#♡modern au human kink | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fangdokja · 5 days ago

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"Go on, use my face, pretty girl. Ride me like you mean it."

❤︎ Synopsis. They swore they’d take their time, stay in control—but the moment their lips met your cunt, something snapped. Now, they’re ravenous, insatiable, worshiping you with a hunger that borders on madness, desperate to drown in the very thing that’s ruining them.

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Soft! Modern AU! Various x Fem. Reader (separate)

♡ Characters Include. Nerd! Gojo, Biker! Soft! Sukuna, Professor! Half-Dragon! Rex Lapis, Academic Rival! Alhaitham, Older Brother! Sunday, Father! Human! Boothill, Step Brother! Caleb, Bully! Soft! Bakugo, Fuckboy! Atsumu, Virgin! Barou

♡ Kidnapper x Captor Series. The Thirsting - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 10,703 (about 1K each character)

♡ TW. dom + top + older + soft sadist yanderes, non-con + rape, BDSM + DDLG, incest, unhealthy oral sex, mature language, forced orgasms, overstimulation, food play, inappropriate use of kinks, degradation + humiliation, implied blackmail, public sex, physical assault, slapping + spanking + biting + slight choking, fingering, unwilling arousal, date drugging, general manipulation + gaslighting + abuse + trauma, abuse of authority, slight brat taming

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝! 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✦✧✦✧

He’s already grinning by the time you open your eyes.

"Ah, finally awake? Took you long enough, sweetheart."

Your body doesn't respond immediately—slow, sluggish, barely able to process the strange scent lingering in the air. Something sweet, sticky, saccharine. It makes your stomach turn.

The room is dimly lit, shadows flickering across the walls from a single desk lamp. Your wrists ache. A dull, throbbing pain blooms from where they’re restrained above your head, tied to the headboard with something that’s not quite rope. Something silkier, softer—but unyielding all the same.

Gojo’s sitting at the edge of the bed, his glasses gone, those pale blue eyes sharper in the dark. His mouth is already curved into something smug, something too pleased. The expression makes your skin prickle, like you've just stepped into a trap you hadn't noticed until now.

"You’ve been sleeping like a baby. Thought about waking you up, but you looked so cute all helpless like that." His voice drips honey, laced with something more dangerous. "Not to mention—you were drooling a little. Kind of adorable, really."

You twist, testing your restraints, but the silk doesn't budge. His smirk widens, pleased by the feeble struggle.

"Now, now. No need for that. You’ll only make it worse for yourself."

The sickly sweet scent in the air intensifies, and it’s then you notice the bowl sitting beside him. A small, glass dish filled with something glossy and thick. Melted chocolate. A silver spoon rests against the edge, coated in the dark substance.

Your stomach churns. Your mouth feels too dry.

"Ah, you noticed?" His grin stretches, impossibly wide. "You know, I was thinking. You're always so cold to me, so resistant. And that's fine, really. I like a little chase." His fingers dip into the bowl, swirling lazily before lifting, glossy with chocolate. He holds it up, inspecting the way it drips. "But I'm such a generous guy, you know? I believe in positive reinforcement. A little bit of sugar, and suddenly everything is easier to swallow."

His fingers are at your lips before you can twist away, smearing the thick chocolate against them. The scent is overwhelming, rich and decadent.

"C'mon, open up for me."

You don’t.

His smirk doesn’t waver. "Always so difficult."

And then his fingers are pressing in, forcing past your lips, past your teeth, pressing against your tongue. The taste floods your mouth—bittersweet, heavy. You gag, but he doesn’t let up, pushing deeper, his knuckles brushing against your chin.

"Good girl. See? It’s not so bad."

Your breath stutters when he finally withdraws his fingers, a wet pop accompanying the movement. He watches the way your tongue flicks against the roof of your mouth, the way your throat works to swallow it down. He looks... delighted.

"You should really learn to appreciate the finer things in life, sweetheart. I mean, c’mon." His fingers trail down, dragging chocolate along your collarbone, sticky lines painting your skin. "Doesn't it feel good to be pampered a little?"

You flinch when he moves lower, when his hands slip beneath the sheets, shoving them down in one smooth motion. The cool air prickles against your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his touch. His fingers skate over your stomach, slow and teasing, trailing towards your thighs.

"Mmm, I've been waiting for this." His voice dips, almost affectionate. "You're always running that pretty mouth, but I know your body’s honest." His thumb strokes slow circles along your inner thigh, watching the way your breath stutters, watching the way your body flinches against itself. "You know, I read somewhere that taste can be directly linked to pleasure. Makes sense, right?"

The realization sinks in too late.

The spoon clinks against the bowl again, and you barely manage to squirm before something warm, wet, and sticky drips between your legs.

Your body jolts.

The chocolate slides over your skin, down your folds, thick and cloying. It pools at the cleft of your thighs, the sensation foreign, humiliating.

Gojo hums appreciatively. "Pretty. You wear it well."

His hands are spreading your thighs wider, holding you open as he surveys his work. The hunger in his gaze is unmistakable.

"I wonder…" He dips a finger into the mess, swirling idly before dragging it up, pressing it against your clit. The sensation is immediate—warm and slick, a contrast that sends heat sparking up your spine. "Ah, look at you. You always act so cold, but here you are, melting already."

You jolt when his head dips low, the realization making you jolt hard against the restraints.

"W- wait, Gojo—"

"Shhh."

And then his tongue is there, hot and wet and insistent.

The breath is knocked from your lungs. The contrast is jarring—the cool air against the warmth of his mouth, the stickiness of the chocolate, the wet drag of his tongue. He moans against you, loud and unashamed, sucking, licking, devouring.

He’s messy.

Too messy.

His mouth works greedily, tongue flicking against your clit before dipping down, swirling against your entrance. The obscene sounds fill the room—his wet slurping, his breathy groans, the squelch of chocolate and spit mixing between your legs.

"F-fuck," he pants between licks, voice thick with lust. "You taste fucking good."

Your stomach twists, mortified. Your wrists strain against the silk bindings, but his grip on your thighs is vice-like, his fingers digging bruises into your skin as he holds you still.

"S-stop—" Your voice is weak, broken, barely above a whisper.

He laughs against you, the vibrations making your body jerk involuntarily. "Why? You don’t like sweets?" His tongue presses flat against you, licking another slow, deliberate stripe. "Or do you just not like me eating you up like one?"

His fingers join the assault, slick with chocolate and spit, pressing inside without preamble. Your walls clench around him, an involuntary reaction that earns a groan from deep in his chest.

"Shit," he breathes, curling his fingers, stretching you open. "You feel so fucking good." His tongue flicks against your clit, quick and relentless, sending sharp jolts of unwanted pleasure up your spine.

You hate it.

You hate how your body reacts.

Hate how his voice turns breathy and wrecked, how he sounds almost delirious. Pussy drunk. Obsessed. Like he can’t get enough, like he’s been starving for this.

His hips rut against the mattress, desperate for friction. He moans into your cunt, tongue pushing deeper, fingers pressing harder. He sounds ruined.

And the worst part?

You think he likes this more than he ever should.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 ✦✧✦✧

He doesn’t fucking eat pussy.

Never has. Never needed to.

Women begged to suck his dick. Lined up for it. Bent over for it. Any time, any place, like obedient little pets, desperate to be used. It was supposed to be the natural order—he takes, they give. That’s how it worked. That’s how he made it work.

But you? You don’t fucking break right. And that pisses him off.

You’re nothing special, not in the way women usually are. Not a bombshell, not dolled up, not preening for male attention like the sluts he’s used to. Quiet. Smart. Always in your own head, barely sparing him a glance. Some stuck-up little freak who thinks she’s better than him just because she doesn’t drop her panties the second he whistles.

He should’ve hated you.

And he does. But not enough to keep himself from wanting to tear you apart.

Not enough to stop himself from pressing your shaking legs apart, sliding his hands beneath your thighs, and spreading you wide open like he owns you. Because he does. He’s going to make sure of it.

But this.

This wasn’t supposed to fucking happen.

His mouth is on you. And he can’t fucking stop.

His tongue works against your slit, lapping up the slick that coats your soft folds. At first, it was just to see you break—to hear you sob, to make you feel the humiliation of being forced open and devoured by the man you loathe. He wanted you to cry harder, beg, push against his head while he grinned into your cunt.

He didn’t expect to like it.

Didn’t expect it to make his head spin, to make his cock ache so fucking bad his vision goes hazy. Didn’t expect your taste to drag him under like a riptide, his fingers gripping your hips too hard, nails sinking in to hold you still so he can—

What the fuck is wrong with him? He doesn’t do this.

Doesn’t fucking need to.

And yet here he is, burying his tongue into your pussy like a fucking starved man, like an animal, like something feral and unchained. It pisses him off, makes his blood boil, but that only fuels him to go harder, to press his tongue deeper, to flick and suck and force himself to drink you down like some kind of fucking addict.

Your sobs turn into ragged, broken sounds. Gasping. Whimpering. Your thighs twitch, trying to press closed, but he pries them apart again, furious. No fucking way. He’s not letting you hide from him. Not after this. Not after you made him feel this way.

Your body betrays you before you can protest.

A shudder rips through you as his tongue curls around your clit, and your stomach tenses, your hands flying to push at his shoulders—

“Fucking don’t.” His voice is dark, raw, spoken against the mess between your legs. You freeze. He barely recognizes his own voice. He barely recognizes himself.

He’s panting. His breath is ragged, his mouth soaked in you, his grip white-knuckled and bruising where he holds you down. His cock is rock-hard, throbbing against the rough denim of his jeans, and all he can think about is shoving it inside you, fucking you so deep you never recover from it.

But instead, he’s still here. Still eating you out. Still losing his fucking mind over it.

His tongue flicks over your clit again, then again, then again, punishing, relentless, until your back arches and you keeeen—

And fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Your cunt clenches in response, a weak little tremor that has his own body reacting like he’s just been shot. He grips your thighs so hard they’ll bruise, presses his tongue in so deep he might suffocate himself. His mind is white-hot static. The taste of you is the only thing that exists, and he hates you for it. Hates you because he likes this, because he’s never let himself like anything this much.

Your body writhes beneath him, hips jerking, as if you could escape. He growls against your clit, sucking hard, punishing, wrecking, until—

A scream rips from your throat.

You shatter against him, thighs trembling violently, your cunt pulsing with the force of your orgasm, and he doesn’t let up.

He won’t let up.

His jaw aches. His lips are swollen, tongue raw, fingers buried into your flesh so hard he might leave scars. He doesn’t fucking care. He’s starving. He needs more. More of you, more of this, more of the thing he never should have allowed himself to touch in the first place.

And when he finally pulls back, his face is drenched. His pupils are blown, his breath harsh, his cock aching so bad he might pass out from it.

You’re shaking, a sobbing mess, your body limp from the aftershocks. And when you open your mouth—maybe to beg, maybe to curse, maybe to sob his name—he cuts you off with a sharp, guttural snarl:

“Shut the fuck up.”

You don’t listen, voice cracking around a sob. His expression twists.

He stands. Grabs you.

Flips you onto your stomach.

Yanks your ass up, shoves your face down.

He can’t think anymore. Can’t breathe anymore. And it’s your fucking fault.

So now? Now you’re going to pay for it.

His belt hits the floor.

His jeans follow.

His cock presses against the slick mess he made between your thighs, head throbbing, burning, soaked in his own precum and your own unwilling release.

He fists your hair, yanks your head back to hiss in your ear—

“I don’t eat pussy.”

And then he shoves inside.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫! 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧! 𝐑𝐞𝐱 𝐋𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐬 ✦✧✦✧

He watches you struggle in your seat, back pressed against the polished wood of his office chair, the cold leather beneath you a contrast to the fire burning in his golden eyes. Rex Lapis—your professor, your sponsor, your guardian—leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, as though contemplating a matter of academic gravity rather than the trembling girl before him.

“You disappoint me.”

Three words. Measured. Heavy. They slide down your spine like a branding iron, burning you in a way far worse than any physical punishment he’s given before. The weight of his disappointment is worse than the sharpest reprimand. Worse than the lash of his tongue in class, where he berates you for careless mistakes, where he calls you an ‘insipid little girl who refuses to learn.’

But here? In his private office? The words take on a different meaning. One that makes your stomach coil tight, a snake of dread slithering into your gut.

“I have given you everything,” he muses, tilting his head ever so slightly, golden eyes sharpening. “This school. This future. My sponsorship. And yet… you squander it.”

He stands. The slow, deliberate movement makes your breath hitch. He is all sharp angles and coiled strength, honed through centuries of war, battle-hardened from an age where men ripped each other apart for the right to breathe.

“I expect more from you.” He takes a step forward, and your legs press tighter together instinctively. His lips curl.

“Ah. There it is,” he murmurs, almost amused. “That resistance. That little streak of defiance.”

A calloused hand finds your chin, gripping, tilting your face up to meet his stare. Your breath catches in your throat. His fingers tighten. Just enough to remind you of your place.

“You are too easily distracted. Too easily led astray.” His thumb brushes your lower lip. His eyes darken. “I must break that.”

Your pulse spikes. “Professor—”

The slap comes swift, a sharp crack echoing through the silence. Your head snaps to the side, cheek burning. A whimper stumbles from your lips before you can swallow it down.

“Ah. There’s the voice I prefer.”

He grips your thighs next, wrenches them apart. You yelp, fingers clawing at his arms, his wrists—anywhere you can reach—but he is immovable. Unshakable.

“Still fighting? Still so stubborn?” His chuckle is dark, condescending. “You never learn.”

The next moment, his mouth is on you.

A cry rips from your throat. His teeth sink into the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, a cruel nip before his tongue laves over the spot, soothing, claiming. He drags his mouth higher, lips ghosting over your untouched heat.

You thrash.

“No, no, no—”

Your pleas are swallowed by the sharp crack of another slap, this one landing against the softness of your thigh. Heat blossoms in its wake, burning, humiliating. He does it again. And again. Until the pain blurs into something else. Until your legs tremble and your body betrays you.

“You are mine to correct.”

His voice is muffled, spoken against your most intimate place. Then his tongue—oh, his forked tongue. It flicks, teases, before delving deep, as if seeking to taste the very essence of your disobedience. He groans, the vibrations sending a jolt through your spine. His clawed fingers dig into your hips, holding you down, forcing you to take every flick, every roll, every punishing suckle.

Your nails dig into the arms of the chair, but the leather offers no mercy. No salvation.

His pace is brutal. Unrelenting.

He devours you like a starving beast, tongue pushing into you, twisting, drinking in every reaction, every flinch, every shudder. Your thighs try to snap shut around his head, but he growls, a warning, a threat, and forces them wider, fingers bruising your flesh.

“You taste…” A sharp nip. A long, slow lap. “Sweet, despite your sins.”

You whimper, body taut with shame, with fear, with the overwhelming sensation of being utterly at his mercy.

His fingers ghost over your entrance before shoving inside, two at once. You choke on a sob, body arching off the chair, but his other hand presses down on your stomach, keeping you trapped beneath his touch.

“Already squeezing me,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Your body knows its master well.”

His fingers curl, dragging against that devastatingly sensitive spot inside you. Your legs jerk. He smirks against you, tongue never stopping, lapping, sucking, owning.

Pussy-drunk.

That’s what he is.

Lost in you. Lost in the taste, in the heat, in the way you tremble under him, helpless and ruined.

Your body shakes. Your nails scrape against his scalp, pushing, pulling, desperate to get him away, desperate for him to stop.

He only laughs.

Cruel.

Sadistic.

Then he bites down on your clit.

A sharp, brutal jolt of pain sends your mind spiraling, white-hot and blinding. Your scream is muffled by his large palm suddenly clamping over your mouth.

“Hush,” he warns, breath fanning against your soaked skin. “We wouldn’t want anyone to hear how depraved you are.”

He slaps your thigh again. Sharp. Stinging.

“Ungrateful little thing.”

Another slap.

You sob, muffled against his palm, tears spilling from your eyes.

“Perhaps I should keep you here all night,” he muses, licking up the evidence of his torment. “Until you finally understand who you belong to.”

Your body betrays you again. Your stomach coils, tension tightening to an unbearable point. He feels it.

He grins.

Then he buries his face between your thighs once more, drinking in your ruin.

“You will not fail me again,” he murmured, his fingers trailing up your trembling body. “You will be better. You will be mine.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥! 𝐀𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ✦✧✦✧

He never considered himself an impulsive man. Logic dictated every action, every carefully weighed decision. But tonight, your laughter, your distracted eyes lingering on another man's lips, your voice—so sweet, so ignorant—became the fault line that split apart the foundation of his restraint.

Alhaitham’s fingers brush against the rim of his glass, his gaze shadowed beneath the dim dormitory light. The scent of ink and parchment lingers, mingling with the faint trace of something sweeter—something chemical, dissolving into the depths of your drink as you chatter away, oblivious.

The aphrodisiac is slow-acting, calibrated precisely. He'd tested it, measured its potency down to the molecule. No room for error. No risk of overdose. Just enough to make you pliant, fevered—enough to make you need him.

“Do you always stare this much when we’re studying?”

Your voice is teasing, but there’s wariness beneath it. You’ve always been sharp, frustratingly so. A perfect rival, an infuriating thorn. A woman so brilliant yet so blind. Alhaitham schools his expression, feigning nonchalance as he flips a page in his research journal.

“Your arguments are flawed,” he mutters, eyes dragging across the words rather than meeting your gaze. “I assumed prolonged exposure to my intellect would have improved your reasoning skills, but apparently, I overestimated you.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but you don’t notice the slight tremor in your hands as you grip your pen. Not yet. The change is gradual—first, the warmth spreading through your skin, then the subtle, disorienting haze slipping over your mind.

Minutes pass. Then more. Your breath hitches. You shift uncomfortably, legs pressing together beneath the table. A sheen of sweat glistens at your temple, and when you blink up at him, there’s a flicker of something vulnerable in your expression.

“…I think I need some air.”

He smiles. It’s almost genuine. “Do you?”

You move to stand, but your knees buckle. His chair scrapes against the floor as he rises—too quick, too measured. You don’t even have time to recoil before his arms are around you, steadying you with an ease that feels rehearsed.

His hand splays over the small of your back. His breath ghosts against your ear. You’re trembling now, caught in the precise balance between confusion and need, between fear and the slow, traitorous hunger unfurling in your stomach.

“I can help you,” he murmurs, voice smooth, unshaken. “Let me.”

Panic flickers in your gaze. “Alhaitham…? What did you…?”

Your lips part, perhaps to accuse him, perhaps to beg. It doesn’t matter. He’s already moving, already pulling you into the abyss he’s so meticulously crafted.

✦✧✦✧

The mattress dips beneath you as he settles between your legs. You’re too weak to push him away now, too lost in the fever. He watches, mesmerized, as your body writhes, helpless against the storm of sensations overtaking you.

His hands part your thighs, and the sight of you—panting, squirming, slick with an unwilling desire that only he can soothe—renders him breathless.

Alhaitham is a scholar. A man of reason. But nothing in his studies, nothing in his countless observations of you, could have prepared him for this.

You whimper, trying to twist away, but he grips your thighs, holding you open with a strength that leaves bruises. “Don’t fight it,” he murmurs, voice heavy with something dark, something possessive. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Tears well in your eyes, a denial forming on your lips, but then he leans down, pressing his mouth against the burning heat of your core.

You choke on a gasp, your body jolting as if struck by lightning.

He groans against you, tongue dragging slow, deliberate paths through your wetness. The taste of you is intoxicating—salty, sweet, unwilling. He drinks it in, lost, consumed, enslaved to the very thing he’s taken.

Your thighs try to snap shut, but his grip is unrelenting. Every inch of your skin beneath his fingers is branded, owned. His tongue flicks against your clit, and your sobbing moan is the most exquisite sound he’s ever heard.

He’s never done this before, never touched another body like this, but it doesn’t matter. He’s studied anatomy, observed every nuance of your reactions. He knows what makes you shudder, what makes your breath hitch, what forces pleasure through your resistance like an invasive sickness.

His fingers slip inside you without preamble, and your back arches, a sob breaking past your lips. He curls them, stroking deep, ruthless in his precision, in the way he tears you apart.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your cunt, pulling back just enough to watch your flushed, tear-streaked face. “You taste…” He licks into you again, groaning. “Better than I expected.”

Your walls clench around him, betraying you, and his eyes darken.

You can’t stop this. Can’t stop him. The aphrodisiac won’t let you. Your own body won’t let you.

The thought terrifies you.

But it excites him.

He’s hard, aching, unbearably so. His free hand moves to unfasten his belt, but he doesn’t stop devouring you, doesn’t stop sucking at the swollen bud of your clit until your cries turn breathless, high-pitched.

Your pleasure isn’t supposed to matter. And yet, the idea of pulling it from you—ripping it from your unwilling body, forcing you to fall apart beneath him—is the most arousing thing he’s ever imagined.

He needs more. More of your taste, more of your sounds, more of the helpless tremble in your limbs as he ruins you.

His name leaves your lips—a broken sob, a plea—but he doesn’t stop.

He wouldn’t dream of stopping.

Because you are his.

You just don’t realize it yet.

Your orgasm slams into you without warning. Your body jerks, a cry ripped from your throat as you shatter, pleasure crashing over you in unbearable waves. Alhaitham groans against you, lapping up every drop, refusing to let you go even as you twitch, oversensitive and gasping.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with arousal. “But we’re not done.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his face drenched in your slick, his gaze dark, unreadable.

He licks his lips.

“I need more data.”

You’re boneless beneath him now, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp. Your eyes, half-lidded, glisten with tears. He watches the rise and fall of your breath, the tremor in your fingers as you try—weakly, pathetically—to push him away.

He catches your wrist. Presses a kiss to your pulse. Feels it hammer beneath his lips.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs, voice a hushed vow, a cruel promise. “Aren’t you?”

Your lips tremble. You shake your head.

He smiles.

Then he undoes his belt.

And logic no longer holds any meaning.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 ✦✧✦✧

The marble floors are cold beneath his bare feet. He’s already stripped off his tie and jacket, the once-pristine image of class and composure unraveling thread by thread. His fingers brush his lips absently, tongue darting out to chase the phantom taste of you. He had barely begun, and yet his body thrums with insatiable hunger.

He is supposed to be above this.

But you make him lose himself.

His breath comes slow and measured, yet his eyes gleam with something sharp, something ruthless. You tremble against the silken sheets beneath you, the remnants of your protests still lingering in the air, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. Not when your scent is still thick on his tongue. Not when his fingers are pressing against your trembling thighs, parting them as if they belong to him.

Because they do.

“You’re shaking,” he muses, voice velvet smooth, a gentle mockery that makes your stomach twist. “I haven’t even started yet.”

He relishes in the fear flashing across your gaze, the way your lips part—not in invitation, but in refusal. It’s cute. Almost sweet. The way you still think you have a say in this.

Sunday sighs, long and drawn out, as if disappointed.

“Why do you fight me on this?” His fingers trail up your thigh, featherlight yet firm. You flinch, and his smile widens, something serene—angelic, almost.

“It’s as if you don’t understand.” He leans in, slow, inexorable. The warmth of his breath fans over your throat. “This was inevitable.”

You jerk when his lips brush your collarbone. A soft laugh vibrates against your skin, his fingers pressing deeper into your flesh. He could hold you down if he wanted to—force you apart, break you in half. But there’s no need for that. He’s far more patient than you deserve.

And besides, you’ll learn soon enough.

Your lips part to speak, but he shushes you, his thumb pressing against your lower lip, dragging it down ever so slightly. His pupils are blown wide, drunk off your scent, your taste.

“I should punish you,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, as if lost in prayer. “For making me wait. For making me suffer.”

He doesn’t, though. Not yet. He wants to savor this.

His mouth trails lower, pressing reverent, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, his hands mapping out every trembling inch of you. When he parts your legs wider, you squeeze your eyes shut, breath hitching as cool air kisses your damp skin.

“Look at you,” he breathes, reverence laced with something dark, something dangerous. “You say no, but your body…” He exhales softly, almost dazed. “Your body is so, so honest.”

Your nails dig into the sheets, and he laughs again, breath ghosting over your thighs. He lets you feel the weight of his stare, the heat of his breath, the unbearable anticipation that coils tight in your stomach.

“Are you afraid?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

You make a sound—a whimper, a plea, it hardly matters. Because the moment you do, he descends.

His tongue presses against you, slow, deliberate, savoring. A broken moan slips from his lips, muffled against your folds. He hums, pleased, eyes fluttering shut as he drowns himself in the taste of you.

“So sweet,” he groans, his grip tightening around your thighs, forcing them open. “So perfect.”

Your breath stutters, a choked whimper escaping as his tongue moves with sinful precision, flicking against your clit, then dragging down to lap at your entrance.

He’s ravenous. Starved. Every stroke of his tongue is indulgent, worshipful, yet possessive in a way that makes your stomach churn.

You try to push him away—your fingers tangling in his hair, weakly attempting to shove him back. But the moment you do, his grip turns bruising, a warning growl vibrating against your core.

“Ungrateful,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His lips are glistening, his breath heavy, pupils blown wide with something terrifying. “You fight me even now?”

Your fingers tremble against his scalp, and he smiles—slow, cruel.

“I’ll have to fix that.”

Before you can react, his mouth is on you again, his tongue delving deep, curling inside you. He groans as your walls flutter around him, as your thighs twitch against his hold. His nose brushes against your clit, his grip keeping you still as he devours you whole.

His world narrows to this—to you. The taste, the heat, the way your body clenches and trembles under his touch. He’s dizzy with it, drunk off it, his thoughts clouded with nothing but the primal need to consume.

You sob when he sucks your clit between his lips, the pleasure sharp, unbearable. His fingers join the assault, pressing inside you, stretching you open as if molding you to fit him.

His free hand drags up your stomach, pressing against the soft flesh, feeling the way you spasm under his touch. His lips part, a broken moan spilling out as he flicks his tongue against your swollen nub, never once relenting.

“Give it to me,” he murmurs, half-dazed, half-commanding. “I want it. I want all of it.”

Your body betrays you, pleasure ripping through your spine, leaving you breathless, trembling, undone. You sob as your climax crashes over you, your body writhing against the sheets, against him.

But he doesn’t stop.

Not when you whimper, not when you try to push him away, not when tears slip down your cheeks, and certainly not when you beg.

Because it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

His lips move against your oversensitive flesh, relentless, insatiable. His fingers curl inside you, coaxing more, demanding more. Your thighs twitch, your back arching against the overwhelming sensation, but he doesn’t stop.

He won’t stop.

Not until you’ve broken completely.

“I told you, little sister.” His voice is a breathy whisper, almost regretful. “You only need me.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧! 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 ✦✧✦✧

The room stinks of old wood and cigarette smoke, a haze of whiskey and sweat clinging to the air. The walls creak, ancient with dust and decay, pressing in like a silent audience. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. The only sound is the soft hum of the ceiling fan, slow, deliberate rotations slicing through the quiet.

Then, his voice. Low. Drawling. Dripping with amusement.

"Darlin’, reckon you know why yer sittin’ there all stiff-like."

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your body is frozen in place, perched on the edge of a bed that feels too large, too suffocating. The door is locked. You heard the click behind you when he walked in, boots heavy against the floorboards, the distinct jingle of his belt unbuckling echoing in the suffocating air.

Boothill tilts his head, pushing the brim of his cowboy hat up with a lazy finger. Those sharp grey eyes glint under the dim light, dragging over you like a slow, cruel brand. He looks at you the way a starving animal sizes up fresh meat.

"Aw, darlin’… ain’t no need to look so damn scared. Ain’t like I’m gonna bite." His grin is a razor-thin slash across his face. "Unless y’want me to."

You swallow, pressing your thighs together, fingers knotting in the fabric of your dress. But it doesn’t matter. He notices everything. The way your breath catches. The slight shiver running through you. The way your knees twitch inward, like you think that’ll stop him.

He steps forward. Closer.

"Go on now," he murmurs, voice syrup-thick and full of wicked intent. "Spread ‘em."

You shake your head. A mistake. The rejection makes his expression shift, the casual amusement twisting into something darker, hungrier.

His knee presses between your thighs, forcing them apart, and you gasp. He leans in, breath hot against your cheek, the scent of tobacco and whiskey filling your lungs.

"Ain’t like you got much say in it, sugar," he whispers. "We both know that."

His hands are rough, calloused from years of hard work, gripping your thighs and dragging them further apart. The sound of your heartbeat pounds in your ears, drowning out everything but him—his breath, his heat, the weight of his stare as he drinks in the sight of you.

"Ain’t this a damn shame," Boothill tuts, sliding his fingers up, slow, teasing, barely grazing where you don’t want him. "Gotta teach ya how to be obedient."

Your breath stutters as he hooks his fingers around the edge of your panties and yanks them down. The cool air hits your bare skin, sending a violent shudder through you. He groans at the sight, his pupils blowing wide.

"Fuckin’ hell, darlin’… look atcha. Y’look real pretty when yer scared."

You whimper, a fresh wave of humiliation and horror surging through you. He doesn’t care. If anything, it fuels him.

His mouth finds your inner thigh, teeth scraping against soft flesh. The wet heat of his tongue follows, slow and indulgent, dragging up the sensitive skin. The sharp stubble on his jaw scratches as he moves, teasing, tormenting, making you squirm.

"Shhh, sweetheart. Don’t fight it. Let daddy take care of ya."

The words make you choke.

His tongue flicks out, dragging a wet stripe right over your slit, and you jolt violently, a strangled gasp ripping from your throat.

"Oh-ho," Boothill chuckles darkly, voice muffled against your skin. "Sensitive lil’ thing, huh?"

His grip tightens on your thighs, locking you in place as he presses his mouth against you, slow, savoring the way you twitch and struggle.

"Fuckin’ divine…" he groans, rolling his tongue over you, licking you open like a man who hasn’t eaten in days. "Holy shit, darlin’—ya taste so sweet, might get drunk off ya."

You let out a broken sound, hands flying to his hair to push him away—but that only makes him groan deeper, rumbling against your core.

"Nah, sugar. That’s real fuckin’ cute, but ya ain’t goin’ nowhere."

He sucks hard, the obscene sound of his mouth working against you filling the room. It’s too much. Too wet, too hot, too depraved. His tongue pushes inside, curling, tasting, licking, and he moans like he’s the one being pleasured.

"S’like honey," he slurs, his voice pussy-drunk, heavy with lust. "Fuck, darlin’… need more."

You shake your head wildly, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he doubles down, hands spreading you wider as he devours you, the slick noises mixing with his groans. He grinds his hips into the mattress, rutting against it like a desperate man, like just tasting you is enough to get him off.

"Mmm, yeah, sugar," he grunts, sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it again and again until your legs shake violently. "Give it up for me."

You sob. Your body betrays you, trembling under his ruthless tongue, the unwanted pleasure blurring into something unbearable. He knows. He can feel it. The way your thighs quiver. The way your breathing turns ragged. The way your body—traitorous, weak—reacts to him.

"Atta girl," he growls. "Fuckin’ knew ya’d be sweet on my tongue."

Your vision blurs, the pressure building unbearable, twisting into something shameful, something you don’t want but can’t fight. Boothill doesn’t let up. He’s relentless, dragging you right to the edge, his hands gripping you so tight you’ll have bruises tomorrow.

"C’mon now, sugar," he coaxes. "Be a good girl an’ cum all over daddy’s tongue."

Tears streak down your cheeks. You shake your head, a final desperate denial—but then he moans, vibrating against your clit, and your body locks up with a strangled cry.

Pleasure crashes over you like a violent tide, dragging you under, drowning you. You convulse against him, and he groans like he’s the one coming, drinking you in, licking up every last drop as you shatter beneath him.

"Fuuuck, that’s it, sweetheart. Shit! Damn." He pulls back, licking his lips, his chin glistening with you. "Knew ya’d be the best fuckin’ thing I ever tasted."

You barely register the rustling of fabric, the clinking of his belt.

"Now," Boothill drawls, voice thick with arousal, "reckon it’s ‘bout time we get to the real fun."

Your stomach drops.

He grins down at you, his cock hard, leaking against his stomach, the tip flushed an angry red.

"Don’t worry, sugar," he purrs, gripping your hips, lining himself up. "I’ll make sure ya feel every damn inch."

And then—

Pain.

Pleasure.

Terror.

The bed creaks. The ceiling fan spins. The world outside is silent.

And Boothill fucks you like you’re his.

He ain’t never been good at sharin’. Ain’t never been good at lettin’ go of somethin’ that’s his.

And, sugar—you’ve been his since the day you were born.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ✦✧✦✧

He isn’t your brother. Not really.

That’s what you tell yourself, have always told yourself, a little mantra inside your head every time you catch him watching you. A comforting phrase, a dividing wall. Older step-brother. Not blood. Not real. Just family on paper, through marriage and circumstance. That distinction should mean nothing.

But it means everything to him.

The first time he met you, he knew. He always knew, from the second you walked into his life with those sharp, tired eyes and that constant aura of detached calculation, of dismissive apathy. You were different. You weren’t swayed by his easy charm, his golden-boy image, his "gentle giant" reputation. You tolerated him, at best. Mocked him, at worst. He hated it.

He loved it.

It made him want to ruin you.

And he would.

Tonight.

✦✧✦✧

Your apartment is quiet.

It’s late. Too late for visitors. And yet, when you unlock your front door, the first thing you hear is the heavy scrape of a chair against the floor.

He’s already inside.

Sitting at your table like he owns the place, long legs sprawled, fingers drumming against the wood. He looks up when you enter, expression neutral, but there’s something in his eyes.

You stop. The keys in your hand tighten. A slow, creeping unease spreads down your spine.

“Caleb.”

His name feels foreign on your tongue. You’ve said it a million times before, but tonight, it’s different. There’s something off about him. The way he watches you, completely still, something restrained simmering just beneath the surface.

He smiles. A slow, lazy thing. “Hey, kid.”

You bristle. “Don’t call me that.”

He laughs. “Still so prickly.” He stands, stretching, broad shoulders rolling beneath his hoodie. He’s always been big—tall, muscular, thick in a way that most men can’t compare—but tonight, it feels different. He feels different.

A predator in your home.

Your heartbeat picks up. You shift on your feet, fingers twitching toward the pepper spray in your pocket. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.” He steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s testing the waters. “Haven’t spent much time together lately. Thought we should change that.”

“You could’ve called.”

“I did.” His smile widens. “You ignored me.”

The air in the room turns suffocating. He’s close now. Too close. His presence looms, and you realize, with a sick twist of dread, that he’s cornering you without even touching you.

You swallow. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what?”

“Work. Friends. My own fucking life.” You glare up at him, refusing to show fear, even as your stomach twists itself into knots. “You don’t own my time.”

Something flickers in his eyes.

Then he moves.

Fast. So fast that you barely register it before he has you against the wall, your wrist pinned above your head, his other hand gripping your waist. The pepper spray is ripped from your pocket and clatters to the floor. Your breath stutters.

His grip is firm. Unbreakable. His body is hot against yours, his size overwhelming, the scent of his cologne and something deeper—something uniquely him—filling your lungs.

He leans in. His nose brushes against your temple. “Busy, huh?” His voice drops, low and dangerous. “Too busy for me?”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. “Let me go.”

“No.”

You struggle, but it’s useless. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he could. That he will. His breath ghosts over your cheek, slow, measured, savoring. “I’ve been patient,” he murmurs. “So fucking patient.”

You thrash. His hold doesn’t budge.

“You don’t look at me,” he says, voice rough. “Not the way you look at other men. Like I’m some harmless fucking puppy, like I’m just there. Like I’m nothing to you.”

His grip on your waist drags lower, fingers teasing over the curve of your hip. A shudder rips through you, disgust and fear colliding, twisting into something sick and vile.

“You’re sick,” you hiss. “You—”

A gasp tears from your throat as he presses his mouth to your neck. Wet heat. Teeth scraping. A pleased sound rumbles in his chest when you squirm, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, ghosting over your stomach.

“No more ignoring me,” he whispers against your skin. “No more pretending I’m just your fucking brother.”

Your world tilts. The next thing you know, you’re on the floor, the cool wood against your back, his weight pressing you down.

Panic flares. You kick out, thrash, fight with everything you have, but it’s useless. He’s too strong. Too big. His hands pin you, restrain you, force you open beneath him.

Then his mouth is on you.

Your shirt is yanked up, his tongue dragging over your stomach, trailing lower, lower—

“No—!”

His teeth sink into your hip. Sharp. Possessive. A warning. You gasp, hips jerking, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. His hands part your thighs, grip unyielding, bruising, spreading you wide open for him.

Then his mouth meets your core.

It’s obscene. The way he groans, the way his tongue moves, slow and thorough, as if he’s savoring every fucking inch of you. His grip tightens when you try to twist away, holding you still, forcing you to take it. His tongue dips, presses, curls, and your body betrays you, a traitorous jolt of pleasure shooting up your spine.

You bite your lip, refusing to make a sound.

But he notices.

He always notices.

“Still so stubborn.” His voice is husky, thick with hunger, muffled against your slick. “I can feel you shaking.” A wet, lewd sound follows as he suckles at your clit, groaning into your skin. “God, you taste so fucking good.”

Shame coils in your gut. Your hands fist in his hair, meaning to shove him away, to stop this—but when your fingers tighten, all it does is make him groan.

“Yeah?” he breathes, looking up at you, his lips glistening. “You finally touching me?” He grins. “Bet you don’t even realize what you’re doing.”

Tears burn your eyes. “I hate you.”

“I know,” he murmurs. Then he dives back in.

His tongue fucks into you, slow and purposeful, one thick finger pressing in, then two, stretching you open, fucking you open, ruining you for anyone else.

You gasp. Your back arches, your thighs tremble, but there’s no escaping him. No escaping this.

“Gonna make you cum on my tongue.” His voice is a dark promise. “Then I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll never think of another man again.”

Your breath stutters, and you realize—with horror, with devastation—that he’s telling the truth.

You will never be the same after this.

And he knows it.

Because he’s already won.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲! 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨 ✦✧✦✧

There’s blood in your mouth.

Maybe it’s his, maybe it’s yours. The copper sting burns through the alcohol on your tongue, mixing with the bile climbing up your throat.

The air is thick with sweat and spilled liquor, bass thumping through your ribs, but none of it drowns out the sharp slap of his palm against your cheek.

“Bitch, you listenin’ to me?”

Your head snaps sideways, vision momentarily whiting out from the impact, but it barely fazes him. Bakugo's grin splits wide, sharp canines glinting in the dim light, eyes feral as he watches the slow tremble of your lips.

The party roars on behind him. You can feel the weight of bodies pressed into each other, the drunken cheers, the careless indulgence of college students too fucked up to care about anything but the heat of their own bodies.

He doesn’t give a fuck about them.

He only gives a fuck about you.

Bakugo jerks your head back by the roots of your hair, dragging your gaze up to meet his, the burn of his fingers against your scalp anchoring you in place. The red flush across his face isn’t just from the alcohol, not when his pupils are blown wide and his breathing comes in uneven pants. He’s high on this. High on you.

“You really think you’re better than me?” His breath fans across your lips, soaked in whiskey and spite. “Fuckin' stuck-up little bitch—actin' like you don't see me. Actin' like you ain't got my fuckin' eyes on you every shitty day.”

Your stomach lurches as he yanks you forward, the crowd parting around you both like a goddamn spectacle. You try to brace against him, hands weakly shoving at his chest, but he’s immovable. Bakugo only snarls, spinning you around and shoving you against the sticky countertop, pressing the heavy weight of his body against your back.

“Nah,” he breathes, hot and vicious against the shell of your ear. “Not runnin'. Not tonight.”

You barely get the chance to suck in a breath before he kicks your legs apart. One of his arms loops around your middle, dragging you back against his chest while his free hand snakes up your thigh. A violent tremor wracks through you when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, yanking them down in one swift motion.

“Katsuki—”

He laughs.

“Oh, now you wanna say my name?” His fingers ghost over your exposed slit, barely there, but enough to make you jolt. “Now you wanna fuckin' act like you got somethin' to say?”

He doesn't wait for a response.

Two fingers push inside you without preamble, knuckles deep, dragging out a choked, unwilling sob from your throat. Your hips twitch, trying to pull away, but he presses you down harder against the counter, keeping you trapped between his body and the wood. His fingers curl inside you, rubbing against your walls in deep, slow strokes, his cock twitching against your ass at the way you pulse around him.

“So fuckin' tight,” he growls. “Ain't nobody ever touched this pussy before? Hah?”

You want to scream. You want to thrash and claw and bite.

But the laughter behind you tells you that no one would care.

Bakugo spreads you open with both hands, prying apart your folds to get a better look at the slick beginning to smear between your thighs. He groans, low and hungry, shoving his face against you. The first hot drag of his tongue across your cunt makes your stomach turn, makes your nails scrape against the counter in desperation.

But he doesn’t stop.

He moans like he’s fucking drunk on the taste of you. His tongue laps through your slit, slow at first, savoring it. Then, like a man starved, he shoves his face deeper between your legs, his nose pressed against your clit while his tongue flicks and sucks. You jerk, a stifled cry ripping from your throat when he buries himself into you like a ravenous animal.

Your hands fly back to shove him away, but he only growls against your cunt, nipping at your inner thigh in warning.

“Don’t fuckin' run from me,” he pants, voice ragged. “Ain't gonna let you.”

He sucks your clit into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth, and your knees nearly buckle. His fingers dig bruises into your thighs, forcing them open wider as he eats you out like a man possessed, like he’s never had anything so fucking good in his mouth before.

It shouldn’t feel like this.

Your body shouldn’t be responding to him, shouldn’t be trembling under his grip, shouldn’t be letting his tongue push so deep inside you it makes your spine arch.

Bakugo laughs when he feels the way you clench, the way you twitch and shake against him, the way your hips push back just a little against his face.

“Yeah,” he breathes, mouth slick with your juices, eyes burning with something wild and unhinged. “Yeah, that’s it, bitch. Fuckin' knew you’d melt for me.”

Your cheeks burn with humiliation.

Because you can feel it too—the slow, creeping pressure building inside you, the traitorous heat pooling between your thighs despite every single cell in your body screaming at you to fight.

His fingers dig into your ass, bruising and possessive, spreading you open for him even wider as he groans against your cunt, the vibrations making your knees give out. He grins against you, eating you out with wet, obscene sounds, completely unbothered by the way your thighs tremble, by the way your hands desperately grip the edge of the counter as he shoves his tongue inside you as deep as it can go.

“Taste so fuckin' sweet,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “This pussy was made for me, hah? Fuckin' perfect little hole…"

Your vision is swimming, the air in your lungs thinning as his tongue drags over your clit, relentless, ruthless, until you can't take it anymore, until your body betrays you completely and your orgasm crashes down without warning.

Your back arches, a strangled sob ripping from your lips as you tremble against him, the shame and pleasure a sickening mix that makes your head spin. Bakugo groans, slurping up every drop of your release, licking and sucking even as your body convulses in his hold, completely and utterly spent.

He doesn't stop.

Even as your thighs twitch, even as your nails carve into the wood, even as tears spill down your cheeks from the overstimulation, he keeps licking, keeps sucking, keeps devouring you like he can’t get enough.

“Fuckin' pussy-drunk off you, baby,” he breathes, voice ruined, eyes dark and desperate as he stares at the mess he's made of you. “Ain't never lettin' this go.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐛𝐨𝐲! 𝐀𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮 ✦✧✦✧

You shouldn't have smiled at him.

Atsumu has never been the jealous type—at least, that’s what he’s always told himself. Possessiveness? Disgusting. Clinginess? Even worse. He’s a fuckboy, not a damn sap, and yet here he is, hands clamped so tightly around your wrists that your bones groan in protest, dragging you through the dimly lit hallway of the party like you’re nothing more than a ragdoll.

It’s funny, really.

All it took was a lingering glance at your so-called best friend, and he fucking snapped.

The closet door slams behind you, plunging you into suffocating darkness. The sharp scent of cedar and mothballs invades your nose, but all you can focus on is him—his panting breath, the brutal way he shoves you against the wall, his fingers bruising the delicate skin of your throat.

"Think yer funny, huh?" he hisses, voice thick with something dark, something dangerous. "Batting yer eyes at that piece of shit? Laughin’ at his dumbass jokes? Y’like him or somethin’?"

Your lips part, but the words die before they can escape.

Because Atsumu is angry.

Not the playful irritation you’re used to—the kind that ends with a scoff and an eye-roll. No, this is something else entirely. Something lethal. His fingers tighten around your throat just enough to make your head spin, your pulse hammering like a caged animal against his grip.

"Atsumu," you whisper, voice barely above a breath. "I didn’t—"

"Shut the fuck up."

His knee shoves between your thighs, spreading them wide, pinning you in place. Your heart slams against your ribs as his free hand slips under your skirt, rough fingers skating up the inside of your thigh.

"Y’wanna act like a slut? Then I’ll treat ya like one."

Your stomach twists violently. Panic claws up your throat, but he doesn't give you the chance to fight back. His mouth crashes against yours—hot, desperate, punishing. Teeth sink into your lower lip, tearing at the delicate flesh, the taste of iron blooming across your tongue.

The room is too small, too hot. His scent surrounds you, drowning you in sweat, cologne, and something unmistakably Atsumu. You thrash, nails raking against his biceps, his neck—anywhere you can reach—but he only groans, grinding his thigh against your core like he’s getting off on your struggle.

"That’s it," he rasps, his breath scalding against your cheek. "Fight me. Gimme a reason to break ya."

Your breath stutters when he yanks your panties down, leaving them bunched around your knees. His fingers are on you before you can process what’s happening, rough pads sliding through your folds, spreading you open.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice wrecked. "Always so damn warm. So fuckin’ wet. This for me? Or were ya hopin’ that little shit out there would be the one touchin’ ya?"

Shame burns beneath your skin, hot and humiliating. "Please—"

"Please what?" He sneers. "Y’want me to stop? Then why’s yer pussy beggin’ for me, huh? Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ fingers."

Two fingers sink into you without warning, stretching you wide. A strangled gasp rips from your throat, your body arching instinctively, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Atsumu is everywhere—all-consuming, relentless, insatiable.

"Fuck, fuck—look at this pretty little hole, takin’ me so easy," he murmurs, mesmerized. "Like ya were made for me."

His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing tight, punishing circles that send electricity crackling up your spine. The pleasure is too much, too fast, coiling low in your stomach, threatening to snap.

And he knows it.

"Yeah? Y’gonna come already? So damn easy, holy fuck." He laughs, mean and breathless, curling his fingers just right. "C’mon, slut. Make a mess for me. Show me who ya belong to."

Your body betrays you, pleasure crashing over you in violent waves. A choked sob wrenches past your lips, and Atsumu watches, eyes dark with hunger, as you shatter against his hand.

"Holy shit," he whispers, withdrawing his fingers, watching the slick strings between them. "Yer so fuckin’ perfect. Y’don’t even know."

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s sinking to his knees, shoving your skirt up around your waist. His grip is bruising as he hooks your thighs over his shoulders, pressing you back against the wall.

"Atsumu—"

The first lick steals the air from your lungs.

Hot, wet, obscene—his tongue drags through your folds, collecting every drop of slick you’ve spilled for him. A ragged moan vibrates against your clit as he buries his face in you, licking, sucking, devouring like a man starved.

"Taste so fuckin’ sweet," he slurs against you, drunk on the heat of your cunt. "So fuckin’ perfect, baby. Could eat ya for hours."

You try to squirm, try to shove him away, but he only growls, pressing his tongue flat against you before flicking it over your clit, slow and deliberate.

"Stay fuckin’ still," he snaps. "Let me fuckin’ enjoy this."

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, nails digging into his scalp as his tongue fucks into you, messy and desperate. Slurping, sucking, swallowing—he doesn’t care how filthy it is, how humiliatingly loud. He wants you to drown in it, wants you to hear how much he fucking needs this.

You feel him rutting against your calf, grinding his cock against your skin like he’s getting off just from tasting you.

"M’so fuckin’ hard," he groans. "Fuck, baby—gonna come just from this. Just from this pretty pussy."

Your head spins. The pleasure is too much, too overwhelming, your body strung so tight it hurts.

"Atsumu, I—"

He hums against your clit, sucking the swollen nub between his lips, and you break.

White-hot pleasure crashes through you, tearing a scream from your throat. Your body locks up, every muscle seizing as you come, and Atsumu moans, drinking it down like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

"That’s it," he breathes, voice wrecked. "Fuckin’ knew ya could gimme one more."

Your legs nearly give out as he pulls back, chin glistening, pupils blown wide. He looks utterly debauched—cheeks flushed, hair a mess, lips wet and swollen.

"Y’ain’t done yet, sweetheart," he murmurs, standing to his full height. His fingers work at his belt, the soft clink of metal making your stomach plummet. "M’not nearly fuckin’ finished with ya."

The sharp sound of a zipper fills the tiny space.

And then he’s pulling his cock free, thick and flushed, dripping with need. He strokes himself once, twice, watching the way your eyes widen, the way your thighs tremble, the way you shrink against the wall as if that’ll save you.

It won’t.

Atsumu smirks, stepping closer, pressing the leaking tip against your slick folds.

"Gonna fuckin’ ruin ya."

The closet door muffles your scream.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮 ✦✧✦✧

You were always a quiet little brat.

Not the loud, obnoxious type. Not the kind that pouted and whined. No, you had your own way of getting under his skin—an infuriating, unreadable defiance that mocked him in silence. It was in the way you held your ground, unwavering, giving him that blank, unimpressed stare no matter how much he towered over you.

And he tolerated it.

Because you were his.

Shouei Barou, king of the field, ruled with dominance. His presence alone forced submission. Opponents cowered, teammates fell in line, and yet, you? You never crumbled.

You, with that little smirk.

That disrespectful little smirk that told him you didn’t take him as seriously as you should.

It drove him insane.

Tonight, you finally pushed too far.

He wasn’t even trying to be threatening. For once, he had been patient, letting you sit on his lap after a match, letting you play with his damp hair. He had let you touch him however you pleased, because for all his pride, for all his control, Barou was addicted to you. Your hands, your warmth, the scent of you—you had ruined him in a way he didn’t understand. So he let you get away with things no one else could.

Then you said it.

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

He had stilled, jaw locking. You leaned closer, chin on his shoulder, whispering low. “I mean, it makes sense, right? You’re too much of a self-righteous control freak to let anyone touch you.” Fingers trailed down his nape. “Bet you’re scared. All that talk, all that attitude, and you’ve never even had a girl squeeze your cock?” You sighed, deliberately unimpressed. “Tch. Figures.”

You hadn’t expected much of a reaction.

After all, Barou was always restrained with you. A little rough when you got on his nerves, but never violent, never crossing any real lines. He was harsh, cruel at times, but still kind in a way that made you stupid enough to feel safe.

But then, the air shifted.

You felt it before you saw it—that break in patience. A crack splitting the careful lines of his control. His fingers flexed against your thighs.

And then he was moving.

Fast. Too fast for you to process what was happening before he had you pinned to the floor, legs spread wide, breath hot as he loomed over you.

"You think this is a game?"

His voice was so fucking low. That controlled, authoritative tone that made men freeze on the field now sent pure fear rolling down your spine.

“W-Wait—”

Too late. His grip was bruising, hands ripping your clothes aside. A loud tear, fabric shredding under his brute force. Your stomach dropped, realization slamming into you. He’s serious.

Your mind screamed at you to fight, but your body betrayed you, frozen under the sheer weight of him.

“Gotta put you in your place.” His breath came hot against your thigh. “Since you like running that fucking mouth.”

His head dipped, and you barely had time to gasp before his mouth latched onto you.

Oh, fuck—

It was instant, the shock of it, the raw, desperate heat of his tongue. He didn’t even hesitate. No build-up, no hesitation—he dove in, licking into your cunt like a man possessed. Like he had something to prove.

And fuck, he did.

The first swipe sent you reeling, pleasure and horror crashing into each other as his tongue flattened against your slit, dragging upward in one long, hungry stroke.

You yelped, legs kicking, trying to squirm away, but his grip was unrelenting.

"Stay. Fucking. Still."

A sharp slap landed on your thigh, the sting making you jolt. And then he sucked on your clit, a filthy, wet sound filling the room as his mouth devoured you.

It was obscene.

Raw, messy, sloppy.

You had never seen him like this. Never. Barou was always calculated, always composed—but now? Now he was drunk off of you, groaning like he was the one being pleasured, rutting against the floor as he licked and sucked like a starved fucking animal.

"Fuck." His voice was hoarse, barely a rasp. "You're gonna eat those words, brat."

You whimpered, trying to push at his head, but he was fucking relentless, tongue rolling against you with terrifying precision. Your body was betraying you, heat coiling, legs trembling. No. You bit your lip hard, trying to suppress it, trying to deny the wetness pooling between your thighs.

Barou noticed.

"Hah. Look at you. So fucking wet for me already?" He chuckled, dark, pleased. "And you had the fucking nerve to mock me?"

His teeth grazed your inner thigh, making you gasp.

“Please, d-don’t—”

A growl, and then he was shoving his tongue inside you.

Your breath hitched, back arching as his tongue fucked into you, slow at first, then fast, messy, each stroke making a wet, lewd sound. His grip tightened, nails digging into your hips as he held you still, kept you at his mercy.

Pussy-drunk. That was the only way to describe him.

Completely lost in it, drowning in the taste of you. His groans vibrated against your cunt, deep and guttural, like he was losing his fucking mind.

"Mine." The word was muffled against your heat, growled into you like a vow. "You fucking hear me?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, choking back a sob. The way he was touching you, devouring you, it was too much. It felt too good, and that made it all the more terrifying.

Barou didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

He kept going, eating you out like it was his last meal, like his life depended on it. Like he was punishing you with pleasure.

His fingers slid between your slick folds, pressing in, stretching you open. The intrusion made you gasp, but your body was so fucked out, so overstimulated, that it barely registered before another wave of pleasure crashed over you.

And Barou felt it.

He knew you were close.

His movements grew rougher, more intense, his lips sealing around your clit, sucking just right—

You shattered.

Your body convulsed, pleasure ripping through you so violently it left you gasping, trembling. Your legs clamped around his head, but he didn’t stop, kept licking and sucking, milking every last aftershock until you were sobbing.

Only then did he pull back, panting, lips shining with your slick.

His gaze burned.

Dark. Hungry. A man completely, utterly ruined.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was shoving his sweats down, revealing his cock—thick, hard, twitching with need.

"Hope you’re ready for the real thing, brat."

Your stomach dropped.

You weren’t ready.

But Barou?

Barou was done playing games.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood. Thank you.

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles

Character TAG LIST of “HSR Sunday”: @yandere-romanticaa

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6 [you are here]. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.

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hederasgarden · 2 months ago

Note

hear me out: werewolf lucius + breeding. he gives me werewolf vibes. feral, possesive, protective, bite-kink, etc

Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 770 Rating: Mature. Modern werewolf AU, biting, scenting and general wolf like behavior with some breeding kink thrown in for good measure. A/N: BESTIE. This request made me FERAL too. There is something about the werewolf trope and men behaving all intensely primal in fiction that I enjoy. Thanks to @ryebecca for looking this over. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

It’s warm, even in the shade of the porch, and the fabric of your sundress sticks to the sweat gathering at the small of your back. Across the yard, you spot Lucius chatting with his mother and stepfather, a half-empty beer bottle held casually between two fingers. He seems to sense your gaze and glances over at you briefly, offering a small smile before turning his attention back to his parents.

You take a sip of your own drink, some overly sweet sangria that you’re not particularly fond of except that it's ice-cold. For a moment you press the cool glass against the heated skin of your chest and sigh at the brief reprieve it offers. It’s short lived until a soft breeze stirs, ruffling the edges of your dress and cooling the sweat on your skin. You lament its passing and, with a resigned sigh, step down from the porch, making your way back to the party.

You barely make it halfway across the yard before Lucius stops you, his grip on your arm surprisingly firm. He holds you there, his blue eyes locking onto yours, with a flash of something golden flickering in their depths. You blink, a half-formed question on your lips, but it dies when he suddenly pulls you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhales sharply, the scent of your skin drawing a low, throaty growl from deep within his chest.

“Lucius,” you whisper, alarmed and a little embarrassed by his display but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

Over his shoulder, you briefly meet Acacius’s eyes but he’s quick to look away, an odd expression on his face. You watch as he says something to Lucilla then swiftly guides her toward another group of guests, moving farther away from where you stand. A quick glance around the yard reveals that most of the other guests are equally absorbed in their conversations, oblivious to Lucius’s odd behavior

“Lucius,” you try again, pushing at his chest. “What are you doing? What is -” The rest of your words are cut off in a sharp gasp as you feel the sudden, searing sting of teeth against your throat.

“God,” he groans, grasping the back of your neck while his other hand presses your body firmly against his. “The way you smell.”

“I’m a sweaty mess,” you hiss back, trying to extricate yourself from his hold, all too aware you’re standing in the middle of his mother’s backyard, surrounded by her guests. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Abruptly, he pulls back to gaze down at you. His nostrils flare and his normally cool blue eyes are a molten gold.

“You smell fertile,” he growls. "Every single wolf here can smell it too," he continues.

Heat floods your face as you process his words and realize what it means. You look past him at the rest of the party and see that not everyone is as distracted as you thought. The humans, like you, are still engaged in their own conversations, obliviously to the shift in the air. But Lucius’s packmates stand a little more stiffly, their eyes carefully avoiding the two of you, as if bound by some unspoken agreement not to acknowledge what’s happening.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, more embarrassed than you’ve ever been in your life. Lucius seems unphased and he leans in, his lip curled back to reveal his sharp white canines.

“Hey!” You snap, thumping his chest with your first. “You can’t keep sniffing me in front of everyone.”

He growls low in his throat, but when you glare up at him, he finally grunts, "You’re right, you’re right."

Your relief is short-lived, however, when he grabs your arm and pulls you toward the house.

"The upstairs bathroom is free," he mutters as he practically drags you inside, through the kitchen and into the hallway. “And if you don’t want me to bend you over the sink and do what the wolf is telling me to do when we get there, you better say something now.”

His words send a shock of heat through your body that spreads from your chest to your cheeks, making your skin feel hot and tight. In all the time you’ve been together you’ve never heard him speak like that and you’re more than a little surprised to discover just how much you like it.

"I have no objection," you reply with a shy grin, letting out a startled shriek a second later when he spins you around and effortlessly tosses you over his shoulder, taking the steps two at a time.

Send me a request

#lucius verus x reader #lucius verus x you #lucius verus #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #paul mescal

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ghoularaki · 1 year ago

Text

last updated: 08/10/24

levi ackerman

baby’s breath | 10/?

𓆩♡𓆪 series masterlist

modern au, angst, smut, modern au, DARK CONTENT, yandere, noncon/dubcon, daddy kink, forced infantilism, pet play, age gap, death threats, human trafficking, bdsm

hange zoe

↠ coming soon!

mikasa ackerman

↠ coming soon!

erwin smith

baby’s breath | 9/?

𓆩♡𓆪 series masterlist

modern au, angst, smut, modern au, DARK CONTENT, yandere, noncon/dubcon, daddy kink, forced infantilism, pet play, age gap, death threats, human trafficking, bdsm

#yandere x reader #levi x reader #hange x reader #erwin x reader #mikasa x reader #yandere levi #yandere erwin #yandere hange #yandere mikasa #yandere levi x reader #yandere erwin x reader #yandere

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eustasskidagenda · 1 year ago

Text

☆Event - Advent calendar: Hot chocolate or gingerbread?

Hi there☆ This is my first event so I'm a bit nervous lol. I hope it won't be too messy and you will like it :D But I really wanted to thank you all for the 140+ followers. Since December is slowly approaching, I thought it would be fun to have an advent calendar. I know I'm posting this early, but I want to write the texts beforehand and have the time to write them all without any pressure! ( ^◡^)

☆details

Be polite when requesting. It's really rude to receive messages without a 'hello' or 'thank you'.

Please, also precise you're requesting for the event and not for a normal request.

Give me one OP character, one prompt number, and let me know if you're okay with modern AU or not. If you pick more than one character, I’ll choose my personal favorite in the list.

You can include some details you would like to see in the fic and, for n/sfw requests, please precise if you want some specific kinks (click here to see the kinks I won't write)

Don’t forget to specify the gender of the reader, otherwise I'll go for a g/n reader. I won’t accept request that basically describe an oc.

For a smut request, please use off-anon and make your age easily accessible on your blog. Don’t be shy, I won’t judge you♡ If you're uncomfortable, I won't show your name on the post. Just let me know if you want to stay anon.

This event will remain open to requests as long as slots are still available

To keep the fun of an advent calendar, the fics will be updated in a non-predictable order. So maybe I'll post the 7 prompt for day one, who knows.

Some prompts are only sfw (the hot chocolate ones), some are only nsfw (the gingerbread one), and for some, you can choose if you want the fic to be smutty or not.

☆all the characters you can ask for this event:

Buggy, Corazon, Crocodile, Doflamingo, Eustass Kid, Hawkins, Izou, Killer, King, Kiku, Kuzan, Luffy (only sfw prompts with Luffy), Marco, Mihawk, Nami, Portgas D. Ace, Rob Lucci, Robin, Roronoa Zoro, Sabo, Sanji, Shanks, Smoker, Trafalgar Law, Usopp, X Drake, Yamato (he/him)

Characters I won't write for: Blackbeard and Blackbeard crew, Brook, Roger, Kin'emon, Kanjuro, Franky, Benn, Akainu, Kizaru, Apoo

⇢ if the character you would like is not on one of those lists, just ask in a comment and I'll let you know!

☆Hot Chocolate

Let's decorate the home together

First time at the rink

Catching a cold after the first snow

Let's cook the Xmas dinner together

Hot wine and Xmas market

Let's build a snowman

Build-a-bear together

Night walk and city illumination

Adopting a dog/cat together

Building a gingerbread house

Snow angel and shooting stars

☆Gingerbread

Santa Claus costume

Ginger & aphrodisiac

An unexpected gift

Have you been good or naughty this year?

Are you wearing something under this apron?

Let's start our "good resolutions" early

Are you cold? I'll warm you up

Human chocolate

☆Hot chocolate or gingerbread?

Snowball fight

First Xmas together and ugly sweaters

Relaxing in front of the fire

Painting baubles together

Look, there's a mistletoe

Hot spring

☆Exemple of request with all the needed informations

"Hi (I totally agree with the Kid agenda), for your event, I'd like to ask for the prompt 3 of the hot chocolate list, with Kid (obviously), g/n reader. I'm fine with modern A/U. Tyyy"

"Hello, I’m here for the event. I'd like to ask for the prompt 3 of the gingerbread or hot chocolate list. I'd like to have a gingerbread fic with Law and *add a list of kinks you like here*, no modern AU please, afab reader, thank you <;3"

Thank you…(´人｀●)SOOOOO━━＼(´∀｀●)／━━MUCH!!

#one piece headcanons #blog event #one piece x you #one piece requests #chocolateorgingerbread #one piece x reader #one piece #one piece smut #eustass kid x reader #trafalgar one piece #crocodile x reader #doflamingo x reader #shanks x reader #ace x reader #sanji x reader #zoro roronoa x reader #sabo x reader #please don't make this flop #one piece x y/n

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krp1x1finder · 2 years ago

Text

discord kpop 1x1 rp search

heyooo! i’m yumi, age 23, they/them! i’m currently lf a few krp/kdrama partners, preferably within the age range of 19-23+! it’s safe to say that i’m open to any pairings such as mxm, fxf, poly, and trans/non-binary characters, oc x oc (faceclaims ok!) - i will say that i do have a preference for writing masculine characters and will often default to that unless discussed.

my writing style is always mirrored, so don’t be shy if you’d like to write with me in any way, shape, or form! my preference tends to lean towards novella and advanced lit (comfortably up to 500-1k or more) with present or past, third-person narratives. i have some writing examples i can send your way if you’d like to see them before committing to rp with me! i typically want to strive for quality over quantity.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ PLOTS : regarding plots that i enjoy tend to lean super heavily into the human condition (any variation or avenue of slice of life, modern aus), very lightly toeing into supernatural with succubuses/incubus or angel/devils, fallen angel concepts, and “darker” themes. some examples would be religious trauma/historical themes, substance abuse, violence, heavy angst, etc.

i also really enjoy media-based or established works of fictions like ao3, video games (the last of us, detroit become human, etc), films, and kdramas (strangers from hell, all of us are dead, the glory, bloodhounds, and more).

i’m totally interested in including nsfw into our rps aswell, though i tend to write my characters as versatile switches and would prefer if my partners were flexible and willing to collaborate to make it fun and comfortable for both of us. i will send a kink list to be as transparent as possible, or you can view that on my carrd alongside other in depth info here!

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ MUSES & GROUPS : i’m open to a majority of groups including, but not limited to the ones listed below! regarding muses, i’m very open-minded and flexible and will include some examples of those i muse the most. the starred groups are the ones that i muse very heavily for currently:

☆ aespa : winter / karina / ningning

ateez : wooyoung / san / yunho

enhypen : jay / heeseung / jungwon / jake

☆ exo : jongin / sehun / chanyeol / baekhyun

le sserafim : sakura / chaewon

☆ nct (all subunits+wayv) : taeyong / yuta / jaehyun / jeno / mark / donghyuck / jaemin / xiaojun / kun / yangyang

oneus : seoho / keonhee / xion

☆ onlyoneof : nine / love / mill / rie

p1harmony : theo / intak

☆ seventeen : jeonghan / jun / seungkwan / vernon / joshua / minghao

☆ stray kids : minho / hyunjin / han / bangchan / jeongin

tempest : hanbin / taerae / hyeongseop / hwarang

☆ the boyz : sunwoo / hyunjae / juyeon / jacob / eric

☆ txt : soobin / beomgyu / taehyun treasure : asahi / jihoon / hyunsuk

☆ xg : jurin / chisa

☆ zb1 : jiwoong / hanbin / matthew / taerae

solo artists : woodz, dpr ian, jackson wang, and more . .

(these aren’t including my ships, but you might be able to get hints from who i bolded - don’t be afraid to ask for clarification though, i’ll definitely mention them once we connect).

please prioritise discussing triggers and preferences within the RP. they will always be stated by me during plotting as well. my triggers are only detailed self-harm/gore that goes alongside it. i’ll let you know if I’m uncomfortable at any point otherwise.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ MISC. NOTES : the most important part of this i would like to make sure is noted is that writing won’t always be a priority for me as i have other hobbies and responsibilities that tend to take up a lot of my free time too. i work two jobs while also taking classes from my university and gaming. i’d appreciate and prefer partners that don’t mind gaps of time between responses and won’t spam or pressure me to be quicker. i’ve had some bad luck with rp partners that don’t understand that and overstep boundaries. i will end the rp if it gets excessive. however, i’m very chatty and enjoy making playlists and pinterest boards alongside our rp au’s so it’d be cool to have partners open to that sort of connection. i’m always down for friendships outside of our rp too so the gaps of time don’t feel awkward or stilted.

if all of this sounds good to you and you’re interested in getting to know me as a potential friend or likewise to write, don’t hesitate to interact with this post on here, directly message me, or head on over to discord and add me; my username is gyumie. ♡

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mysophobix · 2 years ago

Text

discord kpop 1x1 rp search

heyooo! i’m yumi, age 23, they/them! currently lf a few krp/kdrama partners, preferably within the age range of 19-23+! it’s safe to say that i’m open to any pairings such as mxm, fxf, poly, and trans/non-binary characters, oc x oc (faceclaims ok!) - i will say that i do have a preference for writing masculine characters and will often default to that unless discussed.

☆ aespa : winter / karina / ningning

ateez : wooyoung / san / yunho

enhypen : jay / heeseung / jungwon / jake

☆ exo : jongin / sehun / chanyeol / baekhyun

le sserafim : sakura / chaewon

mamamoo : moonbyul

☆ nct (all subunits+wayv) : taeyong / yuta / jaehyun / jeno / mark / donghyuck / jaemin / xiaojun / kun / yangyang

oneus : seoho / keonhee / xion

☆ onlyoneof : nine / love / mill / rie

p1harmony : theo / intak

red velvet : wendy / seulgi / joy

☆ seventeen : jeonghan / jun / seungkwan / vernon / joshua / minghao

☆ stray kids : minho / hyunjin / han / bangchan / jeongin

tempest : hanbin / taerae / hyeongseop / hwarang

☆ the boyz : sunwoo / hyunjae / juyeon / jacob / eric

☆ txt : soobin / beomgyu / taehyun treasure : asahi / jihoon / hyunsuk

☆ xg : jurin / chisa

☆ zb1 : jiwoong / hanbin / matthew / taerae

solo artists : woodz, dpr ian, jackson wang . .

(these aren't including my ships, but you might be able to get hints from who i bolded - don't be afraid to ask for clarification though, i'll definitely mention them once we connect).

please prioritise discussing triggers and preferences within the RP. they will always be stated by me during plotting as well. my ‘no’s’ are only detailed self-harm/gore that goes alongside it. i'll let you know if I'm uncomfortable at any point otherwise.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ MISC. NOTES : the most important part of this i would like to make sure is noted is that writing won’t always be a priority for me as i have other hobbies and responsibilities that tend to take up a lot of my free time too. i work two jobs while also taking classes for my university and gaming. i’d appreciate and prefer partners that don’t mind gaps of time between responses and won’t spam or pressure me to be quicker. i've had some bad luck with rp partners that don't understand that and overstep boundaries. i will end the rp if it gets excessive. however, i’m very chatty and enjoy making playlists and pinterest boards alongside our rp au’s so it’d be cool to have partners open to that sort of connection. i’m always down for friendships outside of our rp too so the gaps of time don't feel awkward or stilted.

if all of this sounds good to you and you’re interested in getting to know me as a potential friend or likewise to write, don’t hesitate to dm me on here or head on over to discord and add me; my username is gyumie. ♡

18 notes · View notes

snailsgoingdowntown · 2 years ago

Text

Edited 3/31/2024*

Rules for requesting:

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. . .

╭──────༺♡༻──────╮

➭MUST use manners while making a request, otherwise it will be ignored and deleted.

➭If they are closed, then they are closed. The status will be in my bio and/or pinned post. Often times I forget to update the pinned post, so refer to my bio for the status of requests.

➭Specify the gender and pronouns of the reader, otherwise it will automatically be female. I will always assume the reader is female in the request if you don’t tell me the gender/pronouns... Although the only other pronouns I'll write for are They/Them.

➭Limit of 2 characters per interaction but it might turn into drabbles if I cannot think of ways to expand it.

➭Limit of 4 characters per drabble.

➭Limit of 1 character per scenario/full fic.

➮Do not ask for updates on your request (‘Is it almost done?’), because I have a life outside of Tumblr and I may be busy with other things, or I am not inspired or motivated enough to finish it quickly. Asking if I received it once is one thing, but constantly asking how far along it is, is another.

➭If you are unsure, please ask because I just whipped this up and probably left some things out.

╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

╭──────༺♡༻──────╮

What I will NOT write (SFW):

➭Incest (including blood-related incest, stepcest, and pseudo incest).

➭Mpreg (male pregnancy).

➭Being caught in the act by a child.

➭Cheating

➭Ddlg

➭Male readers

More to be added later.

╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

╭──────༺♡༻──────╮

What I WILL write (SFW):

➭Dark content/horror themes (yandere, etc.)

➭Sensitive topics (Depression, death, self-harm, etc.)

➭Different aus (Modern, witch, royal, college, etc.)

➭Pregnancy

➭Angst

➭Fluff

➭Gender neutral readers

➭Mild gore

More to be added later

╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

╭──────༺♡༻──────╮

NSFW/aging up rules:

➭All NSFW works will be strictly FEMALE. This includes thirsts, drabbles, and scenarios.

➭Every character that is romantically interested/involved with the reader will be aged up to 21+. For these characters, no NSFW will be written involving them. See the characters I write for, for more information.

╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

╭──────༺♡༻──────╮

WILL:

➭Soft core bdsm

➭Teasing

➭Gagging

➭Breeding kink

➭Anal

➭Pegging

➭Oral (both giving and receiving)

➭Fingering

➭Protected and unprotected

➭Dub-con

➭Non-con

➭Mind break

➭Overstimulation

➭Edging

➭Public/hidden intercourse

More to be added later.

╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

╭──────༺♡༻──────╮

Will NOT:

➭Snuff/anything with gore

➭Vore

➭Age play

➭Threesomes/gang bangs/foursomes

➭Beast/u/ality

➭Anything that includes animal/human waste (piss/scat)

More to be added later

╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

╭──────༺♡༻──────╮

MIGHT:

➭Bloodplay

➭Dom reader

➭Omega Verse

╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

#marie talks #rules #yandere

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mrsshabana · 1 year ago

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𓆩♡𓆪 𝑮𝒚𝒖𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒐 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒂 ✧˖°.

Key: (🖤) Fan favorite - (🔞) Smut - (🕳️) Dark content

✦ ─── 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 ⸝⸝

╭ Against All Odds (🖤)(🔞)

Kimetsu University had a reputation for successfully integrating humans and demons. That’s the main reason you chose this school, it promoted ideals that you were a strong advocate for. As a human you shouldn't be so excited to be surrounded by demons, and the last thing you expected was to form a crush on one of the most dangerous demons on campus.

╭ Your Biggest Fan (🔞)

You've dreamt of meeting your idol, the drummer of a popular band, for so long. And when you finally get the opportunity, he's more perfect than you ever could have imagined. What are the odds that you get the chance to become more than just a fangirl?

╭ Dearly Discarded (🔞)(🕳️)

Taking over your uncle's farm is proving to be more work than expected. Adopting a demon seemed like an easy solution. That is, until your heart broke when you found the most neglected and abused demon you've ever seen. Gyutaro has never been shown an ounce of affection, but as his new owner, you are willing to do what it takes to give him the life he deserves. Pet au. You adopt Gyutaro and attempt to heal his physical and mental wounds.

╭ Manic (🔞)(🕳️)

Gyutaro is a patient in the Rashomon Riverbank Asylum and you are his new nurse.

╭ His Prey

You're sent on your first assignment as an entomologist, but things quickly go awry on your first night and you meet a creature that should just be an urban legend - a strange human mantis hybrid.

╭ Pact with a Vampire

Working in a morgue, you're used to being surrounded by death. But one night you come face to face with an undead that isn't the norm for your line of work. Gyutaro is a newly turned Vampire, but luckily for him you're gullible enough to make a pact with him.

╭ Never Too Late (🖤)(🔞)

Gyutaro is 35 years old and has given up on love and his dream of having a family. But things change when you come into the picture and show genuine interest in him. But there's only one problem, you're 14 years younger than him.

✦ ─── 𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 ⸝⸝

╭ Courtesan!Gyutaro x Reader (🖤)(🔞)

╭ Gyusimp Collab

╭ Incubus!Gyutaro x Reader (🔞)

╭ Blood Play Gyutaro x Reader (🔞)

╭ Toxic Gyutaro x Reader (🖤)(🔞)

╭ Always the Groomsmen, never the Groom (🔞)

╭ Gyutaro x Succubus!Reader (🔞)

╭ Gyutaro with a reader that did self harm (🖤)(🔞)

╭ Canon!Gyutaro x Modern!Reader

╭ Ume sets you up with Gyutaro (Pt.1) (Pt.2)

╭ Always the groomsman, never the groom (🔞)

╭ Car sex with Gyutaro (🔞)

╭ Meeting Gyutaro at the Gym (🔞)

╭ Dragon!Gyutaro x Reader

╭ Meeting Gyutaro at a glory hole (🔞)

╭ Birthday surprise from Gyutaro (🔞)

╭ Valentine's Day (🖤)

╭ Gyutaro x Eldritch!Horror!reader

╭ Detention (🖤)

✦ ─── 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⸝⸝

╭ Gyutaro x Beautiful!Reader (500 follower special) (🖤)(🔞)

╭ Toxic Gyutaro au (🔞)

╭ Gyutaro x Plus size!reader

╭ Gyutaro & Denji

╭ Tumblr Gyutaro (🔞)

╭ Gyutaro x Camgirl!reader (🔞)

╭ Ballerino Gyutaro

✦ ─── 𝐀𝐬𝐤𝐬 ⸝⸝

╭ SoftDom!Reader ╭ Mirror sex with Gyutaro ╭ Riding Gyutaro's hip bones ╭ Reaction to edging ╭ Reaction when you don't bathe ╭ Passionate sex ╭ Gyutaro's first time having sex ╭ Roleplay & Breeding kink ╭ Would Gyutaro be ticklish? ╭ Bathing Gyutaro ╭ Reaction to someone he loves coming out ╭ Reaction to your jealous pet ╭ Reaction to your insecurities ╭ Giving and receiving body worship ╭ Asexual reader ╭ Transmasc!Reader ╭ Reaction to your tattoo of him ╭ Seeeing your tattoo of him ╭ Gyutaro turns you into a demon against your will ╭ How horny are all the au Gyutaro's? ╭ Aging reader ╭ Languages Gyutaro knows in all au's ╭ Would Gyutaro praise or degrade? ╭ Opinion of the swamp demon & snake demon ╭ Reaction to being flirted with ╭ Gyutaro with glasses ╭ Comforting you when you have family issues ╭ Gyutaro reacts when Ume is mean to you ╭ Reader with vitiligo or birthmarks ╭ Semi-verbal reader ╭ You die for Gyutaro ╭ Fighting with Gyutaro (s/o) ╭ When you don't celebrate your birthday ╭ Every au Gyutaro in one room ╭ Insecure!female!reader ╭ All Gyu's reacting to self-harm scars ╭ Reacting to your cats ╭ Voyeurism (part 2) ╭ Gyutaro with hearing aids

✦ ─── 𝐒𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐏𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬 ⸝⸝

╭ Siren Gyutaro ╭ Mafia Gyutaro

𝐀𝐔 𝐀𝐬𝐤𝐬 & 𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 ✧˖°.

✦ ─── 𝐎𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 ⸝⸝

╭ Kinktober 2023 (🖤)(🔞)

Pinned Post ✧˖° Masterlist ✧˖° Art

#𝐆𝐲𝐮𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐨 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋆｡°✩

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sh1-n0bu · 2 years ago

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HEYYY NOBU!!

Can I request Vampire!Reader x Scaramouche? Can be sfw or nsfw! I love the way u write for Scaramouche 🫶🫶

✿ 𝙞 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙚 ♡︎

characters: scaramouche x nb!vampire!reader

warnings: biting, blood, modern au!!, suggestive but nothing too explicit, scara being a masochist, also he has wet dreams and dirty thoughts so scaranation we winning

notes: oooooohhhh vampire reader( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) awooga

to think that i used to listen to chris’ “i want your bite” when i was 8 or smt. maybe that’s why i have biting kink sm

scaramouche, the famous, pretty boy from sci-com class, who ALSO happen to be your roommate is a pain in the ass for short. always nagging you to make him coffees, food, snacks. always stealing your much more larger clothes to wear them. yep a pain in the ass.

but one thing that’s even more annoying than you two’s constant bickering, tussles and fights is how nosy he gets. especially when you’re suffering from not having been eating for some time.

whenever he just gets all up in your personal bubble, showing his nose up your business, jabbing a finger to your chest, you just want to throw him down on the floor, tear off his shirt and forcibly take your fill.

gods those days are the hardest. especially when the short male just keeps taunting you while having that damned fucking smug smirk on his pretty, porcelain face.

the amount of times you’ve imagined of the smug little guy turning into a defenseless, hopeless, whining mess with flushed cheeks and blabbering nonsense is uncanny. if anyone were to ever find out of these fantasies playing in your head, they would think you’re some kind of a pervert or just obsessed with him. which they kind of aren’t wrong but you got dignity to keep.

however scaramouche also had his fair share of troubles and fantasies like you.

every human are born with fanged teeth, the short guy knows that but he just can’t help but notice that yours seem much more sharper.

whenever he thinks you’re not looking, his dark indigo eyes would travel to your lips. patiently waiting, watching, staring at the sharp canines to poke through when you would open your mouth.

maybe that’s why scaramouche enjoys picking fights with you so much. so he can cover up his hopeless stare with a glare, eyes locked on your mouth, fangs bared.

and it’s because of that reason, scaramouche had found out he has another kink. biting kink. more specifically, being bitten by your sharp canines.

during class, in the morning, waiting for the washing machine to finish drying up his washed clothes, he’s constantly daydreaming about you.

of you getting so fed up with him one day during your daily fights that you would just snap and force him down. pinning his hands and neck down on the floor with your much more bigger, rougher hands before biting down harshly on the sensitive juncture between his neck and shoulder.

breaking the pale, smooth skin, causing it to bleed and for him to claw at your back, making him whine and sob with a mixture of pain and pleasure. biting down so hard until the skin breaks and blood trickles from his neck while you lick them clean, making him arch his back with a filthy, slurred moan of your name.

his face would flush an embarrassing shade of hue, jaw clenched tightly, legs starting to rub together as his daydream get carried off, turning into something more explicit and sinful.

and that is when his small fantasies would get ruined, by the teacher calling his name, the loud constant deeps of his alarm or by the annoying fucking tune that plays whenever the washing machine ends.

fuck, he wanted your bite.

perhaps that desperation is what led to him being more pushy when he entered your shared dorm room today.

throwing his bag towards you with false anger, hissing out cusses after another, dragging up an old mistake and jabbing it at you. twisting your words of defence, using it against you with hopes of you just finally fucking breaking and just pin him down and forcefully break him in half.

and his hopes get fulfilled.

your [c] eyes getting dark and cloudy as if in a haze, your rough hand grabbing at his throat before throwing his tiny body down on the bed with some noise akin to a growl escaping between your clenched jaw. pinning him down on the soft mattress, glaring down at his dark indigo eyes with pure anger.

fuck, you were so hot, scaramouche couldn’t help but let out a low whimper like a pathetic little mess. small hands and slender fingers coming up to wrap around your hand that’s choking him with a faux anxiety. heart thrumming wildly in his ribcage.

“you better not struggle for your own good, you little shit. i decided to put up with your ass for far too long and i think it’s about time you get put in your place” he let out a high pitched noise, similar to a squeak, at your words.

finally. finally his daydreams get to come true! fuck, you made him wait for so long!

the purple head’s fantasies always highlighted this scene. him always wondering how it would feel, how your breaths would make him shudder, how your fangs would pierce his skin but none of his dirty thoughts held a candle to the moment.

a soft moan tumbling out of his mouth when you licked a long stripe on his neck, the soft pants of excitement and fear turning into a mewl of pleasure when you bit down.

sharp canines piercing his pale skin, pushing in more before breaking the skin, digging deep into the flesh. causing scaramouche to arch his back up into your body, seemingly begging you to bite more more more!

a sinful mewl and sobs of pleasure coming out of his mouth. tiny body shaking and twitching from the mixture of pain and pleasure, hot tears starting to gather in his eyes before slipping out. smudging his perfect red eyeliner but scaramouche didn’t care.

it just felt so good and he wanted more♡︎.

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 2 years ago

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Hello, dear! ♡ I saw your requests were back open and I was wondering if I could request more Thranduil smut where the female reader (human) does everything she can to befriend Legolas just so she can get into Thranduil's pants "Do you think I don't know what you are doing?" 🔥🔥🔥 (modern or not. I will let you decide!). Please and thank you so much. I hope you are having a great week.

I hope you like this!

“Mr. Oropherion”

Prompt: "Do you think I don't know what you're doing?" | Setting: Library, and then the bedroom.

Pairing: Modern Thranduil x Fem Reader (Second person POV)

Themes: Smut | Soft | Slow burn | Modern AU

Word count: 4.3K words

Summary: Finishing university and having to spend the night at your best friend’s place takes a surprising turn when his father reciprocates the feelings you had been secretly harbouring for him.

Rating: 🔥🔥🔥| Minors DNI | 18+

Want to be tagged? Want to know the rules? Read all here.

It was close to four in the morning when you brought Legolas back home.

The graduation party had been a resounding success; everyone had enjoyed themselves. Legolas got into a drinking game with Gimli, and neither backed down. Bottles quickly emptied, stacks of glasses grew, and then, just when it looked like the contest was heading for a draw, Gimli burped, his eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head, and he fell right off his chair. That was when you knew the time had come to take your friend home. Gimli was taken by Aragorn, Boromir, and his brother, so he could sleep at their place.

"My hands tingle," Legolas suddenly mumbled, before slumping deeper into the seat and snoring loudly.

You shook your head and smiled to yourself. Tingling hands? He’s going to be in for one hell of a hangover, you mused. And begging for aspirin the moment he opened his eyes—or perhaps a quick death. Maybe both, depending on how bad the after-effects were. You turned your attention to the road. It was empty at this time, but the incessant rain only served to slow down the taxi. Still, you could make out the bright neon lights and the lightning that split the sky in white, hot flashes of light. The residential area of the city soon neared, and you gaped at all the apartment buildings. It still shocked you that Legolas and his father live in such an expensive place in the city.

Thoughts of Legolas’s father had you reaching into your purse for your phone. You would need help taking Legolas up to the appartment. It didn’t take long, and you were promised someone would be there to help you. You squinted into the gloom and pointed out the correct building to the driver. Sure enough, Feren, Thranduil’s assistant, was out by the main entrance, wallet in hand, to pay the driver. Your apologies were endless and earnest, and Feren brushed them off with a friendly wave of the hand. He and Thranduil had been up most of the night anyway, going over an important contract, finishing up things just before your call came. The three of you had to walk in fits and starts, as Legolas was taller and swayed constantly. It was a trial, taking him through the ground floor, ignoring the stares of the stunned concierges. Then the lift, where Legolas nearly tilted onto the door. Then the top floor, where again, Legolas kept swaying and dragging the two of you with him.

"Will there be a repeat of this after he comes back from his trip?" muttered a highly amused Feren.

"I don’t know," you replied. "Next time it will be Aragorn’s turn to be the designated responsible adult, so you’ll have to ask him."

Feren nearly choked on his laughter. "You lot all take turns?"

"Oh yes," you mumbled, relieved when a familiar pair of doors drew closer. "We drew straws the moment we all became friends in University. Gimli has been grumbling about this arrangement ever since."

Feren snorted and gave you the apartment key. And nearly toppled into the corridor the moment you opened the door. "Easy there, big fella," You managed to brace yourself against the doorpost, to stop all three of you from falling flat on your faces. "Not all that far now; go to bed and sleep."

"I don’t need sleep," Legolas mumbled in his sleep. "I need Tauriel. Where is she? Where is my Tauriel?"

"Sleeping in her own bed," you said and smiled, thinking of the ring you helped Legolas pick out. "And probably thinking of all the things the two of you could do on your trip. Now come on," you let Feren lead the way to Legolas’s bedroom. "Off to bed with you."

"Mmm-hmm," Legolas breathed and allowed himself to be put to bed. His snores started again the moment his head hit the pillow, leaving you and Feren with enough time to dry off his hair and remove his socks and shoes.

"I’ll be heading out then," Feren said, satisfied that his boss’s son was settled in. "Mr. Oropherion said he’d like a word with you after you’ve settled in the guest bedroom."

"Of course," you managed, after having remembered Legolas’s invitation for you to stay over, and rest. "I’ll go see what the old man wants."

With that, Feren said his goodbyes and left. And you, not knowing what else to do with yourself, made your way to the guest bedroom. Everything was just like you remembered it: the comfortable bed and softer silk sheets, the quaint furniture, and the delicate wallpaper, all covered in roses. You noticed none of it while you put your things away and left your duffel bag in a corner. A bath had to come first to get the smell of that party off of you. And how wonderful it was to feel steam and hot water, the soap that felt so good as it glided over your skin. You showered for as long as reasonably possible, and then, one glorious hot shower later, you threw on a nightgown and flannel robe, and padded into the hall.

Thranduil wasn’t there, and he wasn’t in the kitchen. You were certain he didn’t want to meet you in his private rooms, so that left you with only one other place. The library. You took your time, relishing the feel of the soft carpet under your feet, the beautiful paintings that graced the walls, and the photographs. There were so many of them that you probably wouldn’t have been able to count them all. A door then opened, making you jump and clutch your chest in shock.

"Mr. Oropherion," you managed. Thranduil had been standing by the door, still dressed in his office clothes. You tried hard not to stare as he cut a stunning figure in the crisp white shirt and black pants he wore. His hair, usually pulled up into a neat bun, was loose now. "I… I didn’t mean to keep you waiting or anything."

Thranduil studied you keenly, his vivid blue eyes never leaving yours. "It is all right," he said finally, showing no sign of anger or impatience. "Come in. There is coffee if you would like something hot to drink."

"Please," you said cheerfully, perking up at the thought of hot coffee.

And being in Thranduil’s company, of course, although you would never say it out loud. That was the main reason you befriended Legolas in the first place—to try and get closer to his father. Thranduil was a most achingly handsome man, possessing the same platinum blonde hair, blue eyes, and strange but pretty leaf-shaped ears as his son had. Captivating and very much the man in charge, Thranduil was also a mystery, a man who was fiercely guarded about himself. Even his own son knew only so much about him, and Thranduil barely spoke to you, although you were frequently visiting Legolas. Now? Now he invited you to his library of all things, with a need to talk to you. You swallowed and walked up to him.

"Feren said you wanted to have a word with me, Mr. Oropherion," you said after going inside and closing the door behind you. "May I ask what for?"

Thranduil said nothing, only gesturing for you to make yourself comfortable at a large, polished table. His, no doubt, the one he used for his work. You were content to curl up on a comfortable leather chair and watch as he brought over two steaming mugs of coffee. Yours he gave first, before making himself comfortable in the chair opposite your own. He studied you again, watching you while you sipped, how your hair had been slicked back and how your cheeks looked all flushed after your shower. His gaze intensified in a way that made your heart flutter, and then he focused on his drink and asked questions about the party, what you planned on doing now that you were done with university, if you had any jobs lined up, and was pleased when he heard you would be starting work in a few weeks time. He then turned the discussion to the matter of his son's plans.

"Legolas showed me the ring." He sighed and took a sip before putting his mug away. "It is quite exquisite, and perfect for Tauriel. I am told you had a hand in it?"

"I had to, when he showed me the rings he had in mind," you said, making a face when you remembered going over Legolas’s choices. "You’d think with a father like you, Legolas would have better taste."

You quickly went back to your coffee, trying to be as casual as possible. The chief purpose of your compliment was for Thranduil’s benefit, not just because you were talking about Legolas’s questionable taste in jewelry. Thranduil didn’t reply but looked at you keenly. You coughed and tried to come up with something else to say. The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. Thranduil kept looking at you, thinking of what he should say to you, of what he should say about your comments. In the end, he decided to be direct.

"Do you think I do not know what you are doing?" He took the mug out of your hands and placed it on the table. His fingers seemed to linger over yours, but you weren’t sure if you were imagining things or not. You coughed again and tried to brush off your comments.

"Do what?"

"Trying to get my attention. Do you think I have not caught on to what you are trying to do?"

"It’s nothing, Mr. Oropherion," you said with a nervous wave of the hand. "Just a silly little nothing, that’s all."

"And the Christmas gift?" Thranduil refused to let it go. "The handmade bracelet for me? Or that bottle of fine wine? One that should have been well beyond your means? How about all the times you would look at me with such deep yearning when your attention should have rightfully been elsewhere? Were those silly little nothings as well?"

Oh, dear. The bracelet could have been explained away, but the wine? You should have known you were overdoing it with the wine, and you now realize you had not been as subtle as you thought when it came to the way you looked at him.

"Does he know?" you asked finally, hoping and praying the ground would open and swallow you whole.

Thranduil rewarded you with a brief but arresting smile. "No. Legolas does not. And since you genuinely care for my son, I have kept my silence on the matter. But that still does not answer my question. Were you trying to get my attention? And no lies, I have neither the time nor the patience for them."

You dropped your head in utter embarrassment. Thranduil tutted gently and curled a finger under your chin, lifting it so your gaze was level with his. "Were you craving my attention, y/n?"

"Yes," you replied meekly.

"I see," Thranduil said slowly, hesitantly, as he ran his thumb across your lower lip. He groaned softly when your lips slowly parted. "Was this a simple liking, something innocent, or was this something more intimate in nature?"

Your cheeks were aflame. "More… intimate… Mr. Oropherion."

Thranduil’s eyes darkened. "You want me to bed you? Have my way with your body?"

"Yes," as bashful as you were, you still answered him. You very much wanted him to spend the night with you. "Maybe more than that."

His smile simply grew, and his eyes glinted wickedly in the light. Thranduil reflected on your answer and came to a decision. The time had come for him to be truthful as well.

"What if I told you I desired you in return?" He grinned when your eyes widened in both shock and pleasure. "That I had longed for you for nearly a year? What would you say to that?"

You were stunned and confused. Over the course of the previous year, Thranduil treated you like he always did, with barely any interest. Of course, he would be polite to you, asking about your classes and your exams, but there was nothing beyond that. In truth, it was Legolas who did most of the talking. You weren't sure if Thranduil even listened to you. Now he has freely confessed to wanting you.

"But you barely spoke to me," you huffed, more than a little hurt that he would keep such a thing from you. "There were times you acted like I wasn't even there."

For this, Thranduil was remorseful. "And I apologize for being so cold with you. I do have very good reasons for concealing my true feelings, and I will talk about them someday soon, but for now I must ask if you would like me to bed you now and make you mine."

Thranduil said no more. He leaned back in his chair and gave you time to think.

He had good reasons, you mused. The age difference, no doubt; Legolas's possible reactions and the memories of his first wife's tragic passing. Thranduil took years to recover, Legolas had once said, and he refused all attempts at relationships, even ones that could only last a night.

Until now.

"Why now?" A wave of insecurity caught you unawares. The Oropherions had come from another country and were old money. Thranduil could have easily set his sights on someone like him, and he could still do it, pretending that there was no one else. After all, longing could mean many things. "And why me?"

"Is it not obvious?" he asked, after seeing doubt cloud your eyes.

"No," you flushed when he took your hands into his. Such large hands he had—hands that were so warm against yours. Thranduil raised yours to his lips, kissing them repeatedly.

"Your skin smells glorious, just like I thought it would be," Thranduil observed, his lips curling into a smile. "And soft. So soft. I cannot wait to feel your hands all over my body."

His gaze cut to yours. Your eyes were fixed on his, your pupils wide and your breathing quick. Doubt still clouded your eyes, and doubt was what he wanted to soothe.

"Are you worried I might set you aside for someone else?"

"Yes," you swallowed, but somehow you clung on to your courage. "You're an Oropherion and I'm... I'm... Me"

Thranduil grabbed your hands by the wrists and tugged on them, pulling you out of your chair and onto his. Your breath hitched when you found yourself on his lap, his arms hooking around your waist.

"I cannot ask you to simply put complete faith in me, not when you still do not truly know me," Thranduil admitted. "All I can ask is for you to give me a chance. Just one. Will you do that for me? Give me a chance?"

You looked at him, at those startling eyes of his. You found no malice, no ill-intent, just a pair of sky-blue eyes that looked at you in a way no one else had done before. One chance, he had asked. You could risk giving him one chance.

"Alright," hands moving up your waist made your breath quicken again. "One chance."

Thranduil tightened his grip, heady anticipation coursing through his veins. "And can I make you mine now?"

"Yes," you were just as excited as he was. "But where though?"

Thranduil already had a place in mind, and set you down on your feet. When he rose, you had to really look up. Legolas may have been tall, but Thranduil was even taller.

"Come," he said, holding onto your hand. Thranduil led you out of the library and into the corridor. "I know just the place."

That place turned out to be his bedroom. It was like Legolas’s but on a much grander scale, with a large four-poster bed and warm accents everywhere. There was a wooden crest of some sort hung up on one wall, an intricately carved leaf surrounded by vines.

"My family’s crest," Thranduil stood behind you. "Tis an old one; the true meaning of it has been lost to time."

His hand had been moving up your arm, making your skin prickle and warm beneath his palm.

"You can change your mind at any time," he murmured and moved even closer, his other arm slowly circling around your waist. "I will stop the moment you ask me to."

You didn’t want him to stop. Not now, not after what he was making you feel, all warm and feverish and lustful.

"What if I don’t want you to stop?" you replied, your body slowly sagging into his. Thranduil groaned triumphantly and turned you around, his arms pulling you into a tight embrace.

His kiss was far from gentle, leaving you breathless and heady. You willingly yielded, your arms twinning around his broad shoulders when he dipped to carry you, a growl slipping past his lips when your legs wrapped around his waist. Thranduil carried you to across the room, his kisses demanding and unceasing. When he set you down by the foot of the bed, you tried to undress yourself.

"No," Thranduil was quick to stop you. "Let me do it instead."

Your hands moved to your sides while skilled, patient fingers worked on the belt of your robe and drew it away. His eyes darkened at the lace and skin that lay beneath.

"Beautiful," he whispered dreamily, before tugging your robe down your arms. When it pooled around your feet your cheeks warmed immediately. Thranduil stood still for a moment, drinking in the vision that stood in front of him, before gathering you into his arms and kissing you again. You found yourself being carried into bed, its bedspread cool beneath your skin. A blissful sigh parted your lips when his tongue dipped into your mouth. You felt caged beneath him, his body heavy against yours in all manner of wonderful ways. When he pressed himself even closer, your nails nearly ripped into his shirt, leaving gouges in his back. It hurt, but Thranduil thought no pain felt even a fraction as good.

"You are going to be the death of me," he breathed and pulled away, so he could undress himself. Your blush rose immediately when the last of his clothes joined the little pile by the side of the bed and he towered before you like a magnificent sculpture come to life. You didn’t have time to even think as his lips sought yours again. He had to prop himself on one elbow, to avoid crushing you, but his kiss, oh, how sinful was his kiss, hungry and needy, and his touch, heated and possessive, as it moved all over your body. His hair felt thick to your touch, his skin petal-soft against your own. When he ground into you, more than a little hesitant, you threw caution to the wind.

"You don’t have to be gentle with me," you encouraged. When Thranduil stopped, studying you keenly, you cupped his face with your hands. You wanted him to do it, to take control and have his way with you completely. "I mean it, Mr. Oropherion, you don’t have…"

"Sir," Thranduil insisted, having brought down his own inhibitions. He wanted to hold back, to be gentle, to not fall on you like a beast, but if what you asked for was true…

"Not Mr. Oropherion," Thranduil's need to take control slowly overcame him. "Not while we are here, within the confines of this bedroom."

Your entire body flushed heatedly by his tone alone. "Yes," you gazed at him, blood roaring in yours ears. "Sir."

"Come," Thranduil settled onto his knees and held out a hand. When he pulled you onto his lap, you felt his cock—already hard—rubbing against your slick heat. Pinpricks of desire slowly grew as he kept rubbing himself against you, making you mewl and whimper into his shoulder.

"Are you sure about this, princess?" Thranduil growled, his voice deep and husky by now. "You do not want me to be gentle?"

What was it with the way he suddenly called you princess? Why did it make your pulse scramble so? "Yes," you readied yourself, eager for all the things he could possibly do to you. "Sir."

His lips crushed yours, his arms tightening around your waist like a vice. His teeth grazed over your lips, his tongue pushing past them and flicking against yours when it slipped into the warmth of your mouth. You couldn’t help but purr helplessly, your fingers raking through his hair. Thranduil forgot all sense of gentleness and decency as need lashed at him like a whip.

"So shameless, princess," he cooed, his hand making its way around your waist and onto your thigh. "The way you would look at me. Thinking I would not notice? Pitiful."

"I’m sorry, sir," you sighed when that hand of his snuck under the hem of your nightgown and glided up. "I’m so sorry."

"You should be," he muttered, "You should be very sorry."

Slap.

You jolted when he smacked your thigh. The pain that came was sharp, but the pleasure that followed afterwards…

"More," you begged, "Please."

"Sir," he reminded, before reddening your thigh again. "You forget yourself, princess."

"Sir," you mumbled quickly, "More sir, please."

Thranduil dipped and nipped your throat and your shoulder, taking care not to bruise such exposed parts.

"So needy already," he spanked your thigh a third time, moaning when you tugged his hair. "And I have just gotten started."

He kissed you again; his kisses aggressive and hot. He tugged at the hem of your nightgown, ordering you to lift your arms. The lace and silk confection went up your arms and over your waist before being tossed to the pile of clothes by the side. Thranduil pulled away to look at you, at your bruised lips, your skin gleaming in the lamplight, your disheveled hair, and your eyes, heavy-lidded, dark.

"Look at you," Thranduil grinned wolfishly as he took you in. "Already a mess."

"I am, sir," you snuggled even closer and threw your arms around his shoulders.

Instead of kissing you Thranduil pushed you onto your back, his greedy mouth exploring as much of your body as possible. You could only grip into the sheet when his teeth left darkening patches to bloom in their wake, your back arching every time he nipped at your skin. Your mewls turned into heady moans and Thranduil couldn’t get enough it.

"I often wondered how sweet you would sound when we fucked," he moaned and turned his attention to the soft swell of your breasts, dipping his head to taste. "How sweet you would taste."

"As much as I wondered how good you’d taste," you babbled without even realizing it. Thranduil chuckled before turning his attention back to what he was doing. He licked and laved, leaving your nipples throbbing by the time he had finished.

"Needy little slut, yes?" Thranduil pinned your hands over your head and forced your thighs apart with his. "But do not worry; you will get to taste me later. Lift those beautiful hips of yours for now."

You had just hooked your legs over his hips when he entered you, his cock plunging into your cunt in one quick stroke. He was so big, and it hurt, but the sensations that came with him sinking his length into you—the feel of your walls clenching around his cock—were too good, and the pain was forgotten quickly enough. Then he started to move.

Helpless and pinned beneath him, you found yourself being pushed higher up the bed every time he pulled his hips back and pushed back in, his moans matching yours. Thranduil forced himself to hold on, to wait till you had climaxed, but it had been so long, so very long, and you felt gloriously warm, he knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.

"Come for me, princess," he commanded, "Come for me now."

A wave of intense pleasure rose within you, threatening to drag you under. You let it drag you under, your body splintering as your orgasm ripped through you. Your senses dulled as the world around you seemed to stop spinning. So lost in your blissed-out state that you barely felt Thranduil pull out of you and spill his seed over your belly, his moan that of a deeply satisfied man.

Clarity came slowly. The sweet, restful scent of lavender oil mingled with each breath you took. You blinked your eyes and looked up. Thranduil still hovered over you, his arms trembling, and sweat gleaming on his brow. Slowly, he let go, his kisses going from raw fury to tender pecks. He massaged your wrists, helped you get cleaned up and insisted that you sleep in his bed, reassuring you that Legolas would have no issue with you being with him. Once he was sure you were settled, he quickly threw on a pair of sweatpants and went out to fetch you a glass of water. Legolas had also walked into the kitchen at the same time, and the two shared a knowing look.

"It’s happening?" Legolas asked, and made his way over to his father. "Are you and y/n together now?"

Thranduil filled out a glass of water for him and watched while his son took an aspirin for the headache that was already building in intensity. Legolas knew of his father's plan. He had seen both his friend and father pining for each other and it was he who encouraged his father to take the first step in the first place.

"Yes," Thranduil filled another glass for you and studied his son. "I will date her properly and do my best not to make a mess of things. Y/n deserves better than that."

"Good," Legolas would have grinned, had it not felt like a rat was trying to gnaw its way out of his head. "Y/n will be good for you. Besides, you’ve been a lonely, miserable bastard for too long, dad."

Thranduil blushed but smiled all the same. "One does not expect to hear such language from their own child, but thank you."

tags: @ryantryan6969 @asianbutnotjapanese @lemonivall @the-fandoms-georgie @nupppuff

#🔥 spicy spring fling 🔥#thranduil #thranduil x reader #thranduil smut #thranduil imagine #modern thranduil #x reader #reader inset #reader request #writeblr #💫a world of whimsy writes

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sorcerous-caress · 1 year ago

Note

AAHHH thank you thank you for answering my tiefling ask! Ardour is a pleasure! Could you write some more on him? Maybe about his fantasys?

Top 5 🔥HOTTEST🔥 fantasies that tiefling guys😈 keep secret from you😲? (GONE WRONG😱) (GONE SEXUAL!!🥵)

CLICK BELOW NOW👇👇👇👇👇👇

I'm happy you liked him, I'd love to talk more about him.

Worship kink / switch

He doesn't want to admit how much he admires humans in secret. All your beautiful inventions, the soul moving art and breathtaking architecture.

The temples you build for your gods that made all other races' temples obsolete in comparison. Humans are in high demand when it comes to the heavens. They make the most devoted paladins, the most overzealous clerics. The bread and butter of the whole holy ordeal, genuinely believing in the cause and ready to throw their life away for it.

Humans devotion is no joke, it outweights stars in its mass at times.

Ardour wants it all.

Dreams of it, fantasies about it. How docile and obedient you'd look kneeling before his throne, wearing the best armour with the most beautiful carvings. While at night you'd be clad in sinful outfits, silk barely hiding your intimate parts as you await him at his chambers.

Sadly, this isn't the medieval ages, and he can barely afford rent, let alone real silk.

No, he has his stupid lectures where stupid human professers passively explain lessons while he pays zero attention, getting distracted whenever they bend over or unbutton the top of their blouse.

It's so stupid. He has demon blood in him! He shouldn't be getting scolded for missing another assignment. They should be kneeling at his feet!

Yet humans hold all the authority positions in all cities. Human leaders, political figures, and army commanders. They have expanded so much that there is no corner on this earth where you could run to without bumping into a human thinking they can order you around.

What he hates the most, is that he's into it. As much as he dreams about being the one wearing the crown, the aching between his legs whenever he imagines you keeping him on a leash tells another story.

Fuck your kind is so cool. How did you come up with all of those ideas? How are you this creative? So brave and adventurous...so...preveted and ready to fuck anything with self awareness. Letting orcs breed you, allowing dragons to use your like fleshlights, seducing assimars and demons alike.

Why does he feel the need to please you whenever you're around? Why does he feel lesser and below you? Why does he enjoy it so much?

The way he scurries to fetch you a drink whenever you even hint at being thirsty, the way he priorities you over his studies and immediately asnwers your calls/texts.

He wants to be the dangerous tiefling making the naive human desperate for his attention, how the fuck did he end up being the one wrapped around your finger?

He failed a couple of exams when you booty dialled him at 3AM. because you were horny and even the thought of refusing felt like sin scorching his throat.

It annoys him.

All thoughts leave his brain the second you open the door, wearing nothing but a shirt, which makes the overpriced Uber ride here actually worth it.

It's like a switch flips in his brain and he immediately wants to serve you. Let him taste you, please please let him eat you out. He'll beg and cry if you want, he needs his sharp teeth biting up your thighs right now or he will lose his mind.

Ardour's mouth is the first to betray him in every scenario. Every lewd thought and preveted desire is spoken out loud between mouthfulls of cum he swallows down. Exposing how much he kept leaking in his pants during the ride here just by thinking about you, fisting his cock while describing how he saves every selfie you send him for jerk off material.

Degrading your kind, saying all humans are nothing but dumb sluts who need to learn their place whilst he's on his knees, grinding against your leg.

You pull him by the horns to shut him up by pushing his mouth against your wet heat.

Foot fetish

This one ties to the worship kink.

Is he ashamed of the fact a footjob gets him cumming in record time? Yeah, a lot actually.

But his brain doesn't have the capability of shame when he gets to kiss your ankles, forked tongue licking up and down your leg. The humiliation of the act itself is its biggest appeal to his libido, arousal pooling inside him as he holds your foot between his claws and digs against the skin.

Part of him wants to eat you alive. Gnaw at your flesh and bite to the bone of your meaty leg.

Fuck why are humans so plump?

So he settles for a taste, a show of submission. Your ankle is his favourite part to pay attention to, it's so fragile and easy to break. It's one of the weakest parts of the human body.

Each time he has his mouth on it, he can picture it crystal clear.

Biting down.

The crunching sound.

The fantasy makes him whimper against your feet, sucking harder on your skin. Lifting your leg up and kissing the sensitive area at the underside of your knee where the skin is the most sensitive. With each graze of his razor teeth against it, your heart skips a beat as primal fear mixes with arousal.

Ardour also likes the rough feeling of your heel grinding between his legs, be it you applying pressure on it or him grabing your foot and forcing it against his cock.

The leaking cum dripping down on your foot, leaving it all sticky and messy as he gets off on the disgusted look on your face. Looking down at him like he's an idiot, like he's a filthy fiend beneath you. He's tempted to lick the cum off of your foot clean just to be degraded more for how disgusting he is.

Does he have a folder on his phone exclusive to pictures of your bare legs? Of curious he does Doesn't.

Public sex

Despite all the loser stereotypes he falls under, he's actually someone who enjoys being in public.

...maybe a bit too much.

What matters is that he scoffs at the anti-social virgin incels who stay glued to their computer all day. No shit they can't find a date if they're busy gooning it out to pornbots on twitter, maybe touch some grass and get some bitches?

Is what he says when he goes out and attempts to flirt with humans in the area after paying for a full course flirting tutorial from a pick-up artist, watching a sigma motivational video on youtube, and asking for advice on reddit, in that order.

He fails. A lot.

After he scores you, it feels better than wining the lottery as he swears up and down that it was all the effort and lessons which helped him, definitely not just you taking pity on a rando in a dating app.

At least he stopped approaching strangers now. Other humans are hot duh, but he's not going to fucking fumble this bag by even insinuating he's interested in anyone other than you.

Even if another human approaches him, no thank you. He is locked on, he has you now, and the world will have to claw you out of his cold, dead hands!

So now, he brings you to the public instead. He can't afford expensive restaurants, so your dates consist of fast food joints, the park and...campus library? He has a subscription card there that he wants to use before it expires.

The dates start off as innocent enough, but you can't help but feel his glances increasing in frequency the more time goes on.

His touches start to linger. Ardour's tail swishing around before he suddenly wraps it around his leg as he stiffens.

He's getting hard in public.

It's just...you're sitting here all beautiful in front of him, how is he supposed not to get turned on?

Especially when all the other humans who pass by give the two of you a second look. They know you're with a tiefling from the way he's possessively sticking to your side. Ardour thinks about how they know you're together, fuck what if they imagine you two fucking? Everyone in here knows he's getting you gasping under him in bed.

At least in his brain.

"A tiefling and a human, how scandalous...for you."

"They probably think you're a whore for dating a fiend you know? Humans never liked my kind."

"My bite marks are still visible on your neck..come on don't hide them. I want others to see."

"That one scowled at me. Ha, she probably wonders if I'm manipulating you into sleeping with me."

You either take him to a bathroom and fuck him, or he'll start getting more bolder and shameless in front of everyone.

He won't fucking shut up.

Now the librarian is giving the two of you nervous glances.

Oh, he will take it as far as he can. Last time, his tail was busy flicking against your sensitive heat under the table while you struggled to order food. Another time, he was bold enough to pull you into his lap in the middle of the park, squeeze and fondle your chest while biting your neck.

Being seen in the public with you does something to his brain and makes it leak braincells alongside his regard for the law.

It's like it's his life mission to prove every bad stereotype about tieflings right, out of spite. Each time an elderly couple of elves scowl at him hugging you, he wants to fuck you in front of them and show them that there is nothing they can do.

They can think of him as filthy as they want, they can paint him to he a sinful devil as much as they want. Because. They. Can't. Do. Shit.

You chose him with all of his suppoded filth and sins. You chose to be with him and he wants to show the whole world how this human is willingly letting a tiefling fuck them, how humanity still repeats its mistakes of playing with fire.

The tree huggers should stay busy clutching their pearls and not get near his human.

Blood kink

....listen he doesn't mean to have that one. Like he genuinely doesn't even know why he has it, he's not even into any extreme kinks-

Okay that's just a bunch of lies.

You had a nosebleed one time, and he purposely was late in getting a tissue so it'd trickle down your lips and chin. He came back eventually but refused to hand it to you.

Instead, he dapped it under your nose while licking the blood up your chin and lapping at your lips. The metallic taste went down his throat like ambrosia as his tongue slipped between your lips, making you taste your own life essence.

His tail curled around you, clawed hands pulling you against him as the tissue fell to the ground. Blood dripping down again and mixing with the kiss Ardour's melting into.

You tasted as divine as he imagined. Some demons do enjoy the taste of souls. He's just a tiefling, so he doesn't have the faintest idea how to get one, let alone eat it, but your blood held a hint of life in it.

He's not going to drink your blood. He's not some vampire. Actually, he thinks he might need to visit emergency care if he does it.

It's just that he always wondered why infernal pacts were signed with blood. Why names were carved into flesh, why the hells had this obsession with the souls of the living.

But oh, now he understands.

He won't bite you. He's too much of a scaredy cat for that. Lowkey he thinks all humans are fragile things, and if he breathes too hard in your general direction, then you might collapse.

But if you happened to get a papercut, a nose bleed, a scrapped knee.

He's more than happy to be of assistant.

Lapping up at the wound with his forked tongue, moaning against your flesh as he savours the taste of your life escaping your vessels. Into him.

Fuck it's going inside him, he's literally taking your life.

Oh he's just being so mean, isn't he? He shouldn't do that to poor humans, he shouldn't find your taste this appealing.

The bloodline of Beelzabul pumps through his heart.

A beat

Faster

And faster.

He wants to eat you.

He won't. He can't. It's weird. Blood is gross.

But he is gross. He is already filthy and a creep, he's already labeled a sinner.

So why not worship at your shrine for forgiveness? He will grovel for repentance as much as you want, let you grind down on his cock with your heel as much as you like.

Just let him keep lapping at your wounds like a dog until they close and heal. Let him indulge in the heritage he should be ashamed of.

He is so so weak and the call of your flesh is so so sweet.

Horn pulling

Ardour is someone who takes extreme care of his horns. Like most tieflings, It's his pride and joy.

Various accessories to match his outfits, polishing and shining them to bring out their vibrant colours. He especially puts in more effort after the two of you start hanging out because of your clear affinity for them.

░M░Y░P░U░S░S░Y░I░N░B░I░O░🍆🍑💦

So why would he let anyone pull them? Isn't that counterproductive?

Have you ever built a wooden brick tower just to tear it down?

A sandcastle for the waves to wash away?

A beautifully wrapped present to tear open?

Just like you keep having to replace the clothes he keeps accidentally tearing with his claws from excitement, he too keeps making his horns presentable for you to ruin them time after time.

Starting slow, circling your fingerpads around the sharp tips. Squeezing it between your thumb and pointer and watching him shudder. Flicking it as his eyes go wide from the delicious vibration running down.

Wrapping your soft human hand around it, so chubby in comparison to his boney rigged hand. Feeling up and down his horns, giving him the pretense of safety as he fully embraces what's about to come.

You tighten your fist around it, tapping your nail against its hard surface.

A rough tug follows.

Ardour takes a sharp breath as his knees shake on the floor, his face buried in your lap with his arms wrapping under your knees.

You could go for hours and pull all kinds of embarrassing sounds out of him. Make him sing beautifully with his moans and whimpers as you sit dignified on the couch, toying with his horns while he's becoming a mess below.

It gets him to become loud in bed too, whenever he's drunk on the feeling of your insides squeezing his cock and you harshly pull on his horns. He's baring his teeth and looking feral at you, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth as you see the clear signs of hunger in his wide firely pupils amdist the black cornea.

You know he won't hurt it, you, but it's hard to convince your human instincts of that fact when his teeth look sharper than any scalpel. When he's slamming himself inside you of body like it's his only purpose.

When he won't stop babbling about how much of a puny human you are. Weak and helpless in comparison to him. How you either have a death wish or secretary are as much of a freak as he is to allow another species to fuck you like this.

You know his kind could devour you? The bad reputation of tieflings didn't fall out of the fucking sky for no reason. Every rumour held an ounce of truth in it.

All the stories they told you about the corruption bad evil race, the scary horned demon decadents.

Ardour's tail wrapping around to fit insides your wet hole, fucking you alongside his cock as you clench around it.

"Keep your grip on my horns, human. If you let go again, I might just eat you."

Sending you over the edge, tugging at his horns through your orgasm with desperation as his thrusts stutter from the intense way your insides spasm.

Pouring himself inside you, hot liquid filling you up as his tail slithers out of your used hole. Sticky and covered in his own cum.

He doesn't pull out. Intense gaze meeting your own as the tip of his tail nudges your lips, urging you to lick his mess up.

"Please." He pleads, all powerful a second ago and now nothing but meak and desperate. "Please, I want you to taste me....us. both of us."

Looking at you like you hung the moon and the stars, how could you refuse?

Collapsing on top of you afterwards. Cock being warmed by your insides and plugging you full. Ardour cuddles you closer, littering kisses up your neck.

He thanks you for being with him, letting him do this. Treating him...with warmth. The hells fire runs through his veins, and yet you're the warmest thing he has ever felt.

Falling asleep together, holding you tightly during the night.

Some fluffy facts to balance things out

Wonders how humans function without tails for balance or horns. Says your kind is clumsy because of it so it's his job to catch you if you trip.

If you meet another tiefling, you'd realise how much of an edgelord he is in comparison to how chill they are. He denies it and says all tiefling should be like him and stop pandering to humans by pretending to be goody two shoes. He says that while sitting with numb legs because his cat is sleeping on his lap and he refuses to move.

Actually, he knows infernal. It's a little broken, but he's trying his best between all the late night studying he has to do for his tests. His dream is to get a matching tattoo with you in infernal. Definitely tries using it during sex but gets embarrassed from his bad pronunciation and stops.

He loves human Halloween and thinks it's the best holiday ever. Who gives a shit about the pissed vampires saying it's weird for the humans to dress up like them? Really wants to do matching outfits with you.

On that note, you can easily convince him to cosplay. He had an anime phase as a teen but forced himself to stop in order to get into the "alpha sigma" mindest for college and pull cute humans.

Flames people in online games and is generally a very bad teammate, gets banned frequently. If you play with him, he becomes worse because he tries to show off to you but ends up ruining everything.

Thinks porn is for losers. he doesn't see anything wrong with having a folder of your saved selfies to jerk off to. Hey, it's not porn! At least his brain isn't rotted like those weirdos on human fetish forums.

What do you mean how does he know what that is? Uh...don't worry about it.

He's banned anyway.

But the idiots forgot to ban his alt so.

Actually watches the tiktoks you send him. Yes all of them.

his own fyp is filled with work 24/7 grindest ones that he secrelty hates but thinks they help him. Watching the entertaining ones you send him is actually the most fun he has on the app.

I'm sorry.

#♡Ardour #♡modern au human kink #♡human reader #♡human kink #♡dark content #♡smut #♡fluff #human x tiefling #dnd human kink #human kink #tiefling x human

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fangdokja · 4 days ago

Text

"If I fail, I’m blaming you."

❤︎ Synopsis. He swore he could last—thirty days of restraint, thirty days of self-control. But as the weeks drag on and your teasing turns cruel, the tension festers into something darker, something hungrier… until No Nut November isn’t just a challenge—it’s a countdown to his breaking point.

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Soft! Modern AU! Various x Fem. Reader (separate)

♡ Kidnapper x Captor Series. The Thirsting - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 11,739 (about 1K each character)

♡ TW. dom + top + older + soft sadist yanderes, non-con + rape, implied Stockholm Syndrome + husband x wife dynamics, dark humor, BDSM + DDLG, incest, language, forced orgasms, overstimulation + raw fucking, inappropriate use of kinks, degradation + humiliation, implied blackmail, public sex, physical assault, slapping + spanking + biting + slight choking, fingering, general manipulation + gaslighting + abuse + trauma, abuse of authority, fingering, fear + primal play + dacryphilia, drugging, somnophilia, slight omegaverse inspiration, breeding + knotting

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝! 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✦✧✦✧

He lasts exactly four days. Four miserable, frustrating, agonizing days.

At first, it was just a stupid challenge—something he saw online, some meme about mental fortitude, about proving you're a real man by abstaining for a month. Gojo laughed at it. Scoffed. He’s an apex predator, above all these pathetic mortal compulsions. Sex? It’s fun. It’s entertainment. It’s a game he plays with you because he can.

The first day is easy. He’s amused by the whole concept, smirking at his phone as he lounges on the couch, watching you move about the apartment like some oblivious little prey animal. You’re always so serious, so unaware of how much he enjoys winding you up.

The second day, he’s a little irritated. Not because he’s struggling. (Of course not.) But because you look extra nice today, and he doesn’t appreciate being inconvenienced by his own self-imposed restraint. He tells himself it’s fine. He’ll just tease you a little, maybe rile you up for fun.

The third day, he starts thinking about how soft you are. How easy you are to break. How much he loves watching your body struggle, shiver, seize up around him. It’s not fair, really. You’re right there. In his space. In his home. His. He catches himself staring at you too much, fingers twitching with the desire to touch. He spends the entire night in bed, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight, thinking about the way you sound when he fucks you deep enough to ruin you.

By the fourth day, he’s feral.

And it’s your fault.

Because you’re walking around, existing, breathing, wearing that stupid oversized sweater he bought you, drowning in the fabric like you don’t even realize how damn tempting you are. It’s infuriating. He watches you tuck your knees up onto the couch, tilting your head at your book, completely unaware that he’s sitting there, gripping his phone so hard it might crack, trying to remember why the hell he ever thought this was a good idea.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he mutters.

You blink, confused. “Doing what?”

His eye twitches.

Fucking hell. You actually don’t know. You’re sitting there, curled up like some delicate little thing, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s been battling the urge to pin you down and break you open for the past twenty-four hours.

“Doesn’t matter,” he breathes out, pushing himself up from the couch. He has to leave the room. Has to get away from you before he does something regrettable.

He barely makes it three steps.

You shift. Just slightly. Just enough that the hem of that godforsaken sweater slides up your thigh, exposing the soft skin beneath.

And it’s over.

He’s on you before you even realize he’s moved. A startled gasp leaves your lips as he yanks the book from your hands and tosses it aside, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“Satoru—”

“Shut up,” he hisses, voice raw, strained, like he’s barely holding himself together.

His breath is hot against your ear. His fingers squeeze tight around your wrists.

“I’ve been patient.” His teeth graze the shell of your ear, his weight pressing you down into the couch. “I’ve been good. I’ve been so fucking good.”

Your stomach twists. There’s something unhinged in his voice, something dangerous in the way his entire body trembles against yours.

“But you just had to make it hard for me, huh?” His lips ghost over your throat. “Walking around like that. Looking at me like that.”

You weren’t looking at him in any particular way. But you know better than to argue.

His hands slide beneath your sweater, yanking it up and over your head, leaving you exposed. You shiver at the sudden cold, at the hungry way his eyes drag over your bare skin.

“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than you. He palms at your chest, rough and greedy, like he’s making up for lost time. “You’re unreal. So fucking soft. So fucking perfect.”

He’s already pulling at your shorts, dragging them down along with your underwear, fingers pressing against the heat between your legs. He groans, low and guttural.

“You’re already wet?” His voice is dripping with condescension. He presses a finger inside, slow, teasing. “You’re filthier than I thought.”

You bite back a sound, turning your head away.

He doesn’t like that.

“Aw, don’t get shy on me now,” he croons, shoving another finger in, stretching you open. “I want to hear how much you need me.”

Your body betrays you, arching into his touch, clenching around him in ways that make his restraint snap entirely.

“Fuck, I can’t—” His voice is a mess of frustration and desire. He shoves his sweats down, free hand gripping your thigh, forcing your legs apart. “I need this. I need you.”

You barely have time to gasp before he thrusts inside, bottoming out in one rough stroke. The stretch burns, forcing a strangled cry from your throat.

His head drops against your shoulder. His breath is ragged, shuddering, like he’s just barely holding on to the last thread of his sanity.

“Holy shit,” he groans. “So tight. So fucking tight.”

You dig your nails into his arms, gasping, struggling to adjust, but he doesn’t give you the chance. He pulls back and slams into you again, rough, deep, needy.

“I’m not stopping,” he warns, grip bruising as he pounds into you. “I don’t care how much you beg.”

You don’t beg. But you do sob. Do whimper. Do cry out as he fucks you with all the pent-up frustration of the past four days, holding nothing back, taking and taking until the only thing you can do is cling to him and endure it.

And he loves it. Loves how helpless you are beneath him. Loves how you squeeze around him, gripping him like you were made for him.

“You feel that?” he pants against your throat. “Feel how deep I am?”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Say it.”

You don’t, so he slaps your thigh, sharp enough to make you yelp.

“Say it.”

“You’re—” You gasp as he thrusts particularly deep, your whole body jolting. “You’re deep—!”

His laugh is breathless, wicked.

“Good girl.”

He doesn’t stop. Not until you’re shaking beneath him, reduced to a mess of choked sobs and broken gasps. Not until he’s had his fill, until he’s spilling inside you with a guttural groan, pressing his weight against you, keeping you trapped as he rides out his release.

His breath is uneven against your skin. His fingers loosen just slightly on your hips.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Fuck that challenge.”

He kisses your temple, slow, mocking.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 ✦✧✦✧

You were a good girl.

That was the problem.

The worst fucking problem, actually, because Ryōmen Sukuna had always been in fucking control. Of himself, of his gang, of every fucking thing in his miserable excuse of a life. He prided himself on his ability to override base instincts, to never get played by his own urges. He was a damn legend in the underground, and his name alone had men pissing their pants.

But it had been twenty-eight days.

Twenty-eight.

Twenty-eight fucking days of No Nut November because his gang had called him out, and he was no shitty pussy. He'd laughed, sneered, spat on the floor, and told them all to eat shit if they thought he couldn’t handle it. And for a while, it had been easy.

He thought it was beneath him, just a dumbass social challenge that only weak-willed men struggled with. But now, staring at you—his wife, his property, his ultimate possession—he was realizing something.

He was going to fucking snap.

You weren’t even doing anything.

That was the worst part.

You were just there, sitting in his apartment in one of his oversized shirts that barely covered the tops of your thighs, legs tucked up on the couch as you scrolled mindlessly through your phone. So fucking innocent. So fucking oblivious to what you did to him.

He wanted to rip that innocence apart.

His hands curled into fists as he sucked his teeth, his jaw flexing. He shouldn’t be this worked up, shouldn’t feel like his skin was on fire just from looking at you, but fuck, damn it—

You were his.

And he had rules.

“You should cover up,” he muttered, voice low and rough as he rolled his shoulders, trying to ignore the throbbing in his jeans.

You flinched slightly at his tone, but your fingers tightened around your phone, and that made something ugly burn in him.

“I—”

He was already on you before you could finish.

His body moved on instinct, months—years—of control slipping like sand through his fingers. His knees hit the couch, trapping your legs under his weight as he wrenched the phone out of your grip and tossed it onto the coffee table.

You barely had time to gasp before his hand was fisting in your hair, dragging your head back as his mouth crashed against your throat.

It wasn’t romantic.

It wasn’t soft.

It was violent, teeth sinking into the delicate skin just below your jaw, his other hand yanking the hem of the shirt up, exposing your bare thighs.

“S-Sukuna—”

“I’ve had enough.” His voice was a snarl against your throat, frustration laced with something darker, something that made his vision blur. “You fucking did this.”

“I—” Your hands scrambled against his chest, pushing against the leather of his jacket. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Exactly.” His laugh was sharp, cruel, breath hot against your skin as his grip tightened. “You just sit there, acting all innocent, like you don’t know what you fucking do to me.”

You whimpered as he spread your legs apart with his knee, pressing between them, forcing them open.

Twenty-eight days.

He had never gone that long without fucking something—someone. His self-control had been admirable. Legendary, even. But you?

You were his fucking kryptonite.

His patience snapped like a live wire.

His mouth was on yours before you could scream, swallowing the sound with a vicious kiss, biting down on your lower lip until he tasted blood. Your nails clawed at him, a weak, pathetic attempt to push him off, but it only made him harder, made him hungrier.

“Too late to run now,” he growled, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand.

His other hand shoved your thighs further apart, fingers pressing against your slit, finding you untouched, unready. He groaned against your mouth, grinding against your core through his jeans, feeling the rough denim scrape against your soft, sensitive skin.

You were shaking under him.

Good.

You should be afraid.

Because he wasn’t stopping.

Not this time.

His fingers forced their way inside you, stretching you open, punishingly slow, savoring the way you gasped and clenched around him.

“Fuck—so tight,” he gritted out, eyes flashing as he watched your face contort, your brows furrowed, your lips parted in an involuntary moan.

Your body betrayed you.

It always did.

And he loved it.

“Bet you thought I’d keep playing nice,” he murmured against your ear, curling his fingers inside you until you whimpered. “Thought I’d keep my hands to myself, be a ‘good husband,’ huh?”

Your eyes welled with tears, your breath coming in ragged, choked sobs as you shook your head frantically. “No—Sukuna, please—”

“Please?” He let out a cruel laugh, pulling his fingers out just to push them back in harder, deeper. “Please what? Please fuck you?”

Your face burned with shame, your body arching despite your desperate protests.

He ripped himself out of his jeans in the next second, pulling your hips up, spreading you wide.

“No—no, wait, please—”

But he didn’t wait.

He slammed inside you in one brutal thrust, forcing your body to take him, ignoring the way you cried out, ignoring the way your nails dug into his forearm.

You were too fucking tight, too hot, too perfect.

Twenty-eight days.

And it was worth every single fucking second.

His body caged you in, his weight pressing down, suffocating, drowning you in him. His pace was punishing, brutal, every thrust dragging a sob from your throat, every snap of his hips pushing you further into the couch.

He was going to ruin you.

Own you.

Like he always had.

Your breath hitched as he pressed his forehead against yours, his hand still pinning your wrists, his other hand gripping your hip so hard it would bruise. His eyes were wild, frenzied, filled with something dark and violent and all-consuming.

He wasn’t just fucking you.

He was claiming you.

Every single thrust sent you deeper into submission, your resistance breaking apart piece by piece, until all you could do was sob, moan, take it—take him.

Your body betrayed you again.

It always did.

You clenched around him, your walls tightening, pulsing, dragging him deeper.

And he laughed—low, breathless, almost cruel.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with hunger, pressing his lips to your cheek, your jaw, your throat, biting down. “Fuck—squeezing me so good.”

You whimpered, shaking your head, the last vestiges of your defiance crumbling as he fucked you harder, deeper, faster.

“You love this,” he groaned, his pace growing erratic, desperate.

You gasped, body arching, your thighs trembling.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice dangerous, threatening.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out—only choked sobs, whimpers, moans.

His grip tightened on your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“Say it.”

You shuddered, your body going rigid as pleasure crashed over you, violent and unforgiving.

He felt it.

Felt you coming undone around him.

And he followed, his body tensing, his breath catching as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep you could feel every pulse, every throb.

A shuddering, possessive exhale left his lips as he pressed his forehead against yours.

He’s done playing. Done pretending he has control when you’ve stolen it just by existing.

Ryōmen Sukuna never loses.

Except to you.

And he’s going to make sure you fucking feel it.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫! 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧! 𝐑𝐞𝐱 𝐋𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐬 ✦✧✦✧

The first mistake was overhearing his students. The second was letting his curiosity get the better of him.

It had started as a whisper—muted, nervous giggles from the back of his lecture hall. He didn’t need to look to know they were slacking, but the unfamiliar phrase caught his attention.

“No Nut November.”

A ridiculous mortal invention, no doubt, but it had his students flustered. When he turned his head, sharp ochre eyes slicing through the sea of desks, the culprits had frozen in place like rabbits caught before a dragon’s maw. He did not entertain foolishness in his lectures. A single raised brow had them fumbling for an explanation.

“Professor Zhongli! We—uh—uhm—it’s a, uh, challenge—”

A challenge? He expected something academic.

“—A celibacy challenge.”

He had scoffed, shaking his head at their nonsense. Mortal men and their desperate, pathetic attempts at self-control. What weak creatures, undone by the absence of indulgence.

And yet—he found himself entertained by the notion.

So he tried it.

For two days, it was nothing. For five, irritation gnawed at his patience. But by the seventh, he was suffering. His discipline had never failed him before, and yet every minuscule movement, every insignificant scent—everything—was suddenly too much. He smelled your perfume on his papers. He caught the memory of your voice in his empty office. And when you passed by, oblivious to the monster unraveling at the seams, he had to grip his desk to stop himself from dragging you inside and snapping the foolish, self-imposed chains that kept him in check.

It was no longer just about the challenge. No longer about proving his willpower. It was about you. It was always about you.

And now—now he was in heat.

His instincts had been manageable before. A nuisance at best. A buried instinct. A dragon who learned to sleep within its host. But the longer he held back, the stronger the cravings became. His rationality fractured, giving way to base urges he had long since tamed.

It wasn’t just about release anymore.

It was about sinking his teeth into the softness of your neck. About caging you beneath his weight, forcing you to take every inch of him, to whimper and tremble as he filled you again and again and again until his body had wrung every last drop into yours.

He had no choice.

✦✧✦✧

You were unprepared when it happened.

The door had been unlocked. You hadn’t thought anything of it—he was always in his office late, correcting papers, drinking tea, perfectly poised in the way that made your skin crawl. You had only meant to drop off the assignments, a brief interaction, nothing more.

But the moment you stepped inside, you knew something was wrong.

A heat—heavy and suffocating, thick in the air like the press of an unseen predator. The scent of him, something richer, muskier, clawed its way down your throat, leaving your head spinning. The papers slipped from your fingers.

He was already behind you.

“Professor—”

A hand curled around your waist.

The breath hitched in your lungs as a broad chest pressed against your back. Heat. Overwhelming, scorching heat, rolling off of him in waves, like the breath of a beast ready to consume. You stiffened, every nerve screaming in warning, but it was already too late.

“I tried,” he murmured, voice thick with something beyond mere desire. His lips ghosted along your neck, tracing the rapid pulse beneath fragile skin. “But you make it impossible.”

Your breath caught. A shiver raced through you, a stark contrast to the molten need coiling in his chest.

“R-Rex Lapis—”

A mistake. Speaking only made it worse. Your voice—soft, uncertain—had him rumbling deep in his throat, the vibration reverberating through your spine. He spun you in his grasp, pressing you against the desk in a single, fluid motion.

And then you saw his eyes.

No longer amber, but slitted gold, burning with something ancient, something ravenous. His pupils, narrowed to dagger-thin slits, raked over you with the ownership of a beast who had found its mate. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, scenting you, memorizing you.

Your stomach dropped.

“This isn’t—”

“You will take it,” he interrupted, tone brooking no argument. “Because I have held back long enough.”

His mouth crashed over yours, devouring, claiming. Fangs dragged against your lips, sharp enough to break skin. His tongue forced its way inside, swallowing your protests, your feeble resistance, smothering you in the suffocating press of his hunger.

Then his hands were on you. Tearing at fabric. Peeling away barriers that had no right to exist. His breath was ragged, his growl reverberating through your chest as he pushed you onto the desk, a predator pinning its prey.

Your voice was hoarse, words lost between desperate gasps. “No, please—”

His grip tightened.

“You’re mine.”

Then he was inside you.

A strangled cry tore from your throat as he forced himself into you, splitting you open, stretching you far beyond what you could handle. He was too thick, too long, a monstrous shape fitting into something far too small. Your body fought against him, instinctively trying to push him out, but he didn’t relent. He shoved in deeper, until you were filled to the brim, until your walls clenched around him, helplessly trying to accommodate his sheer size.

A guttural groan rumbled from deep within his chest. His hands caged your wrists above your head, rendering you utterly powerless beneath him.

“Perfect,” he hissed. “Made to take me.”

He pulled back, only to slam into you again, forcing a scream from your lips. Again. Harder. His claws dragged against your skin, leaving faint trails of red, marking you, branding you. His pace was relentless—brutal thrusts designed to break you, to mold you into something only he could own.

Your legs trembled, your body wracked with shock, overstimulation, helpless pleasure tangled with raw pain. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. His instincts roared, demanding more, demanding everything.

Then you felt it—his knot swelling at the base, locking him inside, preventing any escape. His grip tightened as he rutted against you, chasing his release, desperate to breed, to claim you in every sense of the word.

And when he finally spilled into you, it was with a vicious snarl—a beast triumphant in its conquest. The sensation was unbearable—thick, scalding heat filling you, overflowing, your body forced to take everything he had to give.

You gasped, shuddering, trapped beneath the weight of him.

He exhaled heavily, nuzzling into your hair, inhaling the scent of his victory.

“No more foolish challenges,” he murmured darkly. “You are all I need.”

His knot throbbed inside you, locking you in place.

You weren’t going anywhere.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥! 𝐀𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ✦✧✦✧

Alhaitham was supposed to be above this. Detached. Unmoved. The cold hand of logic, sculpting the perfect experiment.

But you—

You were the flaw in his theory. And now, he was going to ruin you for it.

It started with a challenge. A careless remark, thrown his way in the middle of yet another heated argument in the library. Your voice laced with that infuriating self-satisfaction, eyes gleaming with the prospect of besting him at something—anything.

“I bet you wouldn’t last a month without touching me.”

Foolish.

He had let the words sink into his mind, assessing the probability of your provocation being a genuine wager or simply a means to tease him. Either way, it was irrelevant.

He accepted.

Not because he feared losing—he wouldn’t. He was a man of discipline, of reason, of pure intellectual pursuit unmarred by base instinct. He’d observe. He’d collect data. And, at the end of the thirty days, he’d have the satisfaction of proving his theory: you would crumble first.

You always did, in the end.

Day one passed without difficulty. Day three, and he noted a spike in your awareness of his presence—sharpened posture, sidelong glances. By the end of the first week, your defiance had started to wane. You were always so easy to read, every shift of your body an unconscious confession.

Except you weren’t breaking.

Weeks passed, and you remained—infuriatingly—unchanged.

But he was not.

By day fifteen, his observations had turned into obsessions. He thought about you in the silence of his study, in the middle of lectures, in the suffocating hush of night when the only sound was the relentless pulse of his own breathing. The memory of your voice, your scent, the unbearable softness of your skin—he had assumed these were variables he could control.

A miscalculation.

Day twenty, and the frustration had settled into something deeper. A primal, gnawing hunger that reason alone could not temper. He found himself dissecting your every movement, cataloging the way your lips parted when deep in thought, the absentminded way you bit your pen. He should have been writing research papers; instead, he was memorizing the way your thighs shifted when you crossed your legs.

By day twenty-five, it was unbearable.

It was not merely the absence of pleasure that tormented him—it was the fact that you knew.

That look in your eyes, that slow, taunting smile whenever he stiffened under your gaze. The way you would brush past him just a little too close, your breath ghosting over his ear. It wasn’t conscious, it couldn’t be—you didn’t have the capacity for such deliberate cruelty. And yet, every unknowing tease was a blade to his restraint, carving away the last vestiges of his resolve.

Day twenty-eight, and he could taste the inevitable.

It was your fault.

You shouldn’t have provoked him. Shouldn’t have stared at him like that, shouldn’t have spoken in that hushed voice, shouldn’t have looked so damn untouchable.

Day twenty-nine. He lost.

You never saw it coming.

One moment, you were studying alone in the library, bent over your notes, and the next—a shadow loomed behind you, his presence a suffocating weight. The warning was barely a whisper, his voice a cold, shuddering rasp against your skin.

“Experiment concluded.”

Then he struck.

The chair scraped violently as he yanked you back against him, his grip bruising, unrelenting. Your protest died in your throat as he dragged you from the room, past the shelves, past the empty corridors—until the world narrowed to four locked walls, suffocating silence, and the realization that there was no escape.

You squirmed, thrashed, spat curses at him, but it only made his grip tighten, his breath slow, measured. Studying. Always studying.

“Do you even realize,” he murmured, his voice a velvet snarl, “what you’ve done to me?”

He forced you against the desk, the edge biting into your stomach as his hands traced their way down, pressing, claiming, branding.

“I was supposed to be above this.”

He buried his face against your neck, inhaling, reveling in the scent that had haunted him for weeks.

“But you—”

Fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt, riding up. The moment he touched bare skin, something in him shattered. A growl, low and primal, ripped from his throat.

“You ruined me.”

Then he took you. Violently. Mercilessly. Every ounce of pent-up rage and starvation turned to raw, unforgiving force. He pinned you down, his body caging yours, devouring every sound you made.

There was no preamble, no warning, just the sudden, brutal stretch of intrusion. Your cry of pain only made his grip tighten, his hips jerking forward in a punishing rhythm. He didn’t care that you weren’t ready. He didn’t care that you were trembling beneath him, gasping, clawing at the desk in a desperate attempt to ground yourself.

This was his experiment.

And you were the data.

His thrusts were sharp, deliberate, calculated to tear you apart. His breath was ragged against your ear, words spilling out in dark, venomous whispers.

“Look at you. You thought you could win?”

Your hands scrabbled against his grip, but he only pressed you harder into the desk, bending over you, trapping you in place as he drove into you relentlessly.

“I should have known,” he hissed, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to bruise. “You were always so infuriatingly arrogant.”

A sharp slap against your thigh made you jolt, the sting amplifying your helplessness. He laughed at your reaction, a cruel, breathless sound.

“You wanted to break me.”

A particularly vicious thrust knocked the air from your lungs, and your whimper only seemed to spur him on.

“Guess what, little scholar?”

Another slap, this time against your ass. Your body jolted forward, and he caught you by the throat, dragging you back against him, forcing your spine to arch as his pace turned frenzied.

“You failed.”

And so he fucked you—until you were a ruined, trembling mess beneath him, until your throat was raw from screaming, until there was nothing left but the shattered remnants of his broken restraint and the brutal certainty that he would never let you go.

By the time he finished, spent and panting, his hands remained locked around your hips, his weight heavy against your back. He pressed a final, lingering kiss to the nape of your neck—a mockery of tenderness.

Then he leaned down, his voice dripping with the satisfaction of a man who had just rewritten his own hypothesis.

“I lost the challenge,” he admitted, his lips curling into a smirk against your sweat-slicked skin.

Then he pulled you up, tilting your chin back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“But you,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your bruised lips,

“lost far worse.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 ✦✧✦✧

He sits at the dining table, posture elegant, swirling the wine in his glass with the practiced ease of someone who has long mastered the art of control. Everything about him radiates refinement—his pristine white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, the expensive watch that glints under the chandelier, the way he sips his drink with deliberate slowness. He is a man of discipline.

And yet, his hands tighten around the stem of the glass when she moves.

You sit across from him, oblivious, nursing your own meal in silence. The domesticity of the scene is normal, even peaceful—except for the way his muscles coil, the way his gaze darkens, the way his mind fights against the need that has been clawing at him for weeks.

No Nut November.

It was a ridiculous concept, a meaningless challenge men put upon themselves to boast about their so-called self-control. It should have been effortless for him. He had restraint woven into his very being, a man who lived by his own unyielding principles.

But that was before you.

Before you entered his life, before you became his, before the sight of you—your quiet defiance, the way you carried yourself, the way your lips pressed together when you were deep in thought—began to gnaw at his carefully maintained composure.

"Oh, I was talking to my friends today," Robin chirps, her presence disrupting the heavy tension that only he seems to notice. She sits at the table beside him, completely unaware of the war raging in his mind. "Apparently, their boyfriends are all trying this thing called ‘No Nut November.’ Have you heard of it, Sunday?"

His jaw ticks. "Hn."

"It’s, like, where guys don’t—y'know—for a whole month. Can you believe it?" She laughs, shaking her head. "I don’t get it. Why do they do that to themselves?"

His grip tightens on the glass, knuckles whitening.

He doesn’t need to be reminded. He is already suffering.

"And guess what?" Robin leans in conspiratorially, grinning. "Most of them already failed. It’s only been two weeks. My friend’s boyfriend lasted like… three days. Can you imagine?"

You shift slightly, crossing your legs, and his gaze immediately zeroes in on the movement. His breath comes slower, heavier. His mouth feels dry.

"How pathetic," he murmurs, voice smooth as silk. "A man with no control over himself is hardly a man at all."

Robin giggles, nodding in agreement. "Right? That’s what I thought too! I bet you could do it, though. You’re, like, the most self-disciplined person I know."

He exhales through his nose. "Of course."

And yet, he already knows he’s going to fail.

The second Robin retires for the night, he moves.

✦✧✦✧

The bedroom light was dim, casting soft golden glows over your sleeping form. The sheets barely covered you, slipping off your body, revealing the delicate silk nightgown that clung to your curves.

Sunday inhaled deeply. He knew you weren’t awake—the drug ensured that. Your breath was slow, deep, your lashes fluttering slightly. He had done this before, after all. The dose was perfect: enough to keep you in a helpless dreamscape, not enough to endanger you.

You were so defenseless like this.

His beautiful, unwilling little wife.

His fingers ghosted over your bare thigh. He could already imagine it—the way you’d wake up aching, bruised, slick with evidence of what he had done. The confusion in your voice, the horrified realization when you shifted your legs and felt it. He almost smirked.

But tonight, tonight he was beyond desperate.

Undoing his belt, he let his cock spring free, thick and hard, twitching at the very sight of you. The weight of the past few weeks had been unbearable. The pent-up frustration, the heat, the sheer madness of knowing you were there, day after day, untouched. He had deluded himself into thinking he could endure it.

Foolish.

He spread your legs slowly, savoring the motion. You sighed softly, a small unconscious noise. His cock throbbed at that, at the sheer intimacy of it. You had no idea what he was about to do, what he was about to take.

It made it all the better.

He pushed inside you in one slow, relentless thrust.

Even drugged, your body reacted. A small twitch, a shift in breath, muscles unconsciously tightening. He groaned, gripping your hips as he buried himself deeper.

“So tight,” he murmured against your skin. “Even in your sleep, your body knows who owns it.”

The stretch was divine, the heat near unbearable. He moved, thrusting slowly at first, savoring every second, feeling the way you molded around him. His hands roamed, fingers trailing over your stomach, your breasts, your throat. His grip tightened slightly, just enough to feel your pulse beneath his palm.

He imagined you waking up like this.

The way your eyes would widen, realization dawning. The way you’d try to move, only to find yourself weak, helpless, at his mercy. He’d hush you, coo in your ear, tell you how beautiful you looked like this, how you should be grateful for his love.

The bed creaked slightly as he fucked into you harder. He was drowning in it, in you, in the sheer ecstasy of finally breaking his ridiculous restraint.

He leaned down, lips brushing against your ear.

“You should thank me,” he murmured. “I was such a good husband this month. But you don’t mind, do you? You love being my perfect little wife.”

A small moan escaped your lips, involuntary, soft and broken.

His cock twitched at the sound.

God, he wouldn’t last.

The past weeks had been pure torture. He should’ve never entertained the thought of abstaining. It had only made him crazier, made him need you more.

His thrusts turned rougher, sharper, the pleasure coiling hot in his gut. He gripped your chin, tilting your head slightly so he could see your face—so peaceful, so unaware, so perfectly his.

He came with a shuddering groan, spilling deep inside you, filling you with the proof of his obsession.

For a moment, he just stayed there, still buried in your heat, panting softly.

Then he pulled out, watching the way his cum slowly dripped from your abused hole. He traced a finger through the mess, pushing some of it back inside.

You shifted slightly, but didn’t wake.

Good girl.

He cleaned you up, smoothing the sheets back into place. He wouldn’t want you suspecting too soon. No, the true delight was in the morning—in seeing your confused, hesitant expression, the way your fingers would trail over your body, the way horror would bloom in your eyes as realization struck.

And when you turned to him, searching for answers, he would only smile.

Because, really, who else could it have been?

He kissed your forehead softly.

“Sweet dreams, my love.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧! 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 ✦✧✦✧

The old bastard lasted a whole two weeks. Fourteen damn days without stuffing his cock into something soft and willing—or unwilling, like you. It was a personal best, truly, but you knew the moment you opened your bratty mouth and taunted him, he'd snap like a rusted barbed wire fence under too much tension.

"C'mon, Daddy. Do you really think you can last all month? Pathetic," you scoffed, your arms crossed beneath your chest, the smirk on your lips something cruel.

Boothill’s eyes went dark with a simmering heat, the kind that scorched earth and burned bridges. A deep, slow inhale through his nose, like a bull about to charge, nostrils flaring as he set his jaw. His fingers twitched at his sides, gloved hands flexing.

“Darlin',” he drawled, that thick cowboy accent heavy with warning. “You got a real bad habit of runnin' that pretty mouth.”

You knew what you were doing. Teasing him, flaunting yourself around the house in nothing but thin little shorts and tank tops, stretching in front of him, acting so fucking untouchable. That damn mouth of yours spewed venom, but it was your eyes that really set him off—the way you looked down on him, like he was some old dog barking up the wrong tree. Like he was weak.

Two weeks.

Fourteen days.

Of you prancing around, of him gripping his cock late at night and gritting his teeth until his jaw nearly cracked, all to keep himself from breaking this stupid fucking challenge. He could have anyone, any desperate whore in town, but it had to be you. It was always you.

And tonight, you’d made the mistake of calling him pathetic.

You barely had time to process the shift in the air before he was on you. A sharp inhale, a step back, but there was nowhere to run. He was bigger, stronger, faster. Always had been. A calloused palm caught your wrist, yanking you forward so hard you nearly tripped into his chest.

“Nuh-uh, don’t get shy now,” he cooed, voice syrup-thick with amusement. His grip tightened. “You was runnin’ that mouth just fine a minute ago.”

His other hand slid down your spine, slow, deliberate, before palming the curve of your ass through those little shorts. He hummed low in his throat, a deep, gravelly sound of approval that sent something ugly twisting in your gut.

"See, I been real nice, sugar. Real patient." He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he exhaled, hot and damp. "But now, you done gone an' poked the damn bear."

You gasped as he hauled you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, his arm locking over your thighs to keep you from kicking. The world tilted, your fists hammering at his back, but it was useless. He was solid muscle beneath that worn-out flannel, all brute force and raw power. You were nothing but a little thing in his grasp.

"Lemme go!" You snarled, twisting in his hold.

"Oh, I’ll let you go, alright," he mused, kicking open the bedroom door with his boot. "Right onto my fuckin’ cock."

The bed creaked beneath his weight as he threw you down onto the mattress. Before you could scramble away, he was on you, pinning you with his sheer bulk. His thighs caged yours apart, and he grabbed your wrists, forcing them above your head in a bruising grip.

His belt buckle clinked. The leather slid free in one smooth motion, and before you could fight, he looped it around your wrists, tightening it until the soft flesh pressed against the worn leather.

"There," he murmured, admiring his work. "Now, ain't that a pretty sight?"

He was hard. So fucking hard. The thick length of him strained against his jeans, the outline obscene as he rolled his hips against your trapped body.

Your breath hitched.

"Boothill—"

"Daddy," he corrected sharply, fingers curling around your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. Those dark, molten irises were blown wide, barely a sliver of brown left. "You wanna talk big, sugar, you better know how to address me proper."

Your lips pressed into a defiant line, and his smirk widened.

"Mm. That so?"

The next thing you knew, he had you flipped onto your stomach, yanking those flimsy shorts down to expose the soft swell of your ass. A rough palm smoothed over the flesh before landing a sharp, stinging slap that made you jolt.

“Look at this. Ain’t even touched you yet, an’ you already squirmin’,” he chuckled, voice dripping with condescension. “Like a bitch in heat.”

You cursed, but it only earned you another slap. Harder this time. The force of it sent heat lancing through your core, and the shame that curled in your gut made your eyes sting.

A shuffling of fabric, the unmistakable rustle of a zipper being undone.

He pressed the blunt, leaking head of his cock between your legs, dragging it along your slick folds with a low, satisfied growl.

"Knew it," he murmured, voice smug. "Knew this little cunt was lyin’ to me. Y’mouth says no, but this?” He rolled his hips, smearing precum along your slit. "This fuckin’ drippin’ little hole says ‘please, Daddy, fuck me stupid.’”

You tried to squirm away, but his arm looped around your waist, dragging you flush against him.

Then he pushed in.

A strangled cry tore from your throat as his cock stretched you wide, the intrusion too much, too thick. His hands dug into your hips, keeping you pinned as he bottomed out with a low groan.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he rasped, breath hitching. “Takin’ me so damn good.”

You shook your head, nails digging into your palms. “S-stop—”

Boothill laughed, a sharp, mean thing.

“Nah, baby, you started this.” He snapped his hips forward, knocking the breath from your lungs. “An’ now? I’m gonna finish it.”

He set a brutal pace. Deep, punishing thrusts that had you clawing at the sheets, your cries muffled by the mattress as he fucked you like a damn animal. His grip was bruising, fingers digging deep enough to leave marks. Each roll of his hips sent heat sparking up your spine, every drag and push forcing your body to betray you.

The worst part? He knew it.

“Knew you’d take it,” he murmured against your shoulder, his voice thick with hunger. “Knew this little cunt was made for me.”

You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, but the way he was hitting that spot inside you made it impossible to hold back the pathetic whimpers spilling past your lips.

His hand slid between your legs, two fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, precise circles.

“Go on, sugar,” he murmured. “Give in. Cum on Daddy’s cock.”

You choked back a sob, body tightening, traitorous pleasure coiling in your stomach. The heat built, higher, sharper—until it snapped, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave.

Boothill groaned as your walls fluttered around him, his thrusts growing sloppy. He was close.

“Holy shit,” he hissed, his rhythm faltering. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Give this pussy what it’s beggin’ for.”

You barely had time to register his words before he buried himself to the hilt, spilling deep inside you with a low, satisfied growl. His cock twitched, pumping you full, his breath hot against your sweat-damp skin.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air.

Then, finally, he sighed, satisfied.

“Guess that means I lost the challenge, huh?”

A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest as he pressed a lazy kiss to your damp temple. “Oh well. ‘Spose I’ll just have to make up for it by fuckin’ ya all month long instead.”

You whimpered.

He grinned.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫! 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ✦✧✦✧

The challenge was a joke.

"There's no fucking way you can do it," they had laughed, slapping his back. "A whole month without touching her? Please, Caleb, you worship that woman. You're going to fail day one."

His smile was slow, lazy, that of a man humoring a bunch of idiots. "Watch me."

And now, two weeks in, he wanted to fucking kill someone.

It was absurd, really, how much self-control he had to exert. He was a grown man, a rational one, and yet the sheer thought of you—his little wife—was enough to send blood surging to his cock. You, oblivious and sweet, existing in his space, completely unaware of how deep you were in his grip.

Caleb had been patient. Patient when you never saw him as more than an older brother. Patient when you played hard to get, not realizing you were never playing at all—because you never fucking wanted him. He had let you pretend you had a choice, let you live in blissful ignorance, all while orchestrating every step of your downfall. And now, after finally claiming you, this stupid challenge was forcing him to pull back.

It was unbearable.

He sat on the couch, watching you move around the apartment. You were in one of his old shirts—too big, slipping off one shoulder, riding up your thighs. No bra. He knew because he had been staring at the curve of your tits through the thin fabric, watching your nipples pebble against the cool air. His jaw ticked.

"Something wrong?" you asked, noticing the way he was looking at you.

Something wrong?

Yes. Everything was wrong.

His cock was hard. Had been for days. His balls ached with the force of his restraint, and every single part of him screamed to bend you over and fuck the challenge to hell.

"Come here," he said instead, voice low.

You hesitated—smart girl—but you obeyed, stepping into his space.

Big mistake.

His hands were on you before you could react, gripping your hips, pulling you between his legs. You made a noise of protest, one that immediately died when he yanked you down onto his lap.

"C-Caleb—!"

"Shhh." His voice was smooth, but there was nothing kind in it. "I've been good, haven't I? Been real patient."

Your breath hitched as he shifted, making sure you felt the full weight of his cock pressing against your core. "I… I don't know what you're talking about."

His laugh was sharp. "Lying's not a good look on you, sweetheart. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Been prancing around like a fucking tease. And I’ve been trying so damn hard—”

His grip tightened, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in. "—but you’re making it impossible."

You swallowed, stiffening against him. "This is about that challenge, isn't it? The stupid No Nut thing?"

He grinned against your throat. "See? You do know."

You shifted, trying to pull back, but he didn't let you. "I didn’t— I wasn't trying to make it hard for you—"

"You weren't trying, huh? Walking around in my shirts, looking all soft, all sweet." His hands trailed under the fabric, squeezing your thighs. "Making these little sounds when you stretch, like you're just begging to be fucked."

You shuddered. "Caleb—"

"Tell me to stop."

You froze.

His hands didn't move. His voice was calm. Controlled.

"Tell me to stop, and I'll let go."

You hesitated. Because you knew the truth. Knew that even if you said it, even if you fought, it wouldn’t matter. Not really.

His fingers dug into your skin, dragging you harder against him. "See? You won't. Because deep down, you know you’re mine."

Your breath hitched, your heart hammering as he lifted you, carrying you to the bedroom with ease. He tossed you onto the bed, watching you bounce, watching the way your thighs pressed together in some futile attempt to block him out.

Pathetic.

"I was going to be good," he murmured, stripping his shirt off, revealing the sheer size of him. The broad frame. The thick muscles. He looked like a gentle giant to everyone else. But you? You knew better. "I was going to win."

You scrambled back against the pillows, shaking your head, but he was already on you, caging you in, his body massive over yours.

"But then you had to go and make it so fucking difficult."

His mouth was on yours before you could reply, devouring, rough and insistent, swallowing your protests. His hands tore at your clothes, fabric ripping under his grip, baring you to his gaze.

And then—his cock.

Too big.

Your body tensed, panic setting in. "No—Caleb, I can't—"

He hushed you, pressing you down, positioning himself at your entrance. "Shhh, sweetheart. It'll fit."

Your nails raked down his back as he pushed in, splitting you apart. You sobbed, body clenching around the intrusion, but he only groaned, sinking deeper.

"Fuck, you feel good," he panted, voice wrecked. "Knew you would."

Your legs kicked against the mattress, tears streaking your face as he bottomed out. He was too deep, stretching you too wide, leaving no room for escape.

Caleb pulled back only to slam back in, forcing a wail from your throat. He was rough, relentless, hands bruising against your hips as he fucked you into the mattress.

"Been holding back too long," he gritted, breath ragged. "You think you can just exist like this? In my space? In my clothes? And I’m just supposed to sit back?"

You whimpered, nails clawing at his arms, but he only laughed, gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head. "Nah, sweetheart. You're mine. And I’m done pretending otherwise."

Each thrust drove the air from your lungs, his size overwhelming, splitting you apart like you were made for him. The weight of him, the sheer strength, was too much. You could feel the coil tightening in your stomach, your body betraying you, responding to the brutal pace.

He felt it too. "There you go," he murmured, licking the tears from your cheek. "Knew you'd take me like a good girl."

You sobbed, shaking your head, but your body didn’t listen. Pleasure crept in, unwanted and cruel, mixing with the pain.

Caleb's thrusts turned desperate, his grip bruising. "Fuck—gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Make sure you never doubt who you belong to."

You choked on a scream as he drove in to the hilt, his cock pulsing, his body shaking as he spilled inside you. His weight pressed you into the mattress, trapping you beneath him as he rode out his orgasm, hips still moving, making sure you felt every drop of him.

And then, finally, silence.

His breath was hot against your ear. His arms wrapped around you, holding you in place, ensuring you didn’t slip away.

You shivered, broken and spent, staring at the ceiling, mind blank with shock.

Caleb pressed a kiss to your temple, voice a satisfied murmur.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲! 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨 ✦✧✦✧

The first week, he almost made it.

Almost.

The challenge had been stupid to begin with, a dumb joke from Kirishima and Kaminari that escalated into some pathetic show of "discipline." "Only the strongest can last all thirty days," they’d taunted, slapping down bets, laughing like this was just another dumbass dare. Bakugo didn't back down from dares. He never backed down from anything.

And in the beginning, it had been easy.

But then there was you.

You, moving through his fucking house like a damn temptation personified, not even trying—

—or maybe you were trying.

His wife, his property, his perfect little captive, his broken, docile doll who had learned (after so much screaming, after so much resistance) that fighting only made things worse. You had settled, grown quiet, learned how to exist within the lines he allowed, learned to be his good little girl.

And yet—

You were still so fucking infuriating.

Your soft, oversized sweaters slipping off your shoulder when you stretched. Your bare legs tucked under you on the couch, the delicate curve of your thighs exposed when you shifted. Your tiny little sighs, the mindless noises you made when you read, breathed, existed.

His patience, his self-control—both were a razor's edge.

And by the second week, he was losing his fucking mind.

✦✧✦✧

Week Two. He Wants to Kill You. He Wants to Fuck You.

The gym isn’t helping.

Neither is patrol. Neither are the long-ass shifts as a Pro Hero, the brutal workouts, the weight of his responsibilities. Nothing burns out the heat coiling low in his gut, the aching frustration that tightens his fists, his jaw, his whole fucking body every time he steps into his own damn house and sees you.

It isn’t fair.

It isn’t fucking fair that you get to sit there, oblivious, while he suffers.

He wonders if you really don’t know.

Or if you’re testing him.

It’s the only thing that makes sense—because lately, you’re worse.

Lately, you’re doing little things that make him want to rip his hair out, smash his fist through the nearest wall, grab you by the throat and—

You wear his shirts, the fabric drowning your smaller frame, barely covering anything. You hum in the kitchen, tapping your fingers against the counter, oblivious to how his eyes lock onto the curve of your hips. You chew your fucking lip, licking away the taste of your own chapstick, sitting in his lap when he pulls you there, squirming just slightly, the friction sending fire up his spine.

(You don’t fight him anymore. But you don’t obey the way he wants you to, either.)

He can barely sleep. Every night, he lies in bed, fists clenched, his teeth gritted so hard his jaw aches. You sleep beside him, curled up in a little ball, your breath soft and even.

You have no idea what you do to him.

You have no idea how badly he wants to ruin you.

✦✧✦✧

Week Three. He Snaps.

Kirishima laughs when Bakugo loses his shit over something small—some dumbass villain encounter that didn’t even warrant a reaction. “Dude, you’re fucking feral.”

Yeah. No fucking shit.

He’s been on edge for days, his patience worn so fucking thin that every little thing makes him want to snap someone’s neck.

By the time he gets home, he’s seeing red.

And then he sees you.

Sitting on the bed in nothing but one of his hoodies, legs curled beneath you, a book resting in your lap. Hair messy, soft and sleepy, your bare thighs just fucking there.

He stops breathing.

Something inside him fractures.

And then—

He’s moving before he can stop himself.

You barely have time to react before he’s on you, yanking you down, his grip brutal, possessive. A strangled gasp leaves your lips, your book knocked to the floor, your hands automatically rising to shove at him—

Too late.

His mouth is on yours, harsh and bruising, his tongue forcing past your lips, swallowing your protests. His hands are everywhere—pushing up the fabric of your hoodie, gripping your bare waist, fingers digging so deep into your flesh he’s sure you’ll bruise.

“Fuck the challenge,” he growls against your mouth, breath hot and ragged. “You think I’d let some dumbass bet stop me from taking what’s mine?”

You whimper, your nails scraping at his arms, your body twisting beneath him. He doesn’t let up.

Not this time.

He yanks you beneath him, knees spreading your thighs apart, shoving them open with his body weight. Your breath hitches—

And the sound makes him snap.

A growl rips from his throat as he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head, trapping you. His other hand tears at your underwear, ripping the fabric aside, shoving his knee between your thighs to keep them spread.

“Don’t,” you choke, already struggling, your eyes wide, lips trembling. “K-Katsuki, don’t—”

“Shut up.” His voice is a snarl, his control shattered. “You’ve been driving me fucking insane, and you’re gonna pay for it.”

You gasp, a pathetic, terrified sound—

And then he’s inside you, forcing himself in all at once, stretching you too fast, too rough. You cry out, body jerking beneath him, legs kicking uselessly as he slams into you, bottoming out with a low, guttural groan.

“Fuck, you’re tight—”

You sob, your body writhing in pain, your nails digging into his arms, pushing, clawing—

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t want to stop.

Doesn’t care that you’re crying, that you’re gasping, that your body is desperately trying to escape. You’re his. His to touch, his to use, his to fuck whenever he wants—

And right now, he wants to break you all over again.

He pulls back and slams into you harder, setting a brutal pace, fucking into you so violently the bed creaks beneath you. Your breath comes in ragged, broken sobs, your hands flailing, grabbing at anything—

He grabs your throat, forcing your eyes on him, his grip tightening just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You love this,” he sneers, panting, sweat dripping from his temple. “Doesn’t matter how much you fight me—your body always gives you away.”

Your face twists in horror, in shame—

And fuck, that look alone makes him cum.

He buries himself as deep as he can, grinding into you, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you, his groan mixing with your choked sob. He stays inside you, panting against your neck, arms wrapped around you in a bruising grip, his cock twitching as his cum drips out of you, leaking onto the sheets.

You’re shaking beneath him, gasping for breath, body limp.

He presses a lazy, possessive kiss to your temple, teeth scraping your skin, smug, satisfied.

“Fuck November,” he mutters, lips curling into a smirk. “I’d rather fuck you.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐛𝐨𝐲! 𝐀𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮 ✦✧✦✧

It starts with a bet. A stupid, meaningless bet.

Osamu, smug and taunting, had thrown it at him like a damn challenge: "Bet ya can't last a whole month without touching 'er, Tsumu."

It was meant to be a joke. Something to rile him up, make him snap back like always. But Atsumu, stubborn bastard that he was, had scoffed, chin tilted high like he was above it all. "The hell I can't."

And that was how he found himself in this hellish predicament. Day seventeen of No Nut November. Seventeen days of restraint, of tightening his jaw every time you so much as breathed in his direction. Seventeen fucking days of agony.

The worst part? You had no idea.

You—his wife, his possession, the woman he’d broken down piece by piece until you barely had a will left to fight—had continued living like normal. Walking around the apartment in those little cotton shorts, stretching on the couch with that arch in your back, oblivious to the monster watching you from the shadows.

You don’t even need to try. You just exist, and he is unraveling.

His balls ache. His cock twitches at the mere thought of you. Every night, he sleeps facing away from you, fists clenched tight, jaw locked—because if he so much as brushed against you, he’d lose. Every morning, he wakes up hard, painfully swollen, and he forces himself into a cold shower, panting through gritted teeth. His body is desperate, furious, screaming for relief. But he refuses. He’s strong. He’s better than this. He won’t let Osamu win.

But tonight…

Tonight, you ruin him.

It’s innocent. Of course it is. You don’t have it in you to be cruel. Not like he does. Not like the predator watching you from the doorway, his fingers digging into the frame so hard his knuckles go white.

You’re on the bed, reading some book, knees tucked to your chest, lips pursed in concentration. The neckline of your oversized shirt sags just enough to tease him with a glimpse of collarbone. It’s nothing. Nothing he hasn’t seen before. But after seventeen days of this torture, it might as well be a full-fledged striptease.

His cock throbs. His breath shudders out of him. His patience—his fragile, already-fractured self-control—snaps like a thread.

You hear him before you see him. A sharp, uneven inhale. The weight of his footsteps, slow and deliberate. You look up just as he reaches you, just as his hands find your ankles and yank you flat against the mattress.

"A-Atsumu—?"

You don’t get to finish. His mouth crashes onto yours, brutal, all tongue and teeth, swallowing the startled squeak that escapes your throat. His grip is unforgiving—one hand cupping the back of your head, the other pinning your wrists above you. There’s no room to breathe. No space to think. Just him, overwhelming, drowning, consuming.

You struggle, because you always do. It’s cute. Pointless, but cute. He growls into your mouth, shoving a knee between your thighs, wedging them open despite your weak attempts to press them together. His grip is steel. His strength is absolute. You are nothing beneath him.

"Fuckin’ tease," he rasps against your lips, his voice ragged, frayed at the edges. "D’ya even know what you’ve been doin’ to me? Huh? Walkin’ ‘round like that—actin’ all innocent—when ya know damn well I ain’t touched ya in weeks."

You shake your head, wide-eyed, breath coming in soft little pants. "I-I don’t—"

He laughs. Sharp. Mean. "Yeah? Then lemme show ya."

The sound of fabric tearing fills the air. Your shirt—your only barrier—shreds in his fists, exposing soft skin to his greedy hands. He palms your breast roughly, fingers tweaking a nipple just to hear you yelp, just to feel you squirm. His cock aches at the way you tremble. His mouth waters at the sight of you sprawled out, helpless, right where you belong.

You try to twist away, try to push at his shoulders, but he’s not having it. Not tonight. Not after all this suffering. He flips you onto your stomach like you weigh nothing, shoving your face into the mattress, pressing a knee into the small of your back. You whimper, voice muffled, but he doesn’t care. He tugs down your shorts—no panties, fuck, you’re not wearing any panties—and suddenly, he’s gone.

Gone from reason. Gone from sanity.

His cock slaps against your ass, heavy, leaking, desperate. He fists himself, groaning deep and guttural, dragging his length along your skin, smearing pre-cum over your untouched, untouched—

"You ain’t ready, are ya?" he breathes, almost delirious. "I should prep ya. Should take my time."

But he won’t. You both know he won’t.

He grips your hip with one hand, lines himself up with the other, and without warning, without hesitation, without an ounce of patience left in his depraved, feral body—he shoves in.

The scream you let out is raw. Broken. He barely gives you time to adjust before he’s slamming into you, pace ruthless, relentless. Your walls squeeze him, choking him, fighting him, and he groans through gritted teeth, fingers biting bruises into your hips. You’re sobbing. He can hear it, feel it in the way your body shakes beneath him, but fuck if that stops him.

"Tight—" he chokes, throwing his head back, sweat dripping from his brow. "So fuckin’ tight—" He should’ve done this sooner. Should’ve thrown the stupid challenge out the window and fucked you raw the second he started this miserable month.

You claw at the sheets, gasping, sobbing, body rocking forward with every brutal thrust. "Atsumu—please—"

Please what? Stop? Slow down? You know better than that.

"Fuck, princess—" He grits out a curse, yanking you up so your back slams against his chest. His arm snakes around your throat, forcing you to arch against him, while his free hand finds your clit, rolling it between his fingers. "Y’think I’d let ya go that easy?"

You jolt, breath catching, and he fucking smirks. "Ah, ya like that, don’tcha?"

Your head shakes wildly. Liar.

His thrusts grow erratic. His grip tightens. The sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet, filthy squelch of his cock pounding into your unwilling body—it’s obscene. It’s intoxicating. It’s all too much.

He’s close. So fucking close.

"Gonna fill ya up, baby," he groans into your ear, rutting deep, deeper, hitting that spot that makes you jolt. "Gonna pump ya so fuckin’ full, you’ll feel me for days."

You shake your head again, voice cracked and wrecked. "No, please—"

"Yeah? Too bad."

His hips snap forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he comes, hard, hot, shuddering against you. He groans—loud, guttural, spent—but he doesn’t stop. Not yet. He fucks it into you, forcing you to take it, making sure every last drop stays buried deep inside.

You sag against him, boneless, wrecked, barely breathing. He exhales sharply, lips brushing the shell of your ear, grin smug, satisfied.

"Guess I lost the bet, huh?"

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮 ✦✧✦✧

He thought he was untouchable.

A man like Shouei Barou—discipline incarnate, self-control molded into steel—wasn't supposed to fall victim to something as humiliating as lust. He had survived years without it, untouched, unfazed, knowing his own body belonged to him and no one else. He had trained himself to deny distractions, to ignore useless desires. He had gone seasons without indulgence, untouched by the idea of another's body—yours included.

Then you had to go and ruin everything.

No Nut November wasn’t supposed to be a challenge for him. He was the one who suggested it, who smirked at you with that cocky arrogance and told you he’d win easily. He had dismissed your playful taunts, shrugged off your teasing smirks, even when your eyes glimmered with something dangerous, something cruel.

But now, at the very last hour of the last fucking day, he is about to lose.

And it is all your fault.

Barou’s breathing is ragged, his broad chest rising and falling with the effort of restraint. His fists clench, his muscles locked so tight that he could snap his own bones if he dared to move. He stands there, hovering over you, his massive frame casting you in shadow, his sharp red eyes dark with something terrifying.

You did this. You set him up. A perfectly laid trap.

A simple, stupid trick—one that should not have worked.

But you underestimated how much he had been holding back. How much he had suffered, restraining himself.

Because you—his fucking wife—you had spent the entire month unknowingly torturing him. Every glance. Every accidental brush of your skin against his. Every time you stretched, yawned, or bent down to grab something off the floor. The tiny things. The things that should not have affected him. The things that burned themselves into his skull and ruined him.

And then, tonight, you had walked into the bedroom wearing something so fucking transparent he could see everything.

The challenge is over.

Because Shouei Barou, the self-made king, has just lost in the worst way possible.

He grips your waist so suddenly that your breath chokes in your throat. His fingers dig in, the sheer power of his grip forcing your body against his. His massive frame engulfs you entirely, heat radiating off him like a furnace. You don’t have time to react before he shoves you onto the bed, his body caging you in, his sheer weight pressing you down.

“You fucking cheater.” His voice is gravel, a deep growl that shakes against your bones.

His hands are everywhere—pushing up the flimsy fabric of your nightwear, spreading your legs open, forcing you to submit. The month of denial has turned him into something monstrous, something more terrifying than you’ve ever seen.

Your protests die in your throat the moment his mouth crashes against your skin. Sharp teeth sink into the tender flesh of your neck, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to leave evidence. He drags his tongue over the mark, hot and possessive, and then moves lower, his mouth claiming every inch of you, as if punishing you for making him wait.

His hands tremble. His entire body shakes with the sheer force of holding back.

“I should make you beg,” he snarls against your skin, voice rough with restraint. “I should make you cry for this.”

But he’s the one who breaks first.

Because the moment his cock—aching, twitching, painfully engorged from weeks of torment—finally presses against you, all control shatters.

He doesn’t ease in. He doesn’t take his time. He slams into you with a force so brutal it knocks the breath from your lungs. The stretch is instant, blinding, an intrusion so sudden your body struggles to accommodate his sheer size. A sound—half-gasp, half-sob—escapes your throat, but Barou doesn’t stop.

He can’t.

A broken groan rips through him as he bottoms out, his massive cock buried deep inside you, his entire frame shuddering with the unbearable pleasure of finally being inside you.

“You… you did this.” His voice is wrecked, barely coherent.

His hands pin you down—one gripping your thigh, wrenching your legs apart wider, the other wrapped around your wrists, trapping you beneath him. His body trembles, his cock twitches inside you, as he grits his teeth so hard they might crack.

Then he moves.

Brutal, relentless thrusts that leave no room for air, no room for protest. Every slam of his hips knocks your body against the mattress, every drag of his thick length against your walls forces another choked whimper from your throat. His hands tighten, his grip bruising, possessive, unyielding.

He growls low in his throat, a sound so deep, so animalistic, it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Fucking take it,” he grits out between ragged breaths, his voice strained with months of pent-up frustration, desire, and the pure fucking need to ruin you. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted to see me lose?”

You can’t answer. He doesn’t give you the chance to.

His rhythm is brutal, every thrust shoving you deeper into the bed, every movement claiming you entirely. There is no escape, no reprieve. His cock pulses inside you, thick and unrelenting, stretching you in ways that feel impossible. The sheer force of his movements sends heat pooling deep in your core, your own body betraying you with the way it clenches around him.

Barou notices.

His red eyes darken, lips curling into something wicked.

“Oh, you like this?” His voice is dangerous, taunting. “You like getting fucked by a man who can’t stop?”

A hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, reminding you of the power he has over you. His pace doesn’t falter, doesn’t slow, doesn’t give you a second to breathe. The bed creaks beneath his brutal thrusts, the room filled with the sounds of skin against skin, of heavy, ragged breathing, of the wet, obscene noises of your body accepting him.

“You ruined me,” he groans, his grip tightening. “Made me wait. Made me suffer. And now you’re just gonna fucking take it.”

He’s losing himself.

His pace becomes erratic, thrusts growing sloppy, desperate. His breathing is uneven, his entire body tensing as he nears the inevitable. His balls, heavy and aching from a month of denial, slap against you with every movement, each impact sending another wave of pleasure coiling through his spine.

Then his body seizes.

A choked sound rips from his throat—a groan so deep, so raw, it barely sounds human. He buries himself as deep as he can go, his cock twitching violently as he finally, finally releases.

It’s endless.

Weeks of pent-up frustration, of restraint, of holding back—now completely unleashed inside you. His body shudders, muscles locking, as he spills inside you, hot and overwhelming. He groans against your neck, his entire weight pressing down on you, trapping you in place as he rides out the unbearable pleasure, emptying himself completely.

His grip loosens. His breathing slows. But he doesn’t pull out.

Instead, he shifts, his lips brushing against your ear, voice still rough with exhaustion.

“Next year… you’re not getting a fucking chance.”

His cock twitches inside you, still hard.

Barou isn’t done yet.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood. Thank you.

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles

Character TAG LIST of “HSR Sunday”: @yandere-romanticaa

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Book 6 [you are here]. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.

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