#and you still take your sweet time to get it lmao

[aeliuss]

NSFW alphabet with Chan

18+ CONTENT MDNI

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 what being in a relationship with chan is like—after dark version

featuring: Christopher Bahng x reader

notes: this one ALSO got out of hand ngl lmao. um..enjoy?

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Bang Chan wants to take care of you—always. It’s instinct, something woven into him so deeply that even when he’s completely spent, he still reaches for you first.

But sometimes?

He needs a minute.

When the sex is slow and deep, when it’s about connection more than anything, he’s fully present afterward—whispering sweet praises, stroking your skin, kissing every inch of you as he takes his time helping you clean up. He loves those moments, loves the quiet intimacy of holding you, of making sure you feel cherished.

But when it’s rough—when he’s fucked every ounce of energy out of himself, when he’s panting into the crook of your neck, body boneless and sweat-damp against yours—he just physically cannot move right away.

Those are the moments where he collapses onto you, breath ragged, arms still wrapped around you but too weak to do anything but hold on.

"Fuck," he exhales, forehead resting against your shoulder, body heavy against yours. He’s trying—trying to push himself up, trying to get his brain to start functioning again—but he’s just so wrecked.

And you know him. You know he’s going to get up in a second, pull himself together, slip into his nurturing mode and make sure you’re okay. But for now, he just needs to breathe.

So you stroke his hair, rub his back, let him have that moment.

And when he finally stirs, when his strength starts coming back, he lifts his head, cups your cheek, and gives you the softest fucking look.

"Alright, baby?" he murmurs, voice still rough, still hoarse from everything.

And then—after a kiss, after a deep breath—he shifts back into the Bang Chan you know.

He cleans you up, holds you close, whispers sweet words as he runs his fingers through your hair. And when you finally settle, tucked against his chest, warm and safe?

That’s when he lets himself relax completely.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Bang Chan doesn’t think much about his own body. He’s self-critical, always nitpicking, always focusing on what he could improve rather than what he likes.

But if he had to pick a favorite?

His arms.

Not because they’re toned or strong, not because they look good in sleeveless shirts—but because of what they can do.

Because they can hold you close, wrap around you, keep you pressed against his chest when he’s buried deep inside you. Because they can pin you down when he wants to take his time wrecking you, fingers gripping tight enough to leave shadows of himself on your skin. Because they can lift you, shift you exactly how he wants, spread you open, keep you in place when he’s fucking you so good you’re on the verge of falling apart.

That’s why he loves them. Because they let him feel you—hold you—have you.

But when it comes to you?

He can’t pick. He refuses to pick.

Because he loves everything.

Your thighs—the way they tremble when he spreads them open, the way they lock around his waist when you’re pulling him deeper.

Your hips—his hands were made to hold them, to grip them tight as he guides you, as he keeps you right where he wants you.

Your neck—because he loves kissing it, loves feeling your pulse race under his lips, loves the way you tilt your head just a little, silently begging for more.

Your hands—because they always reach for him, always cling to him, always dig into his shoulders, his hair, his back, leaving tiny little reminders that you were there, that you felt everything.

But if he absolutely had to choose?

It’s your eyes.

Because nothing—nothing—undoes him faster than the way you look at him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Chris is absolutely obsessed with it—where it goes, how much there is, how messy he can get you. He’s got a filthy mouth and an even filthier mind, and nothing gets him off harder than seeing the evidence of how thoroughly he’s ruined you.

His favorite thing? Making you keep it inside. He loves stuffing you full, fucking it deeper with slow, teasing thrusts just to make sure it stays there. There’s something so primal about watching it drip out of you afterward, thick and warm, only to push it right back in with his fingers, watching you shudder at the overstimulation.

“Ah, ah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes dark with satisfaction as he watches your swollen cunt flutter around his fingers. “Did I say you could let it spill out?”

You whimper, body trembling beneath him, but he doesn’t have a shred of mercy left. He scoops up a stray drop, presses it against your entrance, and watches with fascination as you gasp when he slides it back inside.

“That’s it,” he croons, brushing a kiss against your thigh before pulling back to admire his work. “Gotta keep it all in, baby. Can’t waste a single drop, yeah?”

And then there’s the times when he gets off on watching you covered in it. Painting your stomach, your thighs, your tongue—he loves it all. Loves the way you look up at him through heavy lashes, mouth open and waiting, that sinful little tongue flicking out just enough to catch the last few drops.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, fingers gripping your jaw as his thumb smears the mess across your lips. “You look so goddamn pretty like this.”

His breathing is ragged, but he still gathers the cum on his fingers, pushing them past your lips, groaning at the way you suck them clean without hesitation.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, voice thick with arousal. His thumb drags down your chin, spreading the leftover mess over your skin. “Wanna see you like this all the time.”

And he means it.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Bang Chan is filthier than he lets on.

Sure, he acts like he’s the responsible one—the measured one—the man who keeps it together when everyone else is losing their minds. But behind that composed exterior?

He’s an absolute fucking pervert.

Because his dirty secret?

He steals things from you.

Not in an obvious way—not something you’d immediately notice missing—but little things. The lacey panties you left in his laundry pile. The shirt you wore to bed that still smells like you. A pair of thigh-high socks you once teased him in, bunched up at the foot of the bed after you peeled them off.

And the filthiest part?

He uses them.

He knows he should feel guilty—knows it’s borderline depraved to be alone in his studio, pressing his face into the soft fabric of your underwear, fisting his cock like he’s some desperate, sex-starved idiot.

But he can’t help it.

Not when your scent is still on them. Not when the memory of you wearing them is still burned into his mind. Not when he can picture you so perfectly—back arched, legs spread, teasing him as you pull them off inch by inch.

He’s done it on tour, too. Brought a pair with him, tucked deep in his suitcase like some kind of depraved little token, something to keep him sane when he’s too far away to touch you.

And when he’s alone in some hotel room, his hand wrapped tight around his cock, stroking himself to the thought of being buried inside you, he’s pressing them against his face, groaning into the fabric, his cum spilling all over them—marking them, ruining them—just so when he gets home, he can finally give them back.

And the worst part?

He loves the idea that you might already know.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Bang Chan is dangerously experienced—not just in knowing what feels good, but in knowing exactly how to make you lose yourself in it. He doesn’t just fuck; he studies you, learns every twitch, every gasp, every shift in your breathing like a song he’s fine-tuning in the studio. He catches the way your thighs squeeze together when his fingers trail too lightly, the way your breath hitches when his lips hover at your throat. And he uses it against you.

"Relax, baby," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement as he presses a teasing kiss to the crease of your thigh, just shy of where you need him. He knows you’re aching, trembling under his touch, but he won’t give in until you beg for it. His fingers skim the slick heat between your legs, slow and barely there. "So sensitive, aren’t you? That’s okay, I got you."

And he does. When he finally gives you what you want, it’s devastating—a calculated mix of deep, deliberate thrusts and slow, teasing drags that keep you on the edge but never quite over. He knows when to speed up, when to grind just right, when to slip a hand between your bodies and press his thumb against your swollen clit, growling in satisfaction when you tighten around him.

“You’re so easy to read,” he whispers against your lips, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead as he watches you unravel. “I knew you’d like it like this.”

He’s been with enough people to know what he’s doing, but that’s not what makes him dangerous. It’s the way he adapts, the way he remembers—the way every time he touches you, it’s somehow better than the last.

F = Favorite Position (this goes without saying)

Bang Chan doesn’t have just one favorite—he’s too attentive, too adaptable, too desperate to feel you in every possible way to limit himself. But if he had to choose? Anything that lets him watch you break.

He loves missionary, but not the slow, romantic kind—the messy, sweaty, unrelenting kind where he’s got your legs hooked over his shoulders, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as he grinds deep, slow, devastating. Where he can see everything—the way your eyes glaze over, the way your mouth falls open on a choked moan when he angles just right. He loves watching your fingers clutch at his arms, your nails dragging down his back when he picks up the pace.

“You feel that?” he pants against your skin, sweat rolling down his temple as he drives into you, relentless and overwhelming. “Fuck—baby, you’re squeezing me so tight—” His voice shatters on a groan, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, hips stuttering as your walls clench around him.

And then there’s riding him—not just because he loves the view, but because it lets him lose control in a way he rarely allows himself. He grips your hips so hard you’ll feel it for days, guides you into the rhythm he wants—slow, deep grinds at first, then faster, harder, until he’s bucking up to meet you, chasing the slick friction with helpless desperation. His head tips back, throat bared as he moans for you, pleasure-struck and utterly wrecked.

“Fuck, baby—just like that, just like that—” His voice is breathless, raw, fingers digging into your ass as he thrusts up to meet you, eyes dark and desperate. He needs you to fall apart first—needs to watch you tremble, needs to feel your body clench around him before he lets himself go.

Because for Bang Chan, his favorite position isn’t just about pleasure—it’s about ruining you, about watching you come undone beneath him, on top of him, all around him.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Bang Chan is intense in bed—focused, deliberate, completely tuned into your body—but that doesn’t mean he’s always serious. If anything, his natural warmth seeps into everything he does, sex included. He laughs when you gasp too loud, grins when you whimper his name, and if he ever fumbles—knocks over a lamp, tugs your shirt the wrong way—he’s the first to chuckle, pressing an apologetic kiss to your lips before getting right back to ruining you.

But the real problem? He teases.

You’re under him, breathless and needy, his fingers lazily stroking between your thighs—but instead of giving you what you want, he’s just…smirking. Smug. Amused. Infuriating.

“What was that sound you just made?” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek as he barely brushes your clit, just enough to make you shudder. “Was that a whimper? Or a squeak?”

“Chan,” you groan, hips bucking against his hand, but he just chuckles, his touch maddeningly light.

“No, no, do it again,” he insists, mock-serious but clearly enjoying himself, trailing kisses down your throat. “It was cute.”

And then, the worst part—his mocking little moan, mimicking the breathy sound you made, laced with amusement and pure sin. It’s enough to make you burn with embarrassment, to make you want to push him off—

But before you can, he snaps his hips forward, sinks into you all at once, and suddenly, he’s not laughing anymore.

His forehead drops against yours, a deep, guttural groan spilling from his lips.

“Shit,” he breathes, grip tightening on your waist as your walls squeeze around him. “Yeah, okay. Not laughing anymore.”

Because that’s the thing—Chan might play, he might tease, he might drive you insane with his lighthearted torment—but the second he’s buried deep inside you, the second he feels how fucking tight you are around him?

The teasing stops.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Bang Chan is meticulous about grooming—not just because he likes to look good, but because he knows how much you love it. He keeps everything trimmed, neat, soft, just enough to show he’s put thought into it, but not so bare that it looks unnatural. And yes, the carpet matches the drapes—dark, soft curls, a little messy when he’s been too busy to maintain it, but never unkempt.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Bang Chan isn’t just fucking you—he’s feeling you, knowing you, worshipping you in a way that makes your chest ache and your breath catch in your throat. He’s intense, not just in the way his body moves against yours, but in the way he looks at you—like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, like he can’t believe he gets to have you like this.

His hands never stop moving—tracing your skin, cupping your jaw so you can’t look away, brushing the sweaty strands of hair from your forehead so he can see every flicker of pleasure in your eyes.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, voice hoarse, hips rolling slow and deep as his thumb strokes along your cheekbone. His gaze flickers down to where your bodies are joined, his breath stuttering at the sight before he looks back up at you, soft, reverent. “You feel that, baby? Feel how perfect you are for me?”

And then he’s kissing you, like he can’t stand to be apart from you for even a second—deep, slow kisses, the kind that make you melt into him, that make your head spin until you don’t know where he ends and you begin. He groans against your lips when you whimper into his mouth, his arms tightening around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Mine,” he whispers, hips snapping forward with just a little more urgency, forehead pressed against yours. “You’re mine, right?”

It’s not possessiveness, not in a toxic way—it’s need, it’s vulnerability, it’s him begging you to hold onto him as tightly as he’s holding onto you.

And when you moan his name, fingers digging into his back, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper, he shudders—because that’s all he ever wants. To be as close to you as humanly possible.

J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)

Bang Chan hates being away from you—not just because he misses your touch, but because he feels it everywhere, that constant, aching need that only gets worse when he’s alone in a hotel room, thousands of miles from you, and painfully hard with no relief in sight.

He tries to ignore it, tries to distract himself with work, with late-night gym sessions, with exhaustion, but it never helps—not when every text from you makes his cock throb, not when he closes his eyes and all he can see is you, stretched out beneath him, whining his name.

So he gives in. Every time.

Lying back in a stiff hotel bed, phone in hand, screen dimmed, he scrolls through the pictures you sent him before he left—that one where your shirt was slipping off your shoulder, that little video where you whispered his name so sweetly, breathy and teasing, telling him you missed him.

His breath catches, fingers already shoving down the waistband of his sweats, freeing his aching cock, already dripping from how long he’s been holding back.

“Shit,” he groans, head tilting back against the pillows as he wraps a hand around himself, stroking slow, teasing, just the way he would if you were here. He imagines your fingers instead—soft, warm, slick with spit as you pump him lazily, giggling when his hips buck into your grip.

He plays your voice message again, bites his lip when you sigh out his name, and suddenly, he’s fucking into his fist like he’s losing his mind, messy and desperate, breath coming in sharp gasps.

“Fuck, baby—” His voice is wrecked, hips lifting off the bed, chasing his high. He’s so close, so fucking close, and if you were here, he’d be spilling inside you instead, groaning into your neck, feeling you clench around him as he filled you up—

The thought alone makes him snap, makes his whole body shudder as thick ropes of cum spill over his abs, his thighs, his hand, his chest rising and falling in heavy pants.

And then, the worst part.

The post-orgasm crash, the loneliness that hits him like a punch to the gut. He sighs, grabbing his phone, fingers already typing.

chan🐺: baby, are you up? i miss you. so fucking bad.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Bang Chan is obsessed with the idea of putting a baby in you.

It’s not just a breeding kink—it’s a full-blown, primal, animalistic need that takes over every time he’s buried inside you. He doesn’t just want to fill you up—he wants to make it stick.

And the way he talks about it? It’s downright filthy.

“Look at you,” he groans, watching the way your body trembles, how you’re already fucked-out and wrecked beneath him. “You’re taking me so well, baby. So fucking good for me. Can feel you squeezing me—fuck—you want it, don’t you?”

He leans in, pressing his lips to your ear, voice rough and dripping with hunger.

“You wanna be swollen with my kids? Wanna let me fuck you full, keep you dripping with my cum until it takes?”

And if you whimper, if you nod, if you gasp out a breathless ‘yes’ like you’ll die if he doesn’t do it?

It’s over. You’re not getting out of bed for hours.

He loves seeing it drip out, loves the mess he makes of you, loves when his cum leaks from between your thighs. But the second he sees that? He’s pushing it back in, rubbing slow circles over your stomach, mumbling shit he shouldn’t even be thinking about.

“Bet you’d look so pretty carrying my baby, fuck. So full, all swollen, everyone knowing I did that to you—"

And then there’s his exhibitionist streak.

It’s not about getting caught—not exactly. But the risk? The danger? The idea that someone could overhear the way he’s fucking you senseless, could see the way you’re clinging to him, could walk in at the worst possible moment?

It drives him insane.

He’s taken you in the studio, late at night, when the walls aren’t nearly as soundproof as they should be. Has muffled your moans with his mouth, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tight you’ll be sore for days, hissing against your lips—

“Shh, baby. You don’t want them to know how desperate you are to be bred, do you?”

His teeth graze your ear, and his breath is hot when he whispers, “Or do you want them to hear? Want them to know how good I make you feel?”

The thought makes your stomach twist deliciously, and he feels it—the way you clench around him, the way your breathing stutters.

“Fuck, you do,” he chuckles, low and smug. “That’s filthy, sweetheart.” His hand snakes between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit as he grinds against you harder, the desk beneath you creaking with every movement. “But it’s okay. I like filthy.”

And when he’s on tour?

Hotel balconies. Dressing rooms. Backstage, right before he goes on stage, when he’s already wired with adrenaline and you’re sitting there looking so fucking pretty he can’t stop himself.

You know he shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.

But then he’s sliding his hand between your thighs, murmuring against your ear—

“Let me fill you up before I go on. Let me go out there knowing my cum’s still dripping out of you.”

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bang Chan loves the bed—deep sheets, pillows to muffle your moans, the ability to take his time breaking you apart—but he’s also not patient, not when he needs you now, now, now.

So his real favorite places? Anywhere he can have you the moment the urge hits.

The studio couch is dangerous. It’s where he spends the most time, where he’s already pent-up and stressed, where you visiting him only ever leads to one thing.

“You should be working,” you murmur, breathless, your back pressed against the couch as Chan hovers over you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, spreading you wider for him.

“I’ll work after,” he mutters, hips grinding against yours, cock hard and heavy through his sweats. His eyes flick down, breath hitching at the sight—your panties pushed to the side, already soaked, already so ready for him.

And then, that grin, the one that’s both sweet and filthy, the one that tells you he’s about to ruin you.

“Studio acoustics are crazy, you know,” he murmurs, lining himself up, teasing, teasing, teasing. “Hope the walls aren’t too thin.”

Or the bathroom mirror, where he loves watching you fall apart for him.

“Look,” he pants, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other buried in your hair, forcing your head up. The mirror in front of you is fogging up from how hard you’re both breathing, from the heat of your bodies pressed together.

“You see that?” he groans, snapping his hips forward, watching your mouth drop open in a silent moan, watching the way your legs shake from how deep he’s fucking you.

His teeth graze your shoulder, breath hot against your skin as he whispers, “So fucking pretty like this, baby. My perfect girl.”

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Bang Chan is so easy to rile up—because when he wants you, it’s instant, all-consuming, impossible to ignore. Sometimes it’s something innocent—the way you laugh, the way you stretch and your shirt rides up, the way you bite your lip without even realizing it—and suddenly, he’s hard and restless and aching to have you under him.

But if you’re doing it on purpose? Oh, you’re in for it.

Like when you sit in his lap during meetings, all sweet and innocent, pretending like you don’t notice how you’re shifting just a little too much, how your hips roll every time you adjust, how your weight is pressing down right where he’s already growing hard.

His grip on your waist tightens, his jaw clenched so hard it’s a miracle his teeth don’t crack. **His voice doesn’t waver—**years of self-control in action—but his fingers dig into your skin, silently warning you, silently promising revenge.

And when the meeting ends?

The second the door clicks shut, you’re pressed against it, his hands grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head, his thigh slipping between yours.

“You think I wouldn’t notice, baby?” he breathes, grinding his thigh up against you, watching the way your lips part, your breath hitching. “Thought you could get away with that?”

Or when you whisper filth in his ear when he’s trying to focus, when he’s on a call, when he absolutely cannot afford to be distracted.

“Bet you’d love to bend me over this desk,” you murmur one night, leaning over him in the studio, your lips grazing the shell of his ear, your fingers tracing down his chest.

His breath catches. His hands clench into fists.

And the moment he hangs up?

You’re bent over the desk just like you teased—but this time, you’re not the one in control.

"That what you wanted?" he pants against your ear, hips snapping forward, his hand splayed against your back, holding you down as he fucks you mercilessly against the desk. "You wanted to be fucked right here, baby? Where anyone could walk in?"

But nothing gets him harder, nothing drives him crazier, than you being desperate for him.

When you’re pulling at his clothes, whimpering, clinging to him like you can’t get close enough. When you’re grinding against him, whining about how much you need him, your voice sweet and breathy and so, so needy.

And when you look up at him, wide-eyed, desperate, pleading—

"Chan, please," you whisper, voice breaking, "I need you so bad."

That’s it.

That’s his breaking point.

Because when you beg for him like that?

He’ll give you whatever you want.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Bang Chan has a high sex drive and a filthy mind, but there are some things he absolutely won’t do—no matter how desperate he is.

He’s not into degradation—not really. He can tease, push, challenge, but the second it turns into something that could make you feel small, unloved, or unwanted? Absolutely not.

"Call you what?" he scoffs one night when you suggest it, eyebrow raised. "No way. You're my baby. My princess. My good girl. Why would I call you anything else?"

Sharing? Not happening.

The thought of another person seeing you like this—bare, needy, begging— makes something primal twist in his gut. He’s possessive, protective, a little selfish when it comes to you.

So when someone gets a little too friendly, when someone looks at you just a little too long— his grip on your waist tightens. His smile is there, but his eyes are dark, dangerous.

And later, when you’re pressed against the nearest surface, his fingers laced with yours, his hips grinding slow and deep?

His lips ghost over your ear.

"Say it," he murmurs, voice thick with something unshakable. "Say you're mine."

And finally—denial.

He can tease, sure. Play with the build-up, drag it out, make you work for it. But actually leaving you on edge, desperate, aching with no release?

He can’t do it. Won’t do it.

Because nothing gets him off harder than watching you come undone for him.

So when you whimper, eyes glassy, body trembling, he caves every single time.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, thrusting harder, deeper, chasing your high with you. "Gimme one more—just one more, yeah?"

(He’s lying. He always wants another.)

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Bang Chan lives between your thighs. Loves it. Needs it. He’ll do it for his pleasure just as much as yours, will eat you out like it’s his last meal, like he’s starving for it.

And he’s so good at it.

Because it’s not just his tongue—it’s the way he uses his whole mouth, the way he drags his lips over your skin, the way he groans against you like he’s the one getting off on it.

He starts slow, teasing, kissing up your inner thighs, sucking little marks into your skin, making you squirm. He wants you restless, wants you whining, wants your hands in his hair tugging him closer.

And when you try to push him down, try to rock your hips up against his mouth?

He grins against you before pressing you down harder, pinning you in place with strong arms hooked around your thighs.

"Be patient, baby," he murmurs, breath hot against your soaked folds. "I'll take care of you."

And then? He ruins you.

His tongue is everywhere, flicking, circling, pressing deep. He sucks your clit into his mouth, hums when you whimper, lets his fingers slip inside you at the same time, curling just right—

And when your thighs start shaking around his head, when your moans get breathy and desperate, when your fingers tighten in his hair—?

That’s when he really gets into it.

Because he wants you to fall apart. Wants you wrecked. Wants you sobbing his name because you can’t take any more—

But he knows you can.

So he holds you down and keeps going. Licking, sucking, eating you out like he’s lost in it—

Because he is.

(And if he starts grinding into the mattress, if he gets himself off just from the sounds you make alone? No he didn't.)

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Bang Chan is all about control—of you, of himself, of the way he drags you through every second of pleasure until you’re trembling beneath him.

But his pace?

That depends entirely on how desperate he is.

Because when he has time? When he can savor you, take you apart piece by piece?

He’s slow. So slow.

Deep, measured strokes that leave you gasping, whining, clenching around him, his lips dragging over your skin, whispering sweet filth right into your ear.

"Feel that, baby?" he murmurs, rolling his hips in slow, delicious circles, grinding against your sweetest spot until your back arches off the bed. "Taking me so good. So fucking tight around me."

And every time you try to move faster, try to chase your high?

His hands grip your hips, hold you down, pin you to the mattress.

"Ah, ah," he tuts, grinning against your shoulder. "We go at my pace, remember?"

But when he’s desperate? When he’s stressed, overwhelmed, worked up beyond belief?

Then there’s no patience. No teasing. No control.

Then it’s fast, rough, relentless.

Like when he’s had one too many sleepless nights, when his body is aching, when the only thing that can reset his system is fucking you senseless.

Then it’s him pressing you into the nearest surface, hiking your legs around his waist, snapping his hips into yours like he’s starving for it.

Then it’s gritted teeth, deep groans, breathless curses against your lips—

"Fuck—so tight—feel so fucking good, baby—"

Then it’s his fingers digging into your hips, his pace brutal, his need overwhelming—

And when you start breaking, when you’re shaking, begging, sobbing his name?

That’s when he grins, leans in close, whispers against your lips—

"Not done with you yet."

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Bang Chan loves quickies— but only if they still leave you wrecked.

Because if he’s gonna fuck you, he’s gonna make sure you feel it for the rest of the day.

In the morning? Right before he heads to the studio?

You’re not leaving the apartment with steady legs.

One second you’re sipping coffee in his oversized shirt, looking so goddamn cute it physically hurts— and the next, he’s got you bent over the kitchen counter, pushing your panties to the side, lining himself up in one smooth motion.

"Shh, baby," he breathes, a hand sliding up your stomach, up your chest, closing around your throat as he thrusts into you.

He can’t go slow, can’t take his time. Not when he has ten minutes before he’s late.

So he fucks you fast, deep, hips snapping against your ass as his other hand slips between your thighs, rubbing quick, desperate circles—

"You gonna come for me?" he pants against your ear, grinning when you whimper, already so close. "Gotta be quick, baby. You can do that for me, yeah?"

And when you clench around him, body trembling, moaning his name?

That’s it. That’s all he needs.

But his favorite? Public quickies.

The ones where you’re not supposed to be doing this—

Like backstage at an event, when he drags you into an empty dressing room, presses you against the mirror, pushes his hand under your skirt.

"Five minutes," he mutters, undoing his belt with one hand. "Think you can be good for me in five minutes?"

And when you nod, breath hitching, pupils blown wide with need?

His lips curl into a filthy smirk.

"Let’s find out."

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Bang Chan is down for almost anything—as long as it’s with you, as long as it turns you on just as much as it does him.

He loves pushing limits, trying new things, learning exactly what makes your body tick.

"You trust me, don’t you?" he murmurs one night, hands ghosting over your bare skin, eyes dark with something dangerous, something thrilling.

And when you nod, licking your lips, whispering a soft yes?

He grins.

"Then let me show you something new."

Risky locations?

Absolutely.

The backseat of his car, a dark hallway at a party, backstage at a concert, pressed against the wall of his studio, the bass still thumping through the walls—

He loves knowing you could get caught, loves watching you struggle to stay quiet, loves the way your nails dig into his arms when he fucks you just a little too hard.

"You gotta be quiet, baby," he pants against your neck, hand clamping over your mouth, muffling your moans. "Don’t wanna get caught, do we?"

(But he doesn’t stop. Never stops. Not until you’re wrecked.)

Blindfolds? Restraints?

Oh, he’s been dying to try.

The idea of you spread out for him, unable to see, unable to touch, completely at his mercy?

It’s enough to make him groan, to make his cock twitch in his pants.

"Just trust me," he whispers, kissing you slow, deep, as he ties your wrists above your head. "I promise I’ll take care of you."

And then? He ruins you.

Slow hands, teasing kisses, feather-light touches until you’re begging, whimpering, writhing beneath him, desperate for more.

"Fuck, look at you," he breathes, watching you squirm, watching you struggle against the restraints.

"So fucking pretty when you’re desperate for me.”

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Bang Chan doesn’t stop until you physically can’t take anymore.

It’s not just about getting off— it’s about dragging it out, about stretching the night as long as possible, about making sure you feel him for days.

And when you think he’s finally done, finally satisfied, finally spent?

Oh, you’re wrong.

Because he’s insatiable.

It starts slow—his hands trailing over your skin, his lips soft against your shoulder, his voice low, coaxing, teasing.

"You okay, baby?" he murmurs, grinning when you nod, still breathless, still trembling from the last round.

"Yeah?" he hums, thumb tracing lazy circles on your thigh. "Think you can give me one more?"

And when you whimper, when you shift closer, when you look at him with that fucked-out, hazy expression?

That’s it.

That’s all he needs.

Because once is never enough. Twice isn’t either.

He’ll have you under him, on top of him, against the wall, bent over the nearest surface—

And even when his muscles are sore, when his body is exhausted, when sweat is dripping down his temples, when he’s groaning from the overstimulation?

He’ll keep going.

Because he loves watching you come undone. Loves the way your body reacts to him, loves the way your nails scratch down his back, loves the way you moan his name like he’s the only thing that exists.

And when you’re finally shaking, gasping, whining that you can’t, you’re too sensitive, you’re done—?

He just grins, presses a soft kiss to your jaw, and whispers—

"That’s okay, baby. I’ll take care of you."

(And he always does.)

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

At first, Bang Chan doesn’t really see the point.

Not because he’s against them—just because he’s confident in what he can do with his own two hands, his mouth, his cock. He loves the way he can pull you apart piece by piece, slow and thorough, knowing every little thing that makes you melt under him.

So when you first bring it up—just casually, mentioning how fun it might be to try something new—he just quirks an eyebrow, arms crossed, amused.

"You don’t think I do a good enough job on my own?" he teases, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, something thoughtful.

So you push a little further, tell him it’s not about replacing him—it’s about amplifying it. About seeing just how much more you can take.

And that’s what does it. Because Bang Chan is competitive, and if there’s a way to get you to fall apart even harder, even faster? He wants to know.

So the first time he uses a toy on you, it’s with cautious curiosity.

A wand, pressed to your clit on the lowest setting, his brows furrowed, studying every little reaction.

At first, he’s intrigued—watching the way your breath catches, the way your body tenses, the way your fingers grip the sheets.

And then?

Then you start squirming, whimpering, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure crashes over you so fast you barely have time to brace for it.

That’s when he grins.

"Fuck," he breathes, pressing it down a little harder, watching your thighs tremble, your mouth fall open. "That good, huh?"

And then he’s hooked.

Because now he knows just how quickly he can break you.

Now he knows how many times he can make you come before you’re shaking, gasping, begging him to stop.

Now he knows how sensitive he can leave you, how easy it is to keep pushing, how fucking desperate you get when you’re teetering on the edge, unable to stop the pleasure from crashing over you again and again.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmurs, watching you writhing under him, completely at his mercy.

"You sure you can handle one more?" he asks, even though you both already know the answer.

And when you whimper, when you nod, when your fingers tighten in the sheets?

He just chuckles, turns the setting up, and leans down to whisper—

"Good. Because I’m not done with you yet."

But when you bring up using toys on him?

That’s when he gets flustered.

At first, he just laughs it off, rubbing the back of his neck, shaking his head. "I dunno, baby."

But you see the way his ears flush, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the way he can’t quite look at you.

So you push.

Tease him about it. Tell him you think he’d look so pretty falling apart for you, all helpless, all wrecked.

And that’s when you see it—that flicker of interest, the way his fingers twitch, the way his lips part just slightly.

So the first time you press a cock ring into his palm, ask him to wear it while he fucks you?

He just raises an eyebrow, rolls his tongue over his teeth, and mutters

"You really wanna see me desperate for you that bad?"

But he tries it.

And he loves it.

Because now he’s the one squirming, panting, gripping your hips.

Now he’s the one chasing his high, whining when he can’t get there, cursing when you just smile up at him, running your nails down his chest.

"Shit—" he groans, jaw clenched, sweat dripping down his temples. "—take it off, baby, please, I can’t—"

And when you finally do, when he finally comes, shaking, gasping, grinding into you so hard you see stars?

That’s when he knows.

He’s absolutely fucked.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Bang Chan lives for teasing.

Not just the casual kind—the light, playful, fleeting kind. No, when he teases, he wants to make you squirm. He wants to make you beg. He wants to push you right to the edge, dangle you over it, then pull you back just to do it all over again.

It starts innocent enough.

A slow, lingering kiss that doesn’t go anywhere. His fingers tracing up your thigh under the table, but never quite touching where you need him most. A whispered ‘later, baby’ when you’re already desperate.

But when he really wants to be mean?

That’s when he takes his time.

Lips trailing over your skin, warm breath ghosting against your ear as he murmurs, "Patience, baby." Fingers brushing over your core, never applying enough pressure. Languid, lazy drags of his tongue that have you whining, gripping at his shoulders, trying to force him to give you more.

But he won’t.

Because he loves the way you get needy for him. Loves the way your voice gets higher, your thighs tremble, your hands clutch at anything just to ground yourself.

And when he finally, finally gives you what you want?

It’s never enough.

A few slow thrusts before he stills, grinning down at you while you try to move your hips, only for his hands to clamp down and keep you still.

"You wanna come that bad?" he murmurs, faux sympathy dripping from his tone.

And when you nod, whimpering, begging?

He just chuckles, shakes his head, and whispers—

"Then you better earn it."

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Bang Chan isn’t quiet.

Not even a little.

He tries to be, sometimes—when the walls are thin, when there are people around, when he knows he shouldn’t be making a mess of you the way he is. But the second he’s buried deep inside you, the second he feels how fucking tight and warm and wet you are around him?

He loses all composure.

It starts low—deep, breathy groans, his voice rough with restraint. His jaw clenches, his brows knit together, his fingers dig into your hips as he tries to keep himself together.

But then you whimper for him, roll your hips just right, moan his name in that desperate, needy little voice?

And that’s when it all falls apart.

"Fuck," he groans, head dropping to your shoulder, breath coming out in ragged pants. His moans spill against your skin, hot and desperate, full of need.

And when he gets close?

That’s when he really loses it.

His voice gets higher, rougher, edged with something so raw and wrecked it makes your whole body tighten around him.

"Shit—baby, please, please—" he whines, hips stuttering, hands gripping you so tight you’ll feel him for days.

And when he finally cums, when he finally spills inside you, groaning your name like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth?

He doesn’t stop.

Not the sounds.

Not the breathless little whimpers.

Not the needy way he moans against your skin, rocking into you slow, dragging out every last aftershock.

Because Chan isn’t just loud—

He’s completely, shamelessly vocal.

W = Wild Card (a random headcanon for the character)

Bang Chan has sampled your moans in a track.

And the worst part? You have no idea.

It started as a joke. A filthy, unhinged, late-night idea that he never actually intended to follow through with—but then you had to go and sound so pretty for him.

It had been a long night. He’d dragged you into the studio under the pretense of just wanting company, wanting to feel you close while he worked. But one thing led to another—a few teasing touches, a soft kiss turning into something filthier, his hands sliding up your thighs—and suddenly, you were spread out on the couch, moaning his name like the perfect fucking melody.

And Chan, being the shameless menace he is?

He’d hit record.

Not in a weird, creepy way—he’d never do that to you. But his mic had already been on, his DAW already running, and the second he heard that broken, breathless little sound you made when he dragged his tongue over your clit?

He knew he needed to keep it.

For artistic purposes, of course.

That’s what he told himself when he clipped the audio later, tweaking it, pitching it just slightly so it blended seamlessly into the beat. A soft, ethereal little sound, woven so subtly into the track that no one would ever know.

Except him.

And when he finally plays it for you, watches as you nod along to the melody, completely unaware that you’re listening to yourself come undone for him?

He has to bite his lip to keep from grinning.

Because if you ever find out?

He’s so fucked.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Bang Chan’s cock is thick, warm, and heavy in your hand—just the right size to stretch you open without being overwhelming. He’s not massive, but he’s long enough to press deep, thick enough to make you feel every inch.

The veins running along his shaft are prominent but not overly pronounced, just enough to add that extra bit of friction when he drags against your walls. The head is flushed a pretty shade of pink, slightly darker than the rest of him, always leaking just a little when he’s really turned on. His skin is silky-smooth, hot to the touch, twitching when you wrap your fingers around him.

And the weight of it? Perfect.

When he rests it against your stomach, you can feel just how deep he’s going to reach, how full he’s going to make you. And when he slides it between your folds, teasing, coating himself in your slick before finally pressing in?

You swear you can feel every ridge, every pulsing vein, every throbbing inch as he stretches you open.

And it drives him crazy every time.

"God, baby," he groans, watching the way his cock disappears inside you, watching the way your body takes him so perfectly. His fingers grip your waist, holding you still as he presses in deeper, slower, savoring the way you flutter around him.

Because it’s not just about filling you—it’s about making sure you feel everything.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Bang Chan’s sex drive is high—but measured.

He’s not reckless about it. He’s not the type to drop everything the second he gets hard, not the type to demand you at all hours just because he can. He’s got discipline, self-control—until he doesn’t.

Because the thing is, he knows how to wait.

But waiting doesn’t mean not wanting.

And fuck, does he want you.

It’s a constant, underlying hum, a need that sits just under his skin, always there, always waiting. He can push it aside when he needs to—focus on work, go about his day like a normal person— but the second he’s alone with you?

It’s over.

He’s on you in an instant—hands firm, voice low, pressing you up against the nearest surface like he’s been counting down the hours.

"Been thinking about you all day," he murmurs, dragging his lips down your neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin.

And he has. Not obsessively—not in a way that interferes with anything—but in the kind of way where everything reminds him of you.

The seat in his studio chair—where you’ve straddled him too many times to count.

The way his hoodie still smells faintly like your perfume.

The song he’s working on—and the way it perfectly matches the rhythm he fucked you to last week.

So yeah, he’s patient. He’s measured. He knows how to wait.

But when he finally gets you?

That control? It disappears.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Bang Chan tries to stay awake.

Always.

No matter how drained, how spent, how absolutely wrecked he is—he refuses to pass out on you right away. He needs to make sure you’re okay first, needs to hold you, needs to press slow, lingering kisses to your skin as he murmurs soft praises against your temple.

"Did so good for me, baby," he whispers, voice thick with exhaustion, but his hands still move—stroking your back, tracing lazy patterns against your thigh.

But the second he knows you’re comfortable, the second he’s sure you’re warm and tucked against his chest?

He’s gone.

Completely knocked out—breathing slow and steady, arms still wrapped around you even in sleep.

Sometimes, you can feel him nuzzle closer without even realizing it, pressing his face into your hair, sighing softly like even unconscious, he still can’t get enough of you.

And no matter how deep he sleeps, the second you move—whether it’s to shift positions, grab a blanket, or slip out of bed—

His grip tightens, just slightly.

Like even in his dreams, he’s still holding onto you.

[natsredbra]

Vampire Nat PAHLEASEEE!!! I have to know the ins and outs of her weird mind and quirky vampire mannerisms (when ever you have the time obv) but either head cannons or just your thoughts :)

I think she'd be really shy around you, but still, her usual self. Only, I'd imagine she's a lot more intense. Staring too hard when she's hasn't fed in a few weeks and is not able to focus on anything but your neck.

Finding out about her being one and her totally flipping out and getting scared and staying away from you for a while but eventually warming up to you when you're not acting scared of her.

I think she'd like to have at least one friend (or a partner) who knows about her dilemma and just being able to talk about how long she's been this way or how much she misses being Alice.

Anyway, I'll keep yapping at this rate, so I'm gonna stop myself, lmao

ohh vamp nat is so fabulous, i can’t believe i never got anything for her before this!! (btw this is from 🦤)

cw: mentions of blood and gore, no smut but a bit of nsfw implied

At first you think you must be imagining it all, her being so pale and not wanting to take pictures...it's not like vampires are real or anything

You keep this up and she just keeps getting weirder and weirder

Honestly, you were a bit oblivious too

Until one night, you catch a whole gallon of pig blood in her closet and scream your head off

It's not like you knew it was pig blood

She rushed in, mentally preparing yourself for the conversation and praying it'd go well

However, she was way ahead of herself

Nat was extremely disappointed when you rushed out, teary eyed and terrified

Not that she could blame you

A few weeks after you do warm up to her a little and decide to meet her in a cafe

She's trying to be as quiet and subtle as possible while explaining everything

And you're trying not to lose your mind

But for some fucked up reason you do accept her

Best believe she's ecstatic

For however long it's gonna last, she's loved many people in her time and has been hurt many more then she could count, but you truly were one of her favorites

Her loyalty to you is undying, and all she wants is to spend the time as happy as possible, even though it was such a bittersweet feeling for her

I feel like at first she'd try to keep it all private and feed while she's away from you

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and the dam was broken when you found her in the back of a restaurant, draining a rabbit while you were supposed to be on a date

From then on, she has no issue feeding in front of you, but she doesn't prefer it

Nat shows you pictures and talks about her past all the time

Apparently she was born in 1536 and got bitten when she was 19

Her original parents kicked her out and she had to fend for herself for almost ten years until she found people similar to her and became a part of their group

Now, they're known to you and everyone as her mom and sisters, them being Shauna and Taissa

Tells you how Tai almost got kicked out for falling in love with a werewolf, Van

Debunks any myths about vampires

Hated Twilight but was into TVD because it was more accurate

You learn that mermaids also exist, and the three of them once take you to see their mermaid best friends, Lottie and Jackie

You flip out when you learn that Lottie and Nat used to date, but she spends a very long night convincing you that you are the only one for her

Also, I have a feeling that she's the type to live off of animal blood unless extremely necessary

She just hates hurting people (unlike Shauna, they get into arguments over it all the time)

Vamp Nat is super passionate

Sex with her is pretty much ethereal, but it's really not just that

She's always surprising you and doing sweet little gestures she knows would make you swoon

I think that Nat would not want to feed off of you, ever

Once it did come down to it, she was absolutley desperate and took a bit from your wrist

Only it wasn't a little

You got super dizzy and nausea hit you like a tidal wave

She spent all afternoon taking care of you and vowed to never let it come down to this again

Quite honestly, VampNat is just the kindest creature alive

I need her to marry me now

[thefoxholecast]

Hey, just listened to the first part of your TGR reaction ep as soon as it came out and I loved it! Can't wait for part 2. I wanted to respond to Oona's aside about Andrew's reaction to Neil's visit to Jean in TSC. I agree with the analyses that Andrew wouldn't be angry.

He considers Jean to be one of Neil's people, just like any Fox that isn't Kevin, Aaron, Nicky or Neil is Renee's. Jean is also kind of Renee's ofc (shared custody lmao) - Neil is more of a distant protector, but we know from his actions that he'll show up for Jean if he has to. Andrew knows Neil cares about Jean, in his own way. The whole FBI thing and Neil's deal with Moriyama is Neil's concern - Andrew would only get involved if there was an immediate threat to any of his people.

I don't think Neil straight-up lied about it either (they don't lie to each other), he just didn't mention it and Andrew didn't think to ask. I'm guessing that when he got back to Fox Tower he may have mentioned something about it to Neil, but I think there is mutual respect, trust and an understanding between them that this was something Neil had to do and could take care of without needing Andrew's help. Andrew probably figures that Neil would have asked his assistance if he had needed it. At the end of the day, Neil was doing what he needed to stay alive (by staying in Ichirou's good graces) and that's all Andrew cares about, anyway, since none of his other 'charges' were hurt or threatened in the process. After all, with Riko dead and Neil's deal with Ichirou, there's way less immediate threats to Neil's life than there were in the original trilogy (well...until the Foxes vs Ravens game lmao).

imo Andrew also really doesn't care about (and probably approves of) Neil ordering a hit on Grayson - I think the only reason he asked Jean about it was to of course confirm Grayson never touched him and to know if Neil had put himself in any danger by doing the deed himself. Ordering a hit keeps Neil safe so it's all good in his eyes - we know Andrew doesn't really care that Neil has killed people, he only cares about possible fallout/blowback to the people under his protection. That's how I interpreted those scenes, anyway!

Aw this is really sweet, I like your take on Neil and Andrew’s relationship. Also "shared custody" is killing me

-Nate

I see where you're coming from but something inside me still feels like Andrew would at the very least be annoyed that Neil didn't tell him where he was going. Whether Andrew actually brought it up with Neil is less certain to me. I can picture Andrew's first reaction being anger (at Neil for not being forthcoming, or maybe just at himself for not thinking to ask) but then talking himself through it using the logic you laid out re: Jean and the FBI are Neil's problem, etc.

Maybe it's just my own headcanon at this point but I'd like to believe that Andrew "Strangled Kevin When Neil Went Missing" "Might Quit Smoking Because He Couldn't Get to Neil In Time" Minyard had at least Some kind of negative reaction to hearing about Neil's secret trip to California. Would he actually confront Neil about it? I'm not sure! I'd love to read what that conversation would be like tho

-Oona

[selarina]

nanami the type of man who does crosswords every morning

[todayisafridaynight]

what do you like specifically about Kiryu?

the fact he has a laundry list of dumb things he's done throughout the games

[ame-to-ame]

love being nd and have the tism wolf Inside me be so drastically uncomfortable with uncertainty that i physically cannot think about school and having to deal w the unknown of that whole situation without losing 5lbs in 2 days

[villifx]

how the task force 141 men react to you complaining about your job (f!reader) ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

simon doesn't even blink as you throw your head into his lap, eyes still focused on the television while his hand subconsciously moves to smooth your hair.

"jus' quit."

you pause in the midst of your whining, staring up at him like he'd just grown a second head. "what?"

simon shrugs. "makin' enough."

"i... i can't quit my job, simon."

his eyebrows twitch up a bit, indifferent. "up to you, love."

you pause, considering. "well..."

johnny doubles down. not only does he tell you to quit immediately, he also throws in that the military will pay him extra if you two get married.

mind you, johnny already rates BAH and has been making it since before you two got together. there won't really be any change to his pay besides separation pay when he's gone for more than a month. however, this is his opportunity to gauge your reaction to the idea of marriage, and he's taking it.

kyle. sweet, sweet kyle. he doesn't tell you to quit. not because he wouldn't support you financially - he absolutely would - but because he knows how important it can be for a woman to have a sense of independence. he also worries about how you'll handle the potential isolation if he's away for an extended period of time and you don't have a job to occupy your time. also, he's happy to pay the bills, but if you're working then you can afford all of the pretty things you want and deserve!

john? john price? ... funny of you to think that you're working while you're with that man, lol.

note: was bored and wrote this in like 10 mins. just had to be done lol. BAH is Basic Allowance for Housing in the American military (i'm not super familiar with british military allowances so using BAH for easy fic purposes lmao) - lower ranking enlisted military that are married can get it or single qualified enlisted (usually ranked sergeant and above) can be approved for it. it's extra pay that you receive to live off-base to cover housing expenses calculated by average cost of rent in the area and family size!

[reverie-starlight]

okay that kuroo piece is still coming but have this small sakusa x MSBY!manager blurb that I just thought up and got so excited about!! I’m marking this down as fem!reader just for this specific little ramble. it can be read separately from the series !!

warnings: none, but probably a bit of a disconnect from what really happens at charity galas lmao

sakusa kiyoomi has a certain reputation for being very stoic and stand-offish in public- always polite but rather blunt in interviews. he’s tall, intimidating and not very personable around those who don’t know him, so it’s not a surprise people perceive him this way. his preference for wearing his mask most of the time only adds to this reputation, and he couldn’t care less. in fact, you would argue that he finds comfort in being perceived as unapproachable by strangers.

but when MSBY fans realize how horrifically down bad their favourite wing spiker is for the team manager, they have a field day with this absolutely drastic personality shift.

it starts with little jokes made by fan accounts about how much nicer he is to you in comparison to his teammates. they latch onto passing comments made by bokuto or atsumu about how when you’re at practice they feel at ease because they’re less likely to get obliterated by his sarcastic remarks.

no one has clued into the fact that you’re together yet, just that there’s some serious chemistry between you two.

it doesn’t go much further than that until the night of some charity event a lot of different teams are attending. of course managers are there, as well as coaches and trainers and JVA employees.

you’re doing the press/carpet walk before entering the event and in between photos and walking between journalists, one of the straps of your heels has come undone.

you frown a little and inspect it before realizing your dress restricts your ability to fix it yourself, so you nudge your boyfriend and stick your foot out to draw his attention to your predicament.

you don’t think twice about how there are no words are spoken. just a simple action and understanding between two lovers.

so people watch on as sakusa kiyoomi drops to his knees right then and there without protest and fixes your shoe. you take the opportunity to adjust the neckline of your dress (a deep, silky forest green to match his tie) and look around while you wait for him to finish.

you don’t realize the uproar this is bound to create, and you definitely don’t think twice about the fact that your boyfriend isn’t wearing a mask to this event.

…which means everyone is able to see the blush on his face and the tiny yet extremely lovesick smile on his lips as he gets up. you grin and pat sakusa on the cheek in thanks before walking to the next reporter, him trailing behind you dutifully.

you check twitter the next morning and your timeline is flooded with videos of that moment, captions gushing about how sweet and happy he looks. some fans go as far as to say he looks like a lost puppy following you around.

he doesn’t regret it one bit, but you have to comfort him when he loses his stand-offish reputation after that because he dreads the idea of more people possibly coming up to him in public.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I literally sprinted here to write this lmao

not edited!!

tagging: @dira333 @emmyrosee

[mattybsgroupie]

— help ★ chris sturniolo

— CONTENTS: fwb; first time; fingering (f receiving); p in v; use of “y/n”; virgin!reader; soft dom!chris

— NOTES: oh maria you said you’d post weekly WELL I LIED. i got pretty busy with college but ! only a few weeks left till the semester is over ♡ finally had the guts to write chris and i think i’m finally ready to admit that i NEED to have sex with him lmao. a bit different from the usual stuff (it's chris being sweet with a sub!virgin!reader) and not proofread as usual, but hope you enjoy ♡

★ requested by anon ★

“ma” chris chuckled. when he noticed i wasn’t kidding, his blue eyes suddenly widened in disbelief. “are you serious?” he said in a high-pitched tone.

“well, someone should’ve told me that being a virgin is a crime” i rolled my eyes, closing my fist and playfully punching his shoulder.

“ouch!” chris pretended to be hurt. his brothers were traveling and he couldn’t stay alone with his thoughts for too long, asking me to come over and keep him company.

“i mean” he started, clearing his throat. “it’s not a crime. i just don’t understand how?” i narrowed my eyes and chris knew that meant watch your mouth. “c’mon, you know how hot you are”

“shut up, chris” the corners of my lips gave away how much i enjoyed hearing that.

chris slowly dragged his feet on the wooden floor, coming closer to me. one of his hands stopped by my hips, giving a light squeeze there.

“i’m not kidding” he whispered in a gentle tone, his blue eyes tenderly looking at me. “you’re a virgin, but you know how it works... right?” he raised one of his eyebrows.

i denied with my head, trying to look somewhere else.  “what do you mean? no one ever made you feel good?” chris questioned me again. i sunk my teeth on my bottom lip, refusing to answer him again.

i had never been intimate with any guy, and chris knew it. what amazed him was the fact that i couldn't even make myself cum.

“nah” he said, a smirk appearing on his face “y/n, you never had an orgasm?”

i could feel the sudden heat spreading through my body, the fingers he had pressed against my skin becoming warmer, my cheeks flushed from embarrassment.

“how come a pretty girl like you has never felt good, hm? we gotta change that, don’t you think?” chris said, tucking my hair behind my ear before taking his fingers to my jaw, his thumb gently lifting my chin so i'd look at him.

my heart started beating faster as his grip on me grew tighter. chris leaned in and sealed our lips in a gentle, lingering kiss, full of affection and care.

he pulled away, a silly grin hanging on his mouth. “you had done this before, right?” he teased and i rolled my eyes, letting go of him.

chris pulled me back, wrapping his arm around my waist, this time locking our lips together in a passionate, almost desperate kiss.

“let me make you feel good” he said and i let out a deep sigh, my hands immediately going to his hair, gently pulling his locks. chris moaned and wasn’t planning on holding himself back.

his sounds sent a shiver down my spine and i immediately felt myself getting wet. the grip chris had on my waist grew stronger and our tongues were fighting for dominance until he pulled away, catching his breath. a tiny strand of saliva still connected our lips together, his were swollen and flushed as if we had been making out for hours. 

chris placed both hands on my cheeks, cupping them together before placing delicate kisses across my face. i only noticed chris had been leading me towards his room when my back touched the door, the sound of wood creaking open removing me from my trance.

“you’re such a player, aren’t you?” i chuckled, noticing my situation. i couldn’t run away even if i wanted to, chris’s arms were placed on each side of my shoulders, holding me in place. “how many girls have been here before, huh?”

“you’re the first one” he said, going to my neck and starting to suck my exposed skin, making me gasp from the sudden contact.

“liar” i breathed out, tugging on his hair. chris chuckled and stopped the kisses, his gaze trying to tell me something. “i wouldn’t lie to you” he said, the emotional tone on his voice showing he was being truthful to me and to himself.

“but… you’re not a virgin” i said, placing my palms on his chest and dragging my index over his shirt, drawing circles on the white fabric.

“that doesn’t mean i’m a slut!” chris widened his blue orbs and a fake moan came out of his mouth when i playfully twisted his nipple. “i think you are” i giggled, opening the door and walking into his room. 

i threw myself on the bed, striking a sexy pose. i took off my slippers and crossed my foot over my leg, calling chris with my index finger.

he grinned mischievously, locking the bedroom door and walking towards me. chris was standing in front of me, his legs slightly parted, biting his lower lip. i adjusted my position and raised my palms up to his waistband, teasing him.

“hey, no” chris said, taking my wrists. “this is about you” he started, gently pushing my body against the mattress and crawling on top of me.

“i’m gonna take care of you. i don’t care if i end up cumming in my pants” chris chuckled, his hardened cock showing through the gray fabric.

i simply nodded, my cheeks flushing from the affection and attention. i was aching for him. i could feel my pussy throbbing, the wet patch on my panties growing bigger with each kiss.

chris tugged on the hem of my shirt, silently asking for permission to take it off. he mumbled a small “fuck” while placing his palm underneath the cloth, his large hand pressing against my tummy and making its way upwards. he groped my breasts and with his free hand, removed my shirt. “y/n... god” he whispered, “can i see 'em?” chris asked about my boobs.

“please” i moaned, wrapping my legs around his waist and bringing him closer to me. “just make me feel good, please” i pleaded, tangling my fingers on his brown locks.

“i got you ma” he chuckled at my eagerness. chris placed kisses on my collarbones and reached for my breasts, his sneaky fingers untying my bra and letting them fall free next to his face. chris clenched his jaw, licking his own lips.

“you're so fucking beautiful” he praised, placing a peck in one of my nipples. the gentle act sent a shiver down my spine, making me gasp as he started to carefully lick my hardened nub.

i could feel chris's cock lazily getting dragged against my thigh, his hips moving in a slow, rhythmic pace. he breathed heavily against my skin and each time his tongue circled around my nipple i whined.

i needed more.

“chris” i called him. “i need you— need you so bad”

“i'm right here princess” he whispered, trailing kisses down my torso. “let's go slow, yeah? i promise you're gonna feel so good” he assured me, both indexes playing with the strands of my shorts. i nodded desperately, lifting my hips up and helping him to remove my last piece of clothing.

“shit” chris muttered under his breath. “we’re both so fucking wet” he gazed at my drenched panties and then at his own pants, a wet spot of pre-cum forming on the fabric.

chris brushed two of his fingers over my underwear, nudging my clit. my jaw went slack and my thighs involuntarily attempted to close. chris chuckled lightly, tapping my knees and forcing my legs apart.

he positioned his body in between my thighs and slid down on the mattress, his face resting on my hipbone. he began to fiddle with the seam of my panties, teasing me, as if he was going to pull them off at any moment.

“stop fooling around” i softly spoke, not really mad at him. “but she's so pretty” chris said, dragging his index across the damp fabric and pouting his lips. i giggled, ruffling his hair.

chris's bright blue eyes had a both kind and concerned gaze, and he used his sense of humor to soothe me. “good girl, let me have fun here” he pulled my panties down, leaving me fully exposed.

chris gulped dryly and licked his own lips before placing two digits in between my wet folds, stroking every inch of my pussy. i gave out a deep sigh when his fingers reached me and whimpered when chris began to spread my lower lips.

chris then moved his thumb to my clit, rubbing it in circular motions. my hips instinctively bucked upwards, making me bring my palm to my face and cover my mouth in embarassment.

“don't hide it” he ordered, “i wanna hear you. i wanna hear that you're feeling good, that i'm the only one who makes you feel good”. chris laid down next to me, pulling me near his chest. he locked our lips together as his fingers remained against my pussy, slowly fondling me.

“taking me so well, princess” he whispered, smooching every spot he could reach. “think i can put a finger in? have you done this before?” chris asked, his voice full of concern.

“i… i tried” i confessed, reminding him that i had never gotten all the way to the end. “gonna go real slow f'you” he said, his middle finger slipping down my folds and reaching my entrance. chris pressed my hole and gradually entered me.

when he got all the way in, my jaw was hanging open as i panted heavily and chris kept on praising me, “there you go, such a good girl. it's all in baby, 'm so proud”.

he allowed me to stay like that for a while, getting used to his size, i moved my hips downwards when i was finally ready and chris quickly understood, curling his finger inside my walls and reaching for my sweet spot.

the knot in my lower belly tightned when he found it. “theeeere we go ma” he said, thrusting into me as he massaged my clit.

“chris” i called, desperation taking over me. “i'm f-feeling it— ah! i'm g-gonna—“

“shh, i got you. you wanna cum on my fingers?” he asked, speeding up the pace of his thrusts. “no? where then?”

“your cock, please” i said, not a thought going through my mind. all i cared about was having chris inside me. “fuck, i’m not gonna last long if you keep talking like that”.

“are you sure? we don’t have to do this, y’know” chris said and whined. “no! i want it!”

chris immediately stood up, hovering over me. he removed his pants, cock slapping against his lower belly. chris was huge, the flushed tip leaking pre-cum all the way down his veins. i held my breath nervously when he started to pump his shaft, coating his dick.

“shit, i forgot” chris spoke. “i don't have any condoms here, fuck”

“pull out” i told him and chris widened his eyes. “i'm on the pill, i promise” i chuckled, calming him down as he placed himself in between my legs.

“well, i wouldn't mind putting a baby in you” he spoke and i could feel his swollen, leaking tip rubbing against my lower lips, trying to get in. it wasn't long until my walls were stretched out, fitting chris inside of me. it burned and it hurt like i never felt before, my nails digging on his back as i squeezed my eyes shut, trying to adjust to his size.

chris began to to move his hips cautiously, just enough to make me moan. “fuck fuck fuck” i whimpered as his cock filled me up. i could feel my orgasm approaching, overwhelmed by the new sensation.

“‘m close” i cried, “so close chris fuck!”

“don't hold yourself back princess” he said, encouraging me. his fingers went to my clit, rubbing it quickly. his cock, his words, his fingers — it was all too much. the knot in my lower belly snapped and i felt my body collapsing, my mind going blank as my orgasm washed over me. my whole body trembled as chris held me close, whispering praises at me.

i whined when he removed himself, spurting his cum all over my belly in a loud groan. chris threw himself over me, nuzzling his face against my chest. “i think i’m in love with you” he said. i giggled, playfully pulling his hair “shut the fuck up, chris”.

“thank you for helping me, handsome. it was so much better than i had expected” i thanked him and he gave me a peck “anytime, princess”.

[digitald0rk]

ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* NERD ALERT ! [ 1 ]

pairing : mark grayson x gn!reader.

synopsis : in which mark falls for the new comic book store employee who matches his nerd [ and he hopes his freak too :3 ] and realizes he wants that effing cookie SO BADD.

warnings : super duper self indulgent! mark being mark, mention of blood like once. sappiness overload RAHHHH. not proofread.

w.c : 2.1 k.

a/n : this is part 1 btw, the second part's gonna be focused y'all's relationship. this is SO SO SLEF INDULGENT LMAO. i am that annoying little fly that keeps buzzing when it comes to my interests, my ass keeps going, "holy shit is that xyz reference???" :0 like GIRL STOP PULLING THESE REFERENCES OUT YO ASS 🤓 if you're like this too just know i think you're super based and awesomesauce gang :D BE ANNOYING ABOUT YOUR INTERESTS!! it's honestly so refreshing, anyways :p lemme know what you think of this! also yeah the banner 😈 because why tf is he so cheeked up in every frame good lord bro has a whole ass bakery back there.

taglist : @vm4879bb-blog [ lemme know if you wanna be added too ]

READ PART [ 2 ] HERE !

it was another normal ordinary day, he was just binging the new volumes of seance dog in his favorite little comic book store because being a superhero leaves no time for that, thank god he has some time off.

it was another normal ordinary day, that is until you walked in.

well more like look insanely good behind that cash register.

he asks himself, mind racing a mile a minute, how has he never noticed you before? are you a new employee? why the hell is his heart beating so fast? are you single?

the moment he sees you smile at some customer, he's doomed.

he has to talk to you. he has to-

oh god wait. he's been staring, hasn't he? no no no! what if you think he's some loser or worse a creep. [a weirdo what the hell am i doing hereeeee sorry had to lol]

and when your gazes meet for a split second, he whips his head away way too fast, if he wasn't a viltrumite he definitely would've gotten whiplash, his eyes immediately zeroing on the comic in his hand, which is actually upside down. not that he realizes because he's too busy thinking about how he'd love to get lost in your pretty eyes, he needs to get a grip, what is he fourteen?

it's just some dumb fleeting infatuation and-

then he hears a laugh. peeking up from the still upside down seance dog volume, hoping to god it's not your laugh because if it is, he longs to hear it again.

it was your laugh. oh he's in deep.

and he swears he's never heard a more beautiful thing. sap.

he needs to be the reason to make you laugh.

oh shit he's holding it upside down, hopefully you didn't notice (*_*;)

it takes him a whole ass week to muster up the courage to talk to you, he'd only check out with his new additions and issues when it wasn't your shift.

he's checked himself in the mirror a gazillion times, his hair looks okay, maybe he should've worn the blue shirt, it makes his eyes pop out-

he's mark grayson, he's invincible for fuck's sake.

still his palms grow sweaty as he approaches you to check out, little do you know he already has these volumes, he's just desperate to talk to you okay.

"hi." and great, his voice cracks.

but your sweet smile makes him forget about it. he watches you as you scan his items, typing away as you do so.

he kind of wants to hold your hand. is that bad?

"so, seance dog huh?" oh shit you're making conversation with him? oh my god calm down calm down calm down-

"yeah, it's uh one of my favs." he flashes a small smile, a nervous one.

"no way! same!" you beam at him, sheepishly showing him the small seance dog hair clip holding your hair in place like it's some sort of national treasure.

you're telling him that you, the cute comic book store employee he's been crushing on for weeks now, likes seance dog?

he's dreaming.

he has to be.

right?

then you say something, something only a huge seance dog fan would know.

and he swears he hears wedding bells, he can already see walking down the aisle.

it takes him a ridiculously long time to recover, eyes widening comically as he processes that this is infact not a dream.

"you okay there?" you ask slightly amused.

your voice breaks him out of that little trance you just unknowingly put him in, his eyes flitting to the name tag on your shirt-

he can't help himself from muttering your name, soft and reverent like a prayer.

a little flustered giggle leaves your mouth.

oh.

oh.

he made you laugh? he feels like he's on top of the world, he introduces himself, his smile widening when he shakes your offered hand.

william's gonna have a field day with this one.

after that one conversation, he's grown comfortable around you over the past few weeks.

and he's fallen even deeper in love.

he's less tense and awkward around you, rambling about everything and anything, conversation flows easily between you two now.

you'd call him the second you'd read the new volumes of your shared favorite comics to talk to him about it, he does the same.

he puts you on his favorite comics, you put him on yours along with whatever you're big into. it's a win-win really.

he's never been happier.

you make him feel so seen.

he doesn't feel the need to hide parts of himself from you. he loves when you buy him matching merch or just little trinkets of his interests.

rex made fun of mark's little italian charm bracelet once, because what do you mean the strongest man on the planet has a matching charm bracelet with all the things he loves on it that he always wears?

it actually broke the first time he wore it to a fight because obviously, what was he thinking? gets very sad when he can't find all the pieces to put it back together, asks cecil to remake it with some metal that won't break from the impact of alien attacks or whatever decides to mess with the peace of earth the next time. he gets all pissy when he gets blood on it :(

"aw that's adorable!" rex would tease him, but mark would just get all excited because he gets to talk about you <3

cue him rambling about all the things you made for him or got for him that align with his favorite pieces of media and interests, rex does NOT understand half of those words but hey as long as invinciboy's happy.

rex is not making that mistake again lol, also he thought you were dating mark because of the way his eyes turn into literal hearts whenever you're mentioned, so imagine the look on his face when mark's all bashful like, "nah i wish :(" rex goes, "man you two are so fucking oblivious." and he's right.

even outside of your little nerdy conversations and hang outs, when he comes to you for comfort, he feels safe.

and that — feeling safe, not being on edge 24/7 isn't easy for him, but you make it easier than breathing.

he feels loved when you hold him, rub his back and make some dumb joke when he's having a bad day.

he lives for the references you make out of nowhere.

"holy shit is that-" you start excitedly.

"i was just gonna say that!" he laughs.

pointing out things that he thinks are references to his favorite media and you joining him, this has to be love.

"why does that cloud lowkey look lik-" he starts and you finish his sentence for him, he laughs at how you two are almost always on the same wavelength.

once the secret is out that he's invincible, he'll literally just fly to some foreign country to get you what you want, oh what's that? a new figurine of your favorite anime just dropped? it's only available in japan? it's already yours <3 anything for you, he's whipped. [ god bless his bank account i imagine it's in negative LMAOOOO because his ass is definitely not letting u pay :( ]

and when you oh so sheepishly hand him the seance dog plushie you crocheted for him as his birthday present, muttering something along the lines of how "it's not good enough" or "it looks a little funny", i mean yeah seance dog has seen better days for sure where his eyes are the same size, he has to physically stop himself from kissing you senseless, because how dare you be this thoughtful and sweet.

yeah he's in love alright.

after a lot of restless nights and convincing from william, he finally decides to ask you out after six months of longing and yearning.

you two are currently in your room, hanging out. you had invited him over to watch the new reboot of your favorite sci fi series, although the internet seems to have a different plan as the video keeps buffering and loading.

you groan in annoyance, refreshing the page, still nothing.

so when you give up and let it do it's thing, aka the good ol "pretending not to care so it'll load faster", mark takes this as a sign.

"hey uh-" he opens his mouth, he's going to piss himself, he can't do this.

"yeah?" you reply. he sounds awfully nervous.

he stares at you, holding your gaze, lips slightly parted before taking a deep breath.

he ends up immediately blurting out the words he'd practiced a thousand times, "iloveyousomuch", his words are hurried as if he's scared you'll leave him if he's not quick enough.

he pauses, realizing this isn't exactly going to plan. he has just confessed his feelings, it's done now. there's no going back from this and that scares him.

he's also considering just making a run for it, or well fly for it, your window's open afterall.

he avoids your gaze like the plague, the ground suddenly very interesting.

he hesitantly adds, "i have for awhile now actually", might as well serve his heart on a silver platter to you it's all yours anyways, it beats for you, he thinks.

his cheeks are flushed a pretty pink. he can't stop his mouth, it moves on it's own, "im sorry if- if this ruins our friendship i just-"

"i love you too mark", you can't help yourself from confessing back, feeling your cheeks heat up.

"i just can't do this, i can't be friends when everytime i look at you i want to ki-" wait.

it's actually adorable the way he looks at you all wide eyed when his brain finally processes what you said.

did you just say you love him back?

nope, that's just his terrible hearing that comes with being a superhero, all wishful thinking.

but the way you're looking at him tells him otherwise and your words only confirm that his hearing is perfectly fine.

"you were saying?" you tease him, daring him to finish that sentence.

thank god the teasing is back, this is familiar territory. his nerves calm down a bit.

a minute of silence passes before he speaks.

"so that just happened", he chuckles, he wants to be all suave and cool and say something that'll make you blush, but he can't.

he doesn't need to.

because that's not him, he's mark grayson, he's awkward, a sweetheart and a big nerd. he just needs to be himself to make you swoon.

you know this, he knows this.

he knows you accept him for who he is, so he doesn't think twice about leaning in when you reach out to cup his face, leaning in as well.

your acceptance, your love, you. that's all he needs.

and the moment your lips meet his he realizes those six months were worth it.

he gently pulls you closer by your waist, his touch hesitant, it takes all his power to not just pull you flush against him and show you just how much he adores you.

when you pull him closer by the neck, his toned chest brushing against yours, he has to stop from letting out a small pleased groan.

you're just as desperate as he is.

kissing you like this is dizzying, he can even taste the sweetness and slight tang of the strawberry dessert you two had shared earlier on your lips and it only serves to drive him crazier.

his body practically aches when you pull away, chasing your lips. he can't get enough.

"easy alien boy", you chuckle, trying to catch your breath — resting your forehead against his, nose scrunching a little when he kisses the tip of it, nuzzling his own nose against yours afterwards.

his smile is sickeningly sweet and contagious. "i love you", he whispers.

and when you whisper it back he giggles happily, pressing a kiss to your head - he pulls you in his warm embrace. relishing in the feel of your body against his, fitting like a missing puzzle piece.

it's like you were made for him.

a scream from the tv ruins the intimate atmosphere, ah so now it decides to load. you two stare at each other, a collective look of "are you seeing this shit" is exchanged before you two burst into laughter.

both of you could care less about the show playing on the tv, too busy indulging in long passionate sweet kisses.

"the new issue of batm-" you jokingly start against his now swollen lips.

"baby! we're kinda having a moment here", he scoffs playfully, the dumb lovesick smile on his face only widening.

"no but seriously the new issue sucked ass. they mischaracterized him sooo bad and-", he complains, not moving a centimeter away from your lips.

"and you're a nerd" you cut him off, pulling him close by the collar of his shirt for another kiss.

"hey that's friendly fire!" he hopes you'll always shut him up with a kiss <3

© digitald0rk 2025. do not steal any of my works :[ thank you for reading, interactions are always appreciated and welcome! want more? click here ★

[missdynamighttt]

nsfw katsuki x reader but the reader is quiet (like only deep breaths n pants) How would katsuki react if the suddenly moan?

Been thinking abt this omfg

the first time you let bf! katsuki eat your pussy, he swore he got drunk off the taste of you.

sweet, warm, and intoxicating— you were everything he never knew he was craving. and the way you melted into his arms, only fueled his hunger.

"you taste so fuckin’ good,” katsuki muttered between slurps, diving his lips back into your needy little cunny. "holy shit... i don't wanna stop."

your boyfriend is a nasty fucking pussy eater, that much is obvious. eating you out with all the fire he had, hands gripping your thighs wide, tugging his teeth to suck on your clit, lips never feeling the place he calls heaven.

katsuki was already addicted to the little sounds you made. its painful how hard he gets, his dick twitching in his pants when your breath hitched as his lips met your folds, the soft pants you let out when he darts his tongue out to lick your clit. but still, just deep breaths. just gasps.

it drove him crazy.

he wanted more. needed more.

the second time, it was the same. it wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy it. god, you did— but something about holding back made it all the more intense.

your fingers trembled in his hair, tugging slightly. but still, you stayed mostly silent. just breathing, panting. maybe you were nervous. but no matter how much katsuki worked you up, no matter how much his mouth explored your insides, you never gave him more than quiet, shaky breaths.

until now.

the third time, oh, the third time's a fucking charm.

when katsuki's lips dragged down your clit, tongue pressing against the sensitive skin of your folds, you moaned— an actual moan, breathy and desperate, like you couldn’t help yourself. a sound that was so purely you, so completely unrestrained, that it sent fire straight through his veins.

katsuki froze. then, he just snapped.

“that’s it,” he growled, pressing his lips to your pussy again, more insistent, more desperate. his tongue traced over the same spot, his breath hot against your wet cunny as he devoured the sound of you. “fuckin’ finally.”

you barely had a second to process what just happened before his lips were back on your cunny, more eager, more demanding, as if he was chasing that sound like his life depended on it as you moaned his name. “k-katsuki-”

“fuck— do that again,” he rasped, shoving your legs wider to hold you in place, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your pussy again, his mouth making lewd, squelching sounds out of devouring your slick. "can't believe you've been holdin' out on me..."

you squirmed beneath him, hands flying to his hair, tugging lightly. “katsuki— wait, take it easy—”

but katsuki wasn’t listening. he was too caught up, too focused, too obsessed with hearing you again. his grip tightened, his mouth treating you rougher, more demanding.

he was fucking relentless, completely focused on getting another moan out of you. every little gasp, every shaky breath in between just spurred him on more.

you felt like you were burning under his touch, and he? he was thriving in it, lips dragging over every inch of your pussy, searching for every sound you could give him.

“not a fuckin’ chance. not when you sound like that. lemme hear you, baby.”

and when you moaned again, louder, more desperate— he groaned against your senstive skin, his body shuddering with pure satisfaction.

you weren’t holding back anymore. and now that he had a taste of your moans? there was no way in hell he was stopping now.

because no matter how much you tried to keep quiet, katsuki, your boyfriend always got what he wanted.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ lmao i have an exam in 30 mins, hope y'all enjoyed this💜

[julymusings]

you're good to me, baby

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet, like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat. settle soft and as pure as snow, i fell in love with the fire long ago.

or; because the red hood bleeding onto your living room carpet is exactly what you need right now [3.6k]

Jason Todd x fem!reader; based on this lovely ask; ngl this turned into a personal vent jason doesn't show up until 1k words in LMAO; warning there’s blood (duh) and reader is suggested to have heavy anxiety; pre-established relationship where reader doesn’t know his identity + muzzle red hood bc HOT next: love in withdrawal

Compartmentalize. Create baskets in your mind. Analyze the situation, and drop the corresponding emotion in the appropriate basket.

One: You had a fight with your best friend. She called you selfish because you weren’t enthusiastic about her new relationship. She just can’t seem to understand that no matter how happy you want to be for her, it’s painful to see everyone find safety in another person when you can’t. Every attempt at romance is squashed by something or the other that you keep doing wrong. I thought you were hot, your latest dating attempt had said when you ran into him and asked why he never texted back. But you’re kind of a lot. Not something I have the space for right now, you know?

Two: There’s an important presentation today, one that could determine the fate of your position in the company. Your coworker, the one who’s convinced you stole his promotion (he just flirted with the higher-ups while you actually completed the requirements), refuses to let you forget how much is at stake. All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The emotions here? Frustration. Anger. Exhaustion. Jealousy. Just to name a few. But there’s no time to dwell on anxieties right now, so you shove those thoughts aside. Drop them in their compartments and move on because, after all, if you can strip them down to their bones and find where they stem, you can yank those anxieties from the ground before they have the chance to root. And then there’s no need for unnecessary heartache, right?

(Who cares if the baskets are overflowing, crumpled fragments spilling over the sides like garbage in a landfill? Who cares if the room of your mind is so packed that you’re pressed against the wall and breathing becomes painful.)

The digital clock beside your bed reads 6:12. The numbers blink in and out of the window, their red dots and dashes taunting your heavy eyelids. You still have forty-eight minutes of peace before it will scare you awake. Its beeping will ring so loud and angry that the adrenaline from the startle will power you through your morning routine, and your beating heart won’t dare still to entertain wishes of just five more minutes. 6:13 now. You have forty-seven more minutes of peace, minutes which should be spent sleeping, giving your poor brain a break from itself. But you can’t. Every time you close your eyes and begin to sink below the level of consciousness, your heart pumps a house-special cocktail of cortisol that laces through your bloodstream and convinces you that if you fall asleep you will miss your presentation and you will get fired. The off-grid escape plan formulating in your head switches from hypothetical to tentative when your neighbors, apparently awoken to lust as well as tired by it, start going at it again. You want nothing more than to bang on their door and scream obscenities until they hate each other enough to never touch again, but you resign yourself to consciousness, giving up on the dream of what would now be forty-four more minutes of sleep. 

It’s Friday morning; only one more day to get through before the sweet release of the weekend finds you. (The whole weekend will be spent contemplating the start of a project, feeling like two days is not nearly long enough to complete anything, and dreading Monday until it finds you with nothing done and the same, endless cycle awaiting.)

After completing your morning routine 44 minutes early, you use the spare time to go through your presentation once more, just for good luck, wrapping up the third run-through just in time to hear your alarm to leave for work.

The presentation goes decent, at least well enough to quell any doubts about your ability to do your job. Your coworker ate his words for sure, and you might have enjoyed the look on his face had you not mentally checked out as soon as you finished your closing remarks. Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

When you get home, your frustration is close to boiling over. You kick off your shoes right at the door, your keys and bag following close behind.

Far be it from you to break down on the floor in the middle of the room, the plan begins to formulate. There’s a box of tissues on your desk– that can go on the nightstand, along with two of the chilled water bottles you keep in the fridge for after you work out. And you’ll need something for the tissues, right? The small wastebasket from the bathroom should be fine. You drag it over to the side of your bed, sitting in your usual spot to make sure you placed it at a reachable distance. You won’t want to get out of bed to wash your face after this, so a washcloth should go next to the tissues. And an extra one, just to be safe.

You keep a set of comfortable clothes ready, the nicest, softest pajamas you own that you only wear after an everything shower. This shower, however, is a quick one, not much more than a few minutes under scalding water to comfort you, if nothing else. The light pink pajamas are a high-quality cotton and you feel like you’re in the clouds when you slip into them. Remaining is the ice cream, which you set out on the counter right before your shower so it would thaw just enough to be soft but not melted, With everything in your room ready, you go to retrieve the ice cream but stop with a startle when you round the corner.

“Jesus,” you mumble.

He’s just sitting there, doing nothing except bleeding out on your cream-colored carpet. He’s spread out on the couch like he owns the place, head leaned back against the wall as he lets his injured arm hang over the armrest and drip blood and dirt onto your cream-colored rug. The liquid seeps into the expensive wool, staining it with reddish-brown hues and the scent of iron, and he doesn’t even notice.

“Hey.” The Red Hood lifts his head when he sees you.

On any other day, you’d be quick to action, hauling him up off the couch and sprinting for the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap. He sounds robotic through his muzzle mask. His hood, pulled down to reveal his thick black hair curling at the ends from humidity and sweat, rests on his back.

I don’t have time for this, is what you want to say. You want to scream it in his face and kick him out for having the audacity to think he can come and go as he pleases, that you’re nothing more than a drive-through emergency room who will drop everything if he gets so much as a paper cut. But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Holding back your heavy sigh, you wordlessly walk to the bathroom. He takes that as an invitation to follow. 

It’s clinical. Rehearsed. Neither of you speak. It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep. He knows to seat himself on the step stool you got just for him, for nights like these. He knows where to find the first aid kit and which supplies to hand you first. You know the exact steps to follow. Check the palms for abrasions. Antiseptic to the lacerations. Concussion exam. 

Maybe he can sense the air of tension surrounding you, because he doesn’t say as much as he usually does (though, granted, it’s still not much). It’s a reflection of your dynamic several months earlier when this arrangement began, back before you’d managed to chip away at the surface of his rough exterior. You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

We both know you have at least a dozen people who could do this for you. The words echo in your mind. Don’t act like I owe you this. If anything, you owe me a new carpet. These are things you wish you could say, but never will. Being realistic, you’ll probably never be able to say things like this. You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

This isn’t his fault, you remind yourself, but still, your lips turn down and your jaw feels tight with the effort to keep your face still, to not burst into tears right on the spot. In the second it takes for you to calm yourself, your hands pause. He notices. He says nothing. 

It’s not until you’re finished with cleaning the blood from his arm wound and giving him a wad of gauze to hold against it that he tests the waters and asks, “Is it too bad?” 

He sounds automated, but over the last few months, you’ve learned a thing or two about reading even these robotic actions. There's a certain quietness to the beginning of his sentence like he’s debating if he should say it or not. 

“It’s fine,” you say, shortly. 

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.”

You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet.

You don’t mean to be so tetchy, but you don’t have the energy for anything more. Every little thing has you feeling on the edge of shattering. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It’s when you’re kneeled at his side, staring into the gaping wound on his bicep and trying to thread the needle, fingers trembling from the chill of the tiled floor with nothing but a layer of thin cotton to keep you warm, that it happens. He shifts on the stool, a mere twitch in an attempt to get comfortable, but it brushes his bloody arm against yours. Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did I say something?” Hood asks. He waits for your response, but when none comes, he adds, “I’m sorry if I did.” He speaks so quietly you may not have been able to separate his words from the whirring filter of his mask, if not for the chilling silence of the bathroom floor. The insulating brick walls of your old apartment building are something you’re usually grateful for, but tonight you find yourself wishing for the city’s commotion to seep through the walls. Something, anything to buffer his proximity to you.

You hear his inhale as he prepares to say something else.

“Can you just let me work?” You snap before he has the chance to speak again. It’s loud, louder than you’d ever dream of speaking to him, and he flinches. Your eyes shut in apology, but only for a moment before you get back to it. He looks away. His feet point towards the door.

He wants to leave, you can tell, and you don’t blame him. You just messed everything up. But you started this, so now you have to finish it.

You sit in silence for the several minutes it takes for you to clean his wound and stop the bleeding.

He’s not looking at you, gaze transfixed ahead of him on a chip in the paint. At least, you assume. It’s difficult to guess what’s going on behind the milky white covering over his eyes. His subtle body language can be read if you pay close enough attention, you’ve learned, but that’s not something you care to do right now.

(Maybe you noticed in the back of your mind that he’s not exhibiting any body language since you snapped at him, but the compartment in your head for guilt is already overflowing, so maybe you didn’t notice it, you tell yourself.)

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

“Are you—” Hood starts. Because now he’s looking at you.

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing yourself off the ground and stumbling out of the room without so much as a glance back at him. You stagger into your room, needle and thread still in hand, and push the door closed. The lights are off, and the darkness is calming, quieting your buzzing thoughts. You close your eyes and lean against the door. Breathe in. Breathe out. You continue this exercise, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth to soothe your sympathetic nervous system, the same way a therapist instructed that one time you went. You wipe away the moisture that has collected in your eyes, roll out your stiff neck, dry your sweaty palms over your thighs. You toss the needle and thread aside, because they are definitely not sterile anymore, and take a few more breaths before opening the door and going back to the bathroom.

You avoid his face, following the lines of grimy grout between the tiles before resuming to your spot at his side. His inspecting eyes burn on the side of your face. You wipe down the forceps with a sterilizing wipe and rip open the plastic packaging for a new needle, holding it up to the wound, but your hand refuses to steady.

Another deep breath. Then another.

Hood sighs. It’s almost chastising. “I think I should go.”

“What?” You’re just surprised enough to be torn away from your thoughts and look him in the eye (mask) for the first time all night.

“You can’t do this,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll let you figure it out.”

You scoff. “Yes, I can. I’m fine.”

Before he can argue, you grab him by the wrist to hold him in place just as he starts moving to get up. He winces, but you keep your grip tight on him. You can feel his scrutiny through the cold, expressionless barrier of his disguise, practically track his pupils as they search your face.

You both pretend he couldn’t break from your hold in an instant if he wanted to.

“You’re shaking,” Hood says. His voice is much softer now.

You follow the turn of his head to your hand where it hovers the needle right over his skin. You are shaking. Trembling, in fact.

“No, I’m not.” It comes out as an empty whisper.

You focus all your strength on steadying yourself, but the harder you try to stabilize, the harder you tremor. Your other hand releases his wrist to clamp over your dominant hand and force it to stay in place. It guides the needle closer to the skin, but now your vision is blurring. You blink rapidly, but it’s not enough. The tears start falling. You look away from him, but a warm hand settles over yours. You don’t dare look at him, unable to bear showing him your shameful face, wet and blushing and screwed up in misery. You turn your face into your sleeve. Clamp your eyes shut tight, thinking maybe if you keep them closed, this darkness will swallow you up and he won’t be here anymore.

But the warmth of his skin on yours is the first feeling of softness, of relief you’ve felt in months, and then it’s gone. Your shoulders are shaking, quaking with the effort to keep your sobs quiet.

One finger ever so gently hooks around your chin, pulling it back up to face him. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see him see you like this, but the tears are still streaming. He brushes them away. Whether that makes it better or worse, you can’t be sure, because you cry even harder, snatching your face away from his grasp to muffle your sobs into the back of your hand. You don’t realize he’s pushed himself off his stool to sit cross-legged on the floor until you feel his hand circling your arm and pulling you closer. The tools in your hand clatter on the floor as your palms come up to press against his chest, fighting against him with half-hearted protests murmured through your cries. But even with only one good arm he’s too strong for you, and you’re pulled into him.

He’s so gentle with you, rubbing your back and resting his chin atop your head while you cry and cry and cry into his shirt. Several minutes pass like this, with your face buried in his chest and his good arm holding you tightly against him while the other dangles lamely at his side, throbbing with an intensity he’s trying to ignore.

When your sobs die down, and you’re sure you’re all cried out, you linger against him. He smells like smoke and gasoline, and his shirt is soft and warm from his body heat seeping through. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your back, even after you’ve quieted. The edge of his mask digs into your scalp where his chin sits, but it feels worth it. Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch. Your hands lose their nerve at his clavicle as you hold your breath for fear of the smallest movement drawing attention to your forwardness. You wait for him to rebuff you, to lean away from your touch, or grab your wrists and pry them off. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. His chest finally falls.

Eyes opening, your thumb swipes over the edge of the red bat symbol just below his collarbone.

His movements pause, lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, before releasing it. “It’s alright,” he tells you.

You pull back from his chest to look at him, the way his cold and unfeeling expression stares back at you. You wonder from time to time what’s under the mask, but tonight the desire is overwhelming; you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

The metallic odor spreading through the room brings you back to the present, and you hope the flush from your tears hides your cheeks’ growing heat when you realize where your mind had wandered. 

“Oh, fuck, your arm.” You speak in a watery voice, wiping at your face as the urgency returns to your senses. Though you try to move away, his firm hand on your back pulls you back in.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, resuming his caresses up and down your back. “I can take care of it.”

“Then why do you even need me?” You sniffle with a small smile.

He stays silent. But when you search his face, waiting for an answer, his hand moves to your side, palm sliding a fraction of an inch closer to your waist and fingers tensing, you can almost see through the mechanical muzzle to the way his lips shape the words. At least, he wishes you could.

You know why.

this was lots of fun to write and thank u for your patience ik i said i was gonna "knock this out in a day" 2 weeks ago😬😬 also we're gonna pretend they aren't just letting his open wound marinate for half an hour when it should be getting stitched up bc it's fiction ok? everyone say thank you mostly-imagines for proofreading this😚

but anyway happy new year!! it's been barely 2 months but starting this account made my year so much better🫶🫶🫶and ty for 500 followers that's crazy🫣🫢

listen to the inspo song!!!

[trashytracktales]

AND softdom lando with slightly unexperienced reader!!!! kill me nowwwe it cannot live only in my head

Nothing less | LN⁴

💌 INSPIRED by anon ──── No, cause you know what, anon? Let me do something about it real quick (I changed some things around on purpose, because I either go hard or go home lmao). ENJOY 💋

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𐙚 summary ──── It's their first time together, and Lando takes the lead, ensuring every touch and word is focused on her comfort and pleasure.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x virgin!reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 catetegory ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, reader's first time, new relationship dynamics, soft dom!Lando, fluff & smut, descriptive language, swearing, unprotected sex, subtle exploration of emotional and physical trust in an intimate setting.

𐙚 word count ──── 2.8k

𐙚 date ──── Dec. 26, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── Gentle reminder that I know I have a lot of requests I need to take care of, and they are going to be dealt with, slowly but surely. Thank you for your patience 😁🤍

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

SHE THINKS SHE should tell him, but she doesn’t know him well enough to be sure that Lando isn’t easily scared — or worse, that he wouldn’t walk out on her the second her little secret gets out.

They’ve only been dating for two weeks, but somehow it feels longer than that. Obviously, they’ve talked about sex before — casually, the way new couples do when everything still feels exciting and full of possibilities. But she never told him outright that she’s a virgin. He never specifically asked, and she didn’t see a way to bring it up without making things awkward.

In the midst of her chaotic thoughts, two things are certain: 1) she doesn’t want to ruin the moment, and 2) there’s no doubt he likes her. She sees it in the way Lando looks at her, and she feels it in the way his hands touch her: sometimes by accident, other times with intent.

That's why she doesn’t want to burden him with expectations or make him feel like he has to change to meet some unspoken standard. She wants him as he is: unfiltered, imperfect, and real.

It's almost midnight, and the room is drenched in a quiet intimacy, the only sound coming from the muted hum of the city outside. Lando sits on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing against hers with deliberate slowness. The soft golden glow of the bedside lamp illuminates his face, accentuating the way his lips curve into a smile that’s equal parts teasing and tender.

“You’ve been quiet,” he murmurs, his voice a smooth drawl that makes her stomach flip. His thumb strokes over her palm, coaxing her to meet his gaze. “That nervous?”

Her breath catches in her throat, feeling it closing in from the inside, but she nods, not trusting her voice.

“That’s okay, baby,” says Lando gently, leaning in. The warmth of his breath fans against her skin as his lips ghost over her jawline. “I want to take care of you. Can I do that?”

She nods again, her heart thudding against her rib. But the way Lando is looking at her, like she’s the only thing that matters, eases some of the tension coiling in her chest.

She really thinks that she should tell him—

“Words, love,” he interrupts her thoughts, his tone soft yet firm. Lando's hand tilts her chin up so she’s looking directly at him. “I need to hear you, so I know we're on the same page.”

“Yes, Lando,” she replies back, his name dripping from her mouth like honey. “I want this with you.”

His smile widens, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes — desire tempered with a bit of restraint. “Sweet girl,” he says softly, the praise rolling off his tongue like a caress.

She closes her eyes, the words making her cheeks flush, but they also spark something inside her, a yearning she’s never felt so acutely before.

The air between them feels charged with so much expectancy. She knows where this is heading, can feel it in the way his eyes linger on hers, in the heat of his touch that seems to burn through her skin. The thought alone forces a wave of excitement rolling through her. At that, her body reacts before her mind catches up — her breaths quicken, her thighs press together instinctively, and a warm, insistent ache blooms low in her belly. She’s wet already, just from the anticipation, her thoughts spiraling into images of Lando gasping for air above her.

She shakes her head to push those thoughts away, just as he pulls her closer, his hands steady and confident as they frame her face. When he kisses her, his lips are so soft, moving against hers in a way that leaves no room for doubt. He’s in control, but he’s also completely attuned to her.

“If you need me to stop,” he says against her lips, “If anything feels wrong, just tell me, and we'll talk about it. Gonna need your words for this, yeah?” he continues as she nods again, making Lando puff out a small giggle, “What did I say?”

Words. Right.

“I promise I'll tell you,” she says, her voice tinged with nervousness.

He hums in approval, his hands sliding down to her waist. He moves her gently, guiding her to lie back on the bed as he leans over her. His movements are measured, his touch firm but never overwhelming. When his hands skim beneath her shirt, she tenses for a moment, squeezing her eyes shut, and Lando immediately freezes.

“Hey,” he says softly, his brow furrowing in concern. “Too much?”

“No,” she says quickly, her cheeks flushing. “I just— I’ve nev—”

He doesn’t let her finish. His thumb strokes soothing circles against her hip as he leans down to kiss her again, silencing her nervous stammer.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “We’ll go slow, alright? You and I. Just trust me.”

His words are like a balm, and she finds herself relaxing under his touch. He takes his time removing her shirt, his eyes never leaving hers as if to reassure her with every move.

“You’re fucking stunning,” he says, his voice low and reverent.

Her hands tremble slightly as she reaches for him, and he lets her take the lead for a moment, watching her with a quiet intensity as she unbuttons his shirt. She fumbles slightly, and he chuckles, the sound soft and warm.

“Relax, love. It’s just me,” he says, leaning down to kiss her temple; a small act of tenderness that somehow steadies her racing heart.

The warmth of his lips lingers, grounding her in the moment as her nerves begin to settle. When there's no barrier left between them, Lando's hands explore her body patiently, every touch giving her goosebumps. Then, his fingers travel lower, slipping between her legs, and he freezes in place, his breath hitching.

“Ah, shit,” he mumbles mostly to himself, almost in awe when he realizes how much of a mess she is already. “So eager, you're soaked. I could just slip right in.”

The words send a bolt of heat through her, a mix of embarrassment and excitement, but they also give her enough courage to take action. Summoning all her nerve, she reaches for him, wrapping her fingers around his cock with a tentative but determined grip.

She guides him to her entrance, her voice quiet but impatient as she whispers, “Then do it.”

Suddenly, that's more than enough for Lando to let his instincts take over.

He exhales sharply as he pushes forward, the heat of her drawing him in inch by inch. The sensation of her wrapped around his length nearly undoes him — soft, tight, and impossibly warm. His jaw clenches as he stills for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He presses his forehead to hers, his voice strained but tender.

“So damn tight around me, baby,” he gasps softly, his hand coming to rest on her hip. “How's it on your end? Can I move?”

She nods quickly, her hands gripping his shoulders as she adjusts to the sweet stretch. “It’s—”

Good. Perfect. Heaven.

“Didn’t feel as big in my hand,” she ends up saying, making Lando laugh in a high-pitched voice.

“Not sure weather it's a compliment or an insult,” he admits, amused.

“Just give me a sec,” she whispers, though there’s a slight trace of uncertainty in her tone.

His thumb begins to stroke soothing circles on her hip, and he kisses the corner of her mouth. “Take your time, baby. I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures her.

She lets out a shaky breath, her body gradually relaxing around him. With one hand, she traces the contours of Lando's face, studying every micro expression, every mole, and the way his breath hitches as she welcomes him in.

“You're perfect,” she says softly, her cheeks flushed with warmth. “Can you fuck me now?”

Lando whines, pulling back slightly before easing forward again, setting a slow, careful rhythm. The friction is intense, almost overwhelming, and he groans quietly, his grip on her hips tightening just a fraction.

Her lips part as a soft moan escapes her, and she tilts her head back, instinctively pushing her hips to meet his movements. “Lando,” she breathes, her voice a mix of need and disbelief.

He pauses for a moment, his eyes searching hers. “Yes, that’s it,” he encourages, his tone laced with affection. “Tell me what you like, what feels good. Let me hear you, baby.”

“You,” she manages, her fingers threading through his hair. “It feels so—You feel so good. All of it, please.”

The corners of his mouth raise into a small, breathless smile. “Such a good girl, aren't you?” he praises, leaning down to kiss her neck as he resumes his thrusts. “You’re doing so well for me.”

Her nails dig lightly into his back, her confidence growing with each movement.

“Faster,” she whispers, her voice trembling with a foreign desire.

His brows raise slightly as he slows down, just to tease her. “Faster? You sure about that?” he asks, his voice taking on a playful edge.

“Lando,” she repeats his name, louder this time, her hips rolling against his.

“You want it that bad?” he says in slight disbelief, his movements speeding up just enough to draw a louder moan from her. Lando studies her closely, his gaze softening even as his control threatens to slip. “Look at you, fuck. Let me take care of you. Let me—”

He swallows his words as his starts thrusting into her, firmly but never rough, his touch always calibrated to her responses.

“God, you’re taking me so well,” he says, his lips brushing against her ear. “So hot and tight around me. Feels right, hm?”

Her breathing quickens at his words, her body responding in ways she doesn’t fully understand but craves nonetheless. His hands trail lower, and she arches into him instinctively, another whimper escaping her lips.

“I know, baby,” he says, his voice thick with approval. “Keep me inside.”

Lando’s rhythm falters, then slows to an almost torturous pace. Before she can question it, he drags his cock out of her entirely, leaving her pussy clenching around nothing. A cry slips from her lips, desperate and aching, but he doesn’t give her time to protest. His length glides up between her slick, puffy folds, spreading the wetness everywhere, his movements calculated and teasing.

Not to mention evil.

“Lan...” she whines, her nails digging into his back as frustration and need overwhelm her. She isn’t gentle, her fingers pressing hard enough to sting, and he lets out a low hiss.

At the sudden pain, Lando stops entirely, his eyes snapping to hers, dark and intense. “Careful, baby,” he warns, his tone soft but laced with authority.

Sitting up slightly, he reaches for a pillow, lifting her hips with ease and sliding it beneath her lower back. When he thrusts back into her, it’s maddeningly slow, as if he wants her to feel everything. His hand moves to her stomach, pressing down lightly as he fucks his cock inside her. The sensation sends shockwaves through her body, and she cries out, her voice high and pleading as the pressure amplifies the pleasure.

“Feel that?” he asks, his voice rough with arousal. “Feel how deep I am?”

She can only nod, tightening her legs around him, her body trembling as she grips the sheets for support. But curiosity and the overwhelming sensations push her to rise onto her elbows, needing to see what he’s doing to her. Her gaze drops to where their bodies meet, and that’s when she sees it — the way her lower abdomen rises and falls slightly with each of his deep, measured thrusts.

Her breath catches, her eyes widening in awe. “Oh my God,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Is that…?”

Lando notices her reaction immediately, his own gaze following hers. The corner of his mouth curves into a smirk, but his eyes burn with something primal. “Fucking hell,” he murmurs, tightening his hands around her waist, holding her steady. “Yeah, that’s me inside you.”

The realization sends a fresh wave of arousal coursing through her, and Lando seems to sense it. His grip on her waist tightens further, and he begins to move harder, his hips snapping against hers with a rhythm that’s still controlled but far more intense.

The room fills with the slik sound of her pussy as Lando thrusts in and out relentlessly, and her moans grow louder, her body arching into him.

“Let me feel you,” he growls, his voice deep. “Let go, baby. Let me feel you,” he repeats, over and over again.

She wraps her arms around Lando, pulling him closer to have something to support her. The way her pussy sucks at his cock, desperate and insistent, sends him careening over the edge before he can even process it.

“Oh, fuck,” he hisses, his voice breaking as his hips stutter, spilling into her with a throaty moan. He can get drunk on the way she grips him, her heat, her hunger — every part of her pulling him into pure bliss.

His forehead drops to hers, their shared breaths mingling as they pant and moan together, riding out every wave of pleasure as they hit.

Her nails are still buried in his back, the sharp sting blending with the pleasure coursing through him. He winces but doesn’t stop, his body shuddering as her walls flutter around his cock, milking every last bit of him. They’re locked together, shaking, until the pleasure ebbs into a warm, lingering buzz.

After that, Lando finally stills inside her, his body softening, his arms wrapped tightly around her as he rests his weight against her. Only then does the sharp sting on his back pull his attention, and he lets out a low chuckle, his voice rough and spent.

“You really dug in, didn’t you?” he teases, his tone affectionate as he lifts his head to look at her. The corners of his mouth twitch into a smirk despite the ache in his muscles.

Her face flushes with embarrassment, her hands slipping away from his back, burying into his hair instead. “Sorry,” she whispers, avoiding to look at him.

“Don’t be,” he replies, his gaze soft and adoring. “It was worth it.”

Before she can add something else, Lando leans down, his lips finding hers in a kiss that’s the opposite of tender. It’s a stark contrast to the raw intensity they just shared, and a quiet reassurance that he’s still fully present with her. His hand cups her cheek, thumb brushing against her flushed skin as he deepens the kiss, savoring her.

When they finally break apart, their foreheads rest together again, their breathing still uneven but calming. “You okay?” he asks softly, his eyes searching hers.

She nods, a small, blissful smile tugging at her lips.

“Hey, don't go non-verbal on me again,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She hesitates for a moment before speaking. “Lan?” she says softly.

“Hm?”

She swallows, her cheeks flushed, but she doesn’t look away this time. “You are… I mean, it was my first time.”

For a moment, her words don’t fully register. He blinks, his brows knitting together as if he’s processing what she just said. “First time?” he repeats, his tone slow, almost disbelieving.

When she nods, her lips parting slightly as she struggles to hold his gaze, Lando’s eyes fix on hers. His first instinct is to check if she’s messing with him, but all he sees is her wrecked, post-sex state. Her hair is mussed and wild against the pillow, her skin flushed from her chest to her cheeks, her lips swollen and parted as she breathes unevenly. The faint sheen of sweat on her body catches the soft light, and her eyes are glassy, still hazy with satisfaction. She looks thoroughly undone — raw and real.

And he knows she’s not lying.

The realization hits him like a tsunami, leaving him momentarily speechless. His jaw tenses briefly, and instead of speaking, he leans down and captures her lips in a kiss. It’s not rushed or frantic but deep and meaningful, his lips moving against hers with a peaceful intensity. His hand cups her jaw, kissing her like he’s claiming every part of her. Because he is. The thought makes his head spin — the fact that she’s his completely.

“You should’ve told me,” says Lando, his voice thick with emotion. “I would’ve been more careful.”

“No, it was perfect,” she rushes to assure him. “Because it was with you.”

His eyes soften, and he presses a kiss to her forehead. “Are you even real?” he whispers.

And then he’s kissing her again; her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her lips, trailing down her shoulders and neck, where he makes sure to leave marks behind. His hands roam her body with a newfound reverence, as if seeing her for the first time.

“Gonna spend the rest of the night showing you how much you mean to me,” he says, his lips brushing against her collarbone. “If you’ll let me.”

Her heart swells as she nods, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says, his voice a low hum of satisfaction. “Because you deserve nothing less.”

PREVIOUS LN⁴ ONE-SHOT

MASTERLIST

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© trashy track tales, 2024

[todayisafridaynight]

INCREDIBLY FUNNY that I refused to settle for just saying "bread" but yes it was those! So in that sense, the lavish bread physics are integral to conveying how important the little things were in getting him through prison. Still, for the sake of the drip…...... perhaps sacrifices are needed...

But yeah, I'm thrilled you noticed those things about the evolution of Jo's design, too! It's super interesting to think about in terms of storytelling, I don't think you're inarticulate in saying that at all. Speaking of, I also just look up "holder" to find prev asks at this point lol

Jo and Ichi's dynamic is also a major topic of interest for me (as we've seen). I think a lot of what's going on with them is definitely some variation of "old habits die hard." That's natural when you form that kind of uneasy coexistence. But like you mentioned, it's also telling that Jo picked up the nickname in the first place, because I went back through the entire script, and it really is the case that only Arakawa, Masato, Jo, and the people who raised Ichi call him that. It's reserved for his family.

I think this line about Aoki (that I completely forgot about before looking at the script again lol) may also shed some light: "A long time ago, I knew him as the young master. He knew me as Ichi." Because they all do that, don't they? Ichi still says Captain, Boss, and Young Master, Jo still says Boss, Ichi, and Young Master, Aoki still says Dad and Ichi.

Even though on paper these relationships should've dissolved with Ichi being expelled, Masato becoming Aoki, and Jo taking over as second patriarch, to one another, they're all still who they used to be. And as an aspect of how they communicate, the "learned language" that forms in families, it stands out when they're all on the same page with the terms they choose to use.

This line from Ichi also stood out to me: "But my aniki taught me different. He said whoever makes the first move is the victor. The guy with steel balls wins." Like, that's clearly Jo, right? For one thing, the "flavor" of aniki is different from Captain, of course--one is directly an appointed post, and one is more open to interpretation--but it also clearly shows that Jo's imparted his "philosophy" to Ichi in some ways.

I think, to a degree, it's one of those holdovers from RGGO that wasn't fully implemented. Because they're more or less the same in RGGO in this regard, but RGGJo does outright say it makes him weirdly happy that Ichi still calls him Captain, so that's a clearer indicator and makes the idea feel more "complete."

With what I said before about their "learned language," too, the Arakawa Family has this way of saying goodbye that's specific to them, and I really miss it in Y7. It is referenced briefly, but it's not a "thing" like it was in RGGO. It's kinda like how The Gang in It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia greet each other with "Hey-ohhh!" LMAO idk but. I Enjoy. But that's also why it stood out to me that LaD8Jo greets Ichi the same way as Y7Jo and RGGJo.

ALSO that is so sick the author of Soliloquy saw your art…… incredible……….. + as an aside since I was reminded, it's very true that sometimes people seem to "fill in the blanks" with tropes, and my favorite is honestly when it's both funny and offensive. There was this whole "phase" (and to everyone's credit it was short-lived) of playing Mine up like this Huge Misogynist because he's not attracted to women, and it's WILD to recognize that he's gay but still pull up homophobic tropes for funsies.

Like I was mad at the time mostly on account of the mischaracterization (because come on, even if you've only seen Y3, he is still uncharacteristically soft with Katase… not that he wasn't INSANE for The Slap, but it also wasn't at all rooted in the same things as say, Nishiki slapping Reina might've been.) But it was funny. Perhaps not in the way it was intended to be, but it was funny. And, you know, that's why I'm happy to stay in my own little corner as well.

You coulda just said bread it's ok 😭 I WAS right though it WAS a carb......

On the subject of language though, it's def something I picked up on (if my last ask wasn't any indication lmao)! It's a real neat detail and something I think helps push that 'family' theme Y7 has going on (or at the very least demonstrates how despite the times changing, they still have those bonds with each other whether they acknowledge it or not), it definitely being a case of picking up a habit/term from family.

About tropes in fan works though, I can't act like I'm guiltless of it LMAO so I don't have too strong of a leg to stand on when it comes to criticizing it (and I can't lie, sometimes I do find playing into the trope funny if it's at least based on something from the text and it's just exaggerated For The Bit yeah). However I do think the strangest thing was linking misogyny and Mine (I made a post rambling about it but deleted it like. .3 seconds later) because nothing he does in either Y3 nor RGGO is explicitly misogynistic? In the slightest? And as we talked about before he's considerably pretty respectful towards women? Again, he surely did slap a little girl, but it wasn't because she was a girl you know (still cringe to do but if we're gonna talk about it let's do it right please and thank you). As you say though, pushing that trope onto Mine just feels like perpetuating the harmful stereotype that gay men hate women, and in cases like that then I can't really take the piss out of it without having a weird taste in my mouth.

[thedollydiaries]

imagine like simon goes into some sort of surgery and has to be put under anesthesia, and when he gets out hes like still high asf on it 💀 and hes being a lil silly goose

okay this is such a cute idea omg, this is 100% based off that tiktok audio where it's like "my wife wouldn't like you touching me like that" "i AM your wife."

thank you so much for the request nonnie, a forehead kiss for you MWAH MWAH

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

wc: 563

warnings: none really, lots and lots of that good ol fluff, mentions of surgery, goofy simon, maybe a little ooc simon (he's high so it's fine)

a/n: i hope this is okay, i'm feeling a bit rusty with my writing but i've finally got back some motivation and energy to do so after the past two months of low energy and bad mental health. if you guys want to know a bit more about it and my mental health (i don't see why anyone would but lmao) let me know, i don't mind making a post about it if you guys want an explanation of some sort or whatever. anywho, sorry this is so short but i hope you still like it!! <3

a/n 2.0: i recently applied for a part time job at a bookstore so y'all pray for me that i get this job because i want it so bad. i am just gonna decide that i WILL get this job, because why wouldn't i?

simon had been out of surgery for just over an hour now, being a soldier you 'd think perhaps he was going under surgery for some kind of wound he had inflicted upon him on the battlefield but no, he was just getting his tonsils removed after a bad bout of tonsillitis ended up with him developing really bad tonsil stones.

so here you were, waiting by his bedside for him to wake up. the doctor and nurses reminded you just as he had gotten out that he may still be a little, well loopy, off of the meds depending on how quickly he woke up. you waited in a chair at his bedside, reading a book when you heard the blankets of the bed rustling just a little.

looking up from your book you see simon starting to wake up and you reach out to grasp his hand, only for him to rip it away from you when his eyes were fully opened.

"uh, si? you okay, hon?" you ask gently, maybe he just wasn't feeling too well after waking up, or perhaps he wasn't wanting physical touch, that happened quite often and you always respected that space he may want when he wanted it.

"don't call me that." simon said, voice hoarse and scratchy from the surgery, he sounded a little angry.

"what?" you questioned, this wasn't like simon, you couldn't understand why he wouldn't want you speaking like this to him.

"i'm taken."

"i know." you replied with a short laugh.

"you should be touching me like that then."

it hit you then, he was woozy from the meds and didn't recognize you. the realization made you laugh a little more. you decided to have a bit of fun with this high version of your boyfriend.

"sorry about that simon. wanna tell me about your partner?"

"oh, (name)? they're amazing, you know they're so pretty. and they're funny too. they always know how to make me feel better, i miss them." simon replies, ranting and raving on and on to you about his partner, about you.

"you love them a lot, don't you?" you ask him with a smile, it felt so nice to hear all these lovely things about yourself, your boyfriend clearly unfiltered by the effects of the anesthesia he was under.

sure he definitely said sweet things to your face, but something about hearing it when he was basically high as shit made your heart pound a little more.

"i love them with my whole heart." simon replies, a goofy little smile on his face.

you can't help but reach out to gently caress his face at those words, body filling up with some much adoration for the soldier in front of you.

"hey! what did i say about touching me. i have a partner!" simon scolds, trying to dodge your touch.

"simon, love... i am your partner. it's me, (name)." you reply with a laugh.

simon takes a good long look at you when you tell him this, he stares at you, looks you up and down before letting out a soft and quiet "oh."

you begin to hear the beeping of his heart rate monitor speed up, his cheeks turning slightly pink as he stares up at you.

you couldn't help but laugh a little more at this. what a sweet idiot. your sweet idiot.

[selfcarecap]

Over Each Other [L.H.]

Logan Howlett x female!reader

summary: Logan and you are just friends – you have a boyfriend, after all. But sometimes when you and your boyfriend are arguing, Logan listens and jerks off to it. He knows you two will break up soon, and he’s just finding ways to patiently pass the time until you can be his. Until one night, you’ve fought your final argument with your boyfriend and are in need of some comfort that Logan is more than happy to provide.

warnings: smut 18+ like this is more sexual and less fluffy (or angsty) than the summary sounds tbh (m masturbation, oral sex f receiving, unprotected piv, creampie, Logan calls reader princess, good girl, bub, baby), kinda toxic i mean you read the summary but still a sweet fic, reader is vulnerable so Logan could be seen to be taking advantage of her so don’t read if you don’t like, excuse the dramatic title and a few lines (from Linkin Park’s Over Each Other) because this is also me working through some feelings lmao, this is obviously not at aaalllll a realistic depiction of healing from a break-up lol (although I sincerely believe it would work with Logan..), X-Mansion era

note: not the fic I was expecting to be my first fic in over a month but my heart needed this so here you go <3 i also only proofread once so lmk if there are any atrocious typos lmao | gorgeous dividers by @dollywons

word count: 3.9k oops wth 

Logan knows he’s a bad man. He’s killed people, innocent people, committed countless crimes, done more evil things than he can ever remember. But now he knows he’s a bad man because of something entirely different. 

Logan shamelessly jerks off to the sound of you and your boyfriend arguing. 

He doesn’t even need to use his heightened hearing, that’s how loud you two are. Night after night after night he listens to you arguing, stroking his cock to the rhythm of your voice. 

You always have the upper hand — he would never masturbate to your pain or to you being degraded. Your boyfriend is a fucking idiot and you’re not afraid to let him know. Logan is sure he’s not the only one who knows that your relationship will end soon, and he’s fine to give you the time you need. Logan is a patient man these days; he can wait. But he’ll make the wait worth his while. 

He gains pleasure from knowing that soon you two will break up, and you’ll be all his.

Logan sees the way you look at him, senses the way your heartbeat speeds up that little bit when he smiles at you, smells a spike in your pheromones when he’s around. And he’s no different when it comes to you.

The more you and your stupid boyfriend argue, the closer you get to breaking up, and the closer Logan gets to his release. 

He’s listening to your moans of frustration this evening and imagines turning them into moans of pleasure, imagines licking your pussy until you’ve forgot all about your little boyfriend. Logan’s fist speeds up around his dick, hips moving up to fuck into his hand as he thinks of you and your gorgeous face.

Logan cums with your voice in his head, with the thought of you and your boyfriend finally breaking up, and shoots cum all over his own hand, down his forearm, and over his abs. He jerks off until he’s satisfied, lying in his bed a mess for a second – his hand coated in his cum, his happy trail sticky.

When Logan’s breath slows down, he realises your voice has stopped. You’re not arguing anymore – you must have gone to sleep. Then he hears your voice again, this time much closer.

“Logan?” A quiet knock at his door, “It’s me, you still awake?”

He pulls his sweatpants back in place and reaches for a tissue, only for his hand to land in the empty box. In a panic, Logan takes off the shirt that he’d pushed up over his abs, and uses it to clean himself of his release, using his freshly washed shirt like a rag.

“One second!” He calls out as he rubs the bunched up shirt over his happy trail to get it all off. Logan throws the dirty shirt into the corner of the room, and opens the door shirtless.

His heart drops when he sees the state you’re in, cheeks wet with tears and clinging to a teddy bear Logan once got you.

“Um… we just broke up. Can I come in? I know it’s late…”

Logan ushers you inside before the sentence has fully left your lips. Now he feels a twinge of guilt – he was too busy trying to get off to realise it was a serious argument this time. Maybe he jerks off more to the concept of you and that dumb boyfriend (ex-boyfriend) arguing and how hot you sound putting that guy in his place all confidently, than the actual fight.

As much as it pains him to see you hurt, he has to smile behind your back for a second when he closes the door. But a shiver runs up his spine when you let your guard down once you’re alone with Logan, all teary-eyed and small and sad. 

Logan sits you down on his bed as you tell him the full story. 

I tried to find my patience… 

All we did was talk over each other… 

 It was all a waste of time… 

There was nothing underneath… 

 I'm so tired of talking over each other…

Logan hugs you while you cling to him, your words barely audible with how you’re smothered against his naked shoulder. He gently rubs your back, and it only makes you hold onto him tighter. 

“Shh, shh baby, I’m here for you. It’s gonna be okay.” The pet name just slips out. Logan barely realises what he’s said until you look up at him all doe-eyed, nodding your head frantically. 

“I’m okay,” you say, “For now. Thank you for listening.”

“Of course, do you want to stay here for the night?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“‘Course I don’t mind, bub. I like having you here. Even better if it means I can take care of you while you need someone,” Logan says, and watches a soft smile spread on your face.

You sit up to wipe your eyes, only to realise you have no tears left. It’s been an hour since you got here, and you’ve calmed down. 

Logan held you, said all the right things, helped you see things clearly. You’re better off without that guy, and you know Logan will be here for you until you’re over him. More importantly, you’re sure he will be there for you beyond that too.

“Here you go,” Logan takes your teddy and gives him a special place on his nightstand, and lets you wrap your arms around him as you settle against his chest. He’s not sure what to do next, but it’s late and he assumes you have no energy to do anything other than sleep.

It surprises him when you speak up a few minutes later, though your voice is quiet.

“He couldn’t even make me cum…”

Logan looks at you and finds a pout on your lips but a glint in your eyes, the warm glow of his bedside lamp making you look like an angel.

He chuckles, “So you’re crying over a man that couldn’t even make his girl feel good?”

You nod your head and smile bashfully.

“When was the last time you were fucked well?”

You look away from Logan as you think, “Uh, I dunno.” 

“Hhmm. You didn’t miss it in all that time you were together?”

You turn to your side to lean up on your elbow, more awake again, “Well, I did. But maybe now I can… find someone better.”

You’re looking up right at Logan through your pretty eyelashes, and it’s subtle but so seductive, but he knows you’re too shy to initiate something, especially now when you probably feel guilty for not mourning your relationship more. But Logan is proud of you for realising your worth and ending it. Your ex should be the only one sad right now, not you.

“Of course you will,” Logan tells you, “You’ll find someone who loves you more than that idiot ever could and someone who will fuck you as good as you deserve.”

“Hmm, you think so?”

“I know so, bub.”

You give him a smile and move to lie down on your belly, head resting on your folded up arms. Your scooting around moves the blanket, pulling it off of Logan’s lap, revealing the half-hard bulge under his sweatpants. 

Logan pulls the blanket back in place, but he’s not sure if you saw.

“How will I know if I’m being fucked well? If I don’t have a reference…” you play with your hands, not looking at Logan.

“I could always show you,” Logan smiles, patiently waiting for you to gain the confidence to look back into his eyes, and you do.

“Only if you want to. But if I’m interpreting your signals right then..” you nod to his lap with a teasing smile.

“You saw…” Logan rolls his eyes at himself which earns him a sweet laugh from you, “Didn’t want you to think your pain makes me hard, or that I’m taking advantage of you.”

“Do I look like I’m in pain right now?” you giggle, a huge smile on your face, cheeks already getting warm with arousal, “And if you wanted to take advantage I’m sure you wouldn’t have waited for me to bring it up.”

“You sure about this, bub? We have all the time in the world.”

“I want you now, Logan. Been waiting to get the courage to break up with him so I could finally have a chance at being with you.”

“Really?” Logan asks, but you’re busy letting your gaze drift down his body, fixed on his lap now. Logan moves closer, and he takes your face in his hands, chuckling “You still with me, bub?”

You don’t reply. Instead, you push your mouth against his, and it’s the most intense kiss Logan has ever experienced. It’s like Logan can feel himself pulling all the pain from you with his lips, eating your pain alive and swallowing it, never to be seen again.

He doesn’t even have to open his eyes to know that you’re smiling more than you have in weeks. He can feel a new energy radiating off your body. Something is healing in you. 

You kiss until you’re both breathless, smiling and horny. Logan’s erection is pressing against your leg, and he can practically smell how wet you are.

“Tell me what you need, baby,” Logan says, heart beating fast from how turned on he is.

You pause for a second, grinning and almost too needy to think, “Tell me what you want to do to me.”

“How about I show you?” Logan lies you on your back, slowly pushing your oversized sleep shirt over your hips, and kissing down your body, down to your knees and over your shins.

“Is this okay? Tell me if you wanna stop.”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe, skin heating up where he touches you to gently pull your knees apart, “Never stop.”

Logan chuckles against your warm skin where he kisses you, from the side of your knee to your upper inner thigh. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you, how long I've needed you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” It’s hard to talk, but you’re getting the words out somehow, “Could’ve been with you ages ago.”

“Didn’t want to intervene with anything. You needed your time to break up. And I know good things take time, and…” his words die in his throat when his lips move to your panties. They’re soaked with wetness, and Logan inhales you, something between a moan and a whimper leaving his mouth.

“God, baby…” he whispers, settling down between your legs and then lifting them up over his shoulders, “You have no idea how badly I need to eat your pussy right now. Can I?”

You nod, fighting the urge to rip your panties off yourself.

“Use your words, princess.”

“Yes, Logan.. yes, yes.” It’s the only word you can think of right now, with the heat of his mouth so close to your clothed pussy. He smirks at your words and nuzzles his cheek between your legs, leaving your clit throbbing and the spot on your panties growing larger.

You clench around nothing when Logan trails the tip of his tongue up and down your pussy over your panties, your legs squeezing around his head, hands finding his hair.

“You gonna be a good girl for me and stop squirming? I wanna take my time with you, baby.” 

You nod and close your eyes for a moment, unsure if you can stop. But then Logan slowly pulls your panties to the side and seems to forget about wanting to take his time himself.

“Such a pretty fucking pussy, baby–” he interrupts his own words by burying his face between your legs, licking his way up from your pussy to the top of your clit and moaning as if it were the best meal he’s ever tasted.

You tighten your hand in his hair to pull him even closer and he obeys your silent command, burying his face in you more, his beard, lips and nose now wet with you. Logan licks into your pussy, tasting you like a man starved, one of his big hands coming up your body to place it over your tit.

“So fucking perfect,” he mumbles more to himself, finger playing with your nipple as his tongue plays with your clit. It’s been so long since you experienced this type of pleasure that you’re close already.

“Logan…” it comes out as a whimper, and he smirks as he lifts his head to look at you.

“Yes, princess?”

“Might not last long..” you say, and it takes everything in you not to push his head down.

“That’s the point, baby,” he smiles, and goes back down. He brings his hands between your legs to spread your pussy lips so that he can get even closer. You feel vulnerable spread open for him like this, but it’s a comfortable vulnerability. Your heart feels content. You know you can trust him. He won’t hurt you.

You’re so wet that you’re almost embarrassed by how loud it sounds when Logan eats your pussy. A pleasure you’ve been missing in your life for a while rushes through your body when Logan begins to suck on your clit, and your back arches off the bed.

You cum with Logan’s name a whisper on your lips, and he doesn’t stop until you’re seeing stars and pushing his head away. 

Logan sits up from between your legs with a grin, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and then licking it clean right after.

“You okay?” He smiles, and you realise how hard you’re panting.

“Yeah. I almost forgot what that feels like,” you confess.

“What, cumming?”

You nod with a pout that Logan quickly kisses away, covering your body with his as he hovers over you.

“Trust me, bub, we’ll make you remember all of it. You up for more tonight?”

“Yes,” you reply embarrassingly fast. You’re not sure you could stop if you wanted to, your body pumped full with the happiness hormones you haven’t felt in all too long.

Logan holds himself up over you with one arm, pulling down his pants. You’d tease him about the wet spot of precum on them, but you’re far too horny to think of what to say.

“Good, because you taste so delicious, baby, you’re not getting rid of me between your legs any time soon,” he smirks, leaning down to kiss you as you grin against him. You don’t want him to leave, ever.

His big hand finds your thigh, and he gently pushes a finger in, then two, kissing you and watching your face for any signs of discomfort, but all you’re doing is arching your back for him to push deeper.

“You want it, baby?”

You look down Logan’s body, eyes settling on his hard and wanting cock, the tip glistening with precum, “Mhmm,” you nod frantically, “I want it.”

“Been a while though…” you add hesitantly.

“It’s okay, princess. I’ll be gentle. We’ve got all the time in the world, okay?” He leans his forehead against yours and a smile spreads over your face again.

“Okay.” You lean up to kiss him, both of you getting lost in the way your tongues feel against each other for a few moments.

“Here,” Logan rubs a few messy circles over your pussy, his palm getting slick with your wetness. He wraps a hand around his dick, stroking himself a few times to coat himself in the feeling of you.

“I’m ready,” you tell Logan before he can ask.

“Good girl.”

Logan trails his thumb over your cheek and gives you a chaste kiss, and butterflies erupt in your belly.

“You have no idea how happy I am right now,” he says, and all you can do is look back up at him lovingly.

“You want me to put it in?” he asks, teasingly slapping his cock against your clit a few times. Then, he suddenly pauses.

The warmth of him above you is gone, but he’s not far. He’s leaning over to his bedside table, turning your teddy bear away from you two.

“He doesn’t need to see this,” he says all seriously, and you giggle.

You help him take off your shirt, and you’re bare underneath, and as good as it feels to have Logan distracted by how good your boobs look for a bit, you need him somewhere else.

“Logan?” you ask, and he looks back up at you, a nipple still in his mouth.

“Yes?” he licks a broad stripe over your nipple as he says it, and it comes out muffled.

“Kind of need you somewhere else.”

“Oh, do you, princess?” Logan hovers over you again, leaning on one forearm as his other hand rests on your tit, and he’s smirking down at you, “Where would that be?”

You grin widely, biting your lip as you carefully take his hand off you, and bring it between your legs. You don’t even have to guide him all the way to your pussy before his hand is gone from yours and he’s cupping your wet, warm pussy.

“Here, baby?” he brings two fingers up to his mouth to suck your wetness off them, and you nod as if in a trance.

“Okay, bub, you sure?”

“Yesss, Logan,” you let out a pathetic groan of frustration, your chest vibrating with the sound.

He smirks, bringing his hand, still slick with his spit, to your cheeks and squishing them together, “You’re so adorable when you’re horny, you know that, princess?” You bat his hand away at his teasing, but your grin might be even bigger than his.

Logan finally lifts one of your legs and pushes it up against your chest, rubbing a few lazy circles on your clit before he rubs the tip of his cock through your folds. He’s doing it to tease you, but you see him lose his own composure, expression turning into a frown of neediness.

You share another quick but sloppy kiss during which you take Logan’s cock and rub it against your pussy. He only pulls away from the kiss to finally put the tip inside you.

“God,” he groans at just the first few inches, and you both calm yourself down to make sure this isn’t over immediately.

“I can take it,” you say, wrapping your arms around Logan’s neck.

“You’re my good girl, hm? Gonna take my cock? You sure?”

“Yes, Logan. Need all of it, please.”

“I got you, baby. I’ll give you anything you want.” 

Logan slides his cock inside you, inch by inch, and you both moan when he bottoms out. 

“You feel good?” He asks, and all you can do is nod. You groan, only at the fact that he’s not moving yet.

“Me too, baby, me too,” he smiles, slowly starting to move, beginning to fuck you. And he was right, he’s fucking you well. Better than anything you’ve ever felt.

He pulls out almost entirely for the first few thrusts, then stuffing you full of his big cock again, your wet pussy pulsing around him, sucking him back in. Your heart beats happily against your chest and he can feel it too; he’s slotted against your body as closely as he can be.

“Such a good girl, taking me so well. You still okay, princess?”

You grin and take his face to kiss him, his hips stilling just as he’s buried inside you as deeply as possible. You make out with him for a few seconds, pussy spasming around his uncontrollably, and you feel Logan squirm and pull out of you a bit because he doesn’t want to cum yet.

“That’s how good I feel,” you smile up at him.

Logan grins, burying his face in your neck to kiss you there as his hips begin to move again. He kisses over your jaw and your cheeks as a hand comes down to rub your clit. Together with his dick inside you, pulsing with warmth and pleasure, you suddenly feel all the energy of your body flowing between your thighs again.

You whimper against Logan’s face, your cheek catching against his.

“You close, baby?”

“Mhhm,” is the only sound you can muster as you cling to Logan, letting him fuck your pussy and play with your clit until you’re almost there.

“Such a good girl for me. Want you to cum for me, alright, princess? Gonna feel so fucking good, yeah?”

Your response is a whimper against his lips as you let go, and pleasure floods your body. Your pussy clenches around Logan’s dick, and while he’s still rubbing your clit, fucking you through your orgasm, he cums.

Logan cums so much you’re not sure where your orgasm ends and his begins, but you know you don’t stop feeling good until he’s drained until the last drop and your pussy is stuffed full with his cum.

You both slow down bit by bit, breathless and grinning at each other, not letting go. When Logan brings his hand back up between your faces, it’s slick with your wetness and covered in his cum, and you take his wrist to guide him towards your face.

You look Logan in the eyes as you suck his and your cum off his fingers, one by one, and Logan kisses you the second you’re done.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispers in your ear, slowly pulling out of you and pulling you into his arms when he lies down.

“Thank you,” you respond shyly, unsure what to say. You’re too happy to pay attention to your words.

“I’m always here for you, baby. You know that. And as soon as you’re ready to move on, I’ll take you on the best date of your life, okay?”

You grin, kissing his lips, “Okay. And until then?”

“Until then I’ll eat that pretty pussy of yours every evening, and you can sleep in my bed whenever you don’t feel like being alone. Sound good?”

You wrap your arms around his neck, cuddling against his chest, your heart warm and happy as you feel yourself getting tired, “Sounds good.”

P.S. thank you for reading <3 reblog and let me know what you liked most about this fic for Logan to come and eat your pussy out every night <3