#back on my evil grind here is this one

[jrueships]

Do you have any ocs? You play 2k?

i did play 2k!!!! i mean.. i play 2k13 2k bcs it has pg and it's offline bcs im unwell and love the dying out practice of inviting ppl over to play games still but 😭 it still counts, right?? anyhow! im not a big oc guy, like i don't have a lot of them or my own universe of them, but im also not a self insert kinda guy (no shade to anyone who is any of this, i think it's all rlly cool and wish i had to creativity to do so as well!) so i kinda just made this dude

his first name is THE and his last name is SHRIMP, and he's like 5'3 . He's number 11 on the raptors and i made him solely to cause a rift in kyle/demar for ship drama (it's ok tho bcs he only makes kyle/demar stronger by being an evil division) (plus his girlfriend is denver levins so he rlly just kinda tried breaking kyle/demar up as a social experiment or smthing idk he's insane)

[lordsardine]

.

[mikethebrave]

listening to the national is so dangerous because you'll be enjoying it right. because it's good music. and then . and then...... the Sadness gets u....... whadda hell how could this have happened ot Me...... why would they do that to me personally.

[valeisaslut]

Reader asking Ellie to record them fucking, and Ellie ends up getting really into it (love your writing btw!! 💋💋)

say hi to the camera ─⭑.

⭒ word count: 3.6k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content warnings: film student top!ellie x sub!reader, oral sex (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), strap-on (r!receiving), pussy slapping, hair pulling, filming kink, AFAB!reader, cursing, pet names, rough sex, degradation + praise, MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

࿐not part of the collide au (rip my absolute queens... this actually hurt my SOUL but hey sometimes we gotta go out of our comfort zone and get feral for... the craft)

you said it as a joke.

but it landed like a command.

it happens halfway through straddling her on the couch, your body already buzzing from the way she’s kissing you—slow and deep, like she’s trying to memorize your mouth. her palms are hot under your shirt, fingertips dragging slow up your ribs.

you lean back just enough to catch your breath, grin sharp as ever.

"you should record this next time."

her lips pause at your throat. she stays there, a little shocked, mouth barely grazing your skin, and then—voice low, amused:

"you want me to record you while i fuck you?"

you shrug, all fake casual, even though your pulse jumps.

"i mean… why not? could be hot."

ellie pulls back just enough to look at you. blinks once. and then she grins—all trouble. her hands drag down your sides, deliberate now, like she’s already directing the first shot.

"you want a sex tape, baby?"

your smile widens. "just for me. like, when you're gone late working on a project and i’m in bed missing you."

she groans. like, actual full-body groan. throws her head back against the couch, rubs a hand over her face like you’ve just ruined her life.

"jesus fucking christ. you’re evil."

you tilt your head. "you love it."

her gaze snaps back to you—darker now, her pupils blown wide, her lip caught between her teeth.

"i will story-board the fuck out of it. lighting. blocking. sound. i'll give you a score."

"you’re such a nerd."

“and you’re the one asking a film major to make a porno, so who’s the real nerd here?”

you laugh, leaning in to kiss her, grinding down on her lap.

“bet you’d narrate the whole thing like, ‘scene one—fucking my girlfriend. interior. night. single cam. practical lighting.’”

she chokes on a laugh, then groans, fingers digging into your hips. “shut the fuck up.”

“no, seriously—‘fade in: slut on couch. extreme close-up. one long take. raw as hell.’”

“i’m gonna ruin you,” she growls, and this time it’s not a joke—rough, all threat and promise.

you just smirk, mouth barely brushing hers.

“yeah, but make it auteur.”

she doesn’t bring it up again for a week. you think she’s forgotten, or maybe it was just talk—a shared fantasy that slipped between the couch cushions and the memory of her mouth on your neck.

but then it’s saturday night. you’re fresh from the shower, hair damp and clinging to your neck, skin still warm, still smelling like her soap. you’re wearing her old gray t-shirt—soft, stretched, worn in the best way—and nothing underneath.

ellie’s already in the bedroom. the lights are low, shadows moving slow across the walls. deftones plays from the speaker—just enough to feel in your ribs, not loud enough to distract.

when you step into the room, you freeze. she’s sprawled out on the bed in a black tank top and boxers, one knee bent, and a camera aimed straight at you.

not her phone. not some propped-up, shaky little attempt at homemade porn. a real camera—matte black, compact, handheld, with a flip-out screen angled toward her face and that unmistakable red recording light already glowing steady.

the kind of camera that says she’s thought about this. planned it. maybe even fantasized about how she’d frame you, light you, direct you. and now you’re here. standing in the doorway, already caught in the first shot.

“wait,” you say, blinking. “are you for real?”

she doesn’t even flinch. just looks up from behind it and grins, wide and wolfish.

“oh, i’m for real,” she says, voice warm and smug.

you snort, tugging the hem of your shirt down instinctively, "with a real fucking camera?"

"yeah, wanna see it in 4K" she responds, tilting it, lens still trained on you. "why? don’t get all shy on me now, babe. you're the one who said record it."

“yeah,” you arch a brow. “i just didn’t think i was dating a one-woman a24 production crew.”

“you’re not,” she says, adjusting the zoom. “you’re dating a visionary.”

you try not to laugh but fail.“you look like a lesbian scorsese.”

“and you look like the hottest thing i’ve ever filmed,” she says, voice thick, thumb adjusting the focus. “so maybe be nice to your director.”

you stay where you are for a second. let her film you standing still. let her zoom in the curve of your thighs, the way the shirt clings to your chest, the outline of your nipples through the fabric. the tension builds between frames, between your breaths.

“you’re actually committing to this?” you ask, voice softer now, a little breathless, as if the heat in the room just kicked up a notch.

“baby,” she says, adjusting the focus without even looking away, “i’ve been storyboarding this in my head since before we even spoke.”

her voice is calm, almost sweet—like it’s not the filthiest thing she’s ever admitted.

“freak,” you mutter, but you’re smiling, laughing again—breathier this time. your body already giving in. you step closer, hips loose, eyes locked on hers.

ellie lifts the camera a little higher, tracks the shift of your body as if she’s afraid to miss a second.

“show me,” she whispers, tone low but teasing. “come on, give me a show.”

and you give her one. you lift the hem of the shirt slowly. not for her—for the lens. you know exactly how this is going to look in playback. the glow of your skin in this light. the way your body starts to reveal itself, line by line.

you pull it over your head and let it drop to the floor, nipples stiffening in the cold air. your stomach tenses under her gaze, and you don’t try to hide the shine between your thighs.

she makes a noise—somewhere between a sigh and a curse—and the camera dips for half a second, like her hand twitched. you see her throat bob as she swallows.

you know that look. she’s not sure whether to keep filming or drop the thing entirely and fall to her knees.

and god, it turns you on even more.

"still rolling?" you ask, voice sugar-laced, cocky.

ellie nods once, "yeah. fucking hell, yeah."

you step closer, slower this time. not acting. not pretending. this isn’t performance—it’s instinct. it’s power. the way she’s looking at you, mouth parted, eyes glazed behind the viewfinder. you know she’s turned on before she’s even touched you.

“you better not cut the part where i called you a pervy little director,” you tease, all teeth.

ellie lowers the camera just enough to meet your eyes, flushed and slightly out of breath. hand still holding the lens like a lifeline.

“cut it?” she says. “i’m putting it in the trailer.”

you grin. shift your weight, your thighs brushing.

“turn around,” she says next, and it’s not a suggestion.

it’s gravel and gravity, all command. her voice has slipped into that other place—firm, sure, focused. all director mode.

you smirk but do what she says. slowly, hips swaying. your hands drag down your own waist as you pivot, and when your back is to her, you arch slightly—just enough. let her see the full curve of your ass, the slick glinting between your thighs.

behind you, there’s a sharp exhale.

"jesus christ," she mutters. then the soft mechanical buzz of her adjusting the zoom.

you don’t need to see her to know she’s locked in. her eyes drinking in every inch, the red light on the camera the only thing keeping her from touching you already.

you glance back lazily. “so, you gonna keep filming, or are you gonna fuck me?”

and that’s it.

the camera dips. her body snaps to attention like it’s muscle memory.

you’re pulled back towards the bed in one smooth movement—no hesitation. the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you drop, your body folding back on your elbows, legs parting without a hint of shame.

ellie stands over you, camera raised.

“holy shit,” she mutters.

she brings the camera lower, letting it drink you in, between your legs, over the slick. the way your chest rises and falls, nipples peaked, skin glowing.

“look at you,” she says. “you’re already dripping, just from being filmed.”

you shift, thighs tightening, and she catches the movement.

"such a fucking dirty girl," she mutters, one hand ghosting over your stomach.

she places the camera down on the nightstand, still rolling, still angled at your spread legs and heaving chest. her focus is so fucking precise it sends a wave of arousal through you all on its own.

and then ellie kneels between your legs like it’s her altar.

angel starts playing low in the background, slow and dark.

has she even prepped the soundtrack? you wonder for a second, half-laugh, half-moan.

(of course she did.)

she starts with your knee. presses her mouth there, slow and warm, a kiss that lingers just a second too long before she trails it upward. her hands follow—one curling firm around your thigh like she owns it, the other gliding up the center of your stomach, dragging heat in its wake.

she slips her palm higher, sliding between your ribs, under the soft weight of your breast.

her thumb brushes over your nipple and you gasp, chest lifting into her hand like you’ve forgotten how to do anything else but respond.

"you feel that?" she murmurs, voice low, like it’s just for you even though the camera’s still blinking red. "your heart’s beating so fucking fast."

you open your mouth to say something smart, something flirty, but then she’s kissing up your thigh again and the thought dies on your tongue.

she reaches your stomach, then your sternum, then your collarbone—and instead of diving down immediately, she pauses. tilts her head. looks at you.

and kisses you.

hot and deep, all tongue and teeth. one of those messy, all-consuming kisses that steals the breath right out of your lungs.

you moan into it—she swallows the sound greedily. her fingers are already moving again. one circling your nipple, the other caressing your side.

she pulls back just enough to speak, her lips grazing your cheek, then your jaw.

"you're perfect" she says, kissing beneath your ear, down your throat, impossibly reverent.

your hips roll up involuntarily, and she smiles against your collarbone.

"getting impatient, baby?"

"ellie—fuck—"

she chuckles. not unsympathetic—just pleased. her mouth finds your nipple next, tongue dragging over it slow, flicking, then sucking it into the heat of her mouth. her other hand moves to your other breast, squeezes gently, then rougher, thumb teasing over the tip until you whine.

"god, these tits," she mumbles against your chest, "camera’s not even doing them justice."

your back arches when her palm lands flat on your stomach, sliding lower, past your hip, fingers teasing the edge of your thigh.

"ellie," you gasp again, helpless this time.

she lets your nipple go with a soft, wet pop. looks up at you from your chest, mouth slick, green eyes lit up with that impossible mix of her—tender and ravenous, as if she wants to worship you and devour you in the same breath.

she shifts downward, dragging her tongue along the slope of your breast, down your stomach, until she’s eye level with your pussy. you’re throbbing, already wrecked, thighs trembling just from the anticipation of her mouth.

she glances at the nightstand, double-checking the angle like it matters. then brings her fingers to your folds, spreading you open with both thumbs, totally entranced by the sight.

“say hi to the camera, baby,” she teases, looking up at you.

and then, without warning, her tongue drags a slow, devastating stripe from your entrance to your clit.

you moan—loud, raw, helpless, trying to lift your hips but her free hand is already there, pressing you down into the mattress.

"f-fuck!" you whimper, voice cracking.

"that's right," she murmurs, licking again. "let it hear every fuckin’ sound."

she starts working you in earnest now—tongue circling your clit in tight, practiced spirals, her mouth warm and greedy. she moans against you, like the taste of you is enough to drive her insane. you can feel every vibration down to your toes.

your hands are tangled in her hair, thighs wide open, whole body arching into her mouth. she slips one hand between your legs and slides a finger inside—curling just enough to make your spine seize.

"holy shit," you gasp. "oh my god—Ellie—"

"more," she whispers against your clit, sliding in a second finger "let it see how messy you get for it."

and then she reaches back—without stopping—grabs the camera from the nightstand with her free hand, flips the screen toward you, and holds it low between your bodies. the image blinks into view—a live, unfiltered shot: your pussy stretched around her fingers, your mouth agape and brows furrowed, your thighs shaking with every thrust.

“you seeing this, baby?” she mutters, eyes flicking between you and the viewfinder. “fuck, look at you.”

and god—you do. you watch yourself fall apart in real time, every wet sound, every twitch of your stomach from overstimulation, every pump of her fingers, every gasp on full display. like it’s art, like it’s proof.

and it’s probably the filthiest, most turned on you have ever felt in your life.

its holy and obscene at the same time—your body laid bare, her fingers deep inside you, your face twisted with pleasure, and all of it immortalized in perfect footage.

you can’t look away. neither can she.

"ellie—please—I’m gonna—"

"do it," she growls, "come f’me, come for the camera."

you come with a cry that splits the room, loud, shaking. your thighs squeeze around her hand and your back lifts off the mattress, body wrung out like a rag.

she doesn’t stop, just slows her pace, works you through it. you’re trembling when she finally pulls away, kisses your thigh, and sits back with the camera resting on her bent knee. she lifts it, points it at your face.

you’re flushed, sweaty. lying in a wrecked halo of your own making.

“so damn perfect like this” she mutters, voice a rasp. "you want more?"

you nod, chest heaving.

"words."

"yes," you whisper. then louder, like she needs to hear it. like the camera does, too. "yes. fuck, yes. please fuck me."

and she grins like the devil.

she tosses the camera onto the nightstand—still recording, angled just right, lens slightly askew—but it only makes it hotter, messy, real. something she’ll watch for hours with her hand down her boxers.

she doesn’t say anything as she crosses the room, opens the drawer, and pulls out the harness. it’s not slow or performative. it’s practiced, casual. she straps it over her black boxers with one hand, the other slicking lube over the thick purple silicone cock. it gleams in the low light, catching the flash of the camera’s red recording dot.

you’re already moving, your body shifting on instinct—onto your hands and knees, face buried in the sheets, ass high in the air like it’s muscle memory.

ellie looks at you and lets out a sound from deep in her throat. almost a laugh, mostly a groan.“stay just like that.”

she climbs behind you, smooth and silent. spreads your cheeks with both hands and groans when she sees how soaked you are.

"fuck, baby. you made a whole fuckin' mess back here."

"ellie—"

she leans down, kissing the small of your back, then bites your ass, playful and sharp. one hand grips your hip, the other slides between your legs—and she slaps your pussy once, just enough to make you jolt and whine. it’s wet, loud, dirty.

she groans at the sound. "jesus. dripping."

then she drags the head of the strap between your folds, slow and heavy.

"you ready for it?"

you nod frantically, pressing your face into the mattress.

“say it.”

“please fuck me. please, i want it. i need it so bad—”

she wanted to draw it out—make you beg, make you squirm—but she’s just as wrecked as you are, barely holding it together. so when she finally thrusts in, it’s with one deep, steady stroke that knocks the air straight out of your lungs.

you gasp, choking. “jesus christ!—”

“god, look at that,” she breathes, pulling back, watching the way you stretch and suck her back in with the next thrust. “you’re fuckin’ swallowing it.”

her hands find your hips. she sets a brutal rhythm, dragging you back onto her cock with every thrust, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls. the sound of your moans, the slap of her thighs against your ass, the headboard slamming the wall—it’s filthy.

she leans forward, chest pressed to your back, and wraps one hand around your breast, squeezing, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you whine. her other hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back.

“you like getting fucked like this?” she hisses in your ear. “like a toy on display?”

“yes—fuck, yes—”

“touch yourself.”

you obey instantly. one hand between your legs, circling your clit in frantic, desperate little motions while she fucks you from behind like she’s trying to split you in two.

you notice that closer is softly but steadily playing, and the camera’s still rolling, capturing everything. the curve of your ass, the tremble in your thighs, the way your body jerks every time she bottoms out.

ellie groans like she feels it too—because she does. she’s grinding against the base of the strap, hungry and relentless, chasing the friction like she’s starved for it. the harness is soaked, her boxers nearly translucent with how wet she is, and every time she thrusts into you, the base rubs right against her clit.

“you gonna come like this?” she pants. “gonna soak my dick like a good little slut?”

“yes—yes—fuck, ellie, i’m gonna—”

“say it.”

“i’m your slut,” you cry out. “i'm your fucking slut—”

and right then, without missing a beat, she grabs the camera off the nightstand, angles it behind you. the lens catches the mess of your ass bouncing against her hips, the wet slap of skin on skin, the slick sound of your cunt stretching around the purple silicone.

and then she slaps your ass, hard. loud enough to echo through the room.

"fuck!" you yelp, back arching, legs shaking violently.

and you come like a landslide. body seizing, muscles locking, then breaking all at once as you scream into the mattress. it rolls through you in waves, loud and long, your thighs trembling, fingers still working yourself as you ride it out.

you feel it when she starts to lose it—her rhythm falters, hips stutter, breath hitching into short, high little gasps. her fingers dig into your waist and she presses forward, deeper, harder, her chest flush to your back like she’s trying to crawl inside you.

“fuck—fuck, baby—i’m—”

her voice cracks, and then she whines—high and helpless, the kind of sound you didn’t know she could make. desperate and slutty and fucking perfect. her whole body goes taut, then shudders, her thighs shaking as she ruts through it. she comes with her face buried in your shoulder, teeth clenched, breath shivering.

the base of the strap is slick and messy between you now, but she grinding against the harness like it’s not enough, never enough. she groans into your skin, broken and dazed, and you can feel her heart pounding against your back.

and when she pulls out, it’s slow and careful, hands suddenly tender where they'd just been rough. she leans forward and kisses your spine—once, then again—her breath hot and uneven against your skin.

“you okay?” she murmurs, palm sliding up your back in soft, grounding strokes.

you nod, barely able to form the word. “better than okay.”

she laughs, quiet and breathless, into your shoulder. a little dazed, wrecked herself.

she rolls you onto your back, her hand never leaving your skin, and collapses beside you. the room is humid with sex, thick with sweat, heat and the echo of everything that just happened. the air itself feels heavy, slow.

in her hand, the camera is still rolling. its red light blinks steadily, casting a faint glow over the two of you.

ellie flips the screen towards herself, then turns the lens on you—zooming in dramatically on your wrecked face.

“say hi, baby” she teases, still catching her breath.

you blink up at the lens, dazed. hair a disaster. lips kiss-bruised. eyes glassy like you’ve just returned from the dead.

“hi,” you mumble, grinning like a fool, “i just got fucked into the stratosphere.”

ellie then pans the camera to her own face—sweaty, flushed, hair sticking to her forehead—and raises both brows like she’s in a documentary.

“filmmaker. method actor. strap goat. i do it all.”

you burst out laughing, weakly swatting at her.

she grins, crooked and proud, turning the camera back to you. “and you just won best actress in a leading role, doll.”

“so, what’s the title?” you ask, giggling into the pillow.

ellie snorts—eyes gleaming like she just won an oscar and knocked someone out in the same damn night. she adjusts the angle, tilts the camera so you’re both in the frame: flushed, sweaty, radiant, completely ruined.

then, with the most serious voice she can manage, she deadpans to the lens—

“the slut and the lesbian scorsese.”

you wheeze. “shut the fuck up.”

“already submitted to sundance, actually.”

“you’re insufferable.”

“director’s cut drops next week.”

you try to slap her but miss—too sore, too high on her, too in love. she just laughs, smug and glowing, and zooms in one last time on your face.

“five stars,” she murmurs, “would absolutely fuck again.”

⭒ perm taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <3): @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andiemiaswife @mayfldss @sewithinsouls @coastalwilliams @hotpinkskitties @ssijht @pleasejoel @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @2against3 @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @imunpunishable @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ omg… first fic NOT set in the collide au in literal MONTHS and it feels SO weird but soooo good to write something different omfg 😭 rockstar!ellie and popstar!reader yall still haunt me everyday. my favorite lesbians for the rest of the eternity. i’ve missed this kind of chaos. huge love and tysm to my gorg mootie who sent this amazing request before i even started collide—you live in my brain rent free forever bby!

i might play around with a few more fics + requests before launching the next big series i’ve been outlining (👀), so stay tuned babes. ily all dearly ♡

Please leave a comment if you’re interested in being on my perm taglist!

credits for divider: @cafekitsune <3 – images from pinterest - edited by me

[cumironi]

TOOTH FAIRY jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. it’s just a one time thing. one bite. one bite. and now they refuse one thing that keeps you alive? and what is that? yeah, $uck them off! and what do you do? being unhinged and just throwing a goddamn tantrum. what can they do? ban you from $ex? yeah, as if!

warning. non-sorcerer jjk men, established relationship, 23 you & 31 them, tantrums, petname(2), dirtytalk(?), c$ck-drunk maybe?, name-calling(s), degrading just a bit, you are being a brat and insufferable, overstimulated, abuse mentioned,

since a lot of you amazing people send me the sweetest anon messages (which i appreciate so so much 🥹💕), i’d really love to know who’s behind them! if you’re comfortable, feel free to leave me a little signature — it can be anything! an emoji, your name, a nickname, literally whatever you like 💌✨ i’ll be adding them to my lil friends list like in this link, so i can keep track of all the lovely souls who’ve been showing me love 🫶💖 thank you for being here!!

GOJO SATORU

you’re on your knees. he’s on his back. and he’s not letting you suck him. again.

your palms are pressed to his lower belly, thighs tight around his legs, drooling over the absolute gift of a dick that’s twitching against his stomach—and yet, despite all the teasing, the eye contact, the hungry little whines spilling out of you like prayers, he just lays there. arms folded behind his head. like a fucking lounger chair with abs.

“satoru.”

“mm?”

“why aren’t you in my throat right now.”

he hums like you just asked about the weather. “hmm… probably ‘cause last time, someone went full piranha halfway through and tried to devour me.”

“i slipped!”

he laughs—loud, unapologetic, his stupid pretty smile on full display. “you clamped down, baby. i yanked you off, and you were still holding on like a gremlin. i thought i lost circulation.”

you glare down at him, completely naked, chest heaving, pussy soaked between your thighs and still grinding slightly on his leg like your body’s acting on survival instinct alone. “you know what? next time i’m just gonna choke on air, is that better?! just pretend-cock until i pass out?!”

he bites his lip to stop from laughing again.

you growl. “this is abuse. emotional. spiritual. oral neglect.”

“oral neglect?” he echoes, wiping fake tears. “my god.”

“YES. i haven’t sucked you off in days. DAYS, satoru! my lips are getting soft! my jaw forgot how to unhinge!”

“baby—”

you slam your fists on his thighs dramatically. “I’M WASTING AWAY. there are people in the world who would kill for this opportunity, and you’re out here being stingy!”

“you bit me.”

“WITH LOVE!”

he stretches, big and smug and insufferable. his cock twitches again, begging for your mouth like it misses you too. he knows. he’s evil. and you’re about to cry.

“i just wanna taste,” you mumble, lower lip trembling as you drag yourself up his body like a starving animal. “just a little lick. please. please satoru. i’ll be so good. i’ll moan and everything. i’ll gargle if you want me to.”

he blinks. “you’ll what?”

“satoru,” you say again, softer this time, almost too genuine for the chaos you were spewing just minutes ago. “i’ll be gentle. i’ll go slow, i promise.” your hands slide further up his thighs, and you bat your lashes at him with a look so sinful it could start a religion.

“you said that last time. and i nearly blacked out. i saw stars. you think that’s normal?”

“maybe i wanted to show you god. ever think of that?”

he snorts, gropping you by the boob with no warning. “you’re a freak. a dangerous, beautiful little freak.” his voice drops, eyes hooded now, and you can feel him twitch beneath you even as he tries to act tough.

“then let me be your little danger,” you purr, leaning forward to bite his earlobe just enough to make him shiver. “just one chance. i’ll be nice. i won’t leave a single tooth mark—unless you want me to.”

his head falls back with a low groan, hips jerking up slightly before he slaps a hand over his eyes like he’s shielding himself from the sun. “you’re lucky you’re cute. and hot. and you smell really good. ugh.”

you place both hands on his hips, face hovering dangerously close. “satoru. i’m gonna start crying.”

“don’t you dare—”

a sob bubbles in your throat. “i need it.”

he sighs like a man who’s lived through five wars and still got defeated by your tears. “you’re insane.”

“and your problem! now give me my fucking lollipop!”

you lurch forward—and he catches you by the forehead with one hand, holding you back like a villain holding off an overexcited puppy. you squeal. your hands are slapping at his thighs. your mouth is open. and he’s still denying you.

“okAY, OKAY,” he says, eyes wide, panicked laughter spilling out as you start going full feral. “baby—baby, fine, you get ONE chance. one! i swear if i feel even a hint of teeth—”

“you won’t even remember your name, satoru,” you growl, lowering like a woman possessed. “now shut up and let me ruin your fucking life.”

“you’re unbelievable,” he laughs, finally lifting his hips in surrender. “get over here and do your worst. or your best. god, i don’t even know anymore.”

GETO SUGURU

you’re already underneath him, thighs twitching, body bare and needy, his cock dragging along your slick folds just enough to make your brain fizz. his hair’s loose, dark and wild, face annoyingly calm while you’re fighting for your damn life beneath him.

“suguru,” you hiss, hips bucking. “let me suck your dick or i swear to god i’ll set the apartment on fire.”

he raises an eyebrow, unbothered, not moving an inch closer. “interesting escalation. is that before or after you bite me again?”

you whimper—genuinely whimper, back arching as you clutch his arms like a woman who’s just heard she’s been banished from salvation. “it wasn’t a bite, it was a nibble! a love nibble! a little hello from my molars!”

“you broke the skin.”

“i’m in mourning, suguru. don’t you see me?” your voice cracks as you throw your arm across your forehead like a shakespearean tragedy. “i haven’t had cock in my mouth in two days. two. i’m dehydrated. my jaw’s cramping from emptiness. i’m dying.”

he blinks slowly. “you ate an entire box of cookies this morning and called it your ‘oral coping mechanism.’”

“because you won’t feed me properly!”

his dick twitches against you and your eyes lock on it instantly, like a predator. you try to sit up, but he pushes you back down with a hand to your chest like you’re a possessed little brat on the verge of attacking.

“uh uh. no. last time you gave head, you went feral. it wasn’t a blowjob, it was an assassination attempt.”

“you liked it!” you screech, trying to bite his arm just to prove a point.

he yanks it back before your teeth land and gives you a look that’s 50% exasperated dad and 50% amused boyfriend who absolutely lives for your bullshit. “and you keep proving my point.”

you lean closer, brushing your nose against his jaw, your voice dropping to that sweet, sultry tone that makes him tense up every damn time. “suguru,” you whisper, grabbing his hips and dragging your nails into them like a demon, you murmur, pressing soft kisses under his ear, trailing them down to his neck, “if you don’t let me suck your dick right now, i will walk outside, climb on the kitchen counter, and yell to the neighbors that you don’t fuck me anymore.”

he sighs deeply. “you’re so dramatic.”

“i’m in pain!” you wail, rocking your hips against his just to make your point clearer. “your cock was in my mouth one minute, and the next you’re yanking me off like i’m some horny stray! i’m starving!”

he leans down, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and sinful. “you think starving is bad? keep whining. you’ll be begging for days.”

you make a noise—somewhere between a growl and a sob—and immediately start pounding your fists against his chest. “LET! ME! SUCK! YOUR! COCK!”

“no!” he says, wheezing from laughter as he holds your wrists. “not until you can promise to behave.”

“i won’t! i never will! i want to be ruined! i want to suck you until you’re twitching and sobbing and i black out like a fucking feral beast!”

he stares at you.

you pant.

he runs a hand over his face. “…jesus christ.”

you grab his cock.

he lets you.

“…fine,” he mutters. “but if you bite me again, i’m putting you in a muzzle.”

“deal,” you purr, already sliding down. “and maybe a leash next time too.”

NANAMI KENTO

“absolutely not.”

his tone is calm. firm. the kind of firm that makes people shut up and sit down. but not you. oh, never you. instead, you’re standing at the foot of the bed with both hands on your hips, hair wild, eyes blazing, looking like you’re about to go to war.

“you’re denying me?” you say, like he just said no to proposing. “me? your girlfriend? the woman who washes your shirts and steals your ties and lets you use her thighs as stress pillows?”

“you bit me,” he reminds you coolly, as if he hasn’t been shifting in his chair all day thinking about it. “very hard. and I’m not in the mood to gamble with my physical wellbeing tonight.”

“it was one time!” you cry, throwing yourself dramatically onto the mattress. “and you made that noise—you know, the one that sounds like you’re possessed by lust? it turned me on so bad i just lost control!”

“that noise,” he says dryly, “was the sound of pain.”

“okay, but, like... sexy pain!” you scoot closer, crawling toward him with the dedication of a woman on a mission. your hands are already creeping up his thighs as he sits there in his crisp button-down, sleeves rolled up, glasses low on his nose, looking like the hottest finance god who ever lived. “you looked so hot. so flustered. so... biteable.”

nanami exhales slowly through his nose, as if he’s meditating. you can see his restraint cracking—see the way his hand twitches like he’s fighting the urge to grab you and punish you in the most delicious way.

“i’m not some chew toy for you to get riled up and gnaw on when you’re horny,” he mutters, but his voice is already lower, rougher, his legs spreading just a little as your lips graze his thigh.

“nooo, you’re my perfect, hardworking, ridiculously handsome man with the most glorious dick i’ve ever seen,” you moan dramatically. “i miss him. he misses me. we had a thing, nanami. we had a connection.”

he actually groans under his breath, tossing his head back for a moment. “you’re insufferable.”

“you love it.” your mouth is already pressed against his clothed length, nuzzling through the fabric like it’s the only source of oxygen in the room. “you love it when i get like this. desperate. needy. dramatic. all for you.”

“you make it... extremely difficult to be the responsible one in this relationship,” he mutters, finally threading a hand through your hair and gripping it just a bit too tight. “i’m trying to have boundaries.”

“boundaries are for cowards,” you say, voice muffled by his zipper. “i’m not leaving until i’ve got your dick in my throat or you drag me away kicking and screaming.”

he glares down at you, jaw clenched, but his eyes are blown wide and his breath’s hitching like he’s already giving in. “and if you bite me again?”

you blink up at him innocently. “then you’ll have to teach me a lesson. daddy.”

his hand tightens in your hair so fast, you whimper. his face drops into something darker. flushed, heated, unchained.

“that’s it,” he says, voice a low growl now. “you get one chance. no teeth. and if you so much as grazed me—i swear to god, i’ll tie you to the bed and leave you there aching for hours.”

you shiver. “promise?”

he groans again—this time pained for a different reason—and unbuckles his belt with a look that spells doom and bliss in equal measure.

“you’re lucky i love you,” he mutters, pushing your hair out of your face like he’s about to watch art unfold.

“i know,” you grin, already lowering your head with stars in your eyes. “and your dick’s lucky too.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“look at you.”

his voice is low. almost a purr. one arm thrown over the back of the couch, the other resting on his thick thigh, fingers absently tapping like he’s got all the time in the world. and there you are—on the damn floor, crawling toward him with a sheet half-draped around your bare body, your knees hitting the carpet with each desperate shuffle.

“you’re so dramatic,” he chuckles, watching you like a predator, boxer briefs soaked through with a very obvious dark patch from just how much he’s leaking. you two had barely finished wrestling on the bed—bodies tangled, lips bitten, hands everywhere—before he escaped, telling you to cool off and earn it if you really wanted him.

and you did. god, you did.

“toji, please,” you whisper, clutching his thighs like they’re your lifeline, forehead pressed just above his knee. your lips are swollen, eyes glassy, your whole body buzzing from the leftover high of grinding against him. the sheet slides a little lower, barely covering anything at all. “i need it. need you. want your cock so bad it hurts—”

he snorts. “you didn’t seem to have any problem using your teeth last time, sweetheart.”

“that was reflex!” you cry, kissing the muscle of his thigh, voice shaking with humiliation and need. “you were flexing. i blacked out. i was in heat or something.”

“you damn near bit me,” he mutters, but he’s already spreading his legs wider, letting you slip in closer between them. “ain’t lettin’ you suck me off until you beg like you mean it.”

you look up at him, face hot, eyes wild. “toji, i am. look at me, i’m naked and on my knees—i’m practically weeping for it.” your fingers curl into his thighs, massaging slowly. “i love your cock. i miss it in my mouth. i wanna taste you so bad i’m shaking. please let me make it up to you, i’ll be good, i swear. no teeth, just tongue. soft, warm, wet, messy—however you want it, please.”

he groans under his breath, cock twitching under the wet fabric, already starting to swell again.

“fuck. you’re pathetic,” he says, but there’s affection in it. a twisted sort of pride. “my poor little slut crawling for dick. what’d i do to you, huh?”

“ruined me,” you whimper. “you broke me. there’s no coming back. i need you in my throat or i’m gonna lose my mind.”

his hand drops to your head, gripping your hair tight. “you’re sick.”

“you made me sick,” you whisper, nose brushing the base of his length. “and now you gotta take responsibility.”

toji laughs—deep, dark, filthy. “that so?” he lets you tug his boxers down just enough to free him, his cock soaked, heavy, dripping against your cheek. “you better treat him right this time. if i feel teeth, you’re not gettin’ shit for a week.”

you nod frantically, lips parting as you kiss the head, licking up his length like it’s the answer to every prayer you’ve ever said.

“good girl,” he mutters, voice all grit and gravel, hand tightening in your hair like he’s anchoring himself to reality. “make it nice. messy. and if you make me cum like that again, maybe i’ll let you ride me like the rabid little bitch you are.”

you moan in response, mouth full, eyes fluttering, sheet slipping off your back completely as you settle in between his thighs like it’s your altar.

and toji?

he just grins.

“atta girl. daddy’s real proud.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“are you insane?” sukuna growls, yanking you off his cock with a wet pop, thick fingers gripping your jaw as he glares down at you like you just committed a federal crime. “i told you no fuckin’ teeth, brat.”

you blink up at him, dazed, spit trailing down your chin, his taste still hot on your tongue—and then you gasp, like you’ve just been stabbed in the heart.

“it was an accident!” you shriek, dramatically flopping back onto the bed with a loud wail, dragging the back of your hand across your forehead like a Victorian widow. “i didn’t mean to! you’re so big it’s hard to breathe, sukuna!”

he groans and rolls his eyes, turning away, his cock still hard and glistening, twitching with every heartbeat. “and now you’re being fuckin’ dramatic.”

you let out a gasping, exaggerated sob. “because you RUINED me! you ripped your cock out like i was some uncivilized beast! i was worshipping you! that was the best head you’ve ever gotten and you know it!”

“you bit me!”

“NOT ON PURPOSE!” you're full-on yelling now, wrapping yourself in the sheets like you’re mourning the death of your dignity. “i was in the zone! it slipped! i’m sorry, your majesty, please just let me suck you again before i combust!”

he doesn’t say anything. just leans against the wall with his arms crossed, cock still leaking, veins bulging from how hard he is—and that only makes you worse.

you crawl to the edge of the bed and point at it like it’s a crime scene. “look at it! it’s crying, sukuna. your dick misses me. it’s not even mad! we made up already! we’ve been through so much together, and you’re going to let one little bite ruin everything?!”

he barks out a laugh—real and sharp and rough—and wipes a hand down his face. “you’re fucking unhinged.”

you whimper, lower lip wobbling as you shuffle back onto your knees, reaching for him with trembling hands like a woman starved. “i just want to make you feel good,” you whine, hands clutching his thighs dramatically once he is close. “please let me try again. i’ll be slow, i’ll go so soft, i’ll baby it. i’ll kiss it better, i swear.” you lean in and whisper like it’s sacred: “i’ll sing lullabies to it.”

he nearly chokes on his breath, head thrown back in a bark of laughter, but when he looks down again, his expression twists. your eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and wet from earlier—and you’re trembling with need, thighs pressed together like you’ll die if he doesn’t let you back on his cock.

he watches you for a second. his cock twitches again. hard. twitchy.

“…fuck me,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “you’re so annoying it’s hot.”

you light up. “so does that mean—”

“no,” he growls, pushing you back onto the bed again before took another steps back. “you’re gonna lay there and think about what you did.”

you wail like a banshee. “I WAS THINKING ABOUT IT WHILE I WAS SUCKING YOU!”

“TOO BAD.”

you thrash under the sheets like you’re possessed, kicking the mattress, fists in your hair. “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU SO MUCH! I’M GONNA DIE WITHOUT YOUR DICK IN MY MOUTH, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? TO KILL ME? MURDER BY DENIAL?!”

sukuna’s lips twitch.

“drama queen,” he mutters, but he’s already walking back toward the bed.

and you?

you’re waiting, pretty little pout on your lips, one eye peeking open, whispering:

“…does that mean i can suck it now?”

he sighs.

“if you fuckin’ bite me again, i’m tying you up and making you watch me jerk off.”

“…deal.” his cock , thick and soaked and pulsing against your cheek. “mmm,” you moan, nuzzling him like you’ve been starving for this. “hi, baby. missed me?”

“you talk to my dick more than you talk to me,” sukuna mutters, watching you with a half-crazed grin. “but keep going, let’s see if you can make me cum without getting punished.”

you wink up at him, tongue out, already devouring him.

and sukuna just growls, one hand in your hair, the other gripping the back of your head like he’s barely holding himself back.

“that’s it. make it messy, slut. show me how desperate you really are.”

SHIU KONG

“mmph—wait, ow—okay, nope, that’s it,” shiu grunts, suddenly yanking your head back by your hair. his cock slips free from your mouth, slick and flushed, and his eyes are sharp with irritation.

“you bit me again.”

you blink up at him, wide-eyed, lips shiny and red like sin, a little dazed. “...i didn’t mean to—”

“you bit my dick.”

“it was barely a nibble!”

one sharp, violent bite,” he snaps, brows raised, looking at you like you’re some wild animal that got inside his house. “you think that shit’s cute?”

you sit back on your heels, eyes wide, chest heaving like you've just survived a war. “it wasn’t on purpose!” you shout, voice cracking. “you grabbed my hair and moaned like a goddamn demon, i thought i was dying—it scared me! it was a survival response!”

shiu runs a hand over his face, cock still standing tall and twitchy like it doesn’t care what his brain is saying. “a survival response is ducking. not biting the head of my dick like it owes you money.”

you gasp again—deeply offended—before flopping backwards onto the bed with a loud, wounded groan, sheets tangling around your body like a collapsing ghost. “i can’t believe this,” you moan, hand over your chest. “i’m being punished. denied. forsaken.”

“good,” he mutters. “think about what you did.”

“i was! i was repenting! with my mouth!” you shriek, writhing on the bed now, like your soul is being pulled out of your body. “and you ripped your cock out like i was some kind of threat! do you hate me?!”

he stares at you like he’s mentally filing a restraining order.

and you? you crumble. dramatically. hands over your hair, you tangled into the sheets like you’ve been mortally wounded, the back of your hand flung across your forehead like you’re starring in a Shakespearean tragedy.

“oh my god,” you wail. “you’re rejecting me. again.”

“yes. because you keep fucking biting me.”

“i didn’t mean to! i got excited!” you sob. “i told you, you were moaning like, like... some low-budget porno villain and you were so deep, i couldn’t breathe, and then—then my brain shut down!”

shiu’s hand is on his hip now, head tilted, staring at you like you’re a broken vending machine that just ate his money.

“you are too unhinged to have a mouth license.”

you gasp, offended. “you’re gonna punish me for enthusiasm?! for dedication?! shiu, i was trying to impress you! i wanted to be your top-ranking throat champion!”

“you’re disqualified.”

you let out a long, theatrical wail, rolling yourself in the sheets like a demented spring roll, clutching a pillow to your chest.

“then what’s the point of living?!” you cry out. “what’s the point of being sexy if i can’t even use it?! i was born to suck your cock, and now it’s been taken from me. how cruel the world is.”

he groans, wiping his hand down his face. “you’re exhausting.”

“then let me drain you!” you sit up, eyes wild, hair a mess, sheets slipping off your shoulder. “you’re already hard again! your dick misses me! he’s not even mad! he’s asking for me—i can hear him whispering. he said, ‘where’s she goin’? bring her back.’”

he’s losing it now. jaw clenched. lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “i should muzzle you and put you in a cage.”

you moan. actually moan. “yes, daddy, punish me for my crimes! let the punishment be your cock down my throat!”

shiu walks away like he’s going to go pray or find an exorcist.

you?

you follow him on your knees, dragging the sheet behind you like a bridal veil, whispering, “please… please, just let me make it right… let me apologize to him personally…”

he turns around slowly, staring down at you. his cock’s still hard. you both know it.

“you swear you won’t bite me again?”

you nod frantically. “i’ll treat him like a prince. a baby lamb. i’ll be a good girl, i swear.”

“…if i feel even one tooth, you’re getting a gag and i’m going to edge the fuck out of you all night.”

your eyes sparkle.

“you promise?”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

you’re under his desk, knees pressed into the carpet, palms spread against his thighs like you were summoned by divine command. his slacks are already unzipped—his shirt sleeves rolled, pen tucked behind his ear, glasses slipping down his nose. he looks like a goddamn courtroom fantasy.

you’re seconds away from having your dinner. the meal of kings. your mouth is practically watering, lips already parting as your fingers hook into his waistband.

but the second you tug his briefs down and get a glimpse of him, warm and heavy and waiting for worship—his hand snaps down.

he stops you. stops you.

your mouth hovers a breath away. “what the fuck?”

his eyes don’t even lift from the paper he’s reviewing. “no.”

you blink. “no??”

“you bit me two days ago.”

you sit back on your heels like you’ve been physically struck. like he just told you your favorite bakery burned down.

“that wasn’t on purpose!”

his brow twitches slightly, finally glancing down at you over the rim of his glasses. “you’ve said that three times now.”

“because it’s true!” you cry, grabbing his thighs dramatically. “it was enthusiastic teeth, not malicious teeth!”

he exhales slowly, setting his pen down like he’s preparing to deliver a verdict. “my cock disagrees.”

“he was moaning! he was into it!”

“he was in pain.”

you gasp, hands flying to your mouth. “you’re lying to turn him against me!”

“he has trust issues now.”

you lurch forward again, arms wrapping around his hips as you press your cheek to his thigh like a rejected lover begging for one last dance. “i’ll rebuild that trust. i’ll make amends. i’ll speak to him directly if i have to.”

“you’re not putting my cock through trauma bonding.”

you groan like you're dying, forehead thudding against his knee. “hiromi, please. this is cruel and unusual. i’m starving. you’re there, he’s there—everyone’s here! let me serve my country.”

he’s trying not to smile. you can tell. you see the slight twitch in his lip, the way his fingers tap against the desk like he’s counting to ten.

“you're unbelievable.”

“i’m committed.”

“you’re a menace.”

you pout up at him, eyes big, lower lip trembling. “i’ll be soft. so soft. i’ll hum him lullabies. i’ll put a little bow on him if that’s what he needs.”

he groans under his breath and leans back slightly in the chair. “if i let you, and i feel even one tooth…”

“then what?” you whisper, excited now, leaning in. “you gonna make me cry?”

he leans forward, resting one elbow on his knee, staring you down with that judge-like stare that makes you throb.

“i’ll finish on your tongue and tell you it’s your punishment.”

you grin like the fucking devil. “your honor, i accept the sentence.”

his fly is open.

you win.

for now.

[missdynamighttt]

sigh... bf! katsuki wasn’t the type to let anyone get away with slacking off, especially not you.

he’d been noticing the way you’d been procrastinating, pushing everything to the last minute. he didn’t mind when you were distracted sometimes, but when it became a pattern? hell no.

one afternoon, you were sprawled out on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly through social media when katsuki marched in, clearly fed up.

"oi," he growled, standing over you with his arms crossed. "the hell do you think you’re doing?"

you looked up, giving him a tired smile. "just taking a break, katsuki. i’ll get back to it soon."

"bullshit," he snapped, his fiery eyes locking onto you. "you've been taking breaks all day. what’s your excuse this time?"

you sighed, sitting up. "i don’t know. i.. can’t get into it. my brain’s just all over the place."

he walked over to the couch, sitting down beside you and giving you a quick, pointed look. "you’ve been wasting time for hours. you know that, right? if you keep this shit up, you’re gonna be behind."

you shook your head, feeling a little guilty. "i know... i just don’t feel.. motivated."

katsuki’s gaze softened, but there was still an edge to it. "i get it, okay? you’re tired, you’re stressed, but you can’t let this shit slide. you’re smarter than this. you know that."

he leaned in a bit, his voice growing lower, almost like a challenge. "so you’re gonna sit here and waste your potential? huh? is that what you’re gonna do?"

you paused, your mind racing. he was right. you were better than procrastinating, better than letting your goals slip away. katsuki knew how to light a fire under your ass, even without trying too hard.

"fine," you muttered, getting up from the couch. "i’ll study."

"good," he huffed, giving your shoulder a quick shove. "get your shit together. and when you’re done, i’ll reward you. but don’t think you’re getting anything until i see results."

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile creeping onto your face. katsuki may have been rough around the edges, but he always knew how to push you in the right direction.

you hummed, flipping through your notes. "what's the reward, anyway?"

his grin was downright evil. "wouldn't you like to know?"

the next few hours were grueling. every time you lost focus, you’d catch katsuki’s gaze burning into you, silently daring you to slack off. and every time you did, his voice would cut through like a knife.

"oi. focus."

"don't even think about picking up your phone."

"you got five more pages. don’t quit now."

it was relentless, but it worked. you were powering through more than you had in the past few days combined. and admittedly? it was kind of hot seeing how serious he was about you succeeding.

eventually, you slammed your textbook shut, sighing dramatically.

"alright. i'm done. can i get my reward now?"

katsuki didn’t move from his spot on the couch, just raised a brow.

"let me see."

"what—"

"your notes. show me."

groaning, you brought your notebook over, dropping it into his lap. he actually flipped through it, scanning your work like he was grading you. "hmph. not bad. you finally use that brain of yours, huh?"

you pouted. "okay, great. can i get my reward now?"

"tch. desperate, huh?"

"you promised—"

"and i'm a man of my word, ain't i?"

the next thing you knew, he was on you. soon enough, his hands were on your hips, yanking you down onto his lap. his mouth was on yours, hot and hungry, like he’d been waiting for you to finish just so he could devour you.

"katsuki—" you gasped between kisses, "i thought the reward was gonna be like... dinner or something."

"dinner’s later," he growled, his teeth scraping against your jaw. "this is your reward."

and ohhh, he rewarded you alright. every kiss, every touch was dripping with pride — like he was genuinely turned on by you grinding through your study session.

"so fuckin’ proud of you, baby," he murmured against your skin as his hands slid under your shirt, "knew you could do it. my smart fuckin’ girl."

it caught you off guard — the way your eyes started to sting when he called you that.

you hadn’t even realized how much you needed to hear that. how much you’d been doubting yourself lately �� feeling like you weren’t doing enough, like you were somehow always behind. and here katsuki was, holding you close, praising you like you’d just moved mountains.

"hey…" his voice softened, your shaky breath giving you away. "shit, baby, what’s wrong?"

"n-nothing," you sniffled, wiping at your face. "sh-shit, i’m sorry... i’m just... being stupid. i didn’t mean to be... a turn-off or anything, holy fuck..."

"nah, nah, don’t gimme that," he said, tipping your chin up so you couldn’t hide. "what is it? c’mon, sweets.. talk to me."

"i just..." you let out a weak laugh, embarrassed at how emotional you’d gotten. "you called me your smart girl, and i... i don’t know. i guess i haven’t really... felt like one, lately."

his brows furrowed, like the thought alone pissed him off. "that’s bullshit. you're smart as hell — way smarter than you give yourself credit for. don’t care how long it takes you to get something done; you always pull through. always."

his thumb brushed over your cheek, wiping away a stray tear. "and i’m proud of you. so fuckin’ proud, y’hear me?"

that did it. you broke down, melting into his chest as he held you close, murmuring soft reassurances into your hair.

"s’okay," he whispered, rocking you gently. "gotcha. always gotcha, baby."

and he did. katsuki wasn’t the type to throw around words like that easily — so when he said he was proud of you?

he meant it.

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

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ been procastinating a lot lately and im getting there(?) hope you guys arent like me, procrastinating is a bitch😵‍💫 hope you guys enjoyed and if no one told you this yet, im really really proud of you💜💜

[thatonegrimm]

Hi! Forgive me if requests are closed, I was a little confused if they’re open or not but may I request Saja boys(separate) x fem(or GN) reader where she does the current boyfriend prank of them?

No worries at all—they’re open! 💌 If requests were closed, I’d have a big “CLOSED” sign somewhere, trust me 😅Thanks so much for the ask—and here you go! ✨

Saja Boys x GN Reader – “Current Boyfriend” Prank

Summary: You’re making a TikTok. You call him, keep your voice casual, and ask: “Hey… what’s my current boyfriend’s name again?”

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

🧿 Jinu

He picks up on the second ring, already sounding a little breathless.

“Hey, you okay? Everything alright?”

“Quick question,” you say lightly. “What’s my current boyfriend’s name again?”

Silence. Heavy. Echoing.

You can practically hear the gears grinding to a halt in his brain.

“Your... current boyfriend?”

His voice drops half an octave. Controlled. Carefully neutral. A dangerous kind of quiet.

“Is this a quiz? Or... a warning?”

“Neither.”

“A spiritual riddle?”

“Nope.”

There’s another long pause.

Then, very calmly:

“...Do I need to open a portal?”

You choke on a laugh. “It’s a prank!”

He exhales like he’d been holding his breath for three realms.

“You scared me,” he mumbles. “I thought I was getting replaced by a newer model.”

“You’re irreplaceable.”

“You didn’t sound like it.”

He sounds betrayed. You feel a little guilty. Only a little.

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

💪 Abby

He answers immediately, all sunshine and loyalty.

“Hey, babe! You need something?”

“Yeah,” you say. “What’s my current boyfriend’s name again?”

There’s a small pause.

“...Your current what?”

“Boyfriend.”

“As in... me?”

“I think so. I forgot.”

You hear him suck in a breath. Then he starts pacing.

“Okay, wait. Did I mess up? Did we break up? Did I miss a DTR text?? Is this about the fridge again?”

“Abby—”

“I can fix it! I’ll clean the kitchen right now. I’ll burn the kitchen. I’ll make a new kitchen—”

“It’s a prank, love. For TikTok.”

He stops dead.

“Oh.”

“You okay?”

“I was literally Googling how to win someone back mid-call.”

You laugh. He groans.

“I hate how fast I panicked.”

“I don’t. It was cute.”

“Rude.”

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

📚 Mystery

He picks up with faint static in the background. You hear wind, maybe a crow.

“Hello.”

“Hey,” you say sweetly. “What’s my current boyfriend’s name again?”

Silence.

Not the awkward kind. The ancient evil stirring kind.

“...There is no current.”

His voice is low. Hollow. Like a locked door clicking open.

“What do you mean?”

“There is only me.”

“Mystery, it’s a prank—”

“Who did you ask this before?”

“What?”

“I need names.”

You start laughing nervously.

“Okay, wow. Chill. TikTok challenge. You passed. You’re The Boyfriend™.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then a quiet:

“Good.”

You check your phone later. He’s deleted all your contacts except his.

And added three crows to your favorites.

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

💋 Romance

He picks up mid-humming, already smiling.

“Darling! Say the word and I’ll serenade you right now.”

“Okay. What’s my current boyfriend’s name?”

He goes quiet.

Not sad. Not mad.

Scandalized.

“Current?”

“Yeah.”

“As in... I have competition?”

“No, it’s a prank—”

“I knew it,” he mutters. “I felt the shift in the air. My aura’s been off. I sensed betrayal.”

“Romance.”

“I should’ve worn tighter pants today. And a shirt with buttons. I’ve gone soft.”

“ROMANCE.”

“Is it someone I know?”

“It’s YOU.”

“Oh thank GOD,” he gasps. “I was five seconds away from dropping a diss track.”

You roll your eyes. He’s already planning one anyway.

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

🔥 Baby

He picks up like you interrupted something important.

“What.”

“What’s my current boyfriend’s name again?”

Pause.

A long one.

“...Why’d you say ‘current’ like that?”

“No reason.”

“Nah. Say it again. Say it slower.”

“You’re being weird.”

“You’re being dangerous.”

“It’s just a TikTok—”

“So if someone else answered this before me, are they still alive?”

You start laughing.

“Baby—”

“Don’t Baby me. Send location. I’ll bring a lighter.”

“It’s a joke!”

“I don’t share,” he growls. “And I don’t like people playing with my title.”

You go quiet.

Then softly: “Your title?”

“Boyfriend,” he says, dead serious. “Not current. Permanent.”

Your face is on fire.

He hangs up.

Texts you 30 seconds later:

You’re mine. Post it. Let them know.

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

M-List

[not-rigel]

Can't do it better

posted on AO3 but im also going to post it here. first sevika fic aaa.

warnings: top sevika, teasing, strapping, riding, multiple orgasms, mean sevika, aftercare, soft sevika, porn what plot, F!reader

Sevika's fingers trailed down your spine, sending a shiver through your body. She was still in that teasing stage of sex, where half her strap was inside you. She was just waiting for the right moment to push the rest of herself inside. You tremble because you know that she knows you love the teasing.

She thrusts with half the length, deciding to drag out the teasing even more. You groan against the pillow your face is pressed into. She echoes your groan, but there is a mocking tone to it. She grabs your hips, pulling your ass higher which pulls you a little further on her strap.

The extra inch of her dick brushing inside you makes you lose control for just a moment but that's all that it takes. You push your hips back to take more of her. Her hands stop your hips after you get another inch inside of you.

She lets out a disappointed sigh, "Oh no, baby.. Do you think you can fuck yourself better than I can?"

You gasp, having been caught and in deep shit.

"I'm sorry. Sevika-"

You're cut off when she hooks her left arm under your torso and pulls you up so you're on your knees with her still inside of you. She repositions herself, remaining kneeled but her thighs are on either side of yours. She pulls your hips down then her arms move back to support her weight from behind.

"Go on, baby," She coos.

"What?"

"Fuck youself on my dick."

You push your hips back, a moan coming from you almost immediately. You just cannot dig yourself out of the hole you created.

"You gotta keep going, baby." Sevika is being evil, speaking that tone. The one that is equally demeaning and sweet.

You grind your hips, trying to find momentum but each time you shift yourself down on her dick you shudder and pause. She always feels so good inside of you. But you know there is something missing.

"Sevika," you whine, "Please. I can't fuck myself like you fuck me."

She flat out ignores the plea and the confession. "Faster."

Pathetic little noises leave you as you obey her order and begin to thrust your hips properly back onto her strap. You moan again and try to push yourself all the way down her length but you end up short.

"If you wanted me that deep, you should’ve let me fuck you," she growls. If her tone is any indication, she is losing her own control.

"Please please, Sevika. It's not enough. I need you."

But again, she ignores your begging. She must not understand. Having her inside you was getting you so close but all you really needed was to be hers. You needed to be taken.

"I can't cum without you claiming me," you admit. You think your confession is pathetic. Sevika thinks it's the hottest, sweetest thing in the world. You swear you can feel her shudder through the strap.

Without warning, she pulls out. She turns you over, pushing you into the mattress on your back. She takes her usual place between your thighs. She grabs her strap and slides it through your folds, teasing but not entering. She is watching the display while you are watching her. She is in complete awe. She pauses her teasing, biting her cheek to hold in a groan then leans over to grab something from the bedside drawer. The one with several toys and accessories you keep closeby.

You hear shuffling and one item is set on the dresser. She returns to her position before you can question it. She ducks down for a kiss, giving you a little bit of sweet affection before claiming you. The both of you moan into each other's mouths, enjoying the passion preceding your pleasure.

Sevika is the one to pull away. She has to see your face when she enters you. You're so wet it only takes some repositioning of her hips for her to slide inside. Half the length slips right in before Sevika can resist the suction of your pussy.

"Oh," both of you moan. Sevika is set on completing her earlier mission, making you wait to take her full length. And there is no way you'll ruin it now. You clenched around her as she forced you to be patient. Sevika pushed herself to the hilt in after a short wait, not able to resist all the ways she wants to make you lose your mind. 

"Sevika!" your shout echoes off the walls and your arm reaches up to grab onto her. Your fingers end up digging into her shoulder. You wait for her to begin moving but she doesn't so you whine at her. Pouting is not the most effective tactic on Sevika but you're so horny you can't think to do anything else.

"I just have to take a moment," her voice is as teasing as it gets. You look up at her to pout more but what you see is her using one hand to tighten the straps on her harness, pulling it tighter on her hips. Before you can even react, she begins thrusting.

She fucks with a power that is so special to her. She isn't going full force, starting at a comfortable pace but there is desire and carnality behind her thrusts. Each push and pull of her hips is so deliberate and precise. Thrusts meant to make you contort for her. Her pace doesn't slow or quicken, but she does reposition your legs whenever you get close to cramping.

The steady stimulation works you up, the notes of an orgasm beginning in your abdomen. "Sev.." you don't finish moaning her name when her lips find yours. There's only one word for it, possessive. Her teeth nip your lips between harsh kisses.

"That's right," she huffs between kisses. The snapping of her hips increases in speed. She reattaches your lips. The new stimulation adds harmony to the impending orgasm. With a couple more thrusts, you're cumming for her. Your orgasm drowns over any other noise, playing its own tune through your body. Sevika hears you reacting beneath her but she doesn't relent.

"Sev! I'm cumming!" You groaned into her mouth.

"Your legs aren't shaking. So I don't care."  Her hips continue their pace through your orgasm and don't stop after you're done. She pauses for a moment and you think you've been spared then she pushes up and hooks your ankles over her shoulder.

She resumes her thrusting but now it's messy, uncoordinated, quick thrusts. She needs this. And evidently so do you because less than a minute later you're cumming again, tears leaking from your eyes, legs shaking.

It's a sight for Sevika, really. Your pussy convulses and cream coats her strap. Your skin is hot, your eyes are rolled back, eyelids fluttering. Your breasts bouncing as she fucks you. She is sure if she looked behind her, your toes would be curled. Pressing a kiss to your calf, she orgasms with you, her's lasting noticeably shorter.

"There you go. Now you're really cumming." She says as she watches you come down from your high. With a warning she pulls out then presses another kiss to your calf before exiting the position. She moves to stand on the side of the bed, loosening her harness and slipping it off. Next, she is bending down to grab your face in both hands and kiss you. There are three words you would use to describe this kiss; caring, passionate, possessive. She is the one to pull away. She has a task she needs to complete.

"Want a massage, baby?" She purrs.

"Hmm?"

She picks up the item she retrieved from the dresser earlier, which you completely forgot about. It was a massage oil, purchased a couple months back. The massage oil was really only ever used for aftercare. Not only that, but it was only ever used if Sevika really needed the aftercare. So of course, you accept the offer.

Sevika had explained it to you before. That she needs to take care of you after sex because she has to reassure herself that you know she cares. It's a bit hard for her to believe you trust she cares about you more than anything especially when you get into intense scenes. 

"I knew I was going to be rough, hence me getting out the bottle beforehand, but…,” she pauses and shakes her head, “I said 'I don't care' to you during that. It's getting to my head a bit," she admits.

She moves to your left thigh and drops some of the oil onto your skin, then rubs it in with her flesh hand. Her way of avoiding eye contact. She hates having to be vulnerable and having someone look her in the eye at the same time. So you compromise. 

"Sev, you know me so well. You know exactly what to do to make me cum as hard as possible. And you know exactly what to say. You did everything you knew to do to give me that best orgasm. And you did. I'd say that's really caring." Your words do reassure her, as they always do.

"Thanks. You're... perfect." She sighs. She feels much better but still wants to take care of her girl, "Whatever you want, baby, let me know. I really want to take care of you tonight."

"You already are, Sev." 

[i2rizz]

Unholy Binding

Synopsis-Kidnapped mid-mission, you're bound in dark magic Dante can't break - until your blood burns it away, revealing you might not be as human as you thought.

Yes i got the inspo from that one scene where Saber Alter was restrained

The mission had started like any other.

Demons loose in the old catacombs. Easy work. Slaughter, banter, payday, maybe flirt a little if there's time.

You and Dante fought back-to-back like you always did — a deadly, effortless rhythm.

But somewhere along the way, something went wrong.

You fell behind for just a second — and when Dante turned, you were gone.

No blood. No scream. Just empty air and a sickening pressure he couldn’t shake.

Now he’s tearing through the underground labyrinth like a man possessed, each corridor tighter and darker than the last, stone walls oozing with rot.

"Come on, baby... where the hell are you" he mutters under his breath, boots hammering the floor, sword clenched so tight his knuckles crack.

Then — he feels it.

A pulse of magic so thick it steals the air from his lungs.

He kicks down the next door without hesitation — and freezes.

The room is massive. Cathedral-sized. Lit only by the sick, greenish glow of a giant, pulsing ritual circle carved deep into the stone.

And you —

you’re at the center.

Bound upright by thick, twisting ropes of dark magic that glisten like oil, locking your wrists high above your head and your ankles wide apart. The tendrils snake around you, alive, clinging to your skin like they’re savoring you.

You’re standing in perfect, unnatural stillness — head bowed slightly, breathing shallow — caught in the center of the monstrous sigil beneath you.

The sight hits Dante like a shotgun blast.

His breath punches out of him, hard.

"Jesus Christ..."

He’s seen you battered. Bleeding. Laughing in the face of death.

But this —

this is different.

You look almost holy like this — horrifying and beautiful all at once, like some goddess sacrificed at the altar of hell itself.

The shadows cling to every curve of you. Your usual fire and fury are stripped away, leaving something raw and devastating.

He can't tear his eyes away.

A slow, involuntary whistle slips from his lips.

"...Damn, sweetheart. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to kill me"

You stir, sluggishly, lifting your head — and even that simple movement looks otherworldly, like you're floating inside the trap.

Your eyes find his — furious and burning even through the exhaustion — and the spell over him shatters.

"Get your stupid ass over here and help me" you rasp, voice shredded raw.

He smirks, taking his sweet-ass time strolling closer, boots crunching over broken stone.

"Not my fault you're pulling off the whole tied up by evil forces look so well. Kinda hard not to admire"

"Dante," you grind out through clenched teeth. "If you don't stop eye-fucking me and start cutting something, I will personally end you"

He chuckles, low and unbothered, like this is a casual Wednesday night and not an escalating demonic ritual.

But when the tendrils pulse tighter as if reacting to your voice, yanking your limbs cruelly.

You grunt in pain, shoulders straining against the bonds. A fresh trickle of blood oozes down your wrists where the ropes have rubbed skin raw.

Dante snaps out of it instantly, rage snapping to life under his skin.

"Fuck. Hold on, baby"

He bolts toward you, blade raised — but the moment his sword strikes the magic ropes, the blade bounces back with a screech of sparks.

"What the—?!" he snarls, stumbling.

The tendrils flex tighter around you like they're laughing.

"It can't be cut" you choke out, trying uselessly to wrench free.

"Yeah, no shit" Dante growls, backing off, thinking fast.

You’re shaking now — not from fear, but from pure, brutal exhaustion. Blood beads steadily from your wrists and ankles, dripping onto the stone beneath you.

And the second a droplet hits the ritual circle —

the floor screams.

The magic recoils violently, like a creature burned.

Dante stares, stunned, as the section of rope it touched withers and turns to ash.

"...Well, that's new" he mutters.

You manage a weak, grim smirk through the pain.

"Guess I'm just... full of surprises"

But Dante isn’t laughing anymore.

Because no human blood should do that.

No normal blood should burn ancient demon magic like acid.

His gut twists into a tight, cold knot.

Not human.

Not just human.

And if that's true — whoever set this up knew.

They didn’t just want to trap you.

They wanted to awaken something.

The thought makes him sick.

He steps closer, carefully this time, ignoring the tendrils snapping at him.

"Hey," he says, voice lower now, urgent. "You listening?"

You grunt in acknowledgment, barely able to lift your head.

"I need you to bleed a little more, sweetheart. Just enough to fry these bastards"

You snort — a real laugh this time, hoarse and breathless.

"Romantic as ever, Dante"

He flashes a boyish grin — but there’s no hiding the tightness around his mouth.

You bite down hard on your lip until more blood wells up, dripping steadily onto the circle.

The ropes shudder violently, a horrible keening sound rising.

More blood.

More burning.

The magic begins to fail, cracking apart at the edges.

But it’s not fast enough.

The tendrils, sensing their death, panic — yanking your body harder in opposite directions.

You scream, a sound that rips through Dante like a blade.

He doesn't think.

He moves.

Throws himself into the circle, grabbing your waist, trying to support you — even as the magic lashes at him, searing his jacket, ripping at his skin.

"Come on, come on," he growls, wrapping his arms around you, shielding you as your body convulses.

Finally — the circle explodes in a blast of black ash and howling magic.

The ropes snap one by one, and you collapse into his arms like a dying star.

He cradles you against his chest, breathing hard, adrenaline roaring in his veins.

"Got you" he whispers, fierce. "You're okay. You're okay"

You blink up at him, dazed, blood streaked across your face.

"You’re... such a dumbass" you slur, grinning faintly.

He barks out a short, broken laugh — relief crashing over him like a wave.

"Yeah, well. You’re lucky I’m your dumbass"

He gathers you up in his arms, cradling you like something priceless, and carries you out of that goddamn hellhole — heart pounding against yours the whole way.

[stvolanis]

TOO SWEET

PAIRINGS: the vampire Louis De Pointe Du Lac x Fem! Mortal! OC

WARNINGS: Swearing, mentions of blood, blood consumption, alcohol consumption, mentions of killing, mention of Lestat, no Claudia, reader is perceived as innocent, age gap, OC being turned into a vampire, inaccurate timeline probably, YES I USED LINES FROM THE SONG DONT HATE ON MY GRIND.

NSFW WARNINGS: light choking, biting, sir kink, manhandling, blood, fingering, making out, p in v, creampie, praise, overstimulation, power play, slight corruption kink? Idk

The year was 1925, 15 years after Louis had been turned into a godforsaken vampire, doomed to the harsh life of an unwilling immortality of lies and betrayal.

The dark gift was taking, the worst of its flaws and punishments being that every night you woke and walked amongst the living. The bitter feeling of no longer being mortal, and forgetting what it was once like to be a regular human amongst the crowd, rather than a predator picking out its prey in the sea of flesh.

Day after day, party after party, body after body—to be short, it was a routine. A boring one, at that.

He noticed her dress first, long and drug behind her. Baby pink in color, with periwinkle and a flamingo pink shade of flowers adorning the fabric. Diamonds glistened under the light of the expensive chandelier, and her white gloved hands reached for a deep red champagne—the vibrancy he imagined her blood would be.

A long white feather sprouted out from her mass of curls, a dark chocolate with an odd singular strip of white rooted at the front of her hair, framing her face. Where her white strand of hair was rooted almost melted down onto her face, a pale patch of skin on her forehead stood out.

Her face was decorated in moles, almost perfectly hand placed by God herself. Lips plump, parted as his enhanced hearing heard every soft breath that passed. The gentle rise and fall of her chest as she scanned the room, oblivious to the bright eyes staring at her.

She was out of place. He knew that she knew she didn’t belong in a place like this, but that only lead to the question of why she was here, in a room of people money and sex hungry. The complete opposite of her.

Her voice echoed in his head, and he couldn’t help but let out a laugh. ‘I wonder if there’s cake. This drink is awful.’ How sweet. In a room of smoke and drunken men, she’s worried about eating cake.

The dark angel lurked against the walls of the extravagant room, looking at the beauty in every angle possible. A lamb. His lamb. So pure, unbeknownst to the evils around each corner she turned. ‘What is your name, girl?’ He spoke, using his mind as communication.

He visibly saw her freeze. Like her heart stopped beating in her body—not yet. Her heart would not yet stop beating. “What?” She replied, aloud, desperately looking around the room to match the voice to a face—till her eyes stopped on him.

Their eyes connected. Heat rose through her in a fiery roar, curiosity and conflict dancing in her eyes with the smallest hint of fear. Fear was normal. Humans lived off of fear, it’s was the reason for everything if you peeled away enough layers.

‘You’ve found me’ Louis smiled. She felt her heart begin to beat again. Her hands balled into fists against her dress, a wad of fabric curled into a ball. ‘How are you doing this?’ She asked, eye contact between the two never once being broken.

‘Come.’ Was all he replied. He left the large room full of lousy people, around the corridors, and out through the back. He was met with a dark alley, a rather clean one—still boxes scattered around, though. Humans we’re filthy. Like toddlers who didn’t know how to clean up after themselves.

She followed behind him till they were standing mere feet apart from each other outside in the privacy of the night. “Who are you?” She finally spoke after a long moment of silence.

“I am whatever you perceive me as. Most call me the devil.” He chuckled. The first few years after his changing, he took offense to it. Hated being called it. Pondered if he really was the Devil. He knows he isn’t now. Farthest from it.

“You’re too handsome to be considered such” she smiled, two dimples. She was genuine, not a hint of lie detected in her speech. “I ain’t got nothin’ on you.” He replied, stuffing his hands into his pockets nervously—nervously? How peculiar.

Louis felt like a schoolboy all over again. Giddy at the compliment she gave, flush rising to his cheeks faintly over her eyes pondering over his existence. “What is your name?” She asked, her head tilted ever so slightly.

“Louis De Pointe Du Lac.” He said, pridefully. She thought for a moment—“my daddy used to go to that place you own, I’m not sure what it’s called?—” she said, urging him to finish her thought. “The Azalea. My money maker.” A charming smile graced his face.

“Maybe I should go sometime.” She said, a cheeky smile playing at her lips. Louis let out a breath of air as he softly shook his head. “Nah, that’s not the place for you, baby”

“Yeah? then what is the place for me, Mr. du Lac?” She whispered, glancing down at the bottom of her dresses as she nervously fiddled with her fingers behind her back. His hand found her chin, lifting her head to do their eyes could once again meet.

“Bright as the morning, aren’t you?” He whispered back. His voice was laced with desire, yet he was holding himself back. Louis was in fear, for the first time in a long time. He was fearful to taint the aura of innocence the damsel carried around with her. He didn’t want to have to be the one to burst her bubble. But somewhere inside of him did.

“What are you, Mr. du Lac?” She said, her tone more serious than before as her eyes swirled with curiosity. But after all, it was curiosity that killed the cat. “I’m a vampire.” He replied calmy, like it was an every day occurrence. She giggled.

“Oh yeah, then where are your fangs?” She teased. Louis quirked a brow, taken aback for a moment. His mouth opened large enough for her to watch as his fangs protruded—white, and sharp. She brought her finger to the tip of his tooth, pricking her finger.

Crimson spilled from her small wound, and her scent clouded his mind. He couldn’t have her like this—not yet. It wasn’t her time still. Louis couldn’t help himself as he gently grabbed her wrist, holding it in place as his tongue met with the pad of her finger, sufficiently licking up any traces of blood.

“Fuck—you taste like pineapple.” He mumbled, placing a soft kiss against her wound before forcing himself to pull away, again, in fear of harming her. “My name is Thérèse.” She let out a shaky breath. He knew it wasn’t from fear, but rather arousal.

His hand reached for her waist, pulling her close to his body. Her chest was flush against his, and her cleavage was on display. She looked like an angel, sent down just for him. He knew he didn’t deserve her, shouldn’t have even been able to be in her presence—yet the way she felt against him felt so right, and that feeling wasn’t something he could deny or dismiss.

Their noses brushed against each other, and their lips were mere centimeters apart. One move and they would be touching. “Thérèse.” He said. Her name sounded like velvet on his tongue, and she longed for him to say it for centuries to come. To hear him call out for her. To her.

Their lips crashed together, the kiss desperate. The metallic taste of her blood lingered on his tongue, yet it only made her all the more eager to have him. Their tongues danced together, a fight for dominance that Thérèse easily gave up. He explored her mouth, and she allowed him.

This would be the first of many things she would allow him to do. She allowed him to hold her hand delicately as he guided her through the busy roads of their town. He had a certain way about him, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Enchanting, almost. Alluring, maybe. Possibly a word non-existing.

His hand was cold to the touch, which Thèrése found odd, yet she had not comment to give. She was aware he was not quite human, but she wasn’t ready to accept what he was yet. Just a few moments, maybe days longer, she’d like to live in a carefree bliss. He respected and supported her unvocalized wish.

“How long have you lived here, Louis?” He sighed, glancing around at the town he’d known all his immortal life. “Forever.” He replied. “The white people are ignorant. Greedy liars, most of them. They feed off of the red district, and all the people in it.” He said.

“I made the Azalea to counteract them. Get the white mans money.” He finished. She hummed in acknowledgment.

Thèrése was Hispanic, and immigrant from overseas. A land conquered by natives with the white people invading like the Huns invaded Rome. It was tragic, being forced to move far away from all she’d known since she was 17. She was now at the ripe age of 22 years old, standing at 5’5 without shoes on.

“Was it hard?” Louis asked, glancing over at her. She quirked a brow in confusion. “Was what hard?” She asked. Louis looked up at the sky. It was dark. The way it had been for years. Darkness was now the only thing he’d ever be able to see. “Leaving your home. To travel such great lengths.”

She decided not to ponder on how he knew, in fear of messing up the content atmosphere they had created. “Yes. I left many family members and friends behind. But, I endured. For my family, I endured.” She responded, almost as if robotically.

“I was going to be forced to marry a white man named Humbert had I not left. The life I saw before me was not what I had planned, but I am grateful for the freedom I have now grown accustomed to.” She responded. She looked up at the sky with him.

“They’re beautiful.” She started. “I wish to see space. To feel the heat of the stars.” She whispered, pausing her walking with Louis next to her, close enough to have their shoulders bumping. “The stars get exhausting when you look at them long enough.” He whispered back.

“I think I could spend a lifetime looking at them.” She said, a smile gracing her lips. She looked beautiful like this, and Louis wished to remember this exact scene before him for the rest of his life. “Be careful what you wish for, Thèrése.” He responded, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his clean slacks.

They walked throughout the night, hand in hand. The moonlight created highlights that emphasized their alluring features, and for the first time in a long time, Louis was in love. And for the first time ever, Thèrése was too.

They stopped at a gated entrance, and beyond it, was Louis home he hadn’t showed anyone who lived to tell. Thèrése would be the first mortal he brought to his home without killing, and she would be the last as he opened the gate, allowing her to go in first.

A small hand was placed at the small of her back, guiding her throughout the house she had entered after walking through an outside area of the house. “You live here? By yourself?” She asked him, glancing over her shoulder as her eyes wandered over the antiques of the house.

“Yeah, I live by myself now.” He said, shrugging off his expensive jacket and hanging it on a rack. Thèrése felt an unfamiliar heat spread throughout her body as she watched him loosen the cuffs of his sleeves and collar of his shirt. “Now?” She asked.

“Had a roommate. We didn’t work out. He was a cunt.” He said, walking to a table and picking up a wine glass, pouring some for himself. “I know you don’t like wine. I’m afraid I have nothing else to drink, but if you would like some then tell me.” He said, taking a sip.

Thèrése watched the way he swallowed it, visibly seeing it travel down his throat. Her eyes zeroed in on the droplet the fell from his lips—and her head was suddenly spinning with thoughts of him consuming her blood.

It must’ve been the wine she had drunken before she arrived. That’s gotta be it, right? Why else would she be having such vile thoughts?

He didn’t give her time to linger on the thought much longer as he began to unbotton his shirt, ever so slowly walking closer to her. Almost like he was hunting her—but he wasn’t. He wouldn’t allow himself to hunt such a pure being.

Thèrése fiddled with the rings on her gentle fingers, watching, unsure of what to do as his shirt was swiftly removed, displaying his body. Slim, yet fit. She longed to trace over every piece of him, to memorize Louis inch by inch so she wouldn’t forget this very night.

His hands reached out to her. One placed delicately on the base of her neck, and the other, roughly pulling her body to his by her waist. Her breath got caught in her throat, and she couldn’t seem to stop herself from glancing down at his lips.

“Louis…” She said breathlessly. He could feel her heat radiating off of her, especially from where his hands were touching her body. He could smell the slick between her thighs he knew were meaty under her dress. “Need this off of you.” He said, tugging at her dress.

“You gon’ let me take it off you, mama?” He asked, gently as he searched her eyes for an answer. “Please.” She said, almost desperately, making her face flush in embarrassment. Louis laughed at her eagerness.

He removed her dress from her body, following with her gloves. She covered her breasts with her hands shyly, laced panties still on. Her dress was pulled at her feet and Louis removed her hands from covering herself.

Thèrèses’ nipples hardened under the rather cold air of his odd home. Louis hands cupped them, inspecting them with such admiration. “So pretty. So fuckin’ pretty.” He said, kissing a mole above her areola, down to where her perk nipple was.

He suckled it harshly into his mouth, massaging the other with his free hand. Thèrése whimpered at his assault on her nipple, watching as he switched to the other one. His tongue reached out to kitten lick her nipple as he held eye contact with her.

Thèréses’ thighs squeezed together as the burn between her thighs grew uncomfortably. “You gonna let me have you?” He asked, trailing one of his hands down to her panties. He kissed along her neck, all the way up, till he was at her mouth again.

“Yes, Louis.” She mumbled. Louis clicked his tongue. “Try again.” He urged. He pushed her panties to the side, slowly sliding in one of his slender fingers. Years of pleasurable experience revealing itself as he worked at her cunt.

“Y-Yes, sir. Oh—Oh god.” She whimpered out as she felt another finger prod at her entrance. Two of his fingers slammed into her sopping hole at an alarming rate. Thèrése felt herself grow weak in the knees, and Louis knew as he held her up. “Shh.” He whispered, his breath fanning her ear.

He slipped out his fingers and slightly bent down just enough to reach her bottom as he slightly tapped it. “Jump” he said. Thèrése jumped, wrapping her legs around Louis slender waist, and her arms around his shoulders as she buried her face into his neck, leaving small opened mouth kisses.

“So needy, aren’t you? You all needy for me?” He asked, even though he confidently knew what the answer was. Thèrése nodded her head against him, afraid her voice would betray her if she spoke and said anything.

He threw her onto the couch—not hard enough to hurt her, but enough to make her bounce slightly on the cushion. He wanted to see her bounce on him. The imagine of her on top of him trying her hardest to ride him while her breasts moved with each of her bounces made his cock twitch.

Thèrése was more overwhelmed than she had been her whole life. No one had ever seen her this bare as he took her panties off. She was ashamed to be letting him to these things to her, but she was more ashamed at the fact she grew aroused from it. Aroused from the power difference between them.

She might not have known to what extent his strength lied, but she knew he was strong. Strong enough to probably lift her with just a finger. The idea that he could bend her and use her to his liking sent a shiver down her spine of want. She needed him in every way she could have him.

Louis spread her legs apart, revealing her aching, wet cunt that looked almost painfully in need to be taken care of. Two of his fingers found their way back inside of her, working at her gummy walls as she whined and whimpered under him.

“Shh, I know. I know.” He whispered, his fingers growing more erratic. “Want you—in me, please.” She said desperately, a hand cupping his face. He was breathtaking. His thumb skillfully rubbed her clit at a slow pace, almost as if he was trying to sooth whatever pain Thèrése might’ve been feeling.

“Gonna make you feel fuckin’ amazing.” He said, pulling out his fingers. He unbuttoned his slacks and pulled them down along with his undergarments just enough to reveal his cock. Thèrése couldn’t help but just stare at it in a mix of emotions of fear, arousal, and excitement.

Fear from how intimidating it looked; long and uncut with a patch of curly hair at the top. Thèrése felt nasty as she realized just how badly she wanted to lick his happy trail. Arousal from his mushroom tip that was pulsing with desire, and pre cum leaking from his tip. Excitement bubbled as Thèrése thought about the events that were mere seconds from unfolding in front of her.

He slapped his meaty cock onto her pussy tauntingly, a wet, heavy sound, loud and prominent. She clenched around nothing, but slowly felt his tip enter her. It was a painful stretch as he slid himself in, inch by inch, trying his hardest not to hurt her.

Louis restrained himself as she clenched around him tightly. He knew this was the closest to heaven he’d ever get, with the angel under him at his mercy. His to do with whatever he pleased and saw fit. His in every aspect of her mortal, and soon immortal, being. Soul tied and bound to the earth together for eternity was the way he wanted to spend his days with her.

“Oh my God—oh fuck—” she gasped out, mouth hung slightly agape. Pain shot through her first, eyes watering as evidence, but was soon followed after with an immense pleasure she never knew she could feel. “Not God, Thèrése—Me.” He huffed as he gripped her thighs, throwing them over his shoulder.

Louis began to move his hips against her, slowly at first—then, in the blink of an eye, he snapped. The self restraint he forced himself to have was gone, and a seemingly sweet and charming man was replaced by a domineering beast.

At an inhumane pace, his cock hammered into her. His hands dug into her thighs in a tight grip—a grip so tight, his sharp nails broke skin. The scent of her blood filled his senses, and he went feral. His lips found her neck as he leaned down, leaving desperate kisses to subside the pain he was soon going to inflict on her porcelain throat.

“Louis—wait—” she pleaded, but made no movement to stop him. The pleasure was overwhelming as she arched her back into him, grasping onto his skin—still cold to the touch. Why was he so cold? She felt something sharp pierce the side of her throat, but oddly enough, the pain was overruled by the way he fucked her.

Thèrése wouldn’t be living much longer. “You’re to sweet for me.” He groaned, licking at the wound on her neck he had created. He watched blood ooze out of her, enjoying the crimson that decorated her neck. The familiar taste of pineapple was nothing if not addicting.

Thèrése felt weak, her body unable to hold itself up any longer as she grew light headed. The room began to spin, and Thèrése now knew she was no longer seeing things as his fangs poked two more holes near her wrist. Blood poured out of her and into his mouth.

Was this the way she would die? At the hands of the most charming man she’d ever met? The vampire who sealed her fate stopped sucking, slit his own wrist, and brought it to Thèréses’ mouth.

He fucked her harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed throughout the room. Her moans got caught on his wrist as his blood trickled down her throat. Thèrèse, pupils dilated and on a high, felt her end near as she clutched his wrist to her mouth like she would never be able to drink the forbidden liquid ever again.

Louis snatched his wrist back from her mouth quickly before she made herself sick. He knew she would want more blood, so he instead flipped Thèrése onto all fours, arching her ass into the air. Thèrèse cried and begged for Louis wrist—his cold blood back in her mouth.

“Shhh, shut up. You’ve had enough. Don’t be greedy, baby.” He scolded, grabbing her by the back of her hair and shoving her face into the cushion. “P-Please—Louis, M’gonna c-cum. Need you.” She begged as she pushed her ass back onto him, meeting his hard thrusts.

Her words began to slur together as his brutal pace never faltered. The grip he had on her waist was bruising, but Thèrése couldn’t even feel it. Her body felt as though it was on fire from head to toe, and the unbearable heat and pressure of her cunt was all too much for the young fledgling.

“You said you wanted to see the stars forever, right?” He asked, his breath grazing the shell of her ear. He didn’t sound like he did earlier—calm and alluring. He sounded gruff and disheveled—and every word he spoke almost came out in a growl.

He felt his balls tighten, and ever muscle in his body tensed. “Gonna stuff this pretty ass cunt. You ready, darlin’?” He said, his southern drawl laced with every word. “Y-yesss.” She groaned out through clenched teeth as his hand found her clit.

He played with her clit like he had been doing this for years, expertly. An overbearing wave of pressure was what made Thèrése snap as juices poured out of her. Louis never once slowed down, and his fingers continued to help her ride her high.

Louis didn’t stop, still chasing his end. Thèrése mindlessly took everything he gave her as her pussy grew sore and overstimulated from the relentless of the top of his cock hitting her cervix. “Can’t—I can’t, sir—“ she choked out, her words sounding almost as if her mind was in a distant place.

“Take it, Thèrése.” He urged as he bit down onto his lip, trying his hardest to resist sinking his fangs into her again. Thèrése listened, and the only sounds that escaped her drying lips were moans and whimpers of pleasure. Only Louis would ever be able to see her this way—this desperate and in need for him.

“Good girl. Just like that.” He said, stuffing her pussy full of his cum. His head was thrown back in bliss as he fucked his seed into her, deeper and deeper as his high subsided into a dull aching feeling. “Did so well, baby.” He said, his voice shaky.

He slid himself out of her, and watched as his cum spilled from her used hole, and onto his expensive foreign furniture. Thèrése laid there, legs sore and head still spinning, now in a painful manner as Louis scooped her up into his arms bridal style.

“S-so you’re really a vampire, huh?” She asked through a long and drug out yawn. He chuckled as he gazed down at her small frame in his arms. “Yes, and come tomorrow night, you will be too.” He replied, walking up the stairs of his old home.

“I’m scared, Louis.” She whispered, blinking slowly. Thèrése grew tired, her eyes heavy with sleep. “You won’t be for long.” He said reassuringly. “You have me now. Forever.” He muttered as he pushed open a door.

A singular coffin was placed in the center, right in front of a fire place. Thèrèse was laid in the coffin by Louis, and she watched as he left the room to grab a warmed wash cloth. She was in love. She died in love. And now, for the rest of her dead life, she will continue to live in love with the man who swooned her in the alley.

Vampires say the worst thing to experience from immortal life is a simple thing; loneliness. A feeling Louis knew all too well, and how would never feel again. Thèrése wasn’t Lestat. She wasn’t cold, and manipulative. Calculated in every wrong doing. No, Thèrése was kind and gentle. Thoughtful with every word she spoke and every action she took.

Never again would Louis ever have to worry about being alone.

guys this took me like 3 weeks to write I’m obsessed with this show rn. I worked so hard on this so istg if it flops I’ll be so sad 😭🙏

don’t be shy, ask to be a part of the tag list and request stuff!!

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[carolmunson]

LGDW!eddie x you - smutty. happy belated v-day.

He likes it so much when you’re on top. He feels stupid about it. Mind wandering every now and again and his mouth hangs open while he thinks about it. You just take him. His mind liquifies, turning into nothing but yesyesyesyesyesyesyes. Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.

You got home from Valentine’s dinner and he set up the apartment to look like a five star hotel (as much as you can make a new one bedroom into a five star hotel on his salary). Rose petals on the ground, bouquet in the bed.

You didn’t make it to the bed. You took off your coat and shoved him onto the couch, straddling him in your heels and then all he could think about was you naked with heels and he yesyesyesyesyesyesyes.

You pull his hair and he whines, trying to steady your hips while they push against the fabric of his slacks. He doesn’t know why he tries to steady them, maybe he just doesn’t wanna come too quick. But then you start making those sounds while you wind against him, erection pressing between your legs — and then it’s just not fair of him to try and control your speed. Not now. Not while you’re starting to feel good.

He slides down slightly so you can really feel it, pushing his hips up to savor the friction. He bites his lip between kisses, eyes heavy lidded, “Baby, please…”

“What?” You coo back, he tenses his calves to try and hold back a moan.

“Let me, let me take you to my room,” he stammers out. You grin and it’s half sexy, half evil — his heart thunders, he knows that look. He loves that look.

“But we’re having so much fun out here,” you say back, head dipping to kiss his neck, tongue trailing over his jugular back down to just under his jaw. He knows what you’re gonna do and he almost wants to let out a ‘no’ but not because he doesn’t want it — he just doesn’t wanna get closer to coming before you can make it to bed.

Your teeth graze over the skin and his eyes roll.

“Doll, don’t — I’m gonna..uhn..” it comes out more like a whimper than a moan when your canines press down on his neck. Nipping just hard enough that it gives him a jolt of a sting; his cock twitches, ringed fingers gripping your hips with new vigor. His hips push up again, grinding back against you.

So close to his ear he hears it, that slight falter, a needy sigh escaping you before you kiss under his ear. Your nose grazes the shell and he lets out another soft moan, taken now by the rhythm of your hips in tandem. He could come just like this, dry humping in the ambient glow of the living room. But he has other plans, lips back on each others, he takes your lower lip between his teeth before letting it go. A challenge to your hand in his hair and the other on his jaw — guiding him while he kisses.

Your eyes catch, devilish, you both smirk. Fingers let go of one of your hips and trail beneath your dress, pushing between the fat of your thighs where they meet. Warmth engulfs him, knowing what’s next when he trails the pad of his finger over your panties before pulling them to the side.

“So wet,” he mumbles against your lips, your hand just below his neck flexes, nails pushing into his skin, in charge to needy. He pushes in, just a test, feeling you envelope him — clenching down almost immediately. Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes.

You reach for his belt while he starts a rhythm between your legs. Your hips are free now, bouncing back against the talent in his wrist, feeling another finger dip itself in to stretch you out.

He shimmies himself out of his pants and briefs, not fully getting up while he keeps you entertained — the glassy glaze in your eyes making him determined to get you there on the couch before he can finally coax you to the bedroom. Those rose petals were not going to waste the way Tatianna said they would. They were not cheesy.

Exposed, he reaches down with his free hand to stroke himself while his lips stay on yours. Fingertips deftly rubbing at your clit now. You shudder and huff and God you keep making all those sounds, you’re gonna drive him crazy.

You move out of his touch, adjusting to start on the ride of your life while you hold onto his shoulders.

“Woah, woah, what’s up?” He asks, brown eyes shining while he looks up at you.

“Look, I’m gonna sit on it or suck it,” you respond matter of factly, “That dick is gonna be inside me either way. Your choice.”

“Ex..excuse me?” he breathes out, face a surprised and bashful grin. He’s never heard you so direct before and he’s now so hard he might need medical attention. You both need to split a bottle of Cabernet more often if this is how you get after.

“Do you want me to repeat it slower for you, Ed?” you ask back, “Is that what you need?”

“Jeeesus,” he hisses back, curls cushioning the back of his head while it falls back against the back wall of the couch, “You gotta chill.”

“You don’t like when I’m mean?” you tease, one of your nails trailing from his cheek down his neck. He shuts his eyes tight and then relaxes them.

“I love when you’re mean,” he sighs, “God, I love when you’re mean.”

“You want me to be mean to you in your bedroom?” you ask in his ear, pressing a still glossy kiss to his cheek.

“Yeah, I decorated it,” he says bashfully, “Since it’s our first Valentine’s, y’know?”

“Okay, whatever you want,” you nod back at him. He palms your cheek, leaning in to give you a kiss that’s more loving than lustful.

“I have a gift in there for you,” he says, “I know we didn’t really like — say if we were doing gifts, but — I wanted to.”

“That’s sweet,” you say back, getting up off of his lap. He haphazardly pulls his pants back up before following suit, knowing they’ll just be off again in a couple minutes.

“I got you a little something, too,” you offer, making your way down the hall.

“Yeah? Where is it?” he asks, looking back at your purse and then at you. You look over your shoulder with a glint in your eye — half evil, half sexy.

“It’s under the dress,” you shrug.

Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes. Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.

[traveler-at-heart]

Movie Afternoon

Nerd!Natasha has been on my mind so much lately and this post was just so perfect I had to be horny on main, so there's that.

Warnings: Smut, G!P Natasha

The weekend was finally here. Exams had been a drag all week and as much as you loved the school paper, there was only so much reporting one could do about the new production of Wizard of Oz.

As usual, your brother’s friends were throwing a party and you were invited, but going to your girlfriend’s house for a movie marathon was the best plan.

You knocked on the Romanoff residence, waiting for Melina or Alexei to open up. Instead, Natasha herself was at the door, wearing grey sweatpants and a hoodie.

“Hi” she said, smiling as soon as she saw you.

“Hi, love” you stood up on your toes to peck her lips. “Where’s your fam? You never open the door”

“They went to get some groceries. I think mom’s making lasagna toni…” she explained, mumbling against your lips when you leaned forward again, this time your tongue asking for permission to enter.

Natasha let you deepen the kiss with a sigh, her hands holding on to your waist for dear life.

“Can we… go to my room?”

“For a movie, or something more?” you said, kissing down her neck and biting the skin.

“Mo-vie. I’m sorry, I’d love to, but they’ll be back any minute”

“That’s ok, baby” you said against her ear, pulling apart. You were a little evil, always testing how much you could tease Natasha. Shy, bashful and beautiful Natasha.

You reached for her hand and led her up the stairs, knowing the way to her room.

“What do you want to watch?” she said, as you laid in her bed and she got her computer.

“Anything you want”

“What about the new Dungeons and Dragons movie?”

“Sure” you agreed, remembering Natasha had missed it on the theater because she was ill.

“Ok, here we go” she placed the computer at your feet, and you made yourself at home in her arms, leaning on her chest.

She smelled so nice, as usual. As the movie progressed, you ran your hands up and down her abdomen, in what you thought was a soothing manner.

That is, until you heard Natasha stiffle what sounded like a groan.

“What’s wrong, baby?” you straightened up, looking at her. “Sorry, did your arm fall asleep,? I’ll move”

“No, it’s not that” she said, her eyes on the ceiling.

“Well, then, what is…” your eyes scanned the rest of her body, and you finally saw the tent at her pants. “Oh, baby”

“It’s ok, it’ll come down in a minute” she said, more to herself than to you. Your girlfriend was about to grab a pillow to cover her erection when you intercepted her hand.

“Let me…”

“Y/N…”

“What? I caused this. I should be the one to fix it… don’t you think?”

“If they come back and see us” she was trying to come up with excuses not to do it and you smiled, straddling her lap.

“Honey, your mom already knows. Didn’t you catch the look she gave us the other day when we were late from the library?”

Of course, you had left the library on time, but an intense make out session led to you sucking Natasha’s dick on the school parking lot. What a shame your car was too small to fit you both on the backseat.

“You don’t have to”

“Of course I don’t have to. I want to, Natasha”

Those words seemed to have a magic effect on her, erasing any other objections. Her hands came to hold your waist as you kissed her passionately, grinding against her hard dick.

You mentally congratulated yourself for wearing a skirt, that would give her easy access to your pussy.

“Where are the condoms?” you said against her lips and her hand reached for the nighstand drawer. “Let me”

You leaned forward, still straddling her. The position made your chest go up to her face and Natasha wasn’t able to resist the temptation of squeezing your breasts, hardened nipples showing through the fabric of your shirt.

“Like what you see?” you teased and the girl nodded dumbly. “Maybe you can cum on them later”

The words made her jolt her hips forward, her dick crashing against your clothed pussy. You couldn’t resist the moan that left your lips and you moved down, fighting with the waistband of her pants.

“Here” she lifted her hips and you were able to take off her pants and briefs, her cock springing free in all its 9 inch glory.

“So big” you muttered, your mouth watering.  You were supposed to only put on the condom… but who could resist? Your tongue licked her entire shaft, starting from the balls all the way to the tip. Natasha let out a loud moan, buckling her hips in the air. You let her move, while your mouth covered her tip and inch by inch, you took all of her.

“Baby, you feel so fucking good…” she said, her mind a haze of pleasure and lust. The curse word only fueled the fire in your belly, knowing Natasha never said anything like that. You took as much as you could, until it hit the back of your throat, and then you began to move, up and down, strings of saliva running down the corners of your mouth.

Natasha fisted the comforter of her bed, and once her hips began an erratic rythm you knew she was close.

To her dismay, you didn’t let her finish, her cock leaving your mouth, still standing painfully hard.

“What… why...” she practically whined, desperate for release.

“Wouldn’t be fair if you had all the fun, now would it, baby?” you teased, and your hands placing the condom distracted her enough. Feeling your touch was the only way to relieve the coil in her stomach.

You went back up, allowing her to taste herself on your lips. She moaned against your tongue, and knowing she was distracted by the kiss, you grabbed her dick and lined it up with your pussy.

You were sure the neighbours had heard her moan as soon as she entered you, breaking the kiss apart.

“Y/N” she begged, and you weren’t sure if she wanted you to move or hold still.

“Talk to me, baby”

“Can you… move? Yes, just like that”

You began grinding your hips, up and down, feeling her cock almost hit your cervix. You really ought to get on birth control, imagining how amazing it would feel to have Natasha fill you with her cum.

“What did you…?”

Oh. You were probably thinking out loud.

“I want you… to fill my pussy with all your cum, Natasha” you said between breaths, bouncing harder on her dick. “God, your cock is so fucking big, it ruined me, no one can fuck me as good as you, baby”

You moved your hips faster and Natasha tried to match your pace, but you could tell she was close.

Two things happened at once.

You heard her family pull up the driveway and the next minute, Natasha was coming hard. You had to cover her mouth to stiffle her moan.

“Did you…?” she asked after a second, her breath still laboured.

“It’s ok, baby” you said, kissing her softly. “Come on, clean up, they’ll come check on us any minute now”

The redhead nodded, getting up to discard the condom and put on her boxers and pants. For your part, you fixed your hair as best as you could, as well as your shirt, that had ridden up all the way to your midsection.

Sure enough, Natasha’s mother came up minutes later. By that time, you were both leaning against the headboard, pretending to watch the movie.

“Y/N, how were exams this week?”

“All good, Mrs. Romanoff. Just have to practice my Spanish a bit” you smiled, sounding as composed as you could.

The woman nodded and turned to her daughter.

Natasha was… well, she looked flustered, to be honest. Melina said something in Russian, making her daughter blush madly.

“You’re welcome to stay over for dinner” Melina said, this time to you and you nodded.

“Thank you”

As soon as the door was shut, you turned to Natasha.

“You were right. She knows” Natasha mumbled, turning red.

You let out a laugh at that.

“Told ya”

“You’re gonna kill me one day”

“Preferably while we’re fucking hard” you said, unable to help yourself around your girlfriend. Without caring about her family downstairs, you began to kiss her once again, and you felt strong hands holding your waist and traveling down to squeeze your ass.

“Hey, Natasha… ah!!” Yelena walked in, covering her eyes and exiting dramatically.

“Knock next time!” Natasha yelled after her. “She’s so gonna snitch on me”

“My house is free tomorrow” you said against her ear and she shivered. “So, drink lots of fluids and come ready. We’re leveling the score, baby”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Peachy

Lewis Pullman x Fem!Reader

The backyard is warm and still — heavy with that kind of thick, slow heat that makes everything feel like it’s moving through honey. A half-empty pack of Solo cups is slumped beside the porch steps. There’s a faint crackle of music drifting from inside the house — some old indie vinyl Lewis put on just after breakfast.

You’re outside in your favorite sundress — loose, soft, floral — one that flutters around your thighs when the breeze hits just right. You’re crouched low over a row of coolers, sleeves of soda and bottled water scattered around you, separating everything into four color-coded bins: juice boxes in the blue one, soda in red, water in green, and the beer tucked away in white — out of reach of curious little hands.

You’re humming to yourself as you work, fingertips dusted with condensation from the ice bags you just cracked open.

You don’t hear Lewis come outside.

You feel him first — a flicker of his shadow on the grass, the familiar sound of his sneakers scraping over the porch planks — and then: two warm hands slide over your hips, a solid body pressing flush behind you.

And then his hips roll against yours.

You gasp — half surprise, half laugh — and instinctively press back into him just a little. He groans into your neck, soft and desperate.

YOU

(teasing, breathy)

Oh? Needy?

LEWIS

So fucking needy I can’t even see straight.

His voice is low, gravel dragged over syrup, and he doesn’t stop grinding against you — slow, deliberate, already so hard it makes your knees go a little soft.

YOU

We’ve got an hour, Lew. Don’t start something we don’t have time to finish.

LEWIS

We do have time. Just ten minutes. Hell — five. I don’t even need to get fully undressed. Just pull this little sundress up and—

His fingers trail down your outer thigh, slow and suggestive. You grab his wrist before it can go any further and glance back over your shoulder with a smirk.

YOU

You’re serious?

He looks at you like you just asked if the sky was blue. His cheeks are flushed, jaw locked tight, and his eyes — dark and wide and wrecked — are shameless.

LEWIS

I’ve been hard since you bent over like that ten minutes ago. This dress is evil. You’re evil. I’m losing my mind out here.

YOU

We’ve got parents and nieces and cousins showing up any second. You really wanna sneak off while your mom’s walking in the front gate?

LEWIS

If it means I get to be inside you? I’ll risk it.

You laugh — an actual giggle — and he groans again, this time full-body, like the sound got pulled from deep in his chest.

YOU

You’re begging.

LEWIS

Damn right I am. Baby, I’m fucking aching. I woke up like this and it hasn’t gone away. I watched you walk around the kitchen barefoot, sipping coffee in that tiny towel, and I’ve been in hell ever since.

You straighten up slightly, still crouched, letting your hips roll back into him just a little — enough to make him hiss through his teeth. He grips your waist tighter, knuckles white.

YOU

You look pretty when you’re desperate.

LEWIS

I look pathetic. And I don’t care. Please, baby.

You finally stand and turn to face him, and he looks like a man on the brink — hair tousled, lips parted, and his hands flexing like he doesn’t know where to put them if they’re not on you.

You trail your fingertips up the front of his tight blue Winchester tee, stopping right over his pounding heart.

YOU

Let me get this straight. You want to sneak into our house, fuck me so fast and hard I can still smile at your mom twenty minutes later, without any of our siblings or nieces catching us?

He nods, quickly. Eager. You tilt your head.

YOU (CONT’D)

Mm… no.

LEWIS

What?

YOU

No. You’re gonna wait.

He actually stumbles back a step like you physically knocked the wind out of him.

LEWIS

You’re joking.

YOU

Not even a little.

LEWIS

You’re gonna make me go back inside. With this.

He gestures wildly toward the very visible outline in his pants, looking like he might actually scream.

YOU

You’ll survive.

You bend back down again — slowly this time — as you reach for another six-pack of soda. The sundress flutters up again and you hear Lewis let out the softest, most strangled groan behind you.

YOU (CONT’D)

Beer cooler’s yours. Don’t forget the ice. And maybe… cool off while you’re at it.

LEWIS

You’re cruel.

YOU

You love it.

You don’t even have to look back to know he’s still standing there, jaw tight, fists clenched, completely wrecked — and the damn cookout hasn’t even started yet.

INT. KITCHEN – LATE AFTERNOON – COOKOUT IN FULL SWING

The kitchen is loud with overlapping conversations — your mom fussing over potato salad, your niece begging for another juice box, and Lewis’s sister pulling cupcakes out of a bakery box with loud praise.

You slip through the crowd with practiced ease, refilling the chip bowl and tossing another batch of forks into a tray. Every time you turn, you feel it:

His eyes.

Lewis watches you from across the kitchen like he’s starving. He’s leaned casually against the fridge, red Solo cup in hand, but there’s nothing casual about the way he’s looking at you — eyes low, mouth slightly open, thumb rubbing the rim of his cup like he’s imagining it’s your skin.

You flash him a sweet smile and then turn to help your cousin with the lemonade.

A beat later, you feel it: his hand. Just a brush of fingers at the small of your back as he walks behind you, so light it could’ve been nothing. But it isn’t. You feel it like a live wire.

LEWIS (LOW, BEHIND YOU)

I’m gonna drag you into the bathroom if you keep looking at me like that.

You glance over your shoulder, smirking.

YOU (SOFT)

You wouldn’t.

LEWIS

Try me.

⸻

EXT. BACKYARD – TWENTY MINUTES LATER – GOLDEN HOUR

The sun’s beginning to sink, casting that buttery light over everything. Paper plates dot the grass, kids shriek as they chase each other with water guns, and the scent of grilled burgers hangs thick in the air.

You’re sitting beside your aunt at the long picnic table, sipping a spiked lemonade. Lewis is on the opposite end, laughing with your dad and tossing something on the grill, but every few minutes, he glances your way.

Not subtle.

You cross your legs slowly under the table and his gaze locks onto your thigh as it slides out from under your sundress.

He blinks.

Then looks away with effort.

Two minutes later, he texts you:

Lewis: I’m gonna lose it.

Lewis: One more look like that and I’m bending you over the laundry room sink.

Lewis: That’s a promise.

You smile down at your phone, then shoot him a reply:

You: Better hope your mom doesn’t need a dish towel while I’m in there, then.

Across the table, he nearly chokes on his lemonade.

⸻

INT. HALLWAY – MOMENTS LATER – INSIDE THE HOUSE

You duck into the house under the excuse of checking the corn in the oven. The kitchen is momentarily empty.

You open the oven, peer inside… and then sense someone behind you.

YOU (SOFTLY)

If that’s my mom, I swear I’m not burning it—

You turn and—

SLAM.

Lewis pins you gently but firmly against the hallway wall between the kitchen and the laundry room, one hand planted beside your head, the other already gripping your waist. His breath is hot against your cheek.

LEWIS (ROUGH WHISPER)

You think this is funny?

YOU (TEASING)

A little. You’ve been hard for like three hours.

LEWIS

And you love it.

You don’t answer.

You just smile.

His lips graze your jawline, the side of your throat, slow and shaky.

LEWIS (CONT’D)

Tell me to stop and I will.

You don’t.

You tilt your head back, breath catching.

His hand dips beneath the hem of your sundress — only a little. Just his fingertips grazing the inside of your thigh.

Then—

FOOTSTEPS.

Voices. Your cousin laughing, someone calling for ketchup.

You both freeze.

YOU (BREATHLESS)

Don’t. Move.

LEWIS (MURMURING INTO YOUR EAR)

Baby, you are killing me.

The voices pass. You swallow hard.

You glance up at him, cheeks flushed, lips parted, your body thrumming.

Then you shift, slip right out of his grasp, straighten your dress, and shoot him a look over your shoulder as you walk back into the kitchen.

YOU

Corn’s done.

He stays frozen in the hallway for a moment, chest rising and falling, hands flexing at his sides.

And then he mutters under his breath:

LEWIS

Un. Fucking. Believable.

EXT. BACKYARD – EVENING – DINNER TIME

The sun is sinking low now, dipping the backyard in soft amber. Everyone’s finally sitting down with paper plates full of grilled food — burgers, corn, pasta salad, chips, charred hot dogs for the kids. Laughter echoes under the string lights, someone’s Bluetooth speaker is playing Fleetwood Mac, and all seems right in the world.

Unless you’re Lewis.

He’s seated at the far end of the long picnic table, trapped between your mom and his dad, trying to nod politely through a conversation about someone’s new patio furniture — but he’s not really there.

Not when you’re sitting directly across from him, licking butter off your fingers like it’s nothing.

You look warm and sun-kissed, cheeks flushed, sundress riding up slightly as you shift in your seat. One knee rests over the other, swaying lazily. You lick the edge of your thumb, catch his eye, and bite into your corn on the cob.

Slowly.

Lewis. Breaks.

He shifts in his seat — again — legs spread wider, as if that’ll somehow help with the very obvious situation in his jeans. He grips his paper plate like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

LEWIS

(muttering to himself)

She’s trying to kill me.

YOUR COUSIN (TO LEWIS)

What was that?

LEWIS (QUICKLY)

Nothing! Uh — the, uh — food’s great.

Your eyes glitter as you bite into your burger, deliberately ignoring the look he’s giving you: part hunger, part despair, all pent-up frustration.

He tries to focus on eating. He really does. But every time he looks up, you’re doing something else cruel:

• Reapplying lip balm.

• Sucking the juice from a piece of watermelon.

• Stretching your arms overhead like you don’t know your dress rides up when you do.

You’re a menace. And you know it.

He texts you again, right under the table:

Lewis: You’re actually evil.

Lewis: I can’t do this much longer.

Lewis: I’m gonna say something insane in front of your mom.

Lewis: Stop.

You glance down at your phone, then up at him, and take the slowest sipfrom your lemonade. Tongue against the straw. Legs crossed tighter.

His jaw tightens.

You lean forward across the table a little, arms resting on the edge, and speak sweetly:

YOU

Everything taste okay, babe?

He stares at you like he might combust on the spot.

LEWIS

Delicious.

He looks anything but okay.

You tilt your head, like you’re all innocent.

YOU

You look a little flushed. You alright?

LEWIS

Peachy.

Your dad walks by and claps him on the shoulder, totally oblivious.

DAD

You alright there, Lewis? You look like you’ve been working the grill yourself.

Lewis laughs. It sounds like pain.

LEWIS

Just… uh… hot out here, sir.

You bite back a smile. Take another bite of corn. He watches you like he’s counting the seconds until he can finally have you alone again.

And right now, you’re winning.

EXT. BACKYARD – NIGHTFALL – POST-COOKOUT GLOW

The string lights twinkle overhead now, swaying gently in the breeze. Most of the paper plates are empty, plastic cups half-full and scattered, and the last of the kids are chasing fireflies barefoot through the grass.

You’ve kicked your shoes off. You’re perched on the porch steps, sipping from the same lemonade you’ve been nursing all day. Your sundress is hitched up just a little from sitting, legs bare and stretched out in front of you.

Lewis stands behind you, hands on his hips, scanning the yard like a soldier planning an escape route.

LEWIS (LOW)

Alright. Everyone’s eaten. Everyone’s full. They’re gonna start leaving now, yeah?

You hum noncommittally.

YOU

Might take a little longer. My mom never leaves without wrapping up at least three different types of leftovers. And your aunt’s probably already loading the dishwasher.

LEWIS

No. No no no. I’ve been hard since before the guests got here. I am done. I am reclaiming my girlfriend now.

You turn slightly, resting your chin on your shoulder, all soft eyes and faux-innocence.

YOU

Is that your way of offering to clean?

LEWIS

Yes. Enthusiastically. Furiously. Just — alone. You and me. Inside. Now.

He claps his hands once and raises his voice toward the family chaos around the yard.

LEWIS (LOUDER)

Hey! Everyone! We’ve got clean-up handled — seriously! You guys just enjoy the night. We’re good!

You blink. Bold of him. A few cousins pause mid-conversation. Your mom looks up from where she’s gathering a pile of napkins.

And then?

MOM (MATTER-OF-FACTLY)

You hosted. We clean.

Lewis freezes. His mouth opens, then closes.

LEWIS

What?

YOUR AUNT (WALKING BY WITH TUPPERWARE)

It’s the rule, sweetheart. Host doesn’t lift a finger. Now scoot, where’s your trash bags?

COUSIN (TO YOU)

We’re making a take-home plate

You are okay. You’re perfect. Especially now, as Lewis stands beside you looking like he might cry.

LEWIS (TO HIMSELF)

This is a nightmare. This is my personal hell.

He leans down beside you, murmuring under his breath:

LEWIS (LOW)

They’re multiplying. I swear there’s more of them than before.

YOU (SOFTLY, SMILING)

You look like you’re about to break.

LEWIS

I am about to break. I have never wanted you more in my life and your mom just handed me a Glad bag and told me to double knot it.

YOU

Mm. Sexy.

He stares at you. He is unamused. You are very amused.

LEWIS

You’re evil and I love you but I also might die.

YOU

You’ll survive. Barely.

Your little niece comes racing across the yard and crashes into Lewis’s legs with a sticky hug.

NIECE

Lewyyy!! Can I have one more cookie?

Lewis smiles weakly.

LEWIS

Sure, sweetheart. You can have anything. Literally anything.

As she runs off again, he turns to you — defeated, flushed, teeth clenched.

LEWIS (WHISPERING)

You better hope they leave in the next twenty minutes or I’m throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you upstairs in front of your entire bloodline.

You grin.

YOU

Tempting.

INT. LIVING ROOM – LATE NIGHT – QUIET, FINALLY

The last goodbye drifts through the front door.

Tupperware has been handed out. Hugs exchanged. Your mom and his finally pulled away from each other with promises of brunch next week. The front door clicks shut behind them.

Silence.

You turn the lock slowly.

Behind you, Lewis is still. Watching.

You barely get a breath in before he’s on you.

LEWIS (LOW, ROUGH)

Don’t move.

His voice is wrecked — low, hoarse, trembling with restraint. You turn, and the second your eyes meet his, it’s over.

SMASH.

His mouth crashes into yours like a storm — no teasing, no gentleness left. Hands gripping your waist tight, walking you backward blindly until your back hits the nearest wall. The kiss is filthy — all teeth, tongue, desperation. Like he’s making up for every second he spent sitting politely at a dinner table with a hard-on.

LEWIS (BREATHLESS, BETWEEN KISSES)

You. Fucking. Tortured. Me.

YOU (GASPING, LAUGHING)

You liked it.

He growls, literally growls, and grabs your thighs in both hands. You don’t even get a warning — he lifts you up like nothing, your back against the wall, legs wrapping around his waist as his mouth drags down your jaw to your neck.

LEWIS (WHISPERED, DARK)

I’m not gonna be gentle.

You bite your lip, nodding, breath caught.

YOU (SOFTLY)

Don’t be.

That’s all it takes.

⸻

INT. BEDROOM – MOMENTS LATER – DARK, LIT ONLY BY MOONLIGHT

He stumbles through the door with you in his arms, kicking it shut without ever looking away from you. Clothes are gone in seconds. His shirt hits the floor first. Then your sundress — yanked over your head, left in a heap.

You’re in nothing underneath.

LEWIS (HOARSE WHISPER)

Of course you weren’t wearing anything under that fucking dress. Of course you weren’t.

He kisses down your chest, messy and hot, like he can’t decide where he wants to start — teeth grazing over a nipple, tongue flicking the other, hands gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself.

He finally pulls back, eyes scanning you from head to toe like he’s been waiting all day to see you like this.

LEWIS (LOW, SERIOUS)

Hands on the headboard.

YOU

Yes, sir.

His eyes flash.

LEWIS

Don’t say that unless you mean it.

YOU (BREATHLESS)

I do.

That’s it. He grabs your wrists and pins them to the headboard himself, kissing you hard as he lines himself up. The first thrust steals your breath — deep, hard, unapologetic. He doesn’t ease in. Doesn’t give you time. And you don’t want him to.

The rhythm is filthy.

Fast, hungry. His fingers dig into your thigh, spreading you open wider, hitting deep with every snap of his hips. You moan his name and he slapsyour thigh — not hard, but enough to make you gasp.

LEWIS (ROUGH, RIGHT AT YOUR EAR)

You think you can tease me all day? Make me sit there hard while you eat corn and smile at me like that?

You nod, breathless, grinning.

YOU (PANTING)

Yeah. And I’d do it again.

LEWIS (DANGEROUSLY CALM)

You’re such a brat.

His hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles. You arch off the bed, body trembling.

YOU (WHIMPERING)

Lewis, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—

LEWIS

Then come. Right now. Be loud. I want everyone who drove away tonight to hear how wrecked you are.

You do. Hard. Shaking under him, crying out his name as he fucks you through it, still thrusting, still kissing you like he’s addicted.

He doesn’t stop until he’s gasping your name into your neck, hips stuttering, body shaking.

He collapses on top of you, sweaty, breathless, and still kissing every inch of skin he can reach like he needs to.

The room is quiet now — windows cracked just enough to let in a warm breeze, the faint sound of crickets outside blending with the hum of the ceiling fan.

You’re sprawled on his chest, still catching your breath, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over his skin. Lewis’s arm is wrapped tight around your back, the other hand resting in your hair.

For a moment, there’s peace.

Soft. Golden. Satisfied.

Exactly two minutes of it.

And then —

LEWIS (VOICE LOW, RUMBLY)

Alright.

You blink, eyebrows lifting.

YOU

…Alright?

He shifts under you. Big hands slide down your back. His fingers trail along the curve of your ass — still tender from how hard he gripped you minutes ago.

LEWIS

I need more.

YOU (LAUGHING, MUFFLED AGAINST HIS CHEST)

Already?

LEWIS (DEAD SERIOUS)

Yes. Babe, I’ve been on edge since noon. I’m still not okay.

He flips you effortlessly — body shifting under yours, hands grabbing your thighs, rolling you onto your back so he’s hovering over you again, eyes darker now than they were before.

YOU (PLAYFULLY WHINING)

You said “worth the wait” like five minutes ago.

LEWIS (GROWLING SOFTLY)

That was Round One worth the wait. Now I want the rest.

His mouth crashes into yours again — slower this time, but deeper, hungrier. Less frantic, more claiming. He kisses you like he’s trying to ruin your mouth for anyone else.

His hand slips between your legs without breaking the kiss, and you moan into it — still sensitive, but already pulsing again under his touch.

LEWIS (BREATHLESS, MOUTH ON YOUR NECK)

You’re soaked again already.

YOU (GASPING)

That’s your fault.

LEWIS (WHISPERING INTO YOUR SKIN)

I know. I love it.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, then flips you again, this time face-down — hands on your hips, dragging you toward the edge of the bed.

LEWIS (LOW, CONTROLLED)

Up. On your knees.

You obey instantly — breathless, dizzy, and so ready. You press your forearms into the pillows, arching your back, legs trembling already.

He drags his fingers down your spine — slow, reverent.

LEWIS

Look at this. This is mine.

He slides into you again with one deep, punishing thrust — and you whimper, already stretched and aching, but god, it’s so good.

This round is different — deeper, dirtier. His rhythm is intense, hips slamming into you with the kind of precision that says he knows your body now, every little reaction, every gasp and moan.

You cry out when his palm smacks your ass — again, not too hard, but enough to make you clench around him.

YOU (GASPING)

Fuck—Lewis—

LEWIS (DARK LAUGH)

You made me wait all day. Now you take everything I give you.

He reaches forward, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back. You moan helplessly into the sheets.

YOU (WHIMPERING)

Lewis, I—oh god—

LEWIS (BREATHLESS)

Say it. Who’s fucking you this good?

YOU (RUINED)

You. You are. Always.

You come with a full-body shake, legs giving out, body clenching around him so tight he curses, stuttering behind you as he follows, coming deep and hard, pressed flush to your back, whispering your name like a prayer.

[formulafanfics13]

The Hotel Room, the Thigh Tattoo, and the Filthiest Five-Star Breakfast - AA23 🔥

Masterlist

He's been watching her all morning. Lazy. Lingering. Starving.

She's in nothing but one of his t-shirts, oversized, practically swallowed her whole, hem brushing the tops of her thighs as she paces around their hotel suite barefoot, sipping iced coffee like she's not actively killing him.

Her hair's messy. Her legs are bare. There's a faint bite mark blooming along her shoulder from last night, and her thighs are still glistening where his stubble had rubbed her raw.

And Alex? Alex is sprawled on the edge of the bed in boxers, arms propped behind him, visibly hard as he watches her bend over to grab her phone from the floor.

"Do that again," he says.

She turns. Smirking. "Do what?"

He points. "That thing. Where you pretend you're not teasing me but you absolutely fucking are."

"I'm not teasing."

"You're in my shirt, no bra, no panties, walking around like you don't know what your thighs do to me. That's the definition of-"

He stops. Because she lifts the shirt. Just a little. Just high enough to reveal the curve of her hip and that little black tattoo etched into her inner thigh.

Alex blinks. "You're evil."

She sips her coffee again. "You gonna do something about it?"

His jaw flexes. He's off the bed in two seconds.

She squeals as he lifts her, literally lifts, by her thighs, coffee long forgotten, phone clattering to the ground. He carries her to the wall like she weighs nothing, mouth already crashing into hers, tongue sliding deep and possessive and furious.

"You think I won't fuck you right here?" he growls against her mouth.

"You've already fucked me on the window, the table, and the armchair," she gasps, nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm not betting against it."

"Oh, you're getting cocky," he hisses, dragging the shirt up until it bunches under her arms.

"You like me cocky."

"I like you wrecked."

He drops to his knees. Right there. Kneeling in front of her like he's starving for holy communion and her thighs are the altar. "Put your leg over my shoulder," he orders, already sliding his hands behind her knees.

She obeys, breathing hard, moaning when his mouth finds her, hot, filthy, hungry. Tongue dragging across her folds with worship, with reverence, with utter chaos.

He sucks. Hard. Her hands slam back against the wall, one leg trembling on his shoulder as he groans into her cunt, devours her like he's dying and she's the antidote.

"Alex-fuck-" she gasps, grinding down, writhing. "You're gonna make me-"

"That's the point," he snarls, pulling back just long enough to say it before diving in again, tongue fucking into her, messy and wet and brutal.

She comes with a sound that's pure sin - loud, high, shaking all over as she crashes against him, hips jerking, vision going white.

He doesn't stop. Not even a little. Just grins and licks his lips. "One more."

"You're insane-"

"Good thing you like me this way."

He stands, hard cock pressing against her, and she whimpers as he pushes her flat against the wall again, sliding the tip between her folds.

"No condom," she breathes.

"Don't need one. You're mine anyway."

He thrusts in. All the way. She screams.

"Alex-fuck-fuck-"

"I know, baby," he growls into her neck. "I know."

Thirty minutes later, room service knocks. She answers the door with trembling thighs, hair an absolute mess, wearing his shirt and nothing else.

The waiter glances at the angry red marks on her neck and says absolutely nothing. Alex is sprawled in bed again, sipping coffee this time, arms behind his head, cocky as hell.

"I think he saw my ass."

"You've got a great ass."

"You left handprints."

"Again, great ass."

She flops beside him. Steals his toast. And whispers, "You're such a fucking menace."

He kisses her shoulder and replies, "Only for you."

[sozhuo]

　　 　　　　　　　　　 　　　　　　　　　 forget the haters.

ok, shut up and listen. maybe that was a bit mean, sorry . . . not! grab your drink, grab your blankets, sit down, and listen. the haters, the anti-shifters, whatever you want to call them—literally whatever your heart desires. you are the only one who lets them hold you back. it's regurgitated, it's not original, but it's true. why pay attention to the ones who have a completely different way of living their lives. they do not affect you. they spew their own word-vomit ideas, much like my own, and they hope and believe and pray that those ideas will hook onto one of us. that they will sink their soft, kitty-cat claws into our skin and rip the intent and will from our beings with their dull k-9 fangs. they're soft, they want belonging. routine. complicity. it is up to you and only you to give them that satisfaction.

to steal temporarily from one of my favorite books of all time ("sophie's world" by jostein gaarder—also, my namesake!), we can look at the universe and the existence of, well, everything, as the magic act of pulling a rabbit out of a hat. of course, the magician, the hat, and the rabbit have always existed, and they have known of their own existence. but we are going to go beyond that, to the microscopic level. to the real nitty-gritty.

"to summarize briefly:" there's a rabbit, pulled from a hat. it's been happening for billions of years. now, gaarder says that mortals are all born at the tip of the rabbit's fur. where we are in the perfect position to wonder at the impossibility of the trick (in this case, the possibility of the multiverse, the metaphysical, take your pick!). essentially, we are born at the edge of its fur, blinking, saying: what the hell is this? some of us mortals, the haters, begin to work themselves deeper and deeper into the rabbit's fur. some of us keep asking; some of us sink into the fur and stop looking. they refuse to believe anything that those at the tip of the fur say. 'we literally live on a floating rock!' we say, 'there's a multitude of different universes!' but most of the people down there do not care. and it isn't their fault, it's not that any one person is right or wrong.

they say shifting isn't real. they say, 'it's delusion.' 'it's fantasy.' but, here's the catch. they are so deep within the rabbit's fur, that they have stopped noticing the trick. they've stopped wondering. they forget that their existence is a miracle. they mistake fur for fact, skin for certainty.

but the truth? you can scream down at the root of the rabbit's fur until your voice splinters and rips—they won't hear you. they don't want to. hopping into a different analogy, the butterfly can beg the fly to come to the flower. tell it how sweet the nectar is; how bright the sun feels; how soft the petal is beneath its feet. but the fly loves the rot. the fly chooses the filth. but, maybe, it doesn't necessarily have to be evil. maybe it's just . . . nature. but it’s not your nature—you’re meant for more. you were always going to climb; to crawl to the tip of the fur; to look up; to leap. no one can follow you if they won’t even look. so, forget the haters. let the flies buzz. you’ve got lives to fall into. (i warn you: don't do this out of spite, but with the cosmic energy of someone who is simply . . . detached. center yourself and your path forward).

and that's the difference, really. some of us stay buried, warm and complacent and unmoved—like arthur dent or the society of a dystopian novel. but, some of us look up. we claw and grind and fight, tooth and nail, our way up to the light at the tip of the fur. we say, 'this cannot be all.' and we do the most incredible thing. we jump.

we jump off the rabbit's back. into the hat. into the void. into hands of the magician. whatever that means.

and maybe that's the whole point. not to be right, not to prove anything. just to believe that the trick is still happening—and that we might be part of it.

so forget the haters. stay at the tip of the fur. jump.

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.5.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! (and I can't stress this enough, kids shoo!) Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 6K

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: d/s etiquette (stoplight system), punishment (spanking), slight dacryphilia, cunnilingus, slight overstimulation, word 'cum' (hi Krys!), yearning, yearning, yearning, yearning.

author’s note: Ok, so time for me to explain Baal a bit if you didn’t have the opportunity to check it out. It’s a play that explores the life and fall (I guess) of a drunken poet Baal, that rejects society and dips into the philosophy of Sturm und Drang (yk, Goethe and all that shit). Baal is an anti-hero and it’s basically a study of (an evil? morally gray?) genius that went as far as he could. There is a nice, recorded version with David Bowie in it for anyone who doesn’t want to read but it’s a cool read nevertheless, very poetic. Honestly to this day I don’t know if it’s good or not, it’s just a thing I’ve read a long time ago during my times of Bowie obsession and it stayed with me forever. And as usual, playlist here, @rennethen my beta, massive thank you and artist is @petitesieste ♡

Cross-posted on AO3

—

A light shuffle, then a tickle. A kiss to your temple, dry and warm, a throaty hum, then a hand rubbing your cheek. It would be all sweet and loving if it weren’t for the way he wipes away remnants of night drool before placing a kiss there.

“Wake up,” he says, voice rough with morning gravel, and you breathe deeply against his chest, pressing your stomach into his. “It’s 9 a.m.”

“Oh, no.” You jolt, panicked, eyes snapping wide painfully fast, and Viktor rushes to put out the fire.

“It’s 9 a.m. on Sunday,” he chuckles. “I just really need to pee,” he adds, tipping his chin down, gesturing at the fusion of bodies—your bellies pressed together tight, arms wrapped around each other, yours circling his waist, his draped over your shoulders, one trapped beneath your neck, legs tangled with your thigh swung over his hip. “I’m trapped, you see.”

“Oh.” You blink twice, slowly, catching up, then release him. “Sorry. I don’t really sleep with people too often,” you try to explain your greediness, but he’s already getting up.

Viktor smirks. “That I can tell,” he says, pulling on a jumper, and you say goodbye to his pretty back. “You’re not the easiest nap partner,” he throws over his shoulder as his legs swing off the bed.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know.” Viktor smiles, leaning back on one hand against the mattress. “The snoring, the drooling, eh, some mumbling,” he lists, tracing the curve of your thigh with his fingers. “I think you quoted some Hamlet.”

“Oh, God.” You groan, hiding your face in the crook of your elbow. “Sorry.”

“I don’t mind a bit of gross,” he muses, his hand skimming higher, to your hip.

Your hand falls back on the bed, firm, and you pull your leg away from his touch. “Are you saying I’m an ugly sleeper?” you ask, eyebrows quirked.

“No,” Viktor says quickly. “No, absolutely not.” He corrects himself, crawling back next to you, stopping you from turning away, hands pulling you flush against him. “You are so, so pretty, no matter what you’re doing,” he breathes into your mouth before kissing you. And you are so painfully aware that this is the first kiss outside of sex that it twists your gut. He parts from you with a quiet pop and mutters, “Just a bit disgusting, that’s all.”

“Oh, get lost.” You snort and push his face away with one hand. He chuckles but gets up awkwardly, shuffling toward the bathroom. As soon as he’s gone, you cover your eyes and mutter a quiet, “Fuck,” into the air of his bedroom, your voice a rasp coming from your abused throat.

Moments pass, leaving you alone, staring at the ceiling, thinking, overthinking, grinding everything from last night. Weighing what it is exactly that had you French exit the business dinner and skip to his apartment like a dog, tongue out and panting. Whether it’s just the thrill of it, the benefits that come with it, the absolute freedom of expression that Viktor guarantees, or just… him.

Is it the setup or his praise, the mouth that gives it, the tongue it rolls off, his hands that bruise and cleanse, his stomach that you desperately want to lick all over, his criminally gorgeous nose, his stupid man-smell, the crook of his shoulder shaped for your cheek and yours only, or… or what?

The door creak breaks you out of your self-mind-flagellation as Viktor sighs deeply and returns to bed.

“So.” He plops onto the mattress with a grunt, completely unaware. “How are you?”

“Why do you always ask?” You roll to your side, prop your head on your palm, and pull the covers up to your armpits.

Viktor leans in, lays flat on his stomach, and brushes hair off your neck. “It’s my job,” he says quietly, tracing the fading marks with his fingers. Then, he wraps them around the column of your throat, gently, and asks, “Asphyxiation then? Did you like it?”

“No innuendos with you, I swear to God,” you laugh, the tendons in your neck flexing under his palm. He squeezes tighter, just a notch, and watches with quiet fascination as your skin dents beneath his fingers. For a moment, Viktor seems lost in thought, absorbed in the sensation, before your answer pulls him back.

“Yes, I liked it.”

His grip eases, fingers shifting into a slow, absentminded caress. “We should be more careful, though,” he murmurs, pressing his thighs to yours. “You should tap more. And I got a bit carried away.” His voice is steady, but his eyes are softer, something sorrowful flickering in their depths.

“You didn’t hurt me,” you say, even though you know full well that your throat aches as fuck.

“That’s a lie,” Viktor counters easily, voice dipping lower. “I know your throat hurts, but it’s not about that.” His fingers trace light patterns on your skin now, smoothing over where his grip had been firm. “Some aches are good the day after,” he says, leaving out which aches are not of a good kind. “But this one... it’s a thin line. So if you want this, you need to promise me you’ll tap. Diligently.”

“Diligently tap or diligently promise?” you tease, rubbing your nose against his cheek. Any occasion to steer the conversation into a less serious area—you take.

But Viktor doesn’t. He reaches for a fistful of hair at your nape, gently unplucking you from himself. “Both,” he says earnestly, then gives you a kiss like a man grown—serious and deep. “Promise me you will tap diligently, or I won’t fuck your mouth like that again.”

And that’s a threat, the first one you’ve received. As serious as the kiss, it has you simultaneously scared for the sentence to be delivered and hot between your legs at the chance to prove your obedience. “I diligently promise,” you say, swallowing a gulp that travels slowly through your aching throat.

“Good,” he mutters. “Now, coffee.”

And that’s it. Viktor stands up, reaches for his cane, and marches to the kitchen, leaving you tensed up and clenched up. You scoff loud enough for him to hear, having no idea that your brat point meter is already swelling at the tip.

You go through your bathroom necessities, and before you can turn to join him, his voice reaches you from the living room: “In here.”

He sits on the couch, reading a newspaper—of course. An act so vintage it complements his wardrobe. He holds out a cup for you, not looking up. When you don’t take it for a long moment, just outright stare at him, he finally lifts his head and asks, “What?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, taking the coffee.

Then you sit with your back to the armrest, knees pulled up to your chin, your shorts revealing a slice of ass that Viktor looks at not very secretively. He smiles, leaving you to do whatever it is you apparently need to do to make yourself feel less uncomfortable, and suddenly, you realise you’re getting the skittish cat treatment.

The obvious thing to do would be to sink your nose into work, so you skim through your phone. It feels oddly domestic—again—to be doing this around him, but you push the thought away, along with the unease creeping into your lungs.

Scrolling through emails, you give your hand a break to perform your morning joint-cracking ritual, perfected over the years—one-handed, each finger getting its special time under the thumb, and then the thumb itself skilfully popped by your middle.

Viktor watches from his seat on the couch, eyebrows climbing high onto his forehead. “I forgot to tell you—that’s another thing you do in your sleep,” he remarks, voice smooth, amused.

“What?”

“You pop your joints when you’re asleep,” he states flatly.

“You’re kidding,” you huff a laugh through your nose and roll your eyes at him.

“No.” He lifts his hand, mimicking whatever it was he saw, crude and imprecise, his own joints refusing to cooperate with the demonstration. “You did this—” he attempts again, fingers stiff, useless “—then went right back to sleep.”

“Sorry,” you laugh and clasp a hand to your forehead. “I know it’s freaky.”

Viktor smiles, runs his tongue on the inner side of his cheek, and says, “I told you—I don’t mind it.”

“Hm…” You stretch your fingers, press your knuckles idly into your palm. “Do you… like it?”

“I don’t mind it,” he repeats, a challenge lingering in his tone. Doesn’t mind is possibly an understatement, as the sound has already crawled into the realm of his favourites.

You eye him inquisitively and after a moment, give him a disbelieving grin. “You think it’s hot.”

The newspaper folds with a soft rustle against his lap, long fingers pressing it down at the centre crease. He capitulates with a lopsided smile, eyes flicking up from beneath his lashes. “What does it say about me?”

“Alright, that’s freaky,” now you outright laugh at him. And that’s possibly the last of the last straws that Viktor has kept promising himself to act upon.

“Oh, is it now?” His lips curl. “Amongst all the things, that’s the one that’s freaky?”

“Completely, yes.” You nod, wicked grin in place. “Look at yourself, you are bloody delighted.” A slow shake of your head. “Absolutely freaky.”

The newspaper slides from his lap to the floor, forgotten. He moves, shifting close, crowding you against the armrest. “I am,” he says, a murmur against your skin as he hooks a hand around your neck, thumb brushing beneath your ear. His other hand drags down your spine, slow, pressing the length of his palm to each notch of your vertebrae before dipping lower. “And you,” he continues, voice an easy purr, “have been a brat since yesterday.”

“Have I now?” you ask, feigning innocence, but there’s a tremor to it when his hand coasts lower, over the curve of your ass.

His hum is deep, approving. He palms the swell of your cheek, squeezes, then presses down, a firm, unspoken instruction. Your arms fold, chin pressed to your palms, body angled over his lap. You breathe deep, infinitely grateful for the shift—domesticity dispersing like steam off skin.

“What should I do with you?” he muses, fingertips teasing over bare flesh, lingering at the crease of your thigh.

You smirk. “I don’t know. Tell me how sexy my wobbly joints are—ah!” A slap. Not hard, just sudden, a sharp clap of skin that jolts through you like a shock of cold water.

His fingers fist in your hair, gentle but insistent, tugging your head back just enough to tilt your face toward him. “Colour?” he asks, voice lower now, serious.

“Green,” you breathe.

Viktor’s smile inches toward something near evil, sharp at the edges, gleaming wicked. His hand slips beneath your shorts, trailing slowly down the curve of your bum. Then he yanks them down your thighs, fabric dragging warm skin in its wake—but he pauses, stops at his favourite place, fingers finding slick heat.

“How come you’re already wet?” he asks, swiping long fingers across your slit, dragging through the damp, teasing.

You exhale, slow, measured, pressing back into his touch. “Maybe I’m freaky too.”

His breath is a laugh, dark and knowing. “Completely spoiled,” he murmurs, thumb pressing light against your clit, just enough to make your hips twitch. “I have been far too lax with you.” A pause, like he’s running numbers in his head, then, “From my calculations, it would seem you’ve accumulated eleven brat points.”

You grin into the crook of your arm, half a laugh slipping free. “It’s a wild guess, but… eleven?”

“Twelve, then.” And then his hand leaves you, a brief absence before the first slap lands.

And it’s sharp, bright, a sound that cuts through the quiet and bounces off the walls. It steals a gasp from your throat, hips lurching forward, heat blooming under the heel of his palm.

Viktor hums, a satisfied little noise, fingers tracing the pinking print he’s left behind. “One,” he counts, voice steady. “This one is for nit-picking my words yesterday.” The hand returns, smooths over skin like an apology, then—another slap.

You jolt, breath stuttering, fingers curling into the couch cushion.

“And now, for sulking—two,” he says, like it’s a tally to be kept, a record of your misbehaviour. The weight of his other hand stays firm on your lower back, keeping you in place.

The next strike is sharper. You let out a low sound that doesn’t know if it wants to be protest or plea. The sting lingers, heat rolling beneath your skin, seeping lower.

“Three,” he counts again, sliding his palm over your ass in slow, thoughtful strokes, fingers curling just enough to drag the pain into something worse, something better. “For me having to pull the safety rules out of you,” he explains. “Twelve is quite the number, isn’t it?”

You nod against your folded arms, breath heavy.

He clicks his tongue, unimpressed. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” you manage, voice thin, needy.

“Yes, what?” Viktor insists, positively entertained.

“Yes, it’s a big number.”

He chuckles, a sound full of dark satisfaction. “Pity.” His palm lifts, hovers a moment too long before striking down again. “Four. For the cocksucking remark.”

The sharp sting melts into warmth, deep, insistent, and you shift, thighs pressing together. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Ah,” Viktor murmurs, pleased. His fingers skim between your legs, drag through wetness, push inside with slow, measured pressure. He groans, quiet and low, before pulling back. “I see. It seems I’ve miscalculated.”

You whimper at the loss, at the teasing, at the way he’s making you feel exposed, unravelled. “What—what do you mean?”

His palm ghosts over your skin, grip tightening. “We may need more than twelve, after all.”

The fifth lands heavier, the flat of his palm striking where the sting is still fresh. Your hips jerk, a whimper caught in your throat. Pain and pleasure meld together into one, indescribable feeling that swells in your chest.

“Five, for being a smartass in general,” he murmurs, rubbing warmth into the skin, dragging his nails in light, barely-there scratches. “More to go.”

Six—for calling him freaky—has you moaning out. Seven—for teasing him about it—has your moan breaking into a hoarse curse.

Eight, which you don’t even hear what it’s for, tips something over. The burn settles deep, thick and heady, curling into rawness. Your breath comes out uneven, shaky, and you press your face harder against your arms, squeezing your eyes shut. It’s too much—not the pain, not the way he touches you after, not even the arousal pooling between your thighs. It’s the slow erosion of restraint, the creeping sense of surrender, the fact that every strike is carving you open and he’s watching, watching, watching.

Nine lands and you don’t realise you’re crying until a quiet, broken sound escapes.

Viktor pauses. His hands, always moving, smoothing, measuring the way you react, still against your skin. “Colour?”

You swallow, a sob trembling in your chest. “Yellow.”

A breath, sharp. Then he moves, quick and sure, gathering you up from where you lay, pulling you into his lap, into warmth, into the steady, certain press of his body. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucks you in close, fingers threading through your hair.

“Good,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Very good.”

The shift is instant, from teasing discipline to something else, something solid, something safe. His palm rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades, the other smoothing over your thigh, careful and reverent.

“You did so well,” he tells you, voice a murmur against your skin. “I’m here.”

His hands come to cradle your cheeks, thumbs tracing the damp tracks of tears. He watches them soak into his skin, then, as if testing a theory, he lifts one to his mouth, licks the salt from his thumb, slow and indulgent. His gaze darkens. “So pretty like this, hmm?”

“We didn’t get to twelve,” you mumble, voice small, barely there, as if the weight of it matters. As if stopping short means failure.

Viktor exhales, something close to a chuckle, though fond, though aching. He presses his forehead to yours, the heat of him grounding, anchoring. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, softer now, the edge of control giving way to something more tender. “You’ve been a very good girl.”

His hand skims down, over the sore heat of your skin, soothing and possessive. “Would you like a reward now?”

You look up at him, eyes big and wet, and for a moment he looks so in love it’s almost bone crushing. Nearly undoes whatever fragile thing still holds you together. But you tell yourself it’s just your subspaced brain, that it’s the haze of it, that it’s the moment—because anything else would be too much.

Unsure, you give a slow nod, almost dazed, and Viktor hums in approval, guiding you to lie back against the couch. His hands are steady and sure—one at the back of your neck, the other skimming down your stomach, pressing, positioning. Your shorts are still bunched around your thighs, and he takes his time peeling them away, dragging the fabric down, down, as if unwrapping something sacred.

His breath skates over your skin as he settles, hands bracketing your hips, thumbs pressing gently into the dip there. He takes a moment—just looks, just lets his hands trace over what he’s made of you. The warmth, the slight tremble, the slick evidence of your keen.

Then, with a patience that feels like both a mercy and a torment, he presses a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher, the rough scratch of his stubble making you twitch. His mouth moves slow, open, trailing along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, heating every nerve until you’re shifting beneath him, restless.

“So needy,” he murmurs against you, voice like low smoke, thick with satisfaction. He noses into you, inhaling deep, greedy. “Messy girl.”

And then, finally, he licks into you.

It’s devastating—the first stroke of his tongue, firm and languid, tasting. He works you over like he’s memorising, like he’s deciphering something only he is meant to understand. His grip tightens, holding you in place, keeping you from squirming away from the overwhelming contrast of the ache of your ass pressed into the couch and pleasure that his mouth brings.

His tongue is so precise, lapping up every drop. He sucks at your clit, just enough to make you cry out, then soothes it with broad, slow strokes. And Viktor enjoys it so, so much—pausing just to watch you react, the way you arch into him, the way your hands, unsure, try to twist into his locks and tug, only to shy away and barely skim across his temples.

You feel raw, open, experimented on, but the success of it entails your pleasure and this only. Heat begins to crawl up your spine, and you moan out loud, neck seizing and fingers emboldened, when you finally choose to hold onto his hair. Like a praise, he hums deep into you, and the vibration alone nearly sends you over. His hands tighten on your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, holding you steady as he eats you with slow, devastating precision.

Cunt sealed over with his mouth, you rock your pelvis to meet him and Viktor chuckles into you. His tongue works you over like he’s trying to dig out an answer to a question deep down he already knows, but he wants to hear it from you. Nearly sucking the soul out of you, Viktor is almost in heaven. Knees bent where the couch restricts him, ankles bumping against each other, he lays squeezed against you and the armrest, hips pressing down, trying to find at least a little friction against his aching cock.

You whimper his name, barely coherent, tugging harder at his hair. He groans into you, deep and pleased, and it carries all the way to the tips of your toes. His hands flex on your hips, adjusting his grip, and then he tilts his head, lips sealing over your clit in a way that leaves you shaking, clenching down on nothing.

It crests fast, this pull from the base of your spine to your throat, strong and imminent, stealing your breath as you cum hard, hugging his ears with your thighs. You don’t even realise you’re sobbing out his name, not until he presses his tongue against you again, lapping up the aftermath, and your whole body jerks.

“Too much,” you gasp, hands trying weakly to push him away.

“Mm,” Viktor hums, but doesn’t listen. He presses one last, slow kiss to your overstimulated nerves with the damndest smirk on his slick-covered lips. Then he pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide.

Before you can fully catch your breath, he’s crawling up, pressing you back into the cushions, body warm and heavy over yours. His mouth finds yours, tasting like salt and heat and something uniquely you, and the way he kisses you—messy, deep, like he needs you to understand—has you whimpering against his lips.

“It’s a crime that I only get to do this now,” he says, wrapping his arms around your waist, trapping you in. “You are so sweet.”

“Viktor,” you chuckle, overwhelmed. “How are you so good at this?”

“Which would make you more comfortable?” he asks, voice thoughtful. “That I had a lot of practice, or that it’s easy with you?”

You blink at that and realise—none of the above. The first one digs a pit of dead cold jealousy low in your stomach. The second triggers a reaction tethering between flight and freeze. Seeing no response coming and a slight discomfort settling in, Viktor asks, “Are you alright? What do you need?”

“I’m fine,” you give him a smile, locking your jaw in it. “My ass hurts, though.”

“Show me,” Viktor says between soft pecks left all over your face. When he sees you wincing, he clarifies, “I wasn’t asking.”

With a groan and an eye roll (which triggers the brat point meter back to action), you turn onto your stomach, and Viktor sits back on his heels to admire the painting he’s left on your ass. “I can’t really decide what’s prettier—this or your neck,” he muses, rubbing his palms over the bruised skin. You hiss at the contact but arch into it anyway.

Then, he lowers back onto his belly and rests his cheek on one of yours, red and swollen. His lips press soft kisses into the heat of your body, tongue flicking out to soothe where his hand had been heavy. "Can I ask—what’s your opposition to safe words?" he murmurs into you, voice slow, thick, like liquid band air poured onto a wound.

“Oh, nothing really,” you say, shifting against the couch, arms hooked over the armrest, head turned to glance at him. “I just come up with criminally bad ones, and they get so, so bad I can’t bring myself to actually use them when I need them.”

Viktor hums, a quiet vibration against your you. “And the colour system works better?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you use it?” He presses another kiss, open-mouthed, dragging heat along your bruised flesh.

“What do you mean?”

“I use it. I ask you, and you reply. But you do not say it first,” he says, lips curving against you. “We got to yellow today—would you ask me to stop if I didn’t check on you?”

A lump grows in your throat, dry and insistent, a pang of confused shame follows. “I… I don’t know.”

He exhales a gush of warm air as his hands smooth along the back of your thighs. “Do you promise to pay more attention, or do I have to fuck your throat again now?”

You tense—just for a moment—then breathe out a small, half-laugh. “I promise.” A pause. “Though I thought we’d agreed that I’m not opposed to throat fucking.”

“And I thought we’d agreed that I want you to love it, not be merely not opposed,” he counters, nipping the swell of your ass, tongue following after before you can complain.

“This is my way of saying I… love it,” you admit, voice quieter. “I like everything you do so far.”

He sighs through his nose, lips still against you. “I’m glad.” Another kiss. “And likewise.”

Your fingers twitch against the couch, mind circling back. “Why are you being so careful?”

A beat. Then, his nose lifts your shirt, mouth drags to the dip of your lower back, his breath ghosting the words over your skin. “Hmm. I wouldn’t say that’s being careful.” His palms press down, grounding and reverent. “I just want you to understand that I’m not the one making decisions here. At least not the only one.”

His voice sinks lower, words soft at the edges. “It’s not about how far I will go,” he continues. “It’s about how much you are willing to give me.”

You swallow your breath, fingers digging into the fabric beneath you. “Viktor,” you say, and he hums, lifting his head slightly. “How experienced exactly are you?”

His lips curl into a smirk where they rest against you. “Quite.” His fingers trace slow, absentminded patterns against your hip. “But less than you think.” A kiss, softer now. “I am also quite well-read on the matter.”

"I see," you murmur, skin still alight beneath his mouth, warmth pooling where his lips had been.

Before you can say anything more, your phone buzzes—wedged somewhere between the couch cushions. You groan as you fish it out, flipping it over to see the name flashing across the screen. Mel. A rather unwanted lifeline thrown into the ocean named Viktor, in which you have snugly sunken.

The very reason for your lack of breath is staring at you intently, chin propped against the swell of your butt, his fingers idly tracing the curve of your hip. As if he can read the concern from the back of your head, he asks, "Is something the matter?"

"No," you sigh, thumb hovering over the notification. "It's just Mel. She wants to hang and talk about the play change."

"Ah." He shifts, stretching his arms across your back, like he might keep you pinned if you so much as thought about leaving. "Jayce texted me too."

You glance over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "What did you say?"

"That I'm busy."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," he confirms, expression utterly unmoved.

You huff, rolling onto your side, phone still clutched in your palm. "What do you want me to say?"

He shrugs, casual, infuriating. "To Mel? Anything you want," he says, fully lying to himself. He’d rather throw the wretched phone out of the window now than have you leave, but he promised.

You scoff. "Viktor!"

"What?" His fingers trail up your thigh, dancing light, teasing. "I told you already—as much as you are willing to give, no more."

Your lips press together, frustration curling in your chest. "That's… not fair."

He smirks, dipping his head to nip at your side, the whisper of teeth making you shiver. "Brat," he murmurs, all smug and satisfied. “What play are you changing to? And which?”

“Oh, right,” you say, catching up with the events from your actual life. “We are doing Baal instead of Hamlet.”

“How interesting,” he muses, dragging a slow hand down your ribs, feeling the way your skin jumps under his touch. “Any particular inspiration for it?”

You give him a look, narrowing your eyes. “Are you trying to insult me, or do you enjoy teasing me?”

“Never insult you,” he says, shifting closer, nuzzling into your cheek, his breath warm against your skin. A slow kiss pressed to your temple, soft and lingering. “Always enjoy teasing you, though.” Another kiss, this time at the corner of your mouth, deliberate in its restraint. “And I’m flattered to be a source of your inspiration.” His lips trail lower, catching yours at last, but lightly, like he’s waiting for you to chase him.

Forgetting yourself for a moment, you toss your phone to the couch and twist your fingers into his hair. Lips parted by breath, you kiss him, humming and licking into his mouth. And Viktor responds, pulling you flush and pressing his nose next to yours, melding your faces together.

Finally, with a deep sigh, you settle on moving Mel to next weekend, your excuse as weak as work—put in brackets on the return text message. Guilt settles in immediately, thick and cloying, for lying to a friend. Viktor also sighs, tries to disguise it as a yawn, but you notice.

The day is slow, one of the slowest you've had in the longest time. Breakfast at 1 p.m. A shower later, separate, functional—none of the couple-like washing each other’s backs. It both calms you and unsettles some part of you, standing alone under the stream of hot water, which you later exchange for ice-cold poured over your ass cheeks.

Then, Viktor—wandering around his apartment in just a jumper and boxer shorts, his hair wet, framing his face prettily, barefoot, limping toward bookshelves when he tires of whatever he’s reading. Brief conversations about Baal, more teasing. Some serious, when he finally shares the notes he’s scribbled in the margins.

“Here, it says: The line between submission and subjugation,” he tells you, pointing his long finger at his handwriting. “It’s just something to meditate upon,” he explains, and you just listen, expression serious, free of judgment.

“Here: To be needed is a burden. To be worshipped is a curse. I was in a dark place when I wrote this,” he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Have you?” you ask. “Been needed and worshipped?”

“Not in the way you think, again,” he replies, placing a hand on your cheek. And somehow, even though it’s Viktor baring his soul to you, all he still cares about is you being comfortable. You not getting scared away. And you feel another lump of guilt forming somewhere in your stomach.

“Here, some more. You can use some of this if you want,” he adds with a smile. “He who demands all is left with nothing,” he translates. “And To consume and to care—mutually exclusive, or merely difficult?—and that’s just me theorizing again.” He waves his hand dismissively and flicks through, searching for more. Finally:

“Pleasure without control is a slow kind of death.”

It lances through you, a thought, unbidden—were Viktor ever to love you, it would be a crushing kind of love. One that you couldn’t possibly deserve. One that never gets complacent, always watches, always pays attention. All of this grants you such a large piece of him, you feel inclined to give him something back.

And it’s all incredibly silly, because you’ve known a man for barely a week and feel like you’ve known him for a lifetime.

You nuzzle into him, the book still in his lap, and breathe into his neck, “Thank you.” Viktor places a hand on your bare leg, fingers skimming beneath the hem of your shorts. He puts the book aside and lifts his thighs so you can snug your feet underneath, cocooned in warmth.

“Is that your handbook on how not to do things?” you ask finally.

“Something like that,” he chuckles. “But I also do love this play.”

“Would you come to the premiere?”

“I would love to.”

A long moment passes between you, long enough for the sun to stretch golden arms through his windows, for the dust to dance in its light. You sigh, reluctant. “I should get back. Still some stuff to do.”

“Of course,” Viktor says, patting your hip, but his fingers linger, just for a second, before pulling away.

When you are all set—changed, packed, bag slung over your shoulder, second pair of shoes in hand—you wait in the corridor, shuffling on your feet, caught in the awkward gravity of goodbye. Viktor takes your hand in his, holding it between both of his palms, staring at it like it holds some unspoken answer. He plays with your fingers, brushing a thumb over your knuckles, tracing the ridges of your joints like a map he doesn’t want to forget.

“Do you have to go?” he asks, quiet, like the words might scare you off. Against everything said today, he tries. Where his mind tells him to wait, his heart reaches too fast, too soon—but the thought of letting go of your hand now is harrowing.

“I should,” you murmur, eyes fixed on his fingers threading through yours, unable to shake the thought of how well they fit together.

“When will I see you again?”

“I don’t know. But soon?” You hesitate. “I have, um… work,” you say weakly, unbelieving your own reasoning.

He steps closer, tilting his head, studying you. “Stay,” he says, low and quiet, his voice threading through the space between you like a plea and a command all at once. “Please. I really, really want to fuck you,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours.

Your breath shudders in your throat.

“I’ll wake you. I’ll make you coffee and drive you to work,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your cheek, breathing you in, the barest brush of lips against your jaw. “Just stay and be a good girl for me.”

Your bag slips down your shoulder, forgotten. Shoes tumble from your hand, hitting the floor with dull thuds.

“Oh, God,” you breathe, already dizzy.

“Please,” he murmurs against your skin. His mouth finds your neck, kisses pressing between words, melting the last of your resistance.

“Ah—” Your hands fist into his jumper, grip faltering. “Fuck me,” you exhale, light-headed. “Fuck me,” you whisper into his lips.

And then his mouth is on yours, and he’s walking you back toward the wall, hands sure, touch convincing—but not much convincing had to be done.

By the time you reach the bedroom, you’re both half undressed, clothes marking a scattered trail from the hallway. Viktor’s hands are on your ribs, your hips, burning their way over your skin, rolling his beloved skirt up so he can touch your still-warm ass again.

Moth to flame, you follow him onto the bed, across his lap, and it’s not long before he sits against the backrest, you sink onto his cock until he’s buried deep inside you, guiding your hips over his. Your arms wrap around his neck, tight and needy, mouth to mouth when you breathe out moans for him to breathe in.

The rhythm of it is slow, deep. He moves you like he’s known your body longer than you have, hands spanning your ribs, your waist, guiding you in the way that makes you feel worshipped without being consumed. It’s easy to obey him, to let him set the pace, to fall into the shape of what he wants—because what he wants is you, not just your body, but the trembling, aching need of you, the part that melts and yields beneath his touch.

Viktor’s control frays by degrees, need eroding it like wind over rock. He bows his head to the slope of your shoulder, breath hot, arms tightening around you as if he could press you deeper into himself. His hands flex, grasping, clutching, like he’s trying to commit the feeling of you to memory—soft where he is sharp, pliant where he is rigid, and together something better, something whole.

After, when breath evens and sweat cools, you remain folded together, the fit of you easy, natural, as if shaped by the same hands. Viktor presses a final kiss to your temple, sighs against your skin, and lets his grip loosen—but not fully. He never fully lets go. Sleep comes like fog rolling in, weightless, inevitable, and you let it take you, safe in the quiet shelter of him.