worry if u don't, its a lot lol! thanksss btw I love ur fics, I've read like A LOT of em! (a lot srsly it's unhealthy!)" (anonymous)

"Okay so I've seen protective Adrian take a bullet for reader but how about..... reader who hates how much adri gets hurt on missions and does the same for him anytime he was in danger? Doesn't have to be fatal or angsty - and established relationship is up to you they can be crushing on each other or not- HFKSJFK idk protective Adrian with a stubborn and also protective reader has been in my head a while LOL" (@fuck-mcgee)

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adrian chase taglist:

@deputyrook @bb-skyrunner @himboelover @pieriinova @gcldtom @violetrainbow412-blog @amysuemc @saturnngal @neptuneswritingwork @jewishdelis @myguiltypleasures21 @pinkygunslingy @chaseadrian @breathing-in-waves @rishlurh @goblynnrockz @theowritesstuff @themartiansdaughter @dallasvakarian @missscarlettangel @samantha24015 @hillaryroadheadcllinton @ohmybubbletea @buckys-estrella @witchywcmans @ladyrebel25 @eviejune @vigilantesluvr @qjuiq-odakyu @xothatnerdykid @awkwardfangirl2014 @thevalkyrior @mattsmanpain @sunflowerfive @deirdre-belle @anthonyedwinstark @sexysquatch @jelliebeanss @zofps @crimscnrains @trans-librarian @nellethiel-aranel @probablyasatanworshipper @phoenixhalliwell @perseajohnson @eeveeangelcakes @freyafriggafrey @psychadelictoadie @middimidoris @gaygonegirl @herbsschmerbs @satansrighthandmanchild @seeking-a-great--perhaps @ev-june @bvcksmurdock

[kinnotakara]

hehehehheheheee pretty birb bf

winged bf who pick you up into their arms, gently cradling you as if you were made of glass and the finest jewelry as they tell you to “hang on” before unfurling their wings and taking off into the sky

winged bf who show you the beauty of flying, holding you securely in his arms as you take in the way how the world below you looks so small and beautiful. who only has a gentle smile on their faces as you point out the big apartments and parks where you go to for a picnic date. who only has eyes on you as you admire the twinkling lights of the world under you

winged bf who wrap their wing around you whenever you shiver, even if it was one of those annoying sudden ghost bump things you get out of the blue. he’s still worried, let him worry for you in peace😠

winged bf who plucks a feather out of their wing, gently tucking the soft feather into your hair, or on your jacket — wherever you want. he wants you to carry a piece of him to remind you by even though you regularly steal his clothes

winged bf who allows you to be only person to touch his wings, to care for them, to brush them, to just… well, touch them to your heart’s content really. he doesn’t care if you put the tip of his long feather ends over your lips, mimicking a mustache, he doesn’t care if you want to use it as a blanket, he doesn’t care if you wanna use the ends like a cat toy in front of his face. he’ll indulge in your silly shenanigans

winged bf who sheds at least once a year, filling your shared home with the old feathers. who is either smug about it or is apologetic as he helps you broom the excessive fallen feathers. at this point you could probably make a plushie or some sort of art project from the amount of feathers that he shed. to which he objects, saying these are all old and weakened feathers, offering his wing for you to pluck feathers from if you really wanna make an art project

winged bf who hides the two of you under his wing when cuddling in bed, the added layer of his own extra limb making the scene feel more intimate than it is. as if the entire world is blocked out, just a meager existence passing by as you two enjoy this moment of comfort as his wing becomes a curtain to give you two privacy

winged bf who sometimes gets too sexually frustrated and pent up with your curious hands constantly touching the place where his wing is connected to his back, the skin and muscles there are sensitive, making him jump in his seat whenever you do it to tease him

winged bf who knows that it isn’t your fault. you probably don’t know, you don’t have a wing after all, so you don’t know what it means when someone touches your wing. who only calms your worries with a forehead kiss, usually handling his problems himself

winged bf who lets out a whine into his hand, muffling the embarrassing noise as your hand wraps tighter around his cock. he was way too sensitive than usual and it was all because of your wandering hand on his wings. he probably should have explained it all to you but right now, he found his words escaping him, mind melting into a muddled mess as he finds his hands clawing at your own in desperation

winged bf who mumbles out a weak protest of being “s-sensitive! aaah… f-feels too sen—♡︎ sensitive! y-your haaandd♡︎” as his legs start to shake, staring through teary eyes as you coax out yet another climax out of him. his tip an angry cherry red from the continued torture of your hand, his slit weeping precum over and over again despite having just came, getting hard in your hand embarrassingly fast

winged bf who gets tortured by your loving hands for who knows how many times. his eyes are getting blurry and breathing started to hurt. even more, his dick was stinging, twitching every time your tight fist comes up to the tip, letting go briefly as if to taunt him, touching the dripping slit with the tip of your finger and making him whine loudly before fucking his cock into your hand again and again. this was just pure torture, he wanted to escape and run away but you were whispering such nice words to his ears. calling him your good boy, your angel, how you loved being with your beloved like this… could he really ever refuse you?

winged bf who gets more and more twitchy in your gentle hold as your hand picks up speed, the filthy wet noise of his earlier cum being used as a lube filling the room alongside his loud moans. who begs for you to not to touch his wing as it flutters around, dropping a feather or two onto the floor due to moving around so much. who only lets out a pathetic whimper of a “cuz’ ahh haamgh—! [n-name], please! please don’t—♡︎ d-don’t touch them...? they’re sensitive too aanh haagh mfgh♥︎!!” when you ask him why

winged bf who felt like his skin was on fire. everything felt too much but felt too little at the same time, his cock painfully hard again in your hold the moment you ran the tip of your finger over the bane of it. his muscles were getting tense, a strange sense of feeling coiling around in his stomach as you kiss the place where his wing and back connects, shifting around frantically with a chirp or a preen falling from his swollen lips

winged bf who weakly paws at your hand around his dick, wanting to push it away but chasing right after it with his hips as the strange feeling in his stomach just continues to grow worse. it didn’t felt like his usual orgasm, the way he would just fall apart in your hands. it felt more intense and that scared him. who cries out through loud whines and bitten back sobs that “f-feels weird!! aanhh haah [n-name]—! it mnggh♡︎ feels weird! my c-cock feels unnck haah ahh amhh weird♥︎♥︎!!”

winged bf who throws his head back into your shoulder, hands covering his beet red face as a scream tears through his lips, muscles tightening, body going taut in your arms when you gently bit into the base of his wing, your other hand keeping his wing in place so it wouldn’t flutter and knock you away as he fucking squirts into his stomach, painting his muscles and your hand white. who lets out soft chirps and noises, legs twitching and hands struggle to decide whether to hold onto you or to muffle his embarrassing noises

winged bf who only lets out weak noises and chirps when you try to communicate with him, asking him if he was doing alright and if your angel was with you right now after that overstimulating experience. who immediately hides within his wings the moment a sliver of sobriety hits him, too humiliated to even look you in the face because what was that? and why did he felt… so good?

winged bf who gives you a weak glare that you know isn’t exactly serious, pouting at you and complaining about how you messed up his mind and stuff. who lean into your touch as you push his hair away from him, getting to see the still reddened face and the few tear stains on his cheeks. who grumbles about how you have too much power over him when you chuckle, leaning in to plant a kiss to his pouting lips. who chase after you with a demand for a proper kiss this time

⇨ sephiroth, genesis, angeal, hawks, xiao, venti, angel devil, vash, knives, sunday, simeon, raphael + anyone you can think of!

[kinnotakara]

(giving this blog some love 💚)

Rich. men. 🗣️

when he approached you and proposed the idea of being his sugar baby, you thought it would be those cliche stories

but those stereotypes were quickly thrown out when he said that he wanted to be the one taking the backshots 💔 telling you that for every orgasm he have, 10 grand (maybe more) would be inserted into your account ❤️

ofc he takes you to lovely dates outside of the bedroom too 🥰

-🌹

Rich. PATHETIC. men. 🗣️

Imaging you're a college student, your studies having drained you of life, you barely get sleep, and not to mention- you're broke, barely getting by, and not to mention, you had student debt too. But one day, you're scrolling through some dating app (that down bad, huh?), and suddenly gotten a match by some guy- it seems you two had a lot in common (or you simply lied), though, he was older- hell, almost old enough to be your dad, but hey? A pull is a pull- at least he was hot. And after a few dates, you started to like him, though, mostly because on each date, he paid for everything, and I mean everything, which... you did not mind, not at all- hell, you were too scared to even look at the bill, seeing that most of the places you two visited was fancy or expensive at least, so you weren't complaining- it wasn't like you two didn't hit it off, and he was happy enough to pay for all of you expenses.

One day, when you were visiting his penthouse apartment (yeah, he was that rich), and jesus, it made your dorm room look like a cubby, the view was nice too. While you two were drinking a bit, talking and what not- it got quiet, till you heard him ask: "Would- would you mind being my sugar baby?" He asked, making you just pause- god you were a bit scared of him asking this, why else was he spoiling you so much? But god, you were too broke, so pushing your pride away, you agreed. After a month or so, being his sugar baby, it was... well, smooth, he hasn't asked you to do anything, well, maybe a kiss here and there- and hell, he paid for all of you school debt, so that was a plus, you were allowed to live comfortably again. That is till one day, when he invited you to his penthouse, it started slow, talking, and then it turned into kissing, which was slow, passionate- till it turned hungry, needy even- this was the moment you dreaded, when you pulled away, trying to subtly telling him that you weren't really the type to take it up the ass, and that you were kind of a virgin in it- to which he simply chuckled, almost laughing out loud "Wait- no, no, no- I don't want to fuck you- I want you to fuck me" When he said that, you could feel some relief leave your body, but then it turned into a bit confusion- he, your sugar daddy, wanted to be fucked? "Look- I get it, I... probably didn't make it much clear, that, I apologize for... you probably thought I was like- this super dominant CEO type or something?" He asked nervously- everything made sense to you now, the way he acted around you, making sure you well and satisfied, staring at your arms, your muscles, each time you wear a tight shirt or tank top- the fact that you only realized now made you feel a bit dumb "So... will you fuck me?" He asked, bringing you back to the present, the situation finally dawning on you- and like that, you were balls deep inside of him- his hands holding the pillow like a lifeline, your hands gripping his hips oh so tightly as you bounced him back on your cock each time you thrusted inside of him, and god, those moans and groans coming out of his mouth was like a melody- despite him having told you it's been a very long while since he got fucked- he was taking it so well, like he was just made for your cock

His hole was gripping your cock so nicely- much better than the chicks at your college, their cunts pale in comparison of how his walls wrapped so nicely around your cock, "Oh- fuck! I think I'm close, please" He would moan out, his hole gripping your cock even tighter (if that was even possible), moaning each time your cock reached that one spot, that is till you slowed down a bit- wanting to prolong the pleasure just a bit longer, "Oh- fuck, please.... don't edge me now- not now, not when I'm so close" He whined out, pushing his ass back against your hips, trying to get you to fuck him faster again, and after torturing him just a bit longer- you began to fuck him faster again, a moan of delight leaving his lips, gripping his pillow harder as you fucked him into the bed. Now after all of that, he was spent- he knew sleeping with someone younger would drain him, but god, he was much more drained than he thought he would be- and you weren't even tired... yet at least, you were trying to find your boxers, confused where you threw it, he just reached for his bedside drawer lazily, digging around it till he found what he was looking for "Here... buy something nice for you... you made me cum after all" He mumbled out before just simply throwing his wallet at you, practically limp on the bed

Yeah, you could definitely get used to this

[kinnotakara]

WITH MY HANDS AROUND YOUR THROAT — TOP MALE READER X SUKUNA

synopsis. taming the king of curses is one thing. making him beg is another. since it's either fuck him good or get your throat slit anyway, why not take a gamble and achieve both? wc. 2.6k

tags. sub! sukuna, soft dom!reader. can be read as cock or strap. brat taming, choking, begging, hair-pulling, belly bulge, heavy praise kink, pet names (good boy, sweetheart), porn with feelings, this turned out way more intimate than i intended it to be

His back arched away from your chest as you slowly pushed your cock inside him, stretching him wide open. You could feel his every ragged breath from the hand you wrapped around his throat, silent for once, and you knew he was eager. 

“Good fuckin’ boy, Sukuna,” you muttered lowly into his ear.  

You barely heard the warning growl. He turned his head abruptly, teeth snapping together in an attempt to bite as you jerked away, barking out a startled laugh. 

“Aw, that was cute.” And as though the bite wouldn’t have torn flesh, wouldn’t have scarred your face for life, you smiled down at his scowling face like it was a pretty thing. 

“I am not your pet,” Sukuna snarled, and he sounded angry, something akin to a wounded animal. You hummed non-committedly, continuing to push until you were snugly seated inside him. “Fuck—the n-next time you call me that, I will bite something more than your face.”

“How tempting.” Despite his threats, his legs were trembling with effort to hold himself up, and he pressed his throat into the cup of your hand, willingly submitting to your touch. You squeezed lightly, just enough to press into his windpipe, and watched as all four of his eyes rolled to the back of his head. 

It was funny, really, how he was using violence to disguise what a whore he really was. You counted to five before you let go. 

Apparently, you stopped too early for his liking. He was panting, his glare wet with tears, biting down a moan with bared teeth as the fat tip of your cock caught on his rim before easing in again. You were moving at a lumbering pace, deep and hard inside him but too fucking slow and rubbing at all the wrong places. 

He was growing frustrated by the second, and he finally barked, “Get on with it or I’ll kill you! Do you want to fuck me or not?” 

“I am fucking you, Sukuna.” 

“Not like this! Fuck—fuck you!” he half-hissed, half-whined, nails digging into the soft mattress. ‘More’ and ‘faster’ were on the tip of his tongue, but he took pride in his title of the King of Curses, and naturally his ego kept his mouth sealed shut. “Do really think I will hesitate to kill you just because I let you inside me? Are you that much of a fool?”

“Nah,” you replied nonchalantly, rolling your hips inside him to jolt out a startled moan. “You can kill me, but I don’t feel like catering to you today.” 

His words exploded into a string of expletives as he slammed his hips against you, shuddering as it only dug deeper, missing his sweet spot by far. 

Sukuna wanted to scream. 

Hand sliding up from his throat to firmly seize his jaw, you turned his face to meet you. “D’you need a reminder, sweetheart?” Your fingers dug into his cheek, taking extra precaution in making sure he wouldn't suddenly rear up and bite you. 

You needn’t have worried, though. He was way too desperate to care about the pet name or comprehend your question at that point, and he bucked his hips impatiently against yours, letting out a displeased growl. “What? J-just fucking fuck me already, brat.” 

You ignored him, continuing to move into him at a languid pace. “If I just give you the reward every time you ask, you’ll turn spoiled. How about you show me that you’ve earned it first, mm?” 

“What,” he lets out a shudder, breath bordering on a sob because why couldn’t you just give him what he wanted? He was so good for you, all patient despite his arousal, waiting for you to take him like you had promised, and yet you were being so mean and unfair to him. “What do you fucking want from me? You are just—fuuuckk, you are just human—so fucking weak, comparable to an insect! What makes you think you have the right to demand that of me? I am your king.”

He wanted to rip that smirk right off your face, punch your pretty face in. Dine in your blood. You didn’t deserve him. 

“I don’t have any right, I know,” you agreed, “but you aren’t entitled to everything, either.”

“Your ways of insinuation are pathetic—”

It hit him then, like a thunderbolt splitting the earth apart, and he gave a violent shudder.

The past twenty minutes had not been for nothing. You weren’t just toying around with him. You wanted him to see him crumble from his want for you. You wanted to hear him beg for it.

“No,” he gasped, shaking his head wildly. “No, fuck you. I am not going to beg.” 

You felt a sadistic smile creep onto your face. Seeing him deviating from his usual cocky self, now a babbling, incoherent mess, gave you a strange sort of pleasure. “I didn’t ask you to beg, though, did I? But now that you mention it…” 

You wanted to break him. 

Not that he wasn’t breaking already.

Sukuna was trembling with the effort of not giving in, sharp teeth digging into his bottom lip so hard it tore through skin. Blood trickled down one side of his chin, and you wanted to lick it up. 

“I am your king,” he repeated, a tremor in his voice betraying his want. “You offer to me. I do not beg.”

“Well, king, you’re holding up all the fun,” you taunted, voice sickly sweet. “Don’t you wanna be a good boy for me?” 

He shook his head again, this time with less force. Tears were welling up in his eyes again, and he didn’t even bother to blink them away, too occupied otherwise. They dotted on his lashes, threatening to spill. Where were his promises of ‘biting something more than your face’? What a little liar. 

“I’ll make you feel so good you’ll be feeling it for days,” you purred into his ear, “in exchange for one word. That’s all I’m asking for. You can do that, can’t you, sweetheart?” 

You watched in triumph as his eyebrows furrowed, as though carefully contemplating his answer. It was far too generous of an offer—he would be a fool to refuse. You made sure he knew that. Just one more little push, and he would topple over the edge and become putty in your hands. One more push. 

Kissing your way down his spine to plaster yourself to his back, you reached a hand down his abdomen with your free hand, pressing into it where your cock rested within him. It was too much, and you knew it. You were heavy and thick inside him, filling up every inch of his tummy, and he hadn’t stopped clenching around your girth since the first time you pushed it in. Then you moved your hand, feeling him up until you found the thing you were looking for. 

You heard his breath hitch. 

Beneath your fingers was an obscene swelling high up in his abdomen, protruding from the hard lines of his stomach. A bulge that made for clear evidence that his insides were carving out a space for you. You should have known there was no way it would fit so innately. No matter how disagreeable his personality was, his body was so good for you, as always. 

You gave the bulge a little squeeze, and Sukuna let out a choked whine, mouth gaping as though trying to form words. 

You pressed yourself to his back, kissing his shoulder. “What is it?” 

He shook his head, continuing to whine softly, no longer as petulant as he was desperate. You were almost afraid you had broken him. 

You decided to take one more step. Flattening your palm on the bulge, you carefully pressed it back into his stomach. “What do you want, Sukuna?” you whispered. “I’ll give you everything you want.”

He tipped his head back to glare at you with the corner of his eye, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Give me more,” he gritted out, helpless. “Please.” 

Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?

Without warning, you pulled back and rammed yourself into him in one go, angling your hips to pound right into his sweet spot, making him cry out in surprise. “W-wait, wait, ahh!” he screamed, the hand on his neck forcing him to stay in place. “Slow down, ‘s too much—” 

You continued to slam your hips against him, hitting his prostate with every sharp thrust, drinking in his whines and complaints and ignoring all of them. “You’re so good, so fuckin’ good, Sukuna.” 

He whined loudly in response, hands grasping for purchase on the sheets as you railed him into oblivion. “Not good, no,” he sobbed, shaking his head, his protests falling on deaf ears. “Bastard, slow down…”

You let go of his throat to grab the back of his neck, shoving his face roughly into the mattress as he cried out. “Fuck, how do you feel so good?” you muttered mindlessly, taking more rapture in looking at his pleasure-addled expression (eyes squeezed shut, drooling onto the bed, moaning loud and clearly in ecstasy) than the fact that you were inside him. “I could do this all day long, y’know?” 

The tip of his erection grazed against the sheets with every thrust, and he wanted nothing more than to grab it and jerk off to your pace, but you kept his hands so busy, either trying to knock off his balance or brutally pound his entire body into the bed. 

“Ah, ah, sh-shut up! Keep talking and—I’ll twist your head off!” he threatened with a whine, desperate, but you continued to talk, embarrassing him further. 

“Look at you,�� you cooed, “you were making a fuss earlier, and look at you now, taking me so well. Fuck. You look like you’re made for this, Sukuna. Made for taking my cock.” 

He seized up at that, hole clenching around your girth obscenely, making your pace stutter. 

“What was that?” you laughed. “Was that a turn on? You’re too cute, really.” 

Sukuna tried to morph his face into a look of disgust, but all he succeeded in doing was have his eyebrows pinched up in a look that resembled pure bliss more than anything. At some point he gave up struggling, arms going slack as he allowed you to pull him back against your cock by the hips, fucking him onto your lap as lewd ‘ah, ah, ah’s escaped his lips. 

You were pounding into him like an animal, treating him like one, and yet your pathetic, ingratiating words never failed to make his heart cramp up with a strange sensation, heat spreading from his face to the tips of his ears and down his chest, painting him a pretty red. 

You were just another lowly human, he reminded himself, someone to fuck and forget, but at the moment Sukuna found himself wishing to get lost in the stars that erupted around the edges of his vision every time you hit his prostate, found himself wanting a second time, even if the first hadn’t ended yet. You drove him insane, and he loathed how good it made him feel. 

“Brat,” he heard his own voice, wrecked by how much noise he had been making, and you leaned forward to kiss his spine, letting him know you heard him. 

“What?” you murmured as he didn’t continue, slowing down your thrusts. “D’you need something? Does it hurt?” He bristled at how tender your words were, how you acted like you cared about a bloodthirsty curse like him. 

“Did I give you permission to stop?” He pushed his hips back against you with a growl, forcing you to pick up your pace. “Just wanta let you know—after this. You’ve got—hnngh, ahh, fuuuck! Nowhere to run. So don’t even think about i-it.” 

You blinked, equal parts amused and perplexed by his sudden threat. You dared not stop, though, even as he started to pant and whine heavily into the mattress, body shuddering with the gradual approach of an orgasm. “I’m not going to run from you, Sukuna. Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Why would you run, when he was right under you, pliant and wanting for you to satisfy him? Did he not understand how much you’ve yearned for this? 

“Good choice,” he moaned, “don’t you dare fucking stop until you make me cum.”

You sped up your thrusts, snaking a hand back onto his neck and up to fist into his hair, wrenching his head up to smother him with a filthy kiss. It was rough, and more teeth than tongue, and at some point you could taste the sharp tang of blood from the cut in his lip earlier. You lapped it up along with the saliva that trickled down his chin, hearing him let out a needy whine. 

“So close, ah—so damn close, please, please, fucking please—” he begged shamelessly between loud moans, stripping himself naked of all dignity as he spent the last of his energy to bend his back into a vile arch, pressing his ass against your crotch as you slammed yourself into his swollen sweet spot in one powerful thrust. 

A scream ripped from his throat and he came untouched, staining the bed with white, at the same time clamping down on you so hard you jerked to a sudden stop. You collapsed onto his back, panting loudly as you tried to catch your breath. 

“Fuck,” you groaned. “You okay?” 

He refused to respond, keeping his face buried in the mattress. You took the opportunity to pull out, hearing him let out a soft whine, cold and aching and suddenly empty. 

“Fuck you,” you heard him mutter. 

That was good. He was still alive. 

You slumped down onto the bed next to him, kissing his shoulder to try and get him to turn, and he raised a shaky hand to flip you off, mumbling something you assumed was a profanity. 

Biting down a grin at how utterly adorable he was being, you found yourself overwhelmed by a sudden rush of affection. 

“What, are you shy?” you teased. “Don’t be.” 

He scoffed, the tips of his ears reddening. “Brat, I am not shy.”

He didn’t have any reason to be shy. Not to you. After all, you had long mapped out every inch of his body, from his prominent features to his most vulnerable. Made him want to bare his throat for you to make him feel good.

But nothing could have prepared you for the way Sukuna slowly flipped himself onto his back, levelling you with a sleepy, half-lidded gaze instead of his usual hard glare, muttering something under his breath. He watched you quietly, placing his hand next to yours on the bed, the position far too intimate for your comfort.

“Hey,” you blurted out, feeling your heart skip a beat. You knew you were risking everything, and that he could kill you in the blink of an eye, but you couldn’t stop the next words from coming out. “You were really good today.” 

Good.

Sukuna had been called many things in his life before, but ‘good’ was not one of them. Good men did not dirty their hands with the blood of the innocent for fun. Good men did not sit on a mountain of bones and call themselves a king. Good men did not grow six arms and four eyes and look like monsters, and Sukuna was a monster himself.

There was a long, awkward pause, and his eyes were wide with a look you couldn’t decipher—one of disgust or mockery, maybe, and you were already regretting it. But to your utmost surprise, it started with a light blush dusted high on his cheekbones, before it bloomed into a dark red that spread across his face. The corners of his lips twitched, and then lifted, ever so slightly. He immediately fought to replace it with a scowl, but you had already seen it. 

He had smiled. Sukuna had smiled at you. A genuine, almost soft smile, as though he cherished the way you told him he was good, had longed to hear it for centuries of living.

“Quit smiling, brat,” he huffed, but his voice lacked any real venom, more exhausted and content than anything, and made no refusal when you leaned in to kiss him.

Sukuna would later realise that he was neither good nor man, but if you were ever so willing to embrace a curse like him, he supposed he could be good to you, for you.  masterlist! # and here’s to introducing me and my delusions to the jjk fandom… also i feel like my tags r getting a lil repetitive lol

[kinnotakara]

Thinking about Yandere!Mafia boss

warning: sex, degradation, feminization, slight exhibitionism

Yandere!Mafia boss who fell in love with you at first sight. He can’t even remember the day, only the sight of you. From that instant, his once-meaningless existence found its purpose: you. Nothing else mattered. Your presence became his singular focus, an addiction. It didn’t matter if you didn’t see it like that. You’d come to understand that you two were meant to be.

Yandere!Mafia boss who stalks you to your work and college. Who gets pissed when anyone talks to you. Your friends, colleagues, professors and even cashiers. You’re his, so why were you even looking at others?

Yandere!Mafia boss who breaks into your apartment just to steal your clothes. Taking pictures of all the things you like so he could fill your new room in his house with things you liked.

Yandere!Mafia boss who kidnapped you claiming to give you a better life. Sick of watching you work and struggle, he took you back to his place. It didn’t matter if he had to drug you. It was for your own good.

Yandere!Mafia boss who insists that you have to obey him and never leave him, even when he is on his knees massaging your legs willingly after you made a comment about how they were numb.

Yandere!Mafia boss who acts tough and aggressive only to wither under your frown like a disobedient puppy. Practically begging for your forgiveness as he hesitantly tried to please you by offering money, and insisting he you give you anything you wanted as long as you weren’t mad at him.

Yandere!Mafia boss who bursts into your room at night, demanding that you pay him back for his generosity using your body, only to stiffen and cower as you agree.

Yandere!Mafia boss who is clueless about sex, awkwardly stripping, showing off his well defined chest and heavy pecs. Sitting on the edge of the bed, like a trembling virgin.

Yandere!Mafia boss who you have to coax to come close and for all his arrogance and bravado cums the minute you touch his cock. Face flushing red as he pressed his thighs together, trying to hide the stickiness.

Yandere!Mafia boss who can’t help but whine when you kiss him throughly, breath hitching when you play with his chest. Nodding obediently when you tell him you’re going to fuck him instead.

Yandere!Mafia boss who whines prettily turning his face away when you call him pretty, and coo about how big his tits are. It shouldn’t turn him on, but he can’t help but feel warm and fuzzy at your words.

Yandere!Mafia boss who eagerly spreads his ass cheeks so you can fuck his cute pussy. Showing off his twitching pink hole he already prepped, trembling as he tried to see if you were pleased. Crying out when your cock entered him, and cumming immediately form the fullness.

Yandere!Mafia boss who lets you manhandle him into different positions, as you fuck him into incoherency. Drawn out whines of your name and sobbing leaving his kiss swollen red lips when you fuck his tight hole.

Yandere!Mafia boss who cry when you degrade him, calling him a slut for breaking into your room and smelling your clothes. And calling him a pathetic whore for begging for a cock in his pussy. He begs and sobs for forgiveness as you ask who else fucked his tight pussy. Sobbing that’s he’s only a slut for you as he clings to your body pressing his tits against you trying to distract you.

Yandere!Mafia boss who love how sweet you are during aftercare, clinging to you like a desperate puppy, begging you to fuck his wet pussy again.

Yandere!Mafia boss who’d let you fuck him anywhere. Too desperate for your approval to deny you, even as you fuck him during a video call meeting. Let you paint his face with cum, eagerly licking it off to taste you. Sitting on your cock during meetings, only to stay after every one has left so you could fuck his swollen pussy.

Yandere!Mafia boss who claim your nothing but a toy only to run to you and kneel and beg for your attention and approval. Letting you punish him however you wanted, loving it when you call princess and your pretty girl.

Yandere!Mafia boss who’s so in love with you they’d do anything for you. Acting more like a content pet than a dominant leader. Looking at you with hearts in his eyes. All hazy and adoring, making you feel high off his love. He only got more addicted to you when you acted mean, showing what kind of cruel person lay under your nice facade.

GOJO, TOJI, SUKUNA, WRIOTHESLEY, GHOST, ZORO, BEELZEBUB, MAMMON, JIYAN, CALCHIRO, KÖNIG, and anyone else you like <3