#and so what else can they do but find relief in the control over it

[littlelamy]

boat scene with rafe

requested by @gibson-g1rl l <3 😘 part 2

credits: oysters png from @saizun , and amazing gifs from @rafeyscurtainbangs

The boat rocks beneath you as you step toward where Rafe sits bound against the wall, looking both furious and oddly vulnerable. You catch his eye as you enter the room, holding a small packet of aspirin and a plate of food. His eyebrows lift slightly in surprise, but his cocky smirk returns almost immediately.

“Look who’s here to take care of me,” he drawls, his voice dripping with that familiar teasing tone, though there’s a flicker of genuine relief in his eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to your words. You set the plate down next to him and hand over the aspirin, glancing away to avoid letting him see the small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “Thought you’d need this. Can’t have you passing out on us.”

Rafe takes the aspirin from your hand, holding your gaze just a little too long before he swallows it dry. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting room service,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. “Didn’t know you cared this much.”

You scoff, folding your arms. “You should know by now I don’t want you dead, Rafe,” you say with a wry smile. “But don’t expect this to become a habit.”

He chuckles, the sound low and a little smug. “We’ll see about that,” he says, shifting against the ropes, clearly enjoying the attention. He nods toward the plate. “So, what—are you gonna feed me, too?”

You blink, taken aback by his nerve, and then raise an eyebrow, letting sarcasm color your voice. “Would you like me to? Or do you think you can manage?” You narrow your eyes, daring him to keep pushing.

Rafe’s smirk wavers, his cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink as he quickly looks away. “I can handle it,” he mutters, clearly flustered but trying to play it off. “Don’t get carried away.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I wasn’t planning to.” But you can’t help the grin tugging at your lips as you settle back, watching as he tries to pick up a piece of food from the plate with an awkward, fumbling grip, struggling against the restraints.

You stifle a laugh as he tries to eat without making a mess, and he catches you smiling, his jaw tightening. “Something funny?” he snaps, though there’s a hint of embarrassment in his tone.

You shrug, biting back your amusement. “Nothing at all. You look perfectly in control.”

Rafe grumbles under his breath, focusing intently on his food to avoid meeting your eyes. Another wave rocks the boat, causing you to steady yourself against the wall, and you look back to find him watching you, something almost like concern flickering in his gaze.

“Be careful,” he mutters, his voice softer, dropping the bravado for a split second.

For a moment, you just look at each other, the storm outside and the chaos around you fading into the background. His cocky expression softens, and he gives you a small, grateful nod. He won’t say it, but you know he’s thankful.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, his gaze lingering on you a beat longer.

“Yeah, yeah,” you reply, crossing your arms as you lean back against the wall. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

Rafe grins, his cockiness slipping back into place, but now it’s warmer, less of a wall and more like something shared just between the two of you. As he reaches for another bite, he murmurs, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” And as much as you try to resist, you can’t help the small, reluctant smile that crosses your face in response.

The storm hits hard, the boat rocking violently beneath your feet. You’re barely able to keep your balance as you make your way through the narrow, dimly lit hallway. Waves crash against the hull, each one sending a jolt of panic through your body. But there’s something else clawing at you—something that won’t let you ignore the sound of Rafe’s voice, sharp and desperate, calling from another room.

“Come on! Cut me loose!” His voice cracks, the desperation in it too raw to ignore.

You freeze, breath catching in your throat. Rafe. He’s still tied up. The ropes are holding him in place as the boat teeters precariously on the brink of capsizing. You can hear Pope and Cleo yelling from the kitchen, their voices overlapping, trying to convince you to leave it alone. To save yourself. But you can’t. Not this time.

You grip the knife tighter, your fingers cold and trembling from the anxiety rising in your chest. There’s no time to think. Rafe’s call keeps echoing in your head, and that voice—the urgency, the fear—pushes you forward. You make your way toward the room where you heard him last, the sound of the storm growing louder as it pounds against the sides of the boat.

Before you even get to the door, Cleo’s voice rings out. “No! Y/N, No!”

Pope’s voice follows, sharper. “Y/N, stop don’t let him out!”

But you keep moving. You don’t stop. You can’t. There’s no way you’re going to let Rafe stay there, helpless and bound, when you can do something about it.

When you reach the door, you shove it open, and the sight of Rafe tied up against the far wall hits you with a jolt. He’s slumped slightly, sweat slicking his forehead, his face drawn with exhaustion and frustration. His eyes snap to you, and for a split second, they soften with something almost like relief.

“Cut me loose, come on!” He says again, his voice strained, but louder this time, more insistent.

His hands are bound tightly in thick ropes, his legs spread out uncomfortably beneath him. The ropes seem too thick for him to break on his own. You can see the tension in his body, the way his muscles twitch from the strain, and the panic that flickers behind his gaze. There’s no time to waste. You don’t think twice. You crouch in front of him, the knife in your hand glinting in the low light.

Rafe watches you, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “Don’t make me regret this,” you murmur, feeling your heart beat faster as you cut into the thick rope that’s holding him in place. Your hands are shaking, the knife slipping slightly as the boat tilts again, but you focus on the task at hand.

“Come on, hurry up.” His words are clipped, desperate, and you push aside the nervous tightness in your chest as you work faster, cutting the ropes.

You’re close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, a stark contrast to the cold, wet air from the storm. The boat groans as another wave slams against it, and Rafe’s eyes flicker to the window, then back to you.

“Please,” he breathes, and it’s that one word that makes everything else fade away—the roaring storm, the panicked shouting from the others, the ticking clock of time slipping away.

The last thread gives way with a sharp cut, and Rafe’s hands are free. His arms immediately reach for you, grabbing hold of your wrist with a surprising amount of force, pulling himself upright.

“Thanks,” he mutters, his voice rough, but there’s something deeper in it, something like a sense of vulnerability you’ve never seen from him before.

You don’t have time to say anything, to wonder if he’s really thankful or if he’s just grateful to be free. The boat shudders violently, and you both stumble as the hull groans beneath you. The wind howls outside, whipping against the windows, and you know there’s not much time before things get worse.

Rafe doesn’t wait for an invitation. He grabs your arm, pulling you toward the narrow hallway. “We need to get to somewhere safer,” he says, his tone not leaving any room for an argument.

You’re both moving quickly, though the boat keeps pitching wildly. The wind screeches, and water sloshes against the floorboards. Every step feels like a risk, like the boat could capsize at any moment. But Rafe doesn’t let go of your arm. He pulls you behind him, guiding you toward a small corner near the engine room, the only place that might offer even the slightest bit of shelter.

You slide into the corner, pressing yourself against the cold wall. It’s not the safest place, but in the madness of the storm, it’s all you have. Rafe follows, wedging himself beside you. There’s barely enough room for the two of you, but you don’t mind. You’re not focused on that right now. All you can think about is how the boat is rocking, how you’re both on the brink of disaster, and how Rafe’s body is so close to yours.

He leans into you, his breathing ragged and uneven. For a moment, he pulls away, but then his hand is at your waist, his grip tightening. It’s almost like he’s afraid you might slip away from him. He presses his body closer, his face now inches from yours, and you can feel the rapid beat of his heart.

Rafe places his head on your neck, his face buried in the crook of your shoulder. The warmth of his breath on your skin is both comforting and unsettling, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you place your hand on his back, the pressure of your touch grounding both of you as the storm rages on around you.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, though you’re not sure if you’re trying to reassure him or yourself.

Rafe doesn’t respond, but you feel his muscles relax, his tense body unwinding little by little. He’s not just holding onto you for stability; it feels like he’s holding onto you for something more. You can’t explain it, but there’s something in the way he leans into you, something raw and vulnerable that you’ve never seen before.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln

[nereidprinc3ss]

bambi

in which spencer reid and fem!reader fuck like they missed each other (because they always do) and he teases her for her shaky legs

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: softdom spencer, piv sex (riding, a first for nereidprinc3ss) /oral f receiving (in that order) mentions of him accidentally grabbing her hips too hard, slight somno SORT OF like he starts going down on her while she’s sleepy and then she kind of goes in and out but its all consensual, sorry haters i fucking love sleepy sex and I always will, teasing, lots of praise, fluffy, established relationship, he loves her badddd, aftercare, literally nothing bad happens no angst for once they just are having sex cause they are in love which is arguably the most superior kind of sex! a/n: I don’t think I’ve ever written smut that is so wham bam thank you ma’am like really we just get RIGHT into it!! also no gif no pics we r going old nereidprinc3ss on this one I hope you loveeee!!!

You roll over onto Spencer and kiss once, long and deep and sweet. He hums into it, too whipped to pretend like he’s got self control or respect, hands finding the soft skin of your bare waist and settling there. 

How it got to this point so quickly, no more than fifteen minutes after he walked through the door, you can’t say. Usually the two of you are a bit more domestic when he gets home from a case, but eight days is a long time to be apart, and the trail of clothing leading from the welcome mat to the foot of the bed attests to that. 

So does the lack of teasing, of begging—at least, a lack up until this point. Right now, there’s only him, patient and content to let you play at being in charge. You pull back and reach down to grab him gently, aligning him at your entrance with a trembling hand. This part, you’re not usually responsible for. 

He assures you with a hand to the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles. “You got it. Slowly.”

You do as he says, brow furrowing in focus as you sink down an inch or two onto him. Spencer’s breathing grows erratic as you take more and more of him, and in a heroic display of overachieving, you take the rest of him at once with nothing but a squeak. He laughs breathily as his fingers dig into your hips. 

“Fuck—I said slow.”

You can’t think. The overwhelm of it all is too much as you crumple forward onto his chest. The subtle rocking you’re doing to try and alleviate some of the pressure in your core is apparently too much as he stops you by the hips, fingers pressing into those same tender spots.

Spencer’s breath is ragged. “Don’t… do not move.”

“Fuck,” you breathe into his shoulder, long and drawn out as despite his wishes you wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. “Oh my god.”

“My lovely girl, please… please don’t move,” Spencer gasps, a plead, and you try to stop for him, nuzzling even deeper against his neck. “I need a minute.”

“It’s too much,” you slur, dizzy as you try to adjust to the feeling. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re asking for. Maybe relief from the sensation that he can’t offer you. Maybe more. 

Spencer is undone by you—the way you writhe on top of him, the way your voice shakes, the way you’re so totally and completely overwhelmed and he can feel it and he loves it. 

“Baby,” he breathes, and he meant to say a lot more than that, but it’s the best he can manage when he is this overstimulated. “Baby,” he whispers again, wrapping his arms around you in an effort to ground you, to give you something else to focus on as you both get used to the feeling. 

It’s going well—for a moment, before your back is arching. 

“Spence, I need to move, I can’t—”

“Okay, okay.” He takes a deep breath, returning his hands to your waist and mentally preparing himself not to cum early. He’s desperate to give you want you want, to feel you like this. “Go ahead. Move, honey. Please.”

By the time you slowly lift your hips up and drop back down with a low cry, Spencer’s lost. His head falls back against the pillow and his eyes squeeze shut. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Oh, angel, I missed you.”

You do it again, motivated by his praise, and he can hear your little gasps and desperate gulps of air. 

“I missed you so much,” you whine and clench around him, pleasure so intense it’s a resounding ache in the far reaches of your body. “Oh, fuck, Spencer.”

Spencer shivers. He loves when you make it personal, when you say his name like that and it becomes clear this isn’t just about the physical.

“My girl. Just like that. Doing so well, baby, just like that.”

Each pass of your hips has you whining. Your lips skim over his neck, not cognizant enough to actually kiss—only to know that you want the contact. 

“Please can I go faster?”

Spencer almost doesn’t realize you’re speaking to him he’s so lost in pleasure. The idea of faster is as compelling as it is troublesome. Spencer doesn’t know if he can’t take faster, not when he has you like this, but he certainly wants to find out. 

“Yeah, lovely. Do whatever feels good.”

You readjust and begin to pick up the pace, stumbling over a few false starts as it’s clearly more sensation than you’d been prepared for. 

Spencer, on the other hand, has his eyes screwed shut tight, and is attempting to draw a two-dimensional Császár polyhedron on your back, but he loses his place with every twitch of your hips, so eventually he decides to trace imperfect Mandelbrots down your spine—anything to avoid thinking about how the pH of your body interacts with sweet vanilla perfume to create a scent so deeply intoxicating he’d leave his entire life behind just to trail after it, or how you fucking feel against him, on top of him, around him, how miraculous it is that you keep letting him touch you—

“Oh—” you whine quietly, a strangled sort of noise that has his heart skipping. Your hand tangles desperately in his hair as you rock your hips faster and faster and he lets out a tortured groan. “Spencer, oh my fucking god.”

“I know, baby,” he manages, endeared by the fact that you feel so good you have to share it with him. Even now you’re trying to explain it because you want him to be part of it—as if he doesn’t know exactly what you’re feeling already. “That feels good, huh?”

“Mm—f—eels—” you cut yourself off with a cry into the crook of his neck, and he holds the back of your head, vision greying as he stares unseeing at the ceiling because if he looks down this’ll be over too soon. 

“You’re so good,” he breathes, “you’re perfect.”He hears you gasp at the same time as your rhythm falters, and presses a kiss somewhere indiscriminately on your head. “Gonna cum?” He murmurs in your ear, and you nod desperately, rutting against him hopelessly as your thighs tremble from exertion. 

Even the smallest drop-off in friction has his head spinning like he stood up too quickly, so he gives himself enough leverage to start fucking you. You cry out and shift your weight like you’re going to try and evade the feeling—self-sabotage, you always do this—and he again has to hold your hips in an iron vice, just to force you to feel it. 

“You’re okay, I’m gonna get you there.”

“Fuck!” You very nearly yell, still trying to wriggle away up until the very last second like the tide going out before the tsunami comes. When you do cum, your demeanor instantly changes—you get heavy and clingy and whiny as you rock back and forth through your orgasm. 

“Good girl,” Spencer murmurs, being careful in the way he continues to fuck you until he reaches his peak as well, not long after. You shudder, and Spencer feels the way your entire body tenses the way it sometimes does after a particularly strong orgasm, and he fights his way out of the brain fog to rub your back with the skimming tips of his fingers. “Shh. You’re okay. Relax, baby.”

And you do, unwound by the dance of his hand and with a few shallow breaths that gradually deepen, until you’re once more slack on top of him. 

“You’re incredible,” he exhales, with his lips pressed to your hairline. 

So clearly overwhelmed, the only response you can muster is a soft squeak. Spencer laughs fondly, still mapping the soft curve of your back. He feels the way you’re still attempting to train your breathing and kisses your hair again. “What do you need, angel?”

“I’m s’posed to be taking care of you,” you slur. Spencer chuckles again and his brow knits. 

“According to who?”

“According to… I was on top…”

“Yeah. You did all the hard stuff. Your legs are shaking.”

You whine softly. “No they’re not.”

His hand slides down to your thigh, and he rubs the trembling muscles. 

“No? No Bambi legs for me this time?”

You squeeze them around his waist like you could shrink away from his touch. “Spence…”

“I’m teasing you, honey,” he murmurs, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. “You’re cute.”

“Hm.”

“Look at me,” he murmurs, angling his head expectantly as you slowly raise yours. The look on your face is so sweet—eyes half lidded, lips swollen and much higher in color than usual. Your cheek is warm to the touch. His heart flutters like it did on your first date, and the first time he kissed you, and the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder. This view will never get old. “Wow. Look at you, beautiful girl. Can I have a kiss?”

And you grant him his wish, with a long, soft kiss that’s worth every second of that burning feeling in his lungs, every time. 

Eventually you huff out the remainder of your air against his well-kissed lips and your head flops to his chest. 

“I’m sleepy.”

“So go to sleep,” he murmurs, so warm from your kiss he feels nothing could be wrong in the world at this moment. 

“I can’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause you just got home ’nd I missed you and I wanna spend time with you.”

“We have three days to spend together. If you go to sleep now, we’ll actually get more time together tomorrow.”

“But it’s more about, like, how it feels—how much time it feels like we spend together right when you get home, and if I go to sleep now, it’s gonna feel like less time, and—basically you’re just not understanding my math.”

“What math?” He laughs, continuing to rub your legs all the way up to your hips, at which point you hiss and buck—a very visceral feeling when he’s still inside of you. “What? What hurts?”

“You tried to fucking tear my hip flexors from my body, is what hurts,” you grumble. 

“Tender?”

“Mhm.”

“I’m really sorry, angel. Tylenol?”

“Mm-mm. Can you kiss me better?” Sleep stains your voice. Spencer smiles to himself. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Lie down.”

Again you whine as you slip off of him, landing heavily on your back. He sits up, watches with so much affection the way you squeeze your thighs together and arch ever so slightly against the empty feeling. 

“Spencer?” You whisper as he cups the top of your knees. 

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

He pushes your legs apart gently so he can settle in between them and kisses you again. “I love you. So much.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

He presses a kiss to your head, down your neck, taking the scenic route to your hip bones, but you don’t seem to mind. 

The feeling of his lips gentle on the tender flesh has you humming softly, eyes fluttering shut as he showers you with gentle kisses. His traces every place his fingers had pressed earlier—feels the way you relax further underneath him. Nobody’s ever let him in this deeply before, but you trust him with everything you have; your body, your soul, in life or death, awake and in sleep. He’ll never take that for granted. He will never pass on an opportunity like this, to be the one who takes care of you, who puts you back together, as long as you’ll let him. 

Still dancing the line of consciousness, you part your legs, the slow drag of your bare thigh like a jumper cable to his heart. Fingertips trace desirous paths up your inner thigh and back down again. He recognizes this invitation for what it is, and he knows exactly how to give you what you want, but he asks first anyway. 

“Was that on purpose?”

“I d’know what you mean. I’m so sleepy,” you slur, and he believes the second half of your statement to be fact. 

Spencer pushes your thigh a little higher, and you’re completely pliable for him, completely gorgeous. As soon as he skims your thigh with a barely-there kiss, exactly the way you like, you’re lacing a hand in his hair. 

“Please, Spence…” you murmur, and he can’t argue with that. He especially can’t argue when you widen your legs just that slightest bit more, and your arousal is opalescent between your legs. 

He hums, trailing more kisses up until he’s setting the softest one yet against your clit. “Beautiful girl…”

The following gasp is so tiny he could’ve missed it if he wasn’t so attuned to your noises—and then he gets lost in you, making sure to keep his ministrations light as you already came twice recently and are sure to be sensitive. He doesn’t want to wake you from whatever twilight half-slumber trance you’re in, either, sensing that if he does you’ll fight all over again to stay up.

And admittedly, he adores being trusted to take care of you like this.

Your back arches as much as you’re capable of in this state, and he can’t help the way he just barely suctions onto you at that moment, coaxing a sighing moan so sweet and vulnerable and open it gives him chills. Fuck. He really wants to make you cum. But instead he practices patience, tracing you with the tip of his tongue, pressing gentle kisses everywhere you need them—he draws it out. For he doesn’t know how long. 

The first time you get close, your hips begin to roll, and you spout little ah’s, but he talks you back down again, laughing lightly at your angelic cooing, your little sounds of sleepy pleasure. Even now you’re so responsive, moving against his mouth as he slips a finger into your soaked entrance, fucks you for a moment, and then retreats. Maybe he’s being unfair, but you don’t seem to mind. 

In fact, you’re slipping in and out of sleep as he devours you for what feels like hours, one hand pressed lovingly to your stomach, stroking the soft skin there. Spencer’s never had this long to explore you with his mouth and he takes full advantage of every moment, but he keeps all his kisses and licks and touches gentle and reverent and so loving. 

You don’t know how long it’s been, or how many times he’s made you cum when he finally retreats—you half-wake just as he’s finishing cleaning you up. Soon he tosses the towel aside and presses feather-light kisses to each of your cheeks, tear-stained and warm with pleasure. You feel completely drained and completely loved. 

“Hi, sleeping beauty,” he murmurs, climbing into bed with you, at some point having gotten dressed. 

You manage an embarrassed little laugh. More tears crawl down your cheeks as you roll to your side. Spencer brushes them away and pulls you into him, slinging your thigh over his waist. He chuckles. 

“Shaky?”

“Stop,” you whine, embarrassed by his teasing, and hide your face against his chest. “That’s not my fault.”

“It’s nobody’s fault. It’s sweet,” he insists as he rubs your back. And then, a moment later, “So—do you think we’ve spent enough time together for tonight?”

“No.”

He sighs good-naturedly. 

“You’re gonna wear me out, you know that?”

“’F you… can’t handle the heat… get outta the kitchen.”

When he next speaks you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Go to sleep, Bambi. Let’s see if you can walk in the morning.”

[yuujispinkhair]

Rough Mission -> Rough Sex

You always offer Yuuji comfort with your hugs, your kisses, and your words of reassurance. But on the nights when he comes home covered in blood and with that strange look in his eyes, you know that there is only one thing that helps him feel ok again: Sex. And not the sweet love-making kind, but the feral, rough-fucking kind, where Yuuji can let all his pain and anger out.

Pairing: Yuuji x Reader (female) Genre: smut Word Count: 1k Warnings: 18+, smut, rough sex, creampie, squirting, biting. Yuuji and reader are in a loving relationship and everything happens with reader's consent. All characters are of age. Divider by @/cafekitsune

The first time it happens, Yuuji tries to flee from you, walking past you with that haunted look on his face, and disappearing in the bathroom, where you find him a minute later, slumped against the wall, breathing harshly, with his eyes pressed shut, and his pants pushed down, his fat throbbing cock in his hand, jacking off furiously in a desperate attempt to get his mind off the horrible mission.

"Yuuji, what are you doing? Why are you here all alone? Let me..."

Golden eyes fly open and stare at you with a mix of pain and despair and something else. A feral glint you have never seen in Yuuji's eyes before. Even his voice sounds different, a low, barely restrained growl,

"Please, stay away... I don't think I can hold back when I'm in this state. Please, baby."

And you realize what the problem is. Oh, sweet Yuuji. Such a hero. So caring and selfless to a fault. He's scared to touch you because he's scared of his own strength. Scared to be too rough with you now that he's losing control.

But you're having none of it. You don't run. You walk over to the boy you love. You tilt your head to look up at him and cup his cheek tenderly while your other hand wraps around his rock-hard cock and pumps it in your fist, milking fat globs of pre-cum out of Yuuji's swollen, dark-pink tip as you tell him,

"I love you, baby. Just fuck all your troubles into me. I promise you it's ok. Please don't hold back."

And Yuuji growls. He really growls, and you know his resolve is slipping.

He fucks you hard on the bathroom floor, rutting into you like an animal in heat, growling and sobbing while he presses you down with his heavy body, taking you over and over again until he has fucked it all out, has fucked all his pain and anger into your spasming cunt.

After that night, he doesn't try to run from you anymore. He comes to you eagerly, seeking the comfort of your body. Seeking the sweet relief he can find in your arms and in your tight pussy.

The moment Yuuji walks into your apartment, you can already see when a mission was a rough one. His golden eyes are on you with that feral glint in them, his broad chest heaving, and his hands balled into fists as he strides toward you like a tiger on the prowl. So strong, so buff, so deadly. You are so wet for him that you don't just soak your panties but also your pajama shorts.

"Come here, Yuu. Fuck me, baby. Be as rough as you need."

He is on you in a split second, growling in the back of his throat as he presses his lips against yours in a fierce, desperate kiss. You still gasp anytime Yuuji lets you get a taste of his superhuman strength and speed. When he rips your clothes off, tearing at them with his strong hands in his urgent need to get you naked and sink his needy cock into your tight cunt and fuck all his anger into you.

His clothes follow a moment later, dropping to the floor in ripped pieces, exposing Yuuji's tall, buff body to you. His buff muscles are flexed, veins standing out from all the adrenaline still pumping through his body. He looks even bigger than usual, so strong, so feral, so fucking sexy.

You moan as Yuuji manhandles you, his large, strong hands flipping you onto your stomach and pushing your head down. A hard slap lands on your ass, and you hear Yuuji growl, followed by a hoarse,

"Fuck! I need you, baby, need to fuck you hard. Please... can I please?"

His fat cock is leaking pre-cum all over your ass in his need to fuck you. He wouldn't even have to ask. You will always give him anything he needs. You push yourself on your knees, ass up, face down, Yuuji's favorite position, offering yourself to him, moaning his name, and telling him to take you as hard as he needs.

And he does.

The growled "Thank you" has barely left Yuuji's lips when he already slams his thick needy cock deep into your soaked cunt with a brutal snap of his hips that makes both of you cry out loudly. Yuuji apologizes even while he grabs your hips and pulls you toward him, rolling his hips against you, fucking you open with hard, deep thrusts that knock the air out of you.

And from now on, it's rough fucking in the most primal way. The headboard is hitting the wall loudly with every hard snap of Yuuji's hips. His grunts and sobs fill the room, just like the wet noises of his fat cock pistoning in and out of your creamy cunt.

It's rough, it's loud, it's messy. Yuuji doesn't hold back anymore, and neither do you. You cream all over his cock several times, shameless and eager, unable to stop yourself from squirting when his swollen cockhead overstimulates your g-spot and the rough slaps of Yuuji's heavy balls against your swollen clit make you keen.

And he cums in you over and over again, not even pulling out in between, cock staying hard all the time because of his insane stamina, fucking you rough into the mattress while his large hands hold you in place and your name falls from his lips like a prayer.

You are both in a frenzy. Both like two animals in heat. Chasing one orgasm after the next.

You push yourself up, reaching frantically behind you to grab Yuuji's hair and moan his name with a voice hoarse from all the loud moaning and squealing, growling just like him as you give yourself over to the most primal need, screaming his name when he rams his fat, angry cock even deeper into you.

Yuuji's muscular arms wrap around you, his large, calloused hands kneading your tits roughly while he fucks you hard. And you urge him on, so eager to make him nut again, to make him forget anything else but the feeling of cumming in you and pulsing his hot seed into your tight cunt.

"Yes, baby, like that, oh god! Fuck me harder, Yuuji! Fuck it all into me, baby!"

Yuuji's teeth close around your shoulder, biting you just like he bites his enemies in the heat of battle. Leaving a mark in the shape of his teeth that you will carry for the rest of your life. He growls and sobs, desperate and horny, even as his hot tears drip down onto your naked body, running down between your tits that jiggle from Yuuji's hard thrusts.

"Fuck! Fuck yes! Thank you, baby, thank... fuck!! Gonna cum again!"

You feel him throb in you, filling you with another thick load of his hot cum, and you follow him a second later. Your cunt clenches wildly around Yuuji's fat, veiny cock, gushing over him and spraying your squirt all over the bed.

You mewl weakly as Yuuji finally slumps against you, his firm pecs and abs pressing against your sweaty skin, his strong arms wrapping tightly around you, this time in a loving embrace. His tall, muscular body embraces you, and his warm lips are on your neck, trailing tender kisses over the fresh bite mark he left, offering his love and care to you now that he feels better.

And you kiss him sweetly, moaning at the feeling of your cunt pulsing around Yuuji's gradually softening cock. There's a tender smile on Yuuji's face when he tells you he loves you. And you caress his hair and tell him you'll always be there for him. Any way he needs you. It's ok. Rough mission, rough sex.

FERAL YUUJI DRIVES ME FERAL TOO 💗💗 I love seeing him fight and get angry, but it also makes me yearn so much for him and want to comfort him. So yeah, he could get anything he needs, anytime he needs and as often as he needs it. I am so in love aaahh 💗

I hope you liked this horny little story about comforting Yuuji with sex ;) Please let me know what you think and scream with me about our fave hero!!

Comments and reblogs would be very sweet 💗

[giannaln4]

GIANNA'S KINKTOBER '24 SEASON

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Kinktober day seventeen.

Sub Lando (2.9k words)

summary: People would never take Lando as someone who surrenders control during sex, but they definitely don't know how good he can be for you when he does.

warnings: NSFW, +18, smut, MDNI, established relationship, sub!lando, oral (male receiving), thigh riding, unprotected sex, overstimulation, language. (pls let me know if there is anything else I should add!).

Lando liked being the one having some type of ‘control’ during sex. Not that he took over your entire body, but he was definitely in charge. This is why it took him by surprise when he realised how much he loved surrendering to you.

It happened gradually, but the first time you called him a ‘good boy’ something lit up inside of him.

"Do you like it when I call you a good boy?" You asked, still in a low and sexy voice but genuinely curious as your hips slowed down a bit.

He just nodded, not being able to get his words out, but you shot him a look that he knew what it meant. "Yes," he stammered. So from that moment on, you always tried new things with him, of course making sure he was totally okay with it. 

The stress of this season is really what encouraged him to let go a little, letting you take the moment and make of it whatever you wanted. That was the situation he found himself in at the moment.

In the middle of a heated kiss, your hands started travelling all the way down to his pants. His breath itched, so you pulled away for a second. “Is this okay?”

"Yes," he replied right away, making him seem a little desperate.

You left a trail of wet kisses leading to his neck, sucking his sweet spot and making him moan. "What do you say?" You asked. He didn’t say anything at first, but you repeated the question in a more demanding tone.

"Please," he finally replied in a shaky breath. Your hand continued to go down, your teeth now softly biting his thick neck. He closed his eyes for just a second, but the shuffling of the bed as you went under the covers to play with the hem of his sweatpants made him open them again, looking down as you disappeared. 

You started massaging him over the layers before sliding your hand under his briefs, and at that point he didn’t care about the noises he was making or how desperate and needy they sounded. "You're so pretty when you make those little noises, baby," you whispered.

He swallowed hard as he started to sweat everywhere, hands falling to his sides to fist the sheets. He needed you to do something, and the fact that you were taking your sweet time was killing him, but not so deep down, he loved it.

Finally, you instructed him to lift his hips for you, getting rid of his bottom clothes and making his needy cock stand before you. You smiled at how quick you got him to that as you kicked the covers so he could see what you were doing to him.

You decided to tease him a bit longer, so you admired his cock that was just a few centimetres away from your face, rubbing your thumb over his tip as you watched his eyes widen. He breathed a sigh at the contact, the pressure in his stomach releasing just the smallest bit at the relief. You didn’t break eye contact once; god, you loved to see the effect you had on him.

After just a moment, your hand gripped at his base; your cold hands against his hot skin caused a hiss to leave his mouth as you curled your small fingers around his thickness. You laid your cheek on his thigh, watching each pass of your own hand over his cock.

“Do you want me to take you?” You asked him, expecting an obvious answer from him, but you had to repeat the question when you didn’t hear a single word fall from his mouth. “Mhm, do you?”

“Yes, please,” he replied in a desperate tone, his hips almost betraying him, but he knew better than to get ahead of himself.

A smirk appeared on your face. You positioned yourself better between his legs, finding a more comfortable position as your mouth slowly approached his cock, the anticipation making him take in a breath and his grip on the sheets tighten. 

“Such a pretty cock, aching just for me,” you mused. He let out a shaky whimper. “Why don’t you take my hair instead? We don’t want it to get in the way, do we?”

He pathetically nodded, his hand immediately flying to your hair and making a ponytail with his fist. “Like this?” He asked, as if it were the very first time you were giving him head.

“Yes, baby, just like that.”

You took his base and your fingers barely connected around his cock, a sight that made him moan on its own. He was looking down at you with his eyes begging for more, his breath staining when he felt the spit you had collected in your mouth go down his thickness. You pressed your soft lips against his head, opening your mouth a little wider when you started to slide down his prick. 

A choked moan left his throat, every part of his body feeling heavy as his grip on your hair loosened a little. You took him out of your mouth to look up at him. “You have to keep my hair in place, remember?” He nodded his head, his mouth slightly open. “Good boy.”

You went back and took him again, hollowing your cheeks around him as your head bobbed painfully slowly. You repeated the motions a few more times but never fully pulled back, and he could feel your warm tongue at different spots and his precum glossing over your lips.

The entire time he was trying his best to stay in place; he knew he had to, but it seemed nearly impossible with how good you were making him feel. He let out a soft moan as your head continued to pump his base to meet with your lips, and as your pace began to quicken, the more desperate he was getting for a release.

It was taking everything in him not to beg you for more, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to try and calm his urges. Any other time, and if the roles were reversed, a tighter grip on your hair or a subtle push would have done it. He let out a long breath; he needed more, but he knew he had to be patient, but a particularly good suck made him involuntarily buck his hips up a bit. His eyes shot open as your hand lightly smacked the side of his thigh, warning him.

“Sorry, sorry, I- I’m sorry.”

You decided to let it pass and continued to take him, and he was repeating in his mind he had to be more careful, but it was hard with the sight of his cock disappearing between your lips and your spit coating in his cock.

He was thankful when you started to go faster and deeper; you were sucking and licking repeatedly, your tongue tracing the vein along his cock as the weight laid heavy in your mouth. The pressure in his stomach was tightening with each pass, letting both of you know he was close. 

He almost begged you to keep going, but the words ‘don’t stop’ got stuck in his throat, and a loud whimper replaced them. You had done that before, taking away the pleasure just moments before his release, but you weren’t planning on doing that today, not when he was being so good for you.

One of his hands fell over his thigh, his nails digging his skin every time he felt his tip brush the back of your throat. The feeling of your spit drooling down onto his balls was what pushed him over the edge, and there was nothing he could do about it but cum.

“Oh fuck, I’m cumming," he moaned, and your thumb circling his thigh gave him the permission he was waiting for. It only took a couple more passes of your soft lips before he was shooting his release down your throat, his eyes screwing shut as his mouth repeated your name like a prayer.

You worked him through his orgasm, licking and swallowing everything he was giving you. Once you took all of it, you pulled back, the smallest lick of your pink tongue rolling over his head to collect the last drop of cum that was still there, making him squirm. Another chocked moan escaped his mouth when he saw a thin line of spit and cum that was connecting his cock and your lips before breaking and falling over your chin.

Your gaze was glassy, lips swollen, and hair a bit of a mess when you silently asked him to release it, but he swore that it was the most beautiful sight he had ever laid eyes on.

“Do you feel better, baby?” Your voice was as soft and innocent as ever, only adding to the filthy scene.

He swallowed hard before answering “yes.” 

You went on your knees as your hands rested on his thighs, softly squeezing them as you tried to read him. He already looked spent, but now it was your turn.

“Do you think you can take me?” You asked him as you quickly got rid of your clothes.

He didn’t even have to consider it, and even though he was still recovering from his orgasm, he nodded. He watched you climb on his lap, your dripping centre placed on his right thigh as you caught his lips in a deep kiss. He moaned at the taste on himself on your tongue, hands instinctively falling on your waist. 

You knew he was still sensitive, so why not give him a little more time to recover while you used other parts of him to get off? You started rolling your hips softly, your pussy getting in contact with his thigh.

His entire body tensed when he realised what you were doing, his jaw dropping as he threw his head back against the headboard, whiny pants coming out of his mouth while your lips were still hovering over his, unable to keep kissing him. Anyone would think he was getting some kind of pleasure at your actions, and if he was being completely honest, he was.

Your juices were starting to coat his thigh as he looked down at how your pussy was dragging along the surface. “Don’t want me to kiss you, pretty boy?” You teased him, making him look back at you and you could see him trying to speak, but no words came out of his mouth.

He got it together and continued kissing you, enjoying the way the bed was creaking at your movements as they got quicker. You weren’t actually planning on finishing on his thigh; you needed him inside you, and by the looks of his cock, that’s also what he needed, but you couldn't deny how much it turned you on to see him lose his mind at you using him to pleasure yourself.

You decided to keep it going for a little longer, pressing yourself down harder as he tensed it every once in a while. A moan escaped your lips, making him stammer a soft ‘fuck’ into your mouth. 

“Want me to ride you now? Do you wanna be inside of me?” You asked, pulling back as your fingers found the hem of his shirt to take it off, lifting your hips to hover over his cock once you threw it somewhere in the room.

“Yes, please,” he whimpered, and the loud moan that ringed in your ears when you grabbed his base to guide it to your entrance let you know he wouldn’t last long.

You lowered yourself, nails digging on his shoulders when you took him completely. “Be a good boy and play with my clit.” You whispered, eyes locked with his.

Not even a second later, one of his hands left your waist and made its way to your clit, his fingers rubbing hard circles as you started to bounce on him.

It was impresive, really. He never in a million years thought anyone would have him in the palm of their hands the way that you do, and yet there he was, following every instruction that left your lips, but he enjoyed every second of it. Your moans joined his when you found the perfect angle, his cock moving inside you just the way you needed it to.

You were wrapped around him just right, keeping him warm and wet as you picked up the pace. He could feel his tip kissing your cervix every time you came back down and he couldn’t stop his hips from thrusting up, not once, but twice.

“I need you to be still for me. Can you do that, baby?” He swallowed hard, nodding as you kept going. His head fell back again, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. “You are being such a good boy. Look at how your pretty cock disappears inside me.”

He opened his eyes and looked down; his hand was covering part of the view, but he could still see it. You loved the look on his face more than anything else, eyebrows coming together any time you squeezed him.

It was hypnotic seeing you bounce on his cock as it disappeared and reappeared in your cunt. His eyes travelled up your body, his lower lip getting trapped between his fingers when he got to your boobs.

“Do you like what you see?” 

It took him a few seconds to answer, but he then looked at you and released his lip to reply. “Yes.”

“Take one.” And he did, as soon as you asked him. His hand fell on his favourite one, squeezing it slightly before playing with your nipple. 

He was proud when you moaned loudly and your grip on his shoulders tightened, your head falling back for just a moment, but you liked to keep your composure in these situations. You looked back at him, catching his lips in a kiss. 

He was a mess under you, sweat covering his body as his throat vibrated every time he was deep inside you, and as your movements began to quicken, he felt that familiar feeling starting to form.

Lando pulled back from your kiss, a loud moan leaving his lips. “Ah, fuck. I´m gonna cum,” the hand that was on your clit stummbled for a moment, his voice shaky and his whimpers getting more consistent.

“Hold it a bit longer, yeah?” You purred, ignoring his whines.

“Mhm, I can’t,” he cried, his legs trembling and his lower abdomen spasming.

“Yes, you can. I promise you can,” you reassured him, your hips moving more freverishly as you chased your own high. He was fighting back his orgasm for dear life, praying he could hold it long enough for you, but you just felt so good.

You knew he wouldn’t be able to do it; you could practically feel his cock twitching inside you, and the way your pussy would naturally clench around him, you knew would just bring him closer.

But he still tried — for at least a minute, that was. You felt his cock throb as he moaned, tossing his head back and a whimper escaping the back of his throat as he got to his second release.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he pleaded with teary eyes as his hips pushed up a little, but you didn’t mind anymore, you just let him get through his orgasm. 

“Shh, it’s okay, baby,” you said, rubbing one of his cheeks softly, but your movements didn’t slow down. Instead, you picked up your pace even more, the sticky liquid inside you only encouraging you to get your own orgasm.

You were well aware it was too much for him; he was at his second orgasm already, but you were proud of him for taking it like a champ. As you gripped his shoulders tighter for stability, your hips moved back and forth at an angle, and you were insanely grateful that he continued rubbing your clit through it all. 

You could feel it coming, so you started pressing down harder near your release to help his cock hit your g-spot every time as louder moans escaped your lips. “I’m almost there, baby,” you groaned, your clenching walls making him whine at how sensitive he was.

Then, when you couldn’t take it anymore, you came on Lando’s veiny cock. Walls fluttered and your back arched, making your head fall on the crook of his neck, which triggered a third orgasm out of him, even more cum painting your velvet insides as he cried, eyes shut the louder his moans got.

Once your orgasm was finished, you fell forward completely on his body as you lifted your hips to slip his cock out of your pussy, he was so sensitive and overwhelmed, and your contractions that were happening post-orgasm brought him slight pain. 

Your heavy breathing was matching his, your hand caressing his hair as you whispered sweet nothings to his ear.

“It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you. You did so good for me, so so good,” you whispered as you pulled back to look at him, your lips kissing the tears that managed to escape from his eyes. 

He opened his eyes slowly, offering you a sweet smile to let you know he was okay. 

Once you both recovered, you got up and ran you both a warm bath to share before getting into some clean sheets and going to sleep after a long day.

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[urfriendlywriter]

Horror/Eerie st0ry prompts:

(feel free to use<3 tag me when yall writeee )

"[name], w-why is there blood on your face-"

hyperventilating because your feet just touched blood but there's no body.

"it-it's--fuck, it just moved-"

"stop breathing at my ear, [name] --" and turning around to find nobody beside you.

looking at the mirror but the reflection isn't. looking. at. you.

"we need to get out, this is--a bad idea!"

being stuck in a nightmare.

"don't look back, please, i b-beg you, 'name', don't!"

"look at me-no! hey, no, don't, just focus on me, okay? okay, u got this!"

talking to a person and suddenly they turn weird-their face, and voice changes. their eyes turn white.

learning about whatever that is haunting you

"Do you know (an item that you found) belongs to?" and their face go white. "how. did you. find this."

"we need to run, you moron!"

lights flickering so hard

hallucinating shadowy figures

having your actions controlled by a shadow figure that's moving right outside your room

finding dark bruises all over your body you have no recollection of getting (ok but whys this creepy as fck)

having all things shake violently, fall and break

that gut feeling something is following you (if ure that mc, you'll def go investigating what it is. which DEF WILL GET YO ASS IN TROUBLE)

^ or that it might be progressively getting darker as you walk down a road where not a single life is seen

blacking out and waking up somewhere else

if you lift your head up and acknowledge it's presence-then you're done.

you blink once it's there. you blink again it's not but when you blink once again, it's on top of you, choking you.

"i shouldn't die, damn, i haven't even had my first kiss yet TT " (the comedic relief friend in horror stories lmao)

"are you haunted ?! sigh. do i need to save you? " "if you're not gonna piss your pants, yes please."

"if it ever comes between you and me-" "I'm-" "choose you." "obviously choosing you." "no. no! you are choosing you or i am going in there without you. i don't need to lose you too. understood?" ".... okay."

crying out loud, heaving and shuddering but nobody can see you breaking down

having blood smeared all over you

having to watch yourself slowly loose your identity and go paranoid

not being able to be alone anymore.

[edenaziraphale]

There's a lot to be said about the weaknesses and strengths of the writing in Dragon Age games, but for me there's nothing that trumps the way the writers' implicit biases shine through in their treatment of various characters. Anders and Solas showcase the very worst of this. Functionally Anders and Solas could (and I would go so far as to say should) operate as foils to one another. Anders is a victim of decades of abuse at the hands of both individuals and a system that demonized him from a very young age. We are given information about his childhood and time spent in the circle that makes it explicitly clear that Circles are an unjust and abusive system that traumatized him so much that he fled multiple times regardless of the fact that he knew the abuse would escalate each time he escaped. In the end, he chooses to chance death and lifelong struggle via conscription because it is his only shot at escaping his current reality. After that, in DA2, it's made clear that Kirkwall's circle is even worse. Karl is made tranquil, the templars are mad with power, and it's heavily implied that the tranquil are utilized as sex slaves and that some templars may even be selecting mages for tranquility based on their desire for them alone. In the light of all of that, Anders makes a very desperate and destructive choice. Regardless of how players feel about his actions, it's not really up for debate that the context surrounding them creates mitigating circumstances and a sympathetic backing. He was attempting to affect positive change for a group of people facing fates that the game makes clear are worse than death. Despite this, the game's writing treats him as an unsympathetic villain whose actions are not only reprehensible, but completely beyond the realm of human understanding. That dynamic at the end of DA2 carries into DAI. Solas, on the other hand, is on a quest to undo his own actions. His initial construction of the Veil and the problems that it caused can be viewed with (some) similarity to Anders circumstances in that Solas was attempting to right a wrong done by someone else, but the key difference is that, unlike Anders, who was a powerless victim attempting to free other powerless victims, Solas was on a revenge quest to avenge the death of his friend and had an incredible amount of power within the system that he existed as a part of.

His actions had horrific consequences that birthed what is essentially an entirely new existence for everyone in Thedas eons before the start of any of the games. He finds the outcome of his own actions intolerable, and seeks to reverse them. He harms friends and allies to do so, and makes it explicitly clear that he does not care who he harms or what the consequences are to Thedas or the people who live there in his quest to bring back the version of the world that he liked better. Functionally, Solas makes an excellent villain. He stands out from Anders (who operates in his narrative as a symbol of the rage and disenfranchisement of the powerless) as a representation of power and ego unchecked and the damage that they can cause.

Unfortunately, the writing of the game treats him as though he is the tragically complex victim of forces outside of his control when he is in fact the over-powered puppeteer. He is very much the master of his own destiny and he intends to be the master of everyone else's destiny as well by ripping apart the fabric of reality. No character in the series better demonstrates the writer's biases than Varric, who, as a narrator for DA2, essentially acts as the moral arbiter telling players how they should and should not feel about events, explaining what is and is not moral. His reactions to Anders stand out in sharp relief against what we see of his reaction to Solas in the Veilguard releases so far.

To be clear, I don't hate Solas as a character. I think as a villain, he works very well. His complete and total disregard for the wellbeing of others paired with his affect of wise and gentle mage are compelling to witness. His motivations are understandable from the selfish and self-centered core of us as people. He's a fantastic reminder of what happens when we decide that we know what's best with no input from others, when we pursue our desires above all else beneath the veneer of wisdom. He's fun, well rounded, and interesting. He is not, however, a tragic and morally justified sadboi victim of circumstance, and I resent that the writers treated him as though he was.

[neckromantics]

You find that now Astarion’s able to feed regularly on “quality” blood, the stronger he becomes, and with that strength comes certain abilities he didn’t know he could possess.

In 5e, vampire spawn are supposed to be pretty strong and fast. (As well as possessing regenerative powers, and spider climb among a few other things.) So, what if Astarion’s lack of super strength and other such things is due to the way he was kept weakened under Cazador’s control?

Like maybe he’s recently fed and he feels especially great this time. Neither of you really think much of it. (You’re just happy he feels good. Happy to see the flush of pink at the tips of his ears and apples of his cheeks.) Maybe you’re in the middle of a fight and you get careless. You hear the swish of a blade at your back, but never feel an impact. You turn to see that Astarion’s saved your ass the only way vampire instinct knew how in that moment, which was to just reach out and grab your attacker’s sword before it could spill any of your precious blood. By the blade.

If he wasn’t wearing those special armored gloves you’d found a few days before he’d probably have lost a few fingers. The steel bends back in his grip as if it’s made of rubber, and there’s a very comical split second where your heads snap toward one another to share matching looks of “what the fuck??” Before the fighting continues.

MAYBE one day you watch the guy get stabbed. Like, impaled in a way that should have meant Withers is about to be dragged out here by his dusty ass robes to perform some quick resurrecting or else. It takes longer than you’d like to get free enough to make a break for him, but when you do you nearly knock poor Shadowheart on her ass in your hurry to pass. Every millisecond feels like an hour. Your heart pounds in your ears so loudly that you can’t hear the scream of the creature before him as you take it down with a single blow.

In hindsight, you must have looked ridiculous. Overdramatic, even, considering you don’t have time to fuss over him as he lie bleeding like you assumed he would be. Your hands tremble in front of you as you watch him stand up from his crouched position. His pretty face is screwed up in a way that you first assumed meant great pain, but now you realize he’s just ? Surprised? Well, that makes two of you at least.

Astarion’s leather armor hits the dirt with a dull thud. With pursed lips and a bit of a hum, he’s lifting up the hem of his bloodied tunic. Pale fingers swipe thick crimson away from his belly to reveal the soft, unmarred skin that lay beneath. You nearly faint right then and there, and that asshole just laughs. Positively elated.

After a moment, a long moment, you start to laugh alongside him. It’s shaky with relief. Disbelief.

He plants a quick, cheeky kiss to the side of your head for your heroic efforts, anyway. You just learn to roll with it.

Maybe one day you walk into your room at the Elfsong, and nearly jump out of your skin when you find him sitting cross-legged on the ceiling. Just full on chilling, looking pleased as punch to have found something else he didn’t know was possible for him. You obviously just stand there and stare at him like ??? for a while. It’s endearing how happy he looks with that smug little smirk, pale curls wild and clothes sitting odd on his frame from the change in gravity.

When you ask, all he can really say is that it just kind of happened? That he very suddenly felt like being up, and logically that meant he should try crawling up the wall to satisfy that craving. He’d been up there for a couple hours before you showed up- even took a little bit of a rest to pass the time. You wish you were there to see his face when he found out- to hear the mad little giggles that spilled from his lips when he stood up from his scuttling and just hung upside down in disbelief because why in the hells didn’t he find out about this one sooner?

(Maybe if you ask nicely, he’ll bring you up there with him on his back just so you can see how strange everything looks from high up on the ceiling. Maybe you’ll use it as an opportunity to scare the ((figurative)) pants off of Gale when he eventually comes looking for you. Endless entertainment.)

Anyway, you feed the guy regular enough and I imagine there is so much to discover about him that the two of you will be entertained for years to come. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll wake up to a fluffy white bat flying circles around the ceiling of your bedroom, and at that point it won’t even be a real surprise to you.

[mitskicain]

navi | m.list

. ⁺ . ✦ the doghouse — ken sato x reader

© mitskicain all rights reserved. the modification, translation, and plagiarism of my work is strictly prohibited.

synopsis: any guy could let a girl fuck him, but it takes a real man to be somebody’s bitch

content warning: graphic details of sex, p in v, unprotected sex, possible spit play, slight breeding kink, cowgirl, teasing, denial, marking, use of collar and leash, elements of BDSM

word count: 1.5k

· · ─────── ·{ ✐ᝰ.ᐟ}· ─────── · ·

004: collared and leashed

Ken—whimpering, gasping, moaning under your grasp—flushed and hot all over. God, what a sight.

“That’s good, you’re so good for me,” you coo in his ear, eyeing the reflection of the both of you.

You were positioned behind him, arms stretched around him, stroking the base of his cock—agonizingly slow. You kept your grip light, barely allowing for any sort of hard friction between him and the skin of your palms, which kept him just about on the edge, but not being able to push himself through it.

He’s been on the edge for 45 minutes.

“You’re torturing me,” he says in between pants, trying to compose himself—still trying to compose yourself. You found his efforts adorable, trying to remain modest and shy despite him being completely undressed in front of your fully clothed self. He clung desperately to whatever little control he had, and you intended to strip himself of every single bit of it. It didn’t matter that he was likely some billionaire rich kid, successful athlete superstar whatever—tonight he was yours to do with as you pleased. He swore on it, begging for you to take him when he was kissing all up on our neck, the two of you writhing on the floor.

Now look at him: pathetic, begging; not even to cum. Just for you to tighten your grip, to go faster, anything to drag him out of the limbo you had kept him in for nearly an hour. Because you can edge and tease someone only for so long before the pleasure mixes in frustration, mixes into pain—the dull ache that reverberated throughout him, aching for release.

“Please,” he whines, “please, god.”

He tries, without fruition, to buck his hips up into your grip. You counter this by quickly wrapping your legs around his waist, forcefully parting his legs and keeping him from being able to thrust up. He whines again, frustration building—trying, again, but find it useless as you’re holding him down.

You smirk, entertained by his distress, and lick the side of his face. In this position, with his entire back pressed up against you, you could feel every breath he took, every twitch, every shiver. You relished in the feeling, being able to understand the complex mechanism of his body. Really, you wanted to be the best fuck of his life. You wanted to be unforgettable, burn yourself into his memory—because he had the audacity of reinserting himself into your life again, couldn't stand just being a one-night-stand, thought himself above it. So now you were going to fuck him, break him—such that he would never even dream of reaching this height of pleasure with anyone else but you. You felt a growing sense of possession, an ugly jealousy that began to bubble in the bit of your stomach. You retaliated silently by biting into the skin of his flesh.

Ken jolts at the feeling—a sudden, sharp pain that caused him to wince and once again buck up into your grasp. You let out a deep, throaty laugh into his skin, sending vibrations down his spine, feeling the goosebumps that rose on the back of his neck. He exhales in relief when you release your mouth off him, a few breathy moans escaping his lips as you lick at the tender flesh.

“You,” he mumbles, “you bit me.”

You chuckle.

“I did,” you say, leaning forward to look at his flustered expression, “you like it?”

He turns away, covering his face with his hands, and you laugh. He was adorable. That made you want to ruin him even more.

“Hey,” you beckon, turning his head to look at you, hand on his jaw. “Don’t hide from me, come here.”

You press your lips onto his—the first time you’ve done this—and regret for having held out on him for so long. He tasted like heaven. Like every single indulgence you’ve ever denied yourself. You hum into the kiss, sucking on his bottom lip, your tongue swiping against the entrance of his mouth before pulling away—a string of saliva connecting the two of you. You smile at his expression: eyes half lidded and glazed over with desire. How could you possibly not let him have what he wanted?

He lunges forward, capturing you in another kiss, this time all teeth and tongue. Hungry. Feral, even. He’s climbing on top of you, cock bobbing, precum beading on the tip. Your hands find them in his hair again, pulling his head back—another trail of spit.

“Stop,” you command, and you can almost hear him whine; see the frown that curls at the edges of his lips. You slip out from underneath him, his expression confused. He tries to stop you but just tumbles off the couch, crawling on the floor to reach for your ankle as you walk away from him.

“No! Please, I’m sorry,” he cries out, his cheek against the skin of your calves. “I’m sorry, don’t go, please. I’ll behave. I promise.”

You hum at the sight, enjoying the way he begged—writhed for you, the desperate look in his eyes—like he’d combust if you took your gaze off him. You promptly grabbed one of the new collars you had bought after Lassie chewed out her last one—black and sleek—and clipped it around his neck, much to his bewilderment at the accessory. You held the leash in your hand, waiting to see if he’d protest, and when he didn’t, you dragged him off to the bedroom with you, him trailing closely behind. You didn’t even ask him to crawl, he could’ve walked if he wanted, but he stayed on the floor, in fear that acting remotely human would provoke you even further.

His mouth was heaven. J as good for kissing as it was for burying into your cunt. As you laid there, thighs on his shoulders, spread for him as he licked you up with such fervor, an urgency, like he was trying to catch every drop of you before you melted away. You grind your hips against him, the crook of his nose practically perfect. Built for you, you’d say. When you tugged on the leash, pulling him towards you to kiss him again—you saw how the entire lower half of his face was practically soaked with your slickness. You could taste yourself on his lips when you pushed him back on the bed, climbing on top of him again.

He winced when you pushed him inside of you, completely bottoming out in the first thrust. When you lift your hips up, tightening your core so there’s a bit of resistance, and you hear him suck in another breath. You feel his hands grab roughly at your thighs, white knuckled and all, as he makes that pained expression again.

“What’s wrong, baby? You can tell me,” you whisper sweetly, watching him closely. “Too much?”

He nods his head, eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched, trying to keep himself from moaning.

“Aw,” you coo, “too bad.”

You slam down into him, feeling the tip of him kiss your cervix. He gasps, and as you begin to rock your hips, riding him at a feverishly quick pace, he can’t control himself. He’s a flushed, writhing mess underneath you—holding on for dear life, whimpering to himself, whining. For a moment, you think you’re going too hard, so you slow your pace, but you find his hands on your waist and him buck up into you, chasing after his own pleasure. You could feel the way his slick covered cock thrusted in and out of you, lewd wet sounds and all, hitting your g-spot repeatedly. You throw your head back, drowning in ecstasy. God, how could you ever go back to other people after this?

When you sink your teeth into his neck again, you have devious intentions. One, yes, to hear his oh-so delicious moans, but two, because you wanted to mark him. You wanted to leave him a reminder of you when he looks at himself in the mirror tomorrow, something for the paparazzi and tabloids to pick up on during his games or interviews—a sign of your existence on his body, a memory of tonight, what you did to him, that he was yours.

“You feel so good baby,” you say, on the edge, “so good.”

Kenji just whines underneath you, bucking up into you faster. Your climax hits you like a home run, pulsing and fluttering around him, making a mess of his lap and your sheets. He follows closely after, hips stuttering as he spills into you, still thrusting, riding out his orgasm. Almost immediately, you feel his lips trail up the entirety of your arm, your neck, before finally crashing onto your lips. He kisses you like he’s grateful, all gentle and loving, and for a moment, you melt into his touch, arms locking around him. But being the good boy he was, he couldn't just leave you be—his cum and your arousal dripping out of your pussy. So he flips you over and laps at you again, cleaning you up, drawing another orgasm out of you, or two, or three—you wouldn’t know, you’ve lost count.

All you know is that Kenji’s the best fuck of your life. That nothing could ever possibly beat this. He traces letters on your clit, spelling out T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U-T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U.

He was spectacular—the greatest—and he deserved it. Every last bit of it.

prev | next

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author’s note: god 🙏 I see what you’ve done for others (the MC) I am once again asking for you to do the same for me (for me to be able to rail the fuck out of someone like this, or for someone to rail the fuck out of me like this) GOD PLEASEEE����🛐😫😫💥💥💥💥💥 the way that I was in disbelief when proofreading this 😭😭😭 I can’t believe I wrote all this like holy fuck the demons really possessed me 👹👹EITHERWAY I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY 💥💥 THIS IS FOR ALL THE FREAKS OUT THERE 🫵🫵‼️‼️‼️YOU GUYS SEEMED TO LOVE MY FIRST SMUT SCENE SO IM PRESENTING YOU GUYS WITH ANOTHER RAAAHHHH🗣️🗣️🗣️🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

taglist: @luneariaa @moonjellyfishie @sweetcheeksbby-deactivated20240 @shittingonyourgrave @shauu @witcwitchy @fcklxnaa @despacito-uwu16 @mqshido @miffysoo @ybbayk @hore4ken @mochminnie @femmefqtqle @miratastic @lovingyeet @mythicalmo @yourfellowmarzipan @softdumplingposts @strayy-kidz

[ireneaesthetic]

Pointing out little moments and details of the last yr scene.

wilmon endgame • episode 6

the camera work is so on point - it follows wille around moving frenetically, as to emphasize the hurry and the tension.

simon gets in panic mode for a sec. he was never over wilhelm but definitely thought their relationship was.

at first he looks ... scared - not of wille but of what he feels for him at this point. he's still in love but they got to the finish line, they broke up with no idea of when or if they will talk to each other again, there's no reason for wille to chase after him if not to change something.

it makes his thoughts spiral, but somewhere in his little heart he has a lot of hope too and that's why he steps out of the car to hear what he has to say.

these words really mean everything and i'm glad they're told directly to simon. it's such a sigh of relief for wilhelm to get this off his chest and mean it for real: he's doing something for his own sake finally - to be free, to be happy, to be in control of his own life for once.

he never got to choose anything - somebody else has always done it for him - but he no longer has to be afraid anymore.

simon is just as relieved and the proudest: he proved over and over again to care so deeply. to see wilhelm constantly hurting inevitably hurt him too.

he knew wille was brave - he actually told him once - and he was so right. it takes a lot of courage to do what wille just did.

shut up he's adorable :') playing with his fingers and trying not to break into a smile. he wants to look calm and collected but his heart is jumping out of happiness.

this comes after the are you sure you're over me? - breaking up was all it took for wille to think that simon must not love him anymore: to earn love and for everything to be perfect in order to deserve love is what his family and royal life always taught him - but simon's what the hell do you think? proves him so wrong.

the tears in his eyes i cannot - this is the face of a man who's bursting out of love, he adores simon this much.

they crush into the hug like they've been dying to do it. what a moment it must be for them to close the distance.

in this hug they find what they both were needing the most.

they hold on to each other. emotions are so overwhelming and it's written all over their faces - it feels too good to be real.

it's almost scary to let go now and i love how they tighten the hug at the same time, clinging to make it last longer.

and they're at the same height so simon has to be on his tippy toes ahsjkh.

oh the beauty in simon feeling every emotion to the fullest and letting them all out. he doesn't hold himself back and it is truly heartwarming to watch.

this hug is healing - he's giving joy to be back in wille's arms, proud of wille for putting himself first, relief because the fear of losing him was too much to handle.

the single tear drop and the pure disbelief in his expression. he caresses wille's cheek and keeps looking at him like he's the most precious thing.

doing the triangle method - again. old habits never die huh.

wille letting simon choose to whether kiss him or not.

it's our simon we're talking about, the one that risked it all and initiated their very first kiss bc he liked wille that much already, so could he possibly not do that now? he obviously does and can't help but smile into it.

they can't get enough of kissing and wandering hands. it's like their only way to make this become more and more real.

fair to say they're kinda obsessed with each other's hair!

love love looove the transition from them kissing in secret in the dark of the night to them kissing freely out in the open in the daylight - the most beautiful metaphor.

completely different plot points but the feelings involved are so familiar - reunion kisses are very much their brand: there's longing, passion, need to savor the moment to make it last.

and this time it can really last forever.

something super special about simon not replying with i love you too but sticking to i love you - it is not just reciprocal.

this shot haunts me. it's from the documentary and idk why it wasn't used in the final cut, i'll make space for it here anyway!

wille can't stop smiling and simon never takes his eyes off of him - he's emotionally overwhelmed by the way he bites his lip and his chin trembles. my heart.

no ray of sunshine between them could ever distract me from wilhelm diving into this kiss with his eyes open.

simon is definitely being pulled closer by the waist here and i take it very personally.

i was already full on sobbing when this part of the scene came up - sara and felice calling them out bc they are too caught up in their own bubble.

they still take one more moment to just look at each other so fondly tho and try to get a grip on what has just happened.

i get you wille! simon is the loml too.

this shot is sooo!!! hillerska in the rear view mirror as they drive away - time for the last bittersweet goodbye.

all of them are wearing white, they're driving off in a white car, most carefree than ever - sounds a lot like freedom and fresh start.

some things never change - they're the most comfortable and happy when they can be just them, just like this.

god knows where they're headed but it doesn't really matter as long as they're together.

wilmon endgame babyyyy.

they've been through so much but come so far eventually. it's the end of young royals but the beginning of a new chapter in wilmon story - the best one - and it's only theirs to write from now on.

it's still going to be tough, storms are still about to come their way and ruin plans, life is a mess but at least they have each other. they're holding hands in a we are in this together kind of promise and it's so reassuring to know.

it was a hell of a ride but love and hope wins - and there's truly no one who deserves it more than them.

time to appreciate the comparison between wille the perfect crown prince and messy hair with undone shirt wille!

he looks at the audience for the very last time with the most content smile and we can tell he really is - ready. to leave us behind, to face the future, to experience life in the way we've seen him fight for before.

wilmon breaking the fourth wall together at the end would've been insane, but it feels so right to focus on wille actually: it's always been just him, it all started with our eyes on him and his journey, the choice to abdicate is for his own sake and not for simon - he said it himself - so for him to be alone in the closing shot makes the most sense to me.

wilhelm finally getting his own little family of people who loves and values him, simon sharing life with the person who's made him feel seen and cared for - this is honestly the best finale we could’ve ever asked for.

[gutsby]

Playing Dangerous

Pairing: Detective Dixon x Reader

Summary: Working undercover in a seedy part of town, homicide detective Daryl sees you in your skimpy club attire and mistakes you for a hooker. A wrongful arrest makes for a funny way to foreplay, but you’re still game.

Warnings: NSFW. Thigh riding. Brat taming. Daddy kink. Dubcon elements vis-à-vis power imbalance and forceful facefucking, plus some dark-ish dirty talk, face slapping, overstimulation where Daryl keeps making you cum after you say that you’re finished (all meant to be consensual).

Notes: Big big thank you to @dilfsandmartinis for this filthy lil idea!! 🫣🩷 Requests are always welcome :-)

Shitty was an understatement.

This was a full-blown, top-notch terror of an evening, rivaled only in its sheer lethality by the time you once broke your nose and got arrested twice in the same day.

Tonight was likely to be a close second, though.

You’d spent all of ten minutes in the center of that hot and sweaty club, fighting madly not to drop your drinks or lose your purse, when suddenly, simultaneously, it seemed every guy around you had lost the power of self-control. You were prodded and groped like a shiny slab of meat ripe for any man’s hands—and no matter how hard you elbowed each offender, you couldn’t find reprieve. You were constantly being grabbed.

You’d grumbled as much to your friends, and they’d told you to ‘lighten up’ and ‘not be so surprised when you were wearing something like that.’

Something like what? A super mini skirt and a bustier?

You promptly informed each member of your party they could kiss your ass, and left.

That had been almost half an hour ago, and you were still currently stuck outside the club waiting for a lift. In the snow. With no jacket, or adequate covering.

Every time a taxi passed, you’d wobble over to the street corner and wave your hand, but on each endeavor, without fail, its driver would shoot you a dirty look and speed right off. Like you had, ‘I’M GONNA ROB YOU’ written on your forehead or else smelled of rotting flesh.

You were mystified, distraught, and supremely pissed off. You didn’t know what you were doing wrong.

The second you saw a semi-reputable looking Dodge Charger pull up to the curb, you decided you’d had enough. Uber or not, you needed a fucking ride.

You stalked over to the vehicle, already seeing its passenger side window creeping down on your approach. Your arms were quick to fold over your chest as you bent down and scowled,

“Could you please take me home?”

The man you saw inside looked polished. Well-groomed.

You hardly had more than a second or two to inspect his appearance, though, because in an instant, he was leaning over the center console to shoot you a smile.

“How much, hon?”

You heaved a sigh of relief. Finally, someone was taking you seriously.

You reached for the door handle and tumbled right in.

“Any price, just name it,” you groaned. You rubbed your face with both hands and leaned back in the seat. Almost unable to believe your stroke of good fortune after so many failed attempts, you let out a shaky, but grateful, breath and spread your legs just a little to get comfy.

“Good,” the man to your left said, calmly, evenly...then, “Now put your hands where I can see them.”

You lowered your hands from your face and gave the stranger a puzzled look.

“What?”

“Hands, show me hands,” he said, voice raising ever slightly in volume.

What the fuck was he on? Staring you down with that stupid, self-righteous face, lip curled in a melodramatic snarl like he could’ve been one of those lousy fuckin’—

“Police,” he barked. Louder, this time. Flashing a badge before your panic-stricken eyes and clenching his jaw.

Your hands flew up instinctively.

Was it illegal to hail a cab now?!

You didn’t have time to think, or blink, or do much else besides breathe when the well-dressed man got out of the car and instructed you to do the same. Your hands and feet seemed to move of their own accord as you gingerly slipped out from the front seat of the car to the cold wintry night outside. You were pushed to your knees on the concrete sidewalk and made to kneel.

To your right, you saw a gaggle of college kids strolling by—some pointing, others laughing, but all watching in muted awe as the undercover cop circled to your back.

“You have the right to remain silent—” he started, reaching for the handcuffs on his belt.

“Excuse me?!” you hissed.

“—anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—” he continued. A couple gentle clinks and suddenly your wrists were in chains.

“What’d I do? What the fuck did I do?”

“You have a right to an attorney,” he droned on, heedless of your cries as he read your Miranda rights, “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”

You felt tears spring to your eyes as both cuffs locked into place and you were being hauled back onto your feet, sniveling and sobbing before throngs of amused onlookers. Your face burned with embarrassment.

“I didn’t know it was a crime, officer— I didn’t know, I swear— I-I-I’m so fucking drunk!” you blubbered as he guided you swiftly to the rear of his car. You practically bawled when he opened the back door.

“I just really needed a taxi!” you wailed, legs shaking as he started to lower you into the vehicle.

At that, he stopped.

He tugged you back on your feet and spun you around.

“A what?” he asked.

“A taxi,” you cried, “All the other drivers kept— kept driving away, I thought, I-I don’t know, I thought you might be another Uber driver or something.”

The man’s expression betrayed a change, though you couldn’t decipher just what that was through your tears. You sniffled and tried to wipe your cheek with your shoulder but ended up smearing more makeup in your line of sight. You whimpered at a pathetic pitch.

“Taxi,” the police officer repeated, seeming to mull over the word in his mind like it was the latest addition to the English language. He frowned.

Through your tear-streaked vision, you could just then detect the faintest trace of affliction…even remorse? His eyes wavered between your face, your ensemble, and the ground below, making a couple quick circuits before finally settling on your wet, bleary gaze.

His voice sounded strained to you now.

“You weren’t…trying to have sex with me?”

Your breath caught in your throat. You coughed, blinked, looked the man up and down and hardly knew to even shake your head with how blind-sided you felt.

“W-What? What?”

“You’re not…a prostitute?” the man said, almost pained.

That query threw you for a loop just the same. You pressed your weight on the car and sensed a strange unsteadinesses seize your limbs. This undercover cop thought you were a hooker—and a cheap one at that, game for any price the man was offering—and presently, you felt queasy. You looked down at your outfit.

It surely wasn’t that revealing, was it? He couldn’t have been so easily convinced of your profession by a...pair of glossy go-go boots, latex skirt, and lacy top, right?

Okay, you looked a little bit like a hooker.

Worse yet, you noticed a wad of cash stuffed between your left tit and armpit, from the time you tried to bribe the bouncer for a ride while leaving the bar. A loose cigarette stuck behind your ear, two hickeys suckled into the skin of your neck, and a teensy bag of blow to boot, tucked haphazardly between an assortment of Trojans and Magnums strewn lazily throughout your purse.

Alright, you could’ve been cast in the next Pretty Woman remake, but who cares? Half the girls in the club were dressed just as scantily, if not more so.

You somehow mustered the strength to squeeze your hands into frozen little fists behind your back and gave the officer a brazen look.

“Think I don’t have anyone better to fuck?” you scoffed.

The detective’s expression went from inscrutable to uncomfortable in fewer than two seconds. He seemed hardly able to look you in the eye any longer, casting sidelong stares at the crowd growing larger on the sidewalk. Collective curiosity piqued at the sight of a cop and a would-be streetwalker making small talk outside of the club, he knew he had to get out of this. Quick.

“I’ll, uh, take ya home, ma’am,” he said under his breath.

Before you could either accept or reject his offer, he had your cuffs undone—discreetly—and your body shuffled hastily inside his car. You heard the door slam shut and saw the officer make quick strides toward the driver’s side. You raised both brows as soon as he re-entered.

“That’s it?” you quipped.

“What?” he returned as he started the engine.

“You make that hot-shot unlawful arrest in front of all those people, and you’re not even gonna say sorry?”

The man made every effort not to shoot you a look in the rearview mirror. Slowly, he pulled into the street.

“Well...y’know, you do look the part. But I’m sorry.” Proffering one of the most pitiful apologies you’d heard in your life, the detective fixed his gaze on the road.

You knew he was bluffing. The man was humiliated as shit, too coy to come clean with the fact that he’d just made an egregious error, and now offering you a ride all to make himself out to be the good guy—and quite possibly avoid a wrongful arrest lawsuit.

Maybe it was the residual amounts of alcohol still coursing through your veins or else the cocaine, but you couldn’t let the dipshit get off that easy. You scrambled your way up to the front of the car.

It was at that moment Detective Dixon sincerely wished he’d driven the squad car—complete with a cage, of sorts, to keep inmates locked away in the back seat—rather than his unmarked vehicle, to be making arrests that night. He stifled a groan when you plopped down in the passenger seat next to him.

“What do you mean, ‘looked the part,’ hm?” you quizzed, burning a hole through the side of his head with how intently you were watching him.

“Put yer seatbelt on,” the man rolled his eyes, attention never straying from the long line of cars ahead of him, “And where do you live?”

“Over on ‘Fuck 12’ Avenue, Officer...Dixon?” you answered sarcastically, scanning his chest for a nametag.

“Detective,” he corrected, “Friends call me Daryl.”

“Detective Dixon, I am not your friend.” You smirked, and for the first time, you thought your discomfited front-seat companion might be tempted to crack one too. You watched him fight his base instincts, however, and force a frown instead. Still not tearing his gaze from the road, he reached over, blindly, for your seatbelt.

“C’mon now, buckle up,” he urged, echoing the words of a concerned father but somehow making it sound far more sexy when he said it. You swallowed a giggle and swatted his hand away.

“Detective!” you feigned an offended gasp.

“Ah, hush up, will ya?” Daryl muttered as his broad, veiny hand continued fumbling for the seatbelt, “You know it’s against the law to— shit!”

The two of you simultaneously leapt in your seats with near-identical sounds of...shock. You, feeling his fingers accidentally graze that tender spot between your legs and him, in turn, finding it unclothed. And soaked.

Detective Dixon retracted his hand just as fast as he’d sunk it in place, only holding it up in the air for an instant—but that was all either of you needed to see that his digits were glistening. You clamped your legs tight together and sucked in a breath.

Under any normal set of circumstances, you would’ve been much more in tune with the way your body was reacting to external stimuli. With all the commotion of your almost-arrest and the subsequent desire to exact revenge on the undercover detective, you hadn’t even realized how physically aroused you were.

Still reeling from his touch, you sank back in your seat. Suddenly more conscious of your bodily fluids than ever before, and embarrassed.

“I’m so sorry,” Daryl blurted out in a hurry. Gripping the steering wheel and pretending not to notice the slight wet slip of his right hand.

You couldn’t speak. He wouldn’t dare to venture a look to see if you might.

Now this would make for one hell of a career-ending lawsuit, Detective Dixon thought with a grimace. Wrongful arrest, soliciting sex on the clock, making unwanted advances on a woman who was technically, in a sense, being detained in his car while he—

Jumped, again, the second he felt your hand on his own.

You were pulling his arm over to your side of the car.

When Daryl turned his head, he paled the instant he saw you bring his hand to your mouth. Watched you pucker your lips and move them over his still-damp fingertips. Then suck them inside your mouth, three at a time.

He nearly swerved off the road and took out six civilians.

“Eyes...on the road, detective,” you murmured quietly, words garbled by the obstruction of his fingers.

Daryl swallowed thickly, and then, reluctantly, turned his attention to the street. He didn’t see much of what was in front of him.

“13 Peachtree Place.” You plucked his fingers out of your mouth just long enough to tell him your address. Then you went right back to suckling down the skin, letting your tongue glide gently over the tender, slick digits.

Daryl stifled a groan. There was no fucking way this was happening.

Guided by the faintest idea of where your neighborhood was located, he pulled off onto a side road and tried hard not to let out a sound when you sucked his three fingers to the back of your mouth—and felt your throat seize just a little at the sudden intrusion.

You pulled him out of your mouth with a wet pop and started over his lap.

You, yourself, were hardly more aware of what you were doing than why you were doing it, a slave to your sensory impulses and a sucker for a man in brown slacks. You crawled across the lap of the plainclothes officer who’d accused you of ‘selling yourself’ just minutes ago, only to show him what you were happy to do, free of charge.

It wasn’t your most gloriously feminist moment, to be sure, but then again, when were you going to get another chance to fuck the police and get off scot-free like this?

You palmed Detective Dixon through his pants and smiled when he whined just a little.

“Bet you wish I was selling, huh? Wish I was some pretty little thing for you to use at your convenience?” you purred, stroking over him gently.

Daryl gritted his teeth but said nothing in return. He brought the car to a stop under a red light.

You didn’t like the quiet types. You squeezed him harder in your hand, felt his erection grow even larger between your fingers, and moved up to press a kiss on his neck, tasting tiny beads of sweat there.

“How badly did you wish I was a whore, detective?”

When you leaned in for another couple light kisses, you were startled to feel a hand at your own throat, jerking your face up to his.

“Already knew you were the second I saw you.” he returned, deadpan, before your wide and unsuspecting eyes.

When the light turned green, he released your neck and reached for the back of your head. You let out a muffled whimper as he shoved you down against his crotch, stiff as a rock underneath your cheek.

“Why? Does a whore wanna suck it?” he asked, pressing his foot on the gas.

At a moment’s notice, you were robbed of your slight dominant edge and made to grovel under his touch like a bitch in heat. Daryl rubbed your plush lips over the mound in his pants like he was proud to make you feel it. And you, yielding as ever, made no attempt to keep from being manhandled because, if you were honest with yourself, you knew that you wanted it that way. You smiled against the cotton blend of his trousers and made a soft moan along the fabric, letting him drag you by the hair any way that he pleased.

When he yanked your head up and the car came to another stop, you weren’t surprised in the least by the trail of saliva that followed your lips. You locked eyes with his steel blue set and grinned again, quite stupidly.

“Well?” Daryl pressed, giving your hair a sharp tug.

You thought the sight of your watering mouth and blissed-out expression would have sufficed for an answer, but clearly, he wanted more. You worked gracelessly over the belt buckle and zip beneath your chin, and had his cock freed in seconds.

The car sped up again. Detective Dixon’s grip tightened on your scalp.

The second your lips latched onto the head of his dick, you knew you’d be in for a bumpy ride. He hissed as soon as the warmth of your mouth enveloped him, gripped the wheel like a vice, and made sure to spare your throat no expense the second he came to a sloppy halt.

Either your car was in bumper-to-bumper traffic, or the man couldn’t drive for shit while getting road head. You’d put a large sum of cash on the latter if you had it.

Regardless, you bobbed your head up and down and tried your best to suppress the urge to gag when you could. It was tough work, flattening your tongue down his length, gripping his cock at the base, sucking hard until your cheeks hollowed out, and then bump went the whole fucking car, and suddenly your throat was forced to take four more inches in the span of a second.

You lifted your head to protest but were swiftly met with a firm hand holding it down. Keeping it down.

“You’re done sucking this cock when I say you’re done,” Daryl informed you sternly, sucking a breath through his teeth when you gagged around him once more.

He pulled you off just long enough to breathe—and answer a question.

“You live over by McGinty’s? Or MacManus’?”

“McVeigh’s,” you supplied in a shaky voice. No one ever got the Irish pubs around you right.

Daryl hummed and shoved you right back onto his dick, pretending to take no notice of the way you gripped his thigh or tried to groan, ‘Fucker’ against his shaft. Your oral cavity was presently flooded with cock, pre-cum, and saliva, and the longer you sucked, the harsher he got to pushing your head up and down. Your eyes stung with tears.

“In through yer nose, darlin’, almost there,” he hummed, smug as ever. Whether he meant you were close to your house or he was about to cum down your throat, you couldn’t be sure. Your mouth slipped and squelched gently over the man’s throbbing member and made tiny whimpers when you felt you might climax any minute.

In a clandestine act, you moved one hand down your body while you continued blowing Daryl’s brains out. You were half-cockdrunk and hardly more sentient than a sex doll, it seemed, but you could’ve sworn you were quite discreet about the endeavor between your legs. You had just grazed the slick wet seam of your slit, about to press two fingers to your clit, when a hand jerked at a clump of your hair. Hard.

As soon as your mouth was disconnected from his shaft, Daryl landed a tart slap on your cheek.

“My baby need something?” he said, almost tauntingly.

You blinked up at him, failing to understand, until he reached down and pried your hand away from your heat.

“If tha’ wet, greedy cunt needs sum’n, ya better tell me.”

You were amazed how deftly he appeared to maneuver the car now, just pinching your face between forefinger and thumb as he veered down winding streets. When you paused a second or two to answer, you were punished with another slap.

“Just wanted a touch,” you whined, trying to rub the cheek that was stinging and finding yourself outmatched by Daryl’s grip. He squeezed you even tighter.

“Then you say that next time. With your big girl words,” Detective Dixon grunted, bringing the car to a sudden halt and hauling you into his arms.

You looked small splayed across his lap. Perhaps even tinier just straddling one leg, as you were, body writhing beneath his touch and moans and whimpers bubbling up your throat one at a time.

When you looked around, you realized you were home.

Part of you wanted to bolt, for a second. Go sprinting up the lawn toward the safety of your home and jump straight under the covers, a place where you would be free to touch yourself as you pleased—no smug homicide detective breathing down your throat.

But, as you straddled his wide, beefy thigh and felt one gentle pulse of the muscle underneath, you knew you were done for. He saw just as clearly as you that your body was in need of release. Not from your fingers, not from his tongue, perhaps not even from the fat, throbbing cock that had been fucking your mouth the whole way home.

In this moment, all you needed was for him to bounce you on his thigh, let you ride, and make you cum.

Your expression must have looked exceptionally pathetic when you tried stirring your hips and felt two hands stop you cold in your tracks.

“What did daddy just say about big girl words, hm?” Daryl’s voice took on a tender lilt so unlike anything he’d said or done before that you almost didn’t hear the word ‘daddy,’ or think it strange at all. It seemed so natural playing off of his tongue.

“I need you, daddy,” you whimpered.

To say you were putty in his hands was still something short of the truth. You were damn near liquified underneath his touch, half-limp and wholly yearning as the man steadied you in place and began his delicate ministrations like you’d never experienced before.

The once callous, largely cruel law enforcement figure took on something of a gentle affect as he ran his hands up and down your body and let you ease yourself into his touch. There were kisses, caresses, and all sorts of soft little touches on your skin that made you feel pampered and prized, even precious in his eyes. Was this really the same man whose cock had been choking you to the point of tears just minutes ago?

Daryl hiked your skirt up your hips until the sight of your bare, needy cunt was all he could see. Still, he stayed cool and trained his eyes up to yours.

“How’s that feel, honey?”

Even as still as a stone, you felt sparks of hot energy fly up from your center. Remembering your big girl words, you replied, ‘So good, daddy, I just need some more.’

Daryl seemed happy to oblige his good little girl and made sure to shift his knee a little to the right. At the slightest bit of friction, you moaned.

“Oh, daddy,” you whined, leaning in to that praise-heavy dynamic Daryl seemed keen to play out. When he bounced his foot once or twice, shaking your whole body as he did, you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and grabbed hold of his thigh. Even rolled your hips right back to his movements.

As light, tender sounds tumbled past your lips with increasing frequency, so too did Daryl’s mouth impart more gentle kisses and dirtier words for your ears to hear:

“Such a pretty little thing, ridin’ daddy’s thigh like tha’.”

“Grindin’ tha’ needy wet pussy all over my leg.”

“Gonna make a mess fer daddy? Show me how much my sweet girl’s been needin’ a good fuck?”

You loved every last filthy syllable. You braced hard against his leg and rutted up and down, in circles all around until you thought you could’ve soaked his whole pant leg. Meanwhile, he was bouncing his thigh, stroking your sides, and making sure you were never wanting for affection or praise as a soft swell of pleasure came dimly into view.

When he flattened one palm across your tummy and told you to lean back, you knew the end wasn’t far from sight.

Daryl took hold of your hips and made an even quicker cadence with his leg, bouncing you fast and hard and hopelessly tight against his thigh as he drank in every one of your moans coming out.

You pressed one hand to the window—long since fogged up and opaque with the hot breaths you were panting—and placed the other on Daryl’s shoulder.

You could tell by the glint in his eye and the grin on his face that he loved you like this. Spread out and desperate for release as you rocked your hips a vicious course over him, using his body for leverage as you fucked his leg for all it was worth.

“Tha’s my girl,” Daryl beamed, practically scintillating with joy.

He watched you rut your hips again and again in the most obscene sort of fashion, riding his thigh with a moan never far from your lips. You squeezed his shoulder.

“Daddy, I—” you started, only to swallow your words with a whimper the second Daryl started bouncing his foot even faster.

“Daddy what?” he teased, pretending not to notice the elevated pitch to your whines.

“Fuck— you know what!” you cried.

“Nah, pretty baby, I ain’t got the slightest clue,” Detective Dixon was exuberant now, grinning from ear to ear as the pleasure visibly mounted inside of you, “Fuck my leg a little harder and tell me how it feels.”

You did. He helped. Even gripped your hips and moved them for you, keeping that breakneck pace as you moaned and writhed and sank your nails into his shoulder as the feelings just got to be too much.

With one last strangled cry, you came all over his thigh.

And, whether that climax lasted two seconds or two hours, the man beneath you didn’t really care—he kept bouncing his leg as you finished, and long after you had, as well.

You seized both of his shoulders this time as you tried to slow his movements. He made no such effort to oblige, only flashing a smile and nodding his big, dumb head as he said:

“I want one more.”

What? No fucking way, you thought, communicating as much through your frantic eyes and the shake of your head. Daryl kept right on moving his leg and holding you firm to that mile-wide wet spot on his thigh, which only grew larger and larger the longer you rode him.

As a bizarre, unfamiliar feeling sank to the pit of your stomach and twisted, you weren’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or cum all over again—luckily, your body decided for you and graced you with yet another orgasm. You gritted your teeth and tried not to scream as a wild wave of a new sensation washed over your senses…

And Daryl kept bouncing that fucking knee.

Mind-numbing waves of ecstasy came crashing closer and closer than ever before, and frankly, you couldn’t quite tell how, or when, you’d ever cum again until you did it, you felt it: walls clenching back and forth while your vision blurred with pleasure. A sound wavering somewhere between a scream and a plea—Daryl, keep that goddamn knee to yourself, for fuck’s sake!—tore out of your chest and prompted you to sink all ten nails into flesh that told your sly detective it was time to stop.

Your whole frame was shaking by the time his foot came to rest. If you hadn’t been so fucked-out and sensitive, you just might’ve jumped out of the car the second it did.

But you didn’t. You stayed frozen in place, let your vision return apace, and didn’t let your eyes stray an inch from Daryl’s smug face while your third orgasm subsided.

Fighting every urge to giggle when he squeezed your ass and begged for another.

“Fourth one’s gonna cost ya, asshole.”

“Oh yeah?” Daryl said, grinning, “What’s your price?”

[wcnderlnds]

bucket hats & trench coats | peter maximoff

・❥・summary: peter ralph gets caught up in the westview incident

・❥・word count: 2.1k

・❥・warnings: 18+, nsfw. female reader, p in v, unprotected sex, car sex, agatha all along spoilers kinda, swearing.

・❥・ authors note: this is pure filth im so sorry. also bless @jazz-berry for getting caps of our boy that i just had to use for this 💕

The click clack of fingers zooming across a keyboard was the only sound that rang out through the room. Peter’s eyes were solely fixed on the computer screen as he typed up his newest Reddit post. Ever since the events of Westview had happened and his mind was his own, he was determined to spread the truth of what had really happened. He was the hero Westview needed. Thing was, nobody really cared to listen to his ramblings about Wanda and Agatha and how he’d been manipulated by both.

Apart from you. Everything Peter had experienced, you had, too. The hex had taken you both under control. The only difference was that had only been under Wanda’s control and not hers and Agatha’s like Peter had been. It had taken a real toll on him. He was still himself but he was… paranoid, guarded like he couldn’t trust anyone.

“Holy shitballs, dude,” he spun around in his chair to face you who was sprawled out on the couch with a book in your hand. At the sound of his voice, you peered over at him, a brow raised in question. “Some kid wants to meet up to talk about the whole Westview shit. We gotta go meet him, babe. He wants to know all about Agatha and Wanda and the freaky crap that went down.”

As you looked at Peter, you couldn’t help but frown. He was still as handsome as ever but his face was now adorned with a beard, the lines and bags around his eyes more prominent than ever. His hair was an unruly mess of half silver, half brown. He’d dyed it to try and hide himself but had never kept up with it so now the roots of his curls were a shocking silver that mismatched the brown. His eyes that once held so much joy, so much fun were now full of fear and vulnerability.

“Okay, if that’s what you want to do then, yeah,” you nod.

That’s how you ended up in a parking lot the next evening. Peter looked ridiculous stood beside you in a long trench coat and a bucket hat. Although, maybe in a weird sort of way it was a look. Or maybe you were just so desperate for your boyfriends touch that you were finding anything about him attractive now. Intimacy had come to a complete halt after everything that happened. He spent most of his time on Reddit trying to spread his story. The whole thing had really put a strain on your relationship but you loved this man and there was no way you were leaving him when he needed you the most. So what if you had to touch yourself most nights just for some relief. If that’s the way it had to be then fine.

“You look ridiculous,” you hissed at him, shaking your head. “Do you really need all of this?”

“It’s a disguise, duh! Can’t have him recognising me, can I? That’s why I’m going by Ralph… I mean, Randal — whatever fake name that police dude gave me. What’s up with you anyway? You’re crabby,” he took a sideways glance at you before glancing down at his watch.

“Nothing.” It was a mumble, hands stuffed into the jacket of Peter’s you were wearing. As he was about to speak again - or, more accurately, call you out - a car pulled into the lot. This was it. “Just be careful, okay?”

Leaning up, you pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. His beard tickling your face, the sensation only increasing those impure thoughts of wondering what it’d feel like somewhere else, somewhere lower. Peter nodded, giving your hand a squeeze before you jogged off back to the car. This was his thing. It was something he needed to do alone so you made yourself comfy in the backseat of the car, pulling up a game on your phone to pass the time.

It felt like too much time had passed since you left your boyfriend to his meet up so with concern, you got out of the car. Peter was walking around in circles, alone, mumbling to himself. Walking over to him, you approached cautiously. “Peter?”

“I forgot to tell him so much. Damn, I’m an idiot. Do you think he’d meet up again? I need to tell him about the rabbit and….” You cut him off by taking his hand in yours.

“I think you need to relax. This isn’t good for you.”

“It’s the only thing I can think about. It’s the only thing going through my head at any given point. All I can think about is the awful things those… witches… made me do.”

At the word witches, you cut in with “bitches” causing the tiniest of smiles to creep onto his face. You had missed his smile. It was one of the most beautiful things on the planet and you’d do anything to see it again.

“I know, baby. But… you’re letting this consume you and… it’s driving us apart. I miss my boyfriend. I miss my Peter. I miss joking around, going on dates, you stealing stuff for me, being intimate with each other. Do you not realise how long it’s been since we had sex?” You sighed, playing with the fingers on his hand.

“…fuck,” he let out a sigh of his own, the realisation hitting him. Hard. How the heck could he forget about the most important person in his life? No, he wasn’t having that. He had to make it up to you and quick - luckily that just so happened to be his speciality. His hands slid down your sides, finding your hips and pulling you into him. “I’m sorry. I’ve been the worst fucking boyfriend. Let me make it up to you?”

Everything that happened next was a blur. Before you knew it, you were laid on the backseat of the car, legs spread wide with Peter between them. You had no idea where your panties were — Peter had pulled them off in a frenzy. His tongue teased along your folds elicting the most precious sounds he’d ever heard from you. Every brush of his tongue drove you wilder and wilder. His beard rubbing against your thighs only adding to the growing desire in the pit of your stomach. His lips sucked on your sensitive bud causing you to whimper, hands flying to his hair until you realised he had the stupid goddamn bucket hat on still.

“Peter,” you breathed out.

“Yeah, baby, you like that?” His tongue swirled around your clit, completely oblivious to how annoyed you were.

“Peter!” This time he looked up at you from between your legs. “Take the stupid fucking hat off.”

“You mean it’s not doing it for you? Thought bucket hats were all the rage,” he snickered but he took it off, tossing it into the front of the car then dove back in like a man starved. The long, broad stripes of his tongue sliding through your pussy was like ecstasy. God, you had missed this. When you felt him prodding at your entrance, your hands once again flew to his hair this time tangling in it successfully as his tongue dove into you.

“Oh shit,” you moaned, hips bucking into his mouth as his tongue explored your plush walls. Peter could do this all day. Your moans were like music to his ears, the taste of you the best thing he’d ever have on his lips.

“That’s it, baby,” he mumbled against you, his tongue making its way back to your clit. “Gonna come for me, pretty girl? Gonna let me make it up to you?” Between the kitten licks and the sound of him sucking up your juices, you were sure you were about to see heaven but then the little shit thrusted two fingers inside you. Your body arched as he pumped them at a rapid pace. The stimulation of his tongue and fingers was too much for you to handle and you came. Peter lapped at you, his fingers not letting up as he rode you through your orgasm.

He pulled his fingers from you. A shit eating smirk - one reminiscent of the old Peter - was plastered on his face when his eyes met yours. Seeing your release over his lips was enough to almost trigger another orgasm. It really had been so fucking long. “Not done yet.”

Through the dimly lit windows you could see him, rubbing his hard-on through the fabric of his jeans. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you leaned forward, one hand reaching out to pop the button and pull down the zipper. With his help, you pulled down his jeans and boxers enough to free him. You reached out, stroking his cock, the pearly beads of pre-cum leaking from him. With your thumb, you spread it around his tip, causing a groan to pass his lips.

“Damn, babe, keep that up and I’m gonna shoot a load on you in two seconds.” He pushed your hand off him. “Need to fuck you now. Need to fuck you real good to make up for the last year.” He pumped himself a few times, his brows furrowed as he looked at you. “Trench coat on or off?”

You contemplated it for a second. “Fuck it, keep it on. Makes you look like a mysterious hot grandpa.”

“Grandpa?! You little brat.”

That was all you heard before he pushed his cock into your tight walls. He bottomed out in one thrust, filling you to the hilt. God, it felt so good to feel him inside you again. Instantly, he began thrusting into you at a rough pace, his hands gripping your hips so tight you were sure there’d be bruises tomorrow but you didn’t care. All you could think about was your boyfriend was fucking you within an inch of your life again. Finally.

“So fucking wet for me, baby. Don’t think I haven’t heard you touching yourself every night,” he grunted, pulling out and pushing back in with force. Each thrust rougher than the next — all his pent up frustrations finally having a form of release. “Thinkin’ about me when you were playing with this pussy, huh?”

“Yes, Peter,” you mewled. Your hips bucked wildly against his trying to match his pace but it was no use. He was definitely using his mutation with the way he was pounding into you, your body moving along the seat with every thrust.

“Ain’t gotta do that no more. Gonna fuck you like this every night now,” he lifted your legs over his shoulders to hit even deeper inside you. “So damn tight.”

Hands gripped his forearms as he rutted into you like an animal in heat. Sweat was forming on his forehead, tongue sticking out at the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on bringing you as much pleasure as he could. His eyes focused on the way your tits bounced under your shirt, roaming lower as he watched himself disappear in and out of you. Fingers found your clit and you felt the vibrations rumbling through him, causing you to almost scream out. It was too much. Way too much.

“Peter! Ooooh. Can’t -,” you cried out. Before you could even register what was happening, your walls tightened around him, body arching into his as you came. Peter didn’t let up, thrusting into you with a frenzied speed and muttering dirty ramblings as he chased his own high.

“I’m gonna - fuuuuck,” his thrusts grew sloppy and before he knew it he was spilling his load into you, white hot spurts of cum coating your walls. Your legs fell from his shoulders as the two of you collapsed into each other in a sweaty heap.

The silence was almost deafening. The only sounds were your breaths as you both tried to remember how to breathe properly. The windows of the car had steamed up which caused you to giggle. Of all places you thought this would happen it definitely wasn’t in the car. Peter couldn’t help but laugh too. “You good?”

“Great,” you assured him. “Might not be able to walk but damn, Maximoff. I forgot how good you were.”

He scratched the top of his head, feeling every single bit of remorse for letting things get this bad. “Sorry about that, babe. That’s on me. I just got caught up in this Westview thing that… I neglected you but swear down I’m gonna keep making it up to you. Never meant for it to come between us.”

“I know,” you cupped his cheek. “Do me a favour, though?”

“Anything.”

“Keep the beard.”

tag list (ask to be added!): @juliamaximoff @lemoniiiiiii @jazz-berry @xmidnight-rain @honeymoon8

[pinkaditty]

HI i love your works sm ,,, and i really love the way you write it just brings out soemtnhign in me ,,, but hear me out on leo kurosagi angst where leo keeps insulting pc and pc just took it well until he said something sensitive (maybe sth ab the way she eats? or sth abt her face etc etc) and hurt pc's feelings and he didnt feel bad when pc cried , but when he saw pc going over to sho and sho giving him dirty looks he feels remorseful but he didnt want his pride to crack so he blamed pc , and then when pc started avouding him he started mocking her but in the inside it hurt him and his pride slightly , afterwards he found out he actually has genuine feelings for pc but denies it , until he found out pc is now his bff's gf WOW i NEED him humbled 🤗🤗🤗

Pavlov's Ghoul (Leo Kurosagi x Reader x Sho Haizono; Tokyo Debunker)

hey anon this existing is UR FAULT. (ilysm ty 4 the idea) and i hope u don't mind that I added my own little twist 2 it... hehe! even if u didn't expect me 2 write anything u can't drop a fresh, juicy steak of an idea like this and expect me not 2 salivate and tear it 2 shreds via writing it out.

OMG also TYYYYYYY IM SOSO GLAD U LIKE MY WRITING YIPPEE!!!!!!!!! i hope this is up 2 ur standards anon

a/n: why does this exist? blame anon and my inner need 4 a bitchy boy 2 be humbled amen! also i feel like i've completed my tokyo debunker rite of passage... ive finally written leo angst... nirvana at last.

summary: leo gets fuckin pavloved LMAO! considered calling this "ecstasy" or something bc of the pill line but ohh my god "pavlov's ghoul" hit too hard i fear.

cw: this isn't dark imo but be warned as this is just a little bit crazy, the most insane kind of yearning ive ever written maybe. implied sexual encounters, multiple sexual innuendos, and some odd behavior. MINORS DNI AS PER USUALLLLLL!

Looking for Part 2? Click here!

Sho's kind, reasonably so. Leo knows this. Sho also has an infinite store of deeply repressed anger. Leo also knows this. It's the reason he's in Vagastrom, after all. A deep, roiling anger that seems to eat at him if he doesn't have an appropriate outlet to balance his mood. That's why he's such a good cook, why he's so good at fighting, why he's got an excellent sense of balance and rides his bike smoother than anyone else he knew. He's using these things as outlets for his anger. It's not Leo's fault that the occasional outing to trick and deceive another sexually repressed rich old man for money is something else Sho seems to derive stress relief from. And it's not Leo's fault that Sho continues to stick around with him after those jobs are done. It's never been a problem for either of them, as far as he can tell. At least, there were no problems until Little Miss Inspector showed up.

Suddenly, Sho didn't want to lie anymore. Suddenly, Sho wanted to go as far as to address you with the proper honorifics, ask for your help with setting up his food truck, and even generally spend time with you outside of that. And for what? Some trembling, scared, pathetic girl that knew nothing of the world of anomalies prior to her curse? Some girl doomed to "die" in less than one year, no less? He couldn't understand the kindness Sho showed you. It made no sense, nor any difference. You'd be dead soon, so what did it matter?

It's got to the point where he's begun to randomly put you down with petty insults and biting remarks. They usually consist of things like "Oh my god, even preschoolers know Anomalous Biological Basics! Come on Inspector, is your head screwed on right? Not even the Captain is this stupid." or "You remember your ability is useless when we need it, right? You'd be nothing more than a burden on missions if you can't even control this power. " or even "God, you're such a basic loser. Can't you find something else to do with your free time instead hang around Sho like a lovesick puppy? You're starting to look like that dog that's always around Kagami." and worse insults. He gets the occasional sidelong disapproving glance from Alan or even a slight furrowed brow from Sho, but it didn't matter to Leo. So long as he could slowly plant seeds of doubt in his fellow ghouls and put you down to satisfy his ego, even an odd look was negligible.

He couldn't even stand looking at you. The uniform they'd chosen for you was awful, didn't even highlight your curves. He hated the way you styled your hair, and always thought he could totally do it better. The way you seemed so relaxed around other ghouls pissed him off, why couldn't he be good company? He found you repulsive, unable to resist glaring at you from the corner of his eye whenever he could. He had to get rid of you somehow. He would never admit to feeling threatened by you; instead choosing to focus all that energy into believing you were simply throwing a wrench into his plans to live an easy, get-away-with-anything university life.

It's all come to a head today. Leo thinks he's had enough of seeing you at the food truck after hours, chatting it up with Sho. It's like he can't even catch this guy alone anymore. Before he knows it, he's made a beeline for the truck. His brand new shoes scuff on the brick path in his rush, and eventually begin to stain green on the grass, his brisk stride tearing through the verdant lawn. He tries not to let his anger show on his face, but it's evident in his posture and pace. He forcefully sidles himself into the conversation, leaning on the service counter next to you, not even waiting for you to finish speaking before he pipes up. "Wow, here again, huh? And here I thought a basic bitch like you would know her place! That mouth of yours must be good for something if he keeps a chatterbox like you around."

The chill settles into the air almost immediately despite his candid tone and relaxed, smug smile. He's so focused on your reaction that he hardly notices the look Sho gives him, twisted with displeasure and confusion. He watches as you visibly falter, your lopsided smile fading into a barely-there frown. He stares, unrepentant, laughing internally. This was the reaction he wanted.

He turns towards Sho and raises an eyebrow at his look. "What? She can take it." Sho's expression visibly wavers, and Leo fully expects him to back down, as he usually does. But instead, Sho turns to you and his face grows pale. Leo rolls his eyes, assuming Sho is totally overreacting, and turns to you. He stiffens at your visible tears. Okay, totally not what he expected, but come on. This was the insult that made you cry?

Leo notices Sho is at your side in record speed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, and gently drawing your hunched form away, giving Leo a harsh look. Leo simply scoffs. As far as he was concerned, your reaction was pathetic. It wasn't going to stop him from having any fun.

This. Under no circumstances should this hurt. At all.

Leo had noticed you'd been avoiding him. You would slink away if he so much as entered the same room as you. You wouldn't look him in the eyes if he approached, keeping your expression impassive. Sometimes you'd just outright ignore him. It was beginning to become a bit of a nuisance. He couldn't properly mock you if you weren't there to witness it happening, or didn't give him the reaction he wanted. It was odd. When he faced these feelings head-on, it almost felt like he wanted your attention somehow, even if he didn't quite want it to feel like that. A nagging feeling told him that maybe he went too far with his latest insult. He didn't want to admit that, but something told him he did. It was in the way both you and Sho acted around him.

Sho was missing a lot of Leo's calls lately, sometimes not even bothering to call back. Leo partially understood, what with the food truck business booming and all, but he didn't appreciate being made to wait for his own best friend who's usually at his beck and call. Not to mention the flat, terse responses he would get from Sho more often than not nowadays. Leo knew Sho was miffed with him from last week's incident, but as far as Leo was concerned, things still ended in his favor. He hadn't seen you around Sho much anymore, which means he could go back to how things were. No more pesky little honor student to reign upon his days any longer! Sure, there was the biting underlying feeling that maybe he'd screwed things up, but one ride on the back of Sho's motorcycle, going wherever Leo wanted as per usual, and he was living the dream again. No way everything would change over a silly, insignificant insult.

For a short while, he begins to get bolder, openly mocking you when he does come across you. His originally surface-level remarks become rather personal, even using your eventual death as a way to tease you. From "You know, I'm surprised you haven't done anything to change up that unflattering look, considering you're dying soon. Ever considered dressing up a little? You might get some attention before you die." to "Hey, Little Miss Inspector! With the number of men you talk to around campus, I'm surprised nobody's written you off as a whore yet!", and worse, of course. He continues to get no such reaction out of you, and it frustrates him to no end. Why couldn't you just frown? Shrink away? Or even retort something just as scathing back to him? Your lack of entertainment towards his endless ridicule reduced his motivation, and slowly, it ended up dying off. Soon, he left you alone altogether, not talking to you unless necessary, mimicking your actions. In a way, some part of him hopes maybe this will be what gets your attention. Even if he can't quite admit to himself that your attention, regardless of whether it's positive or negative, is what he wants.

It's late, but Vagastrom students don't go to bed until far later. And Leo needs a favor.

His crushing lack of success in garnering any sort of attention or reaction or rise from you had driven him to a point. He didn't want to apologize to you or anything, but this new habit of you ignoring him was beginning to stoke his displeasure. In his pondering, he remembered how easily Sho captured your gaze and wondered if maybe he'd have any idea of what Leo could do to at least put an end to this stalemate.

Leo's reluctance shows in the way he drags his feet on the path to Sho's room, less than eager to confront him for his opinion on something so shamelessly trivial. Why was he wasting his time with this anyway? Surprisingly, the lack of a solid answer to that question did not stop his trek. A twinge in his chest told him he knew exactly why he was "wasting his time".

In the month it had been since he'd made you cry, the nagging feeling had only gotten harsher. His mind kept flickering back to the shock of your tears and how he'd not bothered to consider it much further. An uncomfortable guilt had made itself known starting then. He never really expected you to cry; he just wanted a mild reaction. He wanted your eyes on him, flashing with anger, just for a moment. Your ire was a saccharine pill laced with ecstasy that he'd gladly crush with his teeth to speed up his high. Maybe it'd be too much to say he got off on it, but he enjoyed the way you used to roll your eyes at any comments from him a little more than he cared to admit. Now, he wouldn't even get that. It'd be rare for you to so much as make fleeting eye contact with him, not that something as small as that would be enough for Leo. Part of him was willing to accept that maybe, he'd gone too far. Maybe. But how else was he supposed to monopolize your attention when you give that out so freely? To his best friend, even?

He didn't know it was possible to covet something so terribly. He found himself wondering why he couldn't catch your attention in the same way as the other ghouls? In his quest for the same attention you gave so freely to the kinder, softer ghouls, he found another version of your attention. It was negative, but it was attention nonetheless. Your sweet, honeyed rage seemed to fill his cravings and then some, so he continued to devour it under the guise of "chasing you away" or "putting you down" or "satisfying his ego". In truth, for whatever reason, there was a rather bothersome and persistent envious longing, a covet, for your attention. Leo wants to vomit. A part of him denies it still, pushing his needless feelings to the back of his brain. He had something to do, and he ought to focus on that. What good would mere wallowing do?

He makes it to Sho's room and almost considers turning back. He stares at the door, his expression morphing into a complicated look. He shifted his feet, his slippers sliding against the floor. It was quite clear he really did not want to do this. At all. He sighs and grumbles indignantly, putting his head in his hands in an attempt to gather some courage. This couldn't be that hard, right? Just in, ask Sho a question, get an answer, then out. The only reason this was easier said than done was just because it could potentially show Leo was capable of feeling remorse, which would make this conversation leagues harder than it needed to be. He shakes his head and straightens up, preparing to knock, when he notices something.

Sho's room was... unusually quiet. Usually, Leo almost always heard some loud music or a cooking show running in the background, but he couldn't hear anything this time. Sho couldn't possibly be asleep. As late as it was, the only person who Leo knew for a fact could stay up past him was Sho, regardless of how much sleep he had gotten. There was no chance Sho was asleep. Believe it or not, Leo doesn't like to spy on Sho. But curiosity overwhelms him. What could he possibly be doing that would render the whole room in silence?

"Haxs," he whispers, listening closely.

The first thing he hears is the cling-clanging of Alan hard at work on a car in the garage. Not the sound he was meant to be focusing on. Then he hears endless jeering and loud insults shouted, though they're all muffled like they're underground. Another pit fight? Still, not the sound he's looking for. He sifts through the sounds he hears before he settles on the one coming directly from Sho's room.

Voices. Groaning, strained voices. The sound of wet skin against wet skin. Panting. Sho's panting, specifically. He could tell by the slight nasally tone of it.

Leo felt his face gradually warm. Christ, of course it'd be this he'd be up to. Leo muffles a laugh into the collar of his pajamas, keeping his hand clamped over his mouth as his body shook with mirth. When he finally calms down, he slinks off to the corner down the hall, and hides himself there, shamelessly still listening to it. Sho's a sly dog. Leo certainly didn't expect him to be getting up to anything this soon. He leans his body against the wall, crossing his arms and drumming his fingers on his arm, waiting for Sho to finish. He smirks to himself, as though enjoying the vocal show.

...

He had to admit, whoever he was with had gorgeous moans. He'd have to ask Sho if he'd be willing to pass this girl's number. He could use a couple things to get his mind off of you.

...

Okay, he had to stop listening to this now. He lifts his stigma and holds his hands over his ears for good measure, partially trying to hide the furious red blush across his face. As pretty as that girl's moans were, he was not going to listen to his best friend's climax. No thanks. He huffs out an impatient breath as his cheeks cool down, leaning his back against the wall, leaning his head back until it hit the wall with a dull thump. Now he just had to wait it out. He knew damn well Sho would never let a girl stay over. He'd never hear the end of it from yours truly, Leo.

Leo's right. It isn't long before he hears the door to Sho's room click, and hears murmured voices travel down the hall. He smirks, rushing down the hall in the opposite way, so it doesn't look like he was listening the whole time. He listens, waiting for a cue of some sort.

"Shame you have to go, you know." Sho's voice. Laced with relief, pleasure, and a thick tiredness. Leo's skin crawled. He could practically feel the smile in Sho's voice.

"It's not so bad." The girl responded with a light and playful tone, her voice seemingly much more put together than Sho's despite all that moaning. The voice sounded oddly familiar, but Leo brushed it off. Must be someone he shares classes with. "I've got things to do anyway. But it was nice to spend some time with you, Sho." Eagh. Leo internally hopes this girl isn't the type to get easily attached.

"...Yeah. Same to you. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Finally, he heard the girl's footsteps trailing down the hall, heading in his direction. Leo hurriedly pulls his phone out of his pocket, making sure the screen was bright as he flipped through the latest trends. He made a point of not looking up until he heard the footsteps nearing him.

He looks up, prepared for a simple glance, but ends up being rooted to the spot.

It was you. Of course, it was you. Who else would be taunting enough?

Despite himself, his gaze remains glued to you, his head turning as you walk past him. For a moment, Leo thinks you're just going to ignore him again. Then, suddenly, your gaze meets his in a flash, and he stiffens, almost out of fear. The way your eyebrows crease and the way your lips twitch downward almost makes him salivate. You were clearly displeased to see him. Even so, he notices you don't slow down, continuing your way down the hall, not bothering to crane your neck to look at him.

Leo remains rooted to the spot, watching your figure as you leave. His jaw hangs open slightly, his chest heaving with shocked breaths. His eyes are wide open, pools of gold reflecting your retreating form. His hand trembles as he holds his phone, the latest trends left neglected in the wake of a single mean-spirited glance from you. He feels his heart pound mercilessly in his chest, as though confirming what he'd tried so desperately to deny.

All at once, anger and arousal seem to grip him simultaneously. Anger at himself for feeling arousal from a mere negative glance from you. He couldn't possibly have craved your attention so viscerally he'd happily accept mere scraps. And yet here he was, a lap dog, watching you as you leave as though silently begging for another glance, another chance to watch your eyes burn with that familiar, delicious anger, another meal to satisfy his starved heart.

For a moment, he would have gladly followed you, and pestered you to death, just to irk you and become a willing victim of your wrath. Anything... just for that attention.

a/n: wow. no stop why am i kind of in shock at the poetic lines i kinda think i did a great job! but 4 whatever reason it's always the writing i think was total shit that does actual numbers *sob*

aghhhh in any case. no i don't have an excuse 4 this. my requests are still technically closed. i just... couldn't help myself... so consider this a freebie. regardless though if u like my writing feel free 2 fill the fuck out of my inbox idnc i love hearing from y'all.

also TUMBLR KEEPS TURNING OFF MY REBLOGS!!!! GRAH!!!!!! tumblr hates me y'all they keep catching on2 me 4 writing porn :( so please if u really wanna show appreciation and tumblr won't let u reblog, leave a comment! those make me happy :)

anyways. usual note that i adore likes, comments, and tagged reblogs!! please tell me how much you like my writing, i love to hear it and it keeps me going! until next timeeeeeeee!

EDIT: I FORGOTTT QUICK EXPLAINATION: im assuming everyone knows pavlov's dog and the whole classical conditioning theory. this story is basically that mixed with the mere-exposure effect.

neutral stimulus: mc's presence

natural response: leo's arousal/excitement

response-producing stimulus: mc's anger

mere-exposure effect: psychological effect in which a like or dislike of things is developed merely due 2 familiarity.

[venus-haze]

You're My Best Friend (Homelander x Reader)

Summary: Homelander was a test tube baby, raised in isolation in a cold, clinical lab. But that doesn’t inspire America, does it? Vought tasks you with creating the idyllic backstory for its hero, and what starts as a limited comic run spirals out of control when Homelander himself demands your help in making the story a reality.

Note: Gender neutral reader, but no other descriptors are used. Based on a request by @crash-and-cure as well as a bastardization of one of the sweetest love songs ever written (sorry, John Deacon!) This got kinda meta? Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Emotional manipulation, I guess some gaslighting on Homelander’s part? Do not interact if you’re under 18.

When Vought hired you to create their long-awaited Homelander origin comic series, you were thrilled—until they gave you so little information about his childhood to work with, you weren’t even sure you could come up with one comic, let alone the ten they requested. The details about his childhood were minimal, not even a full printed page—a loving mom and dad, played baseball, did well in school, strong sense of justice from a young age, his friends called him “Johnny.” Your requests to meet with Homelander so you could get some stories from the man himself were constantly denied.

You almost considered dropping the project, until you decided to throw caution to the wind and pull from your own childhood and set it in good ol’ generic suburbia. Some of the storylines were based on your own experiences or things that had happened to people you’d grown up with, though you changed enough names and details to not link it to anyone in particular. Except yourself, of course. Using a pseudonym professionally meant you felt no need to change your own name in the comics. Sure, making your cooler fictionalized self Homelander’s childhood best friend was a bit self-indulgent, but no one would know, really.

To your relief, the editors at Vought loved your ideas, making minor changes before bringing the storylines to their comic artists to bring it to life. The result was Finding Homelander: A Boy’s Journey To Be a Hero. The issues flew off shelves when they were first released, ironically praised for their relatability and authenticity. Vought extended your contract, asking you to produce the cartoon adaptation and another ten issues.

Still, in all of that, you’d never met Homelander. A representative from Vought emailed you to let you know to tune in to his interview on a talk show one day, saying that he’d be talking more about the cartoon project on it. You recognized the host, Tracey, always chipper and having some extravagant giveaway for her audience members. Daytime TV was never your thing, though.

“I think what resonates with so many people is how relatable your childhood is,” Tracey said, holding up a copy of Finding Homelander issue #3, where he saved ‘you’ from getting hit in the face with a baseball at one of his games, catching it with ease. It’d been the happy ending to a short storyline of him struggling to find his place on the team and you encouraging him to not give up. “You and Y/N were pretty close, do you still keep in touch?”

“You know, Tracey, not as much as I’d like, unfortunately. Adulthood can be so busy, you need to cherish those childhood memories,” Homelander said. “I did give them a call when the comics first came out, and wow, the laughs we had over those old antics of ours. Talk about a walk down memory lane!”

You guessed the bullshitting was all part of the promotional circuit for Homelander. Knowing this childhood of his was your own fabrication, you couldn’t help but wonder what else about him was fake. Maybe he wanted to maintain his privacy, you could certainly understand that. You couldn’t shake the voice in the back of your mind that said it wasn’t so simple, that the narrative Vought pushed was a cover to hide something in Homelander’s past.

“Now, I’ve heard rumors of a cartoon show based on the comics in the making, is this true?”

“It is! I’m excited for this project, getting back to my ‘roots’ so to speak. I’ll be voicing myself, of course, but it’s funny you’d bring up Y/N, because they’ve agreed to voice themself, too.”

“How fun!” Tracey exclaimed over the roar of the talk show crowd’s applause and cheers. “I guess this is the hopeless romantic in me, but I hope this reconnection leads to something a little more. I’m just a sucker for childhood sweethearts!” 

Homelander laughed along with the host’s giggles, “Well, you never know.”

You balked at the television, mouth agape. Surely he couldn’t be talking about you. ‘Y/N’ could be anyone with your same features. Vought had probably hired a professional voice actor for the role and were pushing the authenticity angle. The whole situation felt odd. 

When you checked your work email again on your phone, you nearly dropped it on the floor. 

SUBJECT: Meeting with Homelander This Week

The email contained a list of days and times throughout the week wherein Homelander would be free, apparently wanting to meet you to thank you for the success of the comic series and discuss upcoming work. Yeah. That last part you sure as hell wanted to discuss too. You responded with the soonest time available, in a meeting room in Vought Tower the following evening. As soon as you hit ‘send’, you wondered what exactly you were getting yourself into.

Anticipation filled your gut as you went about your day leading up to meeting the supe himself. What would he be like, really be like? Was there even a version of Homelander that wasn’t hopelessly manufactured for the masses? You knew then that his upbringing was a lie, and thus stood the probability that so much else was, too. 

When you stepped into that meeting room, you hadn’t been expecting his face to light up at the sight of you. 

“Homelander, hi, it’s great to—“

“No need to be so formal, Y/N! You can call me Johnny, just like old times,” he said cheerfully, in on a joke you clearly hadn’t been aware of.

“Sorry, Johnny,” you said, playing along. “It’s great to see you again.”

He pulled you in for an unexpected hug that you returned. “Figured we should catch up before things really start getting crazy, don’t you think?”

You nodded, your nose brushing against him as you did so. Just as your lips parted to offer an apology, he smiled, shooing away the assistant who’d accompanied him out of the room. 

He sat down, motioning for you to do the same.

“Gotta say, I’m a fan of your work,” he said.

“Thank you,” you said. “I’m not sure I understand exactly what’s going on, though.”

“What’s there to understand? I’m not allowed to know more about my best friend, our lives together growing up?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Wasn’t hard for me to put two and two together, but considering everyone else around here has their head up their asses, they have no idea,” he said, before lowering his voice conspiratorially and giving you a charming smile. “I haven’t told anyone. What’s a secret between friends?”

You nodded, overwhelmed by the intensity of his attention on you. “What do you want to know?”

He sighed, resting his head on his hand. “Everything.”

So you told him. Not quite everything, of course, but enough to abate his curiosity. At least for the time being. His interviews were sharper, more specific with details rather than rattling off whatever had been in the comics. You watched in shock as convincing photos of his Little League days were posted to his social media accounts, anecdotes provided by his increasingly frequent conversations–or more like interrogation sessions–with you, but in his style, of course. It was almost scary what the graphic design team at Vought could accomplish, not that you’d ever know how, exactly, as they were all under the same strict NDA that you were.

He started spending more time with you, too, and after a while, it did seem like you were old friends. Part of you flinched whenever you called him Johnny, because Johnny wasn’t even real, but with your complacency, this fabrication was slowly morphing into a strikingly tangible memory. With each conversation, he drew you deeper into the world you’d been paid to create for him until you found yourself slipping up.

You’d been showing him a goofy stuffed monkey on your desk, a cute little thing with big sparkling eyes. A prize for getting two out of three at the ring toss. Probably spent more money winning it than it was actually worth, but it was about the effort, the memories made.

“You remember, don’t you? You won it for me at the county fair,” you said without thinking.

He laughed in agreement, as if he actually had. Except he hadn’t. Your high school boyfriend won it for you a week before graduation. Sensing the mood shift, he set down your prize and looked at you with the same intensity he had when you first met.

“It’s been a while since we were there, huh?” he said. “Why don’t we go back?”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Go where?”

“Home.”

With a strong arm around your waist, he took off for your hometown. You could hardly tell which way was up or down, he was flying so high, but he didn’t seem to mind the way you clung to him at all. When he finally landed, you recognized the community baseball field where all of his fictional games were set. 

“Geez, it’s like nothing’s changed,” he said cheerfully.

You looked at him in disbelief. How long was he going to expect you to go along with it? Or maybe the question you should have been asking was, how long were you going to enable him? The end wasn’t anywhere in sight as he took your hand, and you walked him through your childhood, further enmeshing him in it until you arrived at the house you grew up in. 

The middle of the day, no one was home, and so you let yourselves in like you owned the place. Suddenly, the house seemed too small for a man like Homelander to occupy, but he was engrossed in the details of it. He scanned the kitchen, no doubt inspecting the contents of the fridge and cabinets with his x-ray vision. Moving onto the living room, he stared at photos on the wall, the magazines and DVDs that were strewn on the coffee table, giving away your parents’ taste in entertainment.

“Which one was your room again?” he asked.

You swore you could feel his breath on the back of your neck as you wordlessly led him to your room. Each step down the hall felt dangerous, as if you were about to walk into a trap. Face-to-face with the closed door, you opened it, standing aside while Homelander looked around, from what you had hanging on the walls to the knick-knacks you’d left behind.

An uncomfortable tension settled over the room when Homelander closed the door of your childhood bedroom. An odd blend of hurt and amusement spread across his face as he observed the way you were eyeing him, body ready to fruitlessly run from him the way a rabbit would a hawk.

“C’mon, after how long we’ve been friends, I would never hurt you,” he said, as if reading your mind. “We’ve been through so much together. I mean, we were each other’s first kiss.”

You froze. Issue #9. That was something Vought’s editors had added, claiming a romance angle would make the series appeal to the younger female demographic. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

He slyly backed you into the wall, leaning over you as you slinked down the slightest bit.

“Show me how we did it,” he whispered, his hand caressing your cheek. “So clumsy and nervous, I can even feel you…quivering.”

“Homelander, I don’t know what you’re—“

He tsked. “Y/N.”

You let out a shaky breath, “Johnny—“

He hummed in satisfaction. “It’s alright. I know it’s been a while.”

You let him kiss you, sweetly in a way that put your actual first kiss to shame. His lips were soft against yours, his tender movements intentional as he cradled your face, pulling you the slightest bit closer to him when you kissed him back. 

A sense of familiarity settled over you, warm and comforting like pulling a blanket out of the dryer on a chilly evening. Every time it seemed like you were beginning to overthink the situation with Homelander, he drew you back in with the kiss, a more than effective distraction until you pulled away with a dazed smile on your face.

[lxndonorris]

a special day at Monza - Charles Leclerc

Y/N x Charles Leclerc Theme: Smut after winning at Monza, Charles wants to celebrate with you x A continuation to this x word count: 4400+ taglist: @game-set-canet @cloud-55 @pitstopreality-f1 open for requests!

Charles has done it. He won the Monza Grand Prix in spectacular fashion, crossing the finish line just ahead of the Mclaren after outsmarting them with his strategy.

The crowd erupted into thunderous cheers, the sea of red flags waving high as Ferrari triumphed once again on home soil. It was a beautiful moment, the kind of victory that left an indelible mark on anyone who witnessed it.

From down below, you watched him, your heart swelling with pride as the Italian national anthem played. Charles stood on the top step of the podium, his expression a mix of joy and relief. You saw him let out a long sigh, as if the weight of the world finally lifted off his shoulders.

The tension he carried throughout the weekend melted away in that single moment. He was beaming, his face flushed with adrenaline and pure elation.

As the champagne bottles popped, Charles and the other drivers sprayed each other with wild abandon. He looked incredible, absolutely phenomenal, standing there in his special black Ferrari suit, the carbon fiber aesthetic gleaming under the podium lights.

He was in his element, a winner among winners, and he knew it. That self-assured grin played across his lips as he took it all in.

After what felt like an endless stream of interviews, photos, and celebrations, you and Charles finally escape to his private quarters. You step into the room, taking in the luxurious interior, while Charles speaks to his assistant, telling them he needs to change into fresh clothes. 

As soon as the door closes behind them, leaving you alone, Charles lets out a quiet, almost boyish celebration—a little "yes" under his breath, his fist pumping the air.

You can't help but smile as you approach him from behind, your fingers grazing the damp fabric of his racing suit. He smells intoxicating, a heady mix of sweat, champagne, and the faint remnants of his cologne, the scent still clinging to him after all the podium chaos.

"How do you feel?" You ask, your voice soft as you trace the curve of his back, your hand trailing down the line of his spine.

Charles turns to face you, his hands immediately finding your waist, pulling you in close. His eyes sparkle with a kind of raw, unfiltered energy, the high of his victory still coursing through him.

You steady yourself against his chest, feeling the silky fabric underneath your palm.

"It's... it feels so good," he breathes, his voice low and thick with emotion. "We... I needed that, so much."

You can feel how much he is relishing this moment—the way his grip tightens on your waist, his need to ground himself in something familiar, something physical.

His racing suit clings to his skin, soaked through with champagne, but still, the fabric feels so good beneath your fingers. His chest is firm, his body exuding strength and exhaustion in equal measure, yet he seems more alive than ever, buzzing with energy.

Charles' hair is tousled, messy from the helmet and hours of racing, and his face is flushed from both the effort and the celebration. He looks beautiful—raw, powerful, and still full of passion. But there is something else in his eyes now, something more primal.

As you run your hands over his chest, he leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek.

"You remember the photoshoot?" He asks, his voice dropping an octave, thick with teasing.

You nod, recalling how you teased him, how close he has been to losing control. It drove him to push himself, to go all out in the race, all for this moment.

"You told me to be patient," he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Did I do good?"

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you feel the heat rising between you. His eyes are darker now, filled with something more than just triumphant—they are clouded with desire, a need that has been simmering beneath the surface, now unleashed after the intensity of the race.

As your hands roam lower, tracing the firm lines of his abdomen and then lower still, you feel the unmistakable evidence of his arousal, straining against the damp fabric of his suit. 

He groans softly at your touch, his hands moving up your sides, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sends goosebumps racing down your arm.

"Charles," you whisper, feeling the tension rising between you, your breath catching in your throat as his hands slide further down your hips, pulling you even closer to him.

You feel every inch of him through the fabric, and the way his body responds to yours makes your heart race.

His lips hover just inches from yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, the mix of sweat and champagne adding to the heady atmosphere.

"This... is what I wanted," he murmurs again, his voice low and husky. "To celebrate with you... properly... like this."

His words send a wave of heat through you, and you can't resist the pull any longer.

Your hands roam over his body, feeling the firmness of his muscles through the soaked suit, the fabric clinging to him like a second skin. Charles is all yours in this moment, and you can feel how much he wants this—how much he wants you.

He leans in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that is hungry and full of need, the tension between you finally snapping.

The intensity of the moment, the high of his victory, the heat of your desire—it all blends together in a whirlwind of sensation.

As you pull apart, the heat still lingering between you, Charles' eyes gleam with mischief. His voice drops into that familiar, teasing tone.

"I still can't believe you made me wait; how badly I wanted you then," he smirks, letting his words sink in before adding, "I want you even more now."

The way he looks at you, the hunger in his eyes, sends a wave of desire through your body. He leans in closer, and in a teasing voice he asks, "Do you want to help me change?"

It's clear from the look on his face what he is really asking, and you feel your heart race in anticipation.

Without saying a word, you reach out, placing a hand on his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his damp racing suit. Slowly, you trace the patterns of his suit to the zipper before pulling it down inch by agonizing inch.

His eyes follow your hand, the tension in his body rising with every slow movement of the zipper.

When it finally reaches his waist, you feel him exhale deeply, as if releasing the last bit of control he had left. The tight, soaked red Nomex shirt underneath is revealed, clinging to every contour of his body, leaving nothing to the imagination. 

His breath hitches as you drag your fingers over the damp fabric, feeling the ridges of his abs and the strength in his pecs.

Charles peels the upper half of his suit down easily, leaving the vibrant red Nomex on display for you. The shirt is plastered to his skin, highlighting every muscle, every curve. 

You can't help but reach out again, your fingers moving slowly yet firmly over his chest, his arms, and his biceps. His body responds immediately, muscles flexing beneath your touch as he lets out a deep, satisfied growl, his lips parting with each breath.

He is still buzzing with adrenaline, his body on fire from the high of the race and the intense emotions of the day. 

You can feel it in the way his muscles tense and relax under your fingers, the way he sighs with each stroke, his body betraying just how much he is still running on that post-race energy.

His nipples are visible through the tight fabric, and as you brush over them with your thumb, Charles lets out a deep groan.

You lean in closer, your voice soft but teasing. "Do you like that?" You ask, knowing full well the answer.

He nods slowly, his eyes locking onto yours with a longing that sends shivers down your spine. His scent is intoxicating, stronger now—sweat, champagne, and the raw, musky scent of him, intensified by the closeness between you.

Every breath feels electric, the tension in the air growing thicker.

Without breaking eye contact, he casually slips out of his shoes, all while running his hands over his own body, his fingers lingering over the bulge in his suit. He strokes himself slowly, teasingly, knowing full well the effect it has on you. 

His gaze never leaves yours; the confidence in his posture and the way he moves is undeniable.

You can't resist the temptation any longer.

You bite your lower lip, feeling the heat building between you, and you reach out to stroke his arousal. The fabric is soaked, clinging tightly to his body, and he lets out another growl as your hand moves over him.

His hips push forward into your touch, and the sound that rumbles from deep within his throat makes your pulse quicken.

You tease him lightly, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "You seem pretty worked up," you say, your voice full of affection but also amusement.

His eyes darken, and a growl escapes him again, the sound low and deep. 

"You have no idea," he replies, his voice rough with desire, his hands gripping your hips as if to steady himself.

The tension is electric; each touch, each glance makes it harder to resist the pull you both feel toward each other.

Charles is on edge, his body responsive to every move you make, and you feel just how badly he wants more.

"I loved watching you drive today," you whisper, your voice soft but filled with admiration. "Every corner, every lap... you were incredible."

As you speak, you let your hand trail over his chest again, feeling the firmness of his muscles beneath the thin fabric.

You know how much he loves hearing the praise, how it fuels him, and you feel his body react, his muscles tensing at your words.

His breath hitches, and you hear his accent slipping through more than usual—that familiar richness in his voice that always comes out when he is horny.

It makes your heart race every time, the way his words sound so much more intimate, more raw, in moments like this.

Even though you both already know the effect you have on each other, he leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek, his stubble lightly grazing your skin, and sending a shiver down your spine.

"I need you so much," he murmurs, his voice low, rough with desire. 

Charles grinds his hips against the palm of your hand, the pressure building, making it impossible to ignore how much he craves your touch, craves you.

His words are heavy with longing, and you can feel just how on edge he is, his restraint slipping with every passing second.

You bite your lip, teasing him further, your fingers brushing over the bulge straining against his racing suit. He groans, his body pushing into your touch, desperate for more.

You grab his length firmly, feeling the heat through the damp fabric, and he lets out another low growl, his hips grinding into your hand in response.

His entire body is relishing the sensation, every breath deep, every movement deliberate as he soaks in the pleasure of your touch. His fingers dig into your hips slightly, pulling you in even closer, as if he can't stand to be apart from you for even a moment.

As you stroke Charles' arousal, you can't help but recall the earlier teasing during the photoshoot. The way his body was on the verge of release, his mind flooded with desire, yet he was patient.

Holding back for you, for this moment. He has done well, he's been nothing but good.

"You were such a good boy back then," you murmur, your voice dripping with affection and amusement as you run a hand over him, feeling the heat radiating through the fabric.

At your words, Charles whimpers softly, his composure slipping for just a second before he tries to regain control, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

You can see the effort it takes him to hold back, to stay grounded in the teasing instead of giving in to the desire that is still growing.

After a moment, you step back from him, creating a tantalizing distance between you. 

You walk over to the sofa in the middle of the room, letting the silence stretch, knowing that he is watching every movement you make. Sitting down slowly, you cross your legs and lean back, gazing at him with a playful smirk as you motion for him to join you with a teasing curl of your finger.

Charles runs a hand across his face, brushing back the damp strands of hair that fell into his eyes. His other hand stayed firmly on his bulge, pressing down as if to contain his arousal, but the way his fingers flex shows just how much he is enjoying the pressure.

There is a hint of swagger in his step as he makes his way over to you, his eyes dark and hungry, but with that same playful glint.

When he reaches the sofa, Charles climbs on top of you with a slow, deliberate movement, his body hovering over yours. You lean back, sinking into the plush cushions, letting him take control of the space between you. 

His presence feels all-encompassing, his body warm and powerful above you, and you feel the tension crackling in the air.

You reach up, tugging the edge of his damp red Nomex shirt just enough to slip your hand underneath. His skin is warm to the touch, slightly damp from sweat and the remnants of the race, but impossibly smooth.

He sighs deeply at the sensation of your fingers brushing against his bare skin, his body reacting instantly.

"Your hands are cold," he breathes, his voice a playful complaint as he leans down closer to you, his breath hot against your neck.

But even as he says it, you hear the enjoyment in his voice, the way his body shudders slightly at the cool contrast of your touch against his heated skin.

You smirk up at him, refusing to stop. "You'll get used to it," you reply, your tone just as teasing as you drag your fingers up the length of his torso, feeling his muscles tense and contract under your touch.

Charles groans softly, his head dipping closer to yours as his body presses down against you. The weight of him feels perfect—a mix of strength and desire, his form enveloping you.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment as he breathes deeply, clearly reveling in the feeling, in the attention you're giving him.

"You have no idea how hard it is to wait," he murmurs, his accent thick as he opens his eyes, locking his gaze with yours.

There is a fire in his eyes, a desire that has been simmering all day, and now it is dangerously close to boiling over.

His lips hover just inches from yours, his body taut with anticipation. The teasing, the tension—it all makes the moment even more electrifying.

Charles wants more, and you feel the pull, but part of you enjoys keeping him on edge, savoring every second of his longing.

His hand slips down to your waist, gripping you firmly as he adjusts his position slightly, pressing the arousal against you again. You feel the heat, the urgency, but still, you tease, your fingers playing over his skin, moving slowly and deliberately, letting the moment stretch.

"Patience... just a little longer," you whisper, echoing the words you told him during the photoshoot. And just like before, you see the way they affect him—the way his muscles tense with the effort of holding back.

Charles lets out a low groan, his head dropping to your shoulder as he breathes deeply, his self-control clearly hanging by a thread.

But he loves it—loves the tease, loves the chase, loves the way the tension between you only makes the eventual release all the more intense.

You run a hand down again, between his legs, across his length and smile. "You're nearly there, huh?" You tease, the smirk on your lips growing as he leans back slightly, giving you a full view of the desire burning in his eyes.

He lets out a low groan in response, his frustration mixing with pleasure.

Gently, you reach up and caress his cheek, your thumb tracing the edge of his jaw. His skin is warm beneath your fingers, and you see the tension in his expression, the way his body is aching for a release.

Your fingers trace his jawline, through his stubble, and across his lips. They are soft, warm as you trail their outline gently.

He swallows hard, his gaze shifting between your hand and your eyes.

"I think you've been patient enough, don't you think?" You tease, pressing down softly on his lower lip so they part slightly.

Without a word, Charles leans down and captures your lips in a deep, passionate kiss. The intensity of it sends shivers through your body, his lips soft but demanding as they move against yours. 

You respond immediately, your fingers sliding over his chest, feeling the taut muscles flexing beneath the tight fabric.

He tastes of champagne and something sweet, his scent intoxicating, pulling you deeper into the kiss.

As your bodies press closer, you feel one of his hands move down to the waistband of your jeans. His fingers work deftly, unbuttoning them with ease, and the sensation of his touch makes you giggle softly against his lips.

He smirks at the sound, the playful energy between you only adding to the excitement of the moment.

You embrace his touch, letting him continue, your body responding to the way his hands move over you. His kisses grow deeper, more insistent, and you can feel the heat radiating from him, his need palpable in the way he touches you.

Your hand finds its way to his back, sliding beneath the shirt to feel the smooth, damp skin there, and Charles shudders slightly at the contact, a soft moan escaping him.

"Give me a moment," he asks as he pulls away from you, his breathing still heavy.

You nod, your eyes never leaving him as he gets off you and stands beside the sofa. He reaches for the zipper of his racing suit and, with deliberate slowness, slides it down the rest of the way, the fabric falling to his thighs.

Your breath catches in your throat as you watch the material drop, revealing his tight red fireproof underpants beneath. The fabric clings to every inch of him, outlining his arousal unmistakably, and he grabs hismelf, his eyes dark with longing as he gazes at you.

For a moment, he simply stands there, letting the tension build before he takes his shirt and pants off in one smooth motion, leaving his body gloriously exposed, save for the fitted boxers that hug his muscular frame.

The sight of him takes your breath away—his skin still glistening from the race, muscles defined and flexing slightly as he moves. 

He looks perfect, and the way he watches you, knowing the effect he has, makes it all the more intoxicating.

Charles smiles faintly, stepping closer and reaching for you, his hands warm as they slide under your shirt. In one fluid motion, he helps you lift it off, leaving you in your bra from your waist up. Effortlessly, he unhooks it, and you watch it slide off your skin, leaving you bare.

His eyes linger on your skin before he climbs back on top of you, pressing his body against yours. The heat of his skin against you is electric, and for a moment, you simply grind against each other, the friction sending shivers down your spine.

Charles lets out a low, breathy moan as he moves against you, and you can feel his arousal pressing harder, making the anticipation all the more unbearable.

Your heart races as he reaches down, his hands steady and sure as he pulls your jeans and underwear down, one after another, exposing you completely.

His touch is both gentle and insistent, and your body responds to him instinctively, craving more. He shifts for a second, his own boxers sliding down as he removes the last barrier between you. 

Your eyes take in every inch of him—his beautiful body, toned and flushed, every muscle defined. 

Then, with one fluid movement, Charles positions himself above you again, his gaze locking with yours. There is a moment of stillness, the world narrowing to just the two of you, the desire heavy in the air between you.

And then, with a deep, breathy sigh, he slips inside you, your bodies finally coming together in a way that feels inevitable and perfect.

The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure, relief, and pure connection. Charles groans softly, his forehead resting against yours as he moves, his breath ragged with need.

You move together, slow and deliberate at first, savoring the moment, every sensation heightened by the buildup of tension. His hands grip your hips firmly, and you feel the heat of his body against yours, his skin damp and warm as he rocks into you.

Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through your body, and the way he moves—so focused, so in tune with you—makes it all the more intense.

"God, you feel so good," he breathes against your ear, his voice rough and filled with need. His accent slips through again, that familiar sound making your heart race even more as he presses deeper, his body moving in perfect rhythm with yours.

You hold on to him, your hands roaming over his back, feeling the flex of his muscles as he moves.

Every inch of him is perfect, his body responding to yours in a way that feels almost instinctive, and you can feel the passion between you building, growing with each movement.

Charles' breath is hot against your skin, his moans growing louder, more desperate, as you lose yourselves completely in the moment.

As your bodies reach their climax together, the intensity of the moment leaves you both breathless. 

Charles collapses gently on top of you, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he catches his breath, face flushed with exertion and satisfaction. He kisses you softly, his lips tender against yours, his hands slowly caressing your cheek, still lost in the afterglow.

You feel his hand move to your chest, his touch light and affectionate, and you mirror the gesture, your fingers tracing along the defined muscles of his chest, feeling the warmth and strength still pulsing beneath his skin.

After a moment, you separate, both of you still catching your breath. You reach for your underwear and jeans, slipping them on slowly, your mind still replaying everything that just happened, savoring the memory.

As you finish dressing, you glance over at Charles, who is standing by the cupboard, already pulling out a fresh pair of clothes.

He grabs a clean pair of boxers first, sliding them on effortlessly before following up with his jeans.

You can't help but admire the view, watching him as he moves with that natural grace, his body so familiar to you yet always captivating. Your gaze lingers on him, and he notices, a playful smile spreading across his lips as he catches you watching.

"Like what you see, huh?" he teases, his voice low and full of amusement.

He runs a hand deliberately across his chest, tracing the muscles with his fingers before letting his hand slip down to his crotch, making sure you notice his playful little act.

You smile at his teasing, the way he always seems to know exactly how to make your heart race.

"I do," you admit with a smirk.

Your eyes drift to his racing suit still lying on the floor; the fabric crumpled where he stepped out of it. The sight brings back memories of earlier—how stunning he looked in it, how much you admired him.

"You look so beautiful in that suit," you add softly, gesturing to it.

His expression softens at your words, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes.

Without saying a word, he approaches you, closing the distance between you. His hands are gentle as he helps you clasp your bra, his fingers brushing against your skin as he adjusts the straps.

Once he is done, he steps back slightly and reaches for one of his black Ferrari shirts, the one he had worn earlier in the day, and hands it to you with a warm smile.

"Here, wear this," he says, his voice low and affectionate. You can tell he loves seeing you in his clothes; the way the shirt hangs loosely on your frame, a reminder of how close you are.

And you love wearing his clothes, especially when he recently wore them, due to his cologne, his unique scent, clinging to the fabric.

As you pull the shirt over your head, you catch the way he is still looking at you—the same playful yet adoring gaze that always makes your heart skip a beat.

"You really think I looked that good in the suit?" he asks, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You nod, your eyes meeting his. 

"You looked incredible, Charles," you reply honestly. "You always do. But something about that suit... it's like it was made for you."

He chuckles softly, clearly pleased with the praise.

"Well, I guess I have to keep it then, for you," he teases before leaning down to pick up his discarded clothes from the floor. You join him, helping gather pieces of his racing attire, folding the suit carefully in your hands.

Together, you tidy up the room, both of you moving easily around each other in the comfortable silence that comes from knowing someone deeply.

After you finish, Charles comes up from behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.

"You know," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "I think winning today wasn't even the best part of my day."

You smile, leaning back into his embrace.

"Oh? What was the best part then?"

He kisses your cheek softly, his lips brushing against your skin.

"This. Being with you."

[snowball-doie]

୨୧ Inspection w/ Johnny ୨୧

| pairing: Dom!Johnny x sub!fem!Reader

| warnings: 18+ MDNI. NSFW link. Daddy kink. Sex toy. Inspection kink. Vaginal and anal fingering. Edging. Slight choking. Mentions of unprotected vaginal and anal sex.

| wc: 2k

"Let's see how you did, baby girl, okay? Spread your legs for me."

Johnny was in a playful mood ever since the two of you landed in Jakarta the day prior. Being on vacation in hot weather always got him riled up because he really had nowhere to be and nothing to do aside from keeping you trapped in bed all day with something between your legs-- Whether it was his fingers, his face, his cock, or toys, Johnny was having all the fun in the world watching you cum over and over again.

"You can scream, baby, it's okay, no one's gonna hear us."

That was why he got a villa in the resort. His manager wanted to book a suite in the hotel, but smug Johnny wasn't content with that, because he knew that if he was really going to enjoy his week away with you, then you needed to be somewhere where he could do anything and everything with no worries or repercussions. So the villa it was. He fucked you in the kitchen, the living room, the dining room, every single bathroom, on the back patio that had a beautiful view of the sunset he made you watch while he came inside of you.

What Johnny didn't like, however, was the break in his sex-a-thon for having to DJ at a small festival one night. He was invited to Jakarta to be a DJ, but he turned the whole event into an escape with you. So when work came, he was a bit sour. Sour enough that he thought up a way that he could still work you up and have his fun with you even while he had to stand in front of fans who were there to see him and listen to his music.

"That's a good girl. Put your skirt back on and clean yourself up quickly, or else we're gonna be late."

Johnny helped you to your feet before patting your bare ass. His idea of fun for the night was putting a toy in you that he could control from his phone that he would have up on stage with him, mixed in with all of his DJ equipment so no one from the audience would blink twice at his fidgeting hands and the grin on his face. The whole night, while on the way to the show, and while waiting for him to go on stage, you felt the toy buzz on and off inside of you, the small tail end pressed against your clit nearly making you topple over and moan in the crowd you had to stand in because there was no "backstage" area for you to watch. When Johnny ran on stage, he smiled and waved to the fans before finding his place in front of his equipment. He immediately got to work once his headset was on. The music started playing, the fans were brought to life with energy, and you squeezed your glass for dear life when you felt the toy turn on to the max setting. He was dancing up there while bouncing on his toes and waving his arms around, all while grinning at you and the fact that you couldn't have looked more obvious if you tried. He was being cruel. And he knew it. That was why he only ever edged you throughout the show. While the fans got the euphoria of beat drops and getting to see Johnny Suh sweating up close, you had your high stolen from you time after time, despite your pleading eyes in his direction.

At the end of the night, when you two were back in the villa, Johnny turned the toy on again, and he chuckled while watching you stumble to the bedroom, catching yourself on furniture that you passed by so that your shaky legs wouldn't give out completely underneath you.

"Please, I can't take it anymore," you begged with a hoarse voice.

"Yes, you can, silly girl. Come on, let me help you." He offered out his hands which you quickly accepted so that you could find relief by laying on the bed under him. "Did you have fun tonight?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"I'm glad." He stripped you of your shirt and bra. "Let's see how you did, baby girl, okay? Spread your legs for me." You did as he commanded, spreading your legs so that he could push your skirt up out of the way. "Cute," he whispered under his breath, then pressed a finger against your clothed entrance. "You made such a mess, baby girl..." As he slowly retreated his touch, you saw a bit of slick stuck to his fingertip. You'd soaked through your underwear. Fuck. "Let's get a better look..." He swiftly removed your underwear with a self-satisfied smirk. "Fuck, baby girl, how many times did I edge you?"

"Seven."

"Oh, my poor girl... I'm sorry... Can I make it up to you?"

You nodded eagerly, looking down at him to find that he was tugging on the tail of the toy to remove it from you. With a lewd pop from your pussy and a moan from your lips, the toy was pulled out. Johnny chuckled and licked the toy clean.

"You taste so fucking good. Fuck."

And once he was done with the toy, Johnny put it to the side so that he could return to you and your needs after being so cruel all night. Relief swept over you within an instant when he started rubbing his fingers and palm all over your cunt and ass, feeling you up, gauging how wet you really were, making a mess of your thighs and ass with your own slick before he suddenly slid a single finger into your pussy. Your back arched off the bed in response. Johnny kissed the back of your calves which were raised high in the air, his finger sliding out of you to rub your drenched clit, then back into you he went. Over and over again, he repeated the motions, his finger curling to hit your g-spot while he aggressively fucked you. And then he started teasing your other hole.

You popped upright onto your elbows with wide eyes that made him laugh again. "Wait, Daddy--"

"I need to inspect all of your holes to understand how mean I was tonight, baby. Don't you want me to learn so I don't do it again?"

Your face fell.

"Be a good girl and relax."

Johnny loved your ass. More than anything in the world, you figured sometimes, because it was the one thing that he thought of as his, the one hole no one but him had touched, the one thing that no matter how often he bullied it, it would never loosen or fight back against him. Both of you moaned when his finger slid into your tight ass. He was slow. He watched you carefully, waiting for a hard "No" or "Stop" to fall from your lips, but when it never came, he decided to reward you by sliding out of your ass and back into your dripping entrance with two fingers, causing you to whine and buck around— Johnny immediately put a stop to that by pinning you down with an arm pressing down on the back of your thighs that were curled up to your chest. He continued to kiss your legs while he fingered you quickly.

“I’m close—”

Much to your dismay, Johnny pulled his fingers out of you, slowly circling your clit and drifting down to rub his fingertips over your ass again.

In response to your pouting, Johnny teased, “That’s eight. You can do two more for me, baby girl, I know you can, just let me take care of you.”

So you grinned and beared it when Johnny started testing you with two fingers in your asshole and one finger in your pussy, his thumb rubbing your clit. He was being mean again for his own entertainment because it was so easy to get you to edge like that, but he didn’t want to edge you so quickly because once you would hit the number ten, he would likely have to reward you for being so good, and he wasn’t feeling that nice yet. So he waited. His fingers went slow, working your holes open for him while he continued to litter the rest of your body with tender kisses that made you melt under him and roll your eyes to the back of your head. Why did he have to be so good at ruining you? Why was he so good with his fingers? Why did he have to know all of your sensitive spots and the right things to whisper in your ear as his two fingers in your ass scissors outwards to stretch you.

“You think you can take me tonight?”

And there it was, Johnny’s obsession with your ass taking root in the back of your mind, urging you to nod, almost like you were actually begging him to fuck your ass once he was done with torturing you.

“Good girl.”

Once he put two fingers in each hole and continued to flick your clit with his thumb, you knew you were a goner. He won. There was nothing you could do to hide the fact that he’d worked you up all night to the point that there were no thoughts left in your head, and all that was left of you was a symphony of moans that were like music to Johnny’s ears while he pinned you down with his free hand wrapped around your throat. You wanted him— No, you needed him. It didn’t matter that he’d fucked you every which way ‘til Sunday, you needed more of him, and those last two edges he indirectly promised you weren’t going to cut it.

“Close—”

Johnny stilled his movements. “Nine. One more, baby, then I’m all yours.”

You nodded obediently, even taking his thumb into your mouth for a moment before he returned to choking you while fingering both of your holes. It felt like heaven… Four fingers moving in and out of you, hitting all kinds of different spots— Sometimes you could even feel his middle finger and ring finger brushing up against each other through the walls that separated your two holes. Part of you was tempted to ask him if he’d finger you while fucking your ass sometime. Johnny wouldn’t be opposed.

As his thumb started rubbing your clit counter-clockwise, the overstimulated bud couldn’t take it anymore, and before you could even warn him, you were cumming on his fingers, his grip on your throat tightening to make sure you stayed pinned, his brows furrowed in concentration as he helped you through your orgasm despite the fact that he never gave you permission nor did you finish your ten edges like he wanted. But then again, nothing made Johnny happier than the feeling of your asshole squeezing around him, whether it was his fingers, tongue, or dick.

After you came down from your high, you slumped— But then Johnny slapped your clit, making you jolt and whine.

“That’s for not asking permission.”

You pouted. “I’m sorry, Daddy…”

“I know, baby,” he cooed apologetically as his fingers pulled out of you and he shifted to sit fully between your thighs before he began undoing his pants. “I’m still not done, though. Be a good girl and hold your legs open for me, okay?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Every part of you was tired and overstimulated, but you grabbed your thighs and kept them spread and pressed against your stomach while Johnny leaned over you and lined his tip up with your ass, just like he promised. A wicked smile spread across his face when he saw how fucked-out yet needy you were. Just for him. Always for him.

“Good girl.” And with that, he slowly started thrusting in.

taglist: @trash-number-one , @henderysposts , @tiredlittlevirgo , @theycallmesya ,

@markieocean , @nneteyamss , @strawberryax0lotl , @wayycoolbabylove

@k-pop-luv04 ,

[littlestarlightseverywhere]

A Little Help

Pairing: Lucien x Reader

Summary: When Lucien’s lover is overcome with pain from her cycle, only one thing can help

Warnings: None (period pains, maybe??)

Notes: So random and not developed at all, just a small little blurb to help get me out of my writer’s block <3 Taking a brief break from my usual Azriel brainrot to give Lucien some love

The pain was neither kind nor forgiving in the way it permeated her dreamworld before she even had the chance to wake.

It slowly pulled her from her slumber until she found herself no longer under the duvet beside her furnace of a mate, but clutching the cold bathroom tile for an ounce of relief instead. The torment was relentless, spasm after spasm seized her lower belly until she couldn’t help but moan into the toilet.

Her elbows rested on either side of the porcelain bowl, a weak hand propping her head up as she rode out the last wave of torture. In an effort to take her mind to some place far away from the misery, she tried to recall what she had been dreaming about.

She was somewhere pleasantly warm with endless golden light bathing every surface. Lucien was there. Near a lake, perhaps, as the sound of gentle water lapping over itself felt right. Feyre was around too, with Nesta and Azriel– a holiday? She tried harder to recall more details, paint a picture vivid enough to distract her, but the effort was fruitless. There was nothing she could do and the knowledge of it left her so helpless, so irritated. Suddenly, the fact she was crouched at the toilet bowl repulsed her, the light in the washroom was far too bright on her eyes this late in the night, and all she fucking wanted was a damn second to breathe.

“Love?” His deep, sleep-leadened voice pulled her from her thoughts. She slowly opened her eyes to find Lucien standing at the threshold of the washroom, eyebrows furrowed disquietingly.

“Sorry if I woke you,” she meant to sound calm– totally cool, totally collected, like she totally had it all under control. But it was hard to put up a front with Lucien when her body so naturally relaxed in his presence, so it really was unavoidable that her voice instead came out depleted and small.

“Oh baby, do you need the toilet?” He didn’t waste a second in crouching beside her, placing a large hand on her back. When she took a moment to reply, he slowly ran his hand up and down the length of her spine, trying to soothe her in any way he could. He knew he was utterly useless in this situation. Lucien hated seeing his mate in this pain. When she was otherwise injured, at least he could see what was wrong and fix it. Physically mend a cut, salve a burn. He could hardly reach into her and soothe her from the inside, though she knew he would if he could.

He did not even want to think about what he would do if he had to go through this every six months. To be honest, Lucien didn’t think he, nor any male for that matter, could handle it, at least with as much grace as she does. He made sure to tell her this each time she was on her cycle because it always earned a small smile from her when nothing else could.

“Can you please get me a cloth?” Without hesitation, he went into the cabinets for find one for her.

“Do you need help?” Lucien asked, handing her a thick pad.

She quickly shook her head. “I can do it, can you just put my hair up? I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

Lucien quickly took the hair tie around his wrist and gently twisted the hair curtained around her face into a loose bun at the back of her head.

“Better?” He asked, kissing the back of her shoulder. She let her head drop slightly when the cool air kissed the back of her neck, whispering a breathless, barely-there thanks.

“Can you get up?”

She nodded, but she lifted her arms anyway. Lucien took the cue, sliding his arms underneath her to slowly help her up from the ground, heart breaking at her groan. She felt the flood as soon as her legs straightened, along with a fresh cramp tearing through her muscles, and grabbed onto Lucien as hard as she could. He didn’t even flinch, only waited with her until she was ready to move.

“I can carry you if you need me to,” He offered.

“No, I can walk,” he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth, that even at her most vulnerable she could be so stubborn. He’d be lying to himself if he said her bullishness wasn’t what drew him to her in the first place. “Just, don’t let go of me.”

“I’m not letting go, love.”

Slowly, he helped guide her to the bed, where she collapsed into the covers. He climbed in next to her, pulling her body gently into his. Lucien knew when another wave of pain would come over her with the way her body tensed under him, and he gently squeezed her hip where his hand rested to remind her he was right there.

“How bad is it right now?” He murmured into the top of her head into her hair.

“Lucien I can’t even think of anything else right now,” Her voice was so small, so unlike her. “Every time feels worse than the last.”

He felt an anger that almost wasn’t his ripen in his chest at her anguish, but he quickly subdued it, reminding himself it was not about him at this moment– he would let himself feel it, alone, after she finds some peace.

“I’m sorry,” He cradled her head in his chest, feeling her erratic breathing against his torso as she fought to maintain her composure against the relentless cramping. “You’re doing so good.”

Her hand softly held his wrist as the pain subsided slightly. “Luc, can you do the thing?

She was so exhausted, so out of it, she couldn’t even describe what she needed, but with Lucien, she never needed too. He always knew.

“Of course, love. Get on your back for me.”

She did as he said and guided his hand to her lower belly, right where the cramps would come and go as they pleased.

“Here,” she lightly instructed him, the weight of his heavy hand a welcome pressure. “I’m sorry, you must be so tired too.”

He shifted on his side and propped himself up on one below so he could look at her face as he said to her, “You don’t need to worry about me love.”

She smiled at him, finding comfort in how safe he always made her feel. She did worry about him. All the time. She worried when he went over the wall where the humans were. She worried when he returned to the Spring Court to check on Tamlin. She worried when he went into town, when he worked on their house, and even when he laid asleep beside her. But however much she worried for him, Lucien worried for her an unfathomable amount more. Becoming Lucien’s lover was like becoming a celestial body of the universe, for she’d never known what it felt like to be someone’s world until she became his. Lucien never let her forget it, not in the words he spoke to her or the things he did for her.

Like now, as he gently pulled up her night shirt and laid his large hand over her lower belly, she felt his palm heat up over her, bringing almost immediate relief to the pain. Her hand rested on top of his, absentmindedly running her fingertips over his calloused knuckles. It wasn’t lost on her, the way her cycles were much easier on her, with him. There was only so much that could be done to ease an inescapable pain, but Lucien had still found a way for her.

“Too hot?” He checked in after a few minutes of her silence.

“No,” she mumbled. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

He watched her melt into the covers, the features of pain recede from her face. He’d never been called perfect before he met her. Not with his long red hair, his whirring eye, his scar. The girls wanted a Rhysand or a Cassian, even a Tamlin at some point. Never had he felt perfect, it was never even a word in his vernacular, but things were different now. He’d started to believe he could achieve something close to perfect, if only for his mate who deserved nothing less.

He’d helped so many people, done so much good, with his fire magic. Still, nothing felt as meaningful and important as when he was able to use it to help his mate. Even the times where he’d used his powers to hurt and destroy, she always gave him a way to remember he is not these things at his core. This– using his fire magic to warm the pain he could not physically reach– is who he was. She knew that, and so really, who gives a fuck if no one else did?

“I love you,” he spoke softly, knowing she probably didn’t hear it. From the open window, a breeze sighed into the room, carrying his words into the sky for the stars to hear instead, but they already knew.

Lucien did not sleep until she did. He didn’t mind the lack of sleep at all, though. On nights like these, he took the opportunity to reflect. In the very beginning he struggled to sit with his thoughts, plagued by so many created against his will. Now, it came easier to him with much more to be thankful for, to live for, than before.

Nothing is so difficult anymore, he thought to himself as he watched her finally find peace in her sleep beneath his touch.