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thundersoothers · 13 days ago

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john price, his wife, and... the dog (derogatory)

who: John Price x wife!reader

what: inspired by this thought about john price being an absolutely softie for his wife. continued here!

word count: 2.4k

warnings: mentions of cheating but it’s NOT TRUE! you’ll see… just fluff that reallyyyyy makes me want to marry this man.

It’s 2AM on a Saturday in the summer when John Price thinks he hears his wife cheating on him.

“Shhh!! You have to be quiet, you’ll wake up my husband.”

He opens his heavy eyes to see the TV paused at the end credits of some movie he can’t even remember the name of. The screen reflects in the crystal of the empty rocks glass on the coffee table next to his feet, holding only a warm whiskey stone.

He groans and stretches, his old t-shirt riding up to show a dark happy trail disappearing into low-waisted flannel pajama pants. He has one sock on with a hole in the toe. You told him to get rid of them and got him a pack of 20 of the same sock (he’s very particular about his socks), but he still wears these ones, anyway.

“Stop moving, I’m trying to concentrate here. Damn lock… can never— oh, shit. Heh. Wrong key.”

He can hear you muttering and giggling and the scratch of the key against the lock as you struggle to get it in.

It’s your girls’ night and he likes to wait up for you to make sure you get in safely. He saw you off around 8PM, pouring himself a glass of whiskey as you took a shot of tequila. You planted a big kiss on his cheek, leaving a red lipstick mark that he didn’t bother to fully wipe off.

“Sorry, I know you’re eager to get inside. I bet you’re so cold, all naked. Here, you can go in my dress, is that better? Fu—ow! Don’t bite my tit, Jesus! Sharp teeth…”

Price suddenly feels much more awake. He pushes himself up from the couch and starts to walk to the foyer.

“This damn door… ah! There we go.”

The door creaks open and he hears you tiptoe inside in your heels (wearing heels and tiptoeing—are two actions that are mutually exclusive, especially when you’re plastered).

“Remember, we have to be quiet. My husband waits for me to get home, we don’t want to wake him up. He’s very nice, you see, but he can’t know you’re here.”

Apparently, you have gotten home safely—with an extra guest who just bit at your tit. And you’re being louder than your guest, who you keep telling to be quiet.

“My husband is gonna be soooo mad. He’s gonna be so mad at me, but once he sees how cute you are, I think he’ll forgive me. He’ll understand. I had to. I just had to!”

He hears rustling as he gets closer to the foyer, you fumbling around in the dark.

“Stay there, don’t move, okay? Stay, yeah? You know that, don’t you? Mummy will teach you if not. Just stay right there. Lemme get these damn heels off…”

There’s an odd sound of something quickly clicking on hardwood floor that makes his eyebrows furrow, and then you gasp—

“Wait, don’t run—“

Bang!

You groan loudly.

Price flicks on the lights.

You’re lying face down on the rug. You have one heel on. The second heel is twisted around your other foot—what you fell over. Your little dress is flipped up over your ass and your arms are outstretched.

“You okay there, love?” John asks, torn between amusement and concern. You just groan. “Sounded like you fell pretty hard.”

“I tripped,” you say into the rug, sounding very sad.

“You hurt?” he asks. “Anything broken?”

You shake your head and curl up a little. “I’ll just sleep here.”

He laughs softly. “Come on, none of that.”

“It’s so comfortable. I’ll just—“

There’s that clicking sound again and he’s almost startled by the abruptness of your movement. You push yourself up with one arm, stretch the other out and fucking snatch the quick-moving little brown blob that’s moving toward you. You pull it to your chest and cradle it, shielding it from John’s view.

He blinks. “What you got there, love?” he asks after a second.

“Nothing,” you say innocently.

“Right.” He crosses his arms, looking you over. “Who were you talking to just now?”

“No one,” you say quickly. “Myself.”

“Right,” John says again slowly. “Show me what you have.”

You look over your shoulder up at him through your lashes, vision blurry. “No. You’re gonna be mad.”

“Just show me.”

“Promise you won’t be mad.”

He sighs. “I won’t be mad.” You give him a look. He sighs again. You’re wasted—he can tell by your eyes. They’re unfocused and heavy. “Promise. Now show me.”

You look down at whatever you’re holding to your chest. “Okay,” you whisper (to your tits?), “you need to be very well-behaved, okay? No biting, please. Be very nice for Daddy so he will like you, okay? Can you do that? Yes? Okay.”

You glance up at John again over your shoulder and then turn yourself around in a very clumsy movement. Then, as if presenting whatever it is like you’re Mufasa from the Lion King, you lift it up in the air toward your husband.

It’s a puppy.

It’s quiet.

The little dog wriggles in your hands, wagging his tail so hard his whole body shakes. He barks up at John, high pitched. A small pink tongue lolls out of his mouth.

It’s still quiet.

You lower the dog a little so you can look up at John. “You said you wouldn’t be mad!”

“I’m not mad,” John says, sounding mad.

“You look mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he says again. “It’s just… dirty.”

You gasp. “He’s not dirty!” you exclaim, sounding offended on behalf of the dog. You pull him to your chest. “He’s just a little mangey, you see. But that’s okay. It can be fixed. You know—they have medicine for that. Or lotion, or whatever it is. He’s very nice, John, I swear. I know he’s a little… skrunkly but he’s very cute and—ow! That’s my hair, no biting Mummy, please.”

“You’re already calling yourself his Mummy?” he asks, bemused, eyebrow raised at you. Yep. You’re fucking wasted.

“Yes, and you’re his Daddy.” You hold the dog up again, this time facing him toward you. “I think you’re very cute, puppy. You’ll grow on Daddy. Just be very good for him, you can do that, can’t you? Yes, you can.” You whisper, as if John isn’t standing right there, “We’ll wear him down. Don’t worry.”

“I thought it was something else,” Price says.

“What did you think it was?” you ask, not looking away from the dog.

“Where did you find it?” he asks instead of answering.

This is much better than what his traitorous mind momentarily supplied. You, cheating? As if.

How silly of him to even think that. For a moment, his stomach twists with the guilt of doubting you. He should have known better.

Of course it’s this. What else could it have been?

A puppy.

A puppy!

“Oh, hello, there.”

You crouch down in your dress and heels and hold out your hand to the little puppy emerging from the bushes by the side of the road.

“What are you doing here, all alone? Come here, love, I won’t hurt you. Come on, puppy, come to me. Yeahhh, there we go. Oh, look at you. You’re so cute. You’re all mangey, though. Oh,” you say pitifully, “you little baby.”

You’re drunk as fuck at 2AM on a Saturday in the summer, halfway through your walk home from the bar, squatting in the middle of a back road in England, about to cry while petting this puppy clumsily—but he doesn’t seem to mind. He wags his tail and nips at your fingers.

“Where’s your Mummy? You shouldn’t be out here all alone. No collar… oh, goodness, what should I do with you? I don’t want to leave you. I’m not sure what to do.”

He barks at you, high pitched.

You nod at him seriously. “Oh, yes, good point.” He barks again. “Mhm. Yes, yes. I thought so, too. Exactly right.”

He runs in a circle around you.

“What are you, a month? You should be with your Mum, you shouldn’t be all alone. Oh, you little baby, you must be so scared.” (He’s wagging his tail.)

“It’s so cold.” (It’s summer.)

“Maybe you can come home with me?” (Your husband would be so mad.)

“Yes,” you decide. “You’ll come home with me.” (Your husband is going to be so mad.)

That’s how you end up stumbling home with a puppy in your arms, rambling to him about yourself and your life.

“Well, puppy, my name is Mrs. Price. I’m from around here. I live in a nice three bedroom house with my husband, I think you’ll like it very much. It’s very cute. He let me decorate it. He doesn’t understand feng shui, you see. You should see his office, puppy, it’s so bland. No taste for interior design.”

“Our house is only 10 more minutes away. See that big tree there? That means we only have 10 minutes left until we’re home. I’m not great with street names, you see, so I go by landmarks.” He barks. “Yes, yes, you get it.”

“Anyway. So, I’m—stop wiggling please, Mummy’s going to drop you—I’m married to a very nice man named John. I love him very much. You’ll like him, too,” you tell him seriously, “he’s very likable. I like lots of things about him, puppy. Actually, I like everything about him.”

“He says I can’t have a dog, though. He says it’s for my own good—booooo. Boo! But maybe we can sneak you in. What do you think, puppy? Should we do that? I think we should do that. We’ll have to be very quiet, though. Very quiet.”

“John waits for me to get home safely—he’s so nice, he’s so kind to me, I love him sooooo much—but we have to make sure not to wake him up. This is one of them—uh, covert operations. He’s very well-versed in those. My husband is very talented, puppy, he’s a Captain. So we’ll have to be extra careful.”

And that’s how you end up trying to sneak into your own house and then trip over your shoe and fucking slam! your face on the rug.

“Where did you find it?” John asks you as you sit on the floor after you presented the dog to him.

“On the way home from the bar, kind of my that big tree.”

“By Notting Street?”

You furrow your eyebrows. “Notting Str��I dunno. Maybe? I just know the big tree. The one with all the branches.”

“‘The one with all the branches,’” he repeats, nodding slowly. “Right.”

“But he was there all alone so I took him home. I couldn’t leave him, John, he’s so little. And he’s very cute, look at his little ears? And his little feet? His toes are soooo small. His little teeth are sharp, though—like a shark. Fuckin’ hurt, he almost bit my tit off.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“You heard? Oh. I was trying to be quiet. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

He smiles at you. “I know.”

You smile back.

“Give me the dog.”

You frown. “No.”

“The dog, please.”

“No.” You hold him tighter. “You’ll take him from me.”

“Well,” he says, “yes.”

You sigh heavily. “Be gentle.” You hand him to John and he takes him in one hand and holds him out, frowning, as if it’s offended him.

A puppy.

“Can we keep him?” you ask hopefully.

He glances at you and then back to the puppy and then back to you and then back to the puppy. “No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“But…” You trail off and he looks back down at you. You’re starting to tear up.

“Oh—love, don’t cry.”

“He’s so little and soft and nice and he’s all mangey and he’s all alone and he’s just a little baby and…”

“Okay, okay, darling, we can keep him.”

(By that, he means you’ll talk about it tomorrow when you’re sober, and by ‘talk about it’, he means, ‘no.’)

“Really?!” you gasp.

The way your face fucking lights up makes John pause. For a second, he almost feels like he lost his balance.

“Oh, John, really? Oh, thank you so much! Puppy, did you hear that? Daddy said yes! See, he’s very nice, just like I told you, remember? He’s very nice and kind and he’s very handsome and I love him very much, and I—“

“The dog can’t understand you.”

“You don’t know that,” you say defensively.

He looks down at you. “Right.”

You stare up at him, standing over you as you sit on the floor. “How are you handsome even from this angle?” You frown deeper. “Stupid face,” you mutter.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Let’s get you up.”

“I’m so comfortable.”

“Hand.” He tucks the dog under his arm and extends his other hand toward you. He crooks his long, thick fingers at you. “Now.”

You look between his hand and his face, and then slip your hand into his.

“Good girl.”

He fucking yanks you up and, in one movement that’s somehow graceful, bends down and throws you over his shoulder.

He, naturally, slaps your ass and you squeal. “Hey!!”

You kick your feet (still with only one heel on) and he laughs, resting his hand on your hip, heavy fingers digging into the plush of your butt, as he makes his way up the stairs with you on his shoulder and the dog in his hand.

Gently, he drops you onto the bed and you fall back with an oof! and stare up at him.

“Well,” Price drawls, “aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You grin. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” He takes off your shoe (singular), your dress, and your makeup as you hold the dog, curled up, on your chest.

“You’re so good to me, John,” you say, your eyes closed. “I’m so lucky. I don’t know how I got so lucky. And, you, puppy,” you mumble, petting him slowly, “you’re so lucky, too. You’re about to have the best Daddy in the world. He’s so good to us.”

“‘Puppy’ is asleep,” John says. “And,” he adds, scooping him up in one hand, “puppy is not sleeping in the bed.”

You just groan, too tired and drunk to argue.

He holds the dog out in the air again, turning him around and upside down to examine him. He yips and wriggles in his hands, but John shushes him. “Hush now. Your Mummy is asleep.” He shakes his head and sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

He takes the dog to the bathroom and puts him down on the floor. His paws slip a little on the cold tile. John puts his hands on his hips, staring down at the dog. “I can’t believe this.”

He reaches over to turn on the heated floor (which he got installed for you) and says to the dog, “You are so, so damn lucky I love your Mummy.”

In the morning, despite John Price’s best efforts to say no to you, you end up convincing him to keep the dog. He’s a military Captain but the pleading of his wife is enough to make him crumble.

The happiness on your face when he finally says yes, makes him wonder why he ever said no in the first place.

note: thank you for reading! this is my first time posting in years–and in a totally new fandom. thank you for your patience and your support. let me know your thoughts! merry christmas!

posted 12.26.2024. revised 01.02.2025.

do not repost or modify any of my original words on any other platform.

to masterlist.

#john price #john price x reader #call of duty #call of duty imagine #cod imagine #john price smut #well wait I guess not #for once #lux.writes #lux.price #john price fic #john price drabble #call of duty fic #I haven't done tags in forever what else do I do #call of duty smut #price

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moechies · 5 months ago

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satoru’s punishments 🎀🎶

gojo satoru who focuses his infinity around his already-meaty cock so you’re unable to sink that pretty pussy down on him.

satoru is naturally one to discipline, considering his profession as a teacher. he knows clearly what’s right from wrong, and won’t let you off the hook as if you’re one of his students. you think it’s unfair, but if you were to think that gojo satoru cared so much about your incessant little opinions, you’d be called dumb.

your soppy cunt prods against his protected tip, urging your body lower to sheath his fat girth inside, but to no avail.

“satoru,” you mewl, “i said ‘m sorry. really r-really sorry.”

“hm.” he shrugs, one hand cupping your soft butt, and the other around the edge of your waist. his fake efforts to help you when he’s the one preventing you from pleasure is ironic, and it makes you an unspoken amount of angry.

but your anger is overwhelmed by your carnal desires from the sight of him alone, and the only thing floating through your pretty little mind is to get this cock in you.

“please— let me—“

“no.”

he glides your slick cunt across the faux protection, grinding you down so harshly, spreading your sensitive lips and pressing against your clit so harshly it almost hurts. “y’don’t deserve it, you brat.”

“i d— i do, satoru. d-don’t say that !”

he can’t deny how your sweet little mewls and begs for cock get him uncomfortably hard, wanting nothing more than to feel your chubby walls flesh to flesh with his cock. but he knows you’ll never learn, knows that you’ll be just as bad if he lets you off. even if it’s just this once.

“satoru—“

his wet cock slips from under you, falling against his pelvis and plapping against his tummy. you take the chance to lower yourself, rubbing your sore cunt on the smooth length of his cock.

you rock your hips ever so gently, grinding down on visible, but untouchable veins decorating his gorgeous cock. you’re eager to get your cunt off, but ensure your boyfriend doesn’t grow any angrier.

gojo undeniably grinds up just as desperately against your cunt, listening to the tuneful melody your sweet pussy plays for him. short pants leave his dewy lips, holding your chubby hips down firmly and setting his own pace. “shit. brat.”

he loves the look of panic in your eyes when his hips come to a slow, and soon to a stop, leaving you to mindlessly grind on his cock alone. your crying clit tingles from everything that’s led up to this moment.

but—

“did i say you could do that ?”

your movements come to an abrupt stop when his hands splay across your hot thighs, holding you down tight against his pelvis.

“b-but, you were also grindin—“

“yeah, i was. did i say you could ?” he spits, voice laced with poisonous venom that silences you immediately. his eyes are intimidating, not an ounce of forgiveness or pity lays within them.

“not good. what to do with you ?”

he tugs you off his hip, switching your position so that you’re soon under him.

and for the first time, his bare cock slaps against your puffy lips, and nudges at your raw clit. you moan with inexpectance, the mere feel of his cock slapping against your raw cunt nearly has you cumming.

“s a shame y’don’t know how to act right. c’mere.” he motions, pressing down on your shivering shoulder, “come ‘n suck your cock rights back.”

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hearty-an0n · 1 year ago

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dont come at chris kuntz like that tf

#<3 #steelers liveblog #‘quick and abrupt movement’ MFER LIFTED HIS HEAD AT A NORMAL PACE???

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kbwrites · 6 months ago

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The Lord's Favorite CH.3

Synopsis: “And there you were, lying underneath the terrifying king, a man of immense power and ruthless intent, who would watch the world burn on a whim.”

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⚝content: trueform!Sukuna x f! reader, nsfw, mild language, voyeurism, sukuna has two cocks, pure smut, gentle sukuna

⚝wc: 2.2k

⚝a/n: please the messages I’ve been getting from this series have been so unhinged?? I love it

“I believe your presence is precisely what I crave.”

And you swear your brain ceases to function. When you regain awareness, you find yourself against the black silken sheets of Ryomen Sukuna’s enormous bed. The air is thick with the scent of incense, and the dim light from flickering candles casts long shadows across the room. And there you were, lying underneath the terrifying king, a man of immense power and ruthless intent, who would watch the world burn on a whim.

He looks down at you, two of his strong arms gripping your hips, the rough pads of his fingers digging painfully into your flesh. Your gaze flickers down to his body, taking in the sight of his rippling muscles, flexing with each subtle movement. His broad chest rises and falls at a steady pace, a stark contrast to the thunderous beating of your own heart. His crimson eyes hold a possessiveness, the gaze of a predator stalking its prey, intense and unyielding.

Ryomen Sukuna was alreadyterrifying fully clothed, but his naked form elicited a different fear in you altogether. Two thick cocks stood proud and eager. You try to take in every detail, thick veins running up the sides, flushed angry red tips dripping pre-cum down his monstrous shaft. Your breath catches in your throat, all of your saliva drying up as you force a swallow. His lips curl into a smile that sends shivers down your spine. He lowers his head to your ear, his breath searingly hot against your skin.

“You are aware I do not like waiting.” He growls.

“W… what would you like me to do My Lord?” The uncertainty in your tone is evident. He pulls back slightly, his gaze piercing through you with a mixture of disbelief and dark amusement.

Yes, you were younger than the other women in the castle, most of whom had come to serve after being widowed or hardened by life. But he assumed you’d had some knowledge. He had no need for concubines with no experience, anyone else who would dare enter his chambers without it would be swiftly dealt with. ‘Training pets’ was of no interest to him. But he couldn’t seem to ignore the way his cocks twitched at the thought of being the one who would ruin you. With a swift, almost effortless motion, his four powerful arms shift your position. Within the span of a heartbeat, he flips you over so that you find yourself straddling him, the change in position startlingly abrupt.

You’re momentarily paralyzed, a jolt of panic surging through you. What exactly were you supposed to do now? Theoretically, you knew what was expected, the steps that were supposed to follow, but… how?

༺═────────────═༻

On occasion, you found yourself wide awake during the night, the sound of the bed frame creaking and exaggerated moans muffled through the door connecting your room to Sukuna’s. Of course, Curiosity, that dangerous and ever-present impulse, got the better of you—and you innocently pressed your ear to the door. And of course, your eyes found their way to a convenient crack in the dark mahogany.

‘You should be ashamed, spying on your king’

You cursed yourself as you watched him. He laid on the bed, a woman—who you’d seen enter his chambers multiple times was bouncing up and down on his length. Crying out as her hands rested atop his broad chest. Two arms guided her hips and the other two rested behind his head. Her loud moans of pleasure, a stark contrast between his low grunts. Your hand clasps over your mouth, suppressing your gasps as your own hand reached under your nightgown.

The sounds of skin slapping, squelching, and the woman’s theatrical wails acted as cover to your own quiet moans. As it continues Ryomen's head suddenly turns to the side, eye locking directly onto the door. A menacing smile spreads across his lips. Your blood runs cold as you make direct eye contact with your lord.

You cease your movements, tiptoeing back to your bed. Squeezing your thighs together, to desperately cool the unbearable heat.

“My…. lord… what are you looking at?” She gasps in between thrusts. You only hear a slap before covering your ears and praying it was just coincidence his eyes fell on that part of the room.

And from his lack of mention, you thought you had gotten away with it.

༺═────────────═༻

And now you sit between his two muscular legs, the same way you saw that woman do. Staring down his two thick members. A shaky hand wraps around one, unable to grip him fully. A soft moan escapes his lips as you feel his cock twitch under your touch. You begin to pump slowly, your movements hesitant.

“Don’t..act so coy, I know you’ve seen this before.” And your heart drops in your stomach. You search for an excuse, a denial, but they all die in your throat. He only grins in response, looking at you through half-lidded eyes. One arm reaches behind your head, gently pushing your face mere inches away from his throbbing length. Your eyes flicker up to him then back down to his angry red tip, after a deep shaky breath you gather some spit in your mouth allowing it to flow onto him. He groans at the sensation, hand gripping your hair tightly.

You loll your tongue out, smearing the spit and pre-cum around his tip. Your other hand wraps around as well. Sukuna growls as your mouth engulfs him, tongue swirling around his head. He pushes your head down slowly, your mouth stretching at his size. Tears well up in your eyes as he hits the back of your esophagus, sinful gagging noises emanate from your throat. He hums amused.

“This view suits you…” He chuckles lowly as his hands guide your head up and down his shaft. He sets the pace, before letting go of your head. You look up at him through your fluttering eyelashes, the tears pooling in your eyes. Sukuna lies against the plush pillow, hands giving attention to his aching second cock. His breath hitches as his hips buck up, his length pushing even deeper into your throat. A sudden feeling of choking causes you to come up for air, coughing as oxygen finally enters your lungs again. A wave of embarrassment washes over you.

How pathetic you must look to your king, not even able to provide him with pleasure.

Ryomen grabs your waist, pulling you back under him. His eyes, darken as he pushes his body closer to you. A low thunderous rumble reverberates from his throat as his spit-soaked length finds friction against your stomach. You feel your own arousal pool between your legs as you are overwhelmed with a dangerous mix of fear and desire.

His lips capture yours in a rough kiss, sharp teeth baring down on your bottom lip as his tongue explores your mouth. Your soft moans are swallowed by him as his strong hands roam your naked body. He parts from the kiss, a trail of spit still connecting you two. He looks upon your panting form, without a second thought diving into your neck nipping and sucking at the delicate skin. Two hands grope your breasts, rolling the swollen buds between his fingers. He squeezes gently as you whimper under him, moving his mouth to encircle your nipple. The heat between your core nearing unbearable.

“My.. lord… p-please..” You cry out, his teeth graze your nipple, a warning. He huffs against your skin.

“Do not rush me, woman.” His mouth moves to your other breast. Staring up at the high, ornately decorated ceiling of Ryomen’s chambers, you find yourself drifting into a daze. Suddenly coming to when you feel a rough hand reach between your wet folds. Sukuna purrs lowly, gathering your slick between his fingers. Your gaze meets his once more, you desperately squirm against his hand.

“Already so eager… surely you realize you’ll break if I try to fuck you.” His voice laced with playful menace as his fingers tease your entrance. Your vision hazes as you look up at your king, your bruised lips part taking in shaky breaths in anticipation.

One thick finger enters, pumping into you slowly as you feel your whole body turn to jelly. Sukuna chuckles darkly as you writhe under him, he adds another thick digit giving you just a second to adjust to the slight stretch. You feel a pressure building in your abdomen, similar to the one you felt the night you spied on your king.

“You’re close, aren’t you… How disappointing it's just from my fingers.” He coos bringing his other hand to your throbbing clit. He speeds up his ministrations, slipping in a third finger to bring you closer to the edge. A slight curve upwards is all it takes for your sinful walls to clench around his fingers, your back arches as you are delivered to a place you’ve never been before. The unfamiliar feeling of orgasm, the pleasure of release washes over your body.

Ryomen removes his fingers from you, watching as your hole flutters around nothing, he brings the slick-coated fingers to his mouth, tongue darting out to taste the fruits of his labor. You catch your breath as you feel his weight pushing you deeper into the sheets. His crimson eyes bore holes in your soul as he looks down at you with pure hunger in his gaze. One of his cocks rubs between your folds, gathering your arousal. A flash of hesitation crosses your face.

“I do not expect you to take both your first time.” He attempts reassurance. His cockhead rubs up and down, kissing your clit before pushing into your hole.

He growls as he slowly enters you, feeling the warmth of your walls enveloping him. You wince at the stretch, tears pricking your eyes. His hand reaches to cup your face, thumb wiping away the tears as they fall. He hushes your cries with a gentleness previously unknown to him.

“Relax little one… I hnng am going as slow as possible.” He moans as more of his length is surrounded by you. The way your warm walls clench around his thick cock makes his eyes roll, you were so tight, a temptress made to bring him to his knees. A vision of utter seduction. Buried deep in your pussy, you could ask anything and surely he’d grant every one of your desires. “You.. fucking minx.” He curses as his tip kisses your cervix.

Your hands claw at his chiseled chest as you feel him reach the depths of your cavern.

“Lord Sukuna! T’much!” Your words come out jumbled and slurred as he begins to thrust into you. His pace slow, painfully so. His face etched with utter concentration as he tries to control his urge to split you open. With each long stroke, you feel every vein as he drags along your walls. Feeling deliciously full as King Sukuna pumps purposefully into your cunt.

“F…Faster please my lord..” You whisper shamelessly, his eyebrow quirks up in amusement.

“You dare…order your king?” He sneers, picking up the pace anyway. His hips stutter as he feels your cunt squeeze around him. Sukuna pulls you up to him, now resting on his heels as his two strong arms hold your back and the others hold your hips in place. Your arms snake around his neck supporting yourself as he pistons into you.

His thrusts become less rhythmic as he nears his breaking point. He grunts louder, his breath quickening.

“You belong to me… fuck… you hear me woman? All mine. Mineminemine...” He groans and babbles as he delivers one last thrust, his cock twitching as he paints your walls with his hot sticky seed. Your back arches in his hold as you reach your climax. He watches as your body convulses, melting like putty into his hands. He lowers you back onto the mattress, watching as your chest heaves. He slides his cock out of you, still semi-hard now covered in a mixture of your slick and his cum.

You take in the sight above you: his slightly damp pink hair, tattooed arms now bearing tiny welts from your scratches. And the look on his face—his red eyes nearly black from arousal. Gods, you wished you could take a picture, a snapshot burned into your brain for eternity.

He sinks into the space next to you, catching his breath. You are quiet for a moment, mind still reeling from the events that just transpired. Should you stay? Were you meant to just up and leave after? Unease coils in your chest as you sit up, gathering yourself for the short walk to your room before you hear his voice again.

“ Where do you think you’re going?” His voice laced with a hint of annoyance. You glance over your shoulder to see him propped up on one of his hands, his gaze dark.

“I thought you’d want me to—”

“You will stay. You will… sleep here with me.” he commands softly, his grip firm yet gentle as he pulls you onto his broad chest. Your ear presses against his pectoral, the strong, steady beat of his heart thrumming through you like a soothing lullaby. You look up at him, his eyes are closed as he rests his hand atop your head.

“Sleep…” he murmurs, his voice a deep, husky whisper before his soft snores soon rumble in his chest. You close your eyes as well, drifting off as you lay on the man who’d watch the world burn… for you.

taglist (I added who I could, some blogs were unable to be tagged!! FULL NOW IM SORRY) @quinnyundertow @devastyle @bokuatsubro @alt-her @novembersavior @twinkyjohnson @allthestarsarecloserrrrrrr @bubb13gumb1tch @kalulakunundrum @flowerpot113 @caratinluv @koyukilove @memers666 @saikilover7878 @smolbeanzzz @byul9158 @shadava @bellinghambby22 @pastelbunnelby @jvg02 @ohmykwonsoonyoung @goldenglow149 @imnotabot28 @s1urpjuic3 @nctislifue @szired @mold-ed @fuyuji-ii @samisfunky @junni-berry @call-memissbrightside @wil10wthetree @iamthehybrid @poemzcheng @00frenchfries00 @greentea-ellie @worldean @klutzylaena @heyheyheyggg @hillmiaxoxo @lashaemorow @kuudere-raia @didielly @thejujvtsupost @malazloje @dumplings4life0520 @kum1ko-chan @paprikaquinn @damnshorty @dumbmi

#kbwrites #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #jjk sukuna #jjk smut #sukuna smut #ryomen x reader

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sweemmy · 2 months ago

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⋆｡ﾟEveryone expresses jealousy in their own way; some choose subtlety, but these three don’t hesitate to be clear and direct when it comes to what they want. ﾟ｡⋆

— VI, Caitlyn, and Sevika.

VI.

When someone dares to invade your personal space, Vi doesn’t hesitate for a second to step in, positioning herself right by your side. Her proximity is a silent, yet powerful declaration: you’re with her, and she doesn’t need words to make that abundantly clear.

She crosses her arms with an air of determination, a faint furrow forming between her brows, as if she’s measuring the other person, calculating every word, every movement. If the tension lingers, her posture stiffens, gradually transforming into something more formidable, like a storm silently gathering inside her, though she strives to maintain a composed exterior, a mask of calm.

She can’t help but release one of her signature remarks, dripping with sarcasm. As the other person speaks, she leans closer to you and, in a whisper sharp enough to be heard, she quips, “Oh, wow! Didn’t know you started a fan club. When did you begin signing autographs?”

Vi doesn’t do subtlety when something bothers her. If the situation gets under her skin, she’ll make it known. She pulls you closer with an unmistakable, possessive gesture—her arm wrapping around you, her fingers intertwining with yours, or without a second thought, she plants a kiss on you, making sure everyone nearby knows exactly where your heart belongs.

Later, when the noise fades and the world quiets down, she gazes at you with a special kind of gleam in her eyes, absentmindedly caressing your hand. With a sigh filled with emotions, she confesses—though clearly reluctant—that she simply can’t help herself when it comes to you.

CAITLYN.

Caitlyn remains calm, but her body language speaks volumes. Her head lifts with a quiet pride, and her posture straightens, radiating a silent authority that requires no words.

Her gaze never wavers, as if she’s evaluating every word and gesture, absorbing even the slightest detail. The conversation flows, yet there’s an ever-present tension, as though she’s measuring the truth of every action, searching for any hidden threat.

Rather than interrupting, she gently touches your arm or wraps her hand around your waist, guiding you with a tenderness that’s still unwaveringly firm. It's an invitation to focus entirely on her, a subtle yet commanding gesture. Her touch is never abrupt, but always resolute.

If the other person misses the signals, Caitlyn has no hesitation in steering the conversation with a seemingly casual remark, but one heavy with meaning: "Don’t you think we could use a little space here, darling?"

When the tension finally ebbs away, she pauses for a moment, then smiles at you with a hint of shyness. "It’s nothing," she says, "it’s just... I don’t like sharing what truly matters to me."

SEVIKA.

Sevika is an enigma, her behavior often difficult to decipher. Yet, when jealousy takes hold of her, her gaze becomes icy and defiant, and her words turn sharp, almost cutting, especially towards the one who has earned her ire.

She places you behind her or by her side, deliberately positioning herself as a physical shield between you and anyone who dares get too close.

When tension fills the air, words are unnecessary for her to express discontent. Her mere presence is enough to make most people take a step back, feeling the weight of her quiet authority.

If she feels the need to intervene, it's done decisively, without fanfare. In a low, dry tone, she might simply say, "Are you done here? Because we don't have all day."

In private, she'll share her frustration with you, but in a way that's brief, honest, and possessive. "I don't do drama, but I can't stand fools who don’t know how to respect boundaries. You're mine, end of story."

#arcane #arcane x reader #arcane caitlyn #arcane vi #arcane sevika #caitlyn x reader #vi x reader #sevika x reader

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rememberwren · 7 months ago

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Skin Deep

Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand your horizons, you get your first tattoo from an enigmatic artist deemed “Ghost”. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.

Sequel here.

“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.

“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep.

“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!”

She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking.

“What guy I recommended?” she asks.

“Kevin!”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?”

You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.”

“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.”

You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day.

A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life.

“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. “—none of this is like me.”

Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?”

“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all.

What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it.

The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand rings—and it’s him.

“Hello?”

“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line.

Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?”

He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him.

“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says.

Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted?

“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?”

“Five. Don’t be late.”

He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.

You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in?

All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost.

Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting.

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize.

“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”

He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.

“Sit,” he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”

You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek.

“The water is for you,” he says.

“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”

“This is your first tattoo.”

“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh.

He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.”

“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.”

His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as you’re comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.

He asks what you want and God, that’s a harder question.

You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silence—pausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair.

He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing.

He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book.

“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?”

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer.

He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.”

You think that maybe he’ll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you can’t help but watch him.

He’s handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. It’s almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again.

“Here.”

You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didn’t make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean.

His thoughtfulness touches you.

“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you.

“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?”

“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”

He’s expensive—but judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, he’s got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldn’t bore him to death.

“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.”

“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?”

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.”

And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears.

You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend.

GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks.

You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?

Masks are cute, you say.

Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free.

You’re terrible.

You’re…thinking about it.

Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. It’s from GHOST.

The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness.

I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one.

Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.

And fuck, you didn’t even think of that.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another.

“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.”

The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed.

“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.

“Very glad of it.”

You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions.

“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’.

That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary.

I’m a little nervous.

You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.

It’s not that.

What is it?

Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true.

But all he said back was: how can I help?

I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working.

I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better?

Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better.

You bring the pasties anyway.

The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass.

When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs.

You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free.

“Hi,” you squeak.

Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.

“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t.

“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”

It’s exactly what you want, and more.

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.”

He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing.

The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years.

You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.

“Ready?” he asks at length.

You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas.

Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you.

“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way.

“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”

“I’m just teasing you.”

“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. “You’re nervous, I mean.”

“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face.

“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.”

You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax.

After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass.

“Good?” He asks.

“Very good,” you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.

But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.”

“I’m not backing out.”

He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line.

It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact…a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins.

“Good?” He asks.

“Good,” you squeak.

You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.

“Let me know when you need to break.”

You don’t know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs.

“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”

He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it.

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.

“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”

It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up.

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats.

At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through.

His thumb gently strokes your sternum.

“It’s rough. You can take it,” he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”

Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast.

“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again.

He hushes you, surprisingly tender.

“This is the worst of it.” This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear.

“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain.

You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.”

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

You duck your head, feeling silly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again.

He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again.

This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail you’d give your life to follow).

“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length.

“Eager to be done?” you wonder.

He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply.

So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently.

“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.”

It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.

“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”

“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.”

“Sure!” It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way.

After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“And if you have any questions—text me.”

You get home to find that Ghost’s personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental ‘likes’). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable.

Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call.

Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much?

The internet doesn’t help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.

With shaking hands, you don’t even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring.

He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering.

“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello.

“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry.

“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”

“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?”

“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.”

Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”

“Worse than getting it.”

“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?”

“Twenty minutes from now?”

“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye.

The night is cool. You don’t bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop.

Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow.

He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes.

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.”

Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands.

“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation.

“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”

“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”

You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. “Any fever?” he asks.

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”

“No,” you admit.

“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”

“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”

He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.”

He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one.

“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.”

“Nosey.”

“I could buy you a drink sometime,” you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out? “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.”

“Maybe.”

God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt.

“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”

He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off.

“Maybe you should look closer.”

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.”

“You could—if you wanted to.”

“If I—“ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: “Closer.”

“Mhm.”

The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat.

“Pretty little tits,” he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly.

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair.

“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.”

“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.”

His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness.

You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex.

“Driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple.

You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind.

He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?”

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing.

He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”

“Oh god,” you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips.

“What else do you need?” he asks.

“My—touch me—“ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly.

Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.”

You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure.

He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth.

When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.

Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh.

Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola.

“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”

You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite.

“You’re so—“ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: “—hot.”

He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?”

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?”

You nod, feeling like a bobble head.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I want your cock.”

His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artist’s hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps.

He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief.

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

“No gods here,” he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art.

“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.”

“Good,” you breathe.

His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right.

He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length.

Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily.

“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure.

“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.

“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?”

“Your cock—want it—please—“

“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.”

He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until you’re clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when you’re pinned beneath it.

“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“

“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.”

He gives you instruction but isn’t shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit.

You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat.

“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”

“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms.

“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit.

You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex.

“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again.

He hums behind you, a smug sound.

“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.”

“Ghost!”

He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead.

He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you.

The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you.

Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?”

“Yes.”

He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see.

“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself.

“Regretting it already?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.”

“Dinner?”

“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”

You shake your head.

He scoffs a little.

“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.”

He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly.

“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. “I was interested.”

You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #skin deep

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tbaluver · 5 months ago

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Hi ree 🤭

Can I request y/n flinching during an argument when the boys make a sudden movement. Give it a happy ending pls.

I'm craving some angst with fluff on the side.

Has to be served by u tho 😭🌹

Flinching During An Argument- The Love And DeepSpace Men

parings in order: Xavier x Reader, Zayne x Reader, Rafayel x Reader, Sylus x Reader genre: slight angst with some fluff/ comfort ! a/n: HIHI TEE !! ily (∩˃o˂∩)♡ i hope this was okay and i hope i served and if not im soso sorry and this doesn't exist ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ ) any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

It was your first argument with Xavier and you’d never seen this side of him. His usually warm, soft eyes narrow into a piercing glare, losing their usual kindness and sleepiness to it. You had always believed that you and Xavier would never argue, yet here you were, caught in a heated argument. Frustration had clouded both your minds, leaving both to forget what the initial problem even was. The emotional exhaustion was palpable and you both were weary from the conflict.

In an attempt to reconcile, Xavier reached out to pull you closer and offer an apology. His sudden gesture was unexpected and made you flinch. The movement was too abrupt, causing you a momentary surge of anxiety. You recoiled back slightly, your body tense.

His eyes widened in shock at your reaction. Instantly, he withdrew his arm, staring down at his hands as if they had betrayed him. Hurt and confusion on his face were palpable, as if he committed an offense. “Are you okay?” He asked softly, “I’m so sorry if I scared you. Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

The frustration that had marked his earlier expression melted away and was replaced by the tender, sincere face you knew and loved. As your mind began to process the sudden shift and the context of his actions, you realized that his outstretched arm had been an attempt to offer comfort.

“I’m sorry you thought I’d hurt you,” Xavier says, his voice weighted with sincerity. “I promise I will never do that. I don’t know what I did to make you feel this way, but I’m committed to doing whatever it takes to be a better boyfriend.”

Seeing the genuine remorse in his eyes, you stepped forward closer to him, your heart aching for him. Gently, you cupped his cheek in your hand, feeling the warmth of his skin under your palm. “You’re not a bad boyfriend,” You reassured him, your voice soft and soothing. Xavier nuzzled into your hand, a small grateful small forming on his lips. "I know you would be the last person in this world to hurt me. It was just out of instinct, I’m sorry.”

The tension between you began to dissolve, bridging the gap that had formed during the argument. "Then let’s promise to never argue ever again,” He says, locking your eyes with yours. “I didn’t like it one bit.”

You nod with a soft smile as he reaches out to take your hand in his, holding it close. “We’ll find a better way to handle things. I love you too much to let anything come between us.” You both drew closer, wrapping each other in an embrace. He presses his lips gently on your forehead to remind you.

Zayne:

Zayne loves you very much. He may not always express it in words, but his actions always speak volumes and the way he takes care of you shows how deeply he cares. Most of your arguments tend to revolve around your wellbeing and the way you don't take care of yourself properly. When you're stubborn and brush off his concerns, it frustrates him further.

Tonight it seems like the frustration built up and Zayne who usually speaks with a gentle tone towards you, finds himself slightly raising his voice for the first time. It was out of a mix of desperation and concern for you. He raises his hand to fix the collar of his button up shirt. He tugs at the collar and tries to smooth it out, adjusting it. However, the sudden movement is mistaken by you in the heat of the moment. Seeing Zayne’s hand come up, your heart skips a beat and a rush of panic comes through you. At the moment, the gesture felt threatening as if he was trying to strike you. But deep down you know Zayne would never hurt you but rather the fear of the unknown makes you flinch. You take a step back, your eyes wide and your body tense.

Zayne notices your reaction and his face falls. The realization of his innocent gesture was misinterpreted and hits him like a wave. His throat tightens and he struggles to find the right words as he tries to reassure you. “I-I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you.” His hand lowers and he swallows hard. His eyes were a mix of regret and exhaustion. The tension in his gaze is palpable, clear even without words. “I’m sorry,” He says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I was just fixing my collar. I would never hurt you. Please, don’t think that. Forgive me my love.” His eyes lock onto yours, pleading for you to see the truth in his expression.

You can see the pain in his eyes, his usually composed demeanor has cracked under the weight of your misinterpretation. The fear in your chest slowly begins to disappear as you recognize his genuine remorse and the depth of his feelings.

As you speak, your body relaxes. "I'm sorry. I don't really know why I did that" You admit, letting out a sigh. You blink a few times, trying to prevent the tears that threaten to spill.

Zayne watches you with a soft, concerned look. He takes a deep breath, stepping closer to you. "May I?-"

You nod, and he closes the distance between you, enveloping you in his arms. He pulls you in a little tighter, his hands resting soothingly on your back.

"It's alright you do not have to know." He sighs, pressing a kiss at the top of your head as he rubs soothing circles on your back. "I promise you, I would never do such a thing. Please let me make it right my love."

Rafayel:

Usually your arguments were nothing more than just playful banter, something that was brushed off with laughter. But today, something was different about this argument. The conversation escalated into a heated argument, with both of you frustrated. The words you threw at each other were sharper, the silence afterward heavier.

Rafayel’s hands lifted to ruffle his hair out of frustration but it seemed to heighten the tension. You backed away, closing your eyes and turning your head, trying to shield yourself from a possible hit or a burn.

Seeing your reaction, Rafayel’s expression immediately softened. His hand dropped to his sides, and felt the sting of regret and concern pierce through his frustrations. He realized the impact of his actions so he steps forward with a sense of urgency, his heart pounding with a mix of worry and desperation. Without hesitation, he pulls you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you to reassure his need for you.

You nestled into his chest but your body remained tense from the argument’s intensity. “Cutie…You know I would never hurt you, right?” His voice was a mix of hurt and worry, trembling slightly as if his worst nightmare came true—losing you again. The thought of having you scared of him, after losing you once before, made him desperate to keep you in his embrace to prevent you from ever leaving him ever again.

He gently pulls away, his hands cupping your face with tenderness. His fingers stroked your cheeks softly and his gaze filled with a mixture of relief as he saw you relax against him. “You don't need to be scared,” He murmured, “I’m here to protect you. I promise I'll make it up to you.” The sincerity in his eyes and the gentle caress of his hands were a silent vow to ensure you felt safe and loved.

Later on that day he apologized in Glubglubnese, Popoposh, and Blublublun to start off by making it up to you.

Sylus:

You and Sylus had your fair share of arguments and you both always managed to talk things through and reach a compromise. This time, however, this disagreement delta relentless back-and forth that seemed to stretch on forever.

His scowl and the tone in his voice was unsettling. The room fell into an uneasy silence until Sylus brought a hand to his forehead, massaging his temples. At that moment, you made a mistake. To his hand raised, you flinched, fearing it was to use his evol on you or something worse.

Instinctively, you crouched down and shielded yourself with your arms, overwhelmed by a wave of shame and fear. You knew deep down that he would never hurt you, but your reflexes were too strong to ignore. With your face hidden, you missed the hurt and regret that clouded Sylus’s eyes. He took a deep breath, his voice softening as he stepped closer to you.

“Sweetie….” He says, his tone filled with sorrow. “Please, look at me.”

When you finally dared to meet his gaze, the intimidation was gone. He crouched down to your level, his expression soft and tender. He reached out, gently cupping your face and tucking a stray hair behind your ear. He sighed in relief knowing you didn’t flinch this time when he approached you.

“I would never hurt you,” He extends his hand, helping you up to your feet. As you stood, he pulled you into a heartfelt embrace. “How could I ever do that to someone I love so deeply? I would never forgive myself.” You rested your head against his chest and the familiar scent of him enveloped you, soothing your nerves. Sylus’s hands moved gently through your hair and traced comforting circles on your back that offered a silent apology and reassurance. In that moment, the argument was forgotten and replaced of a sense of tenderness.

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screampied · 8 months ago

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pls pls pls can we get some overstimulating toji, Hes whimpering so much, maybe tie his hands up 👀🙏 love u twin

❤︎ ໋𓈒 toji letting you "top" him

warnings. fem! reader, overstim, whiney toji, riding him after he cūms, dirty talk, mdni.

“hmph. you’re gettin’ too fuckin’ cocky,” toji gruffs lowly, leaning back against the padded comforter. dark eyes stare right back into you as you straddle his lap. he’s buried into you, and he was just about to finish. his breaths were quick paced, huffing and puffing. white clouds of air escape his lips as he keeps dark irises on each of your fidgety movements. “wipe that smile of y’er face. don’t like when ya give me that look.”

you hum, leaning in to toss your arms over his wide shoulders. whilst he’s stretching your gummy walls out to the very fullest— you lean in to plant a kiss near the right side of his lip, soft contact right against his infamous slanted scar. a soft moan always withdraws from his lips whenever you did that. the toughness that scraps against your mouth as you plant your lips down on that specific spot. “or …what?” you tease, grinding your hips just a bit more brisker at a fleeting tempo. “aw, someone’s getting close?”

“fuuuck,” he growls out, pearly white canines sticking out near the very corners of his mouth. toji’s head throws back in rapture and he feels your hand glide down the middle part of his chest. his shaggy, unkempt bare chest—all types of scars from his work that you love to feel all over. he’s about to pump you full, the blissful agitation that pokes against his nerves makes him feral. “sensitive still,” and with a low exhale, he glares at your stretching sly smile. “don’t give me that look. don’t …. even—f-fuck..”

and at that exact moment, toji fushiguro whined.

you grow quiet. he grows so quiet, it’s so silent that you could hear a pen drop.

toji swallows, even a simple action as that was just so loud. he groans, leaning back against the fat silk pillows before he stares at you with low hooded eyes.

“s-shit,” and his voice continues to grow more . . . shaky.

it’s so unlike him, the way his words quaver from each word was so cute to hear. you even had his hands tied up, pinned amongst the edges of the bed. he was sprawled all out for you while you were grinding against his lap.

“i spoil you too much, f-fuckin’ little girl,” and he’s clearly trying to keep up his rough facade— but alas, it’s really no use.

“you’re cute when you whine, baby,” you smooch against the scar near the right side of his lip.

his mouth twitches in vexation and you watch as his eyes roll further back.

his abdomen— oh, it burns into a mild volume of arousal, he’s profusely sweating before he feels himself about to break. each time you sneak a kiss against his scar, he groans. “mwah,” you tease, treating the lower part of his face with such delicacy. toji was shooting you a look of grimace. briefly—he tried to keep up his stubborn antics, but his glare only turned into lewd eye rolls from how good you clamp against his cock. it’s so good, the saturation of your sopping wet pussy squeezing down on him tight, he’s going dumb by the minute. “it’s okay, toji. you can cum.”

“don’t tell me what to d—” and he gets cut off before he quite literally does cum, it’s abrupt. toji’s quavering underneath you as he dumps a thickset load of seed into you. “shit, fuckin’ damn,” he heaves. his breath was heavy as he’s leaning all the way back now. with a hand still gripped onto your left hip, he sinks into the weightlessness nirvana that awaited him. “fuuck,” he pants, a rough hand grasping your ass— for a solid moment, toji grows quiet and the only sounds that’s could have been made were the sloshes of your cunt accepting his seed. somehow he managed to rip off the restraints on his wrists—wasting no time to finally touch you. in the midst of still rocking your hips in a circular rotation again toji—it consists of such satiny ropes, you’ve never felt more stuffed. “ugh, fuckin’ slut. got me moanin’ for you like this-”

you giggle, gifting him with a chaste kiss. “i’m not done, baby. keep up with me, okay?”

toji’s caught by surprise once you start to move your hips again, accelerating them against him and he whines. “f-fuck, the fuck? girl, ‘jus fuckin’ came . . sensitive, goddamnnn.”

it was cute, the way his low raspy voice pitches up an octave— he’s whimpering, the rapid movements of your pussy having him practically speechless. with his twitching dick now flaccid, he’s still got a firm grip on your waist. a raw groan only then wrenches from the back of his throat.

“can’t cum anymore, f-fuck, ‘m still sensitive,” he babbles, softly pulling you by the neck to give him a kiss.

and by kiss, it was more sloppy than anything. with wet tongues moving against each other in tavern, he feels you grinding again and again.

toji’s so warm. he can feel his heartbeat coercively pulsating through his ears. your tender touch against him had him so needy. even while having him like this— he was still attractive, yet that’s when you grab his wrists, making him pin them back again. “fuck are ya d-doing.”

“no touching me, baby,” you hum, and his glare returns. with pinkish crimson lips squeezing into a scowl, his darkened eyebrows curl into a furrow. “touch me after you give me another one, yeah?”

he swallows, toji couldn’t believe how dominant you were being. it was rare to get him like this, even rare to be on top of him.

“fuckin’ brat,” he grouses, his muscles near his forearms tensing. your cunt’s involuntarily constricting around his massive length. your walls hug him tightly before he starts to pant more and more. “fine. f-fine, just kiss me again…… please.”

you lean in, throwing your arms around his broad shoulders before pulling him into a deep kiss.

he’s so sensitive—heavy, hot huffs of breaths gnashing together, he whines again in your mouth. toji shivers, feeling the print of your thumb brush down against his undercut. he groans, feeling your hips start to pick up pace again and he pulls away to breathe. “phew,” he puffs out, seeing nothing but pure stars. you rode him so good that he didn’t even have a witty comeback.

toji’s entire face was all flustered, he glowers once he sees your smug grin tug against your lips. “what.”

“you should whine more,” you pause your hips, leaning in to pepper a few kisses against his cheek. he’s so fluttered—still heaving through his full lungs, eyelids halfway open as a big arm wraps around your waist. toji pulls you close, despite how embarrassed he was—he took it as a opportunity to pull you closer towards him. “you sound so cute when you’re whiney.”

“shut up,” he pouts, avoiding eye contact. toji’s still stuffed inside of you before he grunts once he feels you starting to move then stop. “m-mhm. don’t stop though. keep going.”

you giggle, bringing a single finger to stroke his cheek. “say please, toji.”

“fuckin—” he starts, sending you straight daggers. he’d argue further but he was still deeply buried into you. just a quick move with your hips and he’d start whining again from the euphoric friction. “fine. fine, just finish fucking me, please.”

“good boy,” you kiss the top of his head, starting up your hips again and he brings you into his chest, wrapping his beefy arms around you before whimpering into your neck.

he swallows, seeping his teeth into the crevice of your neck. “shut u-mhm,” and he slumps back with a pussydrunk smile on his face. “actually….praise me more. call me that again, ‘n look at me when you do.”

“good boy, toji,” you repeat in a sweet voice, picking up his head to make him stare into your eyes—he’s still panting before he leans back, groaning, shuddering from your touch. “such a good boy.”

#★vegasbaby.#toji smut #toji x reader #toji fushiguro smut #toji fushiguro x reader #toji x you #fushiguro toji x reader #toji x reader smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk drabbles #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader #anime smut #female reader #cw sex mention

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chleem · 15 days ago

Text

Mr & Mrs Starkey

One shot: husband drew x wife yn

Summary: In which your 5 year-old son catches you kissing santa claus, oblivious to the fact that it's just drew under the costume.

Genre: fluff, smut (shower sex )

⋆.˚ please dont copy or translate my work!

♡⸝⸝ merry xmas! | mistletoe | halloween

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You lean against the doorframe of the shared bedroom, watching ‘Santa Claus’ place wrapped gifts under the Christmas tree.

Drew’s movements are very sloppy, due to the big red suit he’s wearing.

“Seems like Santa needs to lose some weight,” you tease, not even trying to hide how funny you find his situation.

Recently, your son, Ben learned about Santa Claus and how he brings presents to kids, and like any curious five-year-old, he's completely captivated by the idea of ‘catching’ Santa. The details of his plan are a little hazy to you—he mentioned it about a month ago, but you forgot the specifics.

You told Drew that no costume was necessary; just eat the cookies on the table and put the presents in place. But Drew insisted. And now, here he is, awkwardly fumbling around in a full Santa suit.

Placing the last gift under the tree, he turns around, his white beard and hat threatening to slip off. His blue eyes meets yours with annoyance, lips pressed in a thin line. “Well, usually my elves do this.”

You giggle, finding Drew’s dedication to the part funny and cute. “Okay, Mr Claus,” you walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, “take a break and have some cookies, huh?”

The annoyance in his eyes fade away, his shoulders relaxing under your touch. “You could’ve been my elf,” he murmurs, hands wrapping around your waist.

“But I’m Mrs Claus, remember? I stay home, do dishes, yadayada,” you joke, rolling your eyes dramatically. “leave the heavy work- important work to you.”

Drew parts his mouth, looking down at you with a knowing look.

“I did wrap the presents, didn’t I?” You continue to say. “Doesn’t that count for being an elf? I picked out the gifts, payed for it, set the tree up with Ben-“

Drew’s lips aggressively thrusts itself into yours; tongue fighting for access. You gasp into his mouth; taken aback by the abrupt action. That allows the slip of his tongue, tangling in with yours.

The cheap fake beard makes it hard to concentrate though; the rough hairs getting in between.

You pull away from him; eyes hooding with a soft smile on your lips. “Rude.”

“You talk too much sometimes,” he murmurs, a hand going up to cup your face.

“Isn’t that why you married me-“

He plants his lips on yours again, and you giggle against his lips.

Drew laughs too; the warmth between you two palpable, the quiet intimacy of the moment almost too perfect. Drew’s hand, still cupping your face, gently tugs you closer, his thumb brushing over your cheek in that way that always makes you melt. The kiss deepens, slow and soft, as if he’s savoring every second of it.

When you finally pull away, both of you breathless, you find yourself caught in his gaze. It’s that look—the one that makes your heart race, the one that feels like he’s seeing straight into you. You smile, your heart fluttering a little more than it should.

“Maybe I do talk too much,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smirks, his fingers tracing along the line of your jaw. “You can talk as much as you want... as long as it’s with me.”

The attempt to sound sweet and lovely is ruined by your incapability of staying serious; because how could you, when Drew’s fake beard is crooked and he’s got this silly red suit with the big belly on?

“What now?” Drew murmurs, eyeing the silly grin on your face.

“I’m kissing Santa Claus,” you chuckle, reaching up to give his beard a playful tug.

He pauses for a moment, his eyes looking at you with a mischievous glint to them.

“You naughty girl,” masked with a chuckle, a seductive tone is laced in his words, matching the smirk that’s hidden beneath the white beard. Drew leans in again, catching you in another kiss.

This time, however, his hands start to roam around your body, feeling the material of your thick hoodie.

His lips travel down your neck, kissing wherever is exposed.

You let soft moans escape your mouth; the erotic feeling building in your lower stomach. With a hitched and breathless voice, you ask, “hey Drew?”

He lazily hums against your skin, hands resting just above your ass.

“Wanna help me shower?” you whisper seductively into his ear, tugging the Santa hat off his head.

Drew pulls back slightly, an amused smile tugging at his lips as he looks down at you. “Y’know you don’t need to ask…”

You plant a kiss on his jaw, soft but deliberate, before moving away, your hand tugging at his sleeve as you make your way toward the bathroom. But Drew doesn’t follow, a thoughtful look painted all over him.

“Stockings…” he murmurs, looking over his head at the fireplace, with the stockings that he needs to fill as ‘Santa Claus’.

You sigh, knowing exactly where this is going. After all, both of you are suckers for your son, always willing to put everything aside just to see his smile. You glance at Drew, trying to look annoyed, but the soft smile on your face betrays the affection you feel for him—and the family you’ve built together.

“Fine. I’ll shower alone,” you start, readjusting the fake beard he has on. “And I’ll leave Santa to his duties.”

“Thank you,” he sourly replies, his frown evident though the thick beard.

“Yeah,” you murmur, your lips matching the expression he has. You pat his shoulder, before turning around, making your way to the bathroom.

You make sure to add an extra sway to your hips, a lame attempt to convince Drew to ditch his costume and join you.

But nope. Not even when you start stripping, leaving the door open for him to peek.

——

The bathroom was thick with steam, the fog clouding the mirror as the water poured from the shower head.

You stand underneath the spray; getting ready to wash your body next.

When you reach for the soap, a much larger hand takes hold of yours, stopping you. You glance over your shoulder, and sure enough, Drew, who presses his body close.

“Hi,” you flirtatiously start, which comes out more hitched.

Feeling the soft press of his tip against your back, the breathing gets much harder to steady.

The temperature in here is definitely rising- not because of the shower.

“You mad?” Drew’s voice comes out low, a soft smile on his lips as he turns you around to face him.

You don’t miss the quick glance down to your tits; his gaze lingering longer there than it should be.

You cock your head to the side, pretending to think it over, but the teasing glint in your eyes gives you away. His hands move to your waist, rubbing circles over your skin, his blue eyes searching yours for an answer.

Your lack of response serves as an invitation for Drew to start planting kisses along your neck, lingering longer on your sweet-spots.

“Drew…” you softly moan, the thoughts forgotten as he starts sucking the skin on your neck. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, bringing him closer than he already is. His hands find themselves traveling down your body, squeezing your waist, ass, thighs, anywhere he likes.

“I like this,” he murmurs against your skin, as his hand squeezes your ass again.

“Mhm,” you lazily hum, running your hands through his wet hair, feeling his aroused dick brushing against your pussy. Shit.

His hands hook under your thighs; lifting you up effortlessly. And because of all the times you've done this, you instinctively wrap your legs tightly around his waist, pinning you against the tiled wall.

This position causes his dick to brush against your inner thigh; your tits brushing his chest.

“I like….”

Leaning against the wall, your gaze locks with his hooded blue eyes, feeling the weight of his stare on your lips. “…the way you take me in.”

You chuckle at Drew’s attempt at talk dirty, something you’ll always find amusing throughout your marriage with him. Okay, you liked it, but who were you if you didn’t play along with it? “Well, show me how much you like it.”

A dorky grin Drew fails to suppress shows on his lips, his hands’ gripping tightly on your flesh. His eyes flash down look at the closed proximity you both are in; before quickly flickering back up.

That makes the blood rush to your cheeks, a flush creeping over your skin.

“Gonna-“ he leans in and catches your lips in a messy kiss, his teeth pulling on your bottom lip. “-fuck your brains out.”

You breathlessly giggle at that too, your eyes softly focused on Drew, a smitten look in them.

Without another comment, Drew adjusts his hips, and you feel his cock slowly entering you. Glancing down, your breath hitches as he thrusts in; deeply nested inside.

“Fuck,” you moan out, tilting your head to rest against the wall.

The showering water that flows down might as well serve as lubricant- yet your walls still feel tight.

Your eyes close for a moment; and you feel Drew’s lips on your neck again- kissing hard enough to leave hickeys. He eventually trails down, lips coming in contact with your breasts.

He groans as your hands travel down his neck, before tightening around his shoulders. Your nails dig in, averting the pressure there.

“Drew…” you whine, hoping he starts moving, your eyes flustering open.

He pulls away, his mouth opened slightly with the same smitten look in his eyes. “…looking at you like this-“ he delivers a thrust to your core; the shock of it causing a loud moan to escape your lips. He chuckles at that, before finishing his words, “makes me wanna put another baby in you.”

“Shit,” you breathe out, as his hips start to roughly slam into yours; one of his hands coming up to play with your tits. The sensation of his thick cock thrusting into you is enough to blur out his words.

Your body bounces with each rough push his hips drill into your pussy- matching the moans escaping your mouth. He grunts, the sound matching the rising heat in the room, each exhale thick with the intensity building between you.

“F-feels so good,” you mumble.

“Feels good, yeah?” He chuckles lowly, repeating your words. You watch as a grin tugs itself at the corner of his lips, his blue eyes staring lustfully into yours. “Buried with my cock- you look pretty, babe.”

His words, the fast pace, his hands roaming all over sends an alarm to your core, your orgasm building and threatening to explode.

“Fuck,” you moan, your walls clenching around him as he readjusts you; allowing his dick to thrust into the familiarity of your g-spot. “I’m, c-close”

“Yeah?” Drew kisses the corner of your lips, his moves never stopping. “Right on my cock, baby.”

His lips catches yours again, kissing you clumsily and swallowing the soft sounds you produced.

The knot in your stomach goes undone- and you feel the warm liquid erupting out of you, over Drew’s cock. You clench around him again, as he continues his pace to chase out his own high.

His moves become sloppier, his lips pulling away as his dick twitches inside of you, his cream painting your walls white.

“Shit,” he chuckles, slowly pulling out to leave the tip inside you, just to push fully back in again.

You chuckle tiredly at that, as he shoves his cum deep into your cunt. “Oh, Drew…” your tone comes out almost like a whine, your throat going hoarse.

You don’t even try to hide how limp your body is, muscles giving out on holding onto Drew.

“My beautiful wife,” he almost purrs, blue eyes staring into yours in a smitten way that makes the butterflies in your stomach to fly widely loose. He sets you down on the floor slowly, helping you regain your balance.

You let his warm hands brush away the hair sticking to the side of your face, the shower head pouring warm water over both of you.

You stand in silence, staring into each other's eyes, both trying to regain your composure from the intensity of the sex.

“Love it when you talk dirty to me,” you suddenly say, your tone a mix of teasing and heat, a sly smile playing on your lips.

Drew catches onto that; his lips curving into a smirk. His hands slips back to your waist, settling there as if it belongs. “I’k what my girl likes.”

“Geez, what a man,” you tease, your breath catching as his fingers trace over your skin. “Knows what his girl wants.”

You lean in and kiss him briefly, yet pouring your emotions into it. He returns it; bringing one hand up to cup your face, angling it to allow access to his tongue.

Fuck.

After six years of marriage, he can still easily turn you on like a switch—effortlessly, every damn time.

You pull away, catching the fucked-out look in Drew’s eyes, the blue beaming down at you. “I’m sleepy,” you murmur, which was your meaning of ‘fuck me in bed, I’m tired’.

“‘Kay,” he murmurs, rubbing circles along your jaw, “let me, give you the princess treatment first, yeah?”

You snort at his words, as he reaches behind you to grab the soap. You don’t miss his low chuckle, even finding his own words funny.

You relax, and let Drew give you the luxurious ‘princess treatment’, cleaning you up and ready for bed.

——

Christmas morning

“Ben’s acting weird…”

You whisper to Drew, as you place the dishes into the sink. You spare subtle glances over at your son, sitting on the couch.

His attention is fixed on the TV, his new toy in hand—opened first, his excitement obvious.

Drew leans against the counter, sipping on the third cup of coffee he made this morning. Last night, well, both of you didn’t get much sleep. He furrowed his eyebrows at you, before shrugging. “No?”

“Um, not to you,” you keep your voice low, standing next to Drew as you both watch the living room.

During breakfast, Ben had been shy, avoiding your gaze and giving short answers to your questions. But he seemed perfectly fine when you tucked him into bed yesterday. “Did I do something last night?”

Drew snickers, and when you glance at him, he casually unzips his jacket. With a smug grin, he reveals the hickeys you’d left on his neck last night.

Shit. This man is a dad, and he can’t seem to be serious at all during times like this.

His grin escalates into laughter when you roll your eyes at him, pushing his shoulder lightly. “I’m serious. Ask him for me, will you?”

“Alright, alr- I’ll do it.”

Drew doesn’t move, taking another sip of his coffee.

You send him a glare, along with aggressively zipping his jacket back up.

“You mean now, got it,” he chuckles, putting the cup down. You shake your head at him, a smile reappearing on your lips as he walks away.

You busy yourself by scrolling through your Insta, liking posts you don’t care about. The soft whispers you hear are barely audible, drowned out by the TV and the occasional rumble of Ben’s toy.

It’s about two minutes in when you hear Drew’s throaty laugh through the house, Ben hurriedly yelling, “daddy! Quiet!”

“You got anything to support that?” Drew’s voice comes through, his attempt at keeping quiet failing miserably.

You glance up just in time to see Ben jump off Drew’s lap, rushing toward his room.

Meeting Drew’s gaze, you raise an eyebrow, skeptical. You walk over and sit down beside him, waiting for an explanation.

“You’ll see. It’s hilarious,” Drew says with a grin, clearly trying to hold back a laugh. You give him a sideways glance, not buying it for a second.

Ben runs back, his familiar blue eyes meeting yours for a split second before he quickly looks away.

“Wanna show Mommy what’s in your hand?” you chirp, your gaze landing on the toy camera you bought him a few months ago, now clutched tightly in his small hands.

He ignores you; walking straight into Drew’s arms.

“Well that’s rude,” you murmur, but both father and son remain oblivious, their attention now fully on the toy camera.

As you try to sneak a peek, Drew leans away with a mischievous grin, clearly enjoying whatever he’s looking at. Ben, on the other hand, glances at it nervously, his small brow furrowing in worry.

Your curiosity grows by the minute, heightening when Ben says, “is mommy in trouble?”

His big, doe blue eyes meets yours again, and he looks like a sad puppy (much like his dad sometimes). It melts your heart; again proving you could never be mad at this kid.

His dad, on the other hand, you might choke him to death if he doesn’t explain what’s going on right now.

“Why don’t you tell mommy?” Drew teases, his hand rubbing Ben’s stomach in an assuring way.

You can see the thought process on Ben’s face, the pout deepening as he concentrates. His small brows furrow, eyes narrowing in serious contemplation.

Finally, Ben points his little finger at you, his voice loud and clear. “Mommy kissed Santa Claus!”

Your mouth drops open in shock as your mind races through the events of last night. Shit. You kissed Drew, who was dressed as Santa. Then the shower together- But how did Ben catch you? Was he out of bed? Did he—

Drew flips the small toy camera’s screen toward you, revealing a paused video. There’s no mistaking it: it's you, mid-kiss, with Drew in his Santa costume.

Oh. So this was his great plan of catching Santa Claus. A hidden camera.

Your face flushes as you look back at Drew, who’s struggling to suppress his laugh. You quickly cover your mouth, trying to hide the matching smile creeping onto your lips.

“Oh, Ben, honey,” you start, your voice sweet but a little flustered. His eyes glance up at you, eagerly awaiting your response. Relax, he’s only a five-year old kid. “Santa needed help with the presents…and mommy helped him.”

You flash a small smile, hoping he’ll understand. Ben looks up at you with a puzzled face, clearly not buying it.

Dammit, five-year olds are getting too smart these days.

“Don’t worry; mommy’s on the good girls’ list,” Drew adds on, clearly enjoying this.

You shoot him a glare - really? “Ben, mommy would never kiss Santa,” you say firmly. “I was hugging him- see?”

“But you kiss daddy like that all the time,” Ben loudly comments, fidgeting nervously.

A soft laugh leaves Drew’s mouth, absolutely no help to his situation. Great, just another reminder to yourself to maybe keep the affectionate touches to a minimum around Ben in the future.

“Okay,” you start, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “Yes, Mommy and Daddy kiss sometimes, but Santa—he's just, well, he’s just here to deliver the gifts. That’s all.”

You glance at Drew, who’s still trying (and failing) to hide his grin. “Right, Drew?” you add, shooting him a look that says get it together.

“Right, right,” Drew says quickly, trying to sound serious.

“So, Ben,” you turn your gaze back to your son, holding his tiny hand. Gosh, he’s adorable. “Santa's just doing his job to make Christmas magical. Okay?”

Ben nods slowly, his tiny face scrunching as he seems to take it all in. “Okay, mommy.”

You smile fondly at him, reaching your arms out.

He lets out a laugh that’s eerily similar to Drew’s, a lighter sound as he buries into your embrace. The sound of his laughter fills the room, bringing a sense of joy to your heart.

Somehow, with all its goofiness, it’s moments like this that make everything feel so right.

You press a kiss to the top of his head, as he snuggles against you, you can’t help but think—god, he’s basically a mini version of Joseph Andrew Starkey.

“Mommy loves you,” you say, as Ben pulls away.

“I love you too, Mommy,” he mumbles, his voice soft but genuine. Like every kid, though, his attention span is short. His eyes drift over to the Christmas tree, where a few presents remain under the glittering lights. “Can I open the rest?”

You nod at him, and Ben takes off immediately, racing towards the Christmas tree. You can't help but smile as you watch him grab the first big present in front of him, tearing it apart.

Although, your smile falters as your eyes drift back to Drew. He’s lounging on the couch, a lazy smile on his lips as he watches Ben, clearly amused.

Without thinking, you slap his stomach a bit roughly, causing him to flinch in his seat.

"Hey!" Drew protests quietly, his eyes widening in surprise as he looks at you. "What was that for?”

“Really? ‘Good girls’ list’?” you shoot back, raising an eyebrow at him.

He scoots himself closer to you, his smirk deepening, “you definitely took it like a good girl last night.”

Fuck.

You freeze, his words hanging in the air, sending a shockwave through your chest.

"God, you're impossible,” you groan, slapping his hand away, the one trying to slip under your cardigan.

Drew’s throaty laugh escapes again, wanting to further tease you when Ben interrupts the short conversation.

He proudly shows off the present he got from ‘Santa’; a toy truck that he’s been begging for since forever. His small hands grip the toy truck, eyes wide with excitement.

The warmth of the moment radiates off you, and everything else fades away. Ben’s joy fills the room, and for a moment, it’s as if time stands still.

The Christmas tree lights flicker softly in the background, casting a gentle glow, and the world outside feels distant, as if nothing else matters.

What a jolly merry Christmas.

-------------------------------

word count: 3.6k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: i want drew's kids. and i hate kids. but i want his.

be honest...this was shit writing, and im sorry about that. im in a writers block lately, my brain is officially on vacation mode. but merry christmas, and i hope you enjoyed this! ignore any mistakes, and read mistletoe if you havent ! (much better imo)

#drew starkey #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey x reader #x reader #drew starkey x you #oneshot #smut #fluff #christmas #xmas

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kngrose · 25 days ago

Note

pitfighter vi who promises reader just the tip and then gives her the whole strap🫶🫶🫶

𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐏

vi making you take the whole strap

WARNINGS: NONCON! Dead Dove Do Not Eat, virginity loss, coercion, dacryphilia, spit play, implied corruption kink, bulging, be safe, heed warnings!

from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : i am so in love with this idea omg omg omg— this was supposed to be a drabble and then i got carried away, so the ending is abrupt. ^^

Vi would just be going against her better judgment here, like she usually does about… everything.

"...Are you sure this is what you want, baby?"

She’d asked gently as she leaned down and whispered into your ear, her breath warm as it hit your skin. Vi's hands moved up and down your sides slowly, her body pressed against yours. She let out a something like a huff of a laugh through her nose at your whispered, ‘Yes… But— you remember our promise, right?’ It was something about that, that made you think, maybe you should’ve known better.

She promised a few nights ago that she would indulge your request of losing your virginity. She was close, trusted— you’d had no problem confessing it to her and she’d made you feel comfortable and safe in her presence. You didn’t want to lose it to just anybody, but you wanted to have the experience. “Just the tip.” She’d initially meant it as a joke. Just a lighthearted statement to loosen you up a bit, but she was taken aback when you’d eagarly nodded in agreement, holding her to that statement.

Vi chuckled lowly at you, your nervousness and anticipation was so cute and endearing. She leaned down, her body hovering over yours, her mass pressing you to the matress. She could feel your heart beating fast, it was exciting. She took a moment to relish in this moment, her lips moving down to your neck, kissing and biting at it softly. "You're so cute, you know that?" She whispered against your skin between kisses, gently biting and suckling the sensitive flesh on your neck. You could make out every strand of inky black hair on her head.

“Vi—”

“You’re nervous, huh?”

You swallowed thickly, trying to push down the nerves that were making it hard to breathe. “Yes.”

"Try to relax, it'll feel better." She murmured, finally sitting up straight, gripping the thick— almost daunting strap in her fist. She’d told you she had nothing smaller, that this was all she could offer you. She placed a large palm right above your pussy, pressing firmly to keep your hips still. “Ready for it?” she locked eyes with you, nudging the tip against your clit, slapping it there a few times. You nodded shakily, holding her gaze with anticipation.

“Words.”

“Yes I’m ready…” It came out shaky, like you were riding a bike on a rocky path. She nods curtly, her gaze falling to your pussy, all spread nicely for her. She taps the tip against your clit a few more times, enjoying the way you gasp softly before slowly tilting the tip downwards to your hole.

It started out subtle, a stinging sensation that slowly built up— but it spread quickly as she pushed further, your hole struggling to accommodate to her size. It felt like being ripped open, the girth of it pushing upwards of your blatter. Your back lifted off the bed. “O-ouch!—” You let out a soft yelp, grasping her hip tightly as to keep her grounded there.

"Shhh.. just keep breathing" She replied immediately, feeling you tense and her free hand coming up to push you back down onto the bed. "Just breathe, relax." She whispered, gently kissing along the leg she held up. You tried to do as she instructed, taking deep, shaky breaths, closing your eyes tightly. It was starting to work.

But your relief was short lived, snatched from you as you felt the searing pain of her sliding deeper. “W-wait vi— what are you doing?!” You took the hand you had placed firmly on her hip and pushed, trying your hardest to still her movement. But it was impossible— she was so strong, much moreso than you, your efforts were fruitless. "Shh... calm down, baby.." She whispered softly, trying to sooth you as she held her position for a moment, letting you get used to the feeling. Her free hand moved up to brush against your cheek and gently caress your chest, trying to get you to relax. Her voice was soft and calming, trying her best to comfort you as she felt you getting tense. "Relax. Everything is gonna be alright. I got you. I promise I'll go slow but..I need you to relax, okay? Just breathe…"

“N-no! Vi— you said just the tip!”

"I know, I know... baby, I'm sorry.." She said, her body moving still to hold herself up, one arm propped on the bed beside your head. She looked down at you with an understanding, but also determined look, trying to reassure you. "But you're doing so well for me. You're such a good girl..." She pushed her hips further, firmly this time, watching your expression closely. “Move your hand.” she commanded gently, and when you refused she grabbed it and pinned it your your side. She leaned down and pressed her lips to yours, claiming your lips in a deep and passionate kiss.

She frowned as you turned your head, a childish attempt at avoiding her affection. "Baby, please.." She begged softly, her hand reaching up and gently grabbing your chin, tilting your head back towards her so she would see your face. "Don't do that, look at me, baby. C'mon." Her voice was desperate. Her lips were so close to yours, her body leaning over you, her free hand still caressing your skin. She was aching for your taste again.

When you turned your face away from her a second time, low growl escaped her lips, her grip on your chin tightening. "No. Eyes on me, baby. I said look at me. I want you to look at me, I want to see your pretty face when I'm taking you." She commands, her voice firm yet gentle.

You felt her bottom out, your pelvis throbbing at the feeling. You felt to full, so uncomfortable. It hurt just to slightly move your hips. Tears blur your vision, a mixture of frustration and and betrayal overwhelming you. It felt like she was pressing down on you at all sides— her presence giving you a sick feeling in your tummy.

She started at a slow and steady pace, her hips meeting yours deliberately, one of her hands gently caressing the side of your face to try and sooth you. Her lips began to suck at your neck again, leaving soft, small love bites and hickeys along your skin, marking you as hers. "That's it... you're such a good girl for me, baby.... So so good... and you look so pretty like this. Taking me in... so good for me.." You didn’t bother to try wiping your tears, they would keep flowing anyways.

She took a hand and rubbed your clit meticulously, applying soft pressure. “F-fuck—!” You cursed, hands gripping the sheets tightly. Vi smirked at your reaction, rubbing just a bit faster, “Gotta loosen you up baby, you’re so tight.” She spit onto your pussy. “Relax, princess.”

“I can’t!”

“You can.” You try to bite back the yelps of pain, not wanting to edge her on any further than you already unkowingly have, tucking your lip between your teeth. You keep your eyes squeezed shut, your body rocking with every slam of her hips. "No, sweetness,” She takes her thumb and pulls your lip free. “You’re so pretty when you make little noises for me. Let me hear them, I wanna hear your pretty voice." Her eye contact was daunting and unwavering, it made you nauseous.

Her pace began to pick up a bit more, her hips moving more urgently against you. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the air, along with her soft, ragged breaths and your yelps. Her free hand squeezed your hip, her slender fingers digging into the soft flesh. Her mouth came down and began to gently nuzzle your neck, her breath hot against your skin as she pressed messy little kisses along the sensitive flesh there.

“How is it, hm?” She said between kisses, but you chose not to respond. You were focused on the way you could feel you pussy starting to leak, your hole embracing her now. Your body was betraying your mind. “S-shit!” You whimper quietly against your best efforts, but you know she caught it.

She sits back up and you could see the thought cross her mind before she acted on it, her hand reaching down to shove two fingers into your mouth, caressing your tongue with a perverted smirk. "Good girl.... keep those pretty lips open for me, baby..” You could feel the spit sliding down your chin. You felt your pussy throb at her praise, moaning abrubtly at her words. Her thrusts had really been working into you now, nudging your walls with a purpose. It felt good.

That one moan went straight to Vi's core, hearing you sent a shiver down her spine, her pace quickening slightly. She pulled your hips up, into you at new angle, watching in awe as you fell apart. “Hah—hah—” You didn’t even try to stay quiet anymore, her dick hitting your g-spot deliciously. "Yeah.... just like that, baby. Let it out for me.” She stuck two fingers back into your mouth, “Get ‘em nice and wet, babydoll,” Vi groaned lowly as she watched you flick your tongue over her fingers, moving them down to your clit again to rub you. “Feels s’good right, baby? My baby just needed someone to push her past her limits, huh?”

You replied with a string of moans, your feet flailing aimlessly at her thrusts. “Oh, fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” She notices it before you do; the bulge sticking out of your pelvis everytime she bottoms out. “Ohhhhh, fuck me. Look at that, baby.” Her voice pulls you out of your trance, lulling your head up to look at what she was referring to. “Oh my God—” You choke up as she lifts a hand to press on it, “Bet that feels fuckin’ amazing, huh? Getting your guts dug in?”

You can hardly form a sentence, arching your back into the matress; she’s fucking you so good. “Yesss— fuck! S’good!”

“That’s what I like to hear.” She fucks you at a vigorous speed, beating into your g-spot with every thrust. “Cmon, sweetness. I wanna see your cum face.” She spits on your pussy again, taking her fingers and rubbing your clit, fast. “Cmon baby, let go f’me.”

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#mother speaks #vi #vi arcane #arcane vi #vi x reader #vi x you #vi x y/n #vi smut #arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane s2 #arcane season 2 #arcane headcanon #arcane x reader #arcane smut #lesbian #wlw #ao3

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kingkaizen · 1 month ago

Text

𝓫𝓻𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓷 𝓹𝓲𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓼

∘ desc: months after divorcing your ex-husband, you must both be on your best behavior for your daughter's birthday party. will seeing each other again bring up old feelings that you tried so hard to bury?

∘ ft: ex-husband!geto

∘ word count & a/n: 3.8k | this has been in my wips forever and im so happy to finally get this out, i hope you all enjoy reading <3

∘ includes: angst, cunnilingus, edging, missionary, praise, smug geto

The sound of children’s laughter filled the air, blending in with the bass of the party music. The backyard was completely decorated with balloons and streamers, colors representing your daughter’s favorites. As much as you adore your little girl, you can confidently say that you’ve been dreading this day. Not the celebration part of course, but the person that you would be forced to run into.

Glancing around the yard, you feel your heart skip for a second as you spotted him–Suguru. He had a huge smile on his face, crouching down to give his daughter a kiss on her forehead. You could tell how happy she is to see him, watching her jump up and down at the excitement of just seeing her father. Even now, after everything that’s happened, he was still undeniably him. The quiet confidence and the beaming smile. It was frustrating how attractive he still was, especially considering how you’ve spent the last year trying to forget it.

His gaze flickers to yours, catching you staring. He held your eyes in his, something unreadable flickering across his face before he turned back to your daughter. You break eye-contact at the same time, your fingers tightening around your drink. It was the first time that you’ve both been in the same space for more than five minutes since the divorce, the tension between you bubbling up.

“Mommy!” your daughter’s voice broke your trance, and you turned to see her running toward you, her tiny hands clutching box. “Daddy said that you can help me open this!”

You smiled, but your chest tightened as Suguru approached behind her, his presence looming larger than life. For her sake, you kept the smile on your face, even as your pulse quickened with every step he took.

“Of course, birthday girl,” you said, setting your drink down to take the wrapped box from her hands. You knelt down to her level, plastering on your best smile, even as you felt Suguru’s presence settle beside you.

“Here,” Suguru said, his voice low as he handed you a pair of scissors from the nearby table. You flinched slightly at how close he’d gotten, his arm brushing yours as he crouched beside you. You hated how good that one second of touch felt.

“Thanks,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze as you carefully opened her gift.

Your daughter squealed with delight as you revealed a plush animal inside, her little hands grabbing it before you could fully pull it out. She hugged it tightly, looking up at both of you with a beaming smile.

“I love it daddy, you’re the best!” she declared, skipping off to show her friends.

Left alone, you stood up quickly, awkwardly brushing imaginary dust from your hands. Suguru rose too, his movements slower, more deliberate.

“You didn’t have to get that,” you said, your tone abrupt.

“She wanted it,” he replied, shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes were on you, and for a moment, you felt pinned under the weight of his gaze, unable to escape.

You opened your mouth to respond, but a group of kids ran between you, cutting off whatever sharp remark you were about to make. Suguru chuckled softly, the sound pulling your focus back to him.

“She’s happy,” he said, nodding toward your daughter, who was now showing off her new toy. “That’s all that matters, right?” He tilted his head at you, his face unreadable.

You hated how easily he could shift the conversation, deflecting any tension with his calm demeanor. You hated even more how your chest tightened at the sight of him being so effortlessly good with her.

“Right,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

The rest of the party passed in a blur of small talk, laughter, and the occasional shared glance that lingered a second too long. You tried to avoid him as much as possible, but Suguru seemed to always be nearby—helping you cut the cake, handing out goodie bags, and playing games with your daughter.

It was infuriating how natural he made it all look, like he hadn’t made the choice to leave this life behind. Like he hadn’t left you.

By the time the party wound down and the last of the guests had said their goodbyes, the house was quiet again, like it usually is with just you and your daughter. She was upstairs, tucked into bed after an exhausting but joy-filled day with her family and friends. You stood in the kitchen, trying to clean up the remnants of the cake, when you felt him enter the room.

“You don’t have to stay, I can clean up on my own” you said without turning around.

“I know,” Suguru said, his voice soft but steady. He grabs a garbage bag and begins to help you out anyways, taking down some balloons and other decorations. “You look good today.”

You turned to face him, your hands clutching a dishrag. “Why are you even here?”

His dark eyes met yours, and for the first time in this entire day, the mask he’d been wearing began to crack. There was something raw in his gaze—regret, longing, something you didn’t want to name, fearing that you would only begin to crack too.

“Because I can’t keep pretending,” he said, taking a step closer. “Not after today. Not after seeing you like this.”

“Seeing me like what?,” you throw the rag down, completely exasperated. “Seeing me continue to be a good mom despite all of the shit you put me through? Seeing how happy she still is, despite the fact that you don’t make the effort?”

Suguru flinched at your words, his expression tightening. He looked down for a moment, his jaw clenching before he met your eyes again, the softness in them now sharpened by frustration.

“That’s not fair,” he said quietly, but there was a weight to his voice that made you pause. “You don’t think that I care? As if it doesn’t kill me to be apart from you both?”

“You left, Suguru!” Your voice cracked, the emotions you’d been bottling up all day finally breaking free. “You decided this wasn’t what you wanted anymore. You don’t get to stand there and act like you’re the one hurting, you weren’t fair to us the moment you walked out that door for good.”

He took another step closer, the distance between you shrinking as the tension swirled like a storm between you both. “You think this was easy for me?” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it, like he was holding something back. “I made mistakes, I know that. But don’t for a second think I stopped loving her, or stopped loving you.”

Your breath hitched, his words hitting you like a brick. “Don’t,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Don’t say things like that just because you feel guilty. How could you stand there and say that, after everything?”

“It’s not guilt,” he said firmly, his hand twitching at his side, longing to reach for you but knowing that he shouldn’t. “It’s the truth.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The room felt too small, the air too thick, and the weight of everything unsaid between you threatened to crush you both.

“Then why did you leave?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Suguru sighed, running a hand through his hair, his frustration evident all over his face. “Because I thought it was the right thing to do. For you, for her, for everyone. But I was wrong. I just wish that I realized that before...”

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Your hands were trembling, and you didn’t know if it was from anger, sadness, or the way he was looking at you now—like he was desperate, like he was afraid you might slip away for good. At this point, you didn’t even know what you truly wanted.

“Don’t do this,” you said, your voice trembling. “Don’t make me feel like this again.”

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said, stepping closer, his voice softer now. “I just... I need you to know that I still love you. That I never stopped. And today—seeing you, seeing her—it made me realize how much I want this back.” He was so close to you at this point, his face mere inches away from your own. His hand reluctantly reached for your chin, and you allowed him to tilt your head up to fully face him. His words began to sink in, tugging at your heart. Before you could even wrap your head around it, he speaks up again.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Tell me I haven’t lost you completely.”

Your breath hitched, the room closing in around you as the weight of his confession hung in the air. Your head is telling you to take a step back and let him go for good. Nevertheless, the choice was yours now—to let the past consume you both, or to take the first step toward something neither of you could fully let go of.

Wordlessly, you closed the small distance between you, your hand reaching up to grip the front of his shirt. The fabric bunched beneath your fingers as you looked up at him, the storm of emotions in your chest threatening to spill over, just like the tears filling your lash line.

Suguru froze, his breath catching as his eyes searched yours for a sign, any indication of what you were about to do.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” you whispered, your voice trembling but resolute. “You don’t get to walk back in and say things like that—make me feel like this again.”

“I know,” he said softly, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rested against his chest. “But I can’t pretend anymore. Not when I still—”

You didn’t let him finish, some part of you doesn’t think that you’d be able to handle what he was going to say next. Before he could say anything else, you pulled him down, capturing his lips with yours. It was a kiss full of longing with a faint sign of anger, and Suguru responded immediately, his arms wrapping around you as if he was afraid you might slip away if he let go again.

The kiss deepened, months of hurt and unspoken feelings pouring out between you. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, the familiar feeling softening your heart as the walls you built around it began to crumble. When you finally pulled back, breathless and shaken, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed as if he was afraid that you wouldn’t be there when he opened them.

“Tell me you don’t feel it too,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “And I’ll walk away. I’ll let you go.”

Your grip on his shirt tightened, your body betraying the answer your mind hadn’t fully caught up to yet. “I hate you for making me feel this way,” you said, your voice cracking. “But I can’t lie to you. I still—”

Suguru’s lips were on yours again before you could finish, cutting off your words with a kiss that left no room for doubt. Whatever you had both tried to bury between you was rising to the surface now, unstoppable and undeniable. There was no question how you felt about one another, and you both made it your mission to prove it.

His hands began to explore your body, feeling hot to the touch as they rested beneath your thighs. He lifts you up as you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively. He pulls away to chuckle against your lips.

“You always know exactly what I want you to do, huh?” Suguru teased, his voice a low murmur as he carried you effortlessly toward the once-shared bedroom. His smirk sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of frustration and desire building in your chest.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, though the breathless edge to your voice betrayed you.

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he pressed his lips to the column of your neck. “Oh, I’m not. But I remember how you used to look at me like this… how you’d crave it when I took control.”

You bit back a retort as he kicked the bedroom door open with ease, the familiar space pulling memories you’d worked so hard to suppress back into focus. He set you down on the edge of the bed, his hands firm but gentle as you laid back, his body moving to hover over yours.

His eyes found yours, darker than you remembered, the heat in his gaze setting your nerves off. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his hands sliding up just enough to make your breath hitch, his fingers hooking underneath the waistband of your pants. “And I will.”

Instead of answering, you pulled him down, crashing your lips against his again. It was messy and heated as his weight pressed you back against the mattress. His hands were everywhere, exploring like he was trying to memorize every inch of you all over again, and you let him.

“God, I missed this,” he muttered against your skin, his teeth grazing your collarbone before his lips soothed the spot with a kiss. “Missed you.”

The confession made your heart clench, but there was no time to linger on it. Not when his hands were slipping beneath your shirt, his touch electrifying as he pushed the fabric up and over your head.

“Prove it,” you challenged, your voice steady despite the way your body trembled under his touch. You made quick work of his belt, tugging on his waistband as best as you could.

Suguru’s lips curved into a knowing smirk, his eyes gleaming with determination. “Oh, I will,” he promised, his voice dripping with certainty. He helped you completely take off his pants before he slipped off yours, his knees hitting the carpet of your room so that he was eye-level with your cunt. Only one thin piece of fabric was left between him and you, his intense gaze making you want to run away and hide. He wouldn’t let you though, hands gripping your thighs to keep them from closing.

“Don’t hide from me, beautiful,” he finally pulls the fabric completely off, kissing up the side of your thighs. His thumbs pull your folds apart, a groan leaving his lips at the sight of you. “Let me show you how much you mean to me.” He wastes no time, his tongue poking out to prod at your slick folds. Your fingers dug into his hair, locking onto the dark strands as you used what little strength you had to tug. He continues on, stroking firmly at your clit, looking up at you to watch your face contorted in pleasure. He loves making you feel good, he craves your moans and soft gasps as the overwhelming feeling of his tongue washes over your body.

“God, you taste even better than what I remembered, baby,” you gushed around his tongue, not being able to respond as your brain fogged over. “What’s the matter sweetheart, can’t even respond to me anymore?” He loved pissing you off, even in a moment like this. You want so badly to respond to him and wipe that stupid smirk off of his face. Before you could do that, he slips two fingers inside, his lips wrapping firmly around your clit as he begins to steadily move them inside of you.

The combination of his tongue and fingers was too much, your body trembling as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak. His fingers worked inside you with deliberate precision, curling just right to press against that spot that made your breath hitch every time.

“Look at you,” he rasped against your clit, his breath hot and teasing. “So perfect for me. Taking everything I give you like you were made for it.” His voice was laced with pride, the smugness in his tone only making your desire burn hotter.

Your grip on his hair tightened, a feeble attempt to pull him closer or maybe to anchor yourself as your body threatened to unravel. He chuckled, low and rough, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you.

“Suguru,” you finally managed to gasp out, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his free hand sliding up to grip your hip, holding you steady as you squirmed under his touch. “Say my name, princess. Let me hear you.”

Every word, every flick of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers pushed you closer and closer to the edge. Your thighs quivered around his head, the heat coiling in your belly threatening to snap. He could feel it, too, the way your body clenched around his fingers, your breaths coming quicker, more erratic. Before you could reach your peak, he abruptly stopped his movements, completely ruining your high.

A frustrated whine escaped your lips, your body twitching in protest at the sudden loss of stimulation. Your eyes flew open, locking onto Suguru’s face, which was now hovering just above yours. The smug grin plastered across his face made your frustration burn hotter.

“What the hell, Suguru?” you breathed, your voice trembling with a mix of desperation and annoyance.

He tilted his head, feigning innocence, his eyes never leaving yours. “Patience, sweetheart,” he murmured, his tone eerily calm. “I didn’t say I was done with you.”

Your breath caught as his hands slid up your sides, his touch firm yet teasing. He pressed his body against yours, pinning you beneath him, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “You’re going to come when I say, and not a second before. Understood?”

The heat pooling in your belly flared again at his words, even as you glared up at him. You wanted to defy him, to push back against the control he always seemed to wield so effortlessly, but the intensity in his eyes left you speechless.

“Say it,” he pressed, his voice dangerously low, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Yes,” you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Good girl,” he praised, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss that left no room for doubt about who was in control.

This time, he wrapped his hand around himself, giving his raging hard-on some much needed attention. He took his time, covering his cock with your juices, looking at you with such a stare that made you want to crawl away and hide from his gaze forever. Continuing to hover over you, he hooked one leg up with his arm, his other hand guiding himself to your entrance.

You nearly sobbed with relief at the feeling of his tip prodding at you. He slowly begins to fill you up, enjoying the way your walls seem to perfectly take every inch of him, even though so much time has passed. “Feel s' good,” he murmured, his voice rough as he began to pick up on a steady rhythm. “Let me take care of you properly.” You couldn’t tell if he was talking to you or your cunt, but you didn’t care as his movements began to pick up even more. Every pump inside of you felt deeper and deeper, his balls slapping against your ass, showing you no mercy.

Pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes scrunched closed as he felt you squeeze around him. “You’re so tight,” he whispers against you, hips beginning to stutter from the feeling of your pussy choking him for everything that he has. “Pussy trying to milk me huh?” His movements were driving you relentlessly toward the edge. Pressing his lips against yours, he kissed you through it all, swallowing every noise that left your lips. Your body trembled beneath him, legs shaking against his body.

“Don’t hold back,” he murmured, his voice soft but commanding. “I’ve got you. Let go for me, beautiful.”

And with a cry that was equal parts his name and a broken gasp, you did, the tension in your body releasing in a wave of euphoria. Suguru didn’t stop, riding out every tremor with you, his own high coming shortly after yours as his dick twitched inside of you, spurts of cum filling you up quickly. His name fell from your lips like a prayer as you held each other through every wave of pleasure.

When you finally came down, your chest heaving and your limbs trembling, he looked at you, a stupid smirk plastered on his face that you can’t help but giggle at. As your laughter faded into the quiet hum of the room, Suguru brushed a strand of hair from your damp forehead, his touch tender. Something so raw in his eyes struck you harder than any words in this moment could.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of your mingled breaths. For once, there was no smugness in his expression, only sincerity that matched the ache in your own heart.

You swallowed hard, the weight of everything between you settling in again. “This doesn’t fix anything, Suguru,” you said softly, your fingers tracing absent patterns along his chest. “There’s still so much—”

“I know,” he interrupted, his tone serious now. “I know I can’t erase my mistakes and what I did to you and our family. But this, tonight, can be a fresh start, if you’ll allow it to be.” You studied him for a long moment, searching for any hint of doubt or deceit, but all you saw was the man you once fell in love with some time ago, laying his heart on the table for you. Slowly, you nodded, though your heart still felt guarded. “I don’t know if I can forgive you completely. At least, not right now.

He smiled softly, a hopeful look in his eyes. “I’m not asking for that right now. Just allow me to spend every single day making it up to you, and every day after that.”

As he pulled you closer, cradling you against his chest. You allowed your eyes to close, letting your brain imagine what life might look like in the next years to come. Old wounds may never heal, but maybe it was time to let him back in again. If not for your own heart, but for your daughter who so desperately craves the equal attention of both of her parents that love her more than they do anything else. It wasn’t long before you fell asleep, the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat bringing you comfort that you thought you’d never be able to feel again.

For a moment, you’re able to forget the pain and anger that once filled your heart, and replace it with the newfound hope of making something whole out of the broken pieces left behind.

#geto smut #geto x reader smut #geto suguru smut #geto suguru #geto suguru x reader smut #geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut

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littlelamy · 1 month ago

Text

Teach Me

nerd!rafe x experienced!reader

Rafe Cameron wasn’t usually this quiet.

He wasn’t the loudest guy by any means, but his nervous energy tonight was new. Usually, his shyness came with a sort of clumsy charm, a stammered compliment or a soft laugh that always made your heart ache in the best way. But as he sat stiffly on the edge of your bed, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, he looked like he might bolt at any moment.

“Rafey,” you said softly, stepping closer and leaning into his line of sight. “You okay?”

His head snapped up, blue eyes wide behind the smudge on his glasses. He pushed them up his nose, his hand shaking slightly, and dropped his gaze back to his lap. His long fingers twisted together, pale from how tightly he was holding them.

“Y-yeah,” he mumbled, though his voice betrayed him with its unsteady wobble.

Your lips curved into a soft smile as you reached out, fingertips brushing his jawline. “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”

Rafe swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing, but didn’t meet your gaze. “I just… I want to talk to you about something.”

“Okay.” You perched beside him on the bed, close enough that your knees bumped. “I’m listening.”

His lips parted, then closed again, as though the words were stuck in his throat. Finally, he managed, “I want to… I mean, I need to… be better for you. Better at, um, pleasing you.”

Your chest tightened at his vulnerable confession. “Rafe, you’re already amazing. You don’t have to—”

“No.” His voice came out firm, but he winced at his own abruptness. “I mean, thank you. But I want to do more for you. I want to know how to… touch you the way you deserve.”

The raw sincerity in his words made your heart swell. His cheeks were stained with a deep blush, and he looked like he was fighting every instinct to hide his face in his hands.

“You’re so sweet,” you whispered, lacing your fingers through his and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “We can take our time, baby. I’ll show you everything you want to know.”

Rafe relaxed slightly as you guided him to sit cross-legged on the bed. His hoodie lay discarded nearby, and his glasses perched crookedly on his nose, slightly fogged from the heat in the room.

“First thing,” you said, settling in front of him, “is to pay attention. My body will tell you when something feels good—whether it’s my breathing, the way I move, or the sounds I make.”

His eyes widened, and he nodded quickly, his gaze flickering nervously between your face and your body.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I can do that.”

You reached for his hand, gently placing it on your thigh. “Start here. Gentle touches, nothing rushed. Feel how warm my skin is? That’s a good sign.”

Rafe’s fingers were warm and hesitant, but they began to explore as you encouraged him. He let his hand glide up slowly, his breath hitching when his fingertips grazed the hem of your shorts.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice low and strained.

You smiled, running a hand through his messy hair. “That’s perfect.”

As his touch grew more assured, his fingers dipped under the fabric, skimming the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The softness of his movements contrasted with the heat pooling in your stomach, and a quiet sigh escaped your lips.

“Like that?” he asked, his brows furrowing slightly as he searched your face for affirmation.

“Exactly like that,” you murmured, your voice catching.

You shifted back against the pillows, tugging him down beside you. “Now, from here, you can explore more. Don’t overthink it. Use your hands, your mouth—just do what feels natural.”

Rafe’s blush deepened, but he nodded. His hand skimmed up your stomach, pausing when he reached the curve of your hip. His fingers trembled slightly, but the reverence in his touch sent a shiver through you.

When his lips brushed your collarbone, warm and tentative, you let out a soft moan. His head snapped up, panic flashing in his eyes.

“Was that too much?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You cupped his cheek, pulling him back down for a kiss. “Not at all. That was perfect. Keep going, Rafey.”

Encouraged, he pressed his lips to your skin again, lingering this time. His kisses grew bolder, trailing down to the swell of your chest. His hands followed, brushing over you with featherlight touches that left your skin tingling.

“See how my body reacts?” you whispered, your breath hitching as his hand grazed a particularly sensitive spot. “That’s what I mean by listening.”

Rafe’s lips quirked into a shy smile, and he leaned into your touch with newfound confidence.

Rafe’s hand hesitated at the waistband of your panties, his fingertips brushing the soft fabric with a touch so light it sent a shiver up your spine. His wide blue eyes searched yours, filled with nervous anticipation, his lips slightly parted as though he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to take the next step.

“Can I?” His voice was barely above a whisper, trembling but threaded with yearning.

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice soft but certain.

His exhale was shaky as he focused his attention fully on you, his hand dipping beneath the fabric with deliberate slowness. The first brush of his fingers against your bare skin sent a jolt of electricity through your body, your breath catching audibly. His touch was tentative, his movements almost reverent, as though he couldn’t believe you were letting him do this.

“Rafey,” you murmured, your voice a mix of encouragement and need.

His fingers explored with unsteady care, tracing the slickness pooling there. His thumb brushed experimentally against your clit, and your body responded instantly, arching slightly under his touch. The sensation was almost too much yet not nearly enough, a delicious pressure that made you gasp softly.

“Is that good?” he asked, his brows furrowing in concentration as he watched your reaction.

“So good,” you managed, your voice a little breathless. “Keep going, just like that.”

The reassurance made his shoulders relax, and his movements grew bolder. His thumb pressed more firmly, circling that swollen bundle of nerves with a rhythm that made your thighs clench instinctively around his hand. The quiet whimper that slipped from your lips seemed to spur him on, his other hand coming to rest on your hip to steady you as his fingers moved with growing confidence.

Your body was alive under his touch, every nerve alight as he adjusted his movements, clearly paying attention to how you squirmed and sighed beneath him. The hesitancy from earlier was melting away, replaced by a kind of focused eagerness that made your chest tighten with affection.

“That feels good,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his messy hair. “You’re doing so good, Rafe.”

His lips curved into the smallest, shyest smile, but his fingers didn’t falter. He leaned down then, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck, trailing lower with every press of his lips. His hair tickled against your skin, the sensation adding to the whirlwind of pleasure building inside you.

When his kisses reached the hollow of your throat, you tilted your head back, giving him better access. He took it eagerly, his tongue darting out to taste your skin. The combination of his mouth and his hand working together was intoxicating, a steady rhythm that had you biting your lip to stifle the moans threatening to spill out.

“You like that?” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and velvety. The rare confidence in his tone sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you couldn’t help but nod, your fingers gripping his hair tighter.

“I love it,” you whispered, your voice trembling with pure pleasure.

His movements stilled for a moment as he shifted, his glasses slightly askew as he glanced up at you. “I… Can I try something else?” he asked, his voice softer now, more uncertain.

“Yes,” you answered without hesitation, your heart racing as his hands gently eased your panties down your legs.

Rafe paused, his breath catching as he took in the sight of you fully. His cheeks flushed a deep pink, but his gaze was captivated, reverent. Slowly, he settled himself lower, his shoulders nestled between your thighs.

“You don’t have to—” you started, but the determined look in his eyes stopped you.

“I want to,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

The first press of his lips to your inner thigh was soft, almost hesitant. He lingered there, kissing a trail upward, his breath warm against your skin. Each kiss was tender, deliberate, until he was just where you wanted him most.

His lips brushed against you then, soft and unhurried, and the sensation sent a gasp tumbling from your lips. He hesitated, his blue eyes flicking up to yours for reassurance, and when he saw the way your chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, he pressed another kiss, firmer this time.

The wet warmth of his mouth and the softness of his tongue as he tentatively explored made your entire body tense with pleasure. He was careful, almost shy, but each touch carried a sincerity that left you breathless.

“Rafey,” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need.

The sound of his name on your lips seemed to embolden him. His hands gripped your thighs gently, pulling you closer as he deepened his movements, his tongue finding the rhythm that made you gasp and arch beneath him. Every flick, every press, was deliberate, his sole focus on making you fall apart under his care.

“Is this… okay?” he murmured between kisses, his breath hot against you.

“Perfect,” you managed, your voice breaking on the word. “Don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

Rafe’s mouth was insistent now, his shyness giving way to a careful confidence as he listened to every sound you made, adjusting his movements to match the reactions he drew from you. Your hands found his hair, tugging gently as you lost yourself in the overwhelming sensations he was giving you.

Every kiss, every caress, was a revelation—an unspoken promise that he was there to learn every inch of you, to cherish you completely. The pleasure built steadily, an intoxicating crescendo that left you breathless, your thighs trembling as he found just the right rhythm with his mouth. His lips latched around that sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking softly at first, then with increasing determination as your whimpers turned into desperate cries of his name.

“Rafey,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair as your hips pressed up against him, unable to control the way your body chased the peak he was bringing you toward.

His hands gripped your thighs firmly but gently, holding you in place as he gave it one last, deliberate suck. The sensation sent you spiraling, your body arching as the climax washed over you in waves, leaving you shaking and completely at his mercy. Your breath hitched, the room filled with the sound of your soft cries and his satisfied hum against you.

When the intensity finally began to drop, Rafe eased his touch, his mouth leaving a final tender kiss against your skin before he pulled away. His lips were parted, his breathing ragged, and his face was flushed with both pride and nervousness. His lips and chin glistened, a mix of his efforts and your release, and the sight alone sent another shiver through you.

He climbed back up the bed, his gaze locked on yours as if silently asking for reassurance. Leaning over you, his hands braced on either side of your head, he pressed his lips to yours in a tentative kiss. The taste of yourself lingered on his lips, and the sound he made—low, guttural, and almost shy—vibrated against your mouth.

“Did I… Was that okay?” he asked softly, his voice trembling with vulnerability. His blue eyes searched yours, his glasses slightly askew, and his lips glistening as he hovered just inches from you.

Your heart swelled at the nervousness in his voice, and instead of answering right away, you pulled him into another kiss. This time, it was deep, lingering, your fingers threading through his hair to pull him even closer. When you finally broke away, his lips were even more swollen, and his breath mingled with yours.

“You did amazing, sweetie,” you whispered, your voice full of affection and awe.

The words flooded him with relief, his shoulders relaxing as a shy yet proud smile tugged at the corners of his damp lips. Unable to resist, you reached up to wipe your arousal from his chin, your thumb grazing his flushed skin before leaning in to kiss him again.

Rafe melted into you, his earlier hesitation completely gone, replaced by a quiet confidence that had your heart racing all over again. And as he buried his face in your neck, his breath warm and shaky against your skin, you knew this was just the beginning of something even more beautiful between you.

a/n: last post of the day🥵

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