#Mold Skin Irritation

[dangersofmold]

Addressing Various Skin Problems From Mold Exposure

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[pedgito]

𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | Logan Howlett x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | with no threshold for pain, logan finds that losing control with you is easier, triggering a thirst that is insatiable.

author's note | um.......yeah idk. i have no excuse and while i still write predominately for pedge boys i had to. i couldn't help it. am i sorry? no. is this insane? a little. special thanks to @ovaryacted, @pr0ximamidnight & @wannab-urs for being the best and reading this over

content warning | 18+ smut, written with x-men (2000)!logan in mind, mutant!reader, established relationship, hand kink (and sensitivity), pain kink, blood kink, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), exchange of bodily fluids (yes its bl*od), mentions of exhibitionism, also kinda body worship, this turned out way kinkier than it was supposed to be

word count —2.2k

Logan was never soft, but he’s learned to smooth out his sharp edges for you.

And while he was never shy, he wasn’t always open about his claws slipping out near climax when things got a little too out of control or his mind would slip, bordering into that animalistic ferocity he sometimes drifted into when he was more desperate.

Just a touch, a lick, a press of his skin against yours and he’d haul you onto whatever surface was close by and rail you into a near amnesic state of consciousness. It made you feel like you were floating, allowing his superhuman strength to lift you up and off to bed, spending most of those nights in his room rather than your own.

You weren’t a thing, it had never been established. But, Logan has grown comfortable, familiar, and he was appreciative of it, even if he didn’t show it. It came with the kisses when you slipped into his room after heavy training evenings or a night where he just needed some entertainment, something to keep him occupied. 

He liked your company even if it was never spoken aloud. 

The signs came when you would scoot away on the couch to give him space when you both would drift into meaningless conversation that would in turn mold into you, in his lap after a soft tug and a complacent smirk on his face.

You’ve grown fond of him, his wittiness and unrestrained personality that was often subdued under a dark, brooding facade, his body too—strong, chiseled arms and a well-defined chest. He was big, everywhere. All-consuming and just bordering on the edge of too much. But, it was his hands that really pulled you in.

Thumbs pressing beyond swollen lips as you run the surface of your tongue against his skin, an aid to muffle the whimpers that slip beyond your lips when you’re trying to be quiet—when Logan needs you quiet, teetering on a dangerous line of exhibitionism if you keep it up.

Or the length of his hands squeezing against your hips, pulling you back to meet his thighs as his cock spears you open, his palm often finding on your lower back as he presses you further into the mattress, ass angled up as best you could manage when he was rutting himself into you like he was in heat—gruff, wet pants of a gradually building high against your skin that drove you wild. 

His claws have slipped out a few times—your headboard remained the proof as he’d rid himself of his own long ago, deep but thick holes in the wood that you’re almost positive continued into the drywall. He’s ruined a pillow or two, but there was a surge of excitement that came along with it. 

The sound of them as they slip beyond his skin, not even the slightest grimace on his face as it happens, ultimately taken by his pleasure in overdrive, the action always registers half a second too late.

 Thankfully, you’ve come to sense it well.

You always know just where to touch—what drives him wild and extracts the feral nature in him and what softens his steely regard. Touches along his jaw pull him in, lips pressing against the spot on you mirroring your fingers on him. 

Sometimes it’s nails digging into his indestructible skin, irritated and swollen marks that would fade as quickly as they appeared, no use in drawing blood as it never spilled.

But, the soft and intriguing sounds that slip as you run your fingers along his forearm are something you take note of over time—occasionally just a tickle that he shrugs away with a soft chuckle, slipping his hand between your bodies to play with your clit, leaving him just out of reach as he circles that sensitive bundle of nerves, urging your eyes to stay on him, with him.

He’s always good at talking you through, gentle words of encouragement married with tight, guttural groans as his cock sinks into you, a hand at your thigh to keep you spread open, his gaze always wandering down to marvel at the sight of you and him and you take him so well—he’s told you a million times over by now.

Occasionally his hands will make a slow crawl to your shoulders or your neck, curling around the muscle and cradling you, like an anchor for himself. Your own fingers spread over his grip, right along the ridge of his knuckles. 

At first he tensed, his hands slipping away in a hurry to grip another part of your body, lower, deeper—disconnecting helped and even if he had learned to control the urge to a degree, there was always a chance.

Logan wasn’t oblivious to your own regenerative healing—not entirely indestructible, although the lack of pain receptors made you a viable asset for a plethora of things but being on the other end of a spar with him was still nothing to take lightly, a man of challenge himself, you weren’t leaving that fight without a couple knicks and cuts even though as soon as they appeared, they were then non-existent.

Physically, you were a challenge, nothing for people to underestimate. The perfect torture device, the ideal punching bag. You've learned to subdue the emotion and the mental toll it took, but with Logan, there was an openness to be vulnerable, knowing that you needed the pain just as much as it often displeased you.

Where Logan fears worry and shame, you find the care and curiosity in soothing the spots where his claws tear through, a gentle squeeze of your fingers in the spaces between his knuckles, a kiss to each one and down his wrist, a show of affection while your eyes never leave his own.

Sometimes you did it absently, on the couch while you both drifted to sleep after a long day or during a movie that you’ve thrown on to distract Logan from his own mind—some days he just needed you around in whatever form you had to offer.

There wasn’t a single part of him you didn’t admire and one night, like tonight, things reach culmination and Logan slips.

—

His mouth waters at the sight of you on your back, pussy on full display and your thighs spread wide under his grip as his cock sinks deep and pulls out, right to the tip before he’s drilling himself back inside of you, fingers twisting into the sheets so hard they often rip, eyes drifting close as your head keens back in overwhelming pleasure.

“Bub, eyes on me,” Logan coaxes, his fingers curling around the top of your thighs as they squeeze, keeping you apart and open, pliant under his touch, “keep ‘em on me.”

He hips still, waiting, watching—you peek your eyes open with a shy smile that is met with a smirk, his eyes brimming with warmth, nodding as you listen.

 “Right there, that’s good.”

You roll your eyes fondly, a flutter of your lashes as he pushes inside of you unexpectedly, a sharp and wild snap of his hips that pulls a surprised gasp from your chest, squeezing instinctively around him in response—again and again as your thighs press further and further in until he’s nearly at your chest, his knuckles grazing the underside of your breasts and you beg, tongue wetting your bottom lip as you speak.

“Don’t—please don’t hold back,” you plead—to some degree, he always did, shared mutant powers aside there was always a deep need in Logan’s psyche to protect and inadvertently to shield, “all of it—want all of you.”

As to seal the words with truth, your fingers slide over his hands gripped tightly at your thighs, keeping them still as your feet curl around the back of his thighs and pull him in. Deeper, tighter. Logan chuckles at the motion, almost taunting. There was a sensitivity to the spot where his claws pushed through, a warning of what was to come and like all the other softer, more receptive parts of him, the touch surges a sense of hot, angry need through his entire body.

Easy, his eyes read.

“I like it,” you admit with a gentle swirl of your hips to bring him back, followed by the slow angle and snap in response, “—lose control a little, Logan. Let it out.”

“That part of me—“ Logan begs, but there’s a quiet noise of disapproval from you, your eyes softer as you admire him.

“Is part of you,” you remind him, “and I—“ like an absolute menace, he penetrates hard, rubbing the sensitive swell of muscle inside of you that makes you dizzy, “fuck—I don’t need you to hide yourself.”

Logan goes quiet, contemplating but observant as his hands squeeze against the sound of surprise you make as he grazes your g-spot, a fist pressing against his groin that flattens out into your palm, feeling the flex of his muscles as he works himself inside of you.

“I wanna feel it, I need it to hurt,” You beg, his brows drawing in—pensive for a half-second before you can see the flip of a switch in his head, “you can lose control with me, Logan.”

He practically vibrates as the growl emits from his chest, watching his hands squeeze impossibly tighter before his claws are our, unsheathed before you and you can’t help but smile, a millimeter from splicing through skin that could never keep the memory of it and you run your finger along the base, the slight flicker of discomfort in his face that fades as you began to move against him again.

There was something about pain, that stinging feeling of a wound as the adamantium sliced through you, along the swell of your ribs and breasts, a trickle of blood falling from the cut before it disappeared—and instinctively, Logan’s hand settle away as he leans in and swipes the blood away with his tongue, eyes locked on your own and you quiver, mouth opening in a silent gasp.

He moans at the taste, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip at the action and to make matters worse, he speaks, blood on his tongue and teeth, “M’pretty sure she tastes even sweeter.”

His eyes flick toward your cunt, a whimper in protest at the loss of his cock as he slips out of you and sinks to his stomach in one fluid motion, his slick covered cock ruining your sheets as he drives his tongue inside of you, nose pressed against your clit as he satisfies the loss of him with more, claws dragging dangerously close to your hips, the tips of his claws pressing into the skin.

His tongue drags up to you clit, lapping up the mix of sweet slick and his own, your hands pressing over top of his to force the sharp edge deeper, slicing through your skin until you feel yourself on the verge of passing out, a small pool of blood gathering at your pelvis.

Your own fingers drag through the thick crimson, spreading it over his waiting mouth as he grins, a perfect picture of greed and pleasure as he dives back into your cunt, a hurried and overwhelming pace against your clit driving you over the edge within seconds, your orgasm crashing toward you far faster than you’re expecting as you cry out, hips lifting from the bed but not without a fight, Logan’s grip pressing you down into mattress to clean you up.

All of you.

He rises with a grin, brutish but charming as he kisses you, tasting yourself on him as your own blood smears your lips, giggling softly into his mouth.

“Inside,” Logan already knows, fist curling around his cock as he slips back inside of you, “—oh fuck, Lo—“

“Greedy girl,” He admonishes amorously and returns his hurried pace, claws sinking into your pillows and mattress, a sorry that would come later for the action but you needed him now, “gonna let me fill you full, huh?”

You nod jerkily, forehead pressed tight against his own as he huffs into your open mouth, a mingling of sacred noises between each other as his hips falter, a broken gasp falling from his lips as he snaps his hips once before he’s buried to the hilt, coming deep inside you cunt.

His claws retract synonymous with his climax as he settles against his now bare fists before he’s falling onto his back with a huff, looking like a fucked-out mess with his hair even more askew than it always it, blood drying at the corner of his mouth as you roll onto your stomach and grab for his hand, pressing a kiss to each knuckle with a soft smile, figuring you must be quiet the sight yourself.

“You have to stop worrying, Logan,” you remind him gently, dropping his hand to move closer, his arm extending and pressing against your back as you curl into him, your fingers tracing along his jaw as you speak to him, “that you’re going to scare me away.”

“You still have time to run,” He jokes lightly, but there’s a tinge of sadness to his tone and you shake your head with a quickly developing smirk.

“Only if you’re chasing after me,” You challenge, leaning forward to nip at his jaw, surprised when he returns the action as he buries his pith against your throat, rolling you onto your back with a laugh that bursts from your chest.

“That can be arranged, bub,” He promises, nosing himself into the sensitive spot behind your ear, “I’d sniff you out in seconds, anyways.”

-

divider creds: @saradika-graphics

[slowdivinqs]

Magnetism

Joel Miller x f!reader

joel photo by dinasawrus on pinterest, banners by cafekitsune

Summary: Having a steamy make out session behind the Tipsy Bison with a certain soft spoken Texan.

Warnings: 18+! There’s NO actual smut, just the make out session. Hidden relationship vibes ( they don’t wanna be caught ). Images in the header are just for aesthetic purposes. Subby Joel vibes but also not, we got a mix of both. Soft!Joel and Jackson!Joel. Can imagine either Pedro or Game Joel.

A/N: I’m back! I was so shocked by the love on my last fic, thank you so much! This one is really rushed and quick - the idea came to me because of a reel on instagram. Yeah.

Do not copy or repost my fics anywhere! No AI bots either, I will find you

Tommy’s put on Alice In Chains again for the fifth time Tonight.

Joel groans against you, but not like how he’s been groaning for the past 20 minutes. He’s irritated this time.

“Goddamnit. Someone oughta knock him over the head.” Joel mutters breathily, scowling at the back entrance to the bar like Tommy will sense his ire through the exposed brick and wood.

You take the time to admire his roused hair. Your head hits the outside wall of the Tipsy Bison with a soft thump, and your eyes are hazy and heavy from the sight of the man in front of you.

Joel Miller. Thee scary, grumpy, tense, asshole, tommy’s-goddamn-brother Joel Miller.

He’s a sight to behold. Flushed cheeks and, cutely, ears. Messy hair from your fingers and unbuttoned collars of typical flannel shirts.

All because you’ve been kissing him. Like teenagers, actually.

You’re not sure why you’re still standing outside the bar in the chilly air instead of being buried under his warm body screaming his name.

Well, that’s a lie. You do know.

It’s the sound he makes when his lips caress yours, the little sharp intake of air through his nose as he tilts his head to the side; nose poking your cheek. The way he groans as you bite his plump bottom lip when you dance your tongue back and forth with his.

The way he holds your waist like you’re all he’s ever wanted like he’s a man obsessed, possessed. Whatever you want to call it.

Your hands come up to rest just under his jaw, cupping behind his ear, and feel his hair tickling the tips of your fingers - guiding him back to look at you.

“Pearl Jam sounds the same sometimes,” you say to him, looking at his kiss swollen lips.

“You must be losin’ your hearin’, darlin’ girl.”

He looks drunk. Not just from Seth’s conspicuous beer, but from your kisses. His eyes are soft-blown wide, locking onto your eyes with a haziness that implies they actually want to flutter shut like they have been doing the moment your lips touch. His eyebrows are semi-lifted, not set in their usual, gravity-demanding scowl.

You run your thumb over his jaw, pulling him back to you so lightly it seems like magnetism. His brows furrow, eyes give in and flutter before he’s molding his lips against yours like it’s a drug. Groaning against your mouth as he rests his clenched fist on the wall just above your head. His other hand coming up to the soft skin underneath your jaw.

The sound of you kissing - the little smack and strangely erotic sound of salivating mouths moving together. His soft moans and heavy breaths pushing against your skin as a huff.

You don’t blame him, you feel drunk on this too.

The weight of your arms feels heavier when you lift them to wrap around Joel’s shoulders. Those damn, broad shoulders. You can feel the muscle of them along that soft inner part of your forearms, Can feel them shift and move as he leans in closer to wrap his arms around your waist and leave no atoms between you, his lips against yours like a lifeline - like it kills him every second they’re not.

He fucking moans when you grip the awkward-length hair on his nape.

You’re broken out of the haze by your screaming lungs, pulling away with a wet smack as you pant. Your fluttery eyes - damn it’s contagious - see your breath move through the cold air. The image of how your make-out must’ve looked from the third person, big bad Joel Miller kiss-drunk and desperate - your panting breaths mingling in the air around your faces as you two make kissing seem like something that is as erotic as straight sex outside of the Jackson bar.

You feel the arousal zing through your body before it drips out of you.

His scruff nuzzles against your neck, leaving the same burn you feel around your lips and cheeks. Everything is tingly.

“Joel, someone is going to come out here,” you whisper into the chill. Those lips of his don’t stop their sloppy caress of your neck, making you turn in his direction and try to contain a little noise you know will make him reckless.

He whines - whines - against your neck, not stopping his ministrations, only pulling back to kiss you again, eat you like it’s what he’s been waiting for his whole life.

“Then come back to my place“ he murmurs, but he’s lost in the haze. Almost as if he’s finally reached that hazy high from your mouth that he keeps coming back for.

You melt into him again, pulling him closer until you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours. He’s practically a wall you’re holding onto. Breathing in and molding your mouth around.

There’s a loud squeak and a bang as the bar door opens and knocks against the wall, your hands are still around Joel’s neck as you both look over in surprise. Moments later Tommy’s thrown out right on his ass, which makes Joel laugh immediately.

Tommy looks over with a scowl before looking back to his friends who threw him out.

“C’mon guys!” he huffs, still on the ground

“You’re banned from the jukebox.” Seth grumbles before slamming the door right in Tommy’s face.

It looks like Tommy might go rogue, start a revolution against dictatorship of jukeboxes, but ultimately decides to take his comical frustration out on Joel.

Tommy turns to look at the both of you. Joel is still chuckling slightly, wiping the corner of his eye, still standing right up against you.

“Shut up. You’re busy suckin’ face when I needed backup.” Tommy huffs, wiping stones and dirt off his ass, grumbling to himself, glaring at the door - similarly to his brother - like he could take control of the jukebox with his mind and play Alice In Chains again like a poltergeist.

“Priorities, brother.”

Tommy lovingly gives Joel the finger, before grumbling and walking home, a hand on his probably bruised backside.

Tysm for reading! If you enjoyed pls lmk as well as reblogging! ◡̈

Tags:

[hypnagogics]

UM HI SURPRISE. i promise im working on loreful things but this is bouncing around my brain atm i need it to leave so enjoy. fluffy? smutty brainrot meow yk the drill idk what this is. 18+ whiny & teasing subtop!ellie. "baby/babe" petnames, praise, fingering (r! receiving).

"mmmm i wanna feel you baby." laying on top of you in bed, ellie squeezes at your waist and pushes her head further into the crook of your neck. "you're so warm, so soft. need more." she mumbles, pecking at the delicate pulse point beneath her lips. she coaxes delighted giggles to burst from you, and you feel her face widen into a smile against you, her teeth grazing your neck. fast forward a few moments, and she's sitting by your knees, face flushed, rose petal mouth pursed into a needy pout, shaky hands pulling at your waistband, causing it to snap back against your skin. "lemme fuck you. just wanna make you feel good, m'kay?" the way she's asking—it's so earnest, so eager. "mhm." you nod in approval, heat already pooling in your lower abdomen.

she chuckles, then leans over you to capture your jaw with one hand, and kiss you deeply, her tongue teasing yours with a tentative flick. she knows all the tricks, every little maneuver to make you clench around nothing and crave her more. but, dear ellie being ellie, has as much fun with that as she can.

the moment she feels you buck your hips skyward to bump against her front, she pulls away. cheeky grin taunting you, although without malice behind it. "so cute when you're needy, hm?" "shut. up." you hiss, also in a lighthearted manner. another thing about her, is she never takes it too far. she doesn't irritate you genuinely, just enough to work you up perfectly. to mold you and melt you under her touch, like putty.

her elegantly tattooed hand slinks down your body, tweaking every peak and valley it passes by, finishing its journey between your legs. she palms your pussy gently over your clothes, biting her lower lip when she sees the micro expression on your face. in one swift motion she removes the fabric barrier, your legs instinctively fighting to close in order to combat the cold air. wordlessly she prevents that, greedily eyeing your already-sopping folds, like a lioness about to devour a kill.

"so fuckin' pretty, fuck babe." your heart flutters at the praise, and warmth floods your face. ellie takes her time, swiping one lazy finger through your pussy, collecting your slick to spread you open, unable to hold back a moan as she watches the sight before her. the light touch sends your spiraling. your eyes rolling, back arching, it was nearly embarrassing.

she can't help herself, and stuffs her middle two digits inside you, within no time at all locating your spongy g-spot, beginning to frantically prod at it. her other hand pushes your knee further to the side, and thumb of her working hand stretching up, circling your thumping clit with increasing urgency.

by how she was acting, you'd thing she was the one getting fucked. your breaths speed up, and fingers twisting the sheets underneath you to stay grounded, and you wish you could force your eyes open to watch intently, because the pathetic look on her face was utterly golden.

whines tumble from your lips, louder and louder, reacting to her actions. your brain getting screwed to mush, you will her to go harder, faster, deeper, and as if she's a mind reader—she does just that. "c'mon, yeah, look at thattttt. so beautiful. this all f'me baby?" her voice crackles and wavers, little whimpers cutting her off.

the metaphorical elastic band in your abdomen gets tighter, and you arch backward, and she feels the way you're sucking her in, the pulsing of your clit under her thumb getting more intense as the peak approaches. you cry out her name, and can almost hear her sound tearful as she eggs you on to cum, blinding pleasure overtaking your being, you make a mess all over her hand. she works you through it steadily until the overstimulation aches, until your body is wrung of every ecstatic shockwave. by the time it passes, you open your eyes, and it seems as if she's just as out of breath as you are. she wraps you in an embrace, murmuring praises into you, massaging your still-tense body.

insert your own ending im lazy. if you'd like to be tagged in my fics, click here! thank you for reading, asks, reblogs, and comments are appreciated more than you know. ♡

tags: @andersonfilms @ch6douin @aouiaa @sapphic-ovaries @astro-cat2 @paqerings @r3starttt @littlefallenangel111 @srooch @sinfulprayerss @lvlymicha @sunnsh1ine @anniee333 @pinkcwake @marsworlddd @caszzine @saturnsdrafts @ashaynep @mascdom @xysbree @liddysflyer @fortune777 @brunaedn @bunnitewsilly @mimasroom2 @deliriousrn @infiniteinquiries @thekill3randthefinalgirl @kissyslut

[dadsbongos]

dungeon meshi gave me an excuse to write clone porn

2.6 k words / warnings - readers have boobs and vagina, oral (laios + reader receiving), thigh fucking, porn without plot like none at all, not proofread + written while sleep deprived

summary - on your honeymoon, you and laios have a special kind of shapeshifter encounter

~~~

“Who keeps two towels in the whole house?” you grumble, pulling on the shoes you’d kicked off just minutes ago.

“Like I said, they probably keep some in the shed,” Laios is directly behind you, shoes on and wired to step outside, “Vacation houses out here are rare, but their sheds are more useful for storage than farming tools.”

“Still, did they not think to prepare a little more?” your frustration is not so easily tempered, “They knew a king was coming, didn’t they?”

“I’m sure they did,” Laios opens the front door for you, ushering you outside, “Marcille seemed pretty sure she set this up nicely for us. It’s just a short walk around the back, I could go by myself if you want to finish showering?”

His suggestion makes you sigh, you shake your head, huddling closer to him as chilled wind scathes your damp skin, “I’m just annoyed, it’s nothing for me to be so hostile about… Sorry for losing my mind.”

“I don’t mind,” he smooches the crown of your head and ventures around the house. You chase after, having to keep a hand dragging along the wall to avoid tripping.

“Laios!” you wail, unable to make him out with gray clogging your whole vision, “Laios!”

“Yeah?” you slam into his chest, letting out a muted ‘oomf!’ at the impact.

“It’s so foggy out here,” you grumble.

“It is, guess I forgot how terrible it could be.”

“Dunno how you could forget anything like this.”

Laios groans in irritation at the weather, blindly reaching out until he’s got a hand on your shoulder. Once he’s certain of your position, he reaches out again, “Here, take my hand, I don’t want you to get separated from me.”

You take the hand extended and let Laios tug you towards the shed. By the time you’re inside and the hanging overhead lantern is lit, a sudden discovery is made.

There are two extra bodies among you. You hold one Laios, and the Laios across from you holds the hand of your copy.

A gasp echoes through the room, distinctly Laios-like in passion.

Seems a monster has crossed your paths.

One Laios is taller, a mere two inches, and you think if you really stare that same Laios’ chest is slightly bigger too. He’s also smiling, beaming really, right off the bat while the second Laios’ excitement is more contained to shaking hands and meek giggles. To be fair to both, they thought they’d never see a monster again so you let the strange giddy slide.

However, your duplicate is scary in how precisely Laios remembers you. Your hair is a bit bouncier and lips more glossy than current, but she’s undeniably accurate. Its legs, the swell of its breasts, the mold of its waist -- almost as though you’re gazing through a mirror.

“This would probably be easier if it wasn’t just us,” you think aloud, looking at the two Laioses only to see them poking and prodding at one another.

“They don’t seem too keen on figuring out which is which,” your copy mumbles, earning a glare from you.

“It’s a shapeshifter!” the slightly shorter Laios (who you’re now electing to dub Laios A) shouts, “I haven’t seen one of these in forever! I thought I never would again!”

The other one, Laios B, nods and yanks Laios A’s hair experimentally, then groping his bicep, “It really feels just like I do! Soft, but firm skin and the hair texture’s exactly right!”

As if thinking in sync, the pair slowly turn towards the yous. Four hands turn unto you both to squeeze and roll down the planes of your body. Or, bodies, considering they’re petting down your copy as well.

“Practically identical!” Laios A squeals, kissing your cheek then your copy’s, “Even the plumpness of their cheeks feel the same!”

“Glad you’re having fun,” your dupe cuts in, “but shouldn’t we try getting rid of the fakes before they get rid of us?”

Oh, that little wench.

“Let Laios have fun,” you smack its arm, “You should know this is rare for him now.”

“That attitude’s terrible! He could die if we keep messing around!” it glares at you with an accusatory finger-wag, “I bet you want us to waste time, you fake!”

“You’re the fake, you fake!”

Laios A has to restrain you with both arms around your waist -- while Laios B does the same for your shifter -- to prevent you from knocking a fist into its stupid, fake face.

“There’s gotta be a way to figure out which ones the real one without breaking into fights,” Laios B fusses, hugging the shifter tighter to soothe her. Which, in turn, only agitates you more because what if that Laios is the real one, and he’s in horrible danger holding that monster?!

“We can’t just cut ourselves open,” Laios A’s chest reverberates at your back, then his hand skims down the front of your stomach, fingertips dipping just beneath your waistband, “But maybe we could tell each other’s behaviors apart some other way…”

“Oh, so it’s like that?” you tilt your head back to stare up at Laios A.

He nods, terminally serious despite the pinkish hue trailing from his cheeks to his neck, “It’s like that,” he then darts his eyes between you and your copy, “Can we?”

The real question seems to be: can you two get along for now?

Are you so devoted to Laios that you’re willing to play nice with something so grating?

You sigh and reach up to cup Laios A’s cheek, “Yeah, we can.”

Both Laioses rush to undo the tie of their trousers, only to be stopped by you and your copy -- the two of you falling onto your knees, creeping hands under Laios’ shirt and beneath his pants.

Yanking the soft material down to unveil thick thighs, Laios A above you gasps quietly at the cool air brushing his exposed skin. Your lips climb the meat of his leg, noting that Laios B’s thighs are looking a little rounder. Not that it matters, you’ll gladly bite and suck both.

Fingers dancing along the apple of your cheek redirect your attention, Laios A’s face tinged crimson. You smooch the bone of his hip, nails scaling along the back of his thighs to pull him closer. Beside your face, his cock hardens, color deepening towards his mushroom tip; he keens for more attention, unintentionally smearing leaky precum over your face as his erection twitches. You smooth a thumb along his underside before chastly pecking the weepy head.

Laios B’s hands strip your copy’s shirt, lifting it to paw at its breasts. He kisses down the column of its neck before reaching out for you as well. Rising onto your feet, you run your hands up Laios B’s back to shirk off his top -- Laios A awkwardly lingering behind your clone. His hands find the waistband of its pants, snaking beneath the lip to plunge into its panties.

You press a kiss to Laios B, he doesn’t turn to return the affection, but you recover quickly by pulling down both you and your duplicate’s bottoms. Laios A’s neck cranes over your copy’s shoulder to snatch your lips for himself. Laios B’s hands warm and calloused from labor as they careen up your waist to rid you of your shirt as well. He sucks a violet array from your shoulder to jaw, grinding his turgid girth between your thighs -- your wetness welcoming him.

Laios A moans at the sight of himself thrusting along your soaked slit, fingers quickening inside your copy until its own slick is rolling towards the floor. While Laios B releases muted groans and puffs into your ear.

“Need to be inside you,” Laios A whines, kissing your copy’s lips before striding past all three of you towards the center of the room. Laios B and you tilt to watch him.

Laios A quickly flattens his back against the floor, cobblestone acclimating to his rising body heat, he pulls you down by the waist -- then beckoning your copy via wave. One of his hands cradles your waist while the other smoothes along your copy’s thigh. Silently urging it to kneel over his face, all while his twitching cock bobs toward the apex of your thighs.

“Want to know if here’s the same, too,” Laios A murmurs into your dupe’s thighs, sharply jerking his hips towards yours.

Suddenly, large hands are burrowing into the thicket of your hair, swerving your eyes to Laios B. Your tongue lulls in time with your copy, lips brushing hers around the base of Laios B’s flushed head. Needily, he mushes your faces together, thrusting between the wet cavern of your mouths. Hands just as soft as yours slither beneath you to work Laios A inside you. Laios A snaps his knees up, feet on the floor, to aid your copy’s effort. His hips buck up, punching air from your chest as he pops into your hole.

A louder mewl slithers past your copy’s lips, Laios A’s tongue lathering its slit before pausing at its clit, bathing the bud in extra attention. His thumbs splay it open just for easier access to tongue-fuck. Meanwhile, your sleepy bouncing rhythm is interrupted by abrupt, sharp humping throwing you off balance. The only reason you don’t fall over is Laios B stubbornly holds your head still, fucking the sodden gap between yours and your clone’s faces; otherwise leaving you to your own devices. You manage to catch yourself on Laios A’s chest, firm muscles flexing beneath your palms with his throaty hums and whimpers of pleasure.

Your tongue clashes with your clone’s -- soft and wet and warm.

Pulling both your heads back, Laios B rearranges you so your clone is left squealing around his balls while he slaps the meaty weight of his cock on your tongue. Sliding toward the back of your throat, his face flushes as he hungrily coaxes your head further down. Until your molten cheeks meet the protrusions of his pelvic bones.

A hand bigger than yours (though smaller than the one in your hair) rests on your flexing tummy, pressing against the bulging evidence of which Laios is inside you. Laios A groans at the feeling, and you quickly fumble your hand over his, pressing harder with a delighted gasp that ends in a gag and choke. Their sizes are indecipherable, and if the mood were different you could almost be ashamed by how perverted it makes you seem.

Laios B throws his head back as your throat spasms around his tip, lip cinched between his teeth and brows furrowed. He forces your head side-to-side, reveling in the bend of your muscles shifting to accommodate his dick. Laios A, however, stretches his hand (a little uncomfortably) so his thumb can swish messily against your clit. Your volume grows, quickly overpowering both Laios B and your own duplicate. Spurring Laios A to hasten, jostling you with his powerful drilling paired with stimulating your clit.

The other hand of Laios A has found one of your clone’s tits, squeezing and padding the nipple with his thumb. She’s grinding down against his nose, hips jumping and muffled mewls just barely scratching past its lips into the sensitive sack of Laios B’s balls. Spit gurgling down its chin, drying against its breasts and Laios A’s hand.

Drool steadily pools at the pucker of your own lips, pushed out everytime B shoves in -- saliva splatters his hips, dripping down his thighs and soaking his base as well as your entire lower face. The quicker he fucks your face, the sloppier and wetter it gets. Which is certainly in character for Laios.

But so is the way the one on his back is staving off his burgeoning orgasm to make sure (both of) you finish first. Something he always tries.

Laios A’s hips snap up firmly, crooking up into you midair, deep as possible to ensure all his cum is milked by your cunt. He moans into your clone’s cunt, now content to let his tongue hang out as it fucks his face -- his hand still squishing its tit.

Yet something he always fails.

Laios usually cums before you, but he’s also got the stamina to soldier on until you drop.

Determined, Laios swirls your clit, fevered thrusts slowing to meet your bouncing on his cock. Another slush of saliva oozes past your lips, lubing the shapeshifter as you cry around its erection. Laios fucks you through your orgasm, evidently loving how cum spews from your weeping cunt -- leaking down his cock, over his nuts, and spilling onto the cobblestone below.

Faux Laios spits cum down your throat with a few final aggressive jerks. Your clone is the last, and the quietest, shy huffs scarcely audible between skin on skin and both you and Laios’ noisy crooning.

The shapeshifters tumble off, thoroughly exhausted, and you fare no better collapsing into Laios’ chest. He leisurely jabs the last of your energy from you before pulling out altogether. Sweetly pecking your forehead, Laios murmurs something you don’t quite catch before he rises -- still naked -- to drive off the imposters.

Snagging both by the back of their necks, Laios herds the pair towards the back wall, then scooping you up to carry towards the main house. Once your doppelgangers are locked outside, Laios can focus on getting you in bed.

You pinch the juncture of his neck, yawning into his chest, “Clothes…”

“I know, I know,” he slumps against the door upon getting inside, laying his head over yours -- eyes fluttering with drowsiness as soon as he crosses into the master bed, “I’ll go back when the shapeshifter’s dealt with. You brought more clothes, right?”

You nod clumsily. Then peek at him through heavy lashes, “How do you know I’m the right one anyway?”

(you trust him to know which you was which, you just want him to bask in this)

Laios grins, visibly excited to share as he slips you beneath the sheets, “You’re always loud when we have sex, so I knew the version of you trying to be quiet couldn’t be it. And it was too shy about sitting on my face -- we’ve been together a while so you should be used to it by now,” his expression grows somehow brighter before disappearing from your sight, voice lively from the bathroom, “Could you tell which me was me?”

“Mhm,” you wait for him to return with a damp washcloth before mumbling your own reasoning, “The other one was too rough, kept shovin’ my head. And he never kissed me,” you fling a hand out, and Laios moves his head so your palm lands on his cheek, “Which was very unlike you.”

“You’re so smart,” he muses, shifting to kiss your palm before lacing his free hand with yours and retucking it in bed so he can properly clean the mixed cum between your thighs. Then, suddenly, he’s frowning.

“Aw, what’s wrong?”

“This might actually be my last time seeing a monster, unless it's a corpse Izutsumi brings me…”

“Poor baby,” you’ll never understand his fascination -- monsters are deadly and terrible and most are ugly as sin, but you’re useless to denying Laios anything so you always indulge him, “You could sing me the mermaids’ song, would that help you feel better?”

Laios sits up straighter, finishing cleaning you off, “Can I sing to the end? I never get to finish it.”

“Of course, you can.”

Quiet, hysterical giggles leave Laios’ mouth as he slides into bed beside you, hugging you into his chest before clearing his throat to begin singing.

(you have to keep pinching yourself awake to actually let Laios finish the song before falling asleep, but his grateful little kisses on your hairline are enough thanks)

[ozzgin]

Yandere!Monster x Reader [Asylum Spider]

A/N: This feels a little bit strange to post. It's an older OC (the drawing I used is like 3 years old) I had for a horror manga. I thought it would make a good yandere if you're into actual monsters. And the atmosphere is a lot like an indie horror rpg. :)

You wake up in a damp, dark room with no recollection of how you ended up here. Hovering above you is a repugnant beast whose appearance terrifies you into silence. Yet it doesn’t attack you. Quite the opposite, it seems to want to guide you outside. You must escape quickly, as whatever lurks above causes the creature to squirm in fear. Yet as departure approaches, a desire blooms within its ancient heart: must you really leave it behind?

TW: Monsters, horror, implied violence/abuse

Your vision is blurry and your head is throbbing with a harrowing, unbearable headache. You've been awakened from your unexplainable slumber by cold yet burning drops of liquid hitting your cheek at irregular intervals. You squint and try to focus on whatever lies before you. Slowly, the object becomes sharper and your eyes widen in terror. Drooling above you, a monstrosity. It looks almost human. Sharp, curved teeth are grotesquely gawking their way out. The skin is discolored, similar to the blueish tint of someone struck by hypothermia. The creature seems to be wearing a strange sort of straight jacket, tightly securing the arms and ending in a shredded rag, dangling between the skinny, crooked legs. Yet the most disturbing feature are the massive arthropod appendages that fan out from behind, suspending the abomination above ground.

The ridiculous, offensive sight drains the blood from your face and you hold your breath. You wait for the final blow that never arrives. It lowers its head and inhales deeply, trying to detect if you're still alive. Satisfied with the answer, it scurries aside and leaves you enough space to lift yourself up. The wide smile remains plastered on its face, making it look like a deformed mannequin. With nothing left to lose, you decide to risk it. "Can you talk?" you mumble, unsure about the potential response. It shakes its head in denial and you raise your eyebrows. So it can understand human speech.

You stand up and look around. There's a pungent smell irritating your nostrils, and large pipes slither their way over walls and ceilings in a maze of rusted metal. The floor is flooded and your ankles are sunken in murky water. Above the only door hangs an old plaque, eaten by mold and age. "W∎ter & Drain∎∎∎: Pro∎∎rty of ∎∎∎∎∎ Asylum". Ah. This must be the sewers, then. How did you even end up in the sewers of an asylum? Maybe someone upstairs can provide you with answers. You turn to the creature that has been obediently observing you.

"Can you take me to the main building?"

The humanoid spider screeches and trashes its appendages across the water. You jolt and step back instinctively. Is it mad? Have you upset it somehow? No, if anything, it looks afraid. You stare at its bizarre convulsions until it occurs to you the movements aren't quite as erratic as you assumed. It is drawing something using a swamped patch of ground.

Don't let find you Get out

You're choking with dread again. The ominous words send a cold chill down your spine and you shiver, helpless.

"How am I supposed to get out if I don't know where the exit is?" You demand with your last ounce of energy. 

It wobbles its way towards the door, and stops to face you expectantly. Is it offering to guide you? You're not quite sure whether to trust the ghoulish creature, but the rotting room is filling you with panic. 

Anything is better than being alone here. 

What a suffocating atmosphere. The corridors are tall, narrow and black. You can barely discern anything around you and the only sounds are the ghastly echoes of the metal creaking and bending from the water pressure. That, and your uncertain steps across the muddy flow. You glance at the creature. Its eyes are covered by a leather blindfold, so the darkness mustn't be an impediment for it. Then again, how can it tell its way within this colossal labyrinth?

"Is this where you live?" you whisper, trying to make conversation. You need something to distract you from your pounding heart.

It nods hesitantly. 

Your foot hits something and you instinctively attempt to kick it off. Perhaps some algae that begun developing in this forgotten grave. It seems to have wrapped around your ankle, so you bend down to remove it with your hands. It's a soaked sheet of paper. The ink has mostly diffused into the page, but you can still read some of the larger headlines. "Dozens have disappeared. The mystery of the abandoned Asylum, believed to be haunted by the countless victims of horrid experimentation". Next to the title is a photograph too smudged to make out.

You stop in your tracks, focused on the blurry letters. The monster patiently waits for you. Is it something to be asked? You gaze up at its features, trying to take in the details. You take a deep breath in and open your mouth. 

"Did they...um...do this to you upstairs?"

It seems to ponder your question with the same unfaltering grin that now feels painfully forced. Finally, it nods.

What a strange little creature you are. He returns your curious stare. Now that he thinks about it, you must be the very first person to follow him. When was the last time he spoke to another living creature? He can't remember. The others would panic beyond control at the mere sight of him, blindly running away and getting lost in the sewers. Later he'd find their bodies quickly decomposing under the running water, and he'd dispose of them outside. No one deserves to die here. The really unfortunate ones made it upstairs, into the asylum. He'd rather not brood over it. 

Yet here you are, asking questions and walking alongside him as if you were on a stroll. He doubts he's gotten less hideous over the years. Then again, he can't see to confirm. Just as he can't see you. Despite his lack of vision, he is overwhelmed by the feeling that you're a beautiful being. You must be. And thankfully, you won't have to worry yourself with any of the horrors lurking these cursed grounds for much longer. He'll help you escape.

Then he'll be alone once more. It shouldn't bother him this much, it's always been like this. But meeting you has reminded him just how much he missed the presence of another human, how dearly he longed for a kind voice. Is it selfish to fear isolation? 

"Oh! You're right, I can see a gate from here." You exclaim in gratitude. 

You sprint towards the rusty bars and feel a cool breeze against your skin. This must lead outside. The creature has kept its word. Soon enough all of this will be a nightmare of the past.

"I-" 

The monster seems to be making an effort to speak, but all that comes out is a dissonant croak. You're confused and he can sense it. 

Must you really leave him behind? He needs to let you know that he'd like to stay with you, but his throat is contracting pointlessly and there's nothing he can use as a writing surface. What is there to do? His chest is tightening with the frenzied desire to keep you with him forever.

Please don't leave him.

[tyinghershoe]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ Unscented |

Shigaraki’s hands were as soft as Tenko allowed them to be.

Pairing: Shigarki/Tenko x Reader

Genre: fluff/oneshot/drabble

check out my masterlist!

You’d love to one day write parallels about Shigaraki’s hands.

How the fingers that wreaked havoc upon Japan once held you with the lightest touch. That, yes, they’ve caused pain and suffering - but at the same time, you’ve never felt anything softer.

They never said Tenko wasn’t human. 

Your first encounter with him was as expected. Shigaraki was always on guard, his eyes distant as they glanced you over. There was a moment of silence as this took place, the wooden floors creaking each time you shifted your feet, you wondered if this was the only thing he listened to as time passed (there was no room for conversation with just him and himself).

Rumors of the League were whispered in every alley you turned to, and while you never considered yourself a villain, the thought of being a perfect fit for society was just as incomprehensible. You noticed the flaking of Shigaraki’s palms and wondered if he would’ve ever fit that mold. (One day, when you’re both better acquainted, Tenko will help you shape your own).

“I wouldn’t call you a villain,” Tenko whispered to you one night, his voice barely audible over the creaking floorboards. The bar was still, with you two the exception, enclosed between the dim lighting from the lamps above. This was the closest you two have ever been, your fingers gently placing globs of lotion onto the webs of his hands. They weren’t as rough of a texture as you imagined, the skin feeling delicate beneath you. Perhaps it was the brand you bought this time.

Those eyes, once distant and wary, were now soft as they met yours. “You have yet to kill anyone,” he persisted, his tone somber and solaced. “And as far as I’m concerned, you still work a 9 to 5 job, just like the rest of the world.”

“I have yet to pay off a parking ticket.” You confessed, your voice filled with a type of guilt. The alcohol here was less than holy, yet the man in front of you offered acceptance, one that was devoid of judgment. There was a dumbfounded expression as he closed his eyes, allowing you to softly trace the irritation away as your thumbs gently soothed his flaking face - you wondered if this source of discomfort was physical or something more.

“I won’t sell you out.” He deadpanned, before turning to you with a menacing grin, “But seriously, I destroy everything around me. They call me a murderer and yet you’re still here. You’re still here.” Shigaraki grunted, his eyes turning dark and distant as if it were your first time meeting.

There was only a hum of acknowledgment as you finished aiding his inflammation. It’s times like these in which Shigaraki was unpredictable, but you were only ever worried for his sake. Tenko was always an impulsive man. “I’ve never felt safer,” you murmured, rewarding you with a scoff of disbelief. 

“You’ll regret saying that if you ever turn to dust.” He mumbled, the threat empty. His (now soft) hand wrapped around your wrist, yet they held no real malice - you made it a point to ignore the fact that his pinky has always been raised.

-

a/n: How many months has is been since I last posted a fic? My age is showing in the sense that it’s hard for me to sit down and write all the time, but the mha hyper fixation is back, so hopefully the desire to write comes with it! This is my first time writing anything that isn’t Izuku Midoriya, I’m trying to branch out of characters that I’m comfortable with, but I promise I’ll post more of him soon.

Thank you for reading!

Follow me on ao3 @tyinghershoe

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Meat.

Pairing: Yandere!Ayato x Reader (Genshin).

Word count: 4.5k.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Branding/Burning, Prolonged Imprisonment, Forced Marriage, Possessive Behavior, Descriptions of Gore, Implied Stalking, Mentions of Pregnancy, and Suicidal Ideation. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

You always thought you would wear red on your wedding day.

It was a family tradition – passed down with dutiful care for as long as anyone could imagine. Your grandmother had given her dress to your mother who had gifted it to you, her only child, on your eighteenth birthday, years before you would so much as think about getting something as permanent as marriage. Still, you safeguarded it with a religious devotion, never going more than a week without laying it out to check for signs of moths or mold. When you found yourself on a boat set on a course for Inazuma and could bring nothing but what could fit in the space underneath your bunk, her dress was the only item you truly could not bear to leave behind.

It was one of the few things Ayato let you keep, when he first brought you to his estate. He hadn’t wanted to, but he’d known that you’d throw yourself off the nearest cliff if anything ever happened to that dress. You still would, if he so much as touched it without your permission.

The kimono you were being fitted for now was not red. The fine silk was pure white, the detailed embroidery along the hems and sleeves dark blue and bright, shining gold. The symbol of his archon glowed violet on the swell of the train – meant to appease the other factions of the tri-commission who protested when Ayato announced his intent to not only marry a commoner, but a foreigner. You hated that embellishment most of all, more than the sickly way his colors crawled over your body, more than the irritating smoothness of his favored silks where they hugged against your form and groped at your skin. It marked you as a tool, something to be used to one end or another. It marked you as a sacrifice – and an unwanted one, at that.

“Just as exquisite as I knew you’d be,” Ayato announced, his voice strong and unabashed. You’d begged him not to, but he’d insisted on sitting in on your appointment, making sure you couldn’t correct seamstress or overrule any of the choices he’d made on your behalf. The tailor hummed as she fastened a temporary sash around your midriff, tight enough to press uncomfortably against your ribs. If you needed to cry on your wedding day (which, in all likelihood, you would), it would have to be loosened. “How do you like it?”

You hated it.  You despised it. You wanted to claw it apart with your own pristine nails, separate each thread and seam with your very own teeth. You would’ve set yourself on fire just to see it turned to ash that much sooner.

“It’s perfect.” Your own voice sounded distant, distorted. There was no façade of sincerity. He knew as well as you did that there was nothing he could force onto you that you wouldn’t loathe, and you knew that any word uttered as to your hatred for him outside of the privacy of your shared bedroom would result in a collection of fresh rope burns to decorate your wrists, the better half of a night spent bent over his knee. “So long as it pleases you, my lord.”

You dropped your eyes to the floor, attempting to spare yourself what suffering you could, but your resistance didn’t matter; you could hear the sharpness of his smile, picture the way his head tilted to the side as he basked in his own self-satisfaction as he went on, addressing the tailor. “If there’s a veil, you can get rid of it.”

You didn’t think you would ever get used to the way his voice seemed to grate when he was happy with himself.

 “I think my heart might give out if I’m not able to see my beautiful fiancé’s lovely smile.”

~

After meeting Ayato, you began to dream in red.

It was more of a pink, at first – during the first few weeks of his courtship, when the extent of his intrusive affection was a few dendrobiums left on your doorstep and a lingering glance as the handsome young commissioner passed your stall during his weekly stroll through the city market. For a short while, after his possessive habits began to rear their head and you were able to catch his guards in your peripheral more often than not, your subconscious was tinted a near-violent shade of scarlet, the kind that would leave you drenched in your own sweat and half-suffocated by the time you forced yourself to wake up. Recently, since he announced your engagement, they’d taken on a darker shade; choking velvets and deep crimsons blurring the distorted setting as Ayato’s faceless body moved on top of you, as his mouth unhinged and his lashing tongue dragged you down his waiting throat. On your worst nights, he’d tear you apart with his hands, first, divide you into neat, orderly pieces that he could slip past his lips and savor one at a time, one after another, until there was nothing left of you. He’d always preferred you in your most consumable form.

It was ironic, really, considering just how little red he let seep into your waking life. Maybe you had a deficiency; like a pregnant woman craving fish to make up for a lack of calcium. The closest you got to red from the doorway to his study were a few cherry blossoms fluttering past the window, their color dulled by age and their tree nearly stripped bare by the approaching winter. He looked away from his paperwork as you shrugged past the screen door, his pale eyes lighting up as he saw the tea tray in your hands. It was Thoma’s handiwork, but you doubted Ayato cared. He wanted to see you in the role of a caretaker, playing out the part he wrote for you to the best of your limited acting skills. What happened behind the curtain was none of his concern.

“To what do I owe the honor?” he asked as you set the tray on his desk. “I can’t remember the last time you visited me on your own.”

You flashed him a small smile. “Can’t I dote on my soon-to-be husband freely?”

He visibly straightened at the word ��husband’, a familiar zeal infecting his expression. There was a quirk to his grin, a light tap to his thigh, and the tea went ignored as you obediently fell into his lap, your legs hanging over the side of his chair as his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you snug against him. If he was a monster, he’d be one with a thousand hands and a million fingers; he couldn’t seem to go a full minute without clutching at your hips, groping at your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a deep, relieved sigh. “Husband,” he repeated back to you, all spellbound awe and deceiving wonder. “Archons, I can’t wait to be your husband.”

You wondered, sometimes, if it was his childhood that made him the way he was. After so many years of loneliness, so many tiny disappointments and frigid betrayals, you could only imagine he’d be eager to grab the first warm body he could and refuse to let you go. But, he let Ayaka come and go as she pleased, and seemed to take a certain delight in sending Thoma off on long-winded, far-flung errands. Whatever cruelty his upbringing had bred, it was clearly reserved for you.

His hand slid underneath the slit of your yukata, his breath turning hot and unpleasant against your collarbone, and you drew back with an airy laugh. “I do have an ulterior motive,” you admitted, hoping his curiosity would offset his insatiability, if only for a few seconds. “It’s about my wedding dress.”

“The breathtaking and priceless dress I’m having made by the nation’s most talented tailors so that all of Inazuma will know that I’m marrying the most beautiful person in Teyvat?” He raised his head, clicking his tongue. “What about it?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” you said, because he wouldn’t listen to you if you didn’t and you needed him to listen to you. “It’s just— I’m such a long way from home, and I know my family won’t be able to come, but—” You cut yourself off, swallowing back the bile that threatened to spoil your sweet smile. “I was hoping we’d be able to incorporate my mother’s dress, somehow. If it’s not too late.”

It wasn’t. You’d been tracking the progress of his tailors meticulously, counting down the days until your wedding like a prisoner waiting for their execution date, and if it was one of his whims, another row of bedding added onto the sleeves or a new embroidery pattern worked onto the train, you knew that there’d be all the time in the world to make any adjustments he asked for. Still, his smile wavered, a brief sigh slipping past his lips as he shook his head. “My love,” The petname lulled off of his tongue as if it’d been coated in sugar and syrup and all the worst things you could think of. “That’s quite the risk to take. The poor thing’s so old, it might fall apart as soon as the tailor’s needle touches it.”

He'd been crueler, before – called the dress a rag as he looked at you with disdain-tinted pity, swore that your reliance on the filthy relic must’ve been caused by some inherent failure of your homeland – but your heart still clenched just a little tighter in your chest at his veiled disdain. “I’d like to try, at least.” Your hands curled around his collar, your frown taking on a more pleading note. “Please, my lord?” A pause, a tightened hold. “Please, Ayato?”

It was his given name, loving and tender and so rarely spoken in your voice, that did him in. He relented with an airy groan, letting his head roll forward in faux exasperation. “We’ll see.”

You beamed, but he was too lost in you to notice, already preoccupied with pressing open-mouthed kisses into your shoulders, your neck. The sash of your yukata was drawn loose, your sleeves pulled down to your elbows and your body shifted onto his desk, where he could spread your legs apart and bury his face between them. Your eyes drifted back to the cherry blossoms trickling past the window, but whatever tree they’d been falling from had finally been stripped bare. All you could see was the bright, cloudless sky – blue enough to leave you burnt and begging for a storm.

~

Two springs ago, the Kamisato Estate had been overrun with finches.

It’d been a comedy of errors, in hindsight. Ayaka had taken up a fondness for a new kind of flower – one native to Sumeru, introduced to her by an outlander with golden hair and knowing eyes. Thoma, the miracle worker that he was, quickly found a way to propagate it in the estate’s garden, and within the month, little violet blossoms had consumed all that they could reach despite the best efforts of the gardeners to keep them in-check. It would’ve been a delightful problem to have on its own, but the peak of the infestation happened to align with an annual migration of a type of finch that happened to hold a particular shining for a plant with a similar shape and color and— well, anyone could’ve guessed what happened next.

It was a nightmare for Thoma and the other groundskeepers and, since Ayato was staying in the city on business, paradise for you. You spent your days in the courtyard, showing the servants’ children how to braid crowns out of vines and press flowers between the pages of books stolen from Ayato’s personal library. You and Ayaka fed seeds to the red-crowned invaders and coaxed them close enough to pet and sketch, as little talent as you had for the latter, and she listened as you rambled excitedly about the crane-headed whistles you used to make every summer for a very wealthy ornithologist with very slippery fingers. She was just as lonely as her brother, albeit significantly less deranged, and you – trapped, isolated, desperate you – were the perfect victim for her. The two of you were never quite friends, but you came close that spring.

And then, Ayato returned. The flowers were uprooted, the children sent back to their chores, and the finches driven away with nets and stones and salt. You sobbed for hours the day the final flock left, and by means of consolation, Ayato presented you with a blue-speckled wren in a cage of pure silver, silk flowers bound to the bars with yellow ribbons as a reminder of your lost haven. To this day, you still aren’t sure if he meant it to be as cruel of a gift as it was.

You made it all of two days before risking another month spent shackled to Ayato’s bed and sneaking past the guards posted at the estate’s frontmost gates, the golden cage tucked against your chest. You released it in the woods, somewhere with plenty of tree cover and places to hide while it remembered how to be a wild creature, and watched with a smile as it fluttered past the cage’s door and into the open air, eventually landing on the leaf-littered ground.

It hopped all of three tiny steps before a fox emerged from the underbrush and swallowed it whole.

~

“Are you still with us, love?”

You should’ve gone limp. You should’ve acted as if the pain had gotten to you. You should’ve pretended you were dead to the world and that you couldn’t feel his cock languidly thrusting into you and that you’d gone numb to the searing iron slowly cooling into against the small of your back but, for as resentful as your mind was to him, your body was entirely subservient to Ayato. You tried to respond verbally, and when your voice caught in your throat, you forced yourself to nod, the motion small and shaky. Ayato rewarded you with a breathy chuckle, a fleeting touch to the curve of your spine. A hundred pinpricks of purified agony accompanied his touch.

The silver brand had been commissioned from the finest metal crafters in Inazuma City, made to resemble the warped camellia that was the Kamisato Clan’s crest, and you let out an agonized scream as Ayato drew it back and pressed a calloused thumb into the tender patch of burnt skin. “You always do make such pretty noises for me.” He circled the shape of the white-hot bloom, drawing out another ragged whimper. “It’s a shame I only get to hear them when you misbehave.”

You wanted to apologize, to beg for his forgiveness, but try as you might, you couldn’t seem to remember what you’d done wrong. You hadn’t tried to run away. You hadn’t talked to any of the servants. You hadn’t done anything aside from smile and sit beside him as he spoke with the head of another clan – an older man whose eyes burnt into you for the entirety of their brief conversation. As far as you could tell, he was just a particularly shameless nobleman trying to decipher the curiosity that was the Yashiro Commissioner’s reclusive bride, but Ayato hated letting other men gawk at you at the best of times. Such prolonged exposure would’ve surely brought out the worst of his possessive habits.

You felt something tighten in your chest, catch in your throat, but you only realized you were crying when Ayato’s lips ghosted over your cheek, the gentleness of the gesture quickly replaced with the brutality of his fingers tangled in your hair, your head forced down and into the plush of his bed. You body threatened to collapse, but his free hand fell to your hip, keeping your back arched and your ass raised as he ground lazily into your cunt, in no rush to put you out of your suffering. “I think,” he groaned, lust heavy in his voice. “We’re going to have a big family. Half a dozen kids, at least.”

You beat your fists against the mattress, shaking your head violently, and he twitched inside of you. “They’ll have your eyes,” he went on, a sadistic delight in his voice. “And my swordsmanship, and I’ll love them as much as I love you.” He paused, the head of his cock scraping against something deep and vulnerable inside of you. “Well, almost as much as I love you. As much as I can.”

You tried to struggle, to get away from him, but Ayato held you close, his grip as unrelenting as his slow, aching tempo. With a calculated sort of grace, he leaned towards you, slotting his chest against your back and bringing his mouth to the shell of your ear. “You don’t think it’s too soon to start, do you, darling?”

All you could do was try and fail to scream in response.

~

The first gift Ayato ever gave to you was a necklace the color of freshly split sapphires.

He insisted that you not think of it as a present, that you consider it little more than justified repayment for an item from your stall broken by the clumsy fingers of one of his couriers, but it was a present, it couldn’t be anything else. His courier had paid for the ruined pottery days prior, and yet, he’d sought you out in person to apologize with that sun-bright smile, to let his fingertips brush against yours as he passed you a satin-lined case with a perfect, ocean-blue velvet choker tucked safely inside. It was a beautiful thing, embellished with silver and dripping with transparent crystals, but you’d liked the color most of all. It’d reminded you of Ayato, and there’d been a time when you treasured any excuse to think of him.

You’d worn it the first time you saw each other properly, too. The occasion wasn’t formal enough to warrant something so needlessly extravagant, but you couldn’t seem to stop smiling for the entirety of your brief-meal-turned-seven-hour-conversation, and as your night came to an end, perched on the edge of a cliff underneath the Raiden Shogun’s palace and breathless from laughing, he told you that if you weren’t careful, he might just fall in love with you. You’d told him that, if he waited a few more days, you might fall in love with him, too.

You’d been wearing the same necklace when he broke your heart for the first time. It’d been an overcast day, the sky a clouded blueish grey and the shogun’s fury just barely audible in the far distance. He told you, with that perfect grin and those lonely eyes, that it really was terribly improper for the lover of a commissioner to run some meager stall in a sweat-soaked market, that he owed you better than a cramped room on the outskirts of the city where you had to wade through hours of farmland to reach anything of importance. When you said that you enjoyed your work, that you adored the back-breaking labor of your craft and loved having neighbors who would leave baskets of cabbage and lavender melon on your doorstep in exchange for misshapen cups and off-pattern bowls, he laughed as if you’d said the funniest thing in the world and cupped your face in his hands, pulling you into a kiss deep enough and sweet enough to make you forget whether or not you’d agreed with him.

You were brought to the Kamisato estate less than a full month later and had yet to leave since.

~

The final garment was delivered two weeks before your wedding day. You watched from your pavilion as Ayato met the courier at the estate’s gates, accepting a large package wrapped in scarlet silk and brushing off the guards’ attempts to carry it on his behalf. You were embroidering, that day – a delicate, time-consuming art that Ayato praised in comparison to the messy, unpredictable medium of clay. You loathed the monotony of it, the strictness of the patterns, but it meant Ayato was less likely to break your fingers when he found you scrounging away spare mora in the hopes of some perpetually eventual escape and so, you embroidered.

“My mother’s dress,” you said, as soon as he was close enough to hear you. The wooden hoop was forgotten in your lap as you stared up at him, hope written clearly across your expression. “Do you know what they did with it?”

His grin widened. “Eager, are we?” You nodded frantically, and he added, “If I’d didn’t know better, I’d say you care about a dress more than your own betrothed.”

He settled next to you, the package laid across his thighs. He moved to unwrap it, then pivoted – his attention shifting as his gloved hand took hold of your wrist. He’d been touching you more delicately, lately, something you couldn’t help but link with his long-brewing but only recently materialized desire for children. It was a problem you elected to deal with later on, after the wedding, if only for your own inability to process just how horrific of a problem it was.

(There was a part of you which knew, even before your conscious mind could bear to accept it, that you would never be able to love something he put inside of you. Ayato’s obsession was enduring, able to feed off of nothing and contort reality to suit its needs, but your love had always been a rational thing, bound to end the moment it became inconvenient to house. Your love for your homeland died with your mother. Your love for Ayato died with your abduction. And, whatever love you could’ve had for a child— no, a shackle would die the moment the foul creature was born. You could hold no affection for a child that was made in Ayato’s image, that would be cleaved from your flesh for the sake of his happiness, and if by some miracle you did love the monstrosity, then you could only assume it would be because you’d abandoned all hope for yourself. Both futures seemed equally grim.)

“Ayato,” you simpered, leaning against his side. “Please?”

He rolled his eyes, playing soft as he handed you the oversized package. “It should be wrapped separately. I said I didn’t want to see the finished product until the day-of.”

Your hands shook as you undid the many knots. A smaller bundle sat within, separate from the tumor of ivory fabric you forced yourself not to linger on, and you took it up with a desperate sort of keenness, practically trembling as you tore it open with no regard for the integrity of its packaging. The crimson silk was torn away to reveal—

Blue.

Dark, never-ending blue.

“The color came out so beautifully. I’m glad you protested the way you did – otherwise, I might’ve never known we were missing something on our wedding day.” This time, you didn’t fight as he tore the remains of your mother’s dress out of your hands, holding out a sash the shade of apathetic night. You searched for something familiar, for something you could use to ground yourself, but it was absent of all recognizability, desecrated to the point of being all-but alien to you. “It had to be dyed, of course, but I’ve been told the process only cost it a moment of its integrity. The tailors—”

You blinked, but your vision remained black when you opened your eyes. Your body was lurching forward, and then you were in Ayato’s arms, limp and buzzing. Ayato was laughing, as shocked as you were drained, and you made no effort to pull away from him. “My poor little wife. I know – the anticipation’s almost too much to bear.” He pressed a kiss into your forehead. “Why don’t we spend some time together, like we used to? I think I can push my obligations aside for the day, considering the occasion.”

You didn’t respond, but he gathered into his arms regardless. He had always seemed to prefer you as dead weight.

~

You did end up in red on your wedding day, but you doubted you’d be getting married, anymore.

His own sword slid and out of his back with a wet, gripping noise – only interrupted when the blade slipped in your hands and hit bone rather than viscera. Blood splattered against the white of your kimono with every plunge, staining the susceptible fabric easily and leaving you struggling to keep your feet underneath you as the puddle of scarlet grew deeper, as the screen walls began to drip and your lungs filled with copper and iron. Ayato, the ever-worried lover that he was, had come to check on you before the ceremony, fussing over your blank eyes and the tear-tracks that had ruined your make-up twice, by then. He’d been concerned, but giddy, unable to keep himself away from you despite his many promises of tradition and decor.

He'd made it three, maybe four minutes before beginning to toy with the clasps running down your chest.

You’d taken up the first thing you saw – a hand mirror gilded with shining rose gold – and brought it down on his head.

That, on its own, would’ve left him with a scar and little else, but you’d worked quickly, drawing the sword from its sheath on his belt and bringing it down into anything that seemed vital, anything you could reach, anything that bled calming, soothing red. He stopped moving on the fifth strike, his uncalled upon Vision going dull on the sixth, and on the seventh, you heard someone call for the guards.

You waited until you could hear their footsteps before falling to your knees, bringing the point of your blade to your stomach and clenching your eyes shut, praying to any archon who would listen that you’d hit something they couldn’t be healed, that they’d lend you a more merciful fate than another jail cell, another lifetime of entrapment.  You plunged the blade into your stomach and—

And were met with little more than a cold, blunt sensation and a bottomless pit of despair.

You opened your eyes, your gaze flickering from your ice-coated blade to the doorway of your dressing room, now occupied by Kamisato Ayaka, one hand raised and her Vision pulsing at her side. Guards rushed in on either side of her, grabbing at your shoulders and wrists, but your stare never left Ayaka, her parted lips, her flushed cheeks.

Her bright eyes, just as blue and just as lonely as her brother’s had ever been.

[depravitycentral]

yandere, 18+

I know I write about this kind of stuff a lot, but there’s just something about men humping inanimate objects that just really gets to me.

It’s the desperation that they can't control. It's the physical urge to move, to feel something underneath them, their body physically unable to stop itself from fucking something. It's the way their hips snap and buck and jolt all without them meaning it, their body betraying them on the most primal level because their subconscious is recognizing that they need something warm and soft and oh so pretty to sink into, to rut against until he's smearing pearls of white against soft, supple skin. It's the uncontrollable need to hump themselves against you, really.

Fucking their fist and mechanically bringing their wrist up and down again and again until cum oozes from the tip is fine and dandy, but they need more. They need the full immersion of the fantasy of fucking you, their brain needing the mental images and the physical motions of thrusting, pretending with every fiber of their being that its your warm, wet cunt sucking them in, the velvety feel of your walls leaving phantom touches against his skin.

(Some of them even go so far as to scratch at their own back, eyes rolling to the back of their head imagining that it’s you leaving your mark on him, that it’s your nails digging into his skin and digging into him, making him yours yours yours. They'll pinch at their own nipples, press fingertips hard against their biceps, even wrap a hand around his neck hard enough to leave the area red and irritated just to simulate the way that you'd touch him.)

Pillows, cushions, blankets, anything soft that could be a poor stand-in for your body is fine. Anything that he can clutch onto, that he can press his hips against tightly enough to be suffocating, something that can mold to the shape of him just as you would - all just to really feel like he’s got every single inch stuffed inside of you, giving everything he possibly can to you.

Even hard things will do in a pinch - perhaps the cover of a book you love and cherish, the texture of the binding leaving a slightly painful sting behind that blends into the pleasure and makes his eyes roll back. (Will you still smell the pages and sigh at that old-book smell, or will you perhaps notice the new presence of something slightly musky, slightly heavy, unexplainably male?) Your hairbrush - rutting against the handle he knows you’ve fucked your self with, alternating between rutting against it and bringing it up to his mouth to suck on, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to taste any traces of you.

The only rule is that it has to be something of yours, or something that connects to you in some way. Your pillow, a few wayward strands of your hair sitting against the plush, feeling like heaven and making him blush when he sees the way his sticky cum has left the hairs smeared again his skin, tacky and stuck to him. (The sight makes him suck in his breath, gulping harshly as he comes down from his high, a thumb coming out to carefully, nervously brush at the hair, unable to stop himself from feeling like the sight is somehow so very right.)

It’s better when things are stained - your underwear with discharge discoloration bleaching the fabric, your favorite skirt that you accidentally stained during your period, even a particular pair of socks that you once got dirt on. It’s been used and loved by you, and now he’ll use and love it, too, even leaving his very own stain behind.

There’s just something about it that makes everything feel better, more complete, more real. Of course nothing will ever compare to actually fucking you, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

And of course, the pinnacle, when he really gets desperate, is when he whips out one of the many, many photographs he's taken of you. (Or, photos he'd printed out from your social media accounts because he's too shy to actually photograph you - and this is less creepy, right? Right?) He's touching it with delicate fingers, barely pinching onto the corners, laying the image down on his bed and positioning himself to be right over it. He'll take his time to trace the outline of your face with the tip, sighing and biting his lip, before the urge takes over and soon he's groaning, hips rutting against the smooth surface of the photograph - your face, really.

(The cool feeling and the twinge of pain he gets when he angles wrong and catches the edge of the photograph only makes him grit his teeth, eyes squeezing shut harder because he has to do this - he has to keep fucking, to keep pushing himself because he needs to come for you, you deserve and he wants to give it to you so badly and oh oh oh - The photograph of you smiling is almost prettier with globs of his cum staining your pearly teeth and the apples of your cheeks.)

It's just so depraved, but they can't help it - they just want you so badly that they can't help it.

(In particular I'm thinking of the chronic humpers - Kageyama, who gets so, so whiny, his voice going high and pitchy and his face turning a bright pink color as his abs clench and flex, each drag of his hips making his arms shake even more, sweat beading at his temple leaving his dark hair matted to his forehead.

Or Sugawara, who tends to lay onto his back, humping at the pillow from underneath, pressing the cotton so hard against his pelvis that his biceps are taut, back arching and Adam's Apple bobbing as he chants yes yes yes under his breath, one hand even coming up to blindly grope and squeeze at the air where he imagines your bouncing tits to be.

Or Giyuu, who's thrusts start out slow, hesitant, embarrassed, as if he can't believe he's been reduced to his, worried to sully your good name. But then his hips get faster and he's burying his face into the crook of his elbow, whispering out a stuttered, broken p-please accompanied by your name as he cum seeps into the pillow material.

Or Tomura, who has all the fancy sex toys in the world that he's found on the deepest, most questionable parts of the internet, but finds that nothing is a good stand in aside from your pillow. He starts off animalistic, mounting the pillow and smacking at it, imagining the way your pretty ass would bounce back and ripple at the motion. But then his orgasm draws closer and the thrusts get deeper, more meaningful, like he's trying to reach as deeply inside of you as possible, and his grip is almost unbearably tight as his orgasm washes over him, hips quivering and twitching as he imagines the way you'd clutch onto him and thank him.

Or Feitan, who's biting into the pillow as he cock drags against it, teeth bared and practically snarling into the (stained) cotton, dark eyes squeezed shut as he tries so very hard to not whine your name.

Or even, on very, very specific occasions, Chrollo, whose sense of dignity flies out the window when you deny his romantic advances once again. You're just playing so very hard to get, and while he's invested into the game for the long run, he's still just a man - and the image of you spread out underneath him, wearing lacy, angelic lingerie and spreading those creamy, supple thighs of yours is enough to drive him mad.

It's just pathetic enough to be sweet, really, and although you aren't exactly flattered when you walk in on him heatedly grunting your name with the pillow tightly clutched between his thighs, just know he's doing it for you. Everything he does is for you.

[ilovetoxicfictionalmen]

TERROR ANIMUS

KINKTOBER DAY 23 - HOGWARTS AU WITH JONATHAN CRANE

Pairing.| Jonathan Crane x fem!reader

Summary.| There is no one that you despise more than the arrogant Ravenclaw know-it-all who goes by the name Jonathan Crane. But his fascination with you is more dangerous than it seems.

Warnings.| Dubcon, noncon, spell casting, fear toxin but make it magical, p in v, fingering, blackmail, you're both 18.

Word count.| 5k

Notes.| I'm not the best with my Hogwarts knowledge, but this was actually really fun to write and its just an au.

Typically, Gryffindors and Slytherins would be arch nemesis’ within the grand Hogwarts walls. However, over the years of your schooling, you’d seem to have grown an enemy of your own, wrapped in a Ravenclaw cloak and tie. His exasperation had seemed to grow on you like mold, being in his presence soured your mood immediately. 

Jonathan Crane could almost be mistaken for a Slytherin, given the fact that he is a slithering snake. He found great joy in others misfortunes, the greatest in yours, so you made it your ambition to never fail around him. He was an outsider in between these historical grand halls, ambitious in being better than everyone else in the room, his intelligence was undeniable and curiosity of his strength and power would soon be your ruining. 

It was all because he had a fascination with you, one that he perfectly disguised as loathing. Jonathan was never interested in the sporting scene, but he would go out of his way to watch your quidditch games, in high hopes that you'd humiliate yourself. But Jonathan always seemed to be the one disappointed as he strided out of the stadium whilst you’d have everyone cheering for you. 

“What are you staring at Crane?” you grumbled, your face directed to your professor. 

You could feel his dark eyes burn your skin from beside you, coincidently, your professor set a sitting arrangement in hopes of improving the overall grades on average. Jonathan snorted and fixed his tie, your professor continued on with the lecture. 

“Nothing of much importance” he spat out under his breath. 

Your eyes snapped to him, you gave him an intimidating glare, but your looks always went unphased by him. In fact, your enemy smirked at you, his hips shifted underneath the wooden table. 

“If you look at me again, I’ll hex you, capeesh?” you warned in a stern tone. 

“Loud and clear” Jonathan rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the lecture. 

But Jonathan would find other ways to get under your skin, it was biased, you knew it, all he had to do was breathe a tad heavier than usual to get your blood to boil. A mental grin grew on his lips as he felt your body shift in your seat, the sound of your heavy inhale through your nose increased, the way your pen tapped firmly on the benchtop. One time you caused a scene in class merely because he asked how your day was going. You found yourself counting down the time, the words of your professor fell deaf on your ears, the only sound you focused on was the ticks of the ancient clock. 

As class was dismissed, you abruptly stood up and gathered your belongings in a rushed formation. Jonathan smiled innocently at you, but felt a slight bounce of anger as you ignored him completely, he wanted you to acknowledge how badly he loved to irritate you. 

Your anger quickly mellowed out as you felt a firm arm wrap over your shoulders. As you looked up, you smiled softly, Justin Helga, only the most popular boy in Gryffindor house. Usually, you stayed loyal to your Slytherin house, but you made an exception for him. Justin was dreamy, confident, genuine and thoughtful. His appearance was conventionally perfect, he was tall, dark, broad and had a flashing smile. You’d been dating only for a couple of weeks, you were both keeping it lowkey and focused on your studies as primary. But you couldn’t be helped to be smitten by the boy with a lion heart. 

As Jonathan exited the classroom, he managed to pick you out immediately through the pool of students. His jaw clenched, blue eyes twitched as he watched Justin put his slimy paws all over you. Jonathan muttered under his breath, his hand trailed over an old book locked in his arm before he spun his heel and strode off in the opposite direction. 

It was late at night, you hid in your corner of the library, several books open and your hand jotted your thoughts away. The library was always quiet at this time, but when your eyes wandered up, you locked eyes with a familiar set of blue eyes. Jonathan smiled at you, he sat alone also, he always sat alone regardless, but he couldn’t help but to watch you. 

Most of the students were off on break, welcomed back by their loving parents with open arms. But you always remained at Hogwarts, your parents would use the excuse that you needed to focus on your studies. Yet a blind man could see how much of a burden you were in your parents eyes. Jonathan also stayed most breaks as well, you just never cared enough to know why. 

Shortly after, Jonathan stood up and walked towards you, his footsteps echoed throughout the hall. Your body stiffened as you returned your focus to your work, he always wanted to ruin your day, he seemed to get off to it. 

“Can I join you?” Jonathan grinned, his posture cocky. 

You huffed out and immediately slammed your book shut, not caring if you’d get in trouble for breaking the rules. Jonathan whispered your name as you tried to walk past him. 

“What is it Jonathan?” you hissed lightly. 

“You don’t need to hate me so badly, you know?” he responded quietly, but his eyes were loud. 

You frowned towards him, you looked him up and down. Was this him being humorous? 

“Pardon?” you replied bluntly. 

“It’s our last year of school… Do you have enough space for all of this loathing towards me?” Jonathan asked slowly as he leant closer to you. Your head jolted back. 

“You’re pulling a trick on me” you scoffed, but Jonathan shook his head immediately. 

“No, no… It’s just that, I see you here almost every holiday break, who knows, maybe we aren’t so different after all?” Jonathan explained with a raised brow, his fingers taped onto his books. 

Your eyes narrowed towards him, he didn’t smile at you but his expression seemed sweet, genuine. Eventually, you sighed out in defeat and bobbed your head. 

“Are you not welcome home also?” you asked softly, vulnerably. 

“You could say that” Jonathan nodded, his pain flashed through his eyes just like yours would.

A soft sigh left your lips, suddenly you felt bad for him. Even though you always saw him, well tried to ignore him, you wonder why you never wondered why he was here too. Maybe because you assumed he merely wanted to piss you off more. 

“So, can I join you?” Jonathan grinned. 

“No speaking allowed” you warned, a stern expression locked on. 

Jonathan chuckled and sat down opposite you. Every so often, you’d look up, glance at him for only a moment. It was like he could hear you, cause his eyes would dart up, quickly followed up with a grin. The focus on your studies seemed to fade, were his eyes always that blue?

Over the days, you found yourself actually getting along with Jonathan and it felt skeptical. Now, it’s not like you’d tell him your darkest secret, but you could make small talk without wanting to rip his throat out. Not that there was ever much talking, but his presence was nice, it was different. Only sometimes did his appearance frustrate you.

Jonathan was kinder than it seemed, he’d help you out if you ever needed it, not that you’d ever admit that you did indeed need it. Casually, you’d just sit besides each other in the library, courtyards and dining hall. Sometimes you’d get so into conversation that the grin was non-wipeable, even earning a genuine laugh from one another. Whenever small, innocent things like your hands brushing against one another, you’d feel like sparks of electricity run through you. You’d wonder if he felt it too before you blocked that thought out of your head. 

Jonathan Crane was an enigma. His interest in fear was concerning, yet by the way that he explained it, you couldn’t help but to be intrigued in his theories. Sometimes you’d notice Jonathan walking tall throughout the halls. You’d try to follow after him but felt eerie whenever he’d disappear into the woods. It was better not to know, you didn’t care anyways, remember that. 

It wasn’t until the last night of break where you both sat in one of the courtyards. You were both mindlessly talking about each other's thoughts and dreams. Somehow your bodies had inched closer and closer together. It wasn’t until Jonathan made you jokingly smack his shoulder that you realized how near you were.

The laughter quickly died, you both looked into one another's eyes. Your heart pounded in your chest, lower lip begging to be bit onto. Jonathan whispered your name, his hand slowly snaked up to your flustered cheek. His touch was melting at your skin, right as he leaned in to kiss you, the sound of two professors laughing echoed as they walked past nearby. You flew away from him, flashing your mentors a forced smile, Jonathan muttered under his breath. As Jonathan looked over to you, his eyes narrowed with how quickly you were on your feet. 

“Where are you going?” he questioned. 

“It’s late and getting cold” you sighed, avoiding his gaze. 

Jonathan stood up and blocked your path as you tried to slip past him. He whispered your name once more, you hated how sweet it sounded on his tongue. When you ignored him, he repeated himself more firmly. It seemed he had to grip onto your forearms to grab your attention.

“This is wrong” you admitted, finally looking him in the eyes. 

“Wrong? All because our bickering over the years actually meant something more meaningful sweetheart?” Jonathan spoke quietly, gently. His eyes tried to plead with you but you were ignoring him like a sickness.

“This doesn’t mean anything” you objected arrogantly.

“Stop being stubborn sweetheart, I won’t tease you for it” Jonathan assured, blue eyes wide with honesty as he slowly closed into you. “I want you, please” he confessed, begging for you. 

You’ve never seen him beg before. Never seen him so vulnerable, helpless, submissive. His thumbs drew circles as he swallowed the lump in his throat. Your emotions screamed for you to let your guard down, but your pride had thrown away the key. 

You snatched your arms free before any regretful actions could course through. “Goodnight Jonathan” you farewelled without looking into his eyes again. Jonathan watched you flee, his hands resisted to form into fists and jaw twitched from the humiliating rejection.

As the students returned to Hogwarts, so did your neglectful behavior to Jonathan. Your little holiday had to remain in the dark, your friends couldn’t know that you were managing to get along with a particular Ravenclaw. They’d give you so much shit for it, you’ve already expressed him to be a living plague. 

You sat on the balcony with your friends after a long day of schooling. Your mind was zoning out with him still on your mind. They were all talking about their fantastic school break, the trips they took and mischief they got up to. The thought of going back home after graduation stressed you out. You couldn’t wait to be free from everyone. 

Evie called your name, you blinked back to reality, your brows furrowed as you looked at her. All of the girls were grinning towards you. “Here comes your boyfriend” she giggled obnoxiously. 

Your eyes darted over to Jonathan, typically he was striding like he had somewhere important to be. His entire pompous and narcissistic aura soured your mood immediately. Of course, he was heading your way, in front of all of your friends. 

“Come on, do it” Lavender egged on. 

“What?” you glowered. 

“Pull the trip jinx on him” Evie explained, her hands waved around in contribution.

“That was only a joke” you muttered. 

You’d rant about wanting to embarrass him, constantly. Always would you say about pulling the trip jinx on him, just for all of you to laugh at him, bruise that massive ego of his. But, now that he had some dirt on you, you couldn’t even think of doing that. 

“Don’t be a chicken, do it!” Flu chimed in, a frustrated expression on her. 

Your eyes darted over at him, he was looking right at you, a wicked grin on his lips. His footsteps became louder as he approached you. Mentally, sweat was rolling down your skin, you forced your sight away from him. 

“No” you said sternly. 

Everyone sighed heavily, but Evie had this menacing look on. Right as Jonathan proudly walked in between all of you, his eyes locked onto yours, Evie drew her wand from her cloak. Your eyes widened as you saw her raise it in the corner of your eye. 

“Offendo!” Evie shouted as she casted the spell. 

Swiftly, Jonathan tripped onto the stone flooring, he grunted out in pain, his belongings scattered everywhere. Everyone bursted into a fit of laughter, you sat there silently, your throat tightened. His blue eyes shot up to you, waiting for you to do something, anything. But you didn’t, it was clear where your loyalties lied. 

“On your knees for her as per usual, right Crane?” Lavender insulted, a disgusting grin on her lips. 

“In his dreams” Flu snorted. 

“Careful, he might use a love potion on you” Evie joked, as she tiptoed around his books over to you. 

The way he was shooting daggers at you pissed you off. Why was he staring at you like this was your fault, your doings? Your brows scrunched together, fists tightened as he continued to stare at you, surprisingly no words leaving his lips. 

“What did I say about looking at me, you nitwit” you hissed. 

Jonathan lightly laughed and moved up onto his knees. His hands rested on his hips as he looked you up and down, your breathing hitched everytime he looked at you that way. 

“Was just curious about what the boys said about you! A slyth-slut indeed!” Jonathan pronounced proudly. 

Even if they wanted to stop you, the speed you charged at was impressive. Before Jonathan could react, you pinned him to the ground, your hips straddled his, your fist crashed into his jaw. The girls laughed and cheered you on, effortlessly, you held Jonathan to the floor, his legs squirm underneath you as the girls threw insults at him. 

“Next time I’ll break your jaw, capeesh?” you threatened, your anger unleashed. 

But Jonathan only smirked at you, his hips rolled against yours, you shuddered at the sparks of friction and leaped off of him. As your eyes remained glued to one another, you tried to decipher Jonathan’s expression. It was a mixture of anger, excitement, betrayal and, you prayed you got this one wrong, but lust. 

A professor called out your name, your head shot into her direction. Swearing under your breath, she strided over to you all. With a few disappointing words echoed, she wrapped her hand around your bicep and tugged you away from the others. 

“Oh it wasn’t her fault, Professor! He called her a slut!” Evie objected, but her words fell deaf. Your head snapped back, Jonathan was still watching you from the ground, his legs wide apart as he smirked towards you. 

The loyalty inside of you forced you to take the fall for Evie’s harmless spell. You were internally suspended for two days and had to write a sincere apology to Jonathan. But the worst punishment was a lengthy phone call with your parents. Everytime you hoped to put down the phone, their verbal abuse continued on. A disappointment you were, you needed to control your wild anger, apparently. The fuel of hatred towards Jonathan was reignited at full power, you could rip him to shreds. 

The next week, Jonathan and yourself seemed to ignore one another's existence completely. It was contradicting, you were relieved that you didn’t have to hear his irritating voice a little more. Yet found it infuriating that he wouldn’t acknowledge your existence. Sometimes you felt the urge to apologize, but when you took a quick glance at him, those thoughts vanished. 

The week after, you smiled gleefully at the note slipped underneath your door. Justin’s handwriting was perfect. You found yourself kicking your feet off of the end of the bed as you read it over and over again.

You’re the color of green

Your beauty dances like leaves in the wind

You fuel my sweet nature

My luck has struck with you

Meet me in the old theater room at 8pm x

Justin

The poem was cheesy without doubt. But you didn’t care, it was romantic gestures like these that always made your heart swoon. You hid the note and rushed to the bathroom to get ready. The grin on your lips couldn’t be wiped off, thankfully you were alone for no nosy snakes to interrogate you.

You slithered your way out of your common room. The cloak remained over your head as you rushed to the fourth floor. There weren't many lurking around in these areas, but you couldn’t help but to feel a rush of excitement surge through you. 

With your head poking in both directions, you opened the door and slipped into the theater. The room was dark, you raised your wand and the candles turned lit. But the room was empty, cold and honestly, it felt slightly off. It was exactly eight, but Justin seemed to be nowhere in sight. You slowly stepped down towards the stage, your eyes lingered over the empty rows of seats, your anxiety came together in your stomach. 

The footsteps you heard were all too familiar. Your brows scrunched as he came into sight on the stage. As you observed Jonathan, your eyes widened and fists formed, of course this was a stupid ploy from him. There were no words you could form, but your anger brewed and Jonathan found amusement from it. 

“You really are easy, huh?” Jonathan joked, your silence was his glory. “Can I tell you a secret?” Jonathan asked, his voice echoed throughout the room. 

“What? You’re a fucking creep?” you insulted, arms crossed over your chest.

“I’ve come across a book of spells, far too dangerous to be taught within these school grounds” Jonathan disclosed, his arms raised wide as if it was something to be proud of. 

“You seem to be the one with the tongue of a snake” you snarled. “You’re such a freak! You know that right!” you shouted, veins popped out. 

The anger was uncontrollable, you wanted to abuse him in every way possible at this moment. Jonathan laughed and jumped off the stage, his hands rested on his hips as he walked towards you. You continued on, calling him every name in the book. With how caught up you were in your anger, you didn’t notice him close the distance inbetween you too. 

Jonathan wrapped his arms around you and kissed you passionately, his tongue slipped to the back of your throat. At first, your body accepted the kiss but you managed to shove him off of you and slapped him across the cheek. The strike echoed, redness pulsed over his skin as he smirked towards you. 

“You’re a pig” you spat before you spun your heel and stormed towards the exit. 

“I’ll only tell you to stop once” Jonathan warned. 

But there was no concern in his voice for his next actions. You replied but giving him the finger, the door growing closer. Jonathan pulled his wand from his pocket and flipped it for dramatic effect, as he pointed the tip at you, he casted the spell. 

“Terror animus!” Jonathan roared. 

A flash of green struck you, the mist swarmed around your entire body as you gasped out for air. Quickly, you tumbled to the fall as you tried to breathe. Jonathan smirked, he slowly moved in, his head moved around to observe every reaction surging through you. You were on your side, your body shivering as Jonathan rested his shoe on your hip and guided you on to your back. You looked at him fearfully, Jonathan couldn’t help but to groan out, a truly wicked grin on his lips. 

“Jon-Jon-Jonathan… What have you done to me” you wheezed, your hands up to your chest. 

Your chest felt like it was going to implode. The speed that your heart was beating seemed physically impossible, you couldn’t breathe, your throat was completely swelled up. Through glossy eyes, you could point out Jonathan’s figure, but his feature was completely darkened, you cowered before him. 

“Fear is a fascinating concept, isn’t it?” Jonathan teased as he bent down beside you. 

Your body shivered, you looked so cold, so helpless, like a frightened puppy. It felt inhumane for Jonathan not to pull you into his arms. He stroked the strains of your hair behind your ears, he smiled innocently at you. 

“There, there… You’ll be okay, the spell is only temporary…” Jonathan cooed, as if his words didn’t enter your brain all jumbled up. His voice was demonic, blue eyes burnt into your soul. He easily pulled off your cloak, his eyes admired all of your curves. 

Your body latched onto him for dear life, your eyes squeezed shut as you begged for this nightmare to be over. It was the perfect melody for him. Jonathan tutted by your ear, his hand rubbed your bare thigh just below the hem of your skirt, he always thought the length of your skirt played a dangerous game. You moaned out softly as he gently caressed your skin, his mouth hung wide open, a wicked grin grew on his lips as he observed your eyes roll back, tongue poke out of your open lips, throat swallow intensely. 

On his knees, Jonathan shifted his hips as he felt his trousers to be rather tight. But when the friction caused him to groan out, his head turned to look at the bulge in his pants. A sly smirk rested on Jonathan’s sinister lips, he looked back at you, your eyes batted fearfully at him. 

“Oh my, you’ve gotten me all erect” Jonathan commented casually. 

He made sure to rub his bulge over your bare thighs, you stammered out, your heartbeat rose once more. In an attempt to push your weak body off of him, Jonathan squeezed you against him. 

“I’m going to get you expelled, you’re going to be locked up!” You choked out, eyes swelled with the horror imagery of laying with him. 

Jonathan chuckled and laid you on the cold wooden flooring, he straddled your hips and effortlessly pinned your arms above your head. Taking your jaw in his hand, he pointed your face at his, your swollen eyes blinked slowly. 

“No… You won’t tell a soul, or I’ll make sure that you’ll stay in this state for eternity. You’ll be locked up in a madhouse for the rest of your days” Jonathan laughed darkly as he kissed your cheek. 

“N-no Jon-Jon-ahh” you squirmed. 

Jonathan continued to kiss you softly, tenderly around your heated face. Then his lips teased you by brushing over yours, just like a snake teasing its prey. His intelligence was clearly underestimated. Right when you believed Jonathan would kiss you, he brought to light your new agreement. 

“I have a variety of spells I desire to test on. The species of animals I’ve been testing on doesn’t satisfy me. I need a human subject, so come on, be ambitious for me! Perhaps this can teach you some loyalty, I know you lack that” Jonathan snarled your new agreement, a sinister smirk trapped on his lips. 

You shook your head at the proposition, he was crazy. But Jonathan snorted at your response before he passionately kissed you. You were too terrified to fight back, so you allowed his venomous tongue to slither down into your throat. His hand slipped into your loose hair, twirling it around his fingers before he pulled your head back. 

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t want to do any permanent damage to you. But you’re going to be my little lab rat, you got that? Gonna be my good girl. I’ll experiment on you, then to reward you for your scientific sacrifice, you’ll sit on my cock” Jonathan smirked, your skirt had already rode up to your waist, so his crotch grinded against your exposed cream panties with a growing damp spot. 

“Jonathan please!” you begged, tears streamed down your cheeks. 

“Shush, I’ll be gentle, I promise” Jonathan soothed, his hands traveling to your hips. 

It was like there was an invisible bind to your wrists, you were too fearful to move. His slim digits teased around your panties, once they looped around the bands, he tugged them down to your knees. An animalistic growl left his lips as he stroked your folds, they were glistered, you wanted him just as badly. Without forewarning, Jonathan pushed a digit inside of you, his dark eyes widened with arousal at the tight warmth. Once his digit completely vanished inside your sweet walls, he added another. The palm of his hand rubbed over his bulge, his eyes couldn’t get enough. They’d constantly snap from your pussy to your gorgeous expressions. The moans you whined out were to die for. 

As he took his fingers into his mouth, he unbuckled his pants and pulled out his cock. His body fell on top of yours, hands spread your legs apart, he looked you deeply in the eye as he lined his tip with your entrance. You stared back at him with wide eyes, blossoming with fear. Jonathan moaned out, a pure smile of glee fullness on his lips. 

“Forgive me, I’ve never been with a girl before” Jonathan muttered as he pressed his length in. “But I’ve studied human anatomy inside out, literally. So this shouldn’t be too difficult to navigate” he continued on as he slowly pushed himself in further. 

Jonathan shuddered out, the vibrations of pleasure rolled over him. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut, the moans that formed out of his mouth were damn right pathetic. But there was not a hint of shame or embarrassment in his figure. Even though you hadn’t seen his size, you could still manage to figure how large he was. But you weren’t sure if it was just a trick in your mind, or if he was actually going to rip you in half. 

“How many cocks have you had, hm?” Jonathan asked, his cock halfway in. 

“T-two..” you choked out. 

Jonathan flared his nostrils at your answer. A massive part of him really hoped you’d say that you were a virgin too. Your arms latched around him, despite how badly you wanted to bash his head in, you needed to hold onto reality. Jonathan smiled as he continued to push his cock into your velvet walls, every push ran a new wave of pleasure over him. 

“Knew you wanted me, you were too much of a stuck up bitch to convince me otherwise” Jonathan hissed out, his cock almost buried in deep.

You whined out in response, your walls squeezed him repetitively. Even though your vision was blurred, Jonathan’s presence felt frightening, intimidating. His breaths were like a beast, his mouth nibbled over your earlobe whilst his hands squeezed your breasts through your shirt. 

“You’ll show me some fucking respect from now on” Jonathan commanded harshly. 

You whimpered out and nodded your head quickly towards him, desperately feeling a compulsion to obey him. That sweet, timid expression of yours was pathetic, it made his cock twitch rapidly in between your tight walls. 

“You’re so beautiful when you’re afraid” Jonathan complimented softly. Then, like a balloon popping, Jonathan felt his orgasm reach the edge. “Oh fuck” Jonathan whined as he quickly yanked his cock out of you. 

He couldn’t risk getting you pregnant, he at least needed to have some fun with you first. Jonathan pumped his coated cock in his hand, his ropes of white spurted across your stomach and shirt that fell loose from your skirt, Jonathan cursed to himself as his strokes slowed down. His chest undulated as his eyes fluttered, a permanent smirk was locked on his lips as he squeezed the base of his shaft. 

“I’ll stay with you until the spell wears off” Jonathan heaved out. 

He tucked himself back into his pants, propped himself back onto his elbows as he grinned widely to himself. He observed your timid state, your body continued to shiver, from a mixture of the coldness, pleasure and fear. The semen on your body was wiped off with your cloak. 

“H-h-how lon-ng?” you squeaked, body still trembling like leaves in the wind. 

“I’m not entirely sure, there's a number of factors to take into consideration” Jonathan replied. 

You inched closer to him, Jonathan sighed and welcomed you into his arms, he held you tight. A part of Jonathan regretted not bringing a notepad to jot down everything. Oh well, he was sure he’d remember this perfectly. His fingers teased your sensitive entrance, your hips rocked against him, breathing deep as you kept your face buried in the crook of his neck. 

“Quite fascinating” Jonathan commented with his fingers deep inside of you, you moaned as his fingers curled. “Should we just stay here the night? Hm? It’s quite cozy and certainly secluded…” Jonathan suggested devilishly. 

It wasn’t exactly cozy, but there was enough supplies hidden behind the stage to change that. When Jonathan left, you anxiously waited for him to come back. It felt like he was gone for hours, even though it was only a few minutes. He’d returned with old thick blankets in his arms, ones that were used in a play years ago. The sheet is laid on the ground and Jonathan rolled you onto it, he draped the large fabric across your bodies and held you.

“You belong to me now, capeesh?” Jonathan mocked, a cheeky grin on his lips. You looked up at him and slowly batted your tear filled lashes.

“Yes Jonathan” you replied as his fingers trailed back down to your core. 

“You should have submitted yourself to me in the courtyard” Jonathan clicked his tongue. 

But there was no regret on his end. This ordeal seemed much more fitting anyways. How was it that you were the Slytherin, yet he was the viper and you were nothing more than a helpless mouse.

[shiorimakibawrites]

Bound (Daredevil Fan Fic)

Sequel to Relax Pairing: Matt Murdock x AFAB! Reader Word Count: ~4400 Rating: 18+ Warnings: Bondage, nudity, full naked male character, partially clothed female character, female gaze, female masturbation, voyeurism, oral sex (male and female receiving), face sitting, unprotected sex, p in v sex, swearing, dirty talk, begging General Masterlist / Matt Murdock Masterlist Taglist: @loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer, @beezusvreeland @yarrystyleeza, @bellaxgiornata, @waywardxrhea, @parker-murdock A03

Special thanks to @visionsofcarnality for some dialogue assistance and @shouldbestudying41 for beta-reading.

Bound

It had been an impulse, born of fantasy. But being in his arms gave you the confidence to ask. Matt had immediately agreed. Both that night and the next morning, when you made sure his agreement wasn’t the product of him being half-awake and sated. It wasn’t. He seemed intrigued by the idea, visibly excited that you had outright asked for something you wanted in the bedroom.

But for all that excitement, carrying out this fantasy took some preparation. For one, the only ropes in the apartment were his Muay Thai ones. Which hadn't been chosen with anyone’s comfort in mind. Furthermore, they were stained faint rust from blood. Both of these factors combined into a no on using them for bedroom fun from you.

It hadn’t taken you long to find something that looked suitable online. Silk ropes with premade loops for the wrists. Which ought to be strong enough to hold Matt without irritating his skin. Or yours. You had the feeling, if this went well, Matt would ask to use these ropes on you.

Which you weren’t opposed to. Just the idea of being entirely at Matt’s mercy had you squirming.

And you could get it in red. Daredevil red. It was like a sign.

The second hurdle was safety and aftercare information. Matt wasn’t adverse to a little pain in the bedroom. He made it very clear that he enjoyed it when your nails raked down his back when he fucked you. Or when you pulled his hair while he ate you out. But there was a difference between that and causing him actual harm. Which you never wanted to do. 

You wanted Matt to enjoy this. Even if you never used those wrist ropes again, you wanted him to look back on this night with fondness.

A couple days later, everything was ready.

You had gotten off work before Matt today. You spent your time well, preparing for the night to come. You put fresh sheets on the bed. Moved one of the chairs from the living room into the bedroom, positioning it at the foot of the bed. Set out all of the necessary supplies on the bedside table. Then you got yourself ready.

You took a shower, scrubbing off the grime of the day. Then you dressed yourself. You had thought long and hard about what you would wear. You wanted to drive Matt crazy. You had considered lingerie but the only appeal that held for Matt was when he was touching you. Which both of you had enjoyed in the past. But that wasn’t the plan. Not this time. But then you thought of something perfect.

You picked up one of his button-down shirts, specifically the one he had worn yesterday. It still smelled like him. You slipped it on and did up the buttons. And that was your entire outfit. You hoped the combination of no panties and his scent on your skin would turn Matt on.

You were making dinner when he came home, softly returning his greeting like this was an ordinary evening. You knew your outfit was a success when you felt Matt wrap his arms around your waist, his firm chest molded to your back. You smiled, feeling the already growing erection pressed against your ass.

“Smells good,” he murmured, nuzzling your neck.

“Dinner’s almost done,” you said.

“That also smells good,” he said, kissing your neck. You felt that familiar rush of heat south. His hands rubbed your stomach where the waistband of your panties would have been had you been wearing any. His grip on you tightened. “You aren’t wearing any underwear.”

You made a humming sound of agreement. He made that deep rumbling moan, his hips pressed more firmly against you.

“Little minx,” he growled, nipping at your neck. You shuddered. It was almost instinctive to offer him more access to your neck. Something he immediately took advantage of, trailing kisses down your neck. One hand slide down from your waist, moving under the hem of his shirt to move up your thigh. Headed straight for your mound. It was tempting to let him continue. Very tempting. You knew how talented those hands were.

But not as tempting as your plans.

You put your hand over his, halting his movement. And before he could start worrying, you said softly, “I was thinking something a little different tonight, Mr. Murdock.”

It didn’t take him long to connect the dots. You felt his cock, still pressed against your ass, twitch. “Tonight?”

“Yeah,” you said, turning in his arms enough to look at him. “If you are still willing?”

“I’m willing, Mrs. Murdock,” he said. “I am very willing. Now?”

“You don’t want dinner?” you asked, teasing him.

“Maybe later.” He kissed you. It was a very thorough kiss, sending a wave of toe-curling pleasure down your spine. Fueling the growing wetness between your legs. Matt moaned into your mouth, then drew back far enough to whisper, “I have a different hunger.”

Good point. You did too. Dinner could wait. You turned back around, then leaned forward to turn off the burner. A process that had Matt making another small moan as the movement pushed your hips even more firmly against his. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” he agreed.

As he turned to go, feeling unusually confident, you raised your hand. Then swung it forward to smack him across that glorious ass. It wasn’t a hard hit but he still jolted. He paused, looking over his shoulder. “Having fun, sweetheart?”

“You know,” you said. “I rather think I am.”

He chuckled but continued toward the bedroom. You followed him, admiring how good his ass looked in those slacks. Not as good as it looked without them but still a sight worth seeing. That you were gifted with it every day never lessens its impact.

Matt had started unbuttoning his shirt as he walked, pulling it all the way off as he went through the doorway. Tossing the shirt in the general direction of the hamper, he immediately turned his attention to his belt. In less than a minute, his slacks and boxers had joined his shirt.

The sight of your husband naked was nothing new. But it never failed to get your heart racing or your cunt clenching desperately around nothing. You had the feeling it always would. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t tease him a little.

“Eager, Mr. Murdock?”

“I’m not the only one,” he pointed out. His voice sounded mild, almost conversational, but his eyes were dark with hunger. A hunger that grew when he licked his lips. Watching his cock swell in response to the taste of your arousal in the air only brought a fresh wave of slick to coat your thighs.

“Where do you want me, Mrs. Murdock?” he asked, his voice growing huskier with each word.

You pressed your thighs together, trying to control yourself. It was difficult. His voice had always given you the tingles but that husky tone? That went straight to your cunt. Being naked did nothing to diminish Matt’s smug confidence. If anything, it had increased. He knew perfectly well that he was good-looking. That you found him attractive. And that you would be remembering just how good he could make you feel with that smirking mouth. What pleasure could be gotten from those large, warm hands. How much you loved his cock buried inside you.

You didn’t deny any of that. You couldn’t. But there were other things that you wanted. That you craved.

You wanted to give Matt the same pleasure he gave you. Wanted him to feel your hands over all of his body, caressing every sensitive spot with your fingers and mouth. To leave little marks scattered across his flesh like he did yours. You wanted to suck his cock. How and where Matt had gotten it into his head that you didn’t enjoy having your mouth on him was beyond you.

“On the bed,” you ordered. Your voice had turned breathy.

Still smirking, Matt turned to obey. Once again putting his ass on display. He had the best ass that you had ever laid eyes on. Perky and round, each cheek more than an ample handful with you grabbed it. Firm but still enjoyable to squeeze, to dig your fingers . . . honestly you could spend hours waxing poetic about how beautiful his ass was. But today, you simply raised your hand and gave him another solid smack against his ass.

He wasn’t surprised this time. Knew he was doing, turning his bare ass to you like that. The look he gave you over his shoulder was all kinds of smug. “Sure that you don’t want another one, sweetheart?”

“I’m good.”

The smug grin widened. “Positive? I know how much you love grabbing my ass.”

He is such a cocky little shit, you thought with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. It was the grin that solidified your resolve. One way or another, you were going to wipe the smug off of him. “Get on the bed”

“As you wish.”

Could there be some extra sway in his hips? You wouldn’t put it past him. Especially when he was already being a smartass. But it might have been your imagination. It wasn’t like his ass needed anything extra in order to draw your eyes. It was a little disappointing that sitting down hid that glorious ass from your sight. But only a little. The rest of his body was just as beautiful.

After Matt had pulled his legs up on the bed and moved closer to the headboard, you picked up the wrist restraints from the bedside table. Drawing Matt’s attention in that direction. His head canted slightly to one side, brow furrowing a little as he tried to make sense of the new addition.

You picked up the wrist rope from the bedside table, drawing Matt’s attention in that direction. His head canted slightly to one side, brow furrowing a little as he tried to make sense of the new additions there. “A knife?”

“Yes,” you said. “In case of emergencies.”

In the event that you couldn’t get the rope loose afterward. Or you had to release him quickly. Like if he heard someone getting murdered. Or some other reason. The silk restraints were pretty and hadn’t been the cheapest thing but you would gladly sacrifice it if necessary.

He nodded, then held out his left hand with an expectant look. You slipped his hand into the loop, then pulled it taut before repeating the process with his other wrist. A gentle push against his shoulder was enough to communicate your desire for him to lay back. You raised his arms over his head by the connecting rope which you tied around one of the headboards’ wooden slots.

“Think that can hold you?” you asked. Matt made a thoughtful humming noise, then gave his bonds an experimental tug. The loops tightened around his wrists but the knot held. Even a stronger pull failed to loosen the knot. It did succeed in distracting you a little. You couldn’t help it. Watching those big muscles of his flex had always gotten you worked up.

A fact that Matt was well aware of you. You could see it in that confident, smug smirk. Hear in his voice as he answered your question, “Seems like it.”

“Color?” you asked, momentarily ignoring his smugness. When you had discussed doing this, Matt had agreed to use the spotlight system.

“Green.”

His tone made it clear that he thought the answer was obvious. But you rewarded him for answering the question regardless of how silly he found it. Cupping his head in your hands, you pressed a kiss to his forehead. Then another to each check which was dusted pink. You found indescribably adorable that something so chaste could make him blush when the filthiest of dirty talk didn’t even phase him.

You kissed him again, pressing your lips against his. Licking softly into his mouth, you worked your hands into his hair. Massaging his scalp with your fingertips until you felt the tension that had built up over a day of lawyering ease. You greedily swallowed every single one of the low moans Matt made into your mouth.

He tried to chase your lips when you pulled away but stilled at the gentle pull of his hair. You admired your handy work. He looked so beautiful like this. His pink lips kiss-swollen, hazel eyes half-lidded with pleasure. Soft and pliant was one of your favorite looks on him.

“Color?”

“Still green.”

“Good,” you said, straightening up and moving down the side of the bed toward the chair.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Just over here,” you said, sitting down on the chair.

“Why so far away, sweet girl?” Matt asked. Some of his earlier smugness creeping back into his voice. “I can tell how much you want me.”

He wasn’t wrong. You did want him. And you knew from previous experience that riding him turned Matt into a whinny, desperate mess. But you wanted him to be that desperate mess before you rode him. And you thought you knew exactly how to do it.

You had chosen the perfect spot for your chair. It gave you the perfect view of his beautiful body. Allowing your eyes to survey the feast before you, you unbuttoned his shirt and draped it open. Matt’s hands made an aborted jerk against the rope. You had to suppress a smile. He knew you were practically naked. And he seldom could resist the opportunity to touch your skin, to cup your breasts in his hands . . .

Your own hands cupping and squeezing them didn’t feel the same but it did feel good. You sighed softly, spreading your legs. This time Matt couldn’t stop himself from pulling on the rope but it held, keeping his hands up near his ears.

“Still green, Matty?” You asked, one hand sliding down your body.

“Yes,” he said, his voice resonating with the deeper gravel of the Devil. You shuddered, felt your cunt clench desperately. A rumble almost like a growl erupted from his chest.

“Is that all it takes?” he asked through a tensed jaw. “To get you so fucking wet? My voice?”

“Partially,” you answered, then gasped as your fingers brushed against your clit. The little nub was already swollen, aching with need. Rubbing gentle circles onto it, you moaned. At the sound, his cock twitched. You moaned again, imagining that weeping cock pressed against your cunt, the head nudging your clit . . .

“Partially?” Matt rasped. “What else, sweet girl?”

You didn’t answer at first. You ran your fingers through your soaked folds, traced your entrance. Building anticipation.

A faint whine escaped his control. “Tell me, sweet girl. What’s going through that pretty little head?”

“Your body,” you started, then cut yourself off by slipping a single finger into yourself. The room was so quiet that the wet squelching noise was obscenely loud. So was the cracking sound that some distant part of your brain was alarmed by. But the rest was too occupied by the network of veins popping into high relief across his muscles as the rope strained to keep Matt’s hands where they were. By the feeling of your finger pumping in and out of yourself.

 It felt so good. But not enough. Your cunt was used to Matt’s fingers. Which were longer and thicker than yours. You worked a second finger into yourself. You let out a loud groan at the stretch, the feeling of fullness. Much better. Then added, “What I want to do with you.”

Matt let out a second, louder whine. “Fuck, you smell so good . . . Can I taste you?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. Your other hand abandoned your breast for your clit. “Not this time, baby. Maybe later.”

He actually whimpered, squirming on the bed. No more smugness out of him. You relished it. Up until his restless legs blocked that beautiful cock from your sight.

“Don’t spoil my view, Matthew,” you said, stern as your breathy voice would allow. “I want to see your cock.”

He whined but lowered his legs. You moaned, increasing the pace of your fingers as you imagined that cock buried deep inside you. Imagined him fucking you into this chair. Your fingers inside you couldn’t replicate that feeling. Not thick enough but . . . you increased the pace of your fingers in and out . . . chanting out his name as that familiar warmth built and built . . .

You cried out his name as that warmth crested and exploded into pleasure. Matt thrashed against his bonds as you rode out your orgasm. As the fluttering around your fingers began to subside, you slipped them out of yourself. Your legs were a little shaky as you stood. But they held your weight as you moved toward the bed.

Matt’s struggles stilled as you got onto the bed. Despite your recent orgasm, your cunt clenched. He looked so beautiful. Chest heaving, eyes wild . . . the weeping head of his cock was almost purple . . . your mouth watered.

“Sweetheart, please,” he begged. “Let me taste you. Let me fuck you.”

“Not yet,” you said, as you crawled up between his legs on your hands and knees. “I have something else in mind. Color?”

“Green.”

Matt couldn’t contain a cry when you gripped his cock in your hand.  Another cry escaped as you licked a long, flat strip up the length to the head. There you gave him short, teasing laps. Much like the way he liked to tease your clit with his tongue. Trying to catch every drop that leaked out of the tip. Under the hand on his thigh, you could feel his muscles tense and twitch.

“Please, please,” he begged, seemingly only able to say that one word.

The sound Matt made when your mouth engulfed the head of his cock was nearly a scream. Another loud cracking sound accompanied it but you ignored it in favor of the choked moans that followed you swallowing down as much as his cock as you could. The little jerks of his hips when he couldn’t quite stop himself from trying thrust deeper into your mouth as your head bobbed up and down. A self-control he lost when you hummed around his cock, the vibration drawing another loud cry from his throat.

“Fuck,” Matt groaned out, a sentiment he repeated when you cupped his balls, gently fondling them in your hand. “Fuck . . . shit . . .  fuck . . . g-gonna cum.”

Your only answer to this warning was another hum again, louder this time. Screaming out your name, he spilled down your throat. You suckled at his cock, once again trying to capture every last drop while he squirmed and moaned. Only when his whimpers started sounding a little pained did you pull off his cock.

“Color, baby?” you asked.

“Green,” was his answer but he didn’t sound certain. Nor did he look certain when you lifted yourself up on your knees to get a better look at his face.

“Lie,” you said. “Want to try again, Mr. Murdock?”

He shuddered, his spent dick twitching in a valiant effort to rise again. “Green. F-eels good. But  . . . sensitive . . .”

You felt a surge of pride at making your lawyer husband so blissed out that he was struggling to string together a sentence. Even the nagging feeling that something about the sight in front of you wasn’t quite right couldn’t dispel it.

It wasn’t until you had crawled up his body to press another kiss to his forehead that you realized what was bugging you. Because his hands were kneading your ass. How . . . his hands that were supposed to be tied up . . . You looked again and wanted to sigh.

Technically his hands were still tied. The silk rope was looped tightly around his wrists. But the middle section that had been tied around the headboard wasn’t anymore. Largely because that piece of headboard was broken. Snapped right in the middle. The rest of the headboard seemed fine . . . . your mind boggled. You knew Matt was strong but sometimes just how strong still surprised you.

“You broke the fucking headboard.”

“Sorry,” Matt said, not sounding sorry at all. “I can’t hear you over how nice your ass feels.”

You rolled your eyes. Then gasped as one hand abandoned your ass to snake between your legs, drawing your attention to the throbbing ache there. Your cunt was no longer sated. A deep moan rumbled out of his chest as his fingers ran through your soaked folds. “Can I taste you now? Your body is screaming at me, sweet girl. All I can smell is how wet you are for me.”

“I don’t know -” you started but was cut off by a moan when those fingers found your clit. Fuck, he was so good with his hands . . .

“Please?” he begged, an element of whine creeping back into his voice. “Let me taste you. I’ve been good.”

Aside from the headboard, he had been . . . and the thought of having his mouth on you brought fresh wetness to your thighs. Something that made Matt’s hand on your ass tightened its grip. “Please, sweet girl.”

“Alright,” you said, then tried to move off of him. Only for his hand to tighten their grip again.

“No, not like that,” he said. “Sit on my face.”

Your cunt clenched. It had been a while since you had done that particular act . . .

“Please . . .”

“Alright,” you agreed. “You’ve been a good boy. You deserve a reward.” 

You crawled forward until your knees were on either side of his head. Then you gripped the top of the headboard (and hoping that it wasn’t also broken) and carefully lowered yourself toward his face. If you had any doubts about how eager Matt was, they were quickly dispelled.

Fingers digging into your ass, he devoured you. His grunts and moans mixed with the noisy slurping sounds as his tongue sought out every single inch of your folds. Then he moved down to your entrance, lapping and sucking while you panted. Pants that turned into a squeal as that wonderful tongue dipped inside you. You didn’t know what felt better. Fucking you with his tongue or his nose grinding against your clit. Your hands clamped tightly around the headboard. It was taking everything you had to hold yourself relatively still.

You whined when he shifted, his mouth pulling away from your cunt.

“Don’t hold back, sweet girl,” he ordered, his voice having that deep, raspy purr that it only got when he was drunk on sex. “Ride my face, crash me between these beautiful thighs, pull my hair . . .”

As if to punctuate that demand, his lips around your clit and sucked. You couldn’t have stopped yourself from grinding on his mouth if you had wanted to. And you didn’t want to. Especially when he rewarded this by moaning. You all but screamed. The vibration felt so damn good . . . 

When he did again, this time you screamed. Your thighs were shaking. Close, you were so close . . . You grabbed his hair tightly in one fist, desperate to keep his mouth where it was. He groaned loudly into your cunt, pushing you even closer to your peak.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” you said. Not even caring that you were begging. All you cared about was the pleasure coursing through your body. About that mouth alternating between kissing and sucking on your clit. About the sounds of pleasure coming from the man beneath you, the near-bruising grip he had on your ass. About feeling your cunt clench desperately. Until you fell over that edge.

Matt’s arms remained locked around your shaking body as his tongue greedily chased every single drop of your release. You were unable to keep your head up, resting it against the arm still holding onto the headboard. Until his tongue’s lapping on your clit started dancing over that line between pleasure and pain.

You whimpered, tugging at his hair. “Matty, enough.”

He made a disappointed whine but after one last kiss to your clit, he pulled away. Despite how wobbly your legs felt, you managed to heave yourself over to his left side. Matt almost immediately plastered himself against your back. Even with his wrists still in the loops, he wrapped his arms around you. You had to smile. Octopus mod had been fully activated.

You had gotten the wrist restraints off when you realized that wasn’t the only thing that had gotten activated. He was hard again. His hips were making small rocking motions against your ass.  His newly freed hands fondled your breasts as he nibbled at your neck.

You pressed back against him. “Do you want to fuck me, baby?”

“Can I?” he asked. “Please?”

“Yes,” you said. Despite two orgasms already, your cunt was eager about the idea.

Lifting your top leg back over his, you felt his cock press against your entrance. Then he was inside you. Sinking deeper and deeper until he was fully sheathed. Moaning against your neck, he began to fuck you. Each thrust was slow but deep. You moan, feeling yourself already back at that edge. Matt wasn’t going to last either. His thrusts soon became faster, the rhythm sloppier. One brush of his finger against your already oversensitive clit pulled you over that ledge for the third time with a cry. A strangled groan against your neck, then with a powerful thrust Matt was coming inside you.

For a while, you both remained where you were as you caught your breath. Matt succeeded first, hissing a little as he slipped his cock out of you. You were pretty sure it was sheer stubbornness that propelled your husband onto wobbly legs and lurching toward the bathroom. Channeling your own stubborn streak, you dragged yourself over within reach of the bedside table. Specifically the bottle of lotion you had placed there earlier. You had reached it just as Matt returned, damp washcloth in his hand.

While he cleaned up the mess he left between your legs, you inspected his wrists. The wrist restraints had left pressure marks but the skin didn’t look irritated. You insisted on applying the lotion anyway. But afterward, you both settled into your profession of blissful puddles. Cuddling puddles as sex had in no way disabled Octopus Mod. Quite the opposite. Which was perfectly fine with you.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Say Yes

Bounty Hunter Boba Fett x Female Reader

Content & Trigger Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): fluff, heavy suggestive themes, protective!Boba, Mandalorian!Boba, light angst, non-descriptive sex

Word Count: 2.5k

A young, handsome bounty hunter on Tatooine makes it a daily intention to ask you to marry him.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // fluffuary 2024 masterlist

Mando’a Translations: cyar’ika – darling / sweetheart riduur – partner / spouse “Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde” – marriage vows

“Marry me, cyar’ika.”

You glance up from the worn open tome resting on the counter in front of you. “Again? Really, Boba?”

The Mandalorian helmet, dented with flaking green paint, tilts slightly to the right. “You called me ‘Boba’ this time,” teases the bounty hunter.

You roll your eyes and push off from the counter, cheeks heating even as you grumble in false irritation.

Boba Fett, Jabba the Hutt’s favorite mercenary for hire, has asked you to marry him every day for several weeks now. And each time, you have refused him. For the first few, you were overly polite. But as his attempts continued, your polite rejections transformed into snarky quips and blatant dismissals.

It’s not like you don’t find the man attractive. Underneath the armor is an incredibly handsome man, and his attention has always been sincere. But Boba Fett is a dangerous man, and you’re just a simple shopkeeper trying to make a living in Mos Espa. In that regard, the two of you are incompatible no matter how much he persists and chases after you.

“I like how you say my name,” continues Boba, his voice a soft purr. “Sounds beautiful on your tongue.”

“And you are too forward,” you snap, knowing that your sharpness is just a cover. Which is silly, because you do like him, and Boba seems to understand this. Boba burrows beneath your skin, and you cannot dig him out.

“Am I?” he asks with mock offense. You really want to throttle him, but you also really want to kiss him.

“Yes. I don’t know how many times I have to say this, Fett,” you emphasize, deliberately using his last name. “But a ‘no’ is a ‘no’ even if you don’t like it.”

Yep. Push him away. Keep pushing. Maybe he’ll take the hint this time.

Boba Fett stands tall, arms crossed over his chest, one hip slightly popped. With the helmet on, you have no idea what his expression might be or what he’s feeling. Not knowing is maddening, and it quickens your heartbeat, a growing tingle buzzing in the tips of your fingers.

“So, all those touches meant nothing to you?” he asks with just the faintest hint of roughness in his tone.

“Yes,” you lie.

Boba shifts on his feet, shoulders straightening. “What about all the kisses you’ve given me? Hm? Nothing?”

Kriffing hell, why is this man always so direct? It’s nice that Boba is good about telling you what he wants and what he’s thinking for the most part, but it always catches you off-guard. It makes you weak, melting you into goo that he can mold however he wishes.

“Those are not enough to build a marriage, Boba,” you shrug. “There has to be more.”

“But there is more.” He steps around the counter, stepping into your space. “Isn’t there?”

Boba is right. There is more. There has always been more. Whenever Boba is on Tatooine, he is visiting you, talking with you, bringing you gifts, fixing things around the shop without you having to ask. He has offered to take you out after you’ve closed shop. He routinely takes a personal interest in your safety and security. Because of that, no one bothers you or tries to harass additional credits out of you. They stay away and respect you because they see you as Boba’s woman.

And it isn’t only that. He only ever speaks softly to you. He only ever treats you with respect and shows general interest in your life. The most maddening thing is how many women have actively shown their interest in him to his face, and he has brushed them all aside. Even after all these refusals on your end, Boba still declines their advances, and shows up at your shop each day insisting that you marry him.

“Why do you keep denying this, cyar’ika? You know I’d make you happy.” Boba is standing too close, almost on top of you.

“The shop is closed,” you reply. “If you’re not going to make a purchase, you should leave.”

Boba nods his head and backs up, reaching for an item off the shelf without looking. He deposits some credits on the counter, much more than what the item is actually worth.

“I’ll return tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder, tapping the counter as he makes his exit.

The soft chime that alerts you to when the front door opens echoes throughout the room.

You’re in the backroom organizing. It’s the next day, and Boba hasn’t shown himself yet. This might be him, but it’s likely not. There are times when Boba does not come, and you are fully aware that those are times when Jabba sends him off for a job.

“Sorry. We’re closed.” You step out from the backroom and immediately freeze.

Three Nikto bikers loiter in the middle of the shop. It’s evident that they are not here to purchase anything. Their dark eyes roam over the shelves and tables, but once they notice you, they focus in, drawing closer.

“Apologies,” you say, attempting to project your voice, to sound tougher than you are. “We’ve closed for the evening. If there is something you need right away, I can ring you up. Otherwise, you’ll need to leave.” You do your best to keep your voice steady and calm, but you hear the gentle shake.

“This street is our new territory,” hisses the leader of the group. “We were stopping by to offer our…services.”

Services, meaning protection, meaning “pay us or you’ll be a target.”

Tatooine might be overrun with crime lords and criminal activity, but the main powers at play are not known to harass the smaller folks just trying to make a living. These are outliers. These are individuals who answer to no one but themselves, and believe they can carve a piece out for their own gain.

Rarely are they ever successful, but that doesn’t mean they don’t try.

Just as you open your mouth to reply, the soft chime comes again. This time everyone turns and you sigh with relief when you see who it is.

“Boba Fett,” says the Nikto slowly. His shoulders stiffen and they all put their hands on their blasters.

The bounty hunter does no answer right away. His helmet moves, scanning the Nikto, and then you, assessing. Even from across the shop, you sense Boba’s anger. There are few things that rile him up, but you’re one of them.

“It’s not smart moving in on Jabba’s territory. Or to harass what’s mine.” When Boba says mine, he growls it. The possessiveness in his tone heats your flesh, sends a sharp spike of desire down to your belly.

The Nikto all glance at each other before the leader addresses Fett. “We didn’t know the female was yours, Boba.” He holds his hands out in a placating gesture, indicating that he didn’t mean any harm. Yet you know that isn’t true. Their intention from the start was to harass you for credits.

You scoff at female but decide to let it go.

“I think it’s best that you leave.” Boba steps to the side.

The duo glance at their leader for direction. The Nikto’s features are impassive, but he eventually inclines his head, exiting as Boba insist they do. When the last one leaves, Boba momentarily glances in your direction. The door stands open, and Boba exits with him.

When it whooshes shut, you sprint over to the wall panel, immediately engaging the lock and shuttering the windows. You stand in the silent shop for a few minutes trying to calm your heartrate. Once it’s manageable, and not beating so hard it might burst from your chest, you head upstairs to your small apartment above the shop.

By the time you’re curled up in bed, you’re no longer anxious, but there is the slightest bit of tension that lingers in your limbs. Sighing, you turn over in the bed, only to hear the brief pulse of a jetpack shutting off and boots on the small balcony outside your bedroom window.

Slowly, you push up to sitting, the bedsheets falling to your waist. You know it’s Boba. He does this some nights. Camps out and protect you in the only way he knows how because you’re too stubborn to take him up on his numerous marriage proposals.

Tonight, it’s obvious as to why he’s out there. Part of you is reluctant to leave him outside. You’d prefer it if he were with you, within arm’s reach, to see him without the helmet. Plus, nights on Tatooine can grow cold. You want him inside where it’s warm.

On quiet feet, you go to the door that leads outside. Opening it silently, you stick your head out into the chilly air, finding Boba as he leans against the exterior wall, arms crossed.

“You should be in bed, cyar’ika,” chides Boba playfully.

You swallow, suddenly nervous now that you’re confronting him. “Do you want to come inside?” you ask, a bit hesitantly.

Maybe it’s the uncertainty in your tone, or the way you shrink back a bit into the interior of the room, because Boba is suddenly alert, all of his attention attuned to you.

Boba immediately pushes off from the wall and approaches you, his hand on the door, pushing it wider. “Are you hurt? Did one of them touch you?”

You shake your head vehemently. “No. I’m fine. Promise.”

Boba’s chest heaves slightly but you’re not sure if it’s from his sudden movement or a releasing of relief. He glances over his shoulder at Mos Espa, the t-shaped visor of his helmet fixated on the city’s skyline. Turning back, Boba nods.

You step away from the door and Boba enters. Even with the door closed and the windows’ shutters slanted to dim the moonlight, some of it still spills over the room like tiny white rivers.

His helmet hisses as the pressure seal disengages. Slowly, Boba lifts the helmet off his head and sets it aside on a nearby table. He runs his fingers through his dark hair, the ends sticking up slightly after he does so. With the faintest movement, Boba turns, and that moonlight cuts sharp glowing lines over his face, highlighting tanned skin and dark eyes.

You don’t even realize you’re moving closer to him until Boba grabs you by the waist and pulls you against his armor-clad body. Instinctively, your hands reach out, locking onto the beskar. Boba’s head dips and yours rises to meet him automatically, and yet there is no connection. It is simply holding, a waiting between two hesitant people.

“You haven’t asked me to marry you today,” you murmur.

The corner of Boba’s lips turns upward in a soft smile. “Will you marry me, cyar’ika?”

“No,” you say automatically, before the two of you start laughing.

“Let’s try that again.” Boba reaches up and cradles your cheek. “Cyar’ika. Will you marry me? Will you allow me to speak the words of my people? And will you speak them back?”

The words of his people. The Mandalorian marriage vows. You are distinctly aware of what they are and what they mean. Which is why Boba’s earnestness isn’t fake to you. Mandalorians take their weddings vows seriously even though the process of exchange is simple. It is the intention behind the exchange that is most important to them.

That is how you know Boba speaks the truth, that him asking you to marry him is a genuine desire of his.

“Passion does not make a relationship,” you reply.

The answer is a shift away from actually having to answer. How many times have you and Boba ended up on the floor of the backroom after rejecting him? It’s more than you can count on your hands.

“That’s all this is to you?” he laughs. “You know I can give you more. I do more than that now.”

You curl forward a bit, rest your forehead against the beskar. “I’m scared,” you whisper.

“Of what?”

“Of what will change.”

Boba’s fingers brush under your chin and lightly guide your gaze back to his. “I wouldn’t ask you to give anything up.”

“Yes, but—”

Boba gives the slightest shake of his head and you instantly quiet. “Do you want me?” he asks. “Tell the truth.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“I want you,” you breathe, allowing the words to drip off your tongue.

“May I have one of your kisses?” he asks softly, one gloved thumb lightly pressing down on your bottom lip.

“Yes,” you breathe.

Boba closes the distance, forms perfectly to you. It is slow and delicate and sweet. Your body hums with energy, and when you press for more, Boba growls and pulls back, hastily ripping off his gloves to reveal his bare hands.

Then he’s cupping the side of your face, drawing you back to him, tasting and tasting and tasting until your fingers are clawing at him in desperation. When he breaks the kiss, you still lean forward as if you can reach him.

“Then repeat the words with me, cyar’ika. Become my riduur.”

Boba presses his lips to yours, draws forth an air-stealing shiver from deep within your lungs.

“Mhi solus tome.”

“Mhi solus tome,” you repeat.

We are one together.

Boba slides an arm around your waist to drape softly over your curves. “Mhi solus dar’tome,” he says.

You say it back to him. “Mhi solus dar’tome.”

We are one when parted.

“Mhi me’dinui an.”

“Mhi me’dinui an.”

We share all.

This time, Boba slots his pelvis against yours, and you understand his heated intention.

“Mhi ba’juri verde.”

“Mhi ba’juri verde,” you say with shaky breath.

We will raise warriors.

Boba snuggles the side of your neck, breathes in your scent. “I’d like to lay with my riduur.” His fingers find the edge of your sleeping robes.

“As long as I can have my riduur the same way.”

Boba grins against your throat. Together, the two of you remove his armor, piece by piece by piece. The moment his flightsuit is unzipped and he steps out of it, Boba is on you, drawing your lips to his, desperately claiming what is now so rightfully his.

Your own clothes are gone before making it to the bed. Boba runs his hands over your back, sliding down to lift you into his arms. Your legs wrap around his middle, and Boba carries you off, placing you gently onto your back.

His mouth upon your skin is a brand. Hot. Searing. It goes lower, lower still until you’re crying out for him, begging for him to be with you as your riduur should. Boba is happy to do so, sliding between your thighs so perfectly, you both lose yourselves momentarily before becoming nothing but a raging storm, waves crashing into each other repeatedly until one of you breaks.

Rest does not come until the morning suns begin to ascend over the horizon. You do not open your shop. And Boba does not return to Jabba’s palace.

There is peace for a while.

Harmony.

taglist:

@padawancat97 @foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @garfunklevibes2012 @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @kayden666 @cherryofdeath @enfppixie @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @beebeechaos

[frantic-fiction]

What Once Was

Pic credit: iiven

Astarion x gn!reader/ gn!Tav

Summary: Astarion and you decided it was best to remain friends, following the fall of the Absolute, Astarion finds he is regretting letting you go.

Warnings: Angst, Angst with a happy ending, Astarion being bad with communication, Astarion is bad with feelings

Word Count: 1.8k

Masterlist

"Astarion," Tav whispers, their breath warm against his ear as their fingers trail down his forearm, nails lightly scraping the surface. Hesitantly, they intertwine their hand with his. Their warm doe eye pierces straight into his, and he feels vulnerable under the intense stare. "I care about you, but maybe what you need right now is a friend, not a lover."

Astarion freezes his body still as a marble statue. Inside, his mind is a storm of confusion. Emotions he barely remembers flood him, swirling in a chaotic whirl that leaves a sharp ache in his chest. He gripped Tav's hands as if they alone were the sole thing keeping him bound to the material plane. Maybe in that moment, they were.

A friend?

When was the last time Astarion had a genuine friend? He doesn't know, but somehow, the word seems too mundane to describe the beautiful person in front of him. Tav, the first creature in 200 years of agony, showed him kindness and love, showing him that he was more than the mindless puppet Cazador molded him to be.

The topic was too heavy to unpack fully at that moment. Astarion had just tasted freedom. He was free of that monster and was learning what it meant to live again. He was too confused and broken to figure everything out, and so what more could he have said?

"I-I would like that."

***

A thunderous round of knocks pounds against the front door, jolting Astarion from his novel; he exhales a long, heavy sigh, flipping the page as he sinks deeper into his armchair. The crackling fire provides a once comforting backdrop, now barely audible over the persistent knocking. He tries to ignore it, his eyes skimming the lines without truly reading. But it's becoming harder by the second.

"Astarion!" Your voice is slightly muffled from behind the door. "Are you seriously going to leave me out here in the cold?"

"Where's the key I gave you?" Astarion calls out; his voice tinged with irritation. He remains firmly in his chair.

You're quiet for a moment. "I may have lost it, b-but it's not my fault, I swear!"

Astarion clicks his tongue, tossing the novel onto the side table, and moves to the door. "If only the history books knew the real hero of Baldur's Gate instead of their exaggerated grandeur." Unlatching the bolt, Astarion swings open the door with a smirk. You stand impatiently on his doorstep, arms crossed over something, lips puffed out in a pout. "If the world knew the real you, I doubt you'd have many admirers singing your praises."

You push past him, pressing a warm jar into his chest as you go. "You're just jealous I'm famous and adored. Now stop being mean to the only friend who puts up with you, you grump."

Astarion's heart clenches as he stares at the jar of blood in his hands. He watches absently as you flit around the room, tidying up the minimal mess he's accumulated since your last visit.

Friend.

The word stings like sunlight on his skin. A rock settles deep in his stomach at the reminder.

Astarion has many regrets, but letting you slip through his fingers is the one that haunts him most. If he could go back, he would pull you into his arms and never let go. He would whisper how much he loves you and beg for time because he can't imagine facing the darkness without his light.

But it is too late for that because how do you ask someone as bright and full of life as you to return to someone as broken and doomed to the shadows as him? Astarion has to settle for the barest comfort your friendship can offer him despite the pain that comes with it.

"Hey, Star, could you sew this button back on after your meal?"

Your melodic voice pulls Astarion back. He turns and heads to the kitchen, where you are already seated. It's only then that Astarion truly takes in your appearance.

Gods, you're beautiful. You're wearing clothes that perfectly accentuate your body, stirring a sense of longing in Astarion. You're even wearing the delicately embroidered scarf he hand-crafted for you last winter. Why did he let you go?

Astarion swallows hard and retrieves a chalice from the cabinet. "Of course, my dear."

"Thank you! I can't believe I popped a button."

Astarion pours the blood into a glass, watching the deep red liquid swirl as if it's the most captivating sight. His eyes flicker up briefly before darting back down. He asks carefully, unsure if he wants to hear the answer.

"What's the occasion?"

You drop your chin, a bashful smile tugging at your lips. You fiddle with the fallen button, spinning it on the table before slapping your hand over it and repeating the action.

Astarion takes a sip and waits. The sweetness of your blood coats his tongue, and he savors the mouthful. It's nothing compared to drinking from the source, but you felt it was best to do it this way. You said the prior act felt too intimate for two friends and blurred too many lines, and Astarion felt he had no place to voice opposition.

He takes another quick mouthful, knowing he only has so much time to savor the blood before it congeals into an unpalatable gel.

"I-I have a date."

Astarion chokes on the blood, pulling the glass from his lips as a fit of violent coughs overtakes him. An unsettling feeling churns in his stomach, making him feel like vomiting, but it's not from the burning in his throat.

"Is it really that surprising that someone would ask me out?" You scoff, taking Astarion's coughing as an act of humor rather than the painful surprise he's currently feeling.

"No-" Astarion wheezes through another round of coughs. "That's not-"

You come over and smack his back harshly. Astarion's unsure if it's to help him or express your anger, but the pounding against his back seems to finish his fit.

"I thought vampires couldn't choke," you mumble under your breath. He can hear the annoyance drip from each syllable.

"I am quite the unique spawn, it would seem." Astarion wheezes, slumping into the chair you were previously sitting in. You opt to lean against the counter away from him. "So… who is the special lady or gentleman who has captured the hero's attention?"

Astarion cringes at the hollowness in his voice. He doesn't care to hear the answer, and it's obvious. He doesn't care to hear you gush about whoever has captured your heart and will whisk you away tonight, ripping the last sliver of you he has left.

"Don't pretend to care." You glare, a scowl stealing away your beautiful smile.

"It's rather uncouth to assume your best friend does not care, my sweet," Astarion lies, hurting for all the wrong reasons, but you don't need to know that. "Now, are you avoiding the question because you're afraid I won't approve?"

"No," you respond, not meeting his eyes, opting to fiddle with the button again.

"Then out with it."

"Do you remember the bard?" Your smile says all he needs to hear. Your voice fades to the white noise of his mind.

Astarion feels like he's dying all over again. The damn bard, the suave casanova with a voice as alluring as his smile. 

The two of you, Shadowheart and Gale, met at an old, bustling Tavern earlier in the month. Astarion had wished to stay home, but you all dragged him out of his house.

It wasn't a terrible evening; the wine was decent, and despite his best efforts, he enjoyed hearing what Shadowheart and Gale were up to. Astarion was having a good night. At least until the bard sauntered over with his brightly colored ensemble and his dashing smile, asking you for a dance. Astarion had hoped you would decline, but you bashfully accepted his outstretched hand and let the bard whisk you away.

For the remainder of the night, Astarion watched glumly as the bard swung you around the dance floor. He watched you giggle as you spun, dipped, and turned into his sturdy arms. He watched as you fell for his charms. Astarion felt what was left of his heart, the sole piece that belonged to you, crumble into powder. Because there you were, happy with a man who was everything he could never be. A man you deserved. A man with as much light and life as you.

Astarion left early, not wanting to see the love of his life slip further away, missing the crestfallen look that dawned on your lips the moment you saw Astarion slip out the back.

"Astarion?"

Your voice brings him back. And suddenly, Astarion realizes he can't let you go. He will lose you forever if you leave his home tonight; Astarion cannot live with that. He cannot live without you by his side. He cannot live without your smile, your laugh, and your touch, everything. 

Astarion wants to be selfish and keep his light, even if that means dooming you to the dark.

"Don't go," he chokes out, voice cracking. Astarion is out of his chair and stumbling to your side before he can tell his legs to move. He's cradling your hands, his eyes pleading for you to understand the gravity of those two simple words.

"What? Why?" You balk, stepping back.

Astarion matches your step. "I think you know why, Tav," he says, his voice firm this time. He cups your face with his palm, and you inhale shaky, seeming to freeze under his touch.

"Astarion,"

"Stay," he pleads, stroking his thumb over your cheekbone, eyes burning with desperation and hope.

"Astarion," you say softly, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. "Why now?"

His heart breaks, feeling tears burn in his eyes, knowing he might lose you forever. "Because I can no longer pretend to be happy with just being your friend."

Astarion crashes his lips to yours before you can respond, pouring his desperation and passion into the kiss. You gasp, clutching onto his shirt in surprise before meeting his kiss with equal enthusiasm. He swears he can see stars and feel warmth deep in his chest. When he pulls away, he's panting, his eyes searching yours.

 "I love you," he confesses. "Gods, I love you, Tav. I should have never let you go."

"Astarion, I-"

Astarion pulls you close, wrapping you in a tight hug. "Please, Tav," he whispers, his voice thick with tears. "Just stay."

"I'm not leaving," you assure, nuzzling in his hold. "I-I love you too. I've always loved you, you know that. But after everything, can we just...can you-" You pause, struggling to find the right words, torn between past traumas and new beginnings.

"I don't know," Astarion admits, "But I've never been more certain about anything than I am about you. The rest, we'll figure out." 

And with no other words needing to be said, you held Astarion tighter, and he swore he would never let you go again.

This was heavily inspired by the fact I'm replaying bg3 (again) and romancing Wyll and went the friend route with Astarion. It was painful but I survived...mostly. Anyway, feedback always makes my day so let me know what you thought 🥰

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[siriusblackslut]

The one where Coryo shows his true colours after a disagreement.

As Coryo’s best friend, you should have anticipated this.

Pairing: Coriolanus/Reader

Word: 5909

Warnings: mildly dubious consent, soft dark, obsessive behaviour, yandere

Sometimes, Coryo was glad you were so stupidly naïve.

He hated it most times, you navigating the big bad world so clueless as to how it revolved around a pretty darling like you, when you would offer shy smiles to hungry eyes raking the length of your body, when you would entertain unpalatable opinions clearly devised for your sole attention, or when you would introduce him as your dearest friend to puzzling spectators moments after he greeted you with a peck at the corners of your mouth. 

Today though, he was so fucking grateful, for between the happy sips of posca you had announced just how thrilled you were with your university acceptance letter, as though you were expecting him to cheerily send you off to the other side of the city.

It was sour news, but Coryo was glad he was made aware of them sooner than later. 

“Away?” he demanded sharply.

The room settled into a tense silence broken only by his curt paces across the length of the room, and your eyes followed him expectantly.

When you didn’t reply, you weren’t sure what with from the tone of his voice, Coryo was quick to make his displeasure be known. “I wish you had told me earlier so I could discourage you.”

“But it’ll be so good for me,” you tried earnestly once more and Coryo thought you were positively deluded if you had ever thought there was a chance he was going to let you go.

He reached you in two strides, his thumb caressing your chin in a way that was gentle yet firm. “Don’t leave.”

It was clear he wasn’t asking, which made him even more disappointed when he saw your expectant expression give way to a frown because you were making this harder on purpose. Coryo thought it was a shackle sometimes, to want to breathe, live and own you.

“You’re upset, I unders--”

“Upset doesn’t even begin to describe how angry I am.”

And oh, bless you, you though he was worried about you, and you continue your reassurances that were endearing at first, but Coryo was finding them increasingly irritating.

You squeezed his forearm still stroking your chin, giving him a small smile, “I can handle myself.” The clench of his jaw went unnoticed, “And besides, Sejanus will be there too.”

Coryo hated sharing you, even in speech, and that revolting name rolling of your tongue so effortlessly like it belonged there replacing his own, it made him livid, and he thought it was the last straw.

“So, he can offer you a fortune?” He let his voice fill with scorn and allowed his face to twist into a cruel sneer. The thumb at your chin gentle just moments earlier now dug into your skin, “some more unsavoury opinions?”

“I thought he was your friend.”

Coryo let the silence sit and it was telling, so telling, in fact, that you were now questioning your friendship with him, rightfully so, and it was in this moment of rebellious defiance that you snapped at him and you had never snapped at him before, “Then I’ll be fine on my own then, without him or you.”

Such fierce words spoken in a wobbly tone, had Coryo thinking you had forgotten your place. He thought, in some way, he was to blame because he had been far too lenient on you and it was clear now that you had not respected the privilege of freedom that he had allowed. He would have to remedy that, and he wasn’t particularly sorry either, only sorry that you would think him unreasonable but really, he just wanted you to mold into the prettiest version of yourself and flourish with him.

When he took a step forward, his solid frame looming uncomfortably over you, Coryo had already decided that you weren’t going to leave because he simply could not fathom a world where you were not a mere arm’s reach away, and he was resolute that he would not either. He was deciding now, only how he would break it to you, and even through your thick naivety you sensed something shift.

“You’re staying,” he said.

It was an unsteady step back. “No.”

“I won’t say it again.”

It tired him, you had barely opened your mouth and he just knew it was another misplaced objection and so he silenced you instead, digging his fingers at your jaw and pulling you up to devour those pesky words. It was a hard kiss, one of nose bumps and teeth clashes that was entirely different from the usual shy easing brushes of lips, but Coryo thought he had to start somewhere more obvious now.

A muffled cry between his swirling tongue and you had hardly begun a protest, but he was there too, determined to swallow it up by planting more suffocating kisses until you were gasping for his breath.

“Fine without me huh?” Coryo repeated your words between each kiss across your mouth, lips, tongue, cheeks, chin and everywhere he could get his lips on.

To him, it was so intrinsically natural the way you slotted up against him, but for you and he was mocking your words now, it was a confusing turn of events. Mouth entangled with his depriving you of air, the hot skims of his fingers across your waist leaving a blazing trail in their wake and that dull ache blooming in your belly, it all made you disoriented and you pushed away at his head in retaliation for some rational distance, but he would never give you any now. Coryo had just tasted you and now you were leaving him high and dry and aching for more? He would even settle for that glimmer of sweat at your neck and he latched on, sucking pretty kisses across your nape until he could feel your pounding pulse and it made him drunk, the sheer power he had over you because you wanted him too, you just didn’t know yet.

“You just need a reminder of how much you need me,” he was planting sloppy kisses up your throat and his hands left their post at your waist, roaming, roaming and roaming until hungry fingers fiddle at the hem of your skirt pushing up and up until it bunched at your waist and the sinking feeling at your belly settled uncomfortably when you finally understood what he meant.

“I thought we were friends,” you mumbled weakly and Coryo was almost offended that you hadn’t spared a thought to the natural progression of your relationship, as if that truncated milestone was all that was destined of your relationship. Still, it was an improvement from the empty words of assurance, and he liked it much better when you had submitted, even if it was reluctantly.

“And you said you love me, and yet you’re leaving me,” he was murmuring into your skin still continuing his onslaught of rough kisses across your neck, “so it seems we were both not entirely truthful with each other.

Itching hands wandered up your thigh and Coryo was delighted to find your panties already wet from just curious fingers and persistent lips. Though you hadn’t grasped it yet, your body sure had and Coryo would make your mind follow once he was finished with you.

“Tell me what I want to hear,” he whispered encouragingly and his breath seared your skin. “That you love me.”

“I do!”

Fingertips caught the hood of your clit through your sopping panties, and he began to trace light circles at the drenched fabric, just enough for you to feel the beginnings of what Coryo could offer.

“Like lovers do.”

It made you shiver, and you exhaled into his chest. There were many realisations to be had in this pleasure haze. “Coryo--”

“That you won’t leave,” and he pressed another kiss into your neck, fingers drawing tight patterns at your clad clit until you ached for him like he did for you.

“That you’ll stay.”

“No-- oh--” A moan tumbled through your lips before you could stop it and you pressed your face deeper into his chest to muffle them out of embarrassment even though Coryo thought it was the prettiest sound he had ever heard.

All shy from a slipped moan and he wondered whether you even notice the way you were grinding against his thighs soaking his trousers, clearly yearning for something more than the light skim of his thumb barely there at your panty-clad clit. It amused him greatly, your outward unwillingness even though you belonged to him, and when those silly unintelligible murmurs of protests gave way to breathy gasps, but Coryo still thought you had yet to learn your place in his life, he moved away, palm bumping against your thigh under your skirt.

The betrayal, disappointment and relief on your face, it made Coryo triumphant because in some selfish way, he wanted you to understand exactly what you had subjected him through all these years.

“Go on,” he said, “just tell me what I want to hear, and I’ll make you feel real good.”

And despite your body shaking with unresolved tension, you still managed to shuffle back, head shaking defiantly.

Coryo would be impressed by your composure if he was not furious.

“No?” and he was onto you once again, consuming your lips until he was so sure you were inside him because then you would have to stay. Nose skimming your cheek and foreheads pressed flushed together, and all you could taste was his tongue swirling inside yours. It was working, him chipping away at your will, but still, you gave him a rational, albeit breathless answer.

“No,” you murmured because this was your dearest friend who had you all frazzled and flushed, and you swatted away at his wandering hands trailing between your thighs once again, but it was to no avail because Coryo was determined now, he would not have you slipping through his fingers because he had worked too hard at you and at this, he would have you impaled on them instead.

Forceful fingers yanked at your panties, and then it was all flesh against flesh with Coryo rubbing at your clit before he worked a knuckle into you.

“Gonna show you then,” he snarled. There was a lot more friction now, the sloppy sounds as he fucked his fingers into you reverberating around the room was proof of it, and the dizzying ache that returned twice as hard made your knees weak and you stumbled, plunging yourself deeper on his digits. 

“Tell me you need me.” 

It was a choked sob that made it out your lips, but it was still thick and full of arousal. “I can’t.”

“Of course, you can darling,” he cooed, and it was confusingly kind against the plunge of his fingers into your cunt. You only whined in response and whilst Coryo thought it sounded delightful, it wasn’t quite what he wanted to hear.

“I know you want to, just wanna hear it from your pretty lips.”

In case you needed another reason for a confession, he curled his fingers up paired with another plunge, fleshy pad brushing up delicately somewhere special and deep inside you. It felt so terribly good, but your waterline shimmered instead because the blossoming heat in your stomach, it made you feel so guilty because it meant you were willing, didn’t it? Now, that was all a bit too much to bear. “It’s not fair.”

“Fair?” Coryo repeated and it was unbelievably cold, making you shiver even in this hot flush.

You took another shaky step back, but he was already there with his chest pressed flushed against yours, fingers still pumping inside you while his thumb still circled your clit and it made your head empty and legs unsteady, and you pushed him but it only provoked him further because you were denying him his rightful property.

“You think it’s fair to leave me?” he growled and slipped another finger in spitefully, and the stretch was painfully delicious, “We’d promise we’d take care of each other, remember?” 

He didn’t let you reply, he was almost certain it would just be another string of silly protests judging by your shiny eyes. Instead he captured your lips in another hot and heavy kiss that was full of angry scrapes until on his tongue lingered the sweet metallic taste of you and Coryo was drunk on you, you in his lips, in his palms and now in his throat trickling like fire into his belly.

It was intoxicating for him, but painful for you and had you reeling back to tuck your head at his chest once again and Coryo’s only solace was that you were now rocking your hips, plunging yourself down to meet every thrust of his fingers.

“So sure you don’t need me?” he gave you another chance and he prayed you take it because it was hurting him now, when he knew he could shower you in such other-worldly pleasure.

You only burrowed your head deeper into his chest, still griding on his fingers. Unfortunate, but unsurprising and so he waited, and he didn’t have to wait for long, not when his thumb was busy lavishing your clit and you were doing half the work fucking yourself on his digits, until your breath hitched against his chest and you were shuddering in his arms with your cunt gushing drenching his sleeves before he pulled his hand away once more and the blooming pleasure waned away into nothing, leaving a dull ache in its wake.

Knees buckling and you stumbled back, glaring at him with fat tears rolling down your cheeks. It made Coryo’s heart ache, but he thought this lesson more important than your temporary upset at him, if only you had confessed.

“I don’t need you,” you snapped at him, and the self-assuredness in your voice had him thinking you were so clearly deluded. As if your cheeks weren’t running with tears from what he had withheld from you, as if you hadn’t just been rolling your hips against his outstretched fingers only moments ago. 

“Sure, seemed like you did when you were fucking my fingers.”

“I can take care of myself!”

He really did respect your persistence if it was not just so disobediently misplaced.

You were glowering at him now, despite the flush of your cheeks and Coryo wondered just how naïve you could be. Were you really that completely clueless as to the way your body craved him? How could you retreat when he could feel you twitching to be in his arms?

“I don’t want to be mean, you know,” he was advancing again, leaning in and it made you feel a bit dizzy. “But I will if you keep being this uncooperative.”

His intoxicating scent, the caress of his thumb at your cheek, your sticky thighs and that angry unreleased ache buzzing between your legs, it was all too much and you moved away, just to think, but Coryo was right there too, he would follow you to the end of the earth until you were in his arms.

A mere whisper away but Coryo still thought there was a vast expanse between the two of you because you just weren’t getting it, it was almost insulting now. He closed the space with another devour of your lips until you were gasping for breath and pushing him away yet again, but he was there and everywhere, lips all aggressive and all-consuming locking into your unwilling ones until he was smothering you, suffocating you in all his heavenly adoration, until it seemed like your only respite was to move your lips against his.

Even if they were sluggish and clumsy lips smacking against his sloppily unable to keep up with his heated ones, your receptiveness drew a groan of appreciation from him and it was that, the low rumble of his throat that snapped you back to reality, because this was your sweet Coryo Coryo coryocoryo, your dearest friend, despite that shameful heat rising between your legs.

It caught him by surprise this time when you pried his head away, stung even more after your momentary clarity, especially when he had really thought you had given in. Now you were just standing there with your lips swollen hanging agape and coated with his spit, peering up at him all doe-eyed through your lashes glimmering with tears, just standing there looking pretty like that was all you could do for him, and it made Coryo so furious because you could be more.

You caught a glimpse of him half possessed, but it was only for a moment before he had pounced back on you and the assault on your lips now borders on painful with his teeth scraping against your already sensitive lips.

“Gonna remind you myself then,” Coryo hissed between each rough kiss. It was suffocating, insistent lips and his towering frame pushed up against you threatening to blend into one, and you were still moving back and backandback until your calves were digging into the mattress because your lips felt so raw against his now, but he was still there, and there was no room to retreat anymore and so you arched your back away instead, anything away from his prodding tongue inside your mouth because it was painful, dizzying, electrifying but youcouldn’tseemtobreathe and you were leaning back leaningleaning until you were falling--

You toppled onto his bed, and it was a welcomed respite, wracked gasps slipping from your throat in a desperate attempt catch your breath, but the moment was brief, and the dire reality sank in your belly where Coryo had bunched the excess fabric of your skirt. 

He had taken his position on his knees; it was humiliating but not in front of you because he wanted you worshipped. Then, you would know just how much he revered you, adored you, loved you, to the point of complete devotion.

Cold fingers pried at your warm thighs and Coryo took advantage of your momentary daze to hook your left leg over his shoulder, his right palm pressing your other leg to ease your thighs apart. The ebbing pleasure reawakened once more from his hot breath at your cunt and the light trace of his digits up your slit. It was embarrassing, vulnerable and had you letting out another protest in retaliation for the premature sparks between your legs, but Coryo thought your warm slick coating his fingers said otherwise. 

He could tell that you were panicking now, thighs squirming against his shoulders as you began to grasp just exactly what he was doing. Arching your back in an attempt to buck him off but it smeared your pussy against his face instead, your clit bumping at his nose and your hips stuttered, a strangled moan escaping your pursed lips.

“You can like it, you know,” Coryo murmured and he was quick to indulge himself, running his tongue up your slit and he was careful to collect your precious essence, not a drop wasted, to swirl at your sensitive pearl of nerves until your quivering thighs were squeezing his head and you were gushing once more. 

And despite the many objections tumbling from your mouth, your body was so compliant, rewarding his efforts doubly and Coryo lapped away gratefully until you were dribbling down his chin and even then he brought his fingers to scoop them up before licking clean at them too because you were just so tasty and he was starved of you.

If gluttony was a sin, then why is he in heaven?

You were still writhing on the bed, still attempting to push him away at his head and it made Coryo even more determined if anything because he had never not gotten what he wanted, deserved and was entitled to. Slipping his left palm under your arse, he pried your flesh apart before pressing his face into your pussy, lips latching onto your clit, and it stayed there suckling because he would make an example of it now, that he was never going to let you go on his own accord regardless of how you begged him to. Hardly now, it seemed, when he flicked his tongue at your puffy pearl of nerves drawing another muffled cry, but you were no longer jerking back now.

It was taking less and less time for Coryo to drag you back over to the edge until you were teetering precariously once again, and he was completely delighted to find you already pulsing around him when he sank his fingers into you.

“You’re close again,” he murmured into your pussy and it was mocking because not a moment after he unlatched his lips from your swollen clit and you were protesting?, leaning back to admire his handiwork of your pretty pink pussy all swollen and glistening with slick a mix of his saliva and your arousal. He collected it up with a broad swipe of his tongue, finishing with a flick at your clit, all whilst still knuckles deep pumping into you, filling the room with obscene squelches.

“Can feel you clench around my fingers.”

“Oh--"

When Coryo felt your scrambling fingers again, it was to pull him in this time, as if he wasn’t already so intimately acquainted with your sweet cunt. It filled him with pride, that he could make you feel this good but just because he adored you didn’t mean he wasn’t going to discipline you, and if it meant taking your release away so you would understand just how intricately intertwined the both of you were, he would do it.

It began to ebb away as quickly as it had come, and it is in this moment of desperation that you reached for him. Blonde locks tangled within your fingers, but Coryo was still restrained, only soft kitten brushes against your bundle of nerves bringing you to another world of pain because it just wasn’t enough, only enough to keep you flustered and wanting but not enough for you to tumble over into the territory of pure euphoria. Even his right palm pressed against your tummy was firm, he couldn’t let you ride his face just yet, no glimmer of a chance at your own release that wasn’t at Coryo’s calculating hand.

All pretence abandoned and it wounds your pride.

“Please.” It was a whisper, but a polite start.

“Come on, princess.”

“Coryo,” There was no protest in his name anymore, only a pleading sigh of his name catching in your throat like a desperate hoarse prayer to something divine, and it made him hard.

“That’s it.”

“Please--” you tried once more but your voice breaks instead into a moan of frustration.

Your only consolation was that you weren’t the only one who was in suffering. Even in the midst of pressing gentle kisses at your cunt keeping you at the torturous edge where there was only one clear resolve, Coryo was also begging you  “Let me make you cum,” and the neediness in his voice was embarrassing because only you could resort him to this humiliation. “Just want to hear you say it.”

Another curl of his fingers, swirl of his tongue.

“Admit it.”

You were sobbing now, how could you let it go again? When it was just within reach, you could feel it brushing at your fingertips and at your thighs between Coryo’s curls, and the thought of it reducing to a disappointing barely-there wane, it brought salty tears to your eyes.

Your thighs tightened at Coryo’s shoulders in a poor attempt to keep him there, but you could feel him beginning to shift away and with it, your high slipping away too.

It was a dangerous game, but you were at the edge of your resolve, and you’d do whatever to convince him now, tell him that you would stay, that you would be whatever he wanted you to be, if that meant you could topple over the edge.

You could reason with him later, you would.

Reason what?

“Need you Coryo,” you gasped, “I need you, will do whatever you want.”

It was a little dazed and Coryo thought that you could work on the delivery, but he was happy with that nonetheless, rewarding you with a drive of his fingers even deeper catching every sensitive spot deep within you whilst his tongue continued its attention on your clit.

Whatever he wanted and he told you just exactly what between greedy mouthfuls of your pussy, “You won’t leave.”

It was pure desperation that spoke. “I won’t!”

Coryo lets you fall apart for him because of him. He released his palm at your belly button, letting you ride your orgasm out on his face with your thighs wrapped tight around his shoulders, his little angel so devilishly hysterical, until his face was completely smeared full of your delicious slick and he thought that he could drown in it happy.  

And when you came down from your high, it was still not enough because he wanted more of you and all of you and Coryo had a point to make that you needed him, you said it yourself. His efforts only doubled, indulging in the tastiest treat he had ever had, suckling at your oversensitive clit and needed his fingers drove deeper into your pussy until you were humming with unbridled pleasure that even the gentlest strum of his tongue had you thrashing around his shoulders, had your fingers tugging at his hair painfully as you soared and fell once again in the matter of seconds, another ragged pant dragged from your throat.

And when Coryo thought that you, your body and mind, had finally understood that you belonged to him wholly, he unlatched his lips from your swollen clit, pressing light kisses at your thighs before he pried himself of his position lodged between your trembling thighs.

When you came down from your peak, white ebbing back to the dimly lit room, you could make out his pale cheeks flushed pink and his hair messy an irrefutable evidence of your willingness. Coryo gave you a crooked grin, before he slumped back on the bed next to you, legs tangled with yours.

“I knew you would come to your senses.”

The reality of what you had agreed to settled disagreeably in the pit of your stomach once all that tension had disappeared.

His fingers, sticky from your cum, cradled your flustered cheek. It was as though he was reminding you, encapsulating you so you would never leave. He pressed another giddy kiss at your lips, and you tasted yourself on his lips.

“Tell me again,” Coryo panted against your lips; it was dizzying to be victorious.

But when he felt your cheeks wet against his, he wasn’t entirely convinced that you understood the seriousness of the events that had just transpired, and he simply refused to entertain your disobedience any longer.

“For fucks sake, just be good.” Now Coryo adored you, but he needed absolutes and not empty promises made in a frenzy of pleasure. Even though you had understood, you had yet to completely surrender to your happy fate by his side. He thought, maybe you just needed one final push.

His lips were locked onto yours once again, hot and hungry and before you could let out another string of those ungrateful whines and unwarranted objections which would only be ten-fold when the rattle of his zipper echoed through the room.

“You’re selfish, but I can put up with that,” he chastised while plying your lips open with his rough ones.

 “Wait--” your voice welling with alarm, but Coryo swallowed that one too, planting another kiss at your lips.

“Cus you’re mine.”

You were. His perfect stubborn girl who was now kicking feebly at his legs to no avail, limbs and lives too deeply intertwined.

Coryo could feel his composure slipping. He had been so sweet on you, but that was before his cock was pressing against your soft thighs. It was all instinct now because you were the sweetest temptation he had ever had to resist, but now he gets to indulge in you now and he sure was making a scene of it, groaning into your mouth while he guides his cock under your skirt, pressing it into you until his cockhead was gliding across your silky folds.

There was a bit of give before he breached into you, and see, he was right, he always was. You were enjoying yourself too whilst Coryo defiled you so that you could only belong to him, with your breathless whimpers tumbling drunkenly into his mouth, and he was sure not to kiss those away.

“You said you’ll do whatever I wanted.”

You did. Maybe in a haze of confusing arousal, but those were your words.

“And I want you to stay. With me.” Coryo murmured between each moment apart from your swollen lips, between each snap of his powerful hips driving into you. “I command it.”

He was sure to make every single rut into you harsh, until his hipbones were mashing against yours painfully because just look at how you could take every one of them, look at the way each sore bruise against your bony flesh went straight into your core and look at the way your wet walls clung onto every single bulging vein his cock had to offer you. Could there be any other reason why if you weren’t made for him and him for you?

And yet you were still refusing your happy fate.

A broken sob from your throat and Coryo could feel you tighten on his cock, clenching impossibly tight and he supposed that if he loved you, that meant every stubborn part, and even that was getting easier to love with how you were pulsing around him with every cry, and he thought he could grow to enjoy the chase.

And even that seemed to be waning now because you were conceding with every forceful fuck into you until you were reciprocating, your fingers tracing his chest while lips clung onto his, nature taking its course.

When Coryo pulled apart from your lips to lean back, it was to make you watch the way your lithe body beaded with sweat, not just accepting but welcoming his numbing assault from the way your pussy stretched, shaped and memorised him, so that even when he wasn’t there, he still was, there and everywhere. The outline under your navel bulging with every thrust was proof of it, and marked just how deep he was inside of you, conquering depths previously untouched.

“Look at it,” he snarled, bringing his thumb to trace at the bulge and it drew sparks across your skin. “Is there anywhere more fitting?”

You were just a mixture of sobs and moans when you peered up to blink at him dumbly, and Coryo didn’t think you could look any prettier but here you were, more beautiful and debauched than ever impaled on his cock. 

“Unless you want me to stop?” 

He was offering now, only because he knew you could never agree.

He snickered, “No, I didn’t think so, wouldn’t have lasted a single day without me.”

Gasping all over the place and it made Coryo swell with pride because he had done it, stamped out any ounce of bitterness and resentment you had towards him for just doing what was best for you, that was writhing and brimming full of unadulterated want desperate for release.  

“I won’t be there to make you feel good like this,” and he was gloating now adding to that messy whirlpool of emotions that were shame, awe and desperation pulling fat tears down your cheeks, but Coryo knew you better and thought that awful reality too painful for you to wrap your little head around.

“Gotta take care of you in every way.”

“Please!” and if had known that all it required for you to stay was to fuck you silly, he would have done it a lot sooner.  

“You’re not going to leave me, not ever, you do understand why that is don’t you?

Because he loved you, you understood that much now, but at what cost?

Coryo demanded an answer, his hips snapping up to bruising into you deliciously, but his pace stuttered.

Surely, he won’t take this away from you. You were ruined now, because he had made you feel better than your clumsy fingers could ever make yourself feel, reached places inside you that you hadn’t known ever existed, led you to heights so unimaginably heavenly with easy strokes. Coryo knew you completely, better than you knew yourself.  

So,what matter the cost when he loved you? When could make you feel this good, when he wanted to, he had made that abundantly clear. You thought that you could stay, if it meant you could feel like you this indefinitely.

“Tell me so I know.”

You gave him something better than an answer, you gave him a confession.

“I love you.”

Coryo thought it sounded perfect on your lips.

“You won’t leave me then.” It was unlike him, so uncharacteristically vulnerable.

“I won’t.”

“Promise it.”

“I promise.”

Coryo believed you. It was hard not to when the very proclamation had you rolling your head back on his pillows, your arms outstretched pulling him into a weak embrace, legs curling around his pistoning thighs drawing him unbelievably close until it was unclear where your body ended and his started and until you were one with him. He could feel you fluttering once again and it was even tighter this time around his fat cock instead of his fingers, until you came completely undone in a string of euphoric gasps.

For him though, it was your complete surrender to him, finding immense pleasure and unconditional solace in him and the years of frustrated anticipation melted away and Coryo groaned too joining your dazed gasps as he spilled himself deep inside you.

He thought, in this hazy reality, that just to be sure, he might just have to knock you up too, then you would really have to stay with him.

“You’ll write back,” he said in laboured breaths between each skim of his lips across your forehead when he finally slumped down against you. His tone was stern and gentle, there was no need to be mean anymore when you had been so compliant and obedient for him. “Write and tell them you’ve changed your mind.”

When you did not respond only turning away shyly, he peered down at you intently to see your waterline glimmering once more and he brushed the wetness away because he knew for certainty that they were only happy ones now. His prized possession brimming so full of bliss her eyes were brimming too.

Coryo didn’t mind this view of his pink and purple masterpiece dotted across your throat, marks of his property, but for now, he wanted your unyielding attention. He reached to tuck at your hair before tilting your jaw until you were facing him once again with your noses bumping lightly.

“You’ve got bigger and better things ahead of you,” Coryo murmured and it was his turn to be reassuring this time. Judging by the way his cock seemed to come to life again, tapping at your inner thigh, you agreed.

[sunflowersteves]

Could you write about Carmen getting your name tatted on his chest ? 🫶

yes I can, babes 😌

warnings || tattoos, absolutely pure fluff, making out, mentions of anxiety, not edited

masterlist

Carmen let out a deep breath, nerves prickling his skin, as he started to open the door of your apartment. His fingers from his other hand nervously tapped against the side of his thigh, all due to the anxiety that settled into his bones.

What if you hated it? What if you found it disgusting? Would you hate him?

The endless questions and unknown reactions flooded his head. It started to make him dizzy as he padded off into the living room.

“Baby?” He called out. His voice had a edge to it that made him want to cringe.

“In here, lovebug.” Instantly, he could feel his shoulders relax. The soft, caressing sound of your voice had silenced almost all of those trepidatious thoughts. Almost.

He barely moved an inch from where he stood. He knew your voice echoed from the bedroom, but his body refused to move. As always, his flight or fight response wanted to hone in on flight.

He took another deep breath. “Carmy?” You say. It was so soft and sweet that it melted his insides. Concern was evident by his lack of appearance and response.

This is so stupid. He was so stupid.

His mouth clamped shut. It was as if his body couldn’t quite catch up to his brain—which was racing a mile per minute. His finger continued to tap the side of his thigh.

You found yourself walking out into the living room, eyebrows furrowed. “Carmy baby, what’s the matter?”

You gently caress his jaw and it takes everything inside of him not to reach out. He wants to sit lovingly on the couch with your body on top of his, all while you watch some show.

More than half of the time he’s not even paying attention. His mind is either concocting a new recipe or thinking about how good your weight feels on top of him. His thoughts are all food or you.

“I have s-something to show you.” He curses inwardly at the stuttering of his voice. He hated how nervous he was for this.

It’s just you. Miraculously and amazing you.

Your eyebrows are furrowed once more, but your soft touch never wavers. He forces himself to take a big breath, eyes avoiding your stare.

He slowly takes off his white t-shirt. His hands shake as he pulls it over his head. His gold chain thumps against his chest and your eyes lowered. Then they lower again.

You let out a gasp. It was loud and shocking as it echoed against the apartment walls. “Oh, Carmy.” You whisper.

He sucks in a breath—anxiety toppling over as he spills his feelings. “W-well, uh, I know I said I was getting that arm piece. Like-like we talked about, you know? But then I-I started thinking and all I ever really wanted was you. So-so, yeah.” His hand was furiously pushing through his curls through the entire speech.

Your eyes are just glued to his chest. He gulps, hating the complete silence. However, you were just in awe.

Right on the center of where his heart is supposed to be was your initials in black ink. Your initials. The tattoo outlined in red from the irritated skin.

“Do you like it?” He says. He thought it was going to seem confident but the waver of his vocal cords say otherwise.

You finally look up into his eyes. You could’ve sworn you could stare at it for years. You open your mouth to reply but nothing comes out. Your heart pounds against your ears—his too. Having to wait for your response was torturous.

Instead of words, your body flings itself onto his. Your mouth slides over his and molds together as one. Your hands find themselves into his hair and pull. It was as if there was some switch that went off in your head. All you wanted, needed, and cared for right now was Carmen.

He pours out a moan when his tongue pushes between your lips and collides with yours. He could taste the leftover peppermint soufflé that you had after lunch. God, you tasted like fucking heaven.

You pull away before getting ahead of yourself. Carmen needed to go back to the restaurant for the night rush, but you wanted to pounce on him right then and there—give him kisses for a life time.

He laughs, which causing a chuckle to bubble from your own chest too.

“I fucking love it, Carmy.” You huff out. You were quite breathless from the kiss.

His eyes sparkle as his hands squeeze your waist. “Yeah?”

You nod, eyes looking glossed over. You were drunk on him—on Carmy.

“Yeah, lovebug. I might have to get one for myself. A C.B. just for you.”

He finally smiles, bright and toothy. His heart beats faster than ever, but now, it’s for a different reason.

“Sounds perfect, baby. Just perfect.”

[dadsbongos]

jennifer's body - z.maki

part of the jjk movie marathon event / movie selection

...

warnings - vaginal fingering *nerd emoji*, thigh riding, maki's the top as per usual, car sex, you're a whiny bitch but maki's into it, potential cum eating

word count - 2.2 K / rating - R

Maki detests a lot of things, but above every single one of those things - she detests being put on missions with you most of all.

“Eek!” Maki’s balance is hardly thrown off despite the way you rip her arm to your chest. You hug her close and push your cheek to her shoulder, “Please protect me, Maki!”

She snorts, looking down at you curled around her form, “You’re a grade two, you know? You don’t have to hide behind me.”

Feeling the impression of your lips molding into a pout against her, you ‘hmph’, continuing down the creaky, dank hall, “A grade two can still be scared!”

Naturally, yes. However, the degree of fear you commonly express makes teaming with you such a hassle. Though not necessarily because she finds it annoying.

Maki feels your skittish fingers dance down to hers, and she clasps your hand tightly. Her heart throbs uncomfortably at the idea of your poor brain all stressed and overheating, skin chilled, and throat too tight to speak. A terrible thing that is. Yes, she hates it more than anything else in the world.

So Maki walks just a pace quicker than you, ensuring she’s upfront. But no matter that, she is not the one to suffer this mission’s great blowback.

As if freshly blistering up from between the floorboards, a puffy, mushroom-shaped spore oozes from beneath your boot. Mustard yellow curd gushes onto the ground from each pore with a soft puff of orange gas into the air.

“Damn!” Maki curls an arm around your waist and tucks you behind her.

The particles cling to your nose, itching and irritating; they claw down your throat and paint over the front of your uniform.

By the time Maki has splattered the curse, you’re feverish. Still coughing up dust and reaching out for her.

“Are you okay?” she cradles your sweltering frame in her broad hands.

“Car,” you wheeze out, falling into her stronger frame, “We need to get outta here.”

Your thighs squeeze together, hips mindlessly squirming into the sticky leather of the backseat. Leaning into Maki, you take her arm again, breasts squishing against her firm muscles and pressing her hand between the clench of your thighs. Her palm digs into the meat of your inner thighs and it takes about 60% of your brain power to keep from humping her hand.

Pressing your face to her neck, you know she can feel the softness of your lips on her smooth skin. You know she can feel the hot puffs of your words, “Maki… Maki I think we should pull over…”

“What?” her cheeks go pink, eyes falling to you from beneath her lenses. Her other hand comes up to cup your cheek, it burns beneath her skin, “Talk to me, huh? What’re you feeling?”

“Hmm,” you turn into the feeling of her cupping your cheek, and your gaze finds Maki’s crinkled face. Eyes wide beneath furrowed brows, lips down in a frown, “I feel so hot, Maki, please- “ you jerk up, rutting against her hand, “Please pull over!”

The car doesn’t stop. Maki moves her hand from your cheek to press against your feverish forehead. She barks over at Ijichi, “Hey, pull over!”

You all jerk at the sudden stop before Ijichi shamefully restarts the car to more carefully move off the side of the road. He turns in the driver’s seat to look at the pair of you, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You think it’s cuter when Maki does it.

Oh, Maki.

You blink up at her lazily. Lashes fluttering. She reddens more at the movement, you like that.

“Maki,” you whisper, low enough so even Ijichi can’t hear, “I think it was an aphrodisiac.”

She looks away, pointlessly, to the back support cushions behind you. Her chin tucks close to her chest and you can hear the strain in her throat to whisper back just as low, “Can you hold out until we see Ieiri?”

“Mh-hmm,” you shake your head, thighs tightening around Maki’s hand and now using 80% of your brain power to not shamelessly grind on her, “No way…”

You need her. ‘Starved in a dungeon for weeks, and you finally see a fresh loaf of bread’ kind of need.

Maki feels something ugly burrow into her chest at the idea of Ijichi seeing you so weak and bothered. And something uglier arrives when she realizes it isn’t just because you’re an impaired friend - she doesn’t even want Shoko seeing you like this if she can help it. Looking over at Ijichi, Maki jerks her head towards the door.

“Wh-what?” Ijichi stutters out, head lowering.

“Get out!” she snaps.

“Yes, ma’am!” Ijichi jumps out of the car, slamming the door shut in the process.

Maki watches him shuffle towards the trunk and stand with his back facing the vehicle. He twiddles his thumbs and stares down the empty road. She thinks he might be pouting after getting yelled at. She doesn’t spend much time on the thought before you’re sitting up on your knees.

Her hand is (sadly) free from between your legs and you drop her arm to shakily place both your hands on her shoulders. You settle onto one of her thighs, arms curling around her neck. Your nose nudges hers and you press a kiss on Maki’s cheek.

She can feel how warm you are through your thin tights. Unsurely, Maki’s hands find your hips, “What should I…?”

You hum, moving to her other cheek and kissing there, too, “I need you, Maki.”

Her hands squeeze your hips. To stop you or ground herself, she isn’t sure. Both works, probably. Right?

“You’ll regret it later,” now, Maki’s hands try lifting you off of her thigh, “It’s not a good idea.”

“No!” you wail, nails digging into Maki’s shoulders, hips stubbornly remaining in place. You rear back to bat your lashes at her again, chest rising and falling with your gasping breaths, “Won’t regret it, I promise…” your hips lower on her thick thigh, she tenses below you, “I love you, Maki,” you kiss her cheek again, hoping to tempt her, “Love you so much. Need you so bad.

90% of your brain power goes towards not humping her leg like a dog.

She’s frozen solid, your feverish cheek presses to hers and you pray it melts through her icy exterior.

“So jealous of Yuuta,” you murmur, moving to ghost your lips over hers. They’re so much softer than you thought they’d be, and they taste like cherry chapstick. The kind that reminds you of cough syrup, “Talking about him ‘n’ how strong he is… I hate it. ‘m not stronger than you, Maki, but ‘m better than Yuuta,” you feel her grin, her body jolting to life as two hands find the sides of your face, “Just wanna show you that I’m better than Yuuta.”

“You’re jealous,” she ‘tsk’s, “but you’re the one calling Okkotsu by his given name.”

“Don’t be mad…” you fight against her hold on your head and purse your lips against hers, a chaste kiss from you to her, “I love Maki, not Yuuta.”

100% of your brain power is put into your self-control. It overheats your brain and Maki can almost hear the gears churning, smell the smoke pouring from your ears when you finally give up and rut down into her thigh with a shaky gasp. You roll your hips against her thigh once again to test her reaction - she flexes her leg and her hands fly down to your hips to guide your movement.

“Are you sure?”

You sigh against her lips when your clit catches sweetly on her thigh, nodding frantically and rubbing against her thigh faster, “Please, Maki? I’ll go totally crazy if you keep making me beg…”

She snickers against your lips, pausing to kiss you again while dragging your cunt over her flexed thigh, “Sorry.”

A pitchy whine is strangled in the back of your throat, the fire in your gut only burning hotter. Quickly unsatisfied with the dulling sensation between your legs, “Need more, Maki. ‘s not enough.”

Pulling back, Maki pushes up the leg you sit on, hoping to dig out the burning spores under your skin. She tilts her head, “What should I- what do you want?”

But you simply whine in response. Throwing your head back and grinding fruitlessly against her muscled thigh.

“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered, fingers abandoning your sides to dance up under your skirt, “So needy, you know that?”

“Hmph!” you lift your bobbing head to glare at the woman beneath you.

“What?” her nails bite into the snug, thin material of your tights. You gasp when the sharp pop of her fingers bursting the cloth rings out, she snickers at your doe-eyed stare, “They COMME des GARÇONS or something?”

Before you can begin jutting out your bottom lip and squirming off your tights by yourself, Maki worms her fingers through the gape and rips sideways. The warmth of her hand cups against your hot sex, the wet patch on your panties clinging to her skin. The sensation sends tingles down her spine. Down her spine and swirling around to her gut, swelling as you grind down into the heel of her palm.

“Please,” you lean down, pressing your forehead to hers. Heat fanning from your cheeks, and Maki can feel it. You know she can. You know she likes it, “Need you inside me, Maki.”

Her lithe fingers pull your panties to the side before running the pads of her middlemost fingers along your slit. Wetness glides down her skin, her head pitches up and her lips pucker. You meet her in the middle - soft and cherry-flavored - as her fingers slide inside you.

“So wet,” she muses against your lips, “I just slipped in, honey.”

“Need you,” you cant your hips down onto her fingers, “Need you so bad…”

“You really love me?” it could be teasing, but if you pry back the thickened, scarred skin beneath her uniform - you could feel that mushiness in her question. That softness of needing to know how you feel. Needing to know this isn’t a lie that some infection has conjured inside you.

“I love you!” her thumb nudges into your puffy clit, loosely swiping the characters of her name across the bundle. Fingers crooking up in an almost frenzied search for the little spot to put hearts in your eyes. You squeeze your arms tight around her neck, back arching and chest pressing close to Maki’s face, “Love you s’much, Maki! Wanna be your girl…”

She barely catches the admission over your whining moans.

“I’ll make you mine,” she juts her chin at you, “I’ll make all you mine.”

You squeal as she stirs the bubbling, electrified pot inside you, hips rocking down so you’re practically riding her fingers. Arms pulling back, you cup Maki’s soft cheeks and trap her head in place. Once again, your lips find hers.

Her wrist flexes with the force of her thrusting fingers, eagerly chasing the sensation of your velvety cunt sucking her deep inside you. The sloppy, crude sound of your wetness squelching out with every stroke inside your cunt makes her lightheaded. Her thumb quickens against your clit, and your thighs quiver on either side of her own.

“So pretty when you’re falling apart for me,” Maki rests her head against the seat, eyes lazily crawling along your form. She grins, wolfish in nature - like she could scarf you down whole if she pleased, “Really wanna be my girl, baby?”

She could.

“God, yes!” you firmly plant yourself against the heel of Maki’s palm, knocking her thumb off balance and grinding into the meat of her hand. Your juices drip down her hand as she continues to finger you in the backseat, watching the muscles in your thighs tense.

You’d let her.

“Then cum for me, yeah?”

A final press into your g-spot. One last nudge of your clit against her palm. Only one more peck of your lips to hers.

And you’re going limp, save for the unsteady twitching of your hips as the last of your release drools into Maki’s hand. Your head crashes down onto Maki’s shoulder, eyes drooping.

You yawn and Maki slowly pulls out of you, bracing her other hand against your hip to keep you from collapsing entirely. She settles you to slump fully on her lap. Her eyes stray to your cum, webbing between her fingers.

She wants it in her mouth. To slurp up the very essence of you and taste you on her tongue. But she pauses before committing.

That gas - powder? particles? poison? - could be contagious.

Though, if it were, she would’ve gotten it when kissing you, right?

But it could also be the sexual nature - the fact she’s ingesting your cum - that would spread it.

Looking down at you, your closed eyes and parted lips - if you aren’t sleeping, you’re definitely on your way. The heat is subsiding and your breathing has evened out.

There’ll be more opportunities later, she supposes. Mournfully, Maki wipes her sodden hand against her skirt before calling a shaky, flustered Ijichi back to the car.