#even more so because than his muscle form

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

Zae!!!!! (you know me, this is going to be long lmaooo)

That was so incredibly hot I'm not even kidding. I have so many things to say and it still won't do justice to how incredible reading Evanescence was.

First of all, I want to say just how funny that cut was between the woman from Doyle's Tavern insulting him and asking for money in exchange for information to Arthur walking out with said info, all his money and a ban from the Tavern?? Idk it just made me laugh out loud for real 😂. Alright, now more serioulsy—

"Instinct lured him to the debauched inn, and your name frothed from his muzzle in more of a growl than speech. Like a rabid dog, he snapped and barked orders at the women unlucky enough to be trapped with the beast on the arena floor."

Looove that section and the paragraph after. Fellow figurative lovers, we are spoiled. And Jesus am I completely insane for finding the whole thing even hotter with a bestial, animalistic Arthur like this? Perfect comparison.

And the whole ring part! Their entire relationship is SO well written and so well balanced. You had shared your doubts with me about how to write an LH, but my GOD, this was absolutely perfect. GIVE YOURSELF MORE CREDIT I'M BEGGING YOU!!

His intrinsic violence, his possessiveness that dominates him in spite of himself is so in character, and YET, we love it, we love him, just as always.

I so love all the nuances you described in both him and the Reader. She's aware of the problems in their relationship and wants to fight him; she refuses to make things easy for him and give him what he wants. She loves him and hates him so much at the same time... And Arthur, all his impulsiveness, his brutality make us think he's looking for control at all costs; in the end, it's just the only way he can react to the fact that it's him who's completely in love with her and under her thumb. Brilliant. The dialogue in this part is really perfect, with Arthur repeating the “Yours” more and more surely. *sighs*

“You don’t own me, Arthur Morgan!” But the shouting was no use. He closed in on you again, and you reached out, clenching your fists in his shirt to stop his advance. If he noticed, he didn’t let on, talking with a tight jaw. “No, dammit, cause you own me.”

And the wild kiss right after! The whole prey and predator game, so so good. You know I'm suuuuch a sucker for these kinds of comparisons. And the way they're fighting each other but getting closer at the same time... So, so erotic.

And EXCUSEEEE ME, Reader insulting him as they succomb to it? I am so into this. God it made my body feel all sorts of ways 🥵🔥

He knew you were dancing dangerously close to the cliff’s overhang by the way you were keeping him in place, right where you wanted him. But the brute stopped and locked eyes with you, lips curved downward. That slight glimpse of vulnerability you thought you’d seen earlier was now on full display. “Say you won’t go,” he choked out.  Down on his knees, looking up at you with genuine sincerity was the closest he’d ever get to prayer or penance. You swallowed the lump forming in your throat but didn’t answer him.

Oh. My. Lord. I could DIE from this simple vision. This is just incredibly hot and so good to read; I wasn't expecting him to actually be the dominated one here. (Big boys just want to be taken care of, don't they?🤭😉)

And Jesus, how do you achieve that Zae? Because the part after was even better!!! Honestly, I was already choking here, and then that:

“No good, thieving, murderous bastard.”  “I know.” He drew out, tightly clutching the sheets. With a firm nudge, you urged him onto his back.  “You don’t deserve me. Never did,” you continued. His hips jutted in time with your wrist, his climax sitting low in his balls.   “I–dammit–I–kn–know.” The muscles of his stomach constricted as he fought for breath, damn near suffocating under your touch.  “I’ll change.” He gasped, eyes closed, and brow furrowed. “I’ll change. But–ahh–I ain’t ever gonna be good enough for you, woman–nghh–no matter how much changin’ I do.”

I AM DEAD!!!! I loved this part so much I think I read it four times already!!! I mean come on guys, the dialogue, every word sounds so fcking good, perfectly transcribing his voice, making him spit out he's indeed too bad for her, and her stroking him like this, him babbling that he'll change? I'm getting all excited again just talking about it 🫠 This is definitely one of my favorite fic moments, ever.

And of course, as always, the grandiose climax, with once again the predator comparison but with HER as a lioness???? ZAE MARRY ME. This was absolute perfection. And even better, the second echo with him finishing inside, while she asserts "Yours". I just can't with that level of perfection, of masterfulness. This is mind-blowing, Zae. You really made me lose my mind with this one.

The last words also struck me; they are so relevantly bitter-sweet. An ideal ending for this nuanced relationship. You're forever inspiring me.

To conclude, one of my new favorites of yours (yes I knoooow every new one is becoming one of my favorites of yours, but hell I'm just a girl and you're still so incredibly talented!). I'm left in awe of your talent, every time, and here especially with such a subtle LH Arthur. Please, be proud, because you really did him justice. Bravo, bravo, bravo.

Love u! -Your loyal Piney 💞

Evanesce

Summary: You try to runway. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 3,673 Tags: angst, smut, mid-low honor Arthur, handjob, unprotected p in v, oral, breeding kink, tb? Don’t know her. Warnings: 18+ MDNI, toxic relationship

An: I feel like I ran a never ending marathon with this one. Drafted it a month ago, but I never really vibed with it. Challenged myself to just get it done and make sure I was proud of it. Once again, I'm trying to step out of my comfort zone. Shout out to @googoolies for the note idea! As always, I hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!

Tagging @hihomeghere because you asked ❤️

Evanesce: to dissipate like vapor

Worn floorboards of Shady Bell wailed under Arthur’s weight as songbirds began their morning melodies. The gunslinger scoped the eerily empty, quiet camp for traces of you, but all he found was a folded letter on his pillow.

Echoes of your last conversation flashed in his mind as he tramped across the narrow room to retrieve the note. Two nights ago, The Old Guard overlooked their kingdom from the second-floor balcony as they discussed their plans to wage war against Angelo Bronte. Bile stung the back of your throat as two-thirds of the trio outruled the other. Hosea’s final words to Dutch and Arthur, “You’ll damn us all,” filled you with dread and the overwhelming feeling of impending doom.

Arthur avoided your shadowed eyes as he reloaded his weapons and ignored your outcry against Dutch’s plan. Your desperation had turned swiftly to indignation, and an argument commenced, your voices clashing like swords. You begged him not to go, pleading with the enforcer to listen to reason for once, to listen to you. But he pushed back with the shield of obstinance he had long forged for survival. 

“I don’t take orders from you, woman, and keep your goddamn voice down.”

Thousands of tiny needles pricked at the backs of your eyes at the harsh directive, but you held firm. 

“Arthur, if you go I’ll–” 

“Don’t,” he warned dismissively, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and ambling to the door. He didn’t even bother saying goodbye as he twisted the knob. Your last words fell on ears deafened from years of gunfire. 

“If you leave, I won’t be here when you come back.”

Two days later, Arthur masked his guilt with anger as he skimmed over the last piece of you left in the room. Four words in the polite loops of your handwriting taunted him: Saint Denis. Train. Running. 

After a quick check of the cinch, he found himself begrudgingly engulfed in the city of smog and greed he’d come to hate so much. Riding through the maze of cobblestone, brick, and vermin was like laying under a guillotine, staring up at the blade and waiting for it to drop. Law on every corner, people jammed together, and now, Bronte’s men out for revenge–none of it felt right. 

Taking in a breath that didn’t reach deep enough, he started his search for you in this hornets’ nest of a city. Most of the hotels and saloons served him with nothing but a heavy dose of adrenaline and dead ends. As he approached Doyle’s Tavern, his last stop, he dug his nails into his trembling palm, savoring the sting of apathy that came with the pain.

Arthur made a beeline to Gabe Doyle, reciting his rehearsed description of you. A woman standing beside him, whose garments had seen cleaner days, tapped him on the shoulder. The outlaw didn’t even look at her, didn’t give her time to speak before he rejected her with razor-edge disdain. When Arthur finished, Gabe only shrugged his shoulders, but the woman, still standing close by, let out a derisive giggle.

“He won’t be of no help, mista’. Coulda’ told ya’ for free, but it’ll cost ya’ now.”

Ire made his ears ring, drowning out all the other sounds in the slum’s saloon. He drummed his fingers hard on the worn wooden bar, the taste of pride sour on his tongue. 

“How much?” 

Cleavage spilled over her top as she leaned towards him and twiddled brazenly with the collar of his shirt. 

“Well, for clients that play nice, seven dollars, but for you, rotten dirty bastard––times it by ten.” 

A minute later, he exited Doyle’s Tavern not a cent lighter, heavy with an indefinite ban, but finally, a real lead on you. Four new mocking words overshadowed ones from the letter: Whore house; Courtenay Street. 

A brothel—a goddamn brothel. 

Instinct lured him to the debauched inn, and your name frothed from his muzzle in more of a growl than speech. Like a rabid dog, he snapped and barked orders at the women unlucky enough to be trapped with the beast on the arena floor.

They tried futilely to stop his march down the hall, tried to keep him from getting to you, but the chaos drew you into the colosseum and into the lion’s direct line of sight. You yanked the man-turned-animal by the sleeve and sealed yourselves away before he could do any more damage. 

More tame now, sea storm orbs surveyed you in a quick but covert once over, then he spun on his heel, searching for anything else to focus on.

“Christ, been looking for you all day, woman,” he bit out through clenched teeth. 

The lone wolf prowled the new territory for a threat but was only met with a vacant cave and the empty feeling of shame. Deflecting, he found your luggage, lifting the bags with the practiced ease of carrying buckets of water to and fro. His biceps flexed with the weight of your whole life in one bag, but he nodded at you, matter of fact. 

“C’mon. M’taking you home.”

Home. You could’ve laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. None of these places had ever been home.

“I ain’t going nowhere with you,” you fired back, grabbing for the suitcase in his hand. A brief game of tug-of-war ensued, your grip relentless, Arthur’s unwavering, until he finally let you pull one of the bags free. He dropped the other and exhaled with the sharpness of a saber but stayed silent at the conclusion of your weaponless duel. He’d fallen in love with that gnawing defiance, but now it was tearing him to pieces, bit by bit until it exposed the marrow of pure anger.

“Runnin’ off is one thing.” His nostrils flared, and the timbre of his voice deepened as he carried on, “But running off t’here–– selling yourself?” He shook his head and blew air through his teeth, “Yer crazier than I thought.”

You whirled away from him, swatting your hand like he was as insignificant as a fly.

“And you’re a bigger idiot than I thought. Ain’t selling myself, you damn fool! And I’ll do whatever the hell I please. Right now, I want to get far away from this shit city and you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, dragging out the words. “I know you just as well as you think you know me. If you wanted away–really wanted away–you wouldn’t’ve left this pretty little letter, and sure as hell wouldn’t’ve told me where to find ya’.” He retrieved the letter from his satchel, held it up just long enough for you to see, and crushed it in his fist before discarding it on the floor.

“That’s what I think of your pretty little letter.” 

You had started a slow involuntary backtrack during his monologue, the flight response pushing back against the fight. He followed, sandwiching you between himself and the door.

“Screw you.” Scorn was hot on your breath.   

Just as you thought to turn the knob, to free yourself from the prison of flesh and wood, the iron teeth of a bear trap, his fingers, clamped around your wrist, bringing your hand to eye level. 

“And you still got something of mine.”

Both pairs of eyes landed on a small round sparkling opal set in a gold band on your left ring finger.

You’d never forget finding it on your pillow along with a letter from Arthur that just said, “One day…”

He had made promises he didn’t keep. First, you just had to wait for the Ferry Job. Next, you needed to survive Colter. Then you had to get far away from the Pinkertons, and most recently, all you needed to do was help case the Lemoyne National Bank. One last job, he’d told you. It was the same thing he said before leaving for that boat in Blackwater.

Contempt flowed through your veins as you tried to wrench free. God, you hated him right now, but you hated yourself more for letting him fool you.

“Let go.” You hissed, seething. 

Your hand throbbed as he gave your wrist another squeeze.

“You first.” Then he nodded towards the stone on your finger. “My ring,” he demanded.

Your knuckles collided with the wood of the door with a hard knock as you freed your hand. You flattened your palm against the wood behind your back, guarding the ring from the career thief’s piercing gaze.

“No,” you shot back, sinking into yourself. “It’s mine.” 

Your finger throbbed around the ring you’d seldom taken off. It had become part of you, melded to your skin like a vine coiled around a tree in a beautiful and deadly embrace. 

“Yours?” he huffed incredulously, shaking his head, trying to form your words into something he could understand. For a short beat, the heavy huff and puff of his breath was the only thing you could register. 

You had mined forever to find something other than cold coals of anger within him. You thought you’d found it—thought you’d finally struck gold when he confessed his feelings for you somewhere out west all that time ago. Now, you were left wondering if it was only fool’s gold you had stumbled upon. The cowardly knight was far too proud and far too afraid of getting stabbed to lay down his armor. But you were having a silent conversation with those sad eyes, reading words he’d never speak or ask aloud. What does that make me, then? 

“Yours.” He answered his inner thoughts without hesitation.

Mine. You thought back but only stared at him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of cracking under his scrutiny. 

“Yours.” He repeated assuredly, final. 

It was your turn to shake your head now; you could hear his vocal cords vibrating, generating sounds you were supposed to understand, but he may as well have been speaking another language because what the hell did he know about being anybody else’s? You repeated your thoughts bluntly.

For a moment, he looked stunned, but then his hand shot out, cupping your jaw and tilting your face toward his. He was so close, you could smell him now. The scents of liquor on his breath and leather in his hat permeated your whole being.

“You don’t think–” His voice was low and trembling with fury. “I been yours since the goddamn day I laid eyes on you, and you know it.”

Fight, flight, freeze, and now fawn all warred for dominance. Twin mirrors of blue cosmos peered into your soul, but you didn’t look back, knowing that black holes of destruction ruled in the center and could swallow you in the blink of an eye.

“You have to go, Arthur.”

You tried to reach for the knob again, but Arthur imposed on you further, his chest brushing against yours. 

“No,” he said. “I ain’t going nowhere without you, and you ain’t going nowhere without me. M’done talking about it.”

It’s like he couldn’t listen, couldn’t hear you, couldn’t respect what you wanted. He only ever responded to shouting and violence. So you dipped down to his level, anything to get him to understand. Your open hand pushed full force against his chest, knocking the wind from him and making him stumble backward.

“You don’t own me, Arthur Morgan!”  

But the shouting was no use. He closed in on you again, and you reached out, clenching your fists in his shirt to stop his advance. If he noticed, he didn’t let on, talking with a tight jaw.

“No, dammit, cause you own me.” 

You balled your fists around cotton fabric and pulled him down into you, inhaling like you were bracing for the worst. This game, Predator and Prey, had become second nature to you. You would always be his fawn, thrashing and wailing, yet never escaping the salivating jaws of the coyote. And it always ended the same: a clash of heavy breathing and snarls before you surrendered.

Tobacco and whiskey never tasted so good, and they were just as addictive as him. Your teeth clashed together, and his left hand fell to your hip while his right twisted the lock on the knob. 

He was never gentle, but now, he was almost crazed. Rough hands that were trembling only an hour ago were all over you, gripping your jaw, sliding under your blouse, pushing and pulling you to his whim.

“Falling in love with you was the dumbest thing I ever did,” you confessed as he removed his hat and set it aside; he had better access to you without it. Heat surged through you as his hands bit into your hips, pinning you in place against the locked door. 

You mumble under your breath, “Bastard.”  

So far, he was ignoring your attempts to rouse him; you were his pretty little doe, caught in his chops, and a few barbs wouldn’t keep him from utterly devouring you. Dipping his head into your neck, he fixated on that pulsing artery, taking no time to roll the flesh between his teeth.

“Goddamn asshole,” you huffed but cradled his head as he claimed you.

He brushed over the ruptured blood vessels with his knuckles, and the bastard was smiling, eyes glazed over with lust and self-indulgence. Electricity sparked down your legs as he looped his fingers in the waistband of your skirt. 

You swore to yourself two nights ago that it was all over, that you wouldn’t let him slither back, yet here you were, Eve, being tempted by the serpent. Teeth sank into the forbidden fruit with the lift of your hips off the door, giving him permission to snatch both your skirt and bloomers down in a swift pull. Arthur didn’t need much persuasion to eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil; a man like him could have never lived for eternity in The Garden of Eden. 

The pair of you wore pride like heraldry, but neither of you was as honorable as you’d led the other to believe. You, provoking him with the threat of leaving, knowing you’d let this happen as you always did, and him never changing and never stopping the cycle of broken promises. 

Your scent was intoxicating, but he held off from relishing it, studying your face like he’d done many times before. Something was different this time, though. Only for a heartbeat, you saw something in his eye, a minuscule hint of vulnerability. You blinked, and it was gone like it was never there, replaced by an unabashed smirk. You kept the insults flying. 

“Jerk.”

Hearing the laugh rumble in his chest made your skin prick up the same way it did when a thunderstorm was brewing on the horizon. The cowboy braced his hands against your thighs and peeked up at you, his lips still curved in the corners.

He lifted his eyebrow in question, “You done?”

“Shut up,” you responded, tangling your fingers in his hair and guiding him, not so gracefully, to the heat between your legs. 

Obeying, he flicked his tongue out to lap at you, drawing you closer in a hug, his palms resting on the curve of your ass cheeks. Steadying yourself against the door, you tugged on his hair like reins, but fuck, you didn’t want him to stop. You grunted and cursed under your breath as that gluttonous, greedy grifter feasted on you. 

Blasphemous sounds rose up from your chest as you rocked your hips feverishly with every swipe of his warm wet tongue against your clit. Every tug of his locs and bump of your mound into his nose sent blood pulsing full speed to the bulge in his pants. He knew you were dancing dangerously close to the cliff’s overhang by the way you were keeping him in place, right where you wanted him. But the brute stopped and locked eyes with you, lips curved downward. That slight glimpse of vulnerability you thought you’d seen earlier was now on full display.

“Say you won’t go,” he choked out. 

Down on his knees, looking up at you with genuine sincerity was the closest he’d ever get to prayer or penance. You swallowed the lump forming in your throat but didn’t answer him.

Instead, you ushered him back to his feet and crashed your lips into his again, tangling your tongue with his.

In a swift motion, you popped his suspenders loose while you walked him backward. The backs of his knees hit the bed, and he shimmied off his multiple layers just as quick as you unfastened the buttons on your blouse. You stood before him, a goddess, determining his eternal fate. And he waited, fixated on you, languidly stroking his engorged cock while you decided.

You replaced his fisted grip with yours, bending to meet his eye. The almost frown on his face made you wonder what he was seeing staring back at him. You imagined your pupils blown out, your lips swollen, and your hair disheveled. Arthur was the only man in the world who could turn you into a vixen. 

“You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan.” Your noses were almost touching as you tightened your grip and stroked him painfully slowly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded, his face downright solemn. 

“Mhm,” you went on, rubbing circles atop his hot, leaking pink tip. Your pace quickened as your cheek grazed his. A shiver ran through him as the vibrations of your voice tickled his ear.

“No good, thieving, murderous bastard.” 

“I know.” He drew out, tightly clutching the sheets. With a firm nudge, you urged him onto his back. 

“You don’t deserve me. Never did,” you continued. His hips jutted in time with your wrist, his climax sitting low in his balls.  

“I–dammit–I–kn–know.”

The muscles of his stomach constricted as he fought for breath, damn near suffocating under your touch. 

“I’ll change.” He gasped, eyes closed, and brow furrowed. “I’ll change. But–ahh–I ain’t ever gonna be good enough for you, woman–nghh–no matter how much changin’ I do.”

Air finally flowed back through with the halt of your pumping. The mattress sunk with your added weight as you slung your legs on either side of him. Neither party stalled. You gave him a quick nod before he could even ask, and he sank his length into your warm, wet pussy. There were no hushing kisses, no waiting for you to adjust, no cajoling, just the smacking of skin and the aroma of sex in the room as he molded you to his girth. Bashfulness had never even crossed your mind. You rode him tirelessly, whimpering, gasping, and filling the air with his name. 

The roles reversed; you were the animal now, a lioness pursuing a buck. Chasing the high, you galloped hard and fast and grinding your hips against his to relieve the throbbing ache in your clit. You massaged the sensitive nub between your thighs, indulging in the pleasure you were giving yourself and receiving from him. The tip of his cock bumped that sweet spot inside of you, the one that made you tense and cry out over and over again. 

You didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want him to know what he was doing to you or how he was making you feel–how he always made you feel when he was burrowed deep inside of you. You couldn’t hide from him, though. He knew you–knew the faces and sounds you made, knew the way you tightened around him, knew how you stiffened, knew how your breathing shallowed when you were on the edge. He knew the control he’d have over you forever.

“You ain’t going nowhere.” He grunted as he pounded up into you, the knot in his stomach tightening with his own upcoming release. 

“Fucker,” you said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, and you love it.” 

You couldn’t deny it.

He took your hand in his and felt for the ring on your finger, stroking it, all while keeping eye contact and hammering relentlessly into your velvety walls. Four more thrusts and your eyes rolled back as the lightbulb of tension burst.

“That’s right, let it go, there it is.” Muttering, his upward ruts got sloppier as you rode out your body-spasming orgasm. Then he started babbling, lost in your sweet heat,

“Shit, I’m–bout t–m’close.”

The cowboy tried to lift you up, tried not to spill inside of you, but you buried your head in the crook of his neck and lowered yourself back down, taking him balls deep.

“Goddamnit,” he growled, hugging you to his chest, “the hell you doing, t’me, woman?” He panted and stared up at the ceiling like a man condemned. 

“Ain’t going nowhere,” you echoed breathlessly, still bouncing, before adding, “Yours.” 

In a few more strokes, he filled you up, grunting through his teeth and cursing up a storm that’d make even the most seasoned sailors look on timidly.

Outside noises of the establishment and the streets of Saint Denis droned back in as both of you came back to your senses. An ocean of things was left unsaid as you redressed and let Arthur lead you out of the room and to a proper hotel for the night. The next morning, you took Arthur up on his offer to get away for a few days. As the train you had boarded for your trip chugged on, something in the distance piqued your interest, a small homestead. You could vaguely make out a woman sitting on the porch and a man, presumably her husband, tending to a horse nearby. Of course, you didn’t know their life or their struggles, but if you could write your own happily ever after, it would be that. Arthur nudged you with his elbow, interrupting your daydream.  

“M’sorry...about everything,” he said, low, barely audible. The perpetual ache in your chest had almost gone numb after so long. Almost. 

“I know.” You replied and turned back to the window. The house was out of sight now, and you had a feeling your fairy tale ending had vanished with it.

[cheollipop]

This is my first time ever messaging a writer so spare me if I'm doing it wrong but

Are hard hours still open? Because 14 + 19 with Sannie 🥹🥹

pairing: choi san x fem!reader

w.c.: 1.2k

tags: smut, mafia au, stand-alone obsession sequel

rating: mature

⁂ A/N: you're all good anonnie!! I used your prompts to write more of an au I've previously written so I got a bit carried away with lore haha. happy reading!! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)  

nsfw under the cut - minors dni!! 🔞

The bar's door locked, blinds shut and concealing you from the bustling nightlife on the outside, you immersed yourself in the warmth San generously enveloped you with. He adjusted your position over the wooden bar, moving closer to your form until the bare skin between his open button-up pressed against your ash-covered cami. 

His nose pressed into your hair, inhaling the scent of liquor and tobacco and holding for a second before breathing it out. 

“Thought you had work,” you mumbled, craning your neck to make space for San to bury his face. 

“It can wait,” he pulled his face back then closer to your contorting features to peck over the sweat coating your forehead.

“I've never known Choi San to delay work,” a moan dragged the last syllable out, your hips rolling down to meet San's.

“Ah, did you not want me here?”

You watched his bottom lip pop out — a pout you didn't hesitate to press your mouth against. As though the gentle touch ignited a wildfire within San, he leaned into the kiss, teeth clashing and tongues sashaying together until a line of spit ran down your chins. 

Wrapping your legs tighter around his hips, you scoffed as you pulled away, biting your lip as he chased the retreating touch. What a silly question, you thought, as you clenched around his length, sitting hard and heavy between your walls. 

“Was waiting for you all day, Mr. Choi.” 

You looked up at him through your lashes, blinking slowly and observing the way his gaze shifted between your tinted lips to your eyes, then down to where you took his length as though you wanted to swallow him whole.

“Haa, you—” San's gaze held pride, hunger, feline eyes predatory and lips curling into a smirk. His palm cupped your jaw, calloused thumb tracing your bottom lip and rubbing into the red lipstick coating it. “—are such a pretty mess for me, darling.”

A wave of scorching heat rushed to your core, your cunt spitting slick around San's cock, a breathy moan escaping you and your head falling backwards as he tried burying himself even deeper within you. 

“A few words and you're like this?” He teased.

Limply hanging your head to the side, you peered at him with lidded eyes and a lopsided smile, “Mr Choi,” you purred, and a shudder shook his broad shoulders.

His hand closed around your nape, his grip tight enough to hold your head up. “‘Thought I told you not to call me that.” 

“Doesn't everyone?” 

“You're not everyone.”

Ah. There it was again — hope. A warm glimmer striving to convince you that Choi San saw you as more than a plaything he reached for after a long day at work. Rather, an escape from the world he lived in. Comfort, peace, warmth in the midst of the bloodshed and uncertainty surrounding him. 

And yet you didn't dare ask, content with drowning in whatever your relationship was. Content with watching his stoic expression melting away and his cheeks dimple in your presence. You were content with shutting the rest of the world out and having him in this way, the dizzying scent of bergamot and baby powder enough to shut the questions rotating in your mind out. 

A gentle palm cupped your cheek, curious eyes finding yours, “where'd you go?” 

You shook your head, “‘m right here.”

Placing your hands on San’s shoulders, you dragged his button-up down his arms until it gathered on the oak floorboards behind him.

San's lashes fluttered while you felt him up, running your hands over his torso, brushing over his nipples and pressing into the muscle until his knuckle brushed over your cheekbone, dragging your attention back to his face.

“What's this expression?” He observed you with a tender smile, and your heart panged against your ribcage.

Inhaling slowly, you breathed out his name and enunciated the syllable as it rolled off your tongue, “San.”

You noted his dark pupils dilating at the sound, a familiar throb between your legs dragging an involuntary moan off your tongue.

Wrapping your arms around San's shoulders, you leaned into him until your lips grazed the shell of his ear, “San, please, ‘wanna cum.”

Despite knowing it was just a distraction tactic on your end, San indulged you and tucked the unreadable expression contorting your features into the back of his mind. He snaked an arm under your shirt and around your waist, the other hooking under your thigh to spread you apart for him. 

You peered up at him when he paused his actions, eyes widening as he leaned in to plant a tender kiss to your lips before you could contain your reaction.

“San,” you whispered without purpose, simply to feel worthy of having his name so casually rolling off your tongue.

San leaned in closer once again, lips grazing yours, and, finally, his hips moved with him—a hard, deep thrust where you needed him most. A groan echoed in the back of his throat, and you felt it vibrate in the air separating you,

“Say it more,” he kissed your lips. “You can do better for me, my love.” 

And that was all the encouragement you needed, reciting San's name like a prayer until his composure cracked — palm closing around your nape as he desperately rolled his hips against yours, fucking into you like a madman deprived of his addiction.  

“You wanna come, yeah?” He breathed out a laugh at the frantic nodding before he could utter the full sentence, “come for me baby.”

A harmony of deep grunts and your airy moans reverberated in the empty bar, San's hips slapping the backs of your thighs as he fucked into your sopping cunt, the hand at your nape holding your face up to his. San studied your features, paying no mind to the unfiltered bliss gracing his own: eyes lidded with lust, lips parted to allow his voice—rough and deep—to portray just how fucking well you're taking his cock. 

He snapped his hips once, twice, then held you flush against his body while he pumped you full of his cum, burying his face into your neck as you came around his cock, spasming against him while milking him dry. the warmth of his load inside you drove you halfway to madness, your thighs shaking where he held them apart and his name now the only sound you knew to make. 

In the empty bar illuminated with nothing but a cheap candle, the surface beneath you drenched with a blend of your slick and San’s cum oozing off the edges of the wooden bench, you looked at the man before you and — for the first time — you felt fear. Not of him, but of the warm affect he forces into your being whenever he's this near. Because despite the blood on his hands, the calloused fingers accustomed to the cold metal of a pistol now caressed your skin as though you were not a scum bartender fucking her boss, but a treasure he'd spent his whole life sailing the oceans to find. 

Wax dripped onto the polished wood as you both sat there in the shivering candlelight, your head resting over San's shoulder while he held you against him, his hand smoothing over your hair. 

Your heartbeat was steady, your thoughts clear. In this shoddy bar, you learned to love Choi San.

[gdinthehouseee]

Gentle: CHOI SEUNG-HYUN x READER

summary: you come home after a long day of work and seung-hyun takes care of you

word count: 1432

tags: fluff; extremely self-indulgent (you work as a film production assistant) kinda basic but i wrote this half-asleep

ao3 link

Another day at work meant another night of crashing as soon as the front door to your home shut behind you for the night—not after discarding your stuffy, professional clothes as soon as possible, of course. Today had been particularly difficult. 

Being a production assistant meant the director felt entitled to bark orders at you left and right, the assistant directors acting all high and mighty, not to mention the producers with their ‘holier-than-thou’ attitudes. Your body weighed down by hours of standing, lifting, running back and forth under the harsh glare of the lighting rig; your muscles throb with a dull ache, your head foggy from the endless problem-solving and last-minute changes thrown your way. It was too much. All you want is to collapse—to let go of the tension gripping your shoulders, to shut your eyes and forget how long today dragged on.

The moment you step through the door, you feel like you’ll get your wish—to collapse. Every muscle in your body protests as you force yourself to toe off your shoes, your movements sluggish and drained. Before you can take another step, a warm hand catches your wrist.

“Hey.” Seung-hyun’s voice is soft but firm, his brows knitting together as he studies your face. “You look exhausted.”

You manage a small nod, but words feel like too much effort. Instead, you just let out a quiet sigh, your shoulders sagging. He doesn’t push for a response. Instead, he gently tugs you forward, wrapping his arms around you without hesitation. His hold is steady, grounding—one arm around your waist, the other smoothing up and down your back in slow, soothing strokes.

It breaks him a little to see you like this—to watch the way you barely manage to nod, too drained to even form words. He has always admired your dedication, your ability to push through anything, but right now, all he can see is how much it’s costing you. The dark circles under your eyes, the slump of your shoulders, the way you just melt into his arms as if you don’t have the strength to hold yourself up anymore. It isn’t fair. You work so hard, give so much, and yet, no one seems to notice how much it takes from you. But he notices. And he hates that he can’t take that exhaustion away, that all he can do is hold you and hope you’ll let him ease even a little of the weight pressing down on you.

“You’re overworking yourself again, aren’t you?” He murmurs, his voice low, laced with quiet concern. “You need to slow down, aein.”

You nod again against his chest, unable to argue—not because you don’t agree, but because you’re too tired to say anything at all. He exhales, his grip tightening just a little as if trying to absorb the weight you’re carrying.

“Alright,” he whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head. “No more talking, no more thinking. Just let me take care of you tonight.”

And for the first time all day, you let yourself lean into the comfort he offers, too exhausted to do anything else.

He doesn’t say anything as he leads you into the bathroom, but his hand stays firm around yours, his thumb brushing soothing circles against your skin. The sound of rushing water fills the space as he leans over the tub, adjusting the temperature with practiced ease. Steam curls into the air, carrying the faint scent of lavender—calming, warm, inviting.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmur, trying not to get emotional about how gentle he’s being with you.

He glances at you over his shoulder, his expression soft but unwavering. “I know,” he says simply. “But I want to.”

Once the bath is full, he turns back to you, his fingers moving to the hem of your shirt. He undresses you with a tenderness that makes your chest ache—not rushed, not expectant, just careful, making sure you move as little as possible. When you finally sink into the water, a long sigh slips from your lips, the warmth wrapping around your aching muscles like a promise. Then, he kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves before reaching for the washcloth. He runs it over your skin with slow, deliberate strokes, tracing over your shoulders, your arms, down to your hands, his touch reverent. Every movement is delicate, as if he’s afraid of pressing too hard, of adding even the smallest bit of strain to your already exhausted body.

He reaches for the shampoo and tilts your head back slightly, his fingers threading through your hair with delicate attention. As he massages your scalp, working the lather in slow, rhythmic circles, warmth seeps into your bones, lulling you into a haze of exhaustion and comfort. His touch is so gentle, so methodical, that your eyelids grow heavy before you even realize it. Your breathing slows, your body sinking deeper into the water, and just as you start to drift off—

“Are you seriously falling asleep right now?”

Your eyes flutter open, and you blink up at him, still dazed. “…No.”

Seung-hyun smirks, clearly unconvinced. “Mhm, sure. That cute little head tilt? The way you just sighed? You were definitely about to pass out on me.” His fingers keep massaging slow circles against your scalp, his voice filled with quiet amusement. “Am I that relaxing?”

You groan, embarrassed, and attempt to sit up, but he gently presses you back into place. “Stay still,” he chides, still grinning. “I’m almost done.”

The moment you step out of the tub, he’s already waiting with a soft, oversized towel, wrapping it around you before you can even shiver. His hands move with quiet care, gently patting away the droplets clinging to your skin. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push—just takes his time, making sure you’re warm and comfortable.

“You’re like a sleepy kitten,” he murmurs with a small smile, watching as you sway slightly in exhaustion. “Barely standing on your own.”

You hum in response, too tired to argue, and he chuckles, wrapping an arm around you to steady you. “Alright, let’s get you dressed before you collapse on me.”

He then leads you to the bedroom, where a set of warm pajamas is already laid out on the bed—your softest pair, the one you always reach for when you need comfort. He helps you into them with the same quiet attentiveness, guiding your arms through the sleeves, pulling the fabric over your shoulders, making sure you don’t have to lift a finger.

Once you’re dressed, he sits you down on the edge of the bed, positioning himself behind you as he grabs a towel and starts drying your hair. His fingers comb through the damp strands with gentle precision, his touch slow and methodical. Every now and then, he ruffles your hair playfully, just to hear you mumble a sleepy protest.

“You’re going to fall asleep on me again, aren’t you?” He teases, amusement lacing his voice.

“No,” you grumble, but your body betrays you, leaning into his touch, eyelids fluttering.

“Let’s get you comfy, then.”

Without another word, he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you over to the bed. He settles you beneath the blankets before climbing in beside you, pulling you against his chest as he reaches for the remote.

“Movie night,” he announces, keeping his voice low, soothing. 

“I’m not sure I even wanna think about movies right now,” you partially joked. 

“With the way you keep almost falling asleep, I bet you’ll barely last ten minutes.” He returned with a soft laugh. 

You try to huff in protest, but as the warmth of his embrace surrounds you and the soft glow of the screen flickers in the dimly lit room, you know he’s right. Honestly? Who could really blame you for falling asleep in your sweetheart-of-a-boyfriend’s arms after he’s taken such attentive care of you? He spent the entire night making sure you felt nothing but comfort, from the way he washed your hair to the way he dressed you in your coziest pajamas, to the way he’s holding you now—safe, cherished, adored. His fingers absentmindedly trace gentle patterns along your back, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath your ear. The exhaustion that once weighed you down now feels lighter, replaced by something softer, something sweeter. And as your lashes flutter shut, you swear you hear him murmur something against your temple—something tender, something that makes your heart melt even as sleep finally pulls you under.

taglist: @thanosscrossmain @maskedcrawford @mirahyun @riddlerloveb0t @onyxmango @sherrayyyyy @seunghyunwifey

[concretejunglefm]

omg i neeeed sub noah being an absolute brat and then getting put in his place 🙏😭

Because someone also requested more milking Noah content, I'm going to combine these two, because what could be a more fitting and beautiful punishment after a day of brattiness from your sweet boy.

CW: smut with mentions of light bondage, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, milking, anal penetration (m receiving), use of toys (wand and a vibe).

Names: pup/puppy, sweet boy, mistress (reader called)

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

Throughout the day, Noah has been acting like a brat, constantly demanding your attention and pouting when he doesn’t get his way. The problem is that nothing seems to be effective as a punishment for him, especially since heaven to him is to be kept between your thighs, waiting for you to be ready to see his face again—without the moody pout. Sometimes, you have to get creative, and other times, it’s the smallest things that can trigger a completely different reaction from him.

Today, you’ve decided to add a new item as your punishment, while Noah is sprawled on the bed, both wrists bound to the headboard, and ankles securely restrained with more—you splurged on a four-poster bed for a reason. As you approach him, you notice his face light up with excitement. You’re proudly displaying yourself in a set of his favorite lingerie, your hands tucked behind your back, but the moment you pull them out, his expression falls. You’re wearing black leather gloves, similar to the ones he wears on stage.

Already, a whine rises in his throat at the realization that he won’t be able to feel you touching him in the way he desires. Apart from your toys that simulate oral sex, any form of a barrier is his greatest enemy, as evident by the various pairs of panties that have been torn off by his teeth and rendered unusable, alone.

This time, there’s nothing Noah can do to prevent him from feeling not your soft touch. As you meet him with the cool, slick leather of the glove, his thighs begin to tremble.

"What's wrong, pup? All bark and no bite now?" A wicked grin spreads across your face, and you can’t help but revel in the way he’s reduced to nothing more than a whining, protesting brat. You understand his desires, but he’s lost that privilege today for being such a brat anyway. Even though he knows that being one often leads to punishments he enjoys, you need to find a way to make him suffer—even if it’s just for a moment.

When you position yourself between his spread thighs, you stroke your gloved hands slowly up and down the inner of them, taking in the sight of him trembling as you do. You deliberately avoid his already hard cock, which twitches as you pass it. You observe how his stomach muscles flex and hear the rise in his breath. You let him savor the sensation of the leather all over his skin, reaching every accessible area until you finally hear him exhale with a soft, pleading sigh. “Please.”

Your eyes gleam with mischief as you tilt your head innocently, smirking at him. “Oh, please what? Sweet boy,” you purr.

“Please, touch me.”

“Oh, but I am, silly,” you tease him, deliberately dragging your hands back down his chest and stomach, lingering there as you sense the struggle he’s having to control his escalating arousal, making you aware of his internal conflict, because all he desires is the actual sensation of your hands touching him.

“No, no, no. Please, mistress, I need to feel your hands.” A soft whine accompanies the word ‘mistress,’ and you let out a low tsk beneath your breath because you know what he’s up to. Noah has a knack for using his words to sway you into giving him what he wants, and now was no different.

“Oh, but sweet boy, you certainly don’t deserve that after today, do you?” You raise an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to respond. Instead, his eyes divert, filled with shame and realization at the consequences of his actions. “And so, you should accept your punishment like a good boy, shouldn’t you?”

Though he nods in response, he still whimpers, and it feels almost cruel of you to deny him this one small thing he desires—your touch. However, you know that he’ll go to any lengths and do anything to feel it again after accepting his punishment.

Reaching for the wand, you switch it on and watch as it hums to life. You maintain a low setting as you position it between his thighs, gradually gliding it along the inner thigh of one leg and down the other, deliberately avoiding his groin area. You relish in watching him squirm as he senses the vibrations, and it triggers an ache between your own thighs, intensifying as you witness his reaction.

Soft pleas are all he can muster, yearning for more from you. As you raise the wand higher, you lower it to press against his taint, observing how his hips rise and he struggles against his restraints, and whimpers begin to escape him as the sensation vibrates against one of his more sensitive areas.

There’s nothing you love more than exploring him, discovering new ways to entice and elevate him. His arousal is so evident that his cock stands erect in front of you, completely untouched yet twitching with every vibration transmitted to it by the wand currently pressed against him. You watch as the tip leaks pre-cum, and in any other situation, you’d swiftly clean it up, either using it as lube along his shaft, sharing it, or keeping it for yourself. However, today, you allow the mess to persist. It’s part of his punishment for your refusal to touch him, knowing that he’ll be begging even more desperately for your touch long before the end.

You observe the way his stomach muscles contract, and your gaze slowly ascends to his face. The faint sheen of sweat already adorns his forehead as he struggles against the initial climax you’re desperately attempting to coax out of him. His eyes are fixed on you, pleading for more pleasure. He can’t utter a sound above his whimpering and you can't help but think of how incredibly beautiful he sounds in this state. It doesn’t take much longer before he finally succumbs to his need, before your gentle coaxing breaks him down. You witness his cock twitching with the first ropes of cum, which cascade over his stomach and roll down his shaft. It's an alluring sight, and as much as you wish to clean him off yourself, you’re only just beginning.

You’ve decided you want to see him looking pretty, covered in cum, and maybe even with bites if you’re feeling generous. He wanted to be a brat, and now you’re going to teach him the consequence of his actions.

You give Noah a brief reprieve before reaching for the next toy you intend to use on him, the prostate massager. You’re aware that he would have preferred your fingers over a toy, and while on any other occasion you’d want to fulfill that wish, you intend to prolong his punishment by making him cum through objects that lack your touch.

You’re generous with the lube, working him slowly open before you finally feel the toy slipping into place and him tightening around it as if to pull it deeply. A soft whine escapes him as you switch it on, and you softly coo, watching him squirm beneath you. Initially, you tease him with the toy, slowly dragging it along his tight, sensitive walls, allowing him to savor the sensation before bringing it directly against his prostate. You see how it causes his cock to jerk and twitch, barely half way through after his initial climax.

When you gaze upon his face, you notice his half-hooded eyes fixed on you, unable to look away as he leans into the delightful torment you’re inflicting upon him. He makes only soft, unintelligible sounds, accompanied by soft whimpers and moans, which intensify as you reintroduce the wand into the mix of pleasure. You press it back against his taint, watching as the duel pleasure propels him to the brink of ecstasy.

This time, as Noah cum's, you swear there’s more than before. Watching as it pools down over his stomach and around the base of his cock, you notice that it coats his shaft even more than before and drips down between his thighs, beneath him. You’re glad you had the foresight to place a towel beneath him, especially since your plan is to go until you’ve drained him completely, or he taps out—he never does.

[pandabibble]

what's great is if you do waste... 30 minutes oof of time recreating garbage AI shit you do end up realising a bunch of weird nonsense about AI, like there's a bunch of sort of weird oranges and I think it's tried to make a sliced orange that is heart shaped and some mountains and a weird expressionistic face in the background and the only thing that can be said about the AI doing that is just, it's clearly pulling from soviet stamps for what it's categorised as communist and some of the stamps have like a wheel or a sliced regional fruit on them so that the stamps could sort of promote and boast about how well their fruit or wheel production, plus pictures of mountains because russia has cool mountains plus communist statues would often adopt abstractions of faces and the human form to de-individualise memorial statues - and now notice how to describe the AI's art I've had to spend more time talking about the intent and meaning behind the human art it's pulling from than the AI itself, because if a person had done it we could talk about what spattering those things around might mean, or we could look into what the artist said or talked about and come away with "the author hated oranges and they wanted to convey their dislike for communism, and the mountains represent the siberian steppes where the gulags were, and that's actually the ghostly image of che guvara who died fighting guerilla wars in south american mountain regions", but it's just "guess the machine was fed some stamps" instead.

meanwhile what can I say about my parody of it? the orange slices without transparent backgrounds mock the incoherency of the weird things the AI scattered around. the literally haphazard blurring of the words to emulate that way AI render language blurry and indistinct, a corporate management level of hestitancy even as its being told to be declarative. the melting nazi speaks for itself. the way I had to slice angular chunks out of churchill's shoulders to emulate the AI, but which also sped up the cropping process and aren't as noticeable as they should be because the human eye really doesn't care that much. Or how when looking for pictures of churchill the pictures that made his jowls sag like the AI's version has were from after his severe stroke caused him to lose control of a lot of his facial muscles, but the sort of toxic wellness and masculinity cult of most AI users fear aging and the human physical process so much that it still makes churchill's hair a lot darker than it was long before that stroke, because its users are most anxious about their hair's natural progression as they age

Even within the machine slop the only thing interesting is the human aspects it's pulling from, which mold it, the anxieties of its users that it mirrors and regurgitates in a way that its users don't realise and if they did would terrify them.

obviously not an exercise I would recommend people waste their time on in general, but fun to do once.

Only the lowest IQs support communism. That's why the insist idiots are just as good as geniuses. They are idiots who believe no one is better than them.

[realitysucksgivemefictionalmen]

Gentle Love

As a warning this one shot has mentions of physical emotional and mental abuse. This is a self indulgent one shot for cathartic release. Need some soft loving.

This is also kind of a test to see if I want to turn this into a full fic. If you like this and want to read a complete story of this with background and a developing romance, let me know!

Because this is a one shot, a simple synopsis is in order to help better understand my OCs personality and issues. My OC Avery Wilson comes from a single parent household with an abusive father. She has experienced emotional, physical and mental abuse from him.

This one shot takes place pretty soon after Johnny came in and saved her. Their relationship is past friends at this point but not quite together and they are at the base. She has also met the others, so yay! Also, the way I wrote Soaps lines might be a little weird. I tried my best to write the words out in a way that so they sound like the way they are spelt out to best capture his accent. Please enjoy and tell me what you think!

*******

The bright florescent lights of the hospital room shine bright in Avery's eyes as she sits in the large bed. Her blond hair hangs in waves past her shoulders, clean with the help of the nurses. Her bright blue doe-like eyes are distant as she catches her reflection in the mirror across the room.

Her neck is wrapped in bandages and a black eye fully formed on the left side of her face. The freckles sprayed across her nose are covered on that side of the face because of it. Her gaze trails down toward her full pink lips. Her bottom lip is split though it is now slightly healed. She could feel the itchy bandages wrapped around her chest under the blue loose fitting shirt that was 3 sizes too big. Her wrists are also wrapped in bandages that stop at her elbows and under the blanket she wears a pair of comfy black leggings. All of her injuries are pretty much above her waist with some bruising around her legs.

It's been three days since Avery escaped her fathers abuse with the help of Johnny. She slightly smiles and it finally reaches her eyes as she remembers him sweeping her into his arms and away from her father like a knight rescuing the princess from the dragon. Though she was unconscious soon after he cradled her tiny body in her arms, weighing almost nothing to him, as his heart broke.

Avery is shaken from her self evaluation and memories by the sound of knuckles wrapping against the door frame. She looks over and sees him. Johnny. He leans against the door frame with his arms crossed and a bright smile on his face. He looks so handsome with his beautiful blue eyes and white perfect white toothy grin. His black mohawk styled with the sides of his head left unshaved and left an inch from his scalp. His facial hair, barely there, highlights his gorgeous smile blinding her more than the uncomfortably bright lights of the room.

Johnny is dressed comfortably in a black tightly fitted t-shirt, showing off his muscles as it strains against his biceps and broad chest. A pair of jeans wraps around his large legs and a pair of combat boots finish the look as he stands at an imposing 6 foot 2 inches. Dwarfing her 5’2 frame."I kem t' see if ye wanted t' get out o' here an' eat somethin' oder than tha' aful 'ospi'al food." Used to the Scots accent (though it still made her legs weak even in the hospital bed) she shyly smiles as he walks over to her. "Would ye like tha'?"

Avery hesitantly nods while looking shyly away to the side. The mans larger than life personality still overwhelms her. Johnny, though kind and joyful, exudes an effortless confidence that matches his size. His flirty nature never helped calm her nerves either, as she seems to always be a blushing stuttering mess around him.

He helps her out of the bed and into a nearby wheelchair, so gently, Avery almost cried. The way he treats her is a stark contrast of what she was used to at home with her father.

After he helps Avery in the wheelchair, Johnny gets behind and pushes her out the door and down the white sterile halls of the medical wing. They leave it completely behind them as they roll down the hall, the walls fading into the older and cracked concrete of the military base that is home to Johnny's team.

As they continue their journey, they pass by the occasional group of soldiers stationed at the base. Every time, Avery averts her eyes and hides behind her golden blond locks, unable to stop herself from being intimidated by the unknown faces while also being embarrassed about her current state.

Johnny notices and leans down to quietly murmur, "Yer okay li'l bird, Yer safe now. No one ‘ere will ever hurt ye. ‘Specially when 'Am around." Avery now hides her face for an entirely different reason as she flushes a deep red all across her cheeks and down her neck. She battles with the feelings of bashfulness caused by the pet name and the desire to cry from the kind words and safety they bring her. Because they came from him. Her protector.

They finally reach the mess hall where only a group of men sit at a table near the kitchen area. The room is small and cozy. With a few tables, a full open kitchen and a lounge area on the other side filled with couches and a pool table.

Avery's attention is brought over to the men at the table that Johnny pushes her to. When she stops, she is greeted with the smiles of Captain John Price, with his fishermans hat and mutton chops and Gaz, with his beautiful dark skin and twinkle in his eyes. Price is seated to her left while Gaz sits across the table. Besides Gaz sits Ghost, whose skull masked face is turned toward her as he greets her with a nod before turning to the paperwork on the table in front of him. Avery smiles gently at the trio and looks down at her fidgety fingers as she picks at her nails.

"How are you feeling?" Price says in his gruff British accent. He looks kindly down at the tiny young woman in the chair. She was small, especially while surrounded by the large men of task force 141.

"A bit better, still sore" Avery finally speaks after a quiet moment as if to gather her courage. Her voice is soft and melodic, which complements her personality and angelic appearance.

Sitting in between these strong, giant men, Avery looks like a wounded bird. Tiny and fragile in her bandages.

Price smiles at the poor young lady, turning to his tea and paperwork like Ghost. "That's good to hear."

"Yeah, especially since this idiot here couldn't stop worrying about you!" Gaz loudly spoke around his mouthful of food. He swallows and acts all serious and worried "I wonder ef she's okay. Do ye think I should sneak ‘er some chocolate? Maybe I should visit ‘er. I should make sure the staff are treatin' er right. How often are they checkin' on ‘er. What ef she's all alone n’ scared. The fuckin' doctor won' let me see ‘er again, said tha' ah'v been around too much n’ she needs te rest." Gaz's surprisingly accurate reenactment is cut off as an embarrassed Johnny slaps him on the back of the head.

"Away n’ bile yer heid ye wee bastard!" Johnny huffs at him, his accent making it hard to understand in his embarrassed anger. His ears slightly red as he argues trying to save face. "I was jus' worried about ‘er bein' all alone in a strange place!"

Avery quietly giggles at the men's antics as Price smiles fondly in his tea with amusement and Ghost ignores them as he usually does.

"Yeah yeah, it was adorable mate!" Gaz hells over to Johnny as the now bashful man starts putting together a plate of food for the still giggling girl.

Gaz leans over across the table to whisper to Avery as she watches Johnny. "He really was worried. When he wasn't with you and got kicked out of the medical wing, he was either pacing or beating the shit out of the new recruits." He laughs lightly at the wide eyed girl and the light blush forming on her cheeks at the information.

"Oi whatta ye tellin' er?" The Scotsman questions as he narrows his eyes at the Brit and sets the food down in front of Avery. He sits down next to her as Gaz shoves a large bite of food in his mouth and shrugs innocently.

Johnny's attention is pulled away from the smug Gaz when he notices the beautiful girl next him scarfing down her food as fast as she can.

"Whoa slow down ye wee lassie! No one is goin' te take away yer food from ye." He laughs out as the skittish young woman looks up and freezes. She chews for a bit, analyzing his words, before swallowing. Her eyes wide and innocent as she looks up hopefully at him with a hint of hesitation in her uncertain gaze.

"Promise?"

Silence

That one word was all it took. Paired with the pitiful expression of the injured and traumatized girl, that quiet pleading word made all four men stop what they were doing. While two of them stare at her with a mixture of sad and shocked gazes. Ghost looks at her with a grim understanding that only he shared with the poor little bird. Johnny on the other hand…

Johnny was livid.

After the shock, which he felt like a blow to the gut, all he felt was anger. Heat filled his stomach and heart as he fought off the instinct to go find the girls dead beat father and kill the fucking bastard. The monster who took pleasure in destroying the purest creature Johnny had ever met.

His girl, who now looks worried after the long painful silence drags on. And as she takes in the flurry of different looks passing across his face that finally settles on anger, her worry grows, afraid she said the wrong thing.

Johnny notices the wary look on his little bird's face and quickly forces his body to relax. He couldn't afford to lose his temper in front of the poor girl.

"O' course not. Ye never 'ave te worry about tha again. Ye will ALWAYS 'ave food sweetheart" Johnny coos at Avery and brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear.

"You sure?" She says wobbly, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"O' course!" He replies gently, now cupping her cheek.

Avery leans into his touch and fiddles with the end of her shirt that falls just above her knees, fitting like a dress. It smelt comfortingly like Johnny and his cologne. She looks down as she practically whispers, "It's just," she looks up skittishly as she continues after a brief moment, almost scared, "you look mad."

Johnny takes her face in both of his hands now as carefully as he can as if she could break at the slightest pressure. "Not at ye little bird. Never at ye. Don' worry about me. Eat yer breakfast and afterwards, I'll take ye out te get some fresh air."

She looks into his eyes for a moment and then smiles before nodding softly in his hands. Tears now gone and her heart feeling light, she turns back to her breakfast without noticing the warm smiles the other three men share toward the pair, not so much from Ghost as only his eyes soften at the interaction. Then they grow serious as they all, including Johnny, think about the long journey the wounded girl will have to take to recover what her poor heart, body and soul was put through all those years. And then they think of the man who caused all of her grief and the fact that he still breathes air, even if he was behind bars. No prison sentence will ever be enough for such a horrible man.

They force the thoughts out of their head as they share looks of determination as the young woman smiles at her food, excited to see the birds later as she eats slowly, enjoying her first real meal in a long time.

His little bird will never go through anything like that again as long as they are around.

Johnny would make sure of that.

****

I hope you all like it and that it was good. Again if you would like more, please let me know, and I will consider turning this into a full on fic! Love you all! ❤️

[thyras]

→ of ashes & flame ( II )

PAIRING → mairon | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 3.2k words

SERIES → of ashes & flame (osatm universe)

WARNINGS → redemption au, ooc!sauron, fix-it fic

SUMMARY → mairon makes his way to the kingdom of Doriath, and in doing so is tested on his ask for pardon.

AUTHORS NOTE → welp here we are again, had more thoughts. so another chapter. I'm kinda digging this story, though I am TRYING not to make these chapters long because it's kinda draining to write lol and I know longer chapters are such a pain to read hehe hope y'all enjoy this chapter.

masterlist

As Mairon traveled ever closer to the realm of Doriath, a prickle of awareness settled over him, the fine hairs along his arms rising as he felt it—the telltale shimmer of enchantment woven into the very air itself.

Magic.

It curled around him like mist, a subtle yet undeniable force, brushing over his skin in slow, deliberate waves. It was ancient, layered with a mastery that few could rival, and though it had been ages since he last felt its touch, he knew it well.

Melian.

Slowing his horse as he neared the forest’s edge, Mairon dismounted with measured precision. The great trees loomed before him, their towering forms whispering in a language older than the stars. Though the path ahead appeared open, he knew better than to trust the illusion.

The Girdle of Melian was not merely a barrier��it was a will, a consciousness woven into the fabric of Arda itself, pulsing with the power of one who had shaped it with purpose.

He could feel its presence humming in the air, the unseen boundary stretching around the forest like an unyielding tide. He knew he could not disband it with force—not without irreparably staining his intent. To undo it would be a declaration, an act of unrepentance that would shatter any hope of being received with the goodwill he sought.

So he did not reach for his power. He did not test its strength, nor seek to part it with cleverness or force.

Instead, he waited.

And waited.

The wind stirred through the trees, rustling the leaves in a rhythm that felt almost sentient, as if the very land were deciding whether he was worthy of passage. Time stretched, unmarked by anything save for the distant call of a nightbird, the rhythmic sound of his horse shifting its weight beside him.

Still, he stood unmoving, unwavering.

If she wished to test his patience, so be it.

He had waited lifetimes for redemption.

He could wait a little longer.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, staining the sky in hues of deep crimson and gold before surrendering to the encroaching darkness, Mairon remained motionless upon the rock where he had waited for hours. His patience was unshaken, his stillness absolute, but his mind remained ever-watchful, attuned to the unseen forces shifting around him.

It was his steed that noticed first.

The great beast, which had stood calm and unmoved throughout the long wait, suddenly lifted its head, nostrils flaring as a low, uneasy snort escaped it. Its ears flicked back, muscles tensing, though there was no visible predator in sight.

Mairon’s sharp gaze flicked toward the horse, reading its reaction with practiced ease.

Animals, untouched by the deceptions of the mind, felt the movements of the world in ways even the most perceptive beings could not. They did not question when the air grew thick with unseen power, nor did they ignore the subtle shifts in the fabric of Arda itself.

This was the signal he had been waiting for.

Rising smoothly to his feet, Mairon turned toward the darkened forest. The trees, which had once swayed lazily in the soft breeze, now stood unnaturally still, their branches frozen mid-motion as though time had ceased its flow. The rustling of leaves had vanished, and the sweet trilling of nightingales—so ever-present in the twilight hours—had been swallowed into silence.

A hush fell over the land, not the simple quiet of night, but something deeper, something woven with intention.

It was not merely silence.

It was the absence of all things that lived and moved freely.

The weight of unseen eyes pressed upon him, watching, measuring.

Mairon did not move, did not reach for his power, nor attempt to cross the threshold before him. He had known this moment would come.

The Girdle of Melian had awakened to his presence.

And now, she would decide if he was worthy to enter.

A light breeze stirred, sweeping across the land with a whisper so faint it could have been mistaken for the rustling of leaves—had it not carried something far more deliberate.

His name.

Not the name he bore now, nor the many others he had taken through the ages, but the first—the true name given to him upon his awakening in the Timeless Halls. A name only another of the Ainur would know.

For the briefest of moments, something ancient within him stirred, something buried beneath the weight of ages. But before the past could sink its claws too deeply into his thoughts, the wind pressed against his back with the slightest force, guiding him forward.

The trees before him, which had stood as an impenetrable wall mere moments ago, shifted. The tangled branches unwove themselves, the leaves parting in silence to reveal a path where none had been before. A road, pale and glistening beneath the silver light of the stars, stretched into the heart of the forest.

And then, from the very air itself, her voice came.

“You may enter, sorcerer, but magic will not guide you here. Only light shall.”

Her words wove through the silence like silk, soft yet unwavering, a whispered decree that carried the weight of a thousand years.

Mairon exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching in quiet amusement. So, another test.

He had expected them, of course. He would have been a fool not to. And yet, knowing did little to temper the simmering annoyance that came with being scrutinized, measured, and weighed like an unproven apprentice.

His fingers flexed at his sides, his instincts coiling at the restriction placed upon him. No magic. The very essence of his being, bound and shaped by the Song of Creation itself, would be of no aid to him here.

Only light.

His jaw tightened, but he did not hesitate.

Mairon stepped forward, his grip firm yet effortless on the reins as he guided his steed onto the pale, glistening path. The trees loomed high around him, their ancient limbs stretching toward the sky, casting long, twisting shadows that swayed in the moonlight.

The air was thick here—not with mist, nor with the scent of damp earth, but with something unseen, something woven into the very fabric of this place. The silence was deep, unbroken, pressing against his senses like a waiting presence.

To any lesser being, it would have been unnerving. But not to Mairon.

He walked without hesitation, his steps measured, unshaken by the quiet. His shadow stretched beside him, flickering with each movement of the trees, always close—yet somehow, just at bay. It no longer clung to him as it once had.

The night had always been his ally.

In the days of Melkor’s dominion, he had thrived in its depths, walking unseen through the hidden places of the world, watching as the Quendi crossed valleys and mountains, unaware of the eyes that followed them. He had moved among the darkness as one of its own, a silent architect of the grand designs that would reshape Arda in the image of his master’s will.

But then he found you.

And the night, once his only companion, was no longer the solace he sought.

Slowly, inexorably, the gentle touches of the sun had become easier to bear. At first, they had been an unwelcome intrusion—too harsh, too revealing. But with each passing day, its light reached further into him, not burning, but mending.

It reached the deep, ruined places of his fëa, the parts he had long thought irreparably marred by his servitude. It touched where Melkor had wounded him, where the chains of old oaths had left their unseen marks.

And with you beside him, the light no longer felt like something he had to endure.

It was something that welcomed him.

Now, as he walked the enchanted path toward Menegroth, bathed in silver light and shadow alike, he wondered—had Melian seen it?

Had she known, the moment he stepped before her barrier, that the light had already begun its work upon him?

Or was she still suspicious of him, and his intentions of seeking her out.

The latter, he believed, was the truth of this instance.

For who could ever truly trust a being like him?

One who had once been shrouded in darkness, who had carried the weight of ruin across this land with hands that had shaped both beauty and devastation in equal measure. A being who had whispered lies into the ears of kings, who had bent the wills of the mighty and reshaped the world to suit Melkor’s purpose.

How could his word ever be taken as truth?

How could one ever look upon him and not see the specter of who he had been?

Mairon exhaled through his nose, forcing the thought aside. Now was not the time for such musings. He had made his choice, and whether Melian trusted his sincerity or not, he would prove it. Not with words, but with action.

And so, with unwavering grace, he continued his journey, his steps quiet against the earth. The silence around him remained unbroken, yet his mind filled the space where sound might have been, thoughts swirling and stretching outward like threads of a great tapestry.

He thought of you.

Of how you would see beauty in this silence, in the vastness of the night sky that stretched overhead, unmarred by storm or cloud.

Even with the weight of enchantment pressing against the air, you would not falter.

You would close your eyes, tilt your head to the heavens, and find comfort in the whisper of the leaves, in the silver glow of the stars.

Where he saw a test, a challenge to be endured, you would find wonder.

The thought softened something within him, grounding him in a way he had not expected.

So he let himself dwell in it, let the image of you settle within him, and walked onward, ever closer to the halls of Menegroth.

The path widened at last when the moon hung high in the sky, its argent light spilling through the towering trees like liquid silver. Ahead, the first flickering glow of lanterns appeared, perched atop a gracefully arched bridge.

The sight gave him pause.

The bridge, carved of pristine white stone, gleamed in the moonlight as if it had been woven from the light of the stars themselves. Its elegant form stretched across a slow-moving river, guiding the way toward the great entrance of the caverns beyond. The entrance to Menegroth.

Mairon halted, his sharp gaze tracing the meticulous artistry of its construction.

The masonry was masterful, each stone placed with such precision, such intent, that he could see no flaw, no imperfection. It was not merely a structure—it was a testament to skill, to vision, to the pursuit of beauty even in the heart of an underground kingdom.

Another humbling reminder of what could be created, even in the shroud of shadow.

For too long, he had believed that beauty and power could only exist when forged through dominion, through the shaping of raw elements into something greater than their natural state. That order had to be imposed, that the world required a master’s hand to reach perfection.

And yet, here stood Menegroth—its grandeur unforced, its magnificence drawn from harmony rather than subjugation.

Mairon exhaled softly, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

Then, with measured steps, he crossed the bridge, making his way toward the cavernous halls of the one Maia who had agreed to hear him out.

His pace slowed as his sharp gaze landed upon a lone figure standing at the entrance to the caverns.

They were cloaked in shadow, their form shrouded beneath the folds of a heavy hooded mantle. The dim glow of the lanterns barely illuminated them, leaving their features obscured, yet Mairon did not falter.

His senses reached out instinctively, searching for the telltale hum of power that would mark them as one of the Ainur. But there was nothing. No whisper of enchantment clinging to their fëa, no shift in the air that hinted at the presence of Melian herself.

His alarm eased.

Had she chosen to appear before him, she would not have done so in secret. No, she would summon him when she saw fit—when she deemed him worthy of standing in her presence.

That meant this figure before him was no Maia.

A herald, then. Or perhaps a trusted servant sent to greet him, to escort him through the cavernous halls of Menegroth.

Still, Mairon did not speak immediately. He came to a slow, deliberate halt, tilting his head slightly as he regarded the stranger.

The silence stretched between them, thick and expectant.

And then, at last, the hooded figure moved, stepping forward into the lantern’s glow. The figure stepped forward, emerging from the shadows and into the warm glow of the lantern light.

Beneath the hood, her face was soft and serene, touched with the ethereal beauty that all elves seemed to possess. There was grace in her every movement, a quiet confidence in the way she held herself, but to Mairon’s eyes, she was no different from the countless others he had seen before.

Nowhere near your radiance.

He had spent centuries among the fairest of the Sindar, and yet none had ever captured his attention the way you did. None had shone so brilliantly in his sight, their presence like a beacon calling him home.

The maiden lowered her head in a respectful bow before lifting her gaze, a gentle smile curving her lips.

“Good evening, my lord,” she greeted, her voice carrying the practiced poise of one well-versed in courtly manners.

She hesitated for only a breath before continuing, as if weighing her words carefully.

“The queen is currently indisposed,” she said smoothly, “but she has sent me to welcome you and offer you a place to rest.”

Mairon did not immediately respond.

His expression remained unreadable, his sharp eyes flicking over her features, parsing the meaning behind her words. Indisposed. A carefully chosen phrase, one that carried no insult yet made it clear that Melian would not be rushed into granting him an audience.

Another test, then.

Of patience, of intent.

Mairon exhaled softly through his nose, inclining his head just slightly in acknowledgment.

“Very well,” he said, his voice smooth, measured. “Lead the way.”

For now, he would play this game.

But soon enough, the queen would grant him her presence.

And then, they would speak.

Once his horse was stabled for the duration of his stay, the servant led him deeper into the halls of the great King and Queen of Beleriand.

Mairon walked in measured silence, his keen eyes tracing the grandeur around him—the intricately carved stonework, the silver-veined pillars that stretched toward the cavernous ceiling, the soft glow of lanterns casting golden light upon the polished floors. Menegroth was not merely a fortress; it was a masterpiece, a vision of craftsmanship that even he, with all his pride, could not deny.

And yet, even as he took in its splendor, his thoughts strayed elsewhere.

To you.

He could almost see you here, standing wide-eyed beneath the vaulted ceilings, your gaze drinking in the artistry of it all, wonder lighting your features like the dawn. For all your wisdom, for all the reverence your people held for you, you had never lived in such magnificence. You had never sought it, never desired it.

Your humility was a trait that had drawn him to you, one of the many things he cherished, even when he did not always understand it.

And perhaps, without realizing it, that very humility had begun to shape him in ways he had once thought impossible.

He exhaled quietly at the thought as they came to a halt before a large wooden door. The servant turned to him and motioned toward it with a small nod.

Mairon returned the gesture with a curt incline of his head before stepping forward, his hand already reaching for the handle. But before he could shut the door behind him, the soft voice of the servant stopped him.

“The King has asked if you would join him in the morn for a meal.”

Mairon stilled, his fingers lingering against the edge of the door as he considered the invitation.

It was not an unexpected request, but it was still a choice. A subtle test, an offering wrapped in courtly pleasantries. An invitation from Elu Thingol was not something to take lightly.

His answer did not take long to form.

“I would be honored,” he said smoothly, his voice even.

The servant smiled, her expression unreadable yet politely pleased. She bowed once more before turning and retreating down the corridor, her soft footsteps echoing against the stone.

Only when the sound of them faded into the distance did Mairon close the door, pressing it shut with deliberate ease.

Alone now, in the dim glow of his quarters, he allowed himself a single moment of thought before turning his focus back to the task at hand.

Come morning, he would sit at the table of a king.

And soon, he would stand before a queen.

Mairon dropped his bag onto the bed and took in the stately room with a practiced eye. It was well-appointed, exuding the quiet luxury befitting a guest of his stature. The furnishings were elegant but not ostentatious—a large, finely crafted bed draped in soft linens, a writing desk of rich, polished wood, a fireplace that cast flickering golden light against the walls, and a lounger fit for a lord.

Everything was in its place, orderly and refined, much like the halls that housed it.

And yet, as he stood there, taking in his surroundings, he noted something else—something unspoken but undeniably present.

There was a warmth to this space, one that settled around him like the lingering touch of an old acquaintance. It was not the warmth he knew with you, not the all-encompassing comfort that came with the brush of your fëa against his own, nor the quiet sanctuary of the home you had built together.

No, this was something different.

Something like the welcoming embrace of a friend unseen for many years.

Mairon almost laughed at the thought.

A friend.

He had no friends.

Companions, perhaps—people whose company he found tolerable, even enjoyable for brief spans of time. But never anything more. Never anyone he could call friend.

Not like you.

You had Eärlindë—a friend so dear, so rich in love that at times he thought the two of you were bound by something deeper than mere companionship. As if, had fate allowed it, you would have been born as sisters, separated by the weave of ages but never in spirit. He had seen how effortlessly you laughed together, how your voices twined in conversation like the melodies of a song long sung.

It was a connection he had never known.

Never sought.

Friendship, in his eyes, was fleeting. It had no permanence, no certainty. People came and went, their affections fickle, their loyalties shifting like the tides. And for a being such as him—one who had walked paths that few could ever understand—what place was there for friendship?

No, Mairon had never needed such things.

Or so he had always believed.

With a quiet exhale, he shook the thought from his mind and turned away from the warmth of the room, his focus shifting once more.

There were greater matters at hand.

[spurbleu]

summer laurels.

(knight!johnny x reader)

~1k words of a scrapped project

you’re father introduced him as a royal guard, a means of safety, a soldier. but at the ripe age of ten, contemptuous for the shell white walls of your quarters, you only saw an obstacle to laughter.

it was a prudish currency for men who held half of your father’s importance, king to a land that only saw daylight because he wished it. a realm of high priority, rich and calloused by a life you had not yet understood. all you knew was that you spent hours learning table etiquette, when the sun sat so teasingly warm on the sills of the kitchen, and beckoned your uncovered knees to bleed summer time.

but with this new form of ‘protection’ (which was undoubtedly in response to your tendency to hide in the bathroom when ordered to ride side saddle) the vim you find on the underside of your tongue would go unfed, and the hundreds of trees that line the edge of your stone hedge would go unclimbed. your palms would forget the gruff edges of bark, and instead find them in your fathers throaty complaints.

you remember the exact moment johnny surprised you.

halfway down the window, dangling by the knotted sheets of your bed, you must have looked ridiculous. a face drawn by guilt without the remorse, hands clutching your flimsy escape rope, only inches away from retribution- freedom from the unfortunate and shallow niceties nobles fawned over at ballroom dances.

but he doesn’t look like your father. no disappointing draw in his brow or furrow lines that crease his chin. instead, he fastens the rope to the sill with a knot you do not recognize. and before you can register any other oddities, he begins to scale down the sheets.

you make a choked sound when he reaches the grass beneath you. he meets your eye.

you’d seen their color in the robin eggs your chef’s made for breakfast. bright and swallow you until you’re chattering in uncharted waters. the in-between where blustering waves and a blue horizon meet. nowhere and everywhere.

you realized then that he couldn’t be that much older than you. there were no crow’s feet, no lost hours of sleep in plum under his lashes. the mischief that squints his eyes in broad strokes of sun-bleached cheeks made him look…approachable. fun.

he had laughed then, and you remember feeling a foreign insecurity. you had never been laughed at- and you shouldn’t’ve been. even if the sound was pretty. like church bells.

“what’s so funny?”

he snorts. “a’ thought ye were gonnae be borin!”

you never stopped him from laughing again.

you are very drunk. off wine amongst other things, unsteady in your dress flats as you count how many seconds it takes your foot to start burning again once it leaves the cool marble floors.

at least an arm keeps you steady. it groans.

“chist, bonnie. ye drink like yer dyin’.”

you snark, throwing your head back into his bicep. he starts. “you sound like my aunt.”

you feel the brawn of his chest cave. it’s a reminder, as is his height and the line of his jaw, that he is no longer the boy who would lift you up trees or chase you across the gardens. a man steadies you tonight, decades treating him to muscle mass and eyes that remained bluer than most skies you’d seen.

“yer aunt shouldn’t be talkin’. one more and she’d be fallin face first intae the neares’ pillar.”

“or bachelor.”

he laughs in the way that boils you alive. flays the sensitive and frayed ends of your affection into perishing wool. his tapestry that you had carefully woven, forbidden and fruitless, reveals threads of denial and avoidance.

in other words, you fall harder than you had the day he climbed out of your window.

you stare forward to ignore it- as you have for the last 5 years. your vision blurs at the edges, but the hallway looks as it always has. large arches of marble peeling back to let moonlight blind the floors with night’s milky dress, tiles haphazardly painted in blues and greys- a space that makes you feel small and meritless.

johnny makes you forget that.

he just makes you feel alive.

you steps falter when you reach your door, and you stare at the handle like if you try hard enough, it will burst into flames. filter to ash and iron bones and a color you had never liked. keep you locked out of your own prison cell and safe in the arms of your guard.

you don’t look at him when you say, “johnny, do you..”

you sway, nails digging into his side to steady yourself, “remember that day in the summer?”

he chuckles. “gonnae ‘ave tae be more specific tan tat, darlin.”

you sigh, “no the…first summer we met. when you caught me scaling out the window.”

he goes silent for a moment, and you turn to see the face he makes when he thinks. brows cast a shadow just above the crease of his eyes- but they don’t dim them. in fact, they almost grow brighter in the shade. he tends to do that.

“ah…yes,” his lips twitch the second you catch yourself staring at them, “best first impression.”

“you said i wasn’t boring. that you thought i would be.”

he nods slowly, doing his best to follow along. “I wasnae expectin a royal to be half outside the window with dirty stockings, nae,” he squints, “where is tis goin’, bonnie?”

you swallow. “I…” you had forgotten. all you wanted was to stay here, outside your door, away from the morning and the duties that came with it, from the next hours and the time you wouldn’t have him, smiling at you like he is now.

“I don’t know.”

he hums, idly fixing the strap of your dress over your shoulder. “Alrigh’. I will say though,” he flashes a wolfish grin, and your heart folds between your lungs, “i dae remember tinkin’ you looked pretty as all hell, mussed up.”

The face you make must have been priceless, because he laughs the loudest he had that night.

“goodnight, Johnny.”

You pull the door and step into the threshold, sending a revealing look over your shoulder. He hums.

“sleep well, bonnie.”

you dream of august, tree bark, and the hands that keep you steady. they greet you in the morning at your door, and you wonder if he dreams of you.

if you are just as vibrant in his mind as he is in yours.

[whump-in-the-closet]

Falls Last, Falls Harder

CW: waterboarding, fucked up hero agency, creepy whumper, angst, manhandling, family dynamics falling apart, uh the emotional angst is pretty heavy on this one, aftermath of torture, whumpee with anxiety, dehumanization (idk if I missed anything) it’s just dark in general

A/N: this happens after the white room piece; teddy caves and signs on with savior

masterlist

They have long given up the pretense of wanting information from Elias.

Elias's entire world, right now, is water. Face submerged into a sink, Scott's iron grip at the base of his neck and hands tied together so tightly he's long lost his ability to feel them.

He gasps and it's a mistake. Bad. Bad fucking idea. Water surges in, cold, sudden, suffocating; filling his mouth, his sinuses, the back of his throat. He thrashes, on instinct, fully knowing Scott isn't going to let him up.

Bubbles float to the surface as Elias screams, then chokes. The freezing water burns the inside of his lungs.

He can't stay down a second longer.

But Scott's hand is unrelenting.

His brain screams for oxygen. Every muscle is burning, screaming, begging.

He’s drowning. He’s drowning, he’s drowning—

This is it.

He really can't stay down a second longer. His muscles lock up. The dark blots in his vision become all-consuming.

Everything goes silent. Dark.

And then—

Scott yanks him up, letting the boy drop to the floor, where he lies face-down, coughing up water in a puddle of misery. His body twists with every desperate breath he tries to take.

Elias is shaking on the cold tiles, muscles spasming in convulsions he's barely conscious of. And to think he used to be able to control every particular muscle in his body in perfect form, to think of his training, of dance at all-- hell. It's hell.

Scott crouches down and Elias shudders, hunching his shoulders-- he can't look at him. Can't.

Scott laughs, the sound distorted through the roaring in Elias' ears. "You always make this harder than it has to be,” says the Savior Hero, shaking his head. “And you never last long.” He sounds almost disappointed.

Elias coughs again, spitting out more water. Some of it lands on the floor, but most is on his pajama shirt. They never even gave him time to change and the soft orange has faded to the color of grime. He remains, stubbornly, silent.

Scott grabs a handful of the boy's strawberry-blond hair, forcing his head up. Forcing him to maintain eye contact.

Elias wheezes. Through chattering teeth, he forces, "I-is it bad I'm getting used to this?"

Scott smiles-- a hero's smile, practiced, easy. "And you're back." He ruffles Elias's hair.

Elias prickles at the touch and tries to pull away, but Scott only grips his hair tighter, the threat loud and clear. Stay still, or else.

He picks Elias up, effortlessly, half-supporting, half-dragging him to his feet. "Alright, that was fun. But we really shouldn't keep your brother waiting."

Elias's stomach drops. Through another coughing fit that leaves him lightheaded and the world spinning, he whispers, "Teddy?" You said you let him go.

Scott shoves him towards the door. "What, you don't remember? I said I'd let him go if you signed before he did."

"No! That is not--" Panic is sharp, blooming, crimson. Pieces click together in a sickening realization.

They still have Teddy.

"I don't think we need to worry about the details, lad." Scott cuts him off with a casual, back-handed blow that knocks Elias off-balance and leaves a red handprint on his face. He barely registers being caught; hauled down the corridor.

Before Elias can resist, Scott drags him into another room.

The door clicks shut behind them, the sound too soft, too final.

The room is empty except for a table. Two sheets of paper. A simple pen resting beside them, with the words Savior Agency inscribed on it in fancy writing.

And Teddy.

Elias can’t move.

He can’t breathe.

Because Teddy is sitting there, and he doesn't even turn around at the sound of the door. He's slumped at the table, knee bouncing sporadically. He isn’t restrained. He doesn’t need to be.

His scratchy, childish signature at the bottom of one of the pages is still fresh.

The other is still blank, it's implication loud, demanding, perforating.

Elias doesn’t want to look at it. He can’t. Because if he looks, then it’s real.

Instead, his eyes find Teddy’s face.

And— fuck. Elias's knees give out from under him and if Scott wasn't holding him upright, he'd have collapsed.

It’s wrong. Everything is wrong.

His twin—a constant in his life—is sitting there like a stranger in his own body. His hair is still matted with blood, his lip split, a bruise crawling over his cheekbone. But he’s sitting there.

"No." The sound slips out, fracturing the silence into a dozen little pieces.

Teddy stiffens. But he keeps his head down, shoulders rising and falling in muffled sobs.

Elias forces his legs forward and Scott walks with him. Elias can hear him smiling. He shudders, and not because of the cold.

The paper is in front of him now. The signature is clear.

Teddy Wade.

Agent-- property-- of Savior.

His twin.

It's real.

His stomach turns.

“Teddy.” His voice cracks. “Tell me you didn’t.”

Teddy lifts his tear-stained face and wipes his red-rimmed eyes. Empty.

“I'm sorry.” It’s so quiet. So simple. He looks away and presses a hand to his bouncing knee.

Elias’s chest caves in and he can't breathe, can't breathe, he's drowning all over again--

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head. “No, you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t do this. You wouldn’t—”

His fingers curl into fists. He wants to tear the paper apart. Wants to grab Teddy and shake him until something sparks behind his eyes again.

Elias lurches forward, to shake Teddy, to hug him, he doesn't know, but Scott yanks him back.

"Keep your distance," he says. "Please," he adds with a smile-- as if he weren't gripping Elias's forearm with the strength of a dozen men and leaving a purple-spreading bruise that bleeds through until it reaches muscle.

Elias almost cries. Almost. But not yet. “Teddy, listen to me—”

Teddy flinches at the raised voice and covers his ears. His eyes are wide, panicked. The anxiety he's supposed to be on medication for is enough to send him into a spiral. His voice breaks, raw and placating. "Please, don't! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't take it from you, El-- Not from you."

Elias knows he should stop. He can't.

Teddy goes on, his tone going up an octave higher. "I know I shouldn't have, I mean-- I'm the one who told you to never sign what they gave you," Teddy is crying openly. "But, I signed. I signed. I'm so sorry, El--"

This isn’t real.

This can’t be real.

“Tell me they forced you.” His voice is rising, wild and desperate. “Tell me they held a gun to your head. Tell me they—”

Teddy goes silent. Then. “Not exactly.”

The break in his voice is a knife and it twists in Elias's lungs.

The horror builds up. "You fucking idiot," he whispers.

And Teddy flinches, again. "I'm s-"

"And don't say you're sorry!"

So Teddy says nothing.

Elias feels it snap.

Somewhere deep in his chest, something fractures. The empty-eyed Teddy in front of him isn't Teddy, it's just what's left.

His voice is dead. "Fine." A shallow exhale, water still rattling in his lungs. "Give me the paper."

Scott, surprisingly, remains silent as he cuts away Elias' bonds, and the ropes fall to the floor with a slither.

Elias rubs his wrists, fingers flushing with the return of blood flow and stinging.

Scott slides the second, unsigned paper toward him.

Elias leans on the table for support, wincing at the contact. He doesn't look at Teddy as he slowly holds the pen up. He does his best to ignore the tear stains on the soft-wood tabletop.

He signs away, hands throbbing. Everything throbbing. His handwriting is barely legible, more of a sprawl.

Scott places a hand between his shaking shoulders. "Welcome to the team, lad."

Elias is violently sick, all over that empty white floor. Only then does he notice the drain in the middle.

taglist: @rainydaywhump @whump-in-the-night @whump-till-ya-jump @chaotic-orphan @violets-whumperflies @paperprinxe @olivedave7 @b0amagination (let me know if you want to be added/ removed!)

[tonycries]

STICKYYY

Synopsis. His new year’s resolution? To knock you up!

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, babyféver, BRÉEDING, creampíes, buIges, mentions of kíds, cervíx kíssing, full neIsons, GOJO’S POWERS, ínnapropriate use of jujutsu, PÚSSYDRÚNK JJK MEN, marathons, true form Sukuna, dp, Sukuna’s second mouth, p talking, cúmplay, spítting, making it fit, use of “ma’am”, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. Be honest can y’all tell that I’m ovuIating…

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - FEVER!

“T-Tooooji-”

You’re being oh-so-easily shut up with just three stinging slaps! of Toji’s hefty, swollen tip. Strawberry-red, and just as angrily plump. Making such a mess when he’s smearing between your treacly walls in a gluey kiss - like he never wanted to let go. 

And you never wanted him to.

Not even when he’s rolling his eyes with a mean titter, “Don’t remember my heh- birthday gift includin’ this chatty mouth of yours, doll.” A singular, masculine palm sheaths over your deliriously slack maw - rough. “S’even more talkative than her-”

But it was impossible not to be after these hours upon hours.

Impossible for your sloppy entrance to not drawl out resoundingly filthy slurps every time Toji’s scooping his buttery seed back in with his vicious fingers.

“Ya realize that’s supposed to stay ah- inside, ma?” Wrangling your legs open into a rude full-nelson to leave a sappy smack! at that gooey heaven right between. Toji sounds so utterly sullen at the waste, “How m’I gonna get myself a daughter if ya can’t keep it in, hm?”

It was a rhetorical question - and Toji was fucking you like it was.

Sculptured, beefy biceps barely even flexing at the practically non-existent struggle to manhandle your thighs open. It gave you both such a perfect view - of your saturatedly glossy pussy folds being constricted around his lazily sinking size. Struggling. Goopy masses of Toji’s honeyed cum from just prior being drooled out after every syrupy squelch-

“Mouthy fuckin’ cunt.”’ You’re hearing him whisper from right behind you, puffs of condensed air hitting the tender spots on your neck and making you keen. “Makes me wonder- heh- who the babyfever got talkin’ more. You or her.”

He was babbling nonsense - and you were, too.

The raw ruptures of his bloated head making your jaw droop stupidly open, lashing around your heated insides to probe up rigorously against those sweet spots. Toji Fushiguro had no relent - he had no mercy. 

Because he was promised another damn brat for his birthday, and he wanted one now. 

“N-now?” Your heart-eyes are bulging out, the trembly waver in your voice shrilling upwards after every drag of his balloony tip down the span of your elastic cervix. Oh, shit, did he say that out loud? Whoops. “Toji wh-what if it hasn’t ngh- taken yet-”

Toji’s cutting you off - urgent. Spitting, as if those mere words shouldn’t be spoken out loud. “Move that hand f’me-” Couldn’t even wait the few split-seconds it takes for you to shuffle your carefulling covering hand away before flinging it off with a rude swat. “-touch that lil’ bulge- ngh- wh-where I am. Feel me.”

Your fingerpads are shaky - unstable. Caressingly feeling for that riotous smooch of Toji’s bawling fat tip peppering tiny kisses onto your cervix. Your womb. 

The blood in your veins boil with sheer need at the rounded globular edge, pressing down hard in just the way you knew that would drive Toji wild. Making his weighty breeder balls flinch with a harsh thwack! “See? Feel that? How m’alllll up in that cute womb? Bold of you to think that you’ll fuuuuck- walk outta this bedroom not pregnant, mama.”

He was determined. Feral.

Every puncturing rut had your spine arching into the most perfect curvature on top of him. Your back pressing heatedly in a lecherous massage against his heated skin, so bumpy with every flexing ab and muscle. 

You couldn’t help but feel so…ruined. In the best way.

“I-is that a promise?” You’re craning your head over your shoulder, batting those tear-clung lashes in a way that makes Toji’s willowy eyes widen. Tongue pinpointing his sinful scar once his mouth waters. What a dangerous little thing you were. “Wan’ you allll inside, Toji—”

Yeah, dangerous alright.

“Can’t have it alllll inside if yer hngh- lettin’ this cunt drool.” You’re squealing when a few calloused pads of his strongly thick digits pry open your slobbering mouth agape. Letting your tongue loll out lazily for him to splatter a honeyed wad of saliva, “Tha’s what that hngh- filthy mouth gets.”

Before in the blink of an eye, he’s bullying a few free fingers between the pursed pucker of your sensitive folds until he was knuckle-deep. Rummaging out into the geysering orifices hidden against your melty walls, he’s knotting up the ribbony ropes of his creamy seed from trickling out. 

Can’t have his pretty girl wasting a single ounce, now. How could he?

“And for my cutely ovulating wife…” You could barely even hear him above the thundering plap! plap! plap! of skin-on-skin, in such a cottony state of mind that you just register when you’re being gifted with another quick stream of spit lacquering your tongue. “-ya get- this.”

And it wasn’t just the slewing volumes of spittle that your open jaw was being splattered with.

It was the way you were cumming - without even realizing. Without even registering the uncountable heaps upon heaps of edging whines that flood your mouth, vision sparking white hot.

“M’cumming-” you’re gasping out. One limping hand bravely rovering to clutch onto Toji’s sweat-slicked locks and pull, “M’cumming m’cumming- ah! Toji–”

“Yeah yeah, e-easy on the merchandise, doll.” He’s groaning, but you can almost catch the way that he swallows. The way that his heavy balls shift with purpose underneath that girthy base to squeeze. Pulling taut. “Jus’ s-sit still n’ let me breed this ngh! goooood fuckin’ pussy like the good girl ya are.”

With a shudder, you feel like you’re being split-apart - more so than you already were.

Head buzzing with fuzzy little explosions at the thudding splatter! of just about the nth glaze of his seed scouring your deepest gooping insides. You’re being covered over and over in every tiny ridge and sweet spot with whipped icings of his potent cum.

And you can feel it almost knocking at your womb, creamed globs of it sliiiiding all the way down your walls with a promise.

“God…” You feel so full. Like your rubbery cunt was inflated widely enough that you think you might just burst. 

He’s scoffing, “Toji works jus’ fine.” 

“S-so cocky-” Head swimming cockdrunkenly with every jerking grind up into you, he’s slinging out the filthiest driveling squelches! that halfway drown out your pretty noises. What a shame.

“Oi oi, shut up-” But not to you. Toji simply can’t help but laugh - and if you were in any better state of mind, you’d have huffed at the sheer audacity. Gleaming ivory teeth snagging down onto your tender earlobe, “-the h-heh…mother of my kids is talkin’.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Hubby material.

“Hands on the wall now, darling.” Nanami’s throaty order is spoken gently. Lovingly. But you knew better than to not listen - hastily planting your splayed-out hands onto the cool kitchen wall. “Good girl. Now gimme a little show.”

“Kentoooo-” That slutty arch of your back was almost embarrassing, and you’re sure that if it hadn’t been for the strong arm circled underneath your hips then you’d have been weakly collapsed on the floor. “J-jus’ put it in- already-”

“Shhhh- patience, my love.” Your dear husband is rewarding your pitiful whines with a sudden swat! right onto the jiggling mound of your ass. Tutting with every soothing squeeze of his massive palms, that glinting wedding ring cold against your stinging flesh. “Patience s’the number one trait a good parent should have.”

And he’s so proper. 

Or…at least it seems. 

Because those cracking whimpers spilling their way between your lips only make Nanami greedier. The slight tremble of your thighs when your teary slit douses the tile below with a sticky puddle of slick driving him wilder-

“I- I know-” you’re huffing, head craned with an oh-so-irresistible pout. “B-but a good parent should also be ngh- punctual.” 

Punctual? Nanami Kento was always punctual. 

To every date, every meeting, every appointment - everything but right now when he feels his swollen pink tip twitch at your smart little backtalk. Biting down on the hollowish insides of his cheek to keep that dark chuckling from slipping through.

“Hmmm…” Nanami’s letting his rich baritone drawl, perfectly knowing the way that it was enough to make your thighs squeeze together needily. He’s tapping a soft massage down your curved spine, “Let me think…you really think a good- hah- parent should be punctual, darlin’?”

“Mhm–”

“Y’know I always trust your judgement…”

And it’s so cute the way you can only nod and nod, babbling. “Y-yes. Please- Ken, need it- want it-”

Well then, if his wife says so. Right? 

You’re barely even given the time to fucking breathe in a steadying gulp of the heady air before whatever remnants of it are being fucked out of your lungs. 

Oh…this was a change.

Because there was something about the way that Nanami was shoveling all his long, solid inches into you with almost-reckless abandon. Something rough, something…carnal. 

Like every heaving breath had his poor sanity fraying. Guiding one hand to wrap around his hefting hilt and smear away your adhesive-like folds with the globular mountain of his mushroom tip, the other steadied at the bottom of your back to angle you bent even deeper-

The stretch.

Fuck, the stretch - Nanami was so big. His incredible girth bullying past that taut first ring of muscle and peaking up into those spots without even trying. So fully encompassing each and every hidden nook inside your gooey walls that you always end it wanting more more more- 

“Momma’s always gonna ngh- know best, hm?” Nanami’s hiccuping into your ear, flecks of golden blond sticking to his prespired skin and yours once he kisses away your cockdrunk splatters of dribble. “Awww, n-none of that hngh! drooling now, s’gonna make ya dehydrated n’ that’s not good for the baby, darlin’.”

You’re feeling a softened thumb glide along your lips to tenderly clean off the messy streaks of spittle. “Th-thank you, Ken-” Looking up at him with literal hearts for eyes, “-gonna be the best daddy.”

He was. He was going to make sure of it.

But hearing that from you? 

Shit, Nanami has to sneak down a pinch at the side of his muscular leg just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming or in heaven right this very moment. 

Pulpy surfaces of his toned thighs smushing up against your own, he’s finding himself bending ever-so-slightly a few degrees at the knee to lessen the burden on his poor wife’s legs. Making your ears ring with the filthy paps of his hip-bones ploughing vigorously into your ass. 

Bruising your skin, your cervix, your hips once one of his free hands scurry underneath you to take the pressure off of your ever-weakening hips. Crushing your back tightly against the rippling planes of his sculptured front.

And Nanami’s cooing gruffs come out scorching against the sensitive side of your ear, “C-can’t put too much ah- strain. S’not good for the b-baby…for my girls.”

Girls - not just one.

Nanami wanted two lil’ daughters that looked exactly like you, and loved you exactly as much as him. A blissful image of his little family drawing itself clearer and clearer with every smack! against the fat of your cervix. Tight. Close. 

“Gonna take c-care of ya-” He’s inching his bludgeoning tip to slobber a fat stripe down the door to your womb, accompanied by an innocently tender peck against the side of your forehead. “Reeeal good care. A-and then…”

“And then, Ken?” 

“Then- m’gonna-” You can only gasp when Nanami cranes his neck over to where your open palms are still positioned on the smooth wall. Glassy eyes ogling the twitch of the veins running down his throat when he’s placing a soft smooch right on your wedding ring, “-m’gonna marry ya all over again.”

Nanami Kento is sure that he’ll be renewing your vows every year. Every single week. Every single day - even after your daughters are born - perhaps if only you’d let him. If only you’d keep singing out his name in a sultry whine exactly the way you always do when you cum.

Head tumbling backwards with the sheer power of it, body wracking with boiling peaks of your high. Again and again and again-

“There we go, there- hngh- ready, my love.” He sounds so proud. So fucked. And you know you’re not imagining it when the rugged callouses of Nanami’s fingers dart around your throat to drag you into a steaming hot French kiss. One that left his weighty balls squeezing dangerously- “S’about to get…messy.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Baby SHOWER

“Oh shiiiiit, girl.” Geto’s rolling his eyes, softly rounded fingertips rovering down from its second-favorite position around your neck all the way down to his most favorite - smearing open your thoroughly stuffed pussy lips to pinch your puckering clit. Glazing his long five-inch digits with a treacly lamination of your translucent squirts. “Didn’t think you’d be so ngh- messy. S’this all f’me?”

Yes. yes, yes yes it was.

But you couldn’t mangle out the syllables right now - don’t think you had it in you to even try. Not with the way that he’s planting three sappy smacks! down your slobbering cunt. Snickering at the throaty little S-Suguruuu letting off from your lips-

“Ah ah- needy. Can’t even t-talk properly, huh?” And, fuck, was Suguru Geto ever-so-grateful that your copious amounts of orgasms tonight left you already fucked stupid. Because your saturated mind isn’t catching onto the way his rumbling baritone wobbles, the way he has to gulp before muttering. “Now, gimme a kiss. Heh, gimme a ngh- kiss n’ I might just cum inside to give you a little…daughter.” 

The only thing you’ve wanted for so long now. 

But Geto always did find you the cutest when you were teased. When you were split-open on his mean cock and whining for him to fill you up with each deeply vulgar stroke. It made him only want more. 

Made his palms stretch your jittery thighs even wider in his filthy little mating press, like a gooey little banquet for him. Pearly canines showing off in such a snarl when you’re lolling your head upwards to press a few drawling smooches against the corner of his pretty lips, “O-oops. I missed, Suguru.”

“Try again.” Well, he has to build up the patience for raising his future daughter somehow, right? 

Locking your ankles around that neck of his with only one strong arm, and the other grappling dexterously around your throat to drag you down. You’re being manhandled - unapologetically.

“But-”

“Again.”

“W-wan’ it insideee- wan’ a baby.” you’re squealing when his plummy cockhead spatters a few steaming hot dewdrops of pre against your poor cervix. Rutting out solid pound after pound. Each one making you desperately catch his chin, his jaw, his lips in a few drunken kisses. “Please, Sugu?”

Damn.

Damn that evil, evil nickname of yours. 

And he really can’t help but steal a greedy peak down at your drooling cunt, scoffing at the way he feels his parted maw slip through a few rivulets of drool at the fucking sinful sight. 

Your gummy pussy being molded wiiiidely open around his rummaging cock. Glossy rings upon rings of your sugary slick and his creamy pre being drenched upon every single inch that was bullied inside. Even more so when those bumpily inflated veins of his graze right against your forbidden sweet spots. 

And Geto couldn’t stop his light-headed bout of laughter, teasing. “Second opinion?”

It’s almost as if every battering ram had your overfilled pussy talking back to him. 

“C’mon- speak up.” He’s hastily swiping away the curtains of his silky black tresses sticking to his clammy forehead, yearning to hear those lecherous noises from below better. Before curling his engulfing palm once more around your delicate throat, “Not you- Oh? Mmmm-”  he’s huffing out, ears craning. “If you say so, girl.”

Not to mention that you hadn’t uttered a single word. 

But to Geto that didn’t matter, to him it was all he could do to nod along sappily as if having the most intriguing of conversations with your bulging cunt.

Nuzzling into the treasure trove of the crook of your neck, he’s gulping in your pheromones. Shuttering out hot puffs of words between every bludgeoning thrust, “Aren’t I so nice? Listenin’ ta what she says. Yer real lucky s’me fillin’ up this pretty ngh- pussy, gorgeous. Real lucky- because…”

“B-because- what?” You’re hissing, eyes decorating with puddles of oversensitive tears. They trek down your cheeks and make Geto groan once his ravenous tongue laps up every salty ounce. 

“Because when I breed you, m’gonna do it right.”

A promise. 

One he was already halfway through fulfilling if the way that Geto’s staggeringly full breeder balls were twitching against your slamming mounds of flesh told you anything. Urged you. Pushed and pulled with every mounted pump-

“G-gonna be all round and full, arent’cha, ngh- my gorgeous baby? Glowing?” And he was ruining the both of you. Brows marrying closer and closer with every cozy sheath, your clingy walls made his thickly swollen shaft just flood your spongy pulpy cervix with wiry ropes of precum. “Heavily pregnant?”

“Y-yeees-” Gaze heart-eyed and crossing diagonally together, you’re barely even noticing it when your dear lover rests his damp forehead against yours to pucker his lips and grace your tongue with a heavy wad of saliva. “Want it all, Suguru– a-all ngh- deep inside.”

“All?” He’s echoing, and something in his pupils amethyst pupils darken. Something in his voice hardens. Movements jittery and coated in a shimmer of awe when he strays one of your hands down to soothe over your tummy, “Sure ya e-even have the space? M’right-” Pressing down - hard - on that plump rotund tip of his driveling deeply down inside. “-here, y’know? Where our h-heh, daughter’s gonna be.”

Oh. Motioning out a lethargic nod, “All.”

Because Geto only lets his mind shatter for a split-second, his entire muscular body jolting. Fuck. You were going to be the fucking death of him.

Before giggling. Giggling. All drunk on your pussy and you, “Th-then- then, say it with me. Ngh- t-tell me you’re ready for the hah- biiiig stretch, gorgeous.”

“M-M’ready for-” Shit, so embarrassing even despite your barely-lucid state right now. “-the big stretch-”

“Uh uh- the biiiig stretch. Say it with me-”

Practically sobbing with need now - and your poor cunt wasn’t any different. You swear you could feel a sloshing pool of lewd juices forming right below you. “Fuck! Sugu- Suguru, m’ready for th-the ngh- biiig stretch.”

“Then…” he’s practically purring with delight. Ah, finally. “-fucking cum f’me, pretty momma.”

And when you do it’s riding upon the waves of his, too. 

Seeing white, the peaks of your now-fragile high being ruptured and dragged out with every sticky waterfall of Geto’s aqueous seed. 

Treacling into the narrow orifice of your sloppy hole, you could feel every swabbing ribbon slip and slide its way inside. Deeper and deeper every time Geto was fucking each voluminous ounce back in, in, in-

“Now now, what did I s-say…” Splattering out another sugarcoated douse of streaming spit onto your tongue, Geto is in no way shy about punishing your sopping wet slit with a resounding thwack! Tutting at the buttery white lipstain seeping from the corners of your puffed-up pussy and making such a filthy mess at his thickened base. “Look at all that ah- wasted. Mouthy pussy o’ yours said you could hah- take it all, but s’ like a shower.”

Your lips part when he’s pumping you doubly full with his relentless digits, shovelling back the velveteen slathers of his own seed back in. “Suguru…”

“Guess I jus’ hafta fuck ya full all over again.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - Boys boys boys

“C-can you ah- hold my hand for this ngh! first time, baby?” He’s hiccuping out like a mantra - a prayer - after every sloppy peck of his ruddied tip onto your adhesive-like folds. Choso’s poor heart barely working up enough courage to dab a slow circle around your quivering entrance. 

And he didn’t know what to do. What to expect but…the only thing that mattered was that he had you.

“Awww, of course, Cho—” It makes him so fucking shy how your warmly cooing tone is all it takes for his achingly hard cock to twitch. Mind shattering into a zillion shards as one hand of yours sweetly laces with his, “No need to be- ah- nervous.”

It was unfair - it was so fucking unfair. 

You were driving Choso wild - absolutely feral with just a singular plap! of your rounded ass ricocheting down to ride your dear boyfriend free of his fucking soul. So tight. And…heavenly. 

He didn’t read anywhere online that it was supposed to feel this good. Curving your sultry birthing hips in lecherous little circular motions that have his dewey eyes battered in tears-

And that was the fucking problem. Your hips. Your cute cunt. You. 

“Fuh-fuck. So soft and warm…” Making him curdle out a few whining whimpers from between his plumped lips, puckering into an oh-so-cute pout as Choso bats his long lashes up at you. “Didn’t ah- didn’t know a p-pussy could feel so ah- good.”

He didn’t know what to do but let his slagging maw drool around where he was lathering the fleshy mounds of your tits with his syrupy saliva. Sucking. 

Neat brows knitting at the way there was no milk - didn’t that manual say humans produced- ah, not yet. Not unless…He could faintly feel something in the very back of his melty mind sparking. “B-baby…”

“Mhm?” And oh, you could get used to that tone. Seeping out into Choso’s prettily rumbling voice whenever he got just a tinge too pussydrunk. Babbling. “Cho– what h-have I ah! said about talking with your mouth full?”

Fuck- Choso didn’t even register what he was doing - register what you were saying. Roughened pads of his tastebuds gleaming down your nipples for a solid few seconds before he’s gurgling out, “I- I want…”

You’re humming. God, he was so pretty like this. Handsome features blushing strawberry red at your half-lidded gaze and the way your clingy walls were smooching his bloated, mushroomy tip so tight. You had no mercy. “Yeeees?”

“I want a son.”

Oh.

Oh.

And just as soon as that sodden little confession is spilling from his lips - tumbling out like he didn’t even mean to formulate the words - Choso sees white. And he feels it, too.

Feels himself lathering your gooey cunt in heaps upon heaps of his torrential cum. Dousing thick, creamy swabs that pinpoint all your most tender orifices for him to dig into. So hot. Heavy. Swashing around in slight treacles at your thoroughly opened insides like a gluey second skin. And the rut of his hips is so animalistic - up, up, up with every ounce of cursed power he has. 

Part of him knows he’s fucking pathetic to be cumming so early from just that - even if it was his first time.

But he doesn’t give a fuck.

Not when your pretty pussy had him seeing his future with you. Seeing stars - and you right there in the middle, holding onto a giggling bundle with his hair, and your eyes. 

Not when his calloused fingers are latching onto your waist like he was planning on never letting go. And Choso’s jaw simply drops at those velvety ribbons of milky white spattering from your drooly cunt and sliding down the ladder of washboard abs. 

You were clenching around him so cozily. So hypnotizingly. Perfect enough that…

Something snaps. 

“Oh god-” he’s gasping, eyes wide - wild. Slender digits carving out neat crescents so harshly against your perspiration-simmered skin. Entire body hunching to French kiss the valley between your tits, “Oh god oh god oh…god…s-s’not enough. It’s not- I-I don’t think it took. Need to- to get you pregnant, baby.”

Sounding so genuinely devastated. You’re shivering at the warm splat! of his big, pearly tears between your bodies - lower lip wobbling at that heavenly slight right in front of him.

Of course it wasn’t enough. And, right now, Choso thinks it never will be.

His pretty lips are just letting out intoxicated nonsense by now. And during times like this, you really forget just how strong your beloved boy is. 

How…greedy he is.

Because those electric aftershocks of his syrupy high had barely even passed. Barely even started to bate before he’s leveraging his superhuman strength to easily flip the two of you over. 

You’re being crushed pliantly and helplessly in half between those drenched navy bedsheets and his flexing muscles. 

Choso was just melting into you; saliva-glossed mouth slacking into a condensed kiss against your own, forehead desperate and feverishly hot resting against yours, big, beefy arms caging you in. 

You could feel that sappy thwack! of his tight, globular balls smearing against your ass once more. That split, peachy cockhead of his skates right down your headily sweltering walls to gift a puckered snog against your cervix. And another. And one more. And just one more-

“H-hey…come back t’me.” He’s huffing out in lethargic little pants, palms clasping onto the crown of your head and pushing you down. Down. Down. Filling you up with his girthy cylindrical shaft until you were fucked stupid. He’s begging, “Hear me out- no zoning out, m’kay? Need you ta g–give me a baby, m’kay, baby?”

And despite the broken pleas that were flooding into his mouth, you couldn’t do anything against the way that Choso’s body was pinning yours down with hungry pound after pound. Fuck- is this what they say? About losing control? About…baby fever?

God, the thought is enough for him to curl his hips sleazily backwards until you’re squirming. Letting the fountain of opaquely milky seed gush! down your inner thighs with the wettest of squelches. They ring saturatedly in Choso’s ears like his favorite song-

Well, it was his favorite song now. 

“Your hah- lil’ human womb s’gonna be so full- s-so cute.” Taking his time filling you back inch by inch. Choso’s button nose crinkles at the sight bouncy recoil against the spongy ends of your pussy. He can’t part from you - not even that. Doesn’t want to. Leaving kiss after kiss on your jiggling tits, sucking. “Need these f-filled. Need a son- m-my son. Gonna be the beeeest momma mhm- with the sweetest milk.”

A few sneaky set of his lips droop to your puffed-up nipples and bite almost mindlessly. Lacquering a heavy layer of spittle as Choso sucks like his favorite gummy candy.

And the way you arch your back into a perfectly slutty curvature to glissade your fatigued body against his sculpted front has Choso gaping. Has his eyes spying down at the bloated outline of himself inside you, nuzzling one mountainous palm. “A-and…ngh- daughter s’good too actually…maybe both. Maybe- maybe I just- jus’ really wan- need you.”

An uncharacteristically smug grin plasters all over his face at the way your mouth pouts, “B-boy or girl, Cho?”

Choso’s shivering. Aching with that red-hot depravation coiling at the bottom of his stomach to fill you up more and more and more- “Five boys- n’ one ngh- girl- all of ‘em with your pretty smile. You…you’re gonna g-give me that, right, ma’am?” 

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 1000 Yr. DILF?!

“Cummin’ on my cock again? Makin’ such a damn mess.” And anyone would recognize that disapproving tut wafting sternly from between the King of Curses’ lips, anyone would fall completely to their knees. “This yer hah- first time bein’ bred or what, girl?”

Except for you.

You’re not sure you could even if you wanted to.

Because Ryomen Sukuna had you all over him like his absolute favorite doll - your boneless limbs hanging on for dear life in this rude standing nelson he’d manhandled you into. His favorite. 

One out of four of his massive palms splay out greedily onto the crown of your head, teasingly indenting the sharp corners of his black fingernails into your scalp. Dragging you to bear your droopy eyes into that cracked floor-length mirror at the very ends of his royal chamber. 

“Oh riiight-” He’s rolling his eyes, hips bucking up to overstuff you full of his bloated shafts. And through the ever-so-slightly cracked lids of your own, you can spy his sleazing grin. “-it is.”

“K-Kuna Kunaaa-” Your mouth just can’t stop squealing it out like your own personal mantra, limp legs dangling in midair with every sloppy slap! of his dual lengths. You’ve never felt so…blissfully helpless. “I-inside. I need you inside-”

“M’already inside, woman.” Fuck- you were so cute when you got all stupidly cockdrunk like this. But it’s not like Sukuna was going to admit that, instead covering up for the roughened hitch of his breath with a snicker. Second free hand gifting a punishing swat! onto your clit. One. Two. Three. “Only thing tha’s not inside ya yet is my heir. Yet. Seriously- that fuckin’ ngh- greedy for me t-ta fill ya up till yer overspillin’ or what?”

And you can only nod. Nod and nod and nod while buttery scoops of his glossy pre sprayed all over your g-spot, your cervix, everywhere and anywhere. 

Sukuna was leaving no crevice and sweet-spot unturned, the matchingly staggering sizes snugly barreling inside you until you were spellbound. And it really didn’t make him soothe his pace to be even just a bit more merciful the way those near-thirteen inches made your tummy swell. 

Bloated up with such mouth-watering abandon. Just like it would if you were…

“...pregnant.” Oh, that word is leaving Sukuna with more of a whine than he intended. Hips snagging upwards to peak the lightning bolts of his thumping veins salaciously down the side of your g-spot. “A c-cute lil’ cunt like this is how yer gonna end up ngh- pregnant.”

Listen, he’s not one to get all stupidly sentimental.

But your heavenly pussy was just plaguing him with rosy visions of you and a lil’ gremlin to call your own. With pink hair and that stupid, stupid smug grin that was stolen undeniably from his genes. Dammit. 

Who said you could make him feel all…mushy. He should have you charged with treason for this.

And, well, of course this was Ryomen Sukuna’s favorite position.

Of course, he’s taking that absolutely blasphemous advantage to let the second oversized tongue split apart his abs slosh outwards. 

Slithering muscle careening its snailing pathway down your teary pussylips, lapping up ounces upon ounces of syrupy slick. Before twirling around and around that plump button of your clit. And it was so…filthy, it made you squirm. 

“S-s’dirty…” You’re throwing your head back into the cushiony valley of his toned pecs in a frenzy, electric bolts of pleasure sprinting down your spine with every wet thwack! emanating from down below. Though, you weren’t complaining. You really, really weren’t complaining. “Kuna…”

And- fuck. You should’ve known.

Should’ve realized that letting your mouth smear dangerously open to echo out your whines would result in the devilish curse spitting a wet splatter right at the corner of your pouty lips.

And Ryomen Sukuna had perfect aim - he had the perfect ability to make this ordeal as neat as possible. 

But where was the fun in that?

You were just so adorable with your saliva-slicked lips wobbling open, jolting at the terrorizing scrape of his overgrown nails smearing away the pools of delirious dribble. Gently. 

“Dirty? Hah! Wha’s real hngh- dirty s’this pretty pussy in ovulation. Look.” He’s grunting out, and before you know it you’re being nudged even closer towards that ancient mirror. Fully drinking in the way that Sukuna was filling you up, the way that you were taking him. Chest heaving you up and down as he swallows in a deep inhale, “Can fuckin’ smell it on you- heh, my favorite time of the month. Has you beggin’ f’me to fuck you full with my seed? To give you an heir, huh?”

You were.

Throat scratching out the tiniest of pleas that you don’t even register slipping through your lips - but Sukuna could. He yearns for them. 

Feels them stir up the heated depths of his rounded breeder balls when they stick against your ass after every tireless pap! Your hands crane around to claw useless into those bulging deltoids of his-

“Oi, where’d ya think yer scratchin’? Trynna run?” Preposterous. As if you could ever run away from him - from the bruising smooches that Sukuna was leaving down every elastic inch inside your goopy depths. Sopping. Sodden French kisses. “Or…” Tongue gliding down his bared canines, other tongue leaving a sappy plap! of a touch onto your peaked clit. “...or is it that momma here is gonna heh- cum?”

“C-cum-” Fighting to strangle out - as if you needed to, in the first place. You didn’t, but you were just so endearing like this. “-gonna cum- ngh- gonna- gonna-”

“A-after that, ya better fuckin’ make me a daddy.” 

And if this was any other time then Sukuna would have mocked your pitchy whines. Lilted his growling baritone to taunt you as you fell apart. 

But he couldn’t - because he wasn’t doing any better. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, so fucking embarrassing how the clingy embrace of your sopping walls clamping around his bloated lengths was enough to make him cum. Him. The all-powerful King of Curses at your utter mercy. 

Those split, bawling divots of his splurging out seedy strings of pearly white, decorating your sloshing insides until it felt too heavy. Too tight. 

Voluminous masses of his cum settling deep at the goopy depths of your pussy - and Sukuna always had so much to give. A smirk plastering all over his face once the sensitive undersides of his cocks brush up against one another. 

Twitching to pry your gluey walls wide open enough to let a few thickly viscous dollops of seed frost your puffed-up pussy lips. Lips that his second mouth can’t help but kiss to clean up-

“Tch…such a damn mess.” You’re hearing ring inside our cottony brain from somewhere above, still short-circuiting blissfully. “But yer my mess, huh, Queen of Curses?”

♡ INO TAKUMA - “W-woah…”

Ino can’t stop himself - he can’t fucking shut up.

Pathetically drawling words tumbling out with every slight translucent sliver of fucking drool. With every pussydrunkenly content sigh that escapes him once he’s sinking back and forth past your tender entrance. “Atttta girl, th-this is the life…”

And, in fact, Ino can see his life with you when you’re on all fours and milking him so prettily like this. Especially when you’re like this.

He can see just how much prettier you’d look round and glowing and round- Filled to the brim with all of him until you pop out a cute lil’ boy with his eyes and your smile…or two boys…or three.

Ino can’t help but flex his wracking body forwards until you’re being absolutely crushed with the weight of all his slender muscles. Every plunging bump of his ruddy pink cockhead swirling into your most precious treasure trove of sweet spots. And the way your dewy eyes veer crossed with every one of his bludgeoning rams is so cute-

“P-pretty…” And he doesn’t mean it just as that cute lil’ nickname for you. Plumply puckered lips punching sweet little pecks down the pearlescent beads of perspiration at your forehead, “Wh-what do you think about taking ngh- us to the h-heh..next step.”

And, fuck- that should’ve been an inside thought.

That was supposed to have been something he kept to the confines of his sugarcoated brain. 

But when you’re flashing a simpering curl of your lips like that, then he can’t stop himself from letting his angry cock twitch. Bursting with spattering showers of his scorching pre that make an easy trailway for Ino’s bulging shaft to slip and slide easily deeper. “N-next step?”

“Mhm–” Fuck it. He spits onto the curvaceous pads of his fingertips, gliding to nuzzle your swollen clit. Tugging on the hood of that sensitive nub in a way that makes you see stars. “The next step.”

“Engagement?”

“Nuh uh-”

“Marriage?”

“No, silly girl.” Letting off a few sickly sweet swats at your buzzing clit, he’s snickering at the way that makes your spine arch. Lips sleazing up a few kisses right down the middle, “M’talkin’ kids. M’sayin’ I wanna breed ya- knock ya up f-fuck I need to-”

And you’re so addicted to just how needy he is. 

A bout of light-headed giggles making its way from between your slackened lips, that sound enough to make him huff out a pout and shovel a few solid inches even meaner. You’re mumbling out, “Th-that pussydrunk, Taku—?”

“Sh-shut up.” He’s grumbling, dousing his dextrous digits with a few candied slathers - for only a split-second before stuffing them into the slobbering orifice of your mouth. Making you taste yourself. Taste him. “Shut up when I’ve- ngh! g-got my cock kissin’ yer pretty cervix, sweetness.”

And it was true. 

As if to make sure you don’t underestimate how serious he is - how ready he was right now - Ino’s trekking up one of his feet to plant right on the top of your head. 

Pressurizing with that strengthened weight to shovel your face deeper and deeper into the pillowcase. Completely soaked with waterfalling layers of your saliva, only growing more drenched with every battered ram of his pulpy peach crownhead into that g-spot.

“Ngh- Taku-” Your fingers grapple hastily towards the creakily singing mahogany headboard, clenching. Moaning wantonly, “Taku- baby– fuck! Jus’ like that.” 

“I know I know.” And he honestly doesn’t know how he finds it in himself to fucking roll his half-lidded eyes, all pretty white teeth bared in such a snarl. “Wanna milk me, huh? Take me fuckin’ cock n’ f-fuuuck gimme a ngh- son or two…” Mumbling, “...or three.”

Three. 

Three. 

Fuck.

It’s just about all you can do to weakly buck your hips in an attempt - an attempt - to meet his sloppy cadence. Nudging your hips up in sultry little gyrations that Ino is sure hypnotizes him.

And you can’t even blame him because you’re much the same-

“Wan’ it-” you’re muffling out into the silken fabrics, that awestruck expression on Ino’s face so cute that you’re gifting him with a long few sucks on his greedy tongue. Tasting him like your very favorite lolly, “O-one or two- ah! Want you to f-fill me up-” And he’s so tender interlacing his fingers with your own, letting you guide them up to your still-empty tummy and press. “-right here.”

You didn’t have to tell Ino Takuma twice. 

“Shit- shit.” He’s gruffing out, mere moments before you feel his sharpened canines dig into the delicate crook of your neck. Hard enough to break skin-

Nothing more until he’s letting his sobbing divot burst out in stealthy ribbons upon ribbons of cum - already. Drawing out his initials into your rubbery cervix as much as he can over and over. 

Ragged moans tearing into whines at just how blissful it felt, how embarrassing it was that he’s reaching his high just from a few of your words. 

“M’sorry I-I-” Ino nuzzles the neat circle of his teethmarks, smearing the roughened pads of his tastebuds along those oversensitive indentations. That slight tinge of pleasurable pain making your gripping walls squeeze, and Ino hisses. “-actually- fuck! M’not sorry ngh- not sorry ta breed this ngh tiiiight cunt.”

You’re humming once one set of fingers loop your neck to drag you into every shuddering grind. Pumping your tight channel fuller and fuller with creamy swashes of cum, “G-gettin’ really cocky, aren’tcha, baby?”

“Only for you.” He tuts, “Gotta h-hope our ah- two sons don’t get my personality, huh?”

“Three, remember?”

Oh.

Oh? 

“Can you…” Ino’s whispering, throat ragged and raw. Gazing droopily gluing together with tears and utter heart-eyes when he’s babbling onwards, “...can you marry me, pretty?”

♡ GOJO SATORU - SIX EYES

“Sweetheart…sweetheart-” Gojo’s voice comes out in more of a rasping growl than anything else, and it’s just as fitting that he’s latching his pearly whites onto your throat to help drag you down, down, down. “Dammit…you’ve gotta s-stop movin’ around so much n’ just ngh- Take it take it take it take- it-” 

Take it you were - for the past few hours now, in fact.

And the electricity was already out in every ward of Tokyo, your bed was already splintered and useless. 

But Gojo’s heavy cock was still sputtering out rummaging swab after swab into you right then and there on your bedroom floor. Leaving creamy remnants of cum glissading down your insides everywhere. Anywhere.

Fuck - he came again.

Gojo can barely blink his eyes open to admire the traces of gooey white that made their home inside your sweltering hot pussy. Good, he’s stuffing back that soppy puddles forming at the ends of your puckered crease, very good.

“W-was told m’Christmas gift would be ngh- you all round n’ pregnant-” he’s whining in a sickly syrupy tone against your ear. And you’re catching the way that Gojo’s gummy pink lips curl into a pout, “So we’ve gotta start early.”

Shit- you didn’t know what to expect telling Gojo that you were…ready. 

But it certainly wasn’t for the famed strongest to lose his goddamn mind, for him to lock one beefy bicep around the small of your middle and drag you like some glorified ragdoll to meet his determined mating press. 

“T-talk t’me pretty momma–” He’s plastering his body all over yours, greedily sucking up every ounce of space you own. It was his space now. Just like this was his pretty pussy that he was breeding.

“Satoru—” Your fatigued fingers cradle the side of his handsome face, motioning to scrape across Gojo’s cloudy tufts of white in a way that makes him purr. That makes his overworked cockhead douse your heated cunt with copiously thick dredges of pre. Perhaps even tiny wisping ribbons of cum. Just from that. “H-how are you still…”

Honestly, you didn’t even have to ask.

Because even through your bleary heart-eyes, you’re catching the way that his narrowed eyes bolt with miniscule flickers of bright blue lightning. Zapping with cursed energy as they droop drunkenly half-lidded, “H-heh…perks of bein’ ngh- fucked by the honored one, girlie.”

But the one ruined here was him.

Every warm lacquer of his own treacly seed swirling and sloshing against his shaft with every jittery rut. The weepy swipe of his peach-pink tip has Gojo’s fuzzy mind blanking. Feverish ounces of blood making his bludgeoning cock swell fatter and fatter-

“Sh-shit…” Gojo’s maw spills open, watery eyes of sapphire sprinting all the way to the very back of his lid. Only to be greeted with visions of stars and you, you you - all round and…pregnant. Fuck, he needed this bad. “Dammit dammit- dammit! Think m’gonna cum–”

You’re nodding, “Cum f’me, Toru– D-don’t miss.”

As if he would ever miss.

“Damn- how filthy.” He’s grinning, “Could cum from j-just that, y’know?”

But if you noticed the urging tease in his words then you don’t snap back - you can’t. Making the towering man himself let out a low whistle, “Oh? No mockin’? Shiiit- that fucked dumb, huh?”

And you really shouldn’t be surprised when the stilted atoms in the air seem to freeze around you two. Everything tight and stuffy with the use of cursed energy as Gojo’s activating his six eyes, glowing eyes eagerly feeding down upon- oh.

You can’t help but let out little whimpers at the bzzzzz–! of jujutsu when he’s skimming a few six-inch fingers down your tummy. Down, down, down like he could see through-

“Hmmm, right on time-” Gojo’s chuckling - and there’s something else that’s utterly dark tinting his sing-song voice. Something…dangerous. This really was the strongest. “-yer ovulatin’ right now heh- this one’s gonna be th-the ngh! one.”

“Wh-what?”

“My daughter and my son- duh, my silly girl.”

Fuck, what?

Only being able to gape at the lustrous sheen of drool flooding from between his grinning lips. Snowy brows raising the longer Gojo’s gaze locked right where your womb was. He was so fucking eager. 

Barely even realizing what he’s doing - whether he’s even using his powers - when resting your boneless legs on top of two strong forearms. You could feel the flex of his muscles underneath your flesh as Gojo unabashedly and unapologetically cracks your legs even further open.

His own personal buffet. 

Vicious thrusts ruining the syrupy harmony inside, “Not gonna miss- never g-gonna miss f’it’s ta ngh- make my cute lil’ twins, m’kay, my girl?” Patting at your inflationary cylindrical outline, “Gotta s-safe space riiiight here s-so just-”And you keen when a fat fingerpad lathered in vibrating jujutsu thumbs over your clit. “-cum.”

And you were more than happy to.

To let that tautly pulled string of yours burst to fall right over the edge. You’re cumming with Gojo’s mouth on yours and his swollen tip French kissing your bruised and battered g-spot. Marking out permanent indentations of his girthy circumference. 

“Thereeee we go-” He’s giggling - giggling. Limitless long since flickered off to let your nails drag their red, red patterns down his Herculean back muscles. “Mhm- Toru’s here. Tha’s right, h-hngh! hold on wh-when ah, fuck- Toru here fills ya up…”

And it was much more than just filling you up. 

Because it’s like Gojo was trying to flood your poor insides, his cock hitting in a sappy thwack! against the rubbery end of your cervix to glaze out thick wiry bursts of cum. Again. And again. And again and again and again- because he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to.

“Take it- oh, take it.” He’s breathing out, heaving right into your open mouth. Perhaps if you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed the way the furniture jitters, moves. Reeling into the magnetic field that was Gojo Satoru and his six eyes bumping into overdrive. “Can see it- hehhhh– My good fuckin’ girl milkin’ every inch of me. Just look at h-how you have the ngh- strongest. On his fucking knees…”

But Gojo didn’t mind - not one bit as his creamy dabs slipped and slided to stain your pussylips a glossy white. Pretty pinkish balls squeezing out a weighty few wads of sap before he’s whimpering. Yes, whimpering, “Ngh- I c-can tell the ah- first s’gonna be a girl…my cute daughter- gonna be as ah- pretty as her momma. And my son- heh, total momma’s boy.”

Just babbling right now - begging and begging for you to take even more with his hips fucking you powerfully full. 

“Sweetheart…” Gojo’s eventually piping up over those ringing squelches, oversensitive eyes fluttered firmly shut. 

“Hm?”

“Yer gonna be such a fuckin’ MILF.”

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Pony.

“Ride it, angel-” Higuruma knows he should let his poor girl take it easy, he knows he should wipe that filthily sleazy grin off of his face when your hips stutter even harder down all of his mean inches. “-I said ride it- ride me. P-put those hips to work now like a good girl f’me.”

And you were.

You couldn’t stop - not when your babyfever was at an all time high. 

Barely even letting your poor husband walk two steps past the front door from work, barely even letting him take off his sexy office suit before burying his swollen cockhead deep past your sappy folds. Needing him. 

You were leaving needy smooch after smooch of your glossy folds on the neatly trimmed happy trail down his washboard abs for what seemed like hours now. 

But it still wasn’t enough. Still. Your mouth aching for the same kiss-

You’re wrapping your fingers around the silken fabric of his tie to haul him even closer. “Wan’ a k-kiss, Hiromi–” His pretty first name dripping from your tongue like a prayer, and the way that only makes him gulp has your velvety orifice spraying out a sodden rivulet of treacly slick. 

“A kiss?” Higuruma’s batting his dark lashes teasingly, the corners of his mouth turning upwards into a simpering smile that only you had the privilege of ever seeing. Your glissading body gets easily pulled into his with a hefty arm wrapping around your waist, head tilting upwards. Close. “Really think ya deserve a hah- kiss, my slutty girl?”

“Y-yes–” Your hips are swerving in languid gyrations to swallow everything that Higuruma has to offer. To let your depraved walls cling onto the heated girth of him tight enough that it’s almost as if you were trying to permanently imprint every one of his bloated ridges, every vein, every thwack! against your plush walls. “W-won’t you give the ah- mother of your kids a k-kiss, Hiro?”

Oh.

Oh…

Higuruma’s dewy eyes are snapping open, jaw loosening with raw shock and something…carnal. You really were made for him - you clever, clever woman.

“So…” He’s quirking up a stern dark brow, and suddenly you’re reminded why so many find your attractive husband so intimidating. “A kiss, huh?”

Clasping one of your wrists to place a long peck against the back of your hand - it’s so gentlemanly. So tender. “How about this for a hah- kiss? Or…” The complete opposite of the way that Higuruma’s hips were bucking uncontrollably up, up, up - breaking through your steady tempo to plant a thorough clash of his mushroomed tip against your cervix. Sneaking in a loooong drag right down the middle to make sure that you’ll feel him puckering up there for days. Weeks. “-how about this?”

Fuck.

He was so mean.

Cackling out at your huffing and puffing, “S-so rude- Ngh- I take it back, don’t want ya to b-breed-”

“Awww, don’ say that my pretty lil’ wife-” The mahogany bedframe sings out protesting creaks when he plants his feet onto the cushiony mattress, driving his scouring crownhead into you lazily. Mazing through those gluey walls of yours to wrench out tiny squeals as he easily takes over. “Don’tcha know how hck! badly I wan’ my own lil’ family. A lil’ daughter.” One hand tugging on the tie that was still dangling haphazardly from his neck, “You jus’ hafta- hah- sit there all p-pretty and take it. Let me fuck ya full, tha’s all…”

That’s all but it felt like anything but. 

Because Higuruma was no stranger to letting his speed pick up as dirtily as he wished, pounding into the tight crevices of your gummy hole until you felt like you were molding to his exact circumference. 

“H-hate how you always know what to- ah!” He doesn’t even let you finish your half-heated sentence, letting your hands rest precariously on the broad deltoids of his shoulders. Because you felt so weak.

“Mhmm— love you, too, angel.”

He knew exactly how to ruin you.

Tweaking a few fingers over to rub that silvery sheen of your sweet, sweet juices taking over the sensitive nub of your clit. Flicking at where you were the most tender with one index, he mutters, “Heh- cute.” Before tap! tap! tapping your gorgeous tummy - oh, how he loved every part of you. Every part of here that he’d make sure grows full…glowing with his kid. “S’bout time I ngh- filled ya riiiight here. Must be feelin’ awful empty, huh?”

Glazed eyes of yours latching onto his, “Yes- fuck- f-feels so lonely without ya.” Shit, those babbles were affecting Higuruma more than he’d like to admit. More than he wanted but- really, he couldn’t complain. He was addicted. “Want you to c-cum in me. Okay, Hiromi?”

Higuruma can only titter, “Yes, ma’am.”

And when he does - when he finally, finally does with a few vicious strokes plummeting against your most mushy spots - it’s so much that whatever shredded rationality left in you seriously wonders about your little request.

“G-gonna gimme a ngh- daughter, right?” Feeling the hot trickle of Higuruma’s cum showering your inner thighs, buttery globs of pearlescent white drooling from your pussy lips. “Lemme p-play hah- barbies with her. Lemme teach her to have one h-hell of a smart mouth like her parents.” Talking up to him in saturated squelches with every drilling plap! up into your overspilling pussy. “Teach her ta be as sweet as her momma.”

He was daydreaming. Eyes slipping dangerously closed with each stubborn dab of seed pushed into your womb. 

And you’re running your fingers through his now-disheveled slick-back, “S-sounds amazing, baby–”

“Yeah?  This ‘nough?” He’s groaning against your jaw, your throat. Needy and clingy - just the way that he can’t help getting at the honeyed slosh of his seed inside you. “Take it- take it, okay? Shiiit ya got even tighter- S’allll yours ta milk and…and…” 

“And- ah! what, baby?”

Peck after peck until, finally, against your lips, you hear- “And, if ya take it all like a good girl n’ I’ll let ya hngh! ride my nose next, angel.”

A/N. Hope y’all have a lovely week!!

Plagiarism not authorized.

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

GYM CRUSH SIMON

sfw + nsfw. unsafe sex. womb fucking. no condom.

you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.

you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.

there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.

at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.

midnight schedule it was.

it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.

the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.

and then there was him.

tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.

the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.

(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)

he moved through his workout with terrifying

efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.

you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.

“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.

you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”

“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”

you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”

he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"

“i do not know his entire workout routine.”

your friend raised a brow.

you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”

his brow lifted higher.

“…and arms on thursdays.”

silence.

“right.”

“shut up.”

you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.

the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.

and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.

What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.

so, you stayed quiet..

until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.

in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.

“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”

“i use it,” you protested.

“you walk through it.”

okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.

you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.

you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.

the bar didn’t budge.

you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.

okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—

"y’need a spotter?"

you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.

you swallow. "uh."

his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"

"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."

he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.

your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.

"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.

you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!

he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.

"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"

you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"

"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.

you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."

you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.

he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.

a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.

but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.

"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"

he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."

you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?

he hesitates. "depends."

"on?"

"the day."

you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."

"sure it is."

you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.

it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)

you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.

"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."

and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”

he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”

you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.

"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."

you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.

“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”

“drop it.”

“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”

“drop it.”

some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.

it’s unbearable.

like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”

you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.

you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.

the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."

you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”

he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."

you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”

his eye twitches. “just drink it.”

and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.

one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.

you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.

simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.

"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.

you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”

he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.

"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.

you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—

his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.

"fix that grip, sweetheart."

you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.

"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."

your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.

his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."

you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.

you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.

and then— "good girl."

barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.

your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.

you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.

and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.

"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."

simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"

your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."

his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"

"yes."

he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."

you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.

"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."

your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.

"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."

low, warm, approving—

"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."

simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.

"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”

“please.”

the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.

simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.

his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.

his hips roll up.

you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.

he does it again.

your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.

"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."

his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.

his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.

you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.

"fuck-"

he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.

"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."

your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.

"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"

you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.

his patience snaps.

one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.

simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.

he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.

the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.

simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”

he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—

he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.

"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"

"yes- yes, please-"

"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."

he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.

the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.

"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"

you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.

his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”

your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.

simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”

you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”

he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.

your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.

his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”

then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.

you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.

simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”

he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.

his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”

you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.

his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.

“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”

he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.

then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.

his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”

the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.

simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—

he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.

"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."

your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"

"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"

you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"

"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."

you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."

then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.

you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.

"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"

you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.

"s’not fair," you mumble.

"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.

"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."

you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.

"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"

you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.

when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.

then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—

you take him.

the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.

"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."

you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.

breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"

"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."

but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."

his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."

"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"

he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."

then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.

"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.

simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."

the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.

"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"

he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.

it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.

but you’re already gone.

your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.

"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"

you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.

he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.

"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."

"s-simon-"

"what, love? too far gone already?"

his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.

you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"

"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."

he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.

"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.

"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."

he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.

"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"

"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.

"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."

then he fucks you properly.

[angelfic]

— A BOY WHO’S JACKED AND KIND

jason todd x reader summary: you trick jason into participating in a certain tiktok trend a/n: a little drabble because I’ve been doomscrolling on tiktok and jason is most definitely jacked and kind and I need him desperately

You can tell that Jason is getting more annoyed by the second. He can’t continue reading his book for longer than five minutes at a time before glancing up at you from across the room with a curious frown. You move around the kitchen fixing yourself an iced coffee while absentmindedly scrolling through your phone and occasionally letting out a laugh or smiling.

By the sixth time you let out a snort, Jason decided he’s had enough and shuts his book, flinging it onto the coffee table before walking over to join you in the kitchen. “What’s making you smile that isn’t me, babe?”

“Huh?” You pull your eyes away from your phone to see Jason attempting a casual pose, leaning against the refrigerator, but he’s borderline pouting. You bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing at him and shake your head. “It’s nothing, just some videos.”

“What kind of videos?” he asks quietly, reaching out to start playing with a strand of your hair that’s escaped your claw clip as if by reflex. He’s still frowning slightly and you roll your eyes, deciding to put him out of his misery.

“Just a cute TikTok trend,” you explain, pulling one of the videos up as Jason peers at your phone eagerly. “See, you get your boyfriend to see if he can pick you up and put you on his shoulder. Some of them are really cute, but look, there’s some who can’t hack it.”

Jason nods slowly in revelation, still engrossed in the rest of the video that’s currently playing before he huffs and shakes his head. “How the hell is that guy struggling? Easy work,” he mumbles.

You’re about to tell him that not everyone has that Red Hood strength on their side before a plan starts forming in your head. Suppressing a smirk, you glance up at him and raise your eyebrows. “Oh yeah? You think you could do it better?”

Jason looks at you with a blank expression. “Was that a joke, or…?”

“I know you’re strong,” you say, shrugging as you nonchalantly take a sip of your coffee, turning away to hide your grin as you walk over to the living room. Jason is hot on your heels as expected. “I just don’t think you could do this as easily as you think.”

“Let’s go,” he says, clapping his hands together. You slowly turn around and tilt your head in questioning. “Let’s make the video, c’mon.”

Hook, line and sinker.

“Alright,” you sigh, setting down your coffee to prop your phone up against it. You pull up the app. “If you insist. Do you want your face in it or should we do it facing backwards?”

“I’ll just cover my face with my hand,” he waves you off, rocking on his heels impatiently. “I only need one of ‘em to lift you.”

He says it so matter-of-fact, and the knowledge that he’s not actually trying to boast has your mouth going dry. It doesn’t help that he’s now shucking off his hoodie and wearing a short-sleeve black t-shirt. His biceps flex as he flings the hoodie onto the couch and you resist the urge to forget about the video and pounce on him. Just for a second.

Clearing your throat, you busy yourself with pressing record and turning a timer on to allow you to step back towards Jason.

“Moment of truth,” you say, challenging him with your doubtful expression and he merely smirks. “Try not to pull any muscles.”

Jason snorts and goes to cover his face with one of his hands, the other already seeking out your waist.

“Wait, not yet!” you remove his arm to place it back at his side and he peeks through his other hand to let you see him rolling his eyes. When the timer is done, you allow yourself to grin, unrestrained and count to 3 in your head. “Okay, go.”

Before the audio has even played halfway through, Jason bends down slightly to factor in your height compared to his and his one large hand grips your hip to lift you off the ground. It feels effortless as he settles you on his shoulder, steady as a rock and you yelp, not expecting him to be that quick.

The rest of the video is you squealing as Jason unexpectedly spins you around in a circle, his one hand gripping your thigh as the other still covers his face. “Jay!” you shriek, looping your arms around his neck to steady yourself. The only reason you’re unsteady is because Jason’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter.

The video stops recording when the audio ends and you tell Jason as much, making him drop the hand covering his face to grin up at you. He raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘I told you so’, before flexing his free arm for dramatic effect.

“See?” he says, rubbing small circles on your thigh with his thumb and talking up at you with all the ease of talking to you as if you were on the ground in front of him. “What did I say? Easy work, babe.”

“Big show off,” you say, wrinkling your nose at him as you begin to slide down his body. You go slowly, considering the man is basically a human skyscraper and he seems to take advantage of the fact, hands shamelessly roaming up your legs and your sides. He hooks your legs over his own waist, making you cling to him like a koala.

“Can I help you?” you ask, squinting at him when he doesn’t say anything, choosing to just stare at your face instead, drinking you in. You break his concentration by leaning in to press a short, sweet kiss onto his lips that he chases when you pull away. “Earth to Jason?”

“Y’know, I’d be more inclined to participate in your stupid TikTok trends if they all end like this,” Jason mutters, running his nose along your jaw and down your neck before nestling his face there. He doesn’t initiate anything, simply wanting to bask in the comfort of your skin.

You grin at the successful ending to your grand plan, disentangling yourself from your boyfriend to jump down, ignoring his groans of protest.

You run to your phone to save the video to your drafts - no one else needs to see how good Jason’s arms look in a tight black tee - and pull up your folder of couple TikToks. “Oh, well, if you’re finally offering,” you start saying, circling Jason’s wrist with your hand and pulling him onto the couch. He sighs, previously sweet smile being replaced by something skeptical. “I have a whole bunch of ideas.”

“This feels like a set-up.”

© angelfic 2024.

[classyrbf]

PART 2 OF PRISONER!GETO

prisoner!geto who can’t stop thinking about late at night, getting so worked up and horny, the most horny he’s been in a while. He’s pulling his pants down, closing his eyes while he pictures the way your scrubs clung to your body and showed off your ass. He thanks god he doesn’t have a bunkie or else he’d be in a real awkward position. He purposely gets into another fight a week later, the wound on his lip opening back up. He’s smiling to himself as he gets walked to the infirmary knowing he’ll see you there.

“Not you again,” you sigh.

“Told you I’d see you soon, doctor.” He sits on the small bed, watching as you put on gloves and examine his busted lip. He can tell you’re avoiding eye contact with him, trying your hardest to ignore his stares and slight touches. “Have you thought about my offer yet?” He asks.

You gulp, blinking as you rub the ointment over his wound. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” You play stupid, but you remember your last conversation so clearly. It makes you nervous. All he does is laugh.

“Come on. I’ll even beg.” He grabs your wrist, slowing pulling it down, a smug smirk on his handsome face. “You telling me you haven’t thought about it once since we last seen each other?” He whispers. He parts his legs, pulling you in between them. And god, you smell so good. So sweet. He could just eat you up right here.

You stand there, unable to form words because as much as you want to say no, you want to say yes. He makes your heart race and your pussy wet. What a sly bastard. With his stupid tattoos, muscles, hair and chiseled face. You hate how much effect he has on you.

“Listen,” he rubs a hand down your waist, “meet me in the supply closet by the showers during lunchtime if you’re really down.” He flashed a smile before standing to his feet and walking out the infirmary. “Bye, bye, doctor.”

Come lunchtime, you walked through the halls of the prison, mentally cursing at yourself. It’s just one time, one time. You bet he won’t even be there, that he’s just playing a stupid joke cause he’s bored with himself. And as you reach out to open the supply door, your heart beats against your ribcage, looking around to find the halls empty. You step in, seeing him leaning against the wall, the faint rays of light allowing you to make out some of his features. “Well, look who it is,” he chuckles. “Came here to help me out, doc?” He walks over to you, trapping you between him and the door.

“Shut up already and let’s get it over with.” You smash your lips on his, kissing him with such urgency and fervor. His large hands grab at your ass, squeezing and groping it as he pushes you against the wall, knocking a few things over. You both pull away, breathing heavily, lips swollen. “We gotta be quick,” you whisper, undoing his jumpsuit while he pulls down your pants.

“More eager than I am, huh?” He teases, earning an eye roll from you. “Come here.” He bends you over the small wooden table, snatching your panties off and getting a good feel of your ass. His dick jumps, pre cum already leaking from the swollen tip. He’s already so worked up, so ready to feel your wet and tight cunt. “Fuck,” he grunts, running his head over your sopping slit, nudging your clit slightly. “Already so fucking wet.”

He pushes his throbbing tip past your folds, a small gasp leaving your lips when you feel how thick he is. Inch by inch you feel the stretch, you mouth agape as you try and grow accustomed to his size. Geto’s entire body shivers, his fingers pressing into your skin so hard you’re sure he’d leave marks. “Ohhh shit,” he lets out a shaky breath. God, it’s been so fucking long since he’s had some good pussy and he can already tell he won’t last long. He finally bottoms out, feeling your walls clench around his length, sucking him in. “My god,” he laughs in your ear. “Lemme just enjoy this feeling—fuckkk—for a moment,” he moans, eyes fluttering shut.

He finally starts moving his hips, feeling his tip press against your cervix with each thrust. With each passing second, he gets faster, fucking your harder and rougher, your pussy has got him in a trance. “Pussy feels so fucking good,” he grips your hips, pulling you back towards him so you can meet his thrusts. One of his hands reach around your throat, gripping it just enough as he pulls you back against his broad chest. “Do you fuck all of your patients or am I just special?” He jokes.

“Mmmm…shut—ah—up!” You cry out, whimpering when he presses up against you, finding a new angle that makes your eyes roll back. “Just keep fucking me,”you say with a raspy breath.

“Doctors orders.” He can feel the way your pussy leaks, your juices dripping down his shaft and make his cock ache like never before. It almost hurts. He hold you tighter against him, the sound of skin on skin filling the small room. “You take it so well,” he breathes against your skin, pressing wet kisses to your neck. “So fucking well.” His thrusts grow sloppier, chasing his own orgasm. But in the distance, he hears the guards walking down the hall. “Shh, shh, shh.” His hand covers your mouth, his thrusts becoming slow and deep, letting you feel every inch of his cock, every vein, every pulse before hitting that sweet spot deep inside of you.

Your eyes squeeze shut, trying your hardest to keep quiet, the guard getting closer and closer. Their keys jingle with each step and their voices grow louder. “Atta girl. You feel how fucking deep I am…shiittt. Keep fucking squeezing me like that—yeah, yeah you’re gonna make me fucking cum.” His brows furrow as he bites down as his bottom lip in attempts to contain his moans, but his abs tense up and his entire body shakes before he’s filling you up, stuffing you with his sticky, hot cum. “No, no, don’t you dare move. Just like thattt, oh yes!” His eyes roll back, still cumming. His pushes his cum deeper inside of you, feeling it leak back out before he finally pulls out.

Geto truly wishes he could’ve had more time with you. His mouth drooling over the mere thought of how you taste, wanting to make you cum on his tongue, but for now he’ll have to settle for this. “You came inside me, asshole!” You pull your pants back up, turning to face him.

“Couldn’t let it go to waste.” He reaches out and stroke your cheek. “Right?”

“Whatever.” You swat his hand away. “Where are my underwear?” You look around the dimly lit room before realizing he was holding them.

“I’ll be keeping these for later,” he swung them in your face before stuffing them in his pocket.

“You’re such a pervert.” You narrowed your eyes at him.

“You have my cum running down your leg right now.” He places a finger under your chin, tilting it towards him as he leans down and kisses you slowly, his tongue sliding over yours before catching your bottom lip. “Mmm, thank you, doctor.” He smiles before kissing you once more.

You push him off of you, trying to process everything you just did right now. It was so wrong but it felt so right, so good, so intoxicating. “If it makes you feel any better, I get out in six months.”

“No. This was a one time thing.” You place a hand on his chest, shaking your head.

“Was it? Cause I don’t think it was. Not with the way your pussy was squeezing around me. It was almost like she was made for me.” He cups your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes searches yours, a smile forming at the corner of his lips. “Yeah…it definitely isn’t the last time.”

[velvetcrimsonkisses]

Nanami who drops to his knees the moment he arrives home, the feeling in his chest; indescribable because he knew his wife was upset… so very upset…

He loathed the guilt that clung to him as he had to work late and miss the date they planned just a few days prior. The front door creaked open as you heard him tiredly shuffle in, tossing his keys onto the counter with a bit more force than he intended. He rolled his neck side to side, in a futile attempt to release some of the stiffness in his muscles. He kicks off his shoes, not bothering to bend down and untie the laces, before commencing his walk of shame to your shared bedroom. 

Each step felt heavier, causing his heart to only beat faster every second. A thin sheet of sweat began to form on his brow as he approached closer and closer to the room. His fingers, diligently thread into his tie to pull it undone, tossing it mindlessly on the floor. A few buttons of his shirt came undone but it did nothing to relieve the growing tightness in his chest. He hesitantly reached for the door knob, and with a deep breath he opened the door as slowly as possible. 

And there you were. The soft light of the room revealed your silhouette as you sat up on the bed, your arms crossed over your chest tightly, as your eyes bored into him like daggers. No, you weren’t actually upset and he had obviously a good reason for his absence, but it was the first time he missed something like this– and the sting of it lingered in the room. 

He tentatively stepped closer to you, his expression full of guilt and desperation, like a puppy who had been scolded. The weight of an unspoken apology creeping on him. 

“Darling… I’m sorry," he whispered, barely audible. But he knew it wasn’t enough. No reaction from you, you wouldn't even turn to look at him, the silence between the both of you was suffocating. His fingers graze over your hand as his knees buckled, threatening to give away under the weight of guilt.

He falls to his knees before you, taking your hand in his. “Please, look at me, honey…” pleading eyes looking up at you, raw emotion in his voice as he presses a soft kiss on your delicate hand. His fingers intertwined with yours as you finally grace him with your gaze, the eyes he so dearly loved finally on him. His grip was soft yet pleading, almost as if he was afraid you’d let go. 

“I feel terrible…” kiss “It will never…” kiss “happen again…” kiss

Each one of his kisses had you in trance and you truly believed him, Nanami wasn’t the man to tell you empty words. You look down at the mess of the man on his knees for you, your hand comes to his cheek, caressing it. 

“I forgive you…” You utter, as you look at him, into his eyes of honey. 

Those three words…

That was all he needed to hear. His breath was caught in his throat and for a moment he just stared at you before taking a deep breath. Relief washes over him and all the guilt slowly disappears. His head drops into your thighs and rests there a moment, still holding your hands. 

“I will spend an eternity making it up to you…” he finally speaks up. His statement makes you smile. You thought he was joking but he wasn’t. 

“Starting now,” he declares, a spark of confidence returning to his body. 

Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his head down, his lips brushing softly against your knees. His kisses are tender and calculated. He knew exactly what he was doing. His lips trailed along your thighs, the warmth of his breath sending soft shivers up your skin. 

You sighed softly, your fingers threading through his hair, delicately pushing it back from his face. You wanted to see him, to really look at him, at the man you loved now between your legs. 

His kisses trailed higher and higher. Nanami was a smart man. He knew just what to do and how to ease the weight of the situation from your mind, to make you forget. 

“You’re so gorgeous” He mumbles in between kisses. A red tint creeping up on your face at those simple words. “But you know that already, don’t you?” he presses a kiss just below your navel. “I tell you everyday…” He whispers, right into the heat between your legs. Your back arches up off the mattress and he knew he just had to have you already.

“May I?” he asks, his pointer finger hovering right over where you needed him most. You gave him a quick nod and that was all he needed. He slowly slides your panties down your legs before begging to devour you, entirely. 

Nanami learned everything that made his pretty girl feel good, and he planned to do everything tonight. Every flick of his skilled tongue had you in a chokehold, the way he held your legs open with his strong arms all while still on his knees. He explored every inch of you, lapping up everything you gave him, his fingers joining in to only make you feel that much better. 

Orgasm after orgasm had your mind hazy but Nanami had to make sure you knew he was sorry. And he did make good on his promise. He never ever forgot again. 

[motomamita]

fugitive!könig × naive!farmer!reader

warnings: smut, +18, no condom, innocence kink, breeding kink, baby trapping, virginity loss, female reader, dub-con!!

fugitive!könig who managed to escape the law, after committing several crimes, and now travels throughout the country hiding his identity.

On one of his many trips he ends up arriving at a small town, almost lost in time, where its few inhabitants live off their animal farms and orchards. Apparently no one had televisions, and the few radios only broadcast music that was overshadowed by static. This ensured that no one there would be able to recognize him and gave him the opportunity to stay and rest for a few hours.

Tired of walking and extremely hungry, König sat down in a small cafe to have a drink. The people around him looked at him strangely, not only because they didn't know him but also because of his intimidating appearance. His back was broad, he had long legs, and the muscles in his arms were noticeable even though he was wearing a wind jacket that covered him. However, no one seemed to be bothered by his presence, the people there loved tourists and König seemed completely like one.

When it was time to pay, he noticed that he had ordered and consumed more than he could afford. He was about to offer some of his "camping" knives in exchange for the money he was missing until a figure approached him.

"Don't worry if you don't have the money to pay." you spoke with a sweet voice and doing everything possible so that Konig would not feel embarrassed. "I sell the fruits to the owner of the place so I'm sure I can reach an agreement with him."

König was fascinated by you. Not only because of your timely friendliness but also your very natural and almost unique appearance that was very difficult to find in other places. You were wearing a jean gardener, some comfortable shoes and you were carrying a basket that minutes ago was full of fruits and vegetables from your garden. König looked down, somewhat shy and not knowing how to react to you, the truth is that during his escape he had not met many friendly people.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you for anything in return." You smiled when you saw that no words came out of his mouth. "Here we greatly appreciate tourists and travelers, after all they are the ones who keep this small town from turning into a ghost town."

You invited König to take refuge in your small house for as long as he needed before leaving again for another place. König accepted, surprised at your remarkable naivety in letting a complete stranger into your house and providing him with all the care.

When he arrived, you showed him where the shower was and what his room would be where he could rest. You left a clean change of clothes on his bed and selflessly went off to make dinner. Once he cleaned, König followed the delicious smell and came to the kitchen where you were on your back stirring a large pot of what seemed to be a stew. You were so focused that you didn't notice the presence of the big man behind you. he thought about how easy it would be to cut your neck with one of those long knives you had there. But the idea quickly disappeared when you turned around and a wide smile formed on your face when you saw him.

That stew was the best he had tasted in a long time, so much so that he served himself 3 plates, leaving you totally pleased. The next morning, König didn't really know exactly what to do. He could stay one more night and wake up in the middle of the night to raid your entire home, even leave after having a trip with you. He was hesitant, and that hesitation turned into doubt when you offered to cut his hair and trim his long beard, which he accepted.

That same afternoon König sat down to drink a lemonade made by you while he watched you harvest super large, red strawberries from a distance. He fixed his gaze on the way your pants hugged your butt in a tempting way and how you hummed a melody quietly that he couldn't make out. A tingling appeared in König's tummy and he suddenly noticed an erection growing inside his pants. You looked so pretty, so innocent. It was obvious from afar that you didn't kill a fly and that your care for him was sincere.

The days passed and König seemed to have no intention of leaving, that didn't bother you at all. Now he helped you with the heavy work on the farm, carrying large amounts of hay on his shoulder and feeding the animals. His favorite activity was watching you milk the cows, fantasizing about your hands and the way the milk dripped from them.

His approaches to you intensified, taking advantage of the slightest opportunity to touch you or rub against you. he soon discovered that you had no idea about any sexual activity, acting confused at his double meaning words and insinuations. You were the perfect muse to fulfill all his fantasies without anyone being able to stop him.

Your parents had died a long time ago, leaving you alone in charge of the big farm and all the obligations of the adult world. That led König to think that life on that farm couldn't be bad. He knew how to handle hard work well and you did everything you could to teach him and please him. The idea of ​​starting from scratch, with you there, totally convinced him.

You were a healthy, hard-working woman and you needed someone like konig with you. But König needed to have something that would force you to keep him there with you, forever and that would confirm the mutual love that you both had to give each other. That's when he found the solution: he had to get you pregnant.

That afternoon he made a point that you wouldn't leave the stable until you were full of his cum. He started by complimenting your dress and how pretty that color looked on you. Then the caresses that increased in intensity until he managed to let you be carried away by him and his carnal desire. Now he had you under him, with your skirt up and your underwear hanging from one of your feet. Out of desperation, König only lowered his pants to his heels, even with his work boots on. You were on a large pile of hay, sweating from the great summer heat and moaning loudly.

His thrusts were brutal, making their way inside you that you barely had time to understand everything that was happening. The pleasure was so much that you could barely think about anything other than König's gaze and the way his balls slapped your ass.

"Oh, baby. You're so so tight.. And wet, shit" König groaned, sighing loudly at the pleasure your pussy was giving him. "Tell me, how did a cute little thing like you stay a virgin for so long, huh?" You opened your mouth to answer but only moans came out. "Uh? Talk to me, sweetheart, talk to me.."

"I.. I don't know.." you managed to say, overstimulated by everything. König's rough shirt rubbed against your clit, giving both pleasure and pain. König was so big that he covered you with his entire body, leaving you with almost no place to breathe air other than his breath.

"Uh? Don't you know? These farm boys are idiots... They wouldn't know how to please a pretty thing like you..." König cut off his sentence to get even closer to you and kiss you, putting his tongue inside your mouth. You tried to keep up with him but that triggered the kiss to be even wetter and hotter for him.

"König.. Give me more, please!" He smiled as he heard the urgency in your broken voice. You looked so pretty like that, almost not understanding what was happening but still pleased and eager for him to give you even more.

He, ready to please you, grabbed your legs and raised them to your shoulder, adopting a new position. His thrusts continued, his fat cock forcing its way into your no longer so virgin pussy and the simple sound of your skin slapping together made your warm walls embrace him. Not really knowing what to do, you brought your hands to König's big, muscular shoulders, feeling a few scars on them.

"Oh, my pretty little thing.. I'm going to fill you inside and you're going to be the prettiest mom in this whole damn town.." You dug your nails into his shoulder and your gaze was filled with confusion. "You like it, huh? You're going to make me so happy, isn't that what you want?"

You hesitated for a few seconds, not sure what he meant but his cock rammed even deeper into you leaving you almost without any thought. Tears formed in your eyes from the pleasure and absolute adoration with which he looked at you.

"Come on, mommy.. Make me happy, carry my precious baby.."

In the same way that König had managed to get his way in prison, he had gotten his way with you. Now you both lived together as a couple on the farm, happy and with a baby on the way inside your fertile womb.

[pwettyaura]

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒎𝒚 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 — even when sylus is being nice, he can't help but be a little mean ♡

𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔: fem reader, established relationship, cock warming, fingering, ruined orgasm, overstim, slight choking, pet names ꒰ sweetie, kitten, sweet little thing, good girl ꒱, refers to reader's pussy as 'her', pussy slapping, dacryphilia.

𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: this thought plagued me at work, so i had to write it ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

sylus sits you in his lap so pretty, your legs hooked over his thick thighs, opened wide. his fat cock is stuffed to the hilt in your puffy little cunt, refusing to move and making you cry because you're so desperate to get fucked by your lover.

he pulls you back by your throat, presses your back to his strong chest, and the deep rumble of his timbre vibrates through your ribs as he speaks.

"you know what to do, sweetie," his index and middle fingers spread in a 'v' shape, parting your folds to expose your clit to the air. he rubs up and down, pinching the sensitive bud between his fingers.

you whine and pant, a soft sheen of sweat dampening your hairline, skin so hot you believe you may melt. you try to move your hips but he squeezes your throat firmly — a warning to keep you in your place.

"you want me to fuck you, you gotta get my dick wet first," he purrs with a depth that makes you gush around him, but it isn't enough.

sylus wants you to cum. he wants you squirming and trembling in his arms, creaming around him and dripping down his balls before he'll even entertain the idea of giving you what you want.

long fingers circle your sensitive bud, just enough to send shivers up and down your spine, your cunt squeezing him so nicely that he can't help but groan against your ear.

"such a greedy pussy.. can't be happy with what i give to her," he tuts, condescending and mean. tears sting your eyes at the overstimulation, his actions coming off more as torturous than pleasing.

"sylus, pleeease," you beg, your back bowing away from his abdomen. "need more, just... just a little more,"

you're already so high-strung, the coil in your belly wound up to its tightest, ready to burst at any moment. your hips thrust defiantly, and before you can register it, you've completely blacked out, head growing fuzzy and light as sylus slaps your clit, over and over again. it's more pain than pleasure, but still, your muscles twitch and burn as you drench his cock, your orgasm approaching whether you want it to or not, and sylus gives a shaky sigh.

your lashes are wet, forming little peaks as your frustration swells during the come-down. left horrendously unsatisfied, your tummy flutters with need, walls aching for more, more, more.

"aw, you're so pretty. what a sweet little thing you are," sylus grins, kissing the side of your head, squeezing your cheeks to hold you close. "if only you could listen as well as you take dick,"

your chest heaves with every breath. silent sobs tighten your throat as you tilt your head, leaning into his space.

"'m soh-ry..."

"hm? don't be sorry, kitten, i know you try," his words are honey-sweet. you know it's a facade. "but maybe you should try a little harder this time,"

he uses a flattened hand to massage your swollen folds, wet and flushed, already shaking in his embrace. "i pr... i promise, i promise..."

he grins knowingly. "that's my good girl,"

© 2024 pwettyaura. do not plagiarize, translate, or repost my work to other sites.