#I want to wear fabrics that trap the body heat in

[mister-eames]

Who’s mr furnace and who’s mr icicle man in the arthur and eames equation?

I love them being played out as both (love me some icicle feet Arthur) but I'm gonna say Eames is the human icicle and Arthur is the furnace. Who chose to live in a warm climate? Eames. I am endlessly amused by the idea of Eames and Arthur arguing about the thermostat settings. They own an electric blanket for their bed and only Eames side gets any use. Arthur bitches lovingly tolerates Eames' cold ass fingers and cold ass feet leeching his warmth at any given time. He makes Eames warm up his hands before his fingers go anywhere near his you-know-what.

Arthur has a metabolism like a goddamn road runner, this dude is always running warm. Arthur hates it. Eames loves it.

Once Arthur asked Eames why his temperature regulation sucks ass and Eames paused and said very solemnly---so solemnly that Arthur worriedly thought he was going to say he has cancer or something--- but all he says is: "I have... bad circulation."

Arthur builds him a sauna in their winter home. He tolerates the extra hot shared showers, and the doonas/duvets/covers that pile up on their bed(s). In compensation he demands at least a few months a year in their winter home which is only fair, relationships are about compromise after all. But he makes sure to pack all the beanies, gloves and scarves and luckily is very well versed at keeping his partner warm at night.

[sunnie-angel]

week 2 (oct. 11) | overstimulation

✮⋆˙ lay all your love on me (3k)

jason needs to come. a lot. what's a good partner supposed to do but give him a helping orgasm? or two? or three?

tags: gn!reader, established relationship, groping, dirty talk, cum play, slight objectification, hand job, begging, crying during sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation

a/n: working title was "jerking him off until he cries". @sanguineterrain at last the handjob fic i promised you

⊘ this is an 18+ fic. minors do not interact, you will be blocked

Jason Todd enjoys being the little spoon. It takes a weight off of his shoulders to curl up into you, have your chin hooked over his shoulder, and just trustingly melt. He’d been a little hesitant the first time you’d suggested it, sure that because of his size this wasn’t wanted from him. But after that first afternoon he’d leaned in a little more eagerly each time. Looked at you real sweet as he’d hemmed and hawed his way around asking if you two could cuddle again. Innocent, hoping for nothing more than a little light making out. Really, knowing how insatiable your appetite for him has been since the first time you’d kissed, he should have known that the two of you would end up here eventually.

It had started off innocently enough, the two of you spooning on the L-section of the couch he had insisted on buying when you had moved in together. Jason sits comfortably in the v of your legs with your arms wrapped around his stomach, warm and drowsy, some cooking show playing on the TV screen. He’d worn those grey sweatpants, the pair that you have a love-hate relationship with because of just how good they make his ass and thighs look. You haven’t been able to tear your eyes away from the faint outline of his cock through the cotton fabric. If asked, you probably couldn’t even name the show you’re supposed to be watching. He shifts, pulling the fabric tight against his cock. Saliva starts to pool in your mouth.

“Hey d’you mind if I try something?” you ask distractedly, focus narrowing to the crotch of his pants.

“What– OH,” he bites out as your hand closes around his dick, hips twitching and tone breathy.

“Go back to watching your show,” you shush him. “I just want to play a bit. You don’t mind, do you?” you ask. The fabric between your hand and his cock feels super-heated.

“I don’t– I don’t mind,” he manages to grit out. 

“Good.”

You move your hand along his shaft, gently squeezing, just trying to map out the shape of him now that you’re in no hurry. He’s a big boy, your Jason, proportional in all the right places. Trapping his dick against his leg, you stroke down, fabric bunching up beneath your palm. Jason’s breath stutters. Not wanting this to be over too quickly, you let him go. His hips twitch, chasing after your touch.

Instead you reach further down and cradle his balls in the palm of your hand. Roll them just to hear him moan quietly in your ear. If you had to guess, they feel heavier than usual, straining against the stretched grey fabric.

“Someone’s feeling a little pent up. Need a hand with that?” It’s some of your worst wordplay but it has the intended result.

“Might be,” he hedges.

Your other hand trails up to his pec and squeezes. His body is a lot more direct about what it wants, cock already fattening up in his pants.

“Getting fucked silly last night not enough for you, doll?” you pretend to pout.

“I cum a lot,” Jason confesses sheepishly, shame colouring his tone.

“Oh I know.” Fondly you think back to late nights in bed, Jason’s cum running down the inside of your thighs.

“I just mean that I hafta come a lot.” He tucks his chin into his chest. “Starts to get uncomfortable if I don’t at least twice a day. Hurts if I’m wearing the cup for patrol.”

You reward him for his honesty with another sharp drag at his twitching dick. On the television a contestant gets eliminated.

“So my big boy’s got a big load. Just more to fuck me full with,” you tell him smugly. He tries to thrust up into your hand, but you pull back, tutting. “Hey, you ever try and see just how much you can come?” You trace his chest through his shirt idly while he tries to piece together an answer.

“No?” his voice rises, tremors running through it as you dig your nail into his nipple. A damp spot starts to appear through his sweats, right where his purposefully neglected cock head sits. “It’s embarrassing enough I gotta jerk off a coupla times a day. Don’t wanna think about it too hard.”

“Yeah? Do you think of me every time you sneak off to have a furtive session in the bathroom?” you ask, half teasing half serious. Your hand closes around his shaft again. “When your balls tighten and your cock kicks in your hand, do you picture me?”

“Ye–ah,” he moans out, chest heaving. You press a kiss to the hinge of his jaw and flick at his nipple just to feel his breath catch.

“Good. Then I’m going to give you something real good to picture tomorrow, and you’re going to show me just how badly you need this. Don’t want my baby doll hurtin’ ‘cause he didn’t take the time to take care of himself.”

He nods, jaw clenching, as you finally thumb over his slit. Dig in to the growing damp patch with the pad of your thumb until fine tremors run up and down his spine. You let go just as he works up the nerve to try and thrust into the pressure.

Tapping at his hip, you urge him “Up, up. I want these off.”

With hands that feel dreadfully clumsy for their size, Jason manages to push his sweats and boxers down just far enough to free his dick from its confines. He almost dies from embarrassment over the way it nearly smacks against his stomach, practically drooling pre-come. On the TV, a new lightning round commences.

“Always so wet for me,” you murmur, slicking your hand with his pre. “I don’t think I even need lube for you, doll.”

The first pass of your hot hand over his bare skin is electrifying and Jason knows his first (of many, he hopes) orgasm isn’t far off. You set a fast pace, an extra twist of your wrist right below the head that has his stomach swooping. It’s white hot pressure, wet and good as you murmur soft praise into his ear. His hips start moving unconsciously, prolonging the drag of your palm on his cock. He moans when you tighten and release your grip intermittently, caught off guard by the sudden change in pressure. Flickering heat builds at the base of his spine, so strong he can taste it like iron on his tongue. Clever fingers pinch his nipples and he careens into orgasm eyes shut, teeth closing around his earlobe.

His cock twitches in your hand as he comes, spurts landing on his clothed chest and tummy. After an eternity stretches out, it slows to a dribble, thick white globs catching on your knuckles as you continue to stroke him through it. Letting go of his now sensitive dick, you drag your hand across his stomach, causing it to twitch, collecting the cum in your palm.

You hold up your hand for his inspection, rotate it back and forth to show him just how wet your hand has become. Embarrassment burns through Jason at the sight, lights up his cheeks and tightens his chest, the image of his copious desperation shining in the lamplight seared into his brain. Cum pools in the webbing of your fingers and starts to roll down your wrist in hot drips.

“Didn’t mean to make a mess,” he says, stomach still spasming and hips still twitching.

“No?” You press warm wet kisses along his jaw. “Then we’ll just have to keep going until you do mean to.”

The first tug at his cock is electrifying, back bowing tight as a string, his head dropping back onto your shoulder. You mouth at the warmed skin of his throat, adding just a hint of teeth as you trace the veiny underside of his dick with a slick finger.

“C’mon doll, I know you’ve got it in you to make a much bigger mess,” you croon, reaching down to tug and squeeze at his balls until he’s moaning like a whore for you. “Want you to give it all to me.” He starts grinding into the air in desperation.

“Please, can I– wanna fuck your fist. Please?” he whines. “Wanna come for your hand.”

You give a slow, leisurely stroke of his cock that has his shoulders shaking, before pulling off completely, hand still clenched in a loose fist.

“You’re so polite.” You press a kiss to his temple, hook your chin over his shoulder for a better view. “Now c’mon, good boys get to take what they want.”

His hips surge forward, every taut muscle in his body working to piston his dick in and out of your fist. It’s a heady feeling, watching him flex and strain under your hands, sweat beading on his forehead. Jason whines when you make him work for it, holding your hand a little further away so his hips have to arch just that much higher. He’s more flexible than you thought, a fact you file away for later. You tighten your grip and pull your hand closer, force Jason to change his pace to something jackrabbit fast, punched out little uh, uh, uhs falling from his mouth. With every stroke he’s slicking his cock up with his own cum, all shiny and wet.

“Look at you, all covered in cum for me. Your dick’s so pretty like this, puttin’ on a show,” you murmur.

“Jus’ f’r you. S’all yours,” he slurs, brain melting out of his ears.

“Yeah?” You press your thumb into the slit of his cock head. “So that means this cock is mine, right?” Jason nods frantically, keeps trying to fuck his whole length through the vice-like clutch of your hand but you’re not done playing yet. You grab his balls with your other hand. “All of this cum belongs to me?”

“Yours, all yours,” he gasps, so far gone he barely remembers his own name.

“That’s right doll,” you coo. Dig your fingers into the sensitive spot just under the head. “It’s my dick and my cum. Mine.” Heat burns through Jason’s veins, hums with the desire-shame thrumming through him and pools in the pit of his belly. “I fuck myself with my cock whenever I want and I get my cum whenever I want. And right now I want all of it.”

“Yeah wanna– wanna give it to you. Please. Need ta come. Need it. Need it need it,” he whines through gritted teeth, tendons pulling tight in his neck. His hands scrabble for something – anything to anchor him – and close around your thighs.

“Be a good doll and come then,” you instruct him, voice heavy with your own lust.

You start jerking him off in earnest, palm wrapped tight around the fat girth of his cock. He keens, body seizing up. A wet hand trails up to pinch at the tight bud of his nipple, leaving damp cum stains across the front of his shirt. Jason comes with a throaty groan on a particularly wicked twist of your wrist, tries to tuck his face into your neck. Rapt, you watch the thick white fluid dribble down his cock, sticky between your knuckles. With a steady hand you stroke him through his orgasm, more interested in the way his dick glistens than the pleasure-pain overstimulation he’s riding.

Cum pools at the base of his dick. Forms a frothy ring of creamy white from where your hand has churned it up, clings to his pubes and gathers in the divot just below his hip bone. Its still warm when you dip a finger into it, use it to draw idle patterns over the skin of his lower stomach where his shirt has ridden up. His muscles twitch and jump under his skin as he lets out a high and reedy sound. Sweat clings to his temples. The hands clinging to your thighs tremble as you continue to tug at his cock.

Jason’s next orgasm rolls over him, builds so gently he doesn’t notice it growing over the harsh passes of your hand over his dick. Only a little cum dribbles out this time, pearls at the fat head of his dick before slowly trailing its way home to your hands. He mewls when you bite down gently on the meat of his shoulder. Eyelashes fluttering, his head drops back to loll on you. Fine tremors rack his large frame as he limply clings to you, spent and vulnerable, raw with pleasure.

“Kiss, please,” Jason demands, fucked out and sweetly. Wetness dots the corners of his lashes as he gazes up at you, your pretty boy.

The kiss is almost chaste in comparison to everything that preceded it, closed mouth and sweet. He sighs into your mouth and melts into the cradle of your body. Shifts his hand to thread it through your fingers not currently rubbing cum into the heated skin of his cock. Jason’s mouth chases after yours, starved for tenderness. Pulling back, you lay your forehead on his and close your eyes. The two of you stay there, rough inhales evening out into something soft. Intimate.

“You were so good, baby. So good,” you murmur to him. Jason squirms a little at the praise. Or maybe at the way you slip a hand under his shirt at the same time. “Can you be good just a little longer? Want you to come again–” he whines, starts shaking his head, “–just once. Just one more, okay?” You dust kisses across the tip of his nose, the scrunched up space between his eyes. “You can do this, baby doll.”

“I can’t. I can’t,” he moans. His fingers clench and unclench around yours.

“Yes you can, I’ll be right there with you the whole time. You’re not doing this alone. Why don’t we just try, hmm?”

He looks up at you, hazy eyed and trusting. Jason’s curls are stuck to his damp forehead and there’s high spots of colour in his cheeks. His lips are shiny and swollen from where he’s bitten at them. Tongue darting out between his parted lips, the growing desire to be good, to give you what you’re asking of him, is nearly tangible in the air. What a sweet picture he makes, your doll. He looks like yours.

“Will you– will you kiss me through it? Don’t wanna get lost, don’t wanna be alone. Promise?”

“You can have as many kisses as you want,” you reassure him, squeeze his hand with your own. “You can have as many as you want after too.”

You kiss him and he melts. You kiss him and reshapes himself into the image you create for him. Hips twitching at every feather light touch to his cock, balls drawing up tighter and tighter with each breath. You swallow down every sigh and whimper, soak up the way his breath hitches as you neglect his cock to trail the pads of your fingers across the tense muscles of his stomach. How eager he is to open up to you, mouth parting for your entry. You flip his hand over so you can hold it properly, let him clutch it to his chest for comfort as finally you start teasing his dick again.

You work him over, running the flat of your hand against the length of it just to feel it struggle to get to full mast again. Jason cries out when you finally close a fist around the base of it. He settles down again with another soft kiss pressed to his open mouth. His hips start to roll with the slow, gentle pace you set, eyes closed. He gasps when you speed up the down stroke, still tortuously slow as you glide back toward the tip of his dick. Slowly the muscles of his thighs start to twitch, no longer relaxed as they begin to lock up. Something slow and cloying as tar builds at the base of his spine, tugging and clawing it’s way from the tips of his toes and the prickle of his scalp to settle low in his gut. He forgets to breath. 

Jason’s desperate, thrashing under your hold, trying to escape the drag of the blade across his nerves, pleasure spiking. He could break free, if that was really what he wanted. Instead he lets you draw things out, begs and pleads for more.

“S’too much. God. Don’t sto-p. Please.”

He feels strangely divorced from his body as he comes on an exhale, jaw slack and hips arching off the couch. One single spurt and then he’s coming dry. The force of it burns through him, toes curling, heart shaking. He’s light headed, limbs so weak Jason doesn’t think they’d hold him. He pants, trying to force air into his lungs as his ears ring. His molars hurt the same way they do when he touches a live wire. He looks at you with stars in his eyes, white spots dancing across his vision.

“Oh you were so perfect, doll. Didn’t I say you had one more in you?” You nuzzle into his cheek before tenderly placing a kiss there. “And look at how much you came!” Dragging a finger through the puddle around his dick, you giggle. “You’re going to have such a good time jerking off to this tomorrow.”

He groans at that thought, already pained at the idea of orgasming again anytime soon. Still, he lifts your twined hands together to press kisses to your sticky knuckles.

“No more sexy talk, okay? You’re gonna kill me. Let me enjoy the afterglow a little before you start planning to pull my soul out of my dick again.”

“Okay, okay! Glad to know you enjoyed yourself too,” you laugh. “I’ll go get a towel to clean you up and we can restart the episode.”

“The wh– oh.” Jason darts a sheepish glance back at the TV where the credits are already rolling.

[little-diable]

Pleasure - Prof!Tom Riddle (smut)

Just a small Drabble about our fave fucked up, dark professor. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Professor Riddle threatens to fail the reader, something she won’t accept. Just pwp

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, choking, degrading, orgasm denial, Tom being Tom, power imbalance

Pairing: Prof!Tom Riddle x fem!student!reader (1.2k words)

“You threaten to fail me? Are you out of your mind?” Her voice boomed through the class room, eyes set on the professor whose assistant she had been for the past months now. His piercing eyes didn’t meet hers, he kept his gaze set on the papers, correcting the homework she had collected minutes ago. All before he had dropped this bomb on her, telling (y/n) that she was about to fail his class. “Look at me!”

“Careful, (y/n).” His eyes snapped up to meet hers, voice sharper than a knife. He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed in front of his chest while staring at her like a snake about to snap at its prey. He had always been a dangerous man, a man whose aura was a warning itself, set on pulling her into his dark trap. But today he had something else to him, something even more ruthless.

“Tell me why!” She was fuming, set on letting go of a piercing scream. This must be a joke, a prank he was pulling on her - her grades were better than most, she was always on time, and when she was working for him, she did everything he asked of her.

“I don’t owe you any explanations. And your behaviour proves to me that you’re not mature enough to work on it. Leave.” (Y/n) didn’t move, she kept staring at Professor Riddle who slowly rose to his feet. A part of her screamed at her to leave, to run before it was too late, but the more stubborn part forced her to stand still and watch his every move. “Is this how you want to play? This is my last warning, (y/n).”

Her body was trembling in anger and need, all while her mind brought back flashes of a similar moment that had happened weeks ago. Back then she had left this room with trembling thighs and his handprint burned into her behind. The following hours had been spent hidden away in her room while pushing herself over the edge numerous times with his name burning on the tip of her tongue.

“I am not scared of you.” She cocked her head, chin pointed in his direction while she looked up at him. It was a foolish game she was playing - a game she was about to lose, but she didn’t care, couldn’t worry about any wins or losses, knowing that whatever would happen between them would count as a win in her book.

“You should be.” His ringed hand found her throat, tugging (y/n) in for a teeth clashing kiss. She moaned into the touch, unable to stop her hands from wandering, from finding the back of his neck to keep him close. (Y/n) felt her surroundings spin, throwing her into another dimension while the professor moved her backwards to heave his TA onto his table. With her legs wrapped around his waist, (y/n) kept him close, not daring to think of parting just yet. “You try to distract me with those pretty little things you wear, you try to make a fool out of me, but you’ll never have this much power over me. You’re mine, (y/n), I’m the one guiding you.”

She could only moan in delight, feeling his hand disappear beneath her skirt to press his fingertips against her clothed heat. Slowly, he began to circle her bundle through the fabric of her panties, feeling them grow damp beneath his touch. A soft chuckle let him, buzzing through both their bodies while his lips moved down her throat, sucking on the spots that drew moans from her.

“You’ve been asking for it for months, so now you’ll take my cock like the desperate slut you are. But I won’t let you cum, not this afternoon.” His words drew a protesting moan from (y/n), eyes wide while she stared at him. No words managed to pass her parted lips, unsure how to speak up as the sounds reaching her distracted (y/n).

Within seconds he had freed his cock, pushing a condom down his length before her panties were tugged aside. Her fingernails left crescent marks on the spot where his shoulder met his neck as he pushed into her, forcing her tight walls to adjust to him. A part of her wanted to beg him to slow down, to give her some moments to relax before taking all of him, but that part didn’t get a chance to speak up, silenced by her loud moans.

Professor Riddle fucked her ruthlessly, he was using her body, set on chasing his own high while sticking to his promise. Tonight he wouldn’t let her cum, at least not for a few hours before finding his way to her.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, dripping from her chin onto the back of his hand which was still holding her throat. She was torn between focusing on the way he perfectly stretched her, about to push her over the edge, and the way he held onto her all too possessively, leaving her heart jumping in excitement.

“This is why I need to keep you around, love.” The nickname had a condescending touch to it, leaving her gasping while she tried to focus on his words. “You’re all for me to use, all for my own pleasure.”

(Y/n) nodded her head while another gasp left her, head wanting to roll back - though without any luck as he kept holding onto her. She felt his cock tearing her apart with every thrust, drunk on the feeling of him fucking her this posessively. With moans ripping their way through her, she clawed at his skin, giving into the subconscious need to mark him up to have the same claim on him.

“What would you ever do without me, huh? You’re so needy, such a pathetic little girl.” She was close to letting go, high on the low tones of his raspy voice, on the way he spoke to her with spite and adoration dripping from his tongue. With one hand still clinging to him, she let the other find her pulsing bundle, circling it a few times to give herself the needed push. Something he instantly stopped her from doing after a second or two.

“I told you I won’t let you cum for now. I don’t make empty threats, love.” More tears fell from her eyes as she stared up at Professor Riddle. Her walls clenched his cock, hoping to pull him into her trap - something he didn’t seem to care for as he pulled out of her to cum on her thighs.

“You’ll wait for me tonight, and perhaps if you’re good, I’ll let you cum.”

[librababe99]

Savage Devotion

cw: MDNI, 18+ ONLY, Logan (X-Men: Origins specifically), Fem! Reader, established relationship, heavy smut, animalistic tendencies, rough sex, dom/sub dynamics, degradation, P in V, unprotected sex (wrap it up!) overstimulation, slight breeding kink (if you squint) word count: 2.5K

Summary: where pleasure and pain blur, but Logan shows you exactly what it means to be taken by a beast.

A/N: I was in the mood for something a little spicy tonight 🤭 soooo I hope y'all enjoy this one! Please feel free to comment, like or reblog! Happy reading <3

(Marvel Masterlist)

You had always known Logan was a rough man. His reputation had preceded him long before you'd ever met him, tales of the Wolverine, a man with claws of adamantium and a growl that would make even the bravest quiver. You’d heard the stories, seen the aftermath of battles he’d been through, and yet, none of that had prepared you for the real thing—the man in front of you, the beast in your bed.

It wasn’t the first time. You weren’t naïve. You knew Logan carried a roughness in him that most men didn’t, a raw and untamed energy that hovered on the edge of feral. But there was something about the way he looked at you, even through his gruff exterior, that made you shiver—made you want more.

Right now, Logan loomed over you in the dimly lit cabin, his eyes glinting in the low light, like a predator sizing up its prey. He had that look on his face, the one that always sent a tremor through your core—a dark promise in those eyes, a wicked curl to his lip. Your wrists were bound above your head with a thick, coarse rope, tied to the wooden headboard. It wasn’t uncomfortable, not quite, but the tension in the rope was constant, a reminder of the control he held over you in that moment.

You shifted beneath him, testing the bonds, and his eyes narrowed. “You tryin’ to get free, sweetheart?”

His voice was like gravel, low and rough, sending a surge of heat between your legs. He was still fully clothed, wearing the same worn leather jacket he always did, his jeans sitting low on his hips, but that did nothing to hide the coiled strength beneath them. You bit your lower lip, knowing exactly what kind of game you were playing.

“Maybe,” you teased, letting your hips arch slightly off the bed, a subtle challenge.

Logan’s gaze darkened further, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath. He reached out, one gloved hand cupping your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You’re gonna be a brat tonight, huh?” His thumb pressed hard against your lips, forcing them open slightly, and you couldn’t help but flick your tongue out, just to taunt him.

That earned you a growl. Low, dangerous. Logan wasn’t the kind of man who played soft, and tonight, it was clear you’d pushed a button. He wasn’t going to be gentle. But that’s exactly what you wanted.

“Always trying to get a rise outta me, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice dripping with the weight of a threat. “You want to see how far I’ll take this, don’t ya?”

His thumb slid further into your mouth, forcing you to suck on it, and you complied, tongue swirling around the rough skin. It tasted like leather, like the residue of smoke and iron. Logan was in no rush, his thumb slow and deliberate, controlling the pace of your mouth on him. He watched you with a hungry gaze, his body hovering over yours, dominating the space.

“I think I’ll teach you a lesson tonight,” he muttered, pulling his thumb from your lips with a soft pop. He leaned back, taking a moment to shed his jacket, revealing the taut muscles beneath his fitted shirt. Even in the dim lighting, you could see the way his muscles flexed beneath the fabric, the outline of scars, both old and new, that littered his body.

You tried to wiggle your wrists, but the ropes held firm. It was intoxicating, the way you were trapped, fully at his mercy, even though you trusted him not to go too far. Your heart pounded in your chest as he moved closer again, this time bringing his knee between your thighs, spreading your legs wide as he knelt between them.

“You don’t get to squirm,” Logan ordered, his voice deep and authoritative. “You wanted this, didn’t ya? So now, you’re gonna take whatever I give you.”

His hands, rough and calloused, slid up the inside of your thighs, teasing, but not gentle. He wasn’t here to pamper you tonight. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes raked over your body with a predatory gleam. This was Logan in his element. Raw. Dominant. Unforgiving.

You were already soaked, anticipation pooling between your legs as his hands pushed your thighs further apart. His fingers teased at the waistband of your panties, hooking underneath them, but he didn’t pull them off yet. Instead, his fingers just hovered there, barely touching your skin, and it drove you wild.

“Logan, please,” you whimpered, trying to shift your hips toward his hand, desperate for more contact. But he pulled away just as quickly, his hand coming down hard against the inside of your thigh, a sharp slap that made you gasp.

“What did I say about squirming?” His voice was a growl, sending shivers up your spine. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, sweetheart. You don’t get to beg yet.”

You whimpered, trying to compose yourself, but the heat that pulsed between your legs was unbearable. You wanted him—needed him. Every inch of you was on fire, burning with desire, but Logan wasn’t going to make this easy for you. He liked to make you wait. Liked to see you unravel beneath him.

He leaned down, his mouth grazing the skin of your inner thigh, right where he had slapped you moments before. His teeth nipped at the tender flesh, and you squirmed again, biting down hard on your lip to stifle a moan.

“Sensitive tonight, aren’t ya?” he muttered against your skin, his stubble brushing over the sensitive area as he kissed his way higher, dangerously close to where you needed him most.

But still, he didn’t touch you where you wanted. His fingers teased the edges of your panties, his breath hot against the damp fabric, and all you could do was writhe beneath him, restrained and helpless.

“Please,” you gasped, voice hoarse with need. “Please, Logan, I need you.”

His response was a low chuckle, dark and full of promise. “Oh, I know what you need, darlin’. But I ain’t giving it to you until I’m good and ready.”

His fingers finally hooked into your panties, pulling them down agonizingly slow. The cool air against your exposed skin made you shudder, and Logan took his time, admiring the sight of you spread out before him, bound and at his mercy. He didn’t say a word as he tossed your panties aside, his eyes roaming over you with a hunger that was almost palpable.

You could see the bulge in his jeans, the way his body was already coiled with tension, and yet, he was holding back, savoring every second of your anticipation. The bastard loved it—loved watching you squirm, loved making you beg. And god dammit, you loved it too.

Logan’s fingers slid between your folds, slick with your arousal, and he growled low in his throat. “So wet already,” he muttered, his fingers spreading you open, teasing at your entrance but not pushing inside yet. “You really are a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

You bit your lip, trying to stifle another whimper as his fingers circled your clit, slow and deliberate. He was toying with you, building you up slowly, and it was driving you insane. You needed more—needed him inside you, needed the roughness, the way only Logan could fuck you.

“Logan, please,” you begged again, voice desperate. “I need you. Please.”

His fingers stilled, and for a moment, you thought he might finally give in. But instead, he pulled his hand away entirely, leaving you empty and aching.

“You don’t get to call the shots, darlin’,” he said, his voice hard and unyielding. “I’m in control here. You want me? You’re gonna take what I give you, and you’re gonna say thank you when I’m done.”

He stood, his presence towering over you, and you watched as he undid the belt on his jeans, the sound of leather sliding through metal sending a shiver of anticipation through you. You watched, breathless, as he pulled his cock free, hard and thick, the sight of him making your mouth water.

But Logan wasn’t in any rush. He stroked himself slowly, his eyes locked on yours, making sure you could see just how much he enjoyed watching you squirm. “Is this what you want?” he asked, his voice a low growl. “You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?”

You nodded, unable to speak, your throat tight with need.

Logan smirked, crawling back onto the bed, his body pressing down over yours as he lined himself up with your entrance. “You better be ready for it, ‘cause I ain’t going easy.”

And then he was inside you, a single, brutal thrust that filled you completely. The sensation was overwhelming, the stretch of him sending a white-hot pulse of pleasure through your body, and you cried out, the sound muffled by his mouth as he kissed you, hard and demanding.

Logan didn’t give you time to adjust. He set a punishing pace, his hips slamming into yours with each thrust, driving himself deeper inside you. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he fucked you hard, each thrust sending a jolt of pleasure and pain through your body.

“Look at you,” he growled, his voice a low rumble in your ear, “taking me so well, even when you’re all tied up. You’re such a good little slut for me, aren’t you?”

His words sent a fresh wave of heat pooling in your belly, a mixture of humiliation and lust that made you clench around him. You could barely respond, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he pounded into you relentlessly, each thrust a reminder of just how much control he had over your body. The ropes around your wrists burned slightly as you pulled against them instinctively, desperate for something to hold onto, something to ground you in the whirlwind of sensation.

Logan’s grip on your hips was bruising, fingers digging into your flesh as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel the tension building, that tight coil of pleasure deep in your core that threatened to snap with every thrust, but Logan wasn’t letting up. He was relentless, taking exactly what he wanted from you, the sound of your moans and the wet slap of skin filling the small cabin.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you clenching around me,” he growled, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned down, his stubble grazing your cheek. “You like it when I’m rough with you, don’t you? You like being used.”

The degradation hit you like a punch, and you couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your lips, your body arching up to meet his brutal pace. You hated how much you loved it, how much his cruelty turned you on, but Logan knew you too well. He could see the way your body responded to him, the way your thighs trembled as you hurtled toward the edge of oblivion.

“I want you to come for me,” he demanded, his voice sharp as his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight, firm circles over the swollen nub. “I want to feel you come around my cock. But you better thank me when you do, understand?”

You nodded frantically, tears of pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes as the sensations overwhelmed you. His pace was merciless, the rough pressure on your clit pushing you right to the edge of orgasm, but Logan wasn’t going to let you go until you gave him exactly what he wanted.

“I said, do you understand?” he snarled, his voice commanding, and you gasped, nodding again as the words tore from your throat.

“Yes! Yes, Logan, I understand!”

“Good girl.”

That was all it took. The coil inside you snapped, and your orgasm hit you like a freight train, tearing through your body with an intensity that left you shaking and breathless. You cried out, your body spasming beneath his as you came hard, the feeling of his thick cock driving deep inside you the only anchor in the storm of pleasure.

“That’s it,” Logan grunted, his own voice rough with barely-contained lust. “Feel how tight you are around me? So good, fuckin’ perfect.”

But he didn’t stop. Even as you trembled and gasped beneath him, the waves of pleasure still crashing through you, Logan kept going, his hips slamming into yours with a punishing rhythm that only seemed to heighten your sensitivity. It was too much—too intense—and yet you wanted more, needed more. Every nerve in your body was alight, each thrust dragging another desperate moan from your lips.

Logan was close, you could tell from the way his breathing had grown ragged, the way his grip on your hips tightened. His pace grew erratic, each thrust harder and deeper than the last, and you knew he was about to come. But Logan wasn’t a man who would take what he wanted without giving something in return.

“You feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he growled, his voice thick with desire. “So tight, so wet for me. I’m gonna fill you up, gonna mark you as mine. You want that, don’t you? Want me to come inside you?”

“Yes!” you gasped, your body still quivering from the aftershocks of your orgasm. “Please, Logan, I need it—need you.”

That was all he needed. With a final, brutal thrust, Logan buried himself deep inside you, groaning low in his throat as he came, the warmth of his release spilling into you. His body tensed above you, his hips jerking as he rode out his orgasm, and you felt him pulse inside you, filling you completely.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the harsh breathing of both of you, the weight of Logan’s body pressing you into the mattress. You were spent, your body limp and sated, the ache between your legs a dull reminder of just how rough he had been. And yet, you wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

Slowly, Logan pulled out of you, his eyes still dark with hunger as he watched your body tremble in the aftermath of your shared pleasure. He untied your wrists carefully, his rough hands gentle now as he rubbed the red marks left by the rope.

“You did good, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice softer now, though no less rough. “Took everything I gave you.”

You smiled weakly, your body still buzzing with the remnants of pleasure. “I told you I could handle it.”

Logan smirked, his fingers brushing over your tender skin as he leaned down to kiss you, this time slow and possessive. “I know. That’s why I fuckin’ love you.”

The words sent a different kind of warmth through you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Even after everything, Logan still managed to make you feel safe, cared for, even when he was at his roughest.

As you lay there, tangled in each other’s arms, Logan’s rough fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin, you couldn’t help but smile. This was the man you loved—feral, dangerous, but always wanting to please you. Always wanting to take care of you in his own brutal, primal way.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[dollwrites]

𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 — 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!student!reader, titty fucking ( busty!reader ), oral sex ( m!receiving ), facial ( gojo loves skincare!! ) noncon, little bit of manipulation, suggested age gap / power dynamic, all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 ∣ @tomatop [ thank you so much, i hope you like it! ]

“You look scared to death, baby girl.” Gojo was muttering with amusement as his long leg juts out behind him, kicking the door closed. it effectively traps you in the room with him, and at the same time, blocks out the dim light from the quiet hallway. your heart pounds heavy against your chest when darkness engulfs the room, and you reach out to flip the light switch, but his hand clapping around your wrist halts your movement, and your breath catches in your throat. “Don’t be. I’m not gonna eat ya.” you can feel the warmth of his body, and the wave of his breath against the shell of your ear, and you realize he’s right behind you. so close that the taunt muscles masked by his uniform bump against your shoulder blades. “Not until I’m done having my fun with you.”

a husky chuckle bubbles up from his throat, and you let out a nervous giggle, too. you’re not sure why you do that— maybe to ease the growing anxiety within you. but it embarrasses you how timid you sound when you murmur, “I don’t think we’re supposed to be in here—“

his hand careens upwards to grasp yours, guiding your delicate fingers to the light switch and flicking it. in a moment’s time, the room is flooded with the glow, and you realize you were staring down at your own feet. your bare knees peek out from underneath the navy skirt, tucked inwards towards one another.

“But, what better place to hold an exam than a quiet classroom?”

you turn to look over your shoulder at him, your perplexity getting the better of you. only, you hadn’t expected him to be so close. his blinding sapphires peeking out just enough from behind his sunglasses to make your heart skip a beat, and his cocky smirk inches from your face. “I— oh, I’m being tested??”

his smirk stretches wider, and he nods. “Mhm.” he answers simply, before taking a step closer to you. he would’ve knocked into you, had you not stumbled back just in time. “I wanna see just how badly you really want me as a mentor. Do you know what that means?” you shake your head, starting to take another step back when he swaggers closer, but this time, he reaches out as grasps your uniform top, stilling you in your tracks. your eyes widen, and flit downwards to see his slender digits creeping between the buttons, slithering like two, devious snakes, beneath the fabric. upon seeing your apprehension, as well as feeling your breasts heave with a heavy breath, Gojo chuckles again. “You gotta earn it, baby girl.”

as soon as the words left his lips, a shudder slipped down your spine, and he hooked his fingers against your blouse, anchoring them from the inside, and popping buttons as he wrenches it open to expose your chest to him. you were thankful for the durability of your bra where your uniform top had failed you, and the partially secured mounds ripple in response to his rough treatment of your garments. an inaudible gasp leaves your lips parted followed by a soft cry of protest, “W—wait..!” your face heating up with a furious blush, and Gojo elicits a soft, playful whistle.

“There we go. I’ve been waiting long enough to see what those tits looked like under that tight, little top you wear.” your new teacher snickers, allowing his middle finger to curl around the underwire of your lingerie, his knuckle nesting in your warm cleavage, and he uses that grip to pull you back to his body, sighing in content when you stumble, and your breasts smush against his chest. “Come a little bit closer, let me feel ‘em.”

both of his hands then envelop your clothed mounds, squeezing through the soft fabric of your lingerie to knead and grope at you, and he swoons at how easily your body squishes, how soft and warm your tits feel in his hands. even through your bra, you could tell he was enjoying it. the ever-growing lump in his dark trousers was beginning to prod at your bare thigh. you wince; his treatment growing increasingly more rough. you knew it was wrong, so you grasp his wrists in an attempt to pry his hands from you. but, Gojo merely ignores the gesture, and your silent protest.

“These feel good. Your little bra can hardly keep them contained, huh?” he snickers playfully, rubbing them in circles to hear the sounds you make. “So fucking soft,” Gojo whispers, more to himself than to you, and squeezes again, harder this time. when your breath catches in your throat, you elicit a quiet and almost pitiful squeak, and he suppressed a low growl. “They’re sensitive too, huh? Does it feel good, baby? Having your big, soft titties groped by your teacher?”

“No.” you lie, sheepishly. it was embarrassing, to say the very least, but you didn’t want to admit that deep down it felt good. it was so wrong. “Please, stop…”. the strength in his hands, and the way he grabbed handfuls, then groaned when your flesh attempts to spill out of their cups at his rough treatment. you look away, trying to ignore the humiliation of hearing yourself make such whiny mewls, but Gojo wouldn’t allow that.

“Look up at me, pretty girl. You know what I really want to do to these big, warm tits?”

your eyes flit back up to his countenance in a second. even the black lenses of his shades couldn’t completely mask the celestial glow of his glacier’s gaze, that drew your stare in as easily as a siren might send sailors to their death. “W—what?”

it didn’t even sound like your voice; you were completely and utterly entranced by Satoru Gojo.

he liked it.

a lot.

with a soft chuckle, his tongue swipes along his lower lip, before his voice drops to a low, husky octave. “Wanna see my cock sliding between them. Think you can do that for me, baby?” he doesn’t wait for you to answer; he gives you a little pat on the head, before tilting his own. “On your knees for me.”

you were hesitant, swallowing hard around the nervous lump in your throat, but he didn’t mind forcing you. one hand grasping your hair roughly at the roots, he guides you down, further and further, until you have no choice but to go to your knees to avoid the sting of your hair being pulled. “There you go, down, down, down. Just like that.”

“Ow,” you whine, just under your breath, and look up at him once you’re planted, your uniform skirt fluttering around your thighs. “You’re hurting me, Gojo-sensei…”

Gojo’s grin hadn’t left his face, not even for a second, and he uses the grip on your hair to tilt your head back so he can study your countenance with a soft hum. “If you’re a good girl for me, I won’t have to hurt you.” the flippant tone of his voice forced a chill up your spine as he continues, “But if you fight me, I will take what I want from you. And it will hurt. Think about that, pretty girl, while I fuck your tits.”

for a moment, you’re stunned, but you watch him fish inside his pants and pull his cock out, wrapping a powerful fist around it and pumping it roughly a couple of times. you stared at it, allowing your eyeline to trace every girthy, veiny, strong inch of him and you couldn’t help the involuntary gulp that you took, swallowing hard around the lump in your throat. it was one of the biggest dicks you’d ever seen.

“Like the view?” Gojo teased, but he smirked as he grasped the base and held the twitching muscle still for you to admire some more. “You can admit it. Makes you wet, doesn’t it?” you shake your head in denial again, and this time, clench your thighs together as you feel the telltale damp patch growing against your panties. electricity buzzed through your veins, anxiety over being so close to your teacher’s cock driving you insane. “You’re a bad liar, baby. I’ll have to treat your little pussy the next time, let her feel me slide in slow and fill you up. But first…” as he speaks, Gojo’s voice takes a lazy, sexy dip, and he pulls you by the wiring in your bra again, tugging it just far enough away from your body to slip his cock underneath, nesting it into your cleavage with a happy sigh. “If I don’t fuck those tits, I’m going to lose my mind. So, do me a favor, pretty girl…” Gojo’s hips rock forward, worming his cock between your tits until the plump, pink tip pokes out, inches from your glossy lips. “Stick out your tongue, and drool like a sweet, little slut.”

“Y—you can’t do this—“ you whined, “you can’t m—make me do this…”

but his grip on your hair jerked your mouth closer to the twitching, thick tip. your eyes widened. your mouth was already watering, almost uncontrollably, now that you could smell his musk— the arousal that clung to his cock, so all you had to do was stick your tongue out as instructed, and saliva drip, drip, dripped down on to the head of his dick. your eyes closed, but only for a minute, because a cruel tug at your roots reminds you where you are.

“Open up those pretty eyes, slut.” he demands, though his voice still sounds chillingly lighthearted. “Don’t want you pretending this isn’t happening. That wouldn’t be any fun at all.”

his hips had began to buck wildly; he fell into a quick greedy rhythm and started to moan. he was still smiling. his head rolled on his shoulders, but he kept his eyes, concealed by his glasses, on you, too. watching how you were jerked around by his tempo like a rag doll, and listening to the whimpers and whines of protest, gazing at the way his cock had smeared your spit between your breasts, creating a slick canal that he could pound into, as fervently as he would treat your cunt one day. “Fuck,” he hissed, grinding his teeth, and spread his feet wider, to plant himself more firmly. “Fuck, that’s it…” while one hand held loosely on to the middle of your bra, pulling you into a bobbing motion that complimented his rough thrusting, the other started to push down on the top of your head, his voice raspy with need.

“Suck the tip, baby. Take me in that pretty pout of yours.” as soon as your lips parted, creating a cushion for his sensitive tip to lay on as the rubbed himself off with your chest, he groans and nods, “There you go, pretty girl. Been thinking about how good your mouth would feel. Give me all those sweet kisses.”

you have no choice but to comply as he shoves your head down on him, moaning and sighing, panting against the cock tip as it plugs your mouth, muffling your noises. your palms flee to press against his abdomen trying to push him away, but your strength was still no match for his.

your eyelids fluttered as the raw flavor of Gojo Satoru coated your tongue, overtaking your mouth and claiming it in his name. his taste was intoxicating, and you were fighting an addiction already.

you had to remind yourself that you didn’t want this. you didn’t want him. but it was becoming increasingly harder to resist.

it was as if Gojo could read your internal struggle scribbled on your features, and he liked the idea of you hating him violating you so much, but being unable to stop it from turning your brain to mush. “You’re so cute,” he grunted, pushing your head down further, his fingers combing through your roots as he does so, “saying I can’t make you do this, but the more cock I feed you, the more your eyes start to glaze over. Do you know that? You can’t even help yourself; you’re gonna get addicted to it. I like watching you break. Gonna make me cum so quick, I’m almost embarrassed.” he was smirking, his playful nature evident, but you weren’t laughing.

Gojo’s grip tightens, both on your bra and your hair, and he drags you back and forth so fast that you worry you’ll get whiplash, using you like a toy to get himself off of.

“Going to paint you so pretty, hell-“ he cums only moments later; his jest about not lasting quite so long seeming to be only half a joke, and his fingers grope your hair at the root, pulling your mouth off of him just in time to shoot white streamers of warm release over your cheeks and across your forehead. you gasp, utterly humiliated by the way his sticky cum clings to your hair and cheeks. “There ya go… good girl.” he croons, pulling you by the hair once again to smear your mouth against his cock. you purse your lips, and the spunk still dribbling down coats them.

“You’re an obstinate, little thing.” Gojo moans, but he’s grinning from ear to ear. “I fucking love it. Gonna have way too much fun breaking you down, turning you into my personal slut. Forcing you to like it the more cock I make you take.” he takes a deep breath, rubbing his throbbing tip over the shape of your lips, and you suppress a happy squeak as you finally taste him. “Do you like your grade?” he teases, and when you merely glare up at him, he uses his grip on your hair to pull your head back just a bit. you can feel his cum clinging to your cheeks, and excess rolling into your hairline and dripping down your chin. his glasses slid down and you were staring into those hypnotizing eyes again. tasting, smelling, feeling him all over. your core throbbed— desperate for his attention, and you hated him for it. “Say ‘thank you for treating me like a pretty, little cumrag, Gojo-sensei’. Say it, and I’ll mentor you.”

begrudgingly, with your eyes shooting daggers up at him, you part your lips to speak. you didn’t want to, but you also wanted to be taught by the best of the best, and as despicable as he was, he was also the best. “Th—thank you, Gojo-sensei…” you cringed with each syllable, knowing that you were essentially giving in. knowing that now, he would do whatever he wanted to you, and you couldn’t say no. “For treating me like a pretty, little cumrag…”

[corpsekiller]

i saw your halloween headcanon post from earlier and i just had to to drop this here — bakugou dressed up as ghostface from scream. that's it, this is the only thing going through my head😩

girl, you're so real for this. i've already read so many fics with this trope, but katsuki would definitely also dress up as ghostface on halloween. thank you so much for sending this ask, my love <3 i loved writing this dkksjsksla

PAIRING. ghostface!katsuki bakugou x genderneutral!reader

WARNINGS. a lot sexual tension, that's it

MASTERLIST

It's strangely quiet.

Your kitchen is dimly lit, the only source of light are the candles flickering auspiciously on your bedside table and the occasional colorful strobe of your decorations you've placed on your windowsill next to a carved pumpkin and some skeleton figurines you've found in a neat little store a while ago.

You're not sure where Katsuki is — he was supposed to pick you up for the party Mina is throwing at her place, but one glance at the clock steadily ticking on the wall above your bed tells you that he's already fifteen minutes late. It's odd, really, because he's always on time, considers punctuality almost as important as strength and victory during battle and yet, here you are, waiting for him as you stuff candy into your bag in preparation for this evening.

There's a faint memory of him mentioning that he wouldn't dress up, ignoring your pleads to wear matching costumes with a dismissive wave of his hand and a typical frown, muttering something about over my dead body and dressing up is only for kids, dumbass, so it doesn't make much sense to justify his unlike tardiness with the lame excuse of him just struggling with his costume.

"Where's that idiot?" You mutter with an exasperated sigh, gently tugging on the hem of your flimsy costume to readjust the fabric before reaching for your phone to text your boyfriend. Just as you're about to open your chats and type your message, a gloved hand snakes around your waist and pulls you back against someone standing behind you.

For a fleeting moment, your heart skips a beat. Then it begins to pound against your ribs — hectical and painful like a small frightened animal caught in the sharp canines of a predator — and your mouth falls open to cry out for help, but no sound dares to leave your trembling lips.

"Did I scare you?" His voice is low, a rough whisper that reverberates in his chest as he pulls you flush against his body, slowly leaning down until the smooth surface of his mask is pressed against your heated cheeks before he continues to speak. "Thought you'd just get away without giving me something sweet and call it a night, huh?"

Carefully, you turn your head and look up at him — hollow eyes and a distorted mouth locked in a permanent scream glare back at you, though the tension finally leaves your limbs and you sigh in relief, almost burst into laughter at your stupidly terrified reaction to his costume. You really must've watched too many horror movies over the span of the last few weeks if you're unable to recognize your own boyfriend.

Because now that you pay attention to the way he grabs your waist, almost possessive in a certain way, you just know his touch — strong, confident, so unmistakably Katsuki.

You squirm in his grip, meekly attempting to fully turn around to face him, but his grasp on your waist only tightens. A whimper leaves your lips, a quiet sound that causes him to chuckle as his hand trails up to tilt your chin, turning your head so you can look at him again.

"No, I don't think so. You're stayin' right here, got it?" His thumb brushes along your jaw, slow and almost tender. Even with the mask on, you can feel his smirk, can imagine the devilish grin that pulls on the corners of his mouth as he keeps you trapped between the kitchen counter and his body without a chance to escape

Though you're not sure you really want to.

"You like it, don't you?" He drawls, tilting his head to get a better look at you — although you can't see his eyes, his gaze seems to burn on your skin and you can't help the violent blush that tints your cheek in a shade of pink. There's a certain edge to his voice too, taunting and dangerous, almost sadistic if you listen close enough, as if he's enjoying the anticipation etched into the soft furrow of your brows, the sheer power he has over you and your body. "You like that I've got you cornered... nowhere to run?"

Oh, this is just a game for him and you've fallen right into his trap.

"Maybe," you reply, barely above a whisper, though you can't help but smile just a little.

"Maybe, huh?" He murmurs, a soft laugh escaping him as he lets his gloved hand wander from your cheek to your neck, lingering there for just a moment before his fingers slowly close around your throat. He doesn't squeeze, not yet, only lets you feel the weight of his hand, but it's enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Better be sure about it. Because now that I've got my hands on you, I won’t let you go.”

With one smooth motion, he pulls the mask up just enough to reveal his face—- the crimson of his eyes has darkened, pupils blown with something you can only describe as hunger and his lips are pulled into a sinister smile that bares all his teeth. There's a moment of silence, then he pulls you into a bruising kiss that punches the air out of your lungs and causes your knees to buckle under the weight of your body until the only thing that is holding you on your own two feet is none other than your boyfriend.

After what feels like half an eternity, Katsuki pulls away. Your head spins with the lack of oxygen, your legs are shaking and yet you can't help but reach out to dig your fingers into the fabric of his costume, roughly yanking him back for another kiss that leaves you just as breathless as the first one.

“Do you really think I'm done with you yet?" He whispers, voice a low rumble, before slipping the mask back down. "You have no idea what I've planned for you...Happy Halloween, babe."

[bigwishes]

I found this smelly old balaclava on the side of the road a week ago. Everyday I get tempted to put it on and wear it around... but it REEKS! And yet, I still for someone reason manage to keep it on for hours. But I've noticed I've been wearing it more and more, my clothes are starting to get pretty tight, and I think this balaclava's stink is rubbing off on me...

Magic artefacts come in all shapes and sizes, they are fairly simple to make but tend to have some consequences once lost, like the ones you've been experiencing.

You see its important that you know what an artefact does especially if you want to go and do something stupid like wear it all the time then you'll just have to learn the hard way.

You wake up in the morning, a potent bitter smell flooding your nose and the feeling of tight fabric rubbing up against and sticking to your face. The balaclava you had put on and forgotten to taken off was so slick with sweat it was sticking to your skin, but that wasn't all it was sitting more snug than you remember, you it had gotten smaller, or like it was been stretched further. You heaved yourself upright, sitting on the edge of your bed, not noticing how heavy your body had become. You sat there slowly itching your new giant meaty pecs.

With a groan you pushed yourself up of the bed and waddle in nothing but your tight briefs and balaclava down to your kitchen. With each step your massive tree trunk legs slammed together forcing you to widen your stance, your biceps dragged against your lats and bumped your pecs with each swing, making your widen your shoulders until you were awkwardly waddling down your hallway towards your kitchen.

Stumbling over to your kitchen sink you lean on the bench and stretch out into the sunlight. 6.6ft and 300lsb of muscle bathing in sunlight. You roll up the face mask, just enough to show your mouth. Flicking on the tap you lean down and begin loudly gulping the water down, using your hand to help push as much in as you can. Standing up in runs down your lips onto your giant muscled chest and down your chiselled abs, you roll your balaclava back down feeling the water seep into its already soaked fabric.

URRRRRRRPPPPP

You belted out an arrogant and potent belch, the smell trapped in the fabric wafting into your nose making you hard. Before long your kitchen was trashed as you tore through the cupboards like a wild bear with the faintest smell of food getting in a good feed for breakfast. You mindlessly fed your hulking roided up body.

walking into your lounge room you rubbed your dick through your briefs, belching and subtly flexing your sweaty body. scattered on your lounge room floor where green camo pants and a green army shirt along with combat boots. You picked it up off the floor smelling it, its extreme stench of sweat simply made you shrug your shoulders, to you it seemed perfectly fine. You looked ridiculous as you wriggled and manipulated your roided up frame to contort and put on the shirt, the pants were next only they were caught on your thick ass and bulge. Grunting like an animal you pulled it up over your big muscles ass and stuffed your bulge down as you zipped it up. The impossibly tight combat pants only made you hornier, sitting down on the edge of your couch it only got tighter. Your eyes rolling back as your hands now wrapped in combat gloves now jerked your dick through the layers of fabric. A few minutes later and a masculine grunt was all that left your mouth as your underwear suddenly became soaked in come.

Not even bothering to change your underwear or pants you pulled your combat boots close to your. They potent aura of stench assaulting your nose you slipped on the musky sweat stained socked that were resting inside before sealing your feet inside the hot military combat boots.

Standing up your cant help but start to sweat even worse than before, every inch of your skin covered in thick warm fabric sealing your body heat inside, and endless cycle, keeping you warm, making you sweat. The odour leaked out of every gap in the threading creating a toxic aura of B.O and musk.

Slowly you waddle forward towards your front door, a giant stinking beast hungry for war.

-------

"hey man how's...WOAH HOLY SHIT" the young bloke behind the counter almost collapses just from being within a few feet of you.

"dude just let the big guy in he's here every day and the sooner he gets outside the better it is for everyone" you hear his supervisor whisper to him

"eerr, here you go man" the young bloke hands you a small laminated pass, a paintball rifle and a glass jar of ammo pellets. "enjoy your game bro...err. we also sell deodorant if you wanna grab some after your game?"

You grab the rifle with your giant meaty hands and tilt your head. Only your eyes visible through the balaclava, you stare him down in the eyes and tilt your head.

UUUUUURRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPP

You let out a monstrous belch in place of a "fuck you" but its clear they get the message. Turned on by your own masculinity your semi turns into a ranging hard on and you make a show of adjusting your giant manhood through your pants before walking off out the gates.

-----

You see every magic artefact has its purpose, some people make things to become more powerful or impress people. This one just so happens to have been made for a hobby, to be a dominate beast on the paintball field and impress and intimidate with potent masculinity. This would be great for the occasional game or two on the weekend but since you've been wearing it non stop it seems you've turned yourself into nothing more than a giant sweating beast who's only purpose is to play soldier boy on the paint ball field.

So get out there and have some fun you disgusting beast.

[recareels]

Have you see March's outfit she is soo cute!! Would love to wear something dainty and cute for the ever polite and composed DAN HENG and watch him lose his mind

i have!!!!! and i agree!!! she’s so so so adorable and i absolutely adore the idea of wearing something so cute that just toes the line between innocent and provocative and teasing mr dan heng with it hehe (*ﾉωﾉ)

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, reader is a brat and a tease words: 590

he can’t take his fucking eyes off of you. no matter how hard he tries to keep his stare and attention from straying, it seems his gaze is automatically and uncontrollably drawn to your form. it’s an instinctual reaction, almost—a cliche moth to a bright flame, allured into your heat, enticed by your shimmer, desperate to bathe himself in you.

you have single-handedly and unknowingly corroded his self-discipline, worn it down right to the precious core and consumed the shreds. and the longer you linger, the worse it gets. because the longer you linger, the more he wants you. 

dan heng swears you must be doing it on purpose. there’s no way you’re bending over like that, arching your back into a perfectly smooth curve and causing the hem of your sweet little skirt to ride up just enough to tease the edges of your panties—lace-trimmed silk, blush pink, clinging delicately to the supple flesh of your ass—without consciously meaning to. 

but you are seemingly oblivious, flitting around the express without a single glance or acknowledgement his way. it’s almost as if you don’t care at all—don’t care that you’re torturing him, don’t care that you’ve got his cock embarrassingly yearning against his trousers with such simple motions yielding fleeting glimpses beneath flowing fabric, don’t care that you’ve devoured his concentration, wadded it up between your molars like that sweet pink bubblegum you favour so much and spit it right back out at him, warped and sticky and glazed with your spit. but he knows better, because he knows you.

his patience has been snuffed out to smouldering embers now, but he’s able to keep those last few flares kindling, glowing hot and heavy in the pit of his stomach until he is finally alone with you, secluded in the express’s tiny kitchen, the proximity of your presence a douse of kerosene. 

then that flame is bursting, raging, licking at his ribs and up his throat until it’s scathing his tongue and melting his teeth, spilling past his lips in a snarl. 

a sharp flash of ink and azure, he’s got you trapped between the counter and his body in a mere instant, granite edge digging into the base of your spine. 

the sudden action, full of uncharacteristic violence and vigour, punches a gasp from your throat, gaze gaping with shock as it flies across his contorted face, his features scrunched beneath the weight of his fury. 

“you think i don’t know what you’re doing?” he spits, stare searching your own with fervour, nostrils flaring with heaving breaths. 

the surprise in your eyes dissipates, devoured by the mischief lurking beneath—the mischief he knew was there all along, festering, barely hidden by the guise of ignorance. 

something sinister smears across your face, curling your lips into an arrogant little smirk, your irises gone dark, shaded by thick lashes, glittering with the lure of a challenge. 

“just wanted to see if you’d do anything about it.” 

a growl rumbles in his chest, his ribs rattling against yours, teeth bared like a primal animal. his hips shove forward in accentuation and you can feel his cock, hot and hard and throbbing with desire, complementing the cold tremor threaded throughout his tone. 

oh, he’s about to do something about it, right now. 

[mayasaurusss]

Day eighteen: wearing a couple costume. Sweetpea masterlist

This is my contribution to the sweetpea community.

I want to say that I have not yet watched the show, so this version of Rhiannon is what I gathered about her from other fics I've read. This might have some errors about her personality or the show all together, still, I hope you will enjoy this!

It was a Friday morning when one of your friends invited you to hang out with them at a costume party.

"We're short on people" they said to you. "Can you bring someone with you?".

You couldn't really believe yourself when you approached Rhiannon in her office chair and asked her to come with you.

You feel more shy and stressed as you'd like to, mostly because you've had a little crush on Rhiannon for a while now. Even if people ignore and neglect her, she has caught your eyes the first moment you saw her.

"Hey...Rhiannon" you shyly ask her, fiddling with your fingers. "Yeah?" she looks almost overjoyed seeing someone talk to her.

"I have to go to a party. A costume party. Would you...like to come with me? Tonight?" She takes a moment to process your words, but when she grasps their meaning, she bolts out of her seat. "I'd love to!" she says, a bit too loudly, making heads turn in her direction. "I mean, I'd love to come with you".

"That's nice! Ehm..." you ponder for a moment how to bring her the news. "There's this thing...".

"What is it?" you take a long breath, before telling her, "There's a dress code. We need to wear...a couple's costume".

You thought she would have been more judgy, but she had agreed to come with you nonetheless, despite being a bit confused by it.

After work, you and her shop for costumes. After a while, you decide on a simple couple dress: a witch and a warlock.

You decide to go home to relax the hours before the party. When Rhiannon comes to pick you up, your eyes can't help but watch how the dress hugs her body, making you wish you could take the black fabric between your fingers, tug and just pull... But you can't be thinking that now.

The party ended up with much more people than you thought there would be. It's crowded, loud music blasts from the speakers; bright lights make you feel dizzy.

Rhiannon is constantly glued to you. You don't blame her, after all she knows no one here, but you wish she would let you just have a little bit of personal space. The way she's pressing against you while you talk with your friends makes less than courteous thoughts infect your mind.

At one point your friends leave you, and Rhiannon takes this to her advantage. She buys you drinks and shares her laughs with you, even exchanging heated glances and lingering her fingers on your biceps.

Around 10pm, the party starts to become even more confusing, swirling around you. You lose track of Rhiannon.

You need to breathe. You decide to go outside to take a breath of air. The crisp autumn air is welcomed by your warm body, making you feel like you can finally breathe after hours.

"Hey good looking" someone calls from behind you. It's a man, a tall one, probably in his mid thirties, drunk off his ass.

"Hey..." you hope the conversation will end there, but as expected, he continues. "Say, wouldn't you like to get a drink with me?".

"Uhm, n-no thanks" he looks at you with half lidded eyes, moving to place a hand on your leg. "Come on love" his hand gets dangerously close to you, but you can't move. You are too scared to do anything.

All of a sudden his hand is yanked away with force and held in the air. "She said no" you see Rhiannon shoot the man a hateful glare, using all of her body's strength into grabbing at the man's hand. "Oh yeah?" he says, sizing her up.

"And what are you gonna do about it? You're built like a tw-" he lets out a groan of pain when Rhiannon tightens her grip on the sides of his hand. His bones are pushed against one another and the nerves remain trapped between them.

"You-! Fuck!" he is momentarily distracted and it's all it takes for Rhiannon to take you and lead you back inside the house.

"You should be more careful" her voice is loud over the booming music. "What would you have done if I wasn't there?!" she grabs at your shoulders, assessing if you are alright.

"I am ok... " she gives you a look that suggests she doesn't believe you. "You say that, but you're shaking". You are scared. Who knows what he could've done, hadn't Rhiannon intervened?

When your fear washes over you, you collapse into Rhiannon's arms, sobbing on her. "It's alright. Let's get you back home".

The drive home is filled with Rhiannon's words and her attempts at lightening up your mood. She does succeed at times, but you're still too shaken up.

She stands in front of your apartment's door. "Thank you for what you've done. Truly" you give her grateful smile, hoping that maybe she too was going to feel better after the night you've both had

"Guess this first date didn't go so well". She blinks a few times, trying to understand your words. "Wait- wait wait, was this supposed to be a first date?". You only give her a wink, closing the door behind you.

"Goodnight Rhiannon" she's left on your doorstep, frantically trying to get you to talk. "No no no no no, was this supposed to be a first date?!".

The bed dips under Rhiannon's weight, sounds of keyboard tapping echoing inside the dark room. The light of the computer's monitor shines on her skin, giving her eyes a dangerous glow. On the screen, the socials of a thirty year old man are displayed: there are pictures of him at the beach, at a club with his friends, acting as a wall street guy.

Rhiannon stops scrolling down when the picture of the man with one of his many girlfriends comes on the screen. His face is red, eyes half lidded and his grip on the girl's waist slightly more firm than needed.

Rhiannon's mind replaces the girl with you, alone with the man in the dark and she feels a dark urge within her come to life. It starts from the darkest corners of her viscera, boiling inside her veins, weighing her heart down and sharpening her mind.

"Well Matt" she looks at the man's eyes, which already seem to stare at her with fear. "Let's see how tough you are with a knife pressed on your throat".

[snyderdenyer]

Clark Kent taking care of his baby :)

Most of my stuff is written while high, none of it is proofread, if a typo really bothers you feel free to point it out so I can fix it :) Made thinking of Tom Welling and David Corenswets' (is that where you put the fucking apostrophe?) superman

tw: Dumbification? Subtle DD/LG undertones (Kind of unintentional). NSFW under the cut (pussy eating! Nipple play!)

Clark Kent loves an independent woman. Well , a mostly independent woman. She's smart, handles herself well, and he knows he never has to worry about her when she's on her own. But with him? Oh well now that's a different story. Why would she take care of herself when her big strong boyfriend is there to do it for her? All she needs to do, all Clark wants her to do, is sit there and look pretty. Holding his hand when she walks with him, not paying attention to cars because she knows he will. Why would she keep track of her keys when she knows Clark will? He's lost count of the times she'll get up from their usual seat in their favorite cafe, leaving her phone, purse and coffee. It's not his baby's job to do all that, he gets to take care of her, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He stops on the sidewalk to tie her shoes, picks out her clothes; even orders for her, choosing what she'll get if she can't decide.

He loves taking care of her. It'd be cruel to do anything else, how could he make her do any of the work? He sits her in his lap when they watch movies, letting her lean back against him while he slides his hand under her shirt, gently kneading her soft tits, playing with her nipples while she squirms under his touch. "Stay still honey", he'll whisper in her ear, pressing a kiss to his neck while one arm stretches across her tummy, holding her against him. He lays her back on the couch, movie long forgotten as he slides up her nightgown, leaning down to suck on her nipples. Letting out soft chuckles as she whines and threads her fingers through his hair, legs coming up to wrap around him. "I know honey. Always so sensitive, but you can take it".

He kisses down her tummy, pressing a few into the pretty blue cotton panties she's wearing, the ones she bought because, "Look Clarky! They match your suit!", tongue darting out of his mouth, gently licking her clit over the fabric, letting out a groan as she pleads "Stop teasing Clarky, please?". And how could he ever say no to her? Tugging off her panties and laying back down, gently sinking his teeth into her inner thigh, the pressure barely enough to leave indentations, before gently kissing her clit. She whines hips rolling up, a silent plea for more. He speaks gently, kissing her thigh again: "Thought you were gonna be a good girl for me tonight?". She pouts at him, "I am! you're being mean." God she's so bratty, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He gives in, licking her clit the way she always fucking begs him too, the need to make her cum outweighing his desire to make her wait.

He puts one arm across her tummy again, holding her down as she squirms, legs closing around his head, sucking in a breath as he forces them open. "M-more", she whimpers and he eagerly obliges, slowly sinking two fingers into her, curling them gently against her g-spot. It's almost too much for her, back arching as she tugs on his hair, gasping as he flicks his tongue again. She's almost there, feeling that familiar knot build in her tummy, her breathing picking up and her body flushing with heat. "Don't stop! Please don't stop oh god!" her voice is higher, desperate as she pleads with him. He groans in assent, continuing his actions, curling his fingers a little faster, the familiar squelch that always makes his cock twitch in his jeans. He can feel her right there, teetering on the edge as she whines, before crashing over it. Her back arches and she cries out, her usual chant of "Clarky!" long forgotten as she struggles to even breathe, her thighs closing around his once more, trapping his face against her as she rides out her high.

She opens her thighs again, sighing softly, as Clark sits up, pulling her towards him and kissing her. The taste of herself on his tongue making her whimper into his mouth as he drags her into his lap. "M'sensitive" she pleas, only eliciting a condescending noise of sympathy from him; "Yeah I know. But you can take it, yeah? My pretty girl can take it, cause we're just getting started".

[blakeswritingimagines]

From AM To PM (Kinktober)

Word Count: 2.3k

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

You found yourself in an uncomfortable position, you were once again at Daemon's mercy. You watched him with a mixture of fear and anger, as he stood above you wearing a wicked and hungry look on his face. "Come here, wife," Daemon demanded fiercely, looking down at you with a cruel expression. You looked up at him with defiance, your lip trembling slightly as you tried to hold on to what little dignity you had left. "What do you want?" you asked, trying to hide your tears behind an air of aloofness. His eyes narrowed dangerously at your defiant bratty tone. "I want you," he growled, stepping closer until you could feel his warm breath against your skin. "And I always get what I want." With that, he grabbed your wrists roughly, pinning them above your head. "But tonight… Tonight, I'm not just taking you. I'm claiming you." Your eyes widened as he spoke, the air suddenly growing thick between you. His hold around your wrists tightened, and you could feel the heat of his body pressed against yours. "Let go of me!" you gasped, struggling weakly against his grip as you tried to pull away. But it was futile. Daemon's strength outclassed your delicate body by a significant margin.

"Shh," he hushed you, his voice deep and commanding. "There's no escape for you now, my love." Daemon leaned down, capturing your lips with his own in a rough kiss filled with pent-up desire and frustration. His tongue forced its way past your lips, exploring the warmth of your mouth aggressively. His free hand roamed over your curves, squeezing and caressing roughly. As his mouth plundered yours, you could taste the possessive hunger behind his intense kiss. His strong hands roamed restlessly over your body, setting your skin on fire with their rough touch. Despite yourself, a small gasp of pleasure escaped your lips, and you could feel a flicker of desire deep inside you. Daemon's tongue continued to ravish your mouth, as he pressed you harder against him, trapping you in his tight embrace. Breaking off the kiss, Daemon looked down at you with lustful eyes. "See how much you crave me?" he sneered, his voice dripping with arrogance. He began trailing hot kisses down your neck, leaving marks of ownership along your sensitive skin. Each bite sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, making you squirm beneath him. Your body reacted involuntarily to his touch, your skin tingling wherever he placed his burning kisses. A wave of conflicting emotions surged through you - anger for his arrogance, fear for the way he made you feel, and desire for the pleasure he was igniting within you. You tried to suppress a moan as he continued biting and marking your neck possessively. "Admit it," Daemon purred into your ear, his hot breath causing shivers to run down your spine. "You're mine. And you belong to me." His hand slid lower, cupping your breasts roughly through the fabric of your dress. He squeezed hard, grinding against you as if trying to provoke a reaction.

His words sent a shiver of both anger and desire down your spine. "I'm not yours!" you protested weakly, even as your body betrayed you, arching involuntarily under his touch. As he kneaded your breasts roughly through the fabric. His fingers deftly unfastened the ties of your dress, pulling it apart to reveal your bare flesh. Daemon’s eyes raked over your exposed skin hungrily, taking in every curve and dip before his hand moved to cup one of your breasts fully. His thumb brushed over your hardened nipple, teasing it mercilessly before pinching and rolling both between his fingers. The sensation of his rough hands on your sensitive nipples sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. Despite your protests, you couldn't help but push your chest further into his grasp, seeking more of his tantalizing touch. The mix of pain and pleasure made you gasp loudly, your back arching off the bed as you struggled to keep control of your reactions. "That's it, my sweet wife," Daemon cooed darkly, enjoying the effect he was having on you. "Don't fight it. Embrace the pleasure only I can give you." His other hand slid down your stomach, pushing under the hem of your skirt. Calloused fingers brushed against your inner thigh, teasing higher until they reached your most intimate area. He rubbed slow circles over your clothed sex, feeling the dampness already gathering there. "You're already so wet for me," Daemon taunted smugly. "Your body betrays your true desires, even if your mouth refuses to admit it." His crude words and knowing touch drove you mad with a combination of rage and arousal. "Stop it!" you cried out, though the desperation in your voice belied your protestations. Your hips bucked instinctively towards his hand, craving more of the friction he provided. Despite your attempts to maintain some semblance of control, your body was betraying you completely, responding eagerly to his touch.

Daemon chuckled darkly, clearly amused by your feeble attempts to resist him. "Oh, I don't think I will stop," he murmured huskily, continuing his torturous ministrations. "In fact, I'm just getting started." His fingers pushed your undergarments aside, delving into your slick folds without preamble. He stroked along your slit, gathering your essence before circling your sensitive nub. Pleasure sparked through you, making you clench around nothing. "Look at you," Daemon purred, watching your face intently before dragging you over to a mirror in the corner of the room and turning you around. "So desperate for my touch, yet still pretending otherwise. It's adorable, really." Two fingers plunged knuckle-deep into your channel, pumping slowly as his thumb continued its relentless assault on your aching clit. "Surrender to me, wife." You felt humiliation as Daemon turned you to face the mirror, forcing you to witness your own degradation. The sight of your reflection - hair disheveled, eyes glazed with lust, lips parted in a silent scream of pleasure - only fueled your shame. Yet, despite everything, your body continued to respond to his touch, your inner walls clenching greedily around his invading fingers. "Daemon…" you whimpered, but it sounded more like a plea than a denial. "Please…" Your words trailed off into a choked moan as Daemon's skilled fingers worked you over, bringing you closer and closer to the edge of climax. In that moment, you knew you were lost, utterly consumed by the darkness of your own desires. There would be no escaping Daemon's claim on you, not now, not ever.

Daemon's eyes gleamed with triumph as he watched you unravel before him, your reflection mirroring the turmoil in your mind. "That's it, my love," he crooned, his voice dripping with sadistic pleasure. "Let go. Give in to the pleasure only I can provide." His fingers curled inside you, rubbing that secret spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. At the same time, his thumb pressed firmly against your clit, sending shockwaves of ecstasy rippling through your core. Daemon commanded, his voice low and urgent as his free hand moved up to your breasts and started toying with your nipples roughly. "Show me how much you need me." "No! Please, Daemon, please let me cum!" you begged shamelessly, your hips bucking frantically against his hand, trying desperately to regain that lost contact. Tears of frustration streamed down your face as you writhed helplessly in his iron grip. The cruel denial of release after being brought so close to the brink was almost too much to bear. "I need it… I need you… Please, have mercy!" you sobbed brokenly, all traces of pride and defiance stripped away. In that moment, you would have promised him anything, done anything, just to feel the blissful rush of completion. A smirk tugged at Daemon's lips as he witnessed your complete surrender. "Mercy is not something I am known for," he growled, his tone harsh and unyielding. But then, just when you thought you'd never reach that peak again, Daemon allowed you a fraction of relief. His thumb resumed its maddening rhythm on your clit while his fingers returned to your dripping entrance. This time, however, he teased you mercilessly. Aiming to drive you over the edge again and again.

The sudden return of his touch sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body once more, reigniting the fire within you. Your cries grew louder, more desperate as he toyed with you mercilessly, driving you toward the brink again and again. "Daemon, please…" you pleaded, your voice breaking with each denied orgasm. The constant teetering on the edge was excruciating, leaving you panting and trembling beneath him. "Patience, my dear," Daemon breathed out, his voice thick with lust. He wanted to draw this out and savor every moment of your submission. To see you beg for him, plead for release. "You will cum when I say so, and not a moment sooner." With that promise, he increased the pace of his fingers, curling them deeper inside you while his thumb danced over your swollen clit. The dual sensations were overwhelming, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. The relentless assault on your senses left you gasping and whimpering beneath him, your body wracked with pleasure. Each thrust of his fingers, each brush of his thumb sent jolts of ecstasy coursing through your veins. "I-I can't…" you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. "I-it feels too good…" Your words dissolved into helpless moans as Daemon kept you teetering on the brink, prolonging your torment with ruthless efficiency. Daemon reveled in the sounds of your anguished pleasure, drinking in the sight of you writhing beneath him. Your words only spurred him on, eager to push you past the point of no return. "Yes, you can," he insisted, his voice low and commanding. "You will take everything I give you and beg for more." To punctuate his point, he captured your lips in a bruising kiss, swallowing your cries as his fingers pistoned in and out of you at a punishing pace. His thumb circled your clit furiously, applying just the right amount of pressure to drive you wild. Just as you neared the precipice once more, Daemon tore his hand away again before using both hands to cup your breasts roughly. His pale skin was shiny which he growled and possessively wiped it across your damp skin.

The sudden absence of his touch after being pushed so close to climax left you reeling, your body screaming for relief. As he manhandled your breasts, his possessive growl and the smear of his sweaty palm against your skin only heightened your desire. "Please, Daemon," you sobbed, tears streaming down your face. "I can't take anymore. I need to cum, I need you." Your pleas were raw, stripped of any remaining dignity as you surrendered completely to your basest needs. Daemon's eyes flashed with triumphant hunger at your desperate pleas. He had broken you, shattered your resistance until all that remained was a willing vessel for his pleasure. "Since you asked so nicely," he purred, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. Slowly, teasingly, he lowered his hand back between your thighs, his fingers gliding through your soaked folds. He gathered your essence, coating his digits thoroughly before plunging two fingers deep inside your aching heat. At the same time, his thumb found your clit once more, rubbing firm circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. "Cum for me, wife," Daemon commanded, his voice a low, authoritative rumble. "Let me feel you shatter, but look in the mirror as you fall apart under my touch." Your breath hitched as Daemon's fingers slid back inside you, stretching and filling you perfectly. The sensation of his thumb working your clit in tandem with his penetrating fingers was too much to bear. Pleasure coiled tight in your belly, threatening to erupt at any moment. When Daemon's command registered, you forced yourself to meet his gaze in the mirror, your eyes wide and glassy with need. The sight of your own wanton expression only added fuel to the fire consuming you. With a keening wail, you finally tipped over the edge, your inner walls clamping down around Daemon's fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you. Your vision blurred, and your body convulsed, shaking through the most powerful orgasm of your life.

The sight of you coming undone, the sound of your wild cries echoing in the room, was enough to send Daemon spiraling into his own climax. He rode out your orgasm with you, his fingers pumping relentlessly as he drank in the sight of your throes of pleasure. "Fuck yes, look at you," he groaned, his voice rough with arousal. "So beautiful when you're mine." As your spasms began to subside, Daemon withdrew his fingers slowly, smearing your juices along your lower lips. He stepped back, allowing you a moment to catch your breath before he leaned down, pressing a hard, possessive kiss to your swollen lips. You moaned softly into the kiss, still quivering from the aftershocks of your earth-shattering orgasm. Daemon's taste mingled with your own musk as he plundered your mouth, claiming you utterly. Your arms wrapped around his neck instinctively, pulling him closer even as your legs trembled with residual weakness. When he finally broke the kiss, you gazed up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, your expression one of dazed satiation. "Thank you," you whispered hoarsely, your voice roughened by your cries of passion. "For giving me what I needed." Even now, you knew it was true - Daemon had given you exactly what you craved, whether you admitted it or not. He fulfilled you in ways no other ever could. Daemon's smirk returned as he looked down at you, seeing the post-orgasmic glow on your skin. "You're welcome, my sweet," he purred, his voice low and husky with lingering desire. "But don't think this means you've earned any special treatment. We're far from done here." With that ominous warning, he grasped your wrists and pinned them above your head, holding you in place as he loomed over you. His free hand trailed down your side, squeezing and groping your curves possessively. "Now, let's see how well you can handle another round, shall we?"

[redsrooftopprincess]

I seriously love how you write Raph your depiction of him is so aligned with mine. Practically perfect and it really inspires me to expand on my own headcanons of him. I also just really like your style of writing!

I want to know what Raph would be thinking, how he’d react, to his muscular, androgynous s/o wearing a red sundress with their back out and thigh muscles peeking through the fabric

- 🌠

I hope this is okay. Red is feeling sassy today. 😈

Christmas in August

Gn reader x Raphael

August in the city is a special kind of hell. Between the reflections on the buildings magnifying the heat, and the asphalt trapping it, street level was more or less unbearable.

You don't wear short dresses often, you've always been a little self conscious about your legs, but you've been working out recently, with the world's hottest coach, and you're feeling a bit more confident about your body lately.

You turn and admire yourself in the mirror. Not bad. A vintage low-backed halter dress, coming to just above mid thigh, in fire engine red. A lucky find while thrifting with April. You smirk wickedly, thinking about your boyfriend.

You have a shopping date with April in about an hour, and when you didn't find your wallet in your apartment, you had an excuse to torture your beloved.

Grabbing a pair of black retro sunglasses, and throwing on a pair of keds, you make your way out of your apartment and into the oven that has become New York City.

You thank any and every possible supernatural force that Donnie had finished fixing the elevator in the garage last weekend, grateful you dont have to traverse the sewers in this heat, and make your way to the lair.

You step out into the garage, the sounds of the resident mechanics at work echoing off the walls.

"I got it!"

"Do you?!"

"I got it! Just grab the damn jack!"

Raphael holds the front end of the garbage truck aloft, while Donatello reaches under to grab the jack that has slid underneath.

You walk past your boyfriend with a wave of your fingers on your way into the lair, knowing better than to interrupt the mechanics at work. Donnie nearly doesn't make it out alive when Raph drops the truck.

You can hear Donnie yelling at him as you walk into the lair, a smirk turning your lip. Exactly the reaction you were hoping for. You head toward the kitchen and grab a soda from the fridge.

He takes a few steps towards the kitchen with a wicked smile. You are here, and you are hot, and you all his (at least until you have to meet up with April). But he stops, just for a moment, replaying your entrance in his head. He takes a deep breath, shaking his head. There it was, that damn smirk as he dropped the truck. Okay, fine. You wanna play games? He'll play.

All day long, he acts as if nothing is different. Even when Mikey goes gaga over your dress, he only nods. "Of course they look good, they always look good."

When Leo nearly chokes on his coffee as you walk by and tells you how incredible you look, Raph walks by him to pick up his phone off the couch without a word.

He only comes close to breaking once.

You walk into the weighroom, pretty sure your wallet had fallen out of your bag yesterday. Crossing to the bench on the other side, you start looking around.

Spying it on the floor, you brace one hand on the bench, reaching over it with the other and fuck he almost takes you right there. Your dress rides high, giving him a full view of your thighs and just a little of your ass. He catches the black lace panties peeking out from between your legs and groans internally. You were hot before, let's be real, but you've been working out with him lately and it's paying dividends.

He licks his lips as you stand and his eyes trail up your spine, watching the way the muscles he helped you build move.

One deep breath and the mask is back in place before you turn around.

By the time you're ready to leave, you're trying not to show your disappointment. You were really hoping for *some* kind of reaction from your boyfriend. He almost feels bad for fucking with you. Almost.

He offers to walk you out, and he places his hand at the small of your back as you step into the elevator, deflated.

The moment the doors close, you're up against him with your back against his plastron and his thigh between your legs, braced against the door. His hand holds you against him just below your navel, and his head is buried in your shoulder.

"You really think you can show up wrapped up like a god damn Christmas present all for me and expect me not to unwrap you?" His breath pours over you like warm honey as his voice melts into your skin. "Baby, I'm just waiting till Christmas."

You can feel the rumble in his chest at your core, and he rolls his thigh forward, just to make his point, "I'll see you tonight," his voice drops into a growl you can feel inside your chest, "and don't you dare take that dress off."

The doors open, and he sets you down on wobbly legs, just outside the elevator. When you turn around to look at him as the doors are closing, the bastard is leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, looking you up and down and smirking like the devil he is. "Mmm-mm," he hums appreciatively, his voice laced with filthy promises, as the doors rattle closed.

.....

Tag list:

@thelaundrybitch @the-cauldron-witch @fyreball66 @ninnosaurus @tmntngl @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @zagreustomb @ramielll @silverwatergalaxy

[indigosunsetao3]

Feral thought of the evening.

There must be something in the air because this came out of nowhere. Written purely on my phone so not super proofread…I’ll do that on the computer sometime this weekend.

Dropping this and running 🏃🏻‍♀️‍➡️

Female Reader | tied up, spitting, spanking, squirting

You had worn the little cotton shorts on purpose. Knew that they drove him right up the wall watching how the fabric bunched over your plush thighs and barely covered your ass. How the v between your legs left little to the imagination as the fabric dug into your delicate skin.

So when he gets you bent over the bed after a few hours of teasing, you smirk to yourself as he plucks at them. How he tugs the bunched cotton free from where it had been trapped to rub his fingers along the inside of the gusset. Which you know is wet and judging by the appreciative hum he has figured that out as well.

"Did you wear these for me?" He questions as a hand smooths over the globe of your ass to grab at the hem. "Or to tease me?" He asks, giving you a smart slap that makes your blood sing.

"Both," you answer as you stretch like a cat over the cool sheets, letting your arms splay in front of you as you rest your cheek on the bed. "I know you can't resist them."

"Mmm, I think you also like when the other guys watch you," he taunts as he curls his fingers over the elastic waist and tugs them barely down your backside. "Like the attention," his tone shifts slightly, dropping an octave as he tugs a little more. "Like imagining what they must be thinking about you."

You whine a bit and wiggle wanting him to move faster.

"Oh, you want a reward for how you behaved today?" Alex asks as he bends over your back, planting one of his fists on the bed beside you to hold his weight. "Do you think you deserve that? For making Soap squirm in his seat when you bent so far over to pick up that napkin for him?" He smirks as you roll your head over to glance up at him, still splayed out in a submissive posture that you knew he craved.

"I do," you barely whisper, a smile tugging at your lips. "Because you were watching me just as closely. Watching me as I carefully leaned across the Captain's lap to get a drink for you." He enjoyed the game. Enjoyed watching men lust for you but restrain themselves because they knew that he'd make them disappear for good if they touched something of his without permission. All a dance, all a taunt.

He pulls your shorts down further, exposing your thoroughly soaked cunt to the air. The satisfied sigh that leaves your lips is short-lived as he yanks your shorts taut, pulling the center of them into his fist. The thin line of fabric digs into your thighs as he tugs, and you feel him twist the shorts, forcing your legs together tight.

The shorts you had used to get his attention, to start this game, were going to be your punishment.

You shift a bit, but your legs are locked. Nowhere to go as he holds fast to the balled-up cotton that has turned into biting vices on your thighs. You dart your eyes up to him, a hint of apprehension in your expression and he just smirks at you. When he leans back off his supporting arm, he runs a taunting finger down your cheek before disappearing from your view.

"I think I'll keep you like this for a bit," he remarks as he appraises you, the fingers of his free hand sliding just outside your folds, making you squirm. "Keep still," he warns as he twists the fabric a fraction of an inch tighter so it stings. "You wanted me to look at you, so let me look at you."

He digs his nails into the back of your legs, scratching enough that goosebumps flash across your skin. You can feel your skin heating under his scrutinizing gaze and ache to just turn back and see him, but you know better than to disobey.

"Arch higher," Alex orders as he pushes a palm against your lower back, making your upper body sink even further into the bed.

You do as he orders and grab at the edge of the bed for support when you feel it. He had been so quiet about it that your body instantly jerks at the wet slide, but he grasps your hip to keep you from going far. From wasting it.

You can feel the spit slide from your rim to your entrance and glide down toward your clit before being cut off with how tight your thighs are clamped together. The groan of need escapes you as you bite your lip, doing your best to pry open your legs to let the wad soothe the burning pressure in the apex of your thighs.

"Something wrong?" Alex asks as he trails a finger through the spit that has glided down the seam of your legs. He slowly drags it up, and you tense, waiting before he finally rubs the slickness against your folds. You sigh with relief as he smooths his fingers over you, spreading you apart as he does.

"Please," you whine as you try to push back against his taunting fingers. He's barely sunk them into you and as he feels you push he pulls away. You are doing this on his terms.

"Stay still," he orders again, and you swallow the agitated huff, knowing he'll just prolong it even more. And, as if he suspects you'll protest, he waits to move. When you stay silent, he chuckles a bit, "good girl."

The praise sings along your skin, and you grin to yourself before a filthy moan escapes your lips. Without warning, he pushes two fingers into you, as far as they can go, and you clamp hard around the welcomed invasion.

The stretch burns, but you don't fight it. Instead, you huff as he begins to work you open properly, fingers scissoring and twisting until slick noises and your pants fill the room.

Alex doesn't let you help him at all, hand still holding tight to the shorts to stop you from opening your legs to make it easier. To keep you from releasing that building pressure on the bundle of nerves so the blood pounds almost painfully.

“Keep going,” you beg, forehead on the sheets now as you try to arch more. There’s no room for you to go anywhere; your body contorted to its max. He doesn’t relent, doesn’t ease up as he fucks you with three fingers now, making you slick and pliant.

When you come, it’s loud and shuddering, your body tensing and trying to coil on itself. He continues to push you through it. As you come down, back unlocking to a more relaxed position, he draws his fingers away. But you aren’t empty for long.

He quickly notches at your entrance, hand tugging your thighs back to him with your shorts. You hiss at the bite of cloth on your already sensitive skin, sure that you’ve got some type of fabric burn and will certainly bruise. He doesn’t acknowledge your quiet protest as he slides himself in.

“Still fucking tight,” he groans as he bottoms out.

He’s not wrong. With the way he has your legs locked, he feels that much bigger, and you feel that much fuller. You can feel every ridge of him as he rocks his hips back before snapping forward again, punching the air out of your lungs.

Alex isn’t gentle. Each snap of his hips makes you gasp, and you fight to keep your body in the same spot to meet him. His thighs slap yours sending a vibration to your still clenched clit. You need to release the pressure, need to ease that ache that’s starting to consume you.

“Please,” you whine, voice a pathetic lilt as you reach a hand back to pry at your shorts. You scramble one-handed at them, trying to pull them off your skin, out of his grasp. “Please I need,” you try and Alex slows his movements to watch you fumble about.

“What do you need?” He coos as you try to look up at him, eyes rolling up as he snaps forward into you again. “Use your words,” he taunts as he grinds into you.

“The pressure, I feel like,” you start, but he knows. He knows exactly what is happening because he can tell how your body is squeezing him.

In an instant, he lets go of your shorts, the fabric loosening its biting grip on your legs. You can feel the blood rush to your numbing feet, and you open your legs to let some of that building tension in your clit ease.

But Alex’s hand is there. He’s coaxing that tension to explode instead of dissipating. As he pushes into you just a bit deeper, now that your legs are opened wider for him, you come undone.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Alex says as you push up on both hands to try to regain some semblance of control. Your body feels like it never has before and has done something you’ve never experienced.

“Fuck you’ve needed to come, haven’t you?” He asks as his fingers rub hard circles against your clit, so soaked you’re afraid you didn’t just come. “So wet for me,” he praises as he slides his fingers to smear the slick over your lower belly and hip before he grabs you again to continue to fuck you.

You lean back into him as he sets a ferocious pace into you, so slick and soft for him now there is zero resistance. You keen as you feel him tighten and twitch inside of you, and when he growls his release, you cry out as he fills you.

Alex snaps his hips a few more times before he stops moving and lets you fall forward into the bed spent. You feel as if your whole body is twitching from the aftershocks of your orgasm. But those twitches are nothing compared to the overstimulated flinch your body makes as Alex smoothes his hand over your ass and between your legs to play with the mix of his spend and yours.

“I’m going to have to tie up your legs more often if it’s going to get you to squirt all over me like that,” Alex says with a small laugh as he gently spreads your legs more to get a look at the mess you both made.

[cloudss-space]

Emo boy

( killer chat ) emo boy ronin x hot topic worker reader ... fluff ...

author note: personally, not my fav, but i did want to write something involving "emo boy ronin" so, this is my attempt on that. i hope that you all enjoy !! trigger warning: - slight none

You step into the bright fluorescent light of Hot Topic, the air thick with the scent of synthetic leather, stale incense, and overpriced vanilla-scented candles. The walls are covered in band posters, slashed denim jackets, and the eerie glow of neon skulls. The clock in the corner ticks, its hands crawling, reluctant to even whisper the passage of time.

The outside world seems to bleed into the space. You can hear the hum of the pavement through the glass door and feel the restless heat pressing against the window. But inside, there is nothing but this cocoon of plastic and metal. Customers come in droves, their faces as pale as ghosts. Each one is a shadow passing through, drawn by the allure of rebellion. They skim the shelves, their fingers brushing across black fabric and metal, never pausing long enough to care. No one stays long enough to see the rot beneath the surface, the decay festering in the corners.

You lean against the counter, staring intently at the skull rings and spiked chokers. There's a dread in the air, a silence that is too loud. The people pass by you like ghosts, nothing more than moving shapes that dissolve into the dark corners of this purgatory. You catch glimpses of their empty, hollow eyes, filled with the deadness that matches your own. They flicker and die as quickly as they ignite.

A shrill sound slices through the air. The register dings as yet another transaction is made, yet another meaningless purchase. You feel the weight of time wasted as you hold the small sliver of paper in your hand. Another moment lost. You shove it into the drawer, the metal clattering like a corpse hitting the floor.

A couple approaches the counter. The girl is wearing a tight T-shirt that shows off her arms, which hang limp by her sides. Her eyes are shadowed, her makeup smeared like ash from a dying fire. The boy beside her wears chains so heavy they could drag him into the underworld. They argue about which pair of boots would fit better, but you don't care. You want to scream at them, tell them how insignificant their choices are in the grand scheme of nothingness. But you don't. You watch them. Their breaths rise and fall like the dull thud of a drumbeat.

As they leave, you look at the clock. It hasn't moved. The seconds are frozen in place, refusing to shift. You are stuck in this place, trapped in a loop of tedious moments that stretch and stretch into infinity. The light flickers overhead, casting jagged shadows across the room like a sickening pulse. It makes you shiver. You want to scream. But you won't.

A shriek of feedback tears through the speakers. You flinch at the noise scraping against your mind, gnawing at the edges of your sanity. Another band. Another song. The lyrics are blood-soaked, dripping from the speakers like a warning you can't decipher. It's all noise, all hollow sound with no meaning. It fills the void, but only makes it worse.

Then, a pair of black boots clunk against the floor and your attention is drawn to them. Another customer. Another shadow. She picks at her fingernails, as if trying to find the truth in the cracks of her skin. She doesn't look at you, but you see her out of the corner of your eye. The drag of her steps, the subtle sway of her body, as though she's been hollowed out from the inside, searching for something she'll never find. You watch her. She disappears into the dark, leaving nothing behind but a whiff of her perfume—a cloying scent of decay.

The silence returns. It's a suffocating kind of quiet, the kind that's too thick to breathe in. You don't know how long it's been since anyone spoke. The store is empty, just one person in the corner, hunched over a display of wristbands. They move slowly, like a ghost in a dream, hands trailing over the leather, never touching anything. They're waiting for something to happen, something to break the silence. But nothing happens. Seconds tick by.

The overhead lights buzz again, like flies caught in a spider's web. You can hear your own breath in the hollow space, your pulse thrumming in your veins like a drum that refuses to slow down. You glance at the clock. There is no movement. The minutes are frozen in time, caught in the jaws of some endless, agonising moment. You wonder if the world outside still exists, or if it has crumbled to dust.

Your fingers curl into fists, but they shake. Your chest constricts as if the air itself is thickening, making it hard to breathe. You feel the weight of your own existence pressing down on you. This place, this job, is a prison, a cage built from nothing but endless hours of waiting for something that never comes. You could scream, you could tear at your skin, but it wouldn't matter. The walls will not move. The clock doesn't tick any faster.

The next customer enters, a young man with a lip piercing and a look of quiet despair. His eyes are dark, filled with something you can't name, and for a moment, you wonder if he sees it too. You carry the same emptiness, the same weight of something unspoken. But he moves on, picks up a t-shirt and shuffles to the counter, and you are certain he can feel the same hollow echo you do. If he knows this place is just a veil, a mask over the abyss.

He hands you the shirt, and you take it, instantly recognising the fabric as ash. It's black, as expected. It's always black. You ring it up, the register making its empty noise. The drawer opens with a squeal, and you think about how long it's been since you've felt anything other than numb.

When he leaves, the door chimes as he departs, and you watch the last of the light fade. The shadows grow, stretching across the room and swallowing the colour whole. The walls close in on you, but you stay still, frozen in place, as the silence grows louder and louder until it engulfs you.

The clock ticks once more. Another second gone. Another moment slipping through your fingers. You are waiting for something to change, or you have forgotten what it feels like to move. The day stretches on. The world beyond the glass remains a distant memory.

Time. It is a slow, dripping wound that won't heal.

The door chimes again, a soft clang, barely a whisper in the dense air. A boy steps in. He's the kind of boy who doesn't walk, he drifts—like a shadow made flesh, fading in and out of existence with each step he takes. His skinny jeans hug his legs so tightly they almost appear to be painted on, dark denim faded by too many hours spent in the same empty room. His boots click with a muted tap against the floor, the only sound in the suffocating stillness.

His hair falls over his face like a dark curtain, long and tangled, reaching down to his shoulders. It's the kind of hair that's perpetually windblown, yet static, as though he's caught in some endless storm of his own making. The bangs fall in uneven lines, framing his face in a way that looks deliberate, as though he's hiding from the world—or maybe just hiding from himself.

The shirt he wears is an MCR tee. The black fabric bears the logo like a badge of honour, like a secret carved into his skin. You've seen that shirt a thousand times, but it looks different on him. He wears it like a shroud, like it shields him from the world that doesn't care. The world has already eaten him alive and left nothing but the remnants of someone who used to be. His eyes are sunken, deep shadows under them, like he hasn't slept in weeks, hasn't bothered to wipe away the tracks of whatever sadness or rage he carries.

The dark streaks of make-up on his face blend into his pale skin. The way it clings to him is almost ritualistic, as though he's painted the darkness on, drawn it across his features to summon something, to become something else—something dead. It's wrong, but it's perfect. You feel an inexplicable pull toward him, an attraction you can't quite place. It's not the makeup, the dark circles or the clothes. It's the way he moves—or doesn't move. He's there, but not there. His existence seems to fade from the edges of reality.

He stares at the shelves. His gaze is unfocused. He sees something beyond the merchandise. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers brushing the air as though reaching for something just out of reach. You are certain that he is not aware of you watching him, nor does he notice the world around him. He is living in his own private hell, removed from everything, just like you.

Your pulse accelerates, a strange heat spreading through your body. You can't stop looking at him. His stillness, the haunted way he walks, the dark aura that seems to swirl around him like a storm cloud, draws you in. It's a magnetic pull. It's not just about his looks. It's darker, it's dangerous, like the gravity of a black hole. You can feel it in the air, suffocating, drawing everything toward him, sucking you in.

He picks up a chain from a nearby rack, turning it in his fingers. The links of the chain glint in the light, but he is not at all delicate. The way he handles it, casually, as if it's an afterthought, only makes him more intriguing. His lips are set in a thin, tired line, not quite a frown, not quite a smirk, but both, and it's clear he's seen too many broken things, too many things left unsaid.

The air thickens around him. You could almost reach out and touch the space where he stands, where everything about him feels alive, but it doesn't feel like he's alive—not really. His pulse is distant, like it's coming from far away, a heartbeat that's too slow, too deep, too alien to be real. You think you see him shiver, but it's gone before you can confirm it. He doesn't shiver. He doesn't feel.

But he's beautiful. There's a tragedy in him, an ache in your chest you didn't feel before he walked in. He's broken in a way that draws you in, a puzzle that you don't want to solve but can't look away from. You recognise his pain, even without the details. The emptiness in him mirrors the emptiness in you, a dark reflection of the same hollow space that never quite fills.

He turns toward the counter and sees you. His eyes meet yours—sunken and dark, like the bruises of a life lived too close to the edge. There's a fleeting glimpse of recognition in his eyes, but it's fleeting and he quickly looks away. His lips part slightly, and for a heartbeat, you're sure he's going to say something.

But he doesn't say anything. He just looks at you, his gaze heavy, weighing you down like a thousand unspoken thoughts pressing against your chest. His eyes are deep pools of sorrow, but they still find a way to pierce you, to draw you closer. When he doesn't speak, you feel a pang of disappointment. But then, you realise, maybe it's better this way. The silence between you is not just a lack of words, but a shared understanding, a communication without words.

He walks up to the counter, slowly, like he's been frozen in time and is only just starting to thaw. You remain still. You are trapped in the moment, caught in the way the air seems to bend around him. His hand reaches for his wallet, pulling it out with a fluid motion, the dark leather slipping through his fingers like the night itself. You feel his presence all around you, suffocating and intoxicating, like a perfume you can't quite name.

The register dings again, but this time the noise barely cuts through the fog between you. You ring up his purchase mechanically, your hands moving on their own, but your mind is elsewhere—lost in the depth of his eyes, in the hollow of his expression, in the way he stands there, silent, waiting for something that doesn't come.

When he finally leaves, the air itself seems to shift, the space around you hollowed out in his absence. The door chimes again as he vanishes into the world, slipping away like a ghost that was never really there. You're left standing at the counter, your heart thudding in your chest, and you wonder if you'll ever see him again, or if he was just a figment of your own aching mind.

The clock ticks on, ignoring him. But you're not the same. Something inside you has shifted. The air feels heavier, charged with something you can't name. And for the first time today, you realise you've been holding your breath.

The next day is a long, dark road. The store feels the same: suffocating in its fluorescent glow, the walls closing in on you. The silence settles like dust in the corners, the shelves full of meaningless trinkets that mock your restless mind. But even in this heavy, stagnant air, there's something different.

You feel a pull, a hum in the air that you can't quite name. Your thoughts drift back to him, that boy with the long hair and the hollow stare, his presence like a spectre that lingers in the edges of your mind. You are certain that he will return today, that that strange pull will bring him back through the door, or that he was just a dream—one you couldn't wake from.

And then, the door chimes again.

It's soft at first, like a whisper in the stillness, but it's unmistakable. You turn your head, your breath catching in your chest. There he is. He's the same boy, stepping into the store like he belongs there, like he's made of the same air and shadows. His long black hair hangs over his face, but today, there's a subtle difference. His eyes aren't hidden behind his bangs. His eyes are dark and sunken, but there's something else in them now. A flicker. A spark. It's as if you can see recognition in them.

He doesn't look around like last time. He's more focused now, his gaze sweeping over the shelves with a slow intensity, as though he's searching for something only he understands. His steps are quiet, deliberate, as if he's trying to blend into the shadows, yet you can't help but notice him. He stands out in this sea of monotony, in this place full of faces that barely register.

His eyes meet yours, and the world stops for a moment. Your breath catches in your throat, the air thickening between you. His gaze is no longer hollow or distant, but searching. It's as if he's found what he was looking for.

He strides purposefully towards the counter, his steps confident and determined. He's different today. More alive. But still carrying that same weight of something unsaid. His face is pale and his dark circles under his eyes are still there, but today he has more to him. It's as if a slow-burning ember lies behind the darkness, its soft glow almost visible on closer inspection. He doesn't speak immediately, but you can feel the words hanging in the air between you.

You find yourself waiting, your heart pounding a little harder than it should. There's no reason for it. Nothing has changed, except the way your pulse quickens at the sight of him. You tell yourself to breathe, to stay focused, but your mind won't stop racing.

And then, he speaks.

It's just one word, but it cuts through the air, slicing through the tension that has built between you. "Hey," he says, his voice low and almost drowned out by the silence of the store. But his voice is there. It's real. When he says it, you can feel the weight of his gaze shift, settling on you like a weight on your chest.

"Hey," you say, your voice barely louder than his. There's a pause, and then you wait, ready for him to say something more—to ask you something, or maybe even speak the words that have been hanging between you since yesterday. But he just stands there. His hands are still at his sides, fingers curling slightly as if fighting the urge to reach out, to touch something, to feel something.

The silence that follows is strangely comforting. It's not awkward, not in the usual sense of silence. It's as if you and he are both suspended in the same moment, trapped in a world that doesn't make sense, where time moves like molasses, yet here, with him, it seems to have stopped altogether.

He picks something off the rack – a black hoodie this time – and runs his fingers over the soft fabric. His eyes never leave the clothing, but you can see the faintest trace of something darker behind them. It's as if he's trying to bury himself in the fabric, to lose himself in the soft, dark embrace of it, like it'll shield him from the world outside.

You want to ask him what brought him back, but you don't. The question feels too heavy, too intrusive. Instead, you watch him, watching the way he moves with such quiet precision, his body almost too still, like he's afraid of being seen. There's a sadness in him, one you know you could get lost in if you're not careful. You want to fall into that darkness with him, to reach out and pull him closer to you, but you stay silent.

He places the hoodie on the counter and you ring it up without a word, the soft hum of the register filling the silence. Your fingers briefly brush against his as you hand him the receipt, and for a second, it's like the world shifts just slightly, just enough for you to feel something electric pass between you. You don't know if he felt it, but you did. The tension in the air grows thicker, heavier, but you don't mind it. It feels right.

He doesn't say goodbye. He doesn't need to. He just turns, his movements slow and deliberate, and walks out the door, leaving behind that same stillness, that same lingering feeling that refuses to leave. The door chime echoes in your mind long after he's gone, and you find yourself standing there, staring at the spot where he was.

He will return. When he returns, it will be different. Something is changing, something you can't control.

The days blend into each other, indistinguishable from one another, yet every time the door chimes and he steps in, everything sharpens, everything changes. He's back again, and again, and again—like a restless ghost that can't quite leave, like he's tethered to this place, or maybe to you. The days blur together in this suffocating haze, but his presence makes every second stretch out, bending the hours into something that only exists in the quiet space between you.

Each time he walks through the door, it's like a spark igniting in the air. His eyes meet yours with that same haunting stare, but this time, it's less distant, less lost. There's more now, something unspoken but understood, like an unbroken thread weaving between the two of you. The pull grows stronger with each visit, a gravitational force you can't resist.

He starts off barely saying a word, just the softest "hey" that floats through the air like a secret. But with each encounter, the silence stretches just a little less. He starts to linger, standing by the shelves for a bit longer, as if giving you time to take him in, to get used to the way he moves, the way he seems to blur the line between presence and absence.

Then, one day, it happens. He's standing near the band tees again, running his fingers over the fabric as if trying to decide which piece of darkness he'll drape over himself today. You watch him, your breath catching as you notice the subtle shifts in his demeanour—the way his shoulders relax just a fraction when he notices you looking, how his gaze lingers for a fraction longer than usual.

"Do you think… they'll ever come back?" His voice breaks through the silence, low and almost tentative, as if he's unsure whether you'll answer or not. It's a simple question, but the weight behind it makes your chest tighten. They — the bands, the ones whose shirts are hanging on the racks, their names etched in faded ink on fabric that's been worn down by years of rebellion.

You blink, not quite prepared for this small talk, but your mouth opens on its own. "Maybe," you reply. "But I think it's the kind of thing that doesn't really come back, you know? They're part of a time, and that time's already passed." You're amazed to be talking to this boy who's always seemed like a phantom, and yet, here you are, standing in the middle of this empty store, speaking about something as mundane as old band shirts.

He nods slowly, his lips curving into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It's so subtle that for a moment, you wonder if you imagined it, but it's there. It's just the slightest hint of something softer, something human. And then you realise: You're falling for him.

It's strange, this attraction. It's an odd sensation, this yearning you feel for him, this hunger that defies logic. It's not just about his looks, though he's undeniably attractive in that brooding, raw way that makes you want to reach out and heal him, to uncover the secrets behind those dark eyes. It's not just about the way he wears his pain, though that's part of it, too. It's the way he exists, simultaneously here and not here, an enigma you can't unravel and a mystery you don't want to solve.

He returns time and time again, and the attraction grows. It's like a fire growing inside you, stoked by each new conversation, each new visit. His eyes linger on you, his posture shifts when he speaks to you, as though you're the only one in the room that matters to him. Look at him when he thinks you're not looking. See the brief flicker of desire beneath the exhaustion, the darkness, the weariness in his expression.

The small talk continues, each encounter slightly different from the last. He talks about the weather, his favourite bands, how tired he is, how the world outside feels heavier with each passing day. In return, you offer him pieces of yourself: small, fragile fragments of who you are. You tell him about your favourite songs, the books you're reading, the slow, dull ache of working here day after day. The conversations feel effortless, as though they're not just casual exchanges, but something more – something intimate, something shared in the quiet spaces where neither of you says what you truly mean.

Sometimes, he'll come in and barely speak. He'll stand there, leaning against the counter, staring into the distance, waiting for something he can't even define. In those moments, you will find yourself standing beside him, offering him a quiet kind of company, the kind that is needed but never asked for. You don't talk; you exist next to him, and somehow, that's enough.

His presence is now an integral part of your routine, something you actively look forward to. You wait for the moment when he'll walk through the door, when the store will go still and the world will narrow to just the two of you in this small, dimly lit space. With every visit and every word exchanged, your connection deepens, pulling you both closer together like two pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit but always belong together.

You know that you're not just waiting for him anymore—you're craving him. The pull is undeniable; your heart skips when he enters the room and your breath catches when his eyes meet yours. There's no denying it now.

He's more than just a boy who comes into the store. He's become a part of your days and your thoughts. You feel like he belongs here just as much as you do. With each visit, with every word, that strange, intoxicating attraction grows deeper, more uncontainable, until you realise it will always be enough.

It's late afternoon. The dimming light outside casts long shadows into the store. The usual hum of fluorescent lights overhead is punctuated by the soft tapping of a keyboard in the back, but the store feels emptier today. It feels suspended, as though time has slowed just for you, just for him. It's one of those quiet days where you almost forget how long you've been here, how many hours have passed since you first arrived this morning. But then the door chimes, and everything shifts.

He strides in, as if the air itself revolves around him, and the room instantly takes on a weighty sense of his presence. Ronin. You don't know why that name feels like it belongs to him, but it does. His long hair falls in its usual curtain, but today, there's a hint of something new in his demeanour—a slight looseness to his posture, like he's letting go of whatever invisible weight he's been carrying around for so long.

He glances around, his eyes flicking over the racks, but always find their way back to you. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence is familiar, but different today. There's something more to it, as if it's begging to be said. His gaze is a little softer than usual, like he's waiting for something.

You smile at him, your smile small and uncertain, and your pulse starts to race. He notices. His lips quirk slightly, not quite a smile, but enough to show that he sees you, sees the way your body tenses just slightly when his eyes meet yours. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice solid and real.

"Ronin," he says, and the name is like a breath, sharp and heavy, almost foreign on his lips but somehow fitting, like he's just stepped out of the shadows and into the light for the first time. He says it quietly, but there's something almost final about it, like he's been carrying that name around for longer than you can imagine, like it's been locked away inside of him, and now, he's giving it to you. Ronin. The name hangs between you like a promise, like a key to something deeper.

You blink, and the weight of it hits you. Ronin. You repeat the name in your head, letting it settle there, trying to hold onto it, trying to make sense of why it feels so important. You open your mouth to speak, but the words get caught in your throat for a moment, and the air seems to thicken around you, thick with everything unsaid, everything that's building between you.

"Ronin," you repeat, testing it out, and as you say it, you watch his face carefully. His eyes flicker, a brief, imperceptible softening, a pulling back just a little. It's a subtle change, but it's undeniable. You are compelled to explore the nature of this phenomenon.

"That's... that's your name?" You don't know why you feel the need to ask, but the question slips out before you can stop it. You feel like you're stepping into unknown territory, like you're treading carefully on the edge of something that could break open if you push too hard.

He nods, his expression unreadable, but there's a clear sense of melancholy in his demeanour. His name and identity have clearly been a burden for him to bear, something he hasn't figured out how to untangle. "Yeah," he says, his voice quieter this time, more drawn out. "I guess I never really got to tell you, did I?"

There's a flicker in his eyes—regret, maybe, or exhaustion, or both. You want to ask him more about the name, about him, but you don't. Instead, you simply nod, acknowledging the trust he's given you, this small piece of him he's just handed over.

"Nice to finally know," you say, and there's a strange feeling behind those words—like you're stepping into something much deeper than a simple conversation, like this moment is the start of something neither of you quite understands yet.

Ronin doesn't say anything, but the way he looks at you changes slightly. The air between you is no longer just heavy with silence, but with something else — something unspoken. His gaze is deeper now, revealing something personal and raw. By telling you his name, he's invited you into a part of him he's kept hidden for so long.

He stands a little taller, but his gaze never leaves yours. "I didn't think you'd even care," he says, his voice low and almost a murmur, as if the confession itself is more vulnerable than anything else he could say. "But I guess... I don't know. I guess I wanted you to know." The words hang in the air between you, fragile, as if they're teetering on the edge of something bigger, something more.

Your heart beats faster now, not just from the tension in the room, but from the way the world seems to have narrowed down to just him and you, standing here, in this moment. The store feels farther away, as though the walls have blurred into the background, leaving only his name, his presence, his eyes locked with yours.

"I care," you say firmly, not giving it much thought, the truth just flowing out of you, quiet but certain. You don't know why those words come so easily, why it feels right to say them. But it does. When you say them, you can see him relax just a little bit; the tension in his shoulders eases for the first time since he walked in.

For a long moment, there's only the quiet between you, but it's no longer uncomfortable. It's not empty. It's full of possibilities, full of questions and answers waiting to be uncovered. You both stand there, the silence not oppressive but expectant, and you realise, with a sinking certainty, that this moment, this exchange, is just the beginning of something neither of you can run from.

The door chimes and you snap back to reality. He leaves, the soft click of his boots against the floor marking the end of another visit. But before he leaves, he nods slightly, and for the first time, you see the faintest, most genuine smile curl at the corners of his lips.

"See you," he says, his voice low and unambiguous. It is an invitation, a promise that you will meet again.

And with that, he's gone, leaving only the lingering echo of his name hanging in the air, a name you now own, a name that feels like it belongs to you as much as it belongs to him.

The days stretch and unfold, as if the store itself has become part of some slow-moving dream. Ronin keeps coming back, and with every visit, something shifts. At first, it was just the smallest exchanges – barely more than a nod or a quick word about a band, or a flicker of something darker, something deeper in his gaze that made your heart flutter. Now, as the days blur into one another, the distance between you both seems to shrink. Every time he steps into the store, the walls close in, making it just the two of you, standing in this strange, suspended space.

His visits have a rhythm of their own. He doesn't come in every day, but when he does, it's as if the world slows down for a few moments, the time around you bending to accommodate his presence. He lingers longer now, his eyes scanning the shelves but always coming back to you. The silence between you has softened; it is no longer filled with tension, but with a quiet kind of understanding.

It starts with small talk—casual, throwaway comments that don't mean much. But the way he says them, the way he lets his guard down just a little more each time, makes you feel like you're inching closer to something important. One day, he comes in and starts talking about a new album he's been listening to. The conversation is simple at first, just the usual banter—"Have you heard it? It's pretty good. You'd probably like it." But then, his voice drops just a little, like he's letting you in on a secret, and you find yourself leaning in to listen more closely.

"Yeah, I get that it's not everyone's thing," he says, his voice almost a whisper, "but there's something about it... It makes me feel less alone, you know?"

You nod, the words resonating with you. You don't need to explain it—he already understands, like he knows exactly what you mean. It's strange, this quiet bond growing between you, something unsaid but so obvious that it almost feels like an echo of your own thoughts.

The next time he comes in, it's the same—more small talk, more shared silence between the lines of conversation. But there's something different this time. There's a charge in the way he looks at you and the way his words hover between you. It's as if there's more he's not saying.

"Do you get off soon?" he asks one afternoon, his voice soft but laced with curiosity. It's the first time he's ever asked anything like that—something personal, something that makes you feel like maybe he's starting to see you as more than just a face behind the counter.

"Yeah, in about an hour," you answer, the words almost sounding foreign on your tongue. You hadn't realised how much you were looking forward to answering that question until the words left your lips. His question carries weight, his manner inviting you to share more.

He looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then tilts his head slightly, as if weighing something. There's a pause, a quiet heartbeat of time, before he speaks again. "Let's grab coffee," he says, his voice tentative. He's unsure how you'll react, afraid of pushing too far.

Your heart stutters in your chest, your mind racing. You want to say yes, you want to reach out and accept his offer, but the words get stuck somewhere between your throat and your lips. You feel a strange pull between you, a growing desire to get closer to him, and yet the fear of what that might mean keeps you frozen in place.

Ronin doesn't wait. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, his fingers brushing against something hidden there. His movements are slow and deliberate, as if he's giving you time to catch up, to process. He pulls out his phone and for a moment, the world narrows to this one simple action. He unlocks it, then turns it toward you, the screen glowing with his number ready and waiting.

"I don't know," he says confidently, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "I'll give you my number. That way you don't have to think about it." His voice is quiet, but steady, offering you the chance to decide without pressure or expectation.

You stare at the screen, unsure, your heart pounding, and then you look up at him and see it—the faintest glimmer of something in his eyes, something vulnerable but also confident. He's waiting.

Everything else fades away for just a second. The racks of clothing, the constant hum of the store, the people who pass by without ever noticing you—it all disappears. At this moment, he is the only thing that matters. He is standing in front of you, offering you a piece of himself. You can feel your breath catch in your throat. Everything feels like it's hanging by a thread.

Without hesitation, you seize his phone, your fingers barely grazing his. The moment is suspended in the quiet space between you. You type your number in quickly, almost clumsily, and when you hand the phone back to him, you both know it's more than just numbers being exchanged. It's a door opening just a crack, but enough to let something new, something unspoken, begin to grow.

"I'll text you," you say, and the words feel strange, almost too forward, but they're real. You both know they are.

Ronin looks at you, his eyes softening just a little. There's a flicker of hope, or maybe just curiosity, in the way he gazes at you. "Good," he replies, voice steady, but there's something unspoken in the way he says it, something that feels like the beginning of something neither of you can control.

He slips his phone back into his pocket and nods slowly, almost imperceptibly. "See you later," he says, and this time, it doesn't feel like goodbye. It feels like the start of something new.

As he walks out, you can feel it – the shift, the undeniable change in the air. You're not sure where this is going, but you know, deep down, that this is just the beginning.

The coffee date is unforgettable; its warmth lingers long after it's over, and the cold night air is no match for its radiant warmth. The café was small and intimate, making the world outside feel distant and irrelevant. The conversations flowed easily, as if you had always known each other, as though the silences between words didn't matter, because the space between you was filled with something unspoken, something electric. You talked about music, life, those spaces that neither of you could quite fill, and in those exchanges, you felt more connected than you ever thought possible.

As the evening wound to a close and the last sip of coffee warmed you from the inside out, you both knew it wasn't really the end. Not yet. The night was still young, and Ronin wasn't in a hurry to go anywhere.

"I'll walk you home," he says, his voice low and casual, but there's something underneath it—an invitation that carries more weight than the words themselves.

You don't hesitate, nodding immediately. The air between you electric with anticipation. You are acutely aware of him, his presence filling the space around you, drawing you in without a word or touch. It's just him – Ronin, with his worn MCR shirt, his long, unruly hair, his steady gaze – and you, both moving through the darkening streets like two souls tethered together by something neither of you can fully explain.

The walk is quiet at first. The world seems to be holding its breath, watching the two of you, waiting for something to happen. The only sounds are the crunch of your footsteps on the pavement, the distant hum of cars, and the occasional rustle of the wind. Ronin glances at you, his eyes meeting yours, and there's a quiet understanding between you—a recognition that tonight is different, that something is shifting, something that neither of you can stop.

You walk in step with each other, neither of you rushing or eager to break the silence, because in this quiet, something feels more real than anything else. His presence is close, his hand just a hair's breadth away from yours, and every movement feels amplified, as if the world has shrunk down to this moment.

As you approach your building, the streets become darker, the lights of the city receding into the distance, yet the warmth of his proximity propels you forward. When you finally reach the corner by your building, you stop, and so does he. The air between you both is charged, the tension that's been building between you since the moment you met is palpable. It's as if everything has led up to this precise moment. His eyes search yours, his breath catches, his lips part as if he's about to say something, but he doesn't.

Instead, he steps closer, closing the distance until he's standing just a breath away. His gaze flickers down to your lips, and you feel the pull of it, the magnetic force drawing you in closer. It's as if the rest of the world disappears, leaving just him and this moment.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks, his voice soft and almost a whisper, as if he's afraid of pushing too far, afraid of scaring you off. The way he asks the question is strange. There's no force in it, no urgency. It's just a gentle curiosity, as if he's asking for permission to cross an invisible line between you.

You hesitate, your heart beating faster. You could say no, you could pull away, but you don't. Something in you, the part of you that's been quietly aching for him, wants to feel the weight of his lips against yours, wants to know what that spark between you feels like when it ignites. You feel a tension in your chest, almost unbearable, and when you look up at him again, his eyes are full of raw, open emotion that you can't refuse.

Instead, you answer him with the smallest, most uncertain nod.

And that's all he needs.

He moves in slowly, his hand reaching up to gently cup your cheek, his touch warm against your skin. His breath brushes over your lips, and for a moment, the entire world seems to still. You can feel his pulse, feel his heart racing in sync with your own, and then, without another word, his lips finally meet yours.

It's soft at first, tentative, as if he's waiting for you to pull back, to change your mind, but when you don't, when you lean into him just a little, the kiss deepens. It's slow and deliberate, as if he's savoring every moment and your connection. His lips are warm, his breath mingling with yours, and you can taste the remnants of coffee on his mouth, the bitterness now mixed with something sweeter.

The world narrows to just the two of you, standing on the edge of your building, lost in this kiss. You feel your heart race, feel the heat spreading through your chest, down to your fingertips, as if the entire universe has condensed into this one, perfect moment. His hand slides around to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss, and you let yourself fall into it, into him.

When he pulls away, it's slow, his forehead against yours, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. You remain silent, standing close together, as if you don't know how to move or break the spell.

"That was...," you begin, but the words trail off. You are unsure of what to say, unsure of what any of it means.

"Yeah," Ronin says confidently, his voice low and rough, "It was." He doesn't say more, the unspoken understanding between you two clear in the air. He doesn't pull away immediately, and neither do you. You stay there, like time has stopped, holding onto this fragile, beautiful moment.

Then, he leans back, his fingers brushing your hand one last time, his eyes lingering on yours with something unreadable, something soft. "Goodnight, [Your Name]," he says, his voice quieter now, tinged with sincerity that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Goodnight," you reply, though you're not sure how you're still standing, how you haven't melted into him completely. You do, your feet feeling almost unsteady as he steps back, slowly disappearing into the night, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, lips tingling with the taste of him.

The door to your building looms ahead, but you don't move. You stand, the echo of his kiss still humming through you, knowing that everything has changed. This wasn't just a kiss. It was a promise. A beginning.

[avonne-writes]

The Proper Way to Wake a Lady

Fem!Gale x Bucky post-war married sex 😏 NSFW (duh)

My first attempt at het smut 🫣 wrote it in a fever rush tonight. Sorry for any typos, it’s 2 am. I will upload it to AO3 tomorrow. For @brotherwtf and @butdaddyilovehim99. Inspired by this post.

Edit: posted on AO3

~♡~

The blanket slips down over the hill of Gale's shoulder like a droplet of rain trickling down the window. A hand follows in its wake, warm and gentle to ease the shiver that runs down her body. It’s still early. She can tell from the sting of exhaustion under her eyelids and the darkness that calls her back to her dreams. A kiss presses to the goosebumps rising over her sleep-soft skin in the morning cold, and up it moves with damp, sticky heat to the crook of her neck, where a slow inhale whistles against her hair.

The next kiss seeks the spot behind her ear, then her cheek. The brush of a mustache tickles when those greedy lips move past her earring to adore the constellation of freckles under her eye. She curls up a touch tighter on her side when they move away, missing the sweet pressure, but she isn’t lonely for long. Fingertips climb up over her bare arm to the thin strap of her nightgown, teasing and confident like a musician's who's about to play his favourite instrument. They slip under the strap and tug it down.

"Mm." She hums noncomittally. She doesn’t mean to say anything with it except to show that she's awake and that she's not yet convinced she wants to be.

A low chuckle brushes the shell of her ear, rising to the challenge. Knuckles caress her naked shoulder, then that large, loving hand moves down her chest to cup her breast through the thin satin. Thumb against the bump of her nipple, tracing lazy circles over embroidery.

"Bucky." She makes a noise of protest, rolling back just enough for her shoulder blade to rest against his firm chest. There’s heat dripping down her body to pool between her legs, but she likes this tug-of-war they play when they have time to linger in their want. She only lets go of the rope when she knows he's gonna fall over and laugh at her in delight. "It’s not even dawn yet."

"Didn't know there was a curfew." He nuzzles her blond curls. His hand shimmies under her nightgown and caresses the swell of her breast, her nipple caught in the mischievous hold of his knuckles.

She can’t help but arch into it under the guise of a deep breath. Bucky's fingers squeeze and release around her in response, maddening. She puts her slim hand over his because she wants to feel him hold her, ring to ring. He traps her thumb with his. Tugging on the rope between them. She doesn’t let go yet. She wants to squirm to feel how hard he is but she holds herself back, keeps her voice calm, bites the smile on her lips.

"We ought'a talk about the proper way to wake a lady." Gale sighs in feigned exasperation.

Even in the dim, fuzzy-dark room, the flash of his grin draws her eyes as he flips her over to her back and leans down to kiss the last flutter of sleep from her lips. His mouth tastes like home, his mustache brushes her skin.

"I'm all ears, doll."

She stretches with the soft sound of a stifled yawn, her arms reaching towards the ceiling while he lays his heavy frame on her and tries to free her breasts from her gown despite her squirming. Unable to do it, he kisses the shallow valley between them through the fabric, then the skin bared by the deep neckline. He seems to pause at the lack of gold chain there, but then he must remember that the locket he gave her before he left for the war has been locked in a drawer with his dog tags since he came home three months ago. Perhaps, she will wear it again if it doesn't make him pale and misty-eyed anymore.

Gale lets her arms fall back and loop around his neck, feels his pulse under her fingertips. She scratches at the curls at his nape as he cups one of her cheeks and smiles into the kiss he presses to her throat.

"For a start, a lady's dress is sacred." She says, her even voice in contrast with the way her thighs slide open to bracket his hips. His cock presses against her through his pants, a barrier soaked through with her need in seconds.

"Yes, ma'am." He chuckles again, running both of his hands down her thighs to ruck up her gown and roll it up over her slender body. "I'm real careful."

It’s all a game. She never minds a small tear or a stretched satin strap if it means he still wants her with a passion that doesn’t let him wait. She can sacrifice a few hours to the sewing machine if it’s because he loves her a little too eagerly, with too much desperation for propriety. She wouldn’t have married him if she wanted someone rooted in the dull ground. She always wanted to fly.

The nightgown is off. He throws it on the floor along with his own shirt and pants. He still wears a pair of rosaries even at night, one for her and one for himself, and they dangle between her breasts as he leans over her on all fours. She opens her mouth to ask if he'll wear a third if what she feels to be true is confirmed in the coming weeks, but her words get caught in her throat because he dips down and seals his mouth around her left nipple.

She gasps and rocks under him with as contained a desire as she can keep it while his tongue is circling her bud. It’s hard to see anything in the darkness but she knows what he looks like when he sucks and nips at her like this, she knows the bliss on his face and the cheeky smile in the corner of his lips when he switches sides. Her small breasts used to be her insecurity, but he has always loved them, and she never once felt inadequate with him. The war changed a lot of things but not this. Not the hungry touch of his mouth on her, not the hand he entwines with hers on her pillow.

He smooths his other hand over her belly, lingers to feel her trembling muscles for a moment before he reaches lower.

Her free hand shoots down to hold his wrist right there between her legs, where he's ready to push his fingers in and make her fall apart. But that’s not what she wants, not yet.

"Gale. Come on." Bucky says in a whining voice, pressing little kisses all over her collarbones as if begging her to let him continue.

It’s just like the Bucky she knew before the war. She loves her John the way he is now, regardless of his scars and that new brooding shadow in his eyes, but she loves his past self too, and she likes to remind him that he hasn’t died overseas.

She smiles at the ceiling and drags his hand away, pressing it to her hip. "Second rule, never rush a lady, John, or she might bite."

Bucky laughs and lies down on her with his full weight. The hair on his torso rubs against her naked skin. He cups her face with both hands, fingers in her hair, and kisses her on the lips. He licks into Gale's mouth slowly, savouring every brush of their tongues, every encouraging stroke of her palms up and down his back. When she nips at him, they both snicker.

Bucky rubs the tips of their noses together. "All right, sweetheart. Tell me, what do I do?" He squeezes at her waist. "Wanna make my pretty lady happy."

Gale feels a hot flush run through her entire body. His pretty lady. She wants to clear her throat but she can’t, she's trying her best to show confidence and see the game through to the end. "Make sure she's relaxed and... prepared to wake up."

With the hand she uses to comb through Bucky’s hair, he feels him nod.

He gives her a playful peck on the cheek. "On it."

He trails his lips over her chest, his right hand sneaking back to her breast to massage it as he slides further down her body. Her legs move to close when he rises from between her thighs, not because she wants to hide but because she still hasn't quite grown out of the reflexive shyness, but he keeps them spread with his shoulders.

He mouths at her stomach, at the low curve of it that she hopes is more than an illusion of gain, then he kisses her hips, one after the other before he moves to her thighs. Holding them pushed apart, he sucks at the lean muscles on the inner side. He sucks long enough that she makes a soft, needy sound despite herself, sure that he’s leaving a mark. He doesn’t do the other thigh because he knows asymmetry excites her, makes her long for the completion of the sensation and will draw her pleasure out. She closes her eyes and fists the sheets in anticipation. When he brushes his thumb over her wet folds, her breath hitches in her chest.

"How does the lady want it?" Bucky teases, rubbing Gale's bent thighs.

Gale doesn’t care, she just wants it with all the shaking need in her belly, with a want she hadn't known before she met him, but she forces her voice to sound composed. "Slow and steady."

Bucky moans softly, which draws a quick smile to her face again. She has never slept with anyone else but him, but the stories she heard are enough to know that there aren't many men who take to this with Bucky's enthusiasm. He truly enjoys it, and she loves him for it so much. She loves how attentive he is, how clear about his own desires and patient with hers, and how he likes to pleasure her even more than being pleasured.

When he dips his head down and licks a stripe up the center of her, she arches, and her thighs twitch in his grip. He leans in again and stays there this time, with his mouth tight around her and his nose buried in her dark blond curls. His lips feel soft, but the pressure as he sucks is hard and relentless, and her hips roll against it in a confused rhythm, unsure if she wants more or if she wants to get away from the sharp pleasure.

He flicks his tongue and licks at her greedily, as if this was the very reason he woke her up, just to have her spread open and panting as he puts his mouth on her cunt. Gale covers her eyes with a hand and rubs at her bitten-sensitive nipples with the other, mindless with it. She's soaking wet, and the sounds of her pleasure mixing with his hums makes the need ache so deep that she feels like she can’t take it without losing her mind. She tries to tilt her hips away from his languid strokes, but he just grips her under her thighs and pushes her legs towards the mattress, pinning her immobile.

She can’t do anything but lie there and take it, and it's such a heady rush of relief that she feels her stomach tighten even before he gets a finger in her.

"John." She cries out. "Oh God."

"You taste so good." John groans and one of his fingers slides into her slowly, crooking in thick, sweet pressure while he sucks on her. It spears her deeply enough to hit her with that familiar feeling of fullness over and over again until she starts shaking and comes gushing all over his hand and face.

"Fuck, you’re gorgeous." He sighs as she's coming down.

When the rush of pleasure stops, she reaches for his free hand on her thigh, and he gives her a squeeze but doesn’t pull away from her core. He pushes another finger into her, thicker than three of her own together, and uses his thumb to keep pressure on where she's too sensitive for his mouth. He moves his lips to the thigh he hasn’t marked yet and completes the set. His chin and mustache feel damp from her pleasure as they move over her pale leg. She feels embarrassed, but this is her husband, and he wants her. He wants her so much. It’s okay to want him back.

With her face aflame from exertion and a newly building need, she rocks into the touch of his fingers and breathes a laugh of joy. "What a nice way to wake up."

"The best way." Bucky sounds like he's smiling as he twists his fingers inside her to make her moan. "I figured you might say, thank you, John."

Gale moves against his touch, chasing her pleasure. "Don’t count on it."

Bucky snorts in amusement. He lets her thigh go in favour of leaning down to suck at her oversensitive clit again, sloppy and loud. Gale shifts helplessly against the sensation, tugging at Bucky’s hair until Bucky has some mercy on her and starts crawling up her body. He sucks and licks at her like she's a feast, mouths over the sensitive spot below her belly button, the jut of her ribs, the underside of her breasts, her hard nipples and the sweaty slope of her neck.

She nudges his head up and kisses him tenderly on the mouth. For a moment, she wishes they turned on the lights, but there’s no use reaching for the light switch now.

She hugs Bucky tight and angles her hips up for him. "I'm ready, hon."

Bucky's breath rushes out through his nose against her cheek. She feels his hand move between them, rubbing, searching, then that quick, sharp pain that turns into aching need immediately as he pushes into her. He fucks her with slow thrusts at first, staying deep inside and barely pulling back, letting her get used to the wide stretch of it. As he picks up his pace, he gives her messy kisses and presses their foreheads together.

"Let me -" He draws the words on her lips with his own. His hips snap forward desperately, pushing a high-pitched gasp out of her. "Let me come inside again. I wanna give you a baby. Please. Oh, Gale, let me."

You already have, Gale almost tells him, but she can’t be sure yet, so she just nods and kisses him, and says yes a dozen times over as he starts losing himself to the pleasure, fucking her with enough force to make the bed creak. When Gale cups his face, she can feel that his eyes are closed and his eyebrows are drawn together as the bliss of it builds. She's not there yet but it doesn't matter - all she needs now is to feel him let go.

She pulls one of Bucky's hands to her breast and his forehead to her shoulder, and she whispers into his ear. "I love you so much, John. I want your baby, you can give it to me, I want -"

With deep, shuddering moans, Bucky thrusts once more into her and comes, deep inside where she rocks into it. His body tenses, then relaxes in her embrace, a heavy weight for her thin arms but she will never not be strong enough to hold him, she swore that when he first came home and felt like he would never be a whole man again. She can feel some of that same helplessness in the way he hides his face in her neck and strokes her hair in the afterglow, but she also knows that he’s getting better.

After a few minutes of quiet cuddling, she nuzzles his cheek. "Final rule is, if you wake your lady, never fall back asleep before she does."

He laughs and lifts his head to look at her. His smile could light up even the darkest room.

[whimsicalpolitical]

for the prompts:

8) sex in exchange for a favour 😬

- b / haveyouseenherlately

love your work so so so much ♥️ thank you for all of it!

Thank YOU!! 💗I love your writing and your blog so much! I’m having so much fun writing all those stories. Thank you for the request, didn’t know if I should’ve written Matty or Ross but I’m gonna go with Matty.

18+MDNI

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“What?!”

“Don’t act so surprised now, love.”

20 minutes until Matty has to go on stage and you thought he could pull some strings to get you and your friend into the VIP section tonight.

Matty is sitting on the couch in front of you, legs spread and a shit eating grin on his face.

“S’not like we haven’t done it before,” he says, grabbing your hand so you’re standing in between his thighs. “Don’t you remember?”

You do remember. You were both drunk at a club and ended up fucking in the bathroom, your leg draped over his hip and Matty burying himself deep inside of you. After that night you got off on the phone once but never had sex again because you thought it was better off that way and you didn’t want to just be one of the girls Matty was fucking.

“We were good,” his hands find their way under your shirt, grabbing your flesh, “so good you had to call me in the middle of the night ‘cause you wanted to cum so hard like you did with me, hm.”

He knows what he’s doing and you also know he’s going to succeed. You’re not going further to get the tickets but because you have the biggest crush on him.

You breathe in sharply when your eyes travel to where Matty’s hand is palming his cock through his jeans. “Need to get off ‘for I go on stage, can get you off as well.”

He’s pulling down the zipper and his pants to his thighs, still moving up and down his shaft. The dusty pink head weeps, dripping pre cum down the shaft as it bobs and flexes at the sight of you biting your lip, cheeks flushed, obviously turned on.

You’re wearing a skirt and Matty’s hand travel under the fabric, “you up f’that?” How could you ever say no to him, you nod and he smacks your side slightly.

“Need words, darling.”

“Yes, yes,” Matty pulls your panties down with one hand, the other still around his cock.

“C’mere,” he tugs you into his lap, your sensitive cunt brushing against his belly, leaving a trail of shiny arousal in its wake. "Think about you every night, you’re the best fuck I’ve ever had.”

His words burn wildly through you. All consuming and raging, igniting a searing heat deep in your belly. He lines his cock up with your tight, fluttering hole tempting a soft whimper to bubble up your throat.

“Matty-,” you whine.

“ ‘ve got you,” Matty grips one sturdy hand on your hip and helps you sit on his cock while the other cradles your jaw, fixing his fingers around the back of your neck. "Easy now, slow," he commands with a soft rumble.  

Your lips pull into a tiny 'o', brows pinching tight when Matty shifts, withdrawing his cock before slowly, ever so slowly, spearing it back in and splitting you open. He smirks at your glassy eyes, all wide and wild like an animal caught in a trap.

“You’re as into this as I am,” He drives his cock deeper, thighs bracing the backs of your own on every brutal thrust. Slick trickles down his length as he relentlessly sheathes himself in your heat. “Jerked off to you every -fuck- time.”

You whimper, the image of Matty sitting on this exact couch, coming to the thought of you spurting you on. Your walls clench around him and he bites down onto you shoulder, “turns you on hm?”

You rock slowly, forward and back, little movements of your hips. Matty lifts his head, looking down at where your bodies are connected with dark eyes. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, tangling your fingers in his hair and giving it a sharp tug that has him hissing your name.

“Fuck Matty.”

The combination of you moaning his name and starting to move more quickly, rolling your body in smooth waves over his, drives him insane. He’s panting as he looks up at you, sweat gathering at his temple, and his hands grip your ass and follow your movement reverently.

“Baby, Shit-“ he moans, throwing his head back.

You speed up, bouncing on his lap now.

“Please touch me Matty,” you whine, already dragging his fingers to your clit, “so close.”

His thumb is immediately finding your clit and circling it with messy movements that drive you wild, that tension in your muscles coiling tighter. Matty’s hips flex into yours with each drop down his length, the room echoing with the lewd sounds of skin against skin and the chorus of whimpers that spill from both of you.

“Matty, Matty, Matty,” you chant. He wraps his arms around you, really thrusting into you now as your own movements falter and you collapse forward, head buried against his neck as you come, trembling with the strength of it.

“Good girl, christ,” It’s not long after that he goes still, cock pulsing inside of you as the aftershocks of your orgasm wash over you. You stay slumped against each other, catching your breaths and waiting for your racing hearts to come back down to earth.

“I’ll get you the tickets,” he says, his hair completely tousled and his pupils dilated. “You earned them,” he winks which makes you roll your eyes.

“Thanks,” you say, “but.” You stop after saying something but he heard your but.

“What, love?” He tilts his head, brushing hair out of your face.

“Didn’t do it for the tickets only.”

He smirks, pulling your lips onto his, “yeah?”

You nod, not knowing what else to say.

“ ‘means I can fuck you whenever I want? Without havin’ this to be a favor?”

“Yeah.”