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moviestarmartini · 10 months ago

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hey lil mama - jude bellingham x reader

el tiempo puede pasar / te perseguirá mi nombre / yo siempre seré tu hombre.

summary: fwb!jude calls you up in the middle of the night, insistent he needs to come over.

wc: 2.1k

warnings: lowk an undefined situationship, nsfw (18+), soft dom!jude, praise, a tiny bit of degradation, p in v, unprotected sex (DON'T!!!!), creampie, two very needy idiots, lowk a happy ending.

A/N: took this lil blurb from my lovely @judesecret (thank u sm prettyy !!) and turned it into this train wreck of neediness hehehe enjoy y'all

now playing... hey lil mama by eladio carrión, rauw alejandro

“Hello?”

Your phone had almost fallen off your nightstand with the incessant buzzing. You ignored for a certain time, as you did with your first alarms. You only rolled around and reached out to answer it when the idea of someone calling you for an emergency appeared in your mind, deciding to not take any chances.

“Baby…” You perked up at Jude’s breathy; whiny, even. You could notice he was agitated just from the way his exhales saturated the microphone.

“Jude? Is something wrong?” You asked with a yawn following close after. Your voice showed disinterest, but you were surprised to hear from him; you hadn’t done so in a while. At least not directly, his name, voice, presence… the ghost of him followed you everywhere. The silence seemed to lull you back to sleep, his labored breathing miles away in your hazy mind.

“I just need you, darling.” He finally breathed out. “So bad.” It wasn't usual to hear Jude in such a desperate state. If you weren’t half asleep, you would’ve jumped eagerly onto teasing him, enjoying the way his cocky attitude was knocked down a peg.

“Jude it’s…” You parted your phone away from your ear, the screen lighting up. Your eyes squinted to get used to the sudden stream of light, making out the numbers to be “Four AM. But we can FaceTime, alright?” You stirred a little, but the will to make yourself look presentable was lacking.

“No.” He quickly stood his ground, and you could hear movement on the other line. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. I know where the emergency key is hidden.”

Then he hung up.

You stared at the screen in disbelief, believing firmly he was probably messing with you. Starting with the troubles and tribulations of your relationships, once built upon pure infatuation, now just consisting of jealousy and sex. He also had training in the wee hours of the morning, the risk too great to be taken.

Unbeknownst to you, he’d woken up from a wet dream, blushing like a prepubescent boy. The desire for your body watered his mouth as he rushed to pack a duffel bag with his clothes for training in less than a few hours. With a shrug, your arm outstretched to place the phone back on the nightstand and chase back the few minutes of sleep that were slipping through your fingers.

But at exactly four-thirty AM, you could hear a key jingling and twisting around the lock in the peculiar way that the doorknob to your place required in order to unlock successfully. You only raised your head at the noise, the door closing was followed by a thud and featherlight steps.

“I thought you were bluffing.” You tutted at the figure standing by your doorframe, Jude slowly making himself welcome in the room. Without saying much, he kicked off his shoes and removed his jacket before sneaking under the duvet with you. You’d always found it funny, that such a tall, muscular man like him laid in between flowery bed sheets, frilled pink duvet, and stuffed animals.

“Never.” He finally responded, a strong arm wrapped around you as he cuddled up from behind, his lips planting a kiss on your shoulder. You snuggled back against him, goosebumps blossoming with the way he toyed with the hem of the large tee.

It was his shirt.

“Not when I knew you were laying like this in bed.” He hid his face in the crook of your neck. Feeling your heart thumping against your chest, the deafening sound filling up your ears. “I know you wear those skimpy panties because you think no one will see them. Do you know how much I torture myself with that information?” His voice was low, and raspy because of the slumber he must have awoken from at some point before the call.

“You live in my mind rent-free, princess.” He pressed a kiss on the back of your neck, his hand inviting itself under the top. “I missed you so much.” His fingers traveled your torso painfully slow, the same way he displayed kisses down the length of your neck.

You didn’t reply for what seemed an eternity. You thought about it profusely; you could be snappy, ask why the sudden urge when he hadn’t been giving you the time of day for almost two months now. But you didn’t have the energy to argue, instead finding comfort in the way he caressed you.

“You should’ve called earlier.” You breathed out, ignoring the way your skin prickled, and only nestled further in his arms with the pretense of getting comfortable. The groan that left his lips echoed in the cold air.

It was quick, the way he swiftly shifted his weight and placed you under him. Startled, your chest heaved against him, lips parted in surprise.

“Because you’re always available for me, right?” Jude cooed, his hand gently reaching and squeezing your cheeks, before stroking your cheekbone. You felt small under his gaze, identifying a certain mocking tone in his voice. “My sweet girl…” His knees pried your legs open as his torso found its place between them, finally closing the gap between your lips. “I knew he couldn’t please you like I do.”

Your eyes widened significantly, eliciting a small laugh out of him. He’d found himself enjoying the taunting, letting his hand caress your left thigh. It was enough distraction on the painful hard-on he’d had for around half an hour now. “You think I don’t keep tabs on you, lil mama?” He reached to flick on your bedside lamp. It became a habit; your expressions only tipped him over the edge further and motivated him to do the most to make you cum. Under the warm light, Jude noticed you were still visibly tired, but you were as gorgeous as any other day you applied makeup and had your hair done.

Leaning closer, his lips brushed yours, and he’d even pulled back when you tried to close the gap. He wanted to get you riled up, the same way you’d make him feel when his sources told him you were attempting something with some random guy. The way you huffed, hands reaching to pull him in, made Jude know it wasn’t going to take long to reach his first checkpoint of the night.

“Jude…” You complained, all those weeks away from him had started to weigh in. “I was jealous, okay? He could never make me feel like you do.” It was the little things; things Jude learned with time, with touch and experimenting. The hours you’d spent locked in a bedroom with one another had him learning the tips and tricks that ruined everyone else for you.

The desperation made his chest swell, your admission dissipated any of the pent-up jealousy, the need taking over every inch of his soul as his lips crashed into yours. An involuntary moan left your mouth, mixing with the heavy breaths, getting lost in the frenzied sync your lips took. You wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him closer.

Goosebumps formed at the trail his hand left down your leg, hand edging dangerously close to your warm core. You shivered under him at the ghost of his fingers over the thin layer of cloth, fingertips grazing the damp area lightly. You tried leaning in closer to the touch, trying to get some— if any— tangible pleasure. But Jude just smirked between sloppy kisses.

In a swift movement, he tugged the light fabric aside, with such strength you could hear some seams breaking. “Damn, lil mama,” Jude breathed out, his index finger collecting a good amount of slick. He placed it in his mouth, humming at the taste. You were still wondering if this was a dream, if you were actually asleep and would wake up with your alarm in a few minutes.

“You still get dripping wet from just kissing me.” It sounded more like praise than mockery, and you could tell he was proud… of himself. It riled you up, enough to lower your hand and cup his bulge with a smirk. “I could say the same.”

There was that defiance once more, but Jude seemed to be having none of that as he took your lips, hostage, in his again. You almost yelped, but once his hand slid downwards, you helped in undoing his pants. The same sentiment of need had spread over to you, tugging down your panties, both struggling to keep your lips in touch.

The desire was suffocating, Jude was unable to keep his hands off your body, pulling the shirt upwards but with no intention of removing it fully, too desperate to go through the whole process of getting bare and turned on by the fact you were wearing his memorabilia.

“C’mon mama, help me out here,” He panted, lining himself to your entrance. You wrapped your legs around his hips to give him a better angle, almost melting into the mattress with each inch that filled you up to the brim. “Look at me,” Jude complained, his voice coarse as he pushed you back against the bed, knowing you were inevitably going to hide your face in the crook of his neck once he moved his hips.

Jude watched intently the way your face contorted with every slow thrust he gave you; the parted lips, eyes struggling to stay focused on him, brows slightly furrowed. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Jude praised with his whole chest, cupping your cheeks with one hand and giving you yet another ferocious kiss.

Your moans found their place at the back of your throat, practically choking you as he slammed into you, tongues intertwining. It was bizarre; the groans and the peculiar sound of skin clashing mixed with the soft tweet of birds outside as the sunrays overshadowed the hard work the nightstand lamp was doing by lighting up the whole room. The world seemed to move around you, but time stood still every time he hit that particular spot, the one that made your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

“You’re mine, you hear me?” Jude managed to groan in your ear, your flustered face hidden in the crook of his neck. “I’ll always be your man.” The hand resting on your hip tightened its grip, and the way you arched your back to respond to the touch only sent him more shivers down his spine.

“Jude,” You whined and moaned, almost like a plea. He only could smile gently and caress you, just before manhandling you into laying on your stomach, pulling your hips back to give him that perfect angle.

“That’s it— ohh, you fucking slut, arch your back,” He muttered, admiring his last name and number 5 on the tee before slamming back inside you. He subsequently took off his shirt so nothing could obstruct the recoil of your ass every time his lower abdomen came in contact with it.

“I-I’m gonna cum, baby,” You whined against the pillow, his hands digging into the doughy skin of your hips as he fucked you right into the mattress with enough force to make the bed creak even louder than it did before.

“You’ve been amazing for me, do it,” And as if his praise wasn’t approval enough, he leaned down, his hand across your abdomen and downwards to press two fingers against your throbbing clit, drawing circles around the numb.

That was it. The thing he knew how to do best: send you shivering and chanting his name for your neighbors to hear. He found it perfect also, as you squeezed his cock deliciously, making the rhythm of his hips sputter before he filled your pussy up to the brim.

Jude collapsed on top of you, feeling a big amount of melatonin rush back into his system. “I missed you too.” You muttered from under him, replying to what he said seemingly hours ago.

“Hm, yeah?” He rolled off to your side, pulling his sweats up before drawing you to his chest straight away. “We must do this more often, then.” He peered over your shoulder to check the time, turning off the lamp once again. “Great. We’ve got one hour left.”

“You’re not leaving?” You tilted your head up. He never lacked in the aftercare department, but left as soon as it was prudent.

“Nu-uh.” Jude yawned, his grip around you tightening. “Let’s snuggle up. And have a lunch date later.” He pressed a kiss against your forehead, brushing the lightly sweaty strands back.

You nodded, an arm across his chest. Now the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat combined with his hand massaging your scalp lulled you to sleep, not the tears you’d spilled because of him.

You were so glad you picked up the phone.

#jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham x y/n #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham imagine #tbh not using the jude tag by itself since i don’t want to clog it w more fics #football smut #football fic #𓈒ㅤׂ 𓇼✽ — writing !

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lexyeevee · 1 year ago

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it's wild to see myhouse having escaped the orbit of Doom People, because so much of it specifically riffs on doom in a way that is laser-targeted at Doom People, to the point that i just wouldn't have expected it to be nearly as interesting if you don't pick up on that stuff

right from the outset, "my house" is even a recognizable genre, because doom was among the first approachable platforms for creating a 3D space, and if you give random people the ability to create a 3D space then many of them will just try to recreate their own house. (i want to say jp lebreton even made an effort to play through every house map on the idgames archive at one point, though hell if i can find it now.) there was in fact already a "myhouse.wad", from 1995!

frankly it's incredible that someone (or someones) put so much effort into this map and then had the gall to simply post it on doomworld as "myhouse.wad", because that is a thread title that guarantees the fewest possible people will bother to look. there are posts in the thread where people outright admit that they only checked because they were surprised how many replies a "my house" wad got.

so anyway, okay, the "classic" doom wad experience is that you download a wad, it contains exactly 1 map, and it has zero custom textures or music or other frills. most wads from the 90s are like this; if you're lucky you might get a bad midi rendition of a metallica song. nowadays there are texture artists and musicians and everything collaborating on full map packs, but "just a map" is still kind of the default mapping experience and is recognizable to anyone who's been around doom for sufficiently long.

and myhouse riffs on absolutely every aspect of this:

• the music is the MAP01 music, Running From Evil, which is just the music you get if you supply your own map in the MAP01 slot and do nothing else. so a ton of 90s maps had this same track as their background music, so everyone has heard it a zillion times. it is ingrained into so many people's skulls. subtly fucking with it is a great way to fuck with the player

• the house uses only stock doom 2 textures, or occasionally light modifications of them. again this is just what you get if you make a map and don't supply any other resources, so the stock textures are very familiar. only later, with sufficient poking around, does the map introduce new textures, which really help sell the impression of being swept away to Somewhere Else

• if you take the exit, you go to MAP02, Underhalls. this is the expected experience because doom wads replace what's already there — you're not really supplying a "new map pack" or anything, you're overwriting a map from the original doom 2 progression. (there are ways to fiddle with this now, but in vanilla doom 2, the level progression was hardcoded.) so the "ending" of a no-frills single-map wad is always, always to transition to Underhalls. the opening shot of Underhalls is practically like seeing the credits. so roping Underhalls into the experience is completely unexpected, because Underhalls is the sign that you've escaped back to regular doom

• the super shotgun is "hidden" in Underhalls, in probably the best-known super shotgun location in the whole game, because it's the first time you can get it

• incidentally Underhalls itself feels uncanny, because the player camera height is higher than usual to make the house's proportions feel sensible. (part of the trouble with exact recreations of real spaces in doom is that the camera is weirdly low.) i was actually convinced that myhouse included a modified Underhalls, but no, it's stock doom 2 Underhalls, it just feels off when you're slightly taller

but wait, there's more

• silent teleporters are a feature from boom, a very early doom derivative that added a number of helpful mapping features and is basically considered only half a step beyond vanilla. so shifting between two versions of a space without interruption isn't completely unexpected. it's only later that the portal use becomes more obvious

• although if you're especially canny, you should notice that the second version of the house shows both the upstairs and downstairs windows in full, which is impossible — doom cannot do room-over-room. (in fact this is accomplished with a semi-obscure zdoom feature called sector portals — essentially, the whole second floor and the space outside it are a separate area, and the "ceiling" of the yard becomes a view up through the "floor" of that second space.)

• swinging doors are a hexen feature (polyobjects) that gzdoom inherited. (heretic and hexen were modifications of the doom engine, and zdoom started out as a merge of all three codebases into something that could play all three games.) they might also be in other fancy engines (eternity?), but they are very distinctly not a doom thing. if you're deeply familiar with doom's limitations then they'll jump out at you immediately, but if you're looking at doom like it's any old 3D game then maybe not so much

• recreations of other humble real-world locales are also a somewhat common theme, and remind me in particular of Doom City, from way back in 1995

• a very common desire for players is to "uv-max" a map, i.e. reach the exit on ultra-violence with 100% kills and secrets. if you can't do this, the map is (reasonably) considered broken. it is comically impossible to do this in myhouse, and anyone with the skill to create the map would be acutely aware of this

• the extra weapon frames look to be borrowed from the well-known smooth doom, which adds extra frames for everything and is just pretty dang slick overall. so it's not merely "ho ho, got you, smoother weapons" but specific integration of another familiar project

• this might be reaching a bit, but mirrors are specifically a nightmare in zdoom's software renderer because they work by rendering all visible geometry as if it were physically present on the other side of the mirror — and if there be any actual geometry back there, it will also get rendered and you will have a big fucking mess. so a mirror in the middle of a room is a laughable idea. this is somewhat less of a concern now that the hardware renderer is basically the default, but it's still a spectre looming over the very concept of mirrors, so the way mirrors play out in myhouse is very funny to me

there's probably more, like, the way it intercepts noclip is a stroke of genius and not something i've ever seen done before. but i hope you get the idea

#doom #myhouse.wad

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sencrose · 17 days ago

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— ALL (SIX) EYES ON ME

pairing: gojo satoru x f!idol!reader

tags: slight dubcon/yandere, idol AU, no curses AU, clothed/costume/mirror sex, body worship, sweat kink, armpit licking lol, praise, cunnilingus, pet names (princess, sweetheart, sweetie), satoru's just a little weird in this sorry

wc: 9.2k (ugHGUHGUHGUGHUGHGUHGU)

summary: Everything's lining up. The tickets to your first solo show sold out weeks in advance. Small problem: there's only one person in the audience.

a/n: i don't...? i don't know man. this is extremely self-indulgent, self-ship coded at times, and technically a reeeeally late birthday gift to myself lmfao. makes a lot of references to jp idol culture (once again). if you have any questions my ask box’s open! dividers by @/adornedwithlight. + playlist + ao3 link here.

It’s taken weeks of preparation but it’s finally going to pay off. Countless hours of rehearsal, dancing in dusty studios until your body’s on the verge of dropping, singing until your voice is almost hoarse, but not quite. You know your limits, and you’re not willing to break them before something so crucial.

On the dawn of your birthday, your obligatory solo live has been the only thing on your mind. It can’t be anything short of perfect, especially after the tickets sold out in record speed. The stakes have never been higher. At least when you sell out a venue as a group, you can rely on each other. There’s no one to catch you if you fall here, physically or otherwise.

The green room feels empty without your fellow members to back you up. It’s a bit unnerving, having all this space to yourself, the mirrors reflecting back to you, and just you.

The silence of the room gets to you, so the obvious course of action is to play your set list in the background. You know all of the songs well, singing along gently as you unpack your luggage. Ruffles and frills bounce out as soon as you unzip it. No matter how tightly you attempt to pack your outfit, it seems like it has a mind of its own.

Putting it on was an ordeal in the beginning. Too many straps, too much fabric, too much volume to get lost in. But it’s become a part of you in the past couple of years, a second skin of sorts.

The top, a cropped blouse with a sweetheart neckline, always goes on first before you do your makeup. That was a lesson you learned on your second live when you accidentally stained the collar with foundation. You tug on the zipper, which always gets caught in between a bulky seam, tugging a bit harder when you get there. From there you bring it over your head and awkwardly shift until it’s finally on. It fits snugly once you zip up the side seam, your curves emphasized by the ribbon lacing detail on the side.

Makeup is simple enough, just a bit more extra than your usual day to day. More exaggerated eyeliner, an extra pigmented blush, dramatic eyelashes you still haven’t gotten used to (seriously, it’s distracting when they’re constantly in your periphery). To finish it off, some glitter around the eyes so it sparkles extra bright like the stars in the sky under the stage lights.

Once you’re done, it’s time for the skirt, and it’s always heavier than you think it is. It’s a given though – several layers of circles coming together at the waist, and dozens of yards of ruffled lace hemming each edge. It’d be a scientific anomaly if it weighed any less.

You shimmy your way into the skirt, one leg at a time until the elastic cinches at your waist. With it secured, you jump a couple of times – half to test its stability, and half to just watch the hypnotic bounce of fabric. At this point, it’s customary to do a little spin around in the mirror, lose yourself in the swish of fabric moving like the waves of the ocean, encapsulated around your waist. It’s your favorite part, just watching everything come together, feeling like a real star – even if the venue barely fits a hundred attendees.

All that’s left are finishing details. A ruffly garter that hugs your thigh, soft satin gloves on your hands, and a tiara instead of your usual matching set of bows on your head. Last but not least, a pair of platform boots. It’s still something you’re adjusting too, the weight of them dulling your dance moves just slightly.

When you check your phone, it’s just a few minutes before call time. You neatly pack your casual clothes in your luggage and roll it off to the side before exiting the room. Everything’s so different when you walk the hall alone. It’s a bit lonelier, a bit longer – plain white walls converging to a point you know all too well. You know you’re getting close when the instrumental playing through the speaker gets louder, too loud to ignore, a sign for you to put in your in-ear monitor.

Then you make it there, on the back edge of the stage like you’ve done so many times before, though alone this time. Anxiety beats like a drum in your chest, and you can’t bring yourself to peek through the stage curtains. Curiosity killed the cat after all.

The background instrumental starts, a soft bump of bass rumbles the floor, rattles your body. It’s your cue to go. With the mic held close to your chest, you step out to the stage, bright stage lights blinding you momentarily.

“Good evening everyone! Thanks for coming out tonight, it really-”

Your voice involuntarily stops in its tracks when your vision comes back to you.

The crowd is empty.

Well, almost empty.

A single fan stands tall right in front of you, familiar azure eyes staring a hole into your soul.

You remember him – Satoru. Couldn’t forget him if you tried. His reputation precedes him. If you had to choose a fan who’s dedication bordered on deification, it would be him.

Your fellow members even had a silly nickname for him: Mr. Monopoly. For the frivolous amounts of money he spent on your merch, and how he monopolized your time at every meet and greet by buying out a dozen cheki tickets the moment a performance ended. In fact, there have been a handful of events where he’s the only fan you’ve spoken to.

Despite that, it’s not like he’s creepy or anything. In fact, he’s incredibly normal – from what you can see anyway. Never crosses the line, never goes beyond the casual small talk about performance quality, curious questions about the upcoming release. But something about how much time and money he spends attending your shows keeps you on edge. Someone who spends so much of his life tucked away in dingy live houses can’t exactly be a paragon of society.

But this can’t be right, right? Your heartbeat’s erratic, pounding so hard against your ribcage you’re scared it’s going to crack. Didn’t the venue sell out weeks ago? You remember the congratulations text your manager sent you, the way you bounced off the walls of your bedroom in excitement at the news. That wasn’t fake. And what reason would he have to lie?

Was this some kind of online troll campaign? There’s always a possibility, but you’re quick to write it off. You’ve never been the topic of any notable online conversation, positive or negative. For once, your habitual ego surfing escapades pay off.

The wave of Satoru’s dazzling penlights snaps you out of your mental spiral, albeit still shaken.

“Um, it really means the world to me.” The words come out shakier than before.

You’re a professional.

It’s the only thought repeating in your mind, a hamster running on a wheel with no end in sight. You hope it rings true.

“Anyways, since it’s my birthday,” you continue, your voice still unstable. Your eyes wander around the room only to confirm nobody else is here, save for your manager, who’s also playing the role of bartender for tonight. The reality of the situation sinks in a little more, your heart dull and heavy.

“I thought we could get started with a solo cover of one of my favorite singles.” There was originally more you wanted to say, but your words elude you. Everything comes out cold, monotonous. “I really hope you enjoy it. Thank you.”

Satoru cheers and you swear it nearly bursts your ear drums, roaring like a tiger’s battle cry.

The instrumental starts, a hum of stringed chords hits your ears and you break into your starting pose, a smile beaming on your face despite the hurt in your heart. You know this dance like the back of your hand, but it feels uneasy performing in an unfamiliar setting. Lost somewhere in the in between; not quite alone in a dance studio, but not performing to the crowds you’ve grown used to.

There isn’t the usual weight to your moves, slightly deflated like a balloon that’s been left out for hours. The irony isn’t lost on you, singing about staying strong in the face of adversity under the soul crushing weight of disappointment.

You can hear him inhale, suck in dramatically like a child preparing to hold their breath underwater, only to let out a barrage of chants. The usual calls, about you being his favorite, about how cute you are. If this was backed by an army of fans, it would inspire you. But for the moment, it’s a bitter reminder of what could have been. It’s hard. You don’t want to be ungrateful, but you were expecting a bit more for your big day.

It happens before you realize it, glassy eyes forming tears when you blink.

The slight moistening of your eyes doesn’t go unnoticed by Satoru, and his calls start to change. He’s improvising, his words customized solely for you. Clapping in triplets, shouting lines of encouragement at the pause between lyrics. From woo woos to ‘you can do it!’, from oo-ah oo-ahs to “I’ll cheer you on”, from hey heys to “my oshi’s the best!”

It’s hard to not feel touched by his efforts. You’ve grown as a performer, him as a supporter, alongside each other. It warms your heart a little. You’re caught by surprise when you hear yourself giggle in between the lyrics. To be acknowledged is its own reward. What originated from sadness morphs into something else entirely. A fire in your heart, rekindled. Even if no one else showed up, Satoru would always be here. And maybe that’s enough for you.

It’s common practice to choose a spot in the audience to look at, not making direct eye contact with anyone. But nobody tells you what to do when you’re performing to an audience of one. How do you stop yourself from being pulled into Satoru’s form, so bright and radiant he lights up the room?

The song finishes with a flourish, and you hold your pose for a moment just as you’ve practiced. You finally recollect yourself, chest visibly rising and falling from exhaustion.

“S-sorry about that.” You take a moment to wipe your tears as best as you can with the back of your arm. It’s hard not to mess up your makeup, and you can only hope there aren’t trails of black falling down your cheeks. You sniffle, careful not to do so in the mic, but you’re sure he hears considering he’s only a few feet away. “As long as someone’s here, the show will go on. So let’s have lots of fun tonight!”

He cheers at that, lifting his penlight and spinning it around in his hand. A single star in the endless night sky.

“The next song is something I haven’t performed in a long time.” You walk around the stage, your eyes never leaving Satoru’s gaze. “I don’t think I’ve performed it since debuting.”

Satoru gasps upon hearing, humming like a bee from excitement.

“So if you know it, I would love to hear you sing along.” You set your arms down to your side, turning around to face the back of the stage. This song was from the beginning of your journey, a bit more experimental and leaning on the side of cyber pop. Buzzy synths and blocky eight bit pads echo throughout the room, and it rumbles throughout your body. Something about it is more intense than you’re used to, the way the instrumental has no choice but to bounce off the walls and back into you. How it shakes your very being.

It’s easy to get lost in the stage backdrop, an endless sea of black. But when you turn and see your lone fan, lightstick in hand, it’s as if you’re a lost ship guided home by the draw of a lighthouse’s lamp.

Even if you haven’t performed this routine on stage in a year, it feels right. Like this was how it was always meant to be performed. Singular rhythmic claps, Satoru’s roaring voice piercing through your in-ear monitor.

As soon as the first words leave your lips, it brings you back. Back to a time when you and your group were still starting off. To the nearly empty rooms on a Friday night, to the countless hours you’d spend standing on busy streets handing out flyers to promote your show. The first time you ran into Satoru.

Late afternoon in Akihabara. Spring had just come in full bloom, bringing along a litter of cherry blossom petals on the pavement and the accompanying hordes of tourists. It had been a long day, then again, most of those days were long days. The heat always found a way to get to you when you’re standing in your costumes for hours at a time, competing alongside all the other dressed up girls promoting their respective maid cafes and idol groups. Then there were the faceless crowds ignoring you every time you gestured for them to take a flyer, to come to your show. It was the pinnacle of demoralizing work, really.

Satoru was just a faceless being until he stopped in his tracks, the first and only person to talk to you that day.

“Is this tonight?” he asked, his glasses slightly pointed downward just enough so you could see that magnificent blue of his eyes.

“Y-yes. It’d be great if you could come cheer us on,” you responded with a smile.

He took the flyer without a word, folding and putting it in his pocket and you assumed that was that. You didn’t actually expect to see him again. But you did.

When he came to your performance, you didn’t pay him much mind, and you assumed he did the same with you. He stuck out like a sore thumb, choosing to stand towards the back of the room and avoiding the handful of fans at the front, arms crossed as if he didn’t want to be there despite paying for the (admittedly hefty) entry fee.

Yet at the end of the show, he lined up at the counter. Bought only a single cheki ticket to meet with you, to tell you he enjoyed the show, that he looked forward to the next one. You didn’t believe him, but sure enough he showed up at the next concert. And then a single ticket turned into two. And then three, four, until it snowballed into the dozen ticket minimum you recognize him by today.

And now he’s here. Cheering you on so enthusiastically you can practically feel the passion oozing off of him. Oh, how times change.

The song’s over before you know it. It takes you a moment to return from your trip down memory lane.

“Wow, what a throwback, huh?” you sigh dreamily, reminiscing on the past, on how far you’ve come. “I think it’s actually my first time hearing anyone mix to it.”

Gratitude rises and swells in your heart like a river during a rainstorm, nowhere to escape but your lips. It overrides any rational thought in your brain. The words spill faster than you can catch them. “Thank you for being here, Satoru.” With that, you break the number one taboo of addressing anyone directly in the audience.

“Anything for you,” he says softly, smiling and tilting his head just slightly. He doesn’t need to shout or project his voice any further, he knows you hear him. Maybe it’s just the lighting, or your mind playing tricks on you, but you swear the whites of his teeth glimmer.

Heat darts to your cheeks, feverish, and it’s not from the oppressive stage lighting. Your next words do nothing to help.

“This next song,” you pause, “is a love song. Kind of.”

Satoru responds, a scandalous and elongated, “Ooooh?”

Your rehearsed speech falls apart with the reaction Satoru gives you. It wasn’t this awkward when you were practicing it in the mirror, but this feels too direct of a conversation. Expectant, adoring eyes look up at you, waiting with bated breath.

“I, I mean it’s more about following your dreams,” you continue, flustered and taking long, aimless steps across the stage before turning back to face him, “there’s love in that, right?”

“There is!” he says, waving his penlight in the air side to side.

“I’m glad you agree. Well, if you know this song, I would love to hear you sing along.”

That goes without saying. As soon as the instrumental blasts through the speakers, Satoru’s chanting his heart out. A hope intertwined that you’ll listen to him, hear him for who he really is.

Satoru’s energy shows no sign of declining, his voice still as thunderous as when the show started. Your voice guides him along, an adventure navigating between chiptune keys and artificial strings, until it reaches the bridge. A flurry of sugary sweet synths buzz, racing to a climax together. Satoru inhales to prepare for the speech to come.

“I have something to confess!”

This is far from the first time you’ve heard this speech, it’s a staple of the culture after all. But this is the first time it’s been so clear. No one else to muddle his voice. Satoru, and just Satoru.

When he’s the only one in the audience, you decide to indulge him. Bending down on one knee, cupping your hand behind your ear.

“Tell me, tell me!” you exclaim back, voice as sweet as the melody playing through the speakers.

“My oshi really is the cutest!”

It’s a back and forth, and it feels much more like a conversation than it normally would. The words bounce between the two of you so naturally, like a tennis ball during a rally.

“Really really?” You play into it, faux shock weaved into your tone.

“I like her, I like her, I really do love her!” Satoru chants it rhythmically, trance-like. Each syllable is aimed crystal clear, an arrow with startling accuracy shooting you in the heart.

“Do you, do you?”

“I’ve found my princess!”

It’s hard to pose, but you manage to give him a little curtsy before pointing at your tiara. With Satoru chanting his affections to you, you truly feel like royalty tonight.

“Did you, did you?” you respond, tilting your head with a smile.

“She’s my reason for living!”

No matter how many times you tell yourself that the two of you are practically relaying a script, you think there’s a morsel of truth behind his words.

“Is she, is she?”

“Let’s walk through this life together!”

It shouldn’t have such an effect on you, you’ve heard it plenty of times before. From other concerts, from larger crowds. But it does. It has you smiling so wide your cheeks start to ache.

That’s new. When was the last time that happened?

“Let’s go, let’s go!”

Maybe you’re crossing a line when you extend your arm further, his lips so close to the mic you can feel his breath on it. Not that Satoru seems to mind. If anything, his eyes sparkle a bit brighter, his smile eclipsing any doubt in your head.

“I love you!” Satoru yells so loud the volume of it makes you wince. For just a fraction of a second, your smile drops before you place it back on, a well-worn mask. If you didn’t know any better, you would assume this was a real confession.

“L-O-V-E Y-O-U!” It's just how the call ends, but it feels like he’s spelling it out for you with intention in every letter, just in case you didn’t hear him the first time.

With the end of the chant you’re thrown into the last chorus, getting off the floor and resuming your choreo. Satoru resumes to the usual chants, as if he wasn’t yelling something reminiscent of a love confession.

A kick and a pose and that marks the end of the third song of the night. Something about Satoru’s cheers are electrifying, static shooting through every fiber of your being. It takes you a moment to catch your breath before taking a bow.

“And now for the last song of the night,” you pant into the mic, breathless.

“Ehhhh?” A long, high-pitched whine, as is customary when the night’s almost over.

“I know, I know. It’s always sad when things come to an end, isn’t it?”

“But let’s make the most of this together! I want to hear you put everything you got on the line!” you scream into the mic, as if there’s more than a single pair of ears to take in your words.

Satoru cheers wildly at that.

“And I hope I’ll see you at the next event!” you exclaim, waving your spare hand before getting into position.

A guitar riff, followed by a soft bass announces your last song of the night. The notes dance on your skin and you welcome the sensation, taking them in and returning them ten fold. The ruffles of your skirt brush against your thighs as you roll your hips, entrancing like a bird’s mating ritual.

You thought you’d never get sick of the view of a crowd, but there’s a new contender rising in the ranks of your favor. As you circle around the stage in preparation for the chorus, Satoru also seems to be planning something. As soon as the words leave your mouth, Satoru mirrors your dance, penlights shining brightly in hand. Every jump, every sway of your hips, he meets you there.

You’re supposed to be the star of the show but he’s caught your attention, outshining your glow.

As the last chorus makes its round, the words escape a bit more desperate, dancing the line between singing and wailing. Despite everything that’s happened, you’re having fun, maybe some of the most fun you’ve had performing thus far. You’re not sure you want this to end.

With his hands armed with penlights between his fingers, he swipes swiftly across the air, as if he’s cutting the space in between. One, two, three large circles in quick succession before kneeling on the floor, pose akin to an over-dramatic archer. From there on, every spot he hits in the air is calculated, as if he’s aiming for a bullseye on a dartboard before his hands move down to his side. Then, a pulse of motion before he aggressively spins his lightsticks in the air. Swinging low, left, right, left, bringing up his lightsticks past his head, before repeating the motion all over again.

It’s silly. He’s silly. It’s another side of him you haven’t seen before, despite him being such a dedicated fan. Maybe the crowd was just a distraction from seeing Satoru for who he really was.

Maybe it’s a good thing they aren’t here.

That breaks your train of thought. You know you shouldn’t be thinking of him like this – it’s unprofessional. This doesn’t stop the thought from lurking in the background, from reappearing on the surface when you meet his gaze, see the way he smiles for you and–presumably–only you.

As the instrumental fades, you shoot your hands up, gently bringing them down with a graceful flair, pausing when they reach hip height.

Even after a performance of his own, Satoru still cheers with the same momentum from the start of the night. His energy truly knows no bounds.

“Thanks again for coming, I really appreciate it,” you breathe into the mic heavily, your exhaustion now catching up to your body.

“I really had so much fun performing today. I hope we’ll see each other at the next live!” You thank your single fan of the night with a 90 degree bow, before running to gather supplies for the meet and greet session. And knowing Satoru, he will be participating.

As soon as you finish speaking, Satoru’s quick to walk to the counter, as if there’s a tangible chance anything is going to sell out. An exchange of words and bills and he comes bearing a handful of tickets – his usual.

Before you’ve even finished setting things up, Satoru walks up to the stage. There’s no need to wait to be called up when you’re the only performer here, him the only fan.

He waits patiently as you grab a small table and a pack of paint markers hiding behind one end of the stage.

“Thanks for coming, Satoru!” You reach out to grab his hand.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He meets your gaze.

“How did you enjoy the show?”

“Do you even need to ask?”

“I guess not,” you chuckle, “I’m glad you had fun.”

You gesture your manager to come over, and he speedwalks over with an instax camera in hand.

“I know it’s your birthday, but could I ask for something?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Could I…” he trails off, a contemplative look painting his face as he chooses his next words.

“Yeah?” you ask, raising an eyebrow and gesturing for him to continue.

“Could I put my arm around you for this one?” he asks, with newfound confidence.

Your ears perk up at the question. “You’re not gonna post it anywhere, right?”

“‘Course not. You have my word.” He pats his hand against his chest and gives you a reassuring smile.

You give a contemplative glance to your manager holding the polaroid camera, who gives you a shrug.

“Okay, but only this once.”

Then you break a second taboo, letting a fan touch you past a fleeting handshake, the connecting fingers of a heart.

His arm wraps around your waist and you do the same to him. It’s no surprise he’s warm, which makes sense considering he’s been dancing around just as much as you, if not more. However, it is a surprise you’ve never noticed how nice he smells. Then again, live venues aren’t exactly conducive to scents that aren’t sweat and dust.

With a bright flash, the polaroid hums as it prints out the photo. Satoru doesn’t linger, even though you think he would. And when his touch leaves, you almost wish you savored his warmth a bit longer before shaking the thought out of your head.

Every other pose he asks for is within the realm of normal. Several different hand heart variants, cat paws, the occasional silly pose thrown into the mix. It almost feels like a couples shoot. Almost. Pose after pose, flash after flash and you’re left with a handful of polaroids to sign, laid out in a messy array on the table.

“What was your favorite part?” you ask.

At this point, you think you have him figured out. Though Satoru has been to several shows, his answer usually boils down to a few options when you sift through all the embellishments and wordy rambles. Your performance, your outfit, your energy, and –

“Having you all to myself.”

That catches you by surprise.

For the first time since the beginning of the night, your composure cracks. It takes a moment for your mind to catch up with the situation and attempt to put a smile on your face again, but your voice comes out cold and distant.

“Huh?”

“How’d you like your birthday gift?” he asks, ignoring your confusion.

“Gift? Like performing?” you ask back, shaking the paint pen to get ready to sign the polaroid. You look back at him with a wavering smile. “It was fun.”

“No, no, not that.” Satoru waves his hand in front of his face and shakes his head. “Your first sold out live! I bought all the tickets.”

Your hand seizes in the middle of writing, a growing blob of paint forming where the pen is pushed down against the film. There’s no air to be found in your lungs, as if the entirety of the concert hits you all at once. When you find it in yourself to look at him, he stands there with his usual innocent smile painted on his face, patiently awaiting your reaction.

You clear your throat before finally speaking. “Really?”

“Really,” he says with ease, almost prideful at the fact.

The idea of him spending thousands on selling out a show seems implausible, but then again it is Satoru. If anyone were to do something so ridiculous, it would be him.

A nervous laugh escapes you, your mind a whirlwind of thoughts. It feels like you’re on a tightrope, a delicate balance to toe between professionalism and fanservice.

“You like me that much?” It’s a true, honest question. You finally lift the pen off the film, frowning slightly at the pool of paint on the picture.

“Of course!”

You don’t know how to respond to that. There’s no training guide on handling situations like this, but there really should be. You choose your next words carefully, falling back on something safe, distant.

“Thank you for your continued support.” The words come out hesitantly, robotic, like you’re reading off a script.

“Anything for you,” he responds warmly, seemingly unaffected by your tone.

If you heard this at one of your usual concerts, you wouldn’t have paid it much mind – just one of those casual comments a fan says to their oshi. Now, his words have some weight. It’s not something you feel comfortable holding.

But a twinge of guilt hits your heart when you look at him, when he still smiles with admiration on his face, like you’re the one who hung the moon and stars in the night sky. Maybe you’re being too harsh on him; different fans show their support in different ways after all. Hell, you’re sure some of your members would kill to have a fan like him.

Regardless, it’s still hard to shake off the uneasiness that plagues your chest, even harder to come back from a conversation like this.

“Have you considered doing more solo activities?” Satoru asks, ignorant of the thoughts that plague you.

“Eh?” You jerk at his words, not expecting him to carry the conversation. “Not really,” you respond while drawing an assortment of random doodles across the polaroids. The usual decorations, hearts, sparkles, confetti, what have you.

“You really should, I’d be the first to cheer you on!” he says with a smile that puts the sun to shame and that twinge of guilt hits you again. Here he is supporting you in earnest, and you’re judging him for it.

“Would you now?” you attempt to joke but it comes out a bit shaky.

“Of course!” he exclaims, your unease going seemingly unnoticed.

“Well, if I ever do, I’ll be looking forward to seeing you there,” you respond with a soft smile before moving on to labeling the pictures with the date and your signature.

“You promise?” He holds out his pinky, waiting for you to reciprocate. You take a moment to ponder before raising your hand to meet his.

“Promise,” you reply, intertwining your pinkies together. The visible glee on Satoru’s face is a sight to behold. Part of you wonders if he only shows this side of himself to you.

“Oh, I think they should be dry, but still be careful with them.”

“I know, I know, wouldn’t let anything bad happen to them.” He holds them gingerly as you hand them off to him, as if he’s holding a newborn puppy in the palm of his hands.

“Have a nice night, Satoru.”

“You too. See you soon!”

----

The activities of the night catch up to your body when you make it to the green room, plopping on to the vanity chair. If you landed any harder or the chair was any cheaper, you’re sure it would’ve broken from the way you tossed your dead weight onto it. You spin around aimlessly on the chair, staring up at the ceiling as a form of decompression. All you need is a moment to recollect yourself after the emotional roller coaster of a night.

A knock on the door and your back immediately straightens, posture prim and proper as can be. Your manager opens the door, barely peeking through to greet you.

“Hey, good job tonight,” he comments, opening the door fully once he sees you’re just lounging around.

“Thanks.”

“I’ve finished closing up, so just turn off the lights when you head out.”

“Yup, got it.” You give your manager a thumbs up and a smile, and he takes it as a sign to leave.

Before he has the chance to close the door shut, you grab his attention, a question burning in your head. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” he responds, opening the door again so you can see him face to face.

“Was the concert really sold out?”

“Yep,” he states matter-of-factly, “you should get your cut by next week.”

The pay is the last thing on your mind.

“Okay.” It comes out hushed, strained.

“Anything else?” he asks, tapping his fingers against the door.

You ponder it for a moment, but you’re not sure you want to bring up your concerns to him, if it’s worth the fight. What are you supposed to say? The walking piggy bank that sponsored the entirety of your performance makes you just a tad uneasy? But then again, he’s probably just a nice and honest fan. He might have an interesting way of showing it, but at the end of the day he’s proved himself to be harmless. You don’t see a solution that doesn’t lead to an extreme, and you don’t necessarily want to punish him for his support. So you bite your tongue, letting your thoughts stir and simmer.

“No,” you sigh, resigned.

“Alright, then,” he says, none the wiser, “have a nice night.”

“You too.”

You plop back onto your seat with a groan. The desire to relax for another moment outweighs the desire to get out of your costume. It’s easy to find yourself lost in thought, daydreaming about being back home, taking a nice hot bath to relax your sore muscles.

There’s another knock on your door.

“I’ll be out in a few, just give me a moment-”

The door opens with a slow creak.

It’s not your manager.

“Oh, Satoru!” you say, shock coursing through your body as you jump up from your seat, “What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to see you off,” he says, as if it’s normal for him to be back here. Didn’t your manager close up? He would’ve seen him and kicked him out, right?

“I thought we said our goodbyes earlier,” you respond, voice an octave higher than usual. It only comes out when you’re trying your best to defuse a situation. “You know, at the meet and greet portion?”

“I know, I know,” he says, waving his hands as if he’s shooing away your comment, casually walking towards you.

You don’t think he actually knows.

“But we had such a good time, didn’t we?” he asks, taking another step forward to close the distance between the two of you.

“I mean, yeah! But there’s a-”

“What if we let it continue?” he interrupts, “your birthday isn’t over yet.” He glances over at the clock and your eyes follow. 10:12pm. The second hand moves slower than you’d like.

“It’s your special day isn’t it? Let me treat you.” His body presses closer against yours. The pressure makes you more aware of his height against yours, of the muscular build you feel through the thin layer of fabric.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, not this close. “I’m not sure if this is a line I should cross, Satoru,” you mumble, an attempt to convince yourself to abide by the silent oath all idols take when they first get on stage and declare themselves entertainers – be as innocent as possible. No male friends, no dating, and certainly no hookups.

“You don’t have to cross anything,” he says, voice low. His face is dangerously close to yours, and your heart skips a beat when you realize just how beautiful he is – the tufts of white carefully brushing across his forehead, the glint of sweat that makes his skin glisten, and those hypnotic crystalline eyes of his, glimmering with devotion just for you. “I’ll cross it for you.”

Without any warning, his lips press against yours, and it’s nothing like what you expected. Nothing like the crazed, enthused fan you’re used to seeing. It’s gentle, sweet. The taste of melon soda sits on his lips.

The moment your lips part to say something, Satoru takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in, teasingly pressing against yours. His hand grabs yours before you can react, fingers intertwining until it represents something romantic. You feel your defenses slipping as his other hand grabs your chin to deepen the kiss.

You hate to admit it, but he’s a good kisser. Somehow, it comes so naturally with him. A dance shared between the two of you, except there’s no stage platform keeping you apart. He’s right here, not an inch of space to be found between your bodies. Everything about him overwhelms you – his gentle hand holding yours, the softness of his lips, the way he nearly whimpers with every kiss, needy and desperate for more.

Satoru’s knee pushes against your thighs, pressing to split your legs apart until your crotch rests on top of him.

“Let me spoil you,” he pleads, out of breath.

It’s far from the end, it’s just the beginning. A love letter to each part of your body, delicately inked with the utmost care.

His lips bite the tip of your right glove, gripping the fabric before pulling off to reveal your bare hands. The sight sends heat rushing to your core, seeing him hold the glove between his lips before spitting it out. When you cover your face with your gloved hand from embarrassment, Satoru meets you there. A soft nip at your finger before peeling the other glove off your hand, eyes looking up at you with something dark, something low. You don’t recognize it.

Once your hands are bare, he holds them gently. No excited death grip like the first time he held them at a meet and greet.

“I’m so lucky I get to hold these cute hands of yours.” Open mouth kisses from the tip of your fingers, slowly making their way up your forearm, your bicep, until he meets your shoulder.

“W-wait, Satoru, I’m still kinda sweaty, let me-”

“You think that bothers me? I love every part of you.” He drags his tongue up your forearm again before kissing and sucking on the skin. “And I really do mean every part.”

Over the months, you’ve learned that Satoru is many things, but he’s not a liar. The way he explores every inch of your body is filled with admiration. You feel it in the way he leaves messy kisses on your skin, nearly moaning when he licks the sweat off you.

When he brings your arms up, you pick up on what he’s going to do next and rush to get your words out. “W-wait, S-Satoru it’s kinda gross, isn’t it?”

“Not to me,” he says it like it’s an undeniable truth, “but if you think so, then I’ll just have to clean you up, right?” As if to prove his point, Satoru flicks his tongue before dragging a stripe against the curve of your underarm. From there he licks the droplets off of you like a man at the brink of dehydration who just found an oasis. He’s messy and wet, leaving nothing behind but his spit as he licks up anything and everything perspired from your body. “Tastes sweet to me.”

With that he goes in for the other side, once again lapping at your sweat like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. Even when he’s licked up all there is to be savored, he’s not finished until he leaves sloppy kisses, sucking and nipping at the skin. He bites a little too hard for your liking, earning a yelp from you.

“Sorry, couldn’t help myself, you taste so good,” Satoru’s quick to apologize, looking at you with a cheeky smile, “wanted to have a bite to myself.”

And then he’s squatting onto his knees, hands delicately massaging your thigh as he looks up at you to ask, “could you lift your skirt for me, sweetheart?”

You comply, bringing up the hem of your skirt. Since you haven’t started your undressing process of the night, you’re still wearing your safety shorts. Satoru doesn’t seem to mind, basking at the sight of your upper thighs he’s only caught glimpses of when you jump on stage.

“You don’t need this with me.” He pulls on the hem of your shorts, swiftly bringing them down to your ankles, as if he’s unwrapping a present with a pull of a bow.

You’re not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that you can’t see him under your skirt, getting lost in the layers of crinoline and ruffles that blend in with his hair. It adds a layer of anticipation, being unable to see what exactly he’s doing, though you’re not sure if you would be able to look at him even without the barrier of the skirt.

Satoru starts low, plush lips pressed against your ankle, tongue tracing up your calf and leaving a wet kiss on your thigh. One moment you feel a hint of teeth around your garter, and the next you feel it loosen and fall to your feet.

Feeling too exposed, you instinctively press your legs together – not that this stops Satoru.

His tongue presses against the seam created from your thighs pressed against each other, and a soft moan slips from your lips.

“If you want more, you’ll have to open up,” he pants breathily, planting another open mouthed kiss on your leg.

There’s an aching want growing in your core, burning hot unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. When he looks up at you, you recognize the way his eyes glimmer with determination. You think you can trust him to tame it. And though Satoru was the first to cross the line, you aren’t any better.

You hesitantly shuffle your legs apart, unable to meet his eyes, waiting nervously for what’s to come.

Satoru is quick to take the opportunity.

He dives in, tongue pressed against the cotton of your underwear. His tongue rolls against your clit through the fabric, and you desperately wish the thin layer wasn’t there.

“Working so hard for me,” he coos, talking directly into your pussy, “you deserve a little treat.”

You want to protest that you’d work hard even if he wasn’t there, but you’re not sure that’s true anymore. The only sound that leaves your mouth is a whine as his tongue ghosts over your clit.

The wet sounds that echo throughout the room fills you with embarrassment, and you’d be regretting it if it didn’t feel so damn good. You don’t remember the last time you felt like this. Satoru’s just too skilled, his tongue pressing flat against your clit before flicking and you respond with a choked back whine.

It shouldn’t matter, you’ve crossed the line already. But there’s something about letting him hear you like this that sets your face ablaze.

Satoru’s fingers press against your folds through the fabric, spreading them apart before his tongue hones in on your clit. Each drag of his tongue draws shapes onto the bundle of nerves with intention. If you could think properly, maybe you’d be able to make out the letters, another confession of his love to you.

Only once your underwear is thoroughly soaked with a mix of his spit and your arousal, does he pull the fabric to the side. Your breath hitches at the sudden exposure, the cold air of the room fanning against your skin. The sensation doesn’t last long as Satoru’s face enthusiastically presses into your cunt. Everything about it is too much; the way his nose presses against your clit, his tongue lapping messily between your folds.

A finger slips in with little resistance around the ring of muscle and you can’t hold your moans back anymore.

“You like that?” he asks.

You give him a shy nod.

“Then lemme hear more of you,” he says, before planting his face back into your pussy.

The sounds get louder as he practically makes out with your pussy. Lips pressed against your clit before a sliver of tongue makes its way out, teasing you with a flick.

Satoru slips in another finger and you groan at the fullness. You knew his hands were large, you’ve felt them before countless times during your post-concert handshakes. Maybe you should’ve taken a longer look at them, analyzed them more thoroughly. The thought never crossed your mind that he would use them like this, knuckles deep into your cunt.

The way he explores your body scares you. How he knows where to press to get a reaction, how to hook his fingers to get you to lean into his touch. As if he absorbed anything and everything there is to know about you through your fleeting moments together. His fingers curl and hit a spot that has you weak in the knees, leaning back onto the counter to find balance.

“Wait, please,” you whine, high pitched and needy. It gets harder to keep your skirt up for him, legs weak from his ministrations.

“Hey, I said keep it up, didn’t I?” he pauses, taking a moment to look up at you from the ruffles.

“I-I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about, gorgeous. Just wanna see your face when you cum on my tongue.” With that, he goes back in, far more aggressive than before. His fingers move faster, drawing out wet squelches from your pussy with each pass. The noises he makes are far too lewd for your ears, slurping and groaning as he laps at your clit. This is more the Satoru you recognize, the one you saw earlier tonight. Satoru, who loses himself in the heat of the moment, who eats you out like a man starved.

It’s obvious you’re close with how much your legs tighten. Satoru senses this too, his pace intensifying to get you there.

“Let it all out for me sweetie,” he pants into your cunt between flicks of his tongue. That winding coil in your core snaps and the grip around your skirt tightens as you cum on his tongue. You can’t hold your moans back, letting them messily spill from your mouth as a warm pleasure rushes through your body.

Satoru doesn’t stop, even after the moans have left your body and your muscles have started to relax again. Your heart races at the realization that he wants more.

“Please, please, please, it’s too much-”

“It’s okay, I know you can do it,” he coos, far too sweetly for what he’s asking for you,“lemme give you another, ok?”

Your legs tremble, muscles spasming as his tongue works around your clit in earnest, swirling around the nub as his fingers continue to press against your g-spot. He doesn’t relent when you hand grips onto his hair – if anything it encourages him to go harder. Whatever it takes to get you closer to clenching around his fingers and moan for him in that saccharine voice of yours.

And it works – almost hurts when you cum around his fingers a second time without so much a break. You can’t stop yourself from moaning his name, nearly on the same level of adoration he gives you during your concerts. Satoru seems to be getting a kick out of it, his breathing becoming more labored the more you call for him.

When he takes his fingers out, you wince at the feeling, still sensitive from your orgasms. Your legs threaten to give out on you, but Satoru’s quick to wrap his hand around your waist.

“You did so good for me,” he rushes in to kiss you, and the taste of melon soda barely lingers. You taste yourself– a bit bitter and salty–on his lips, on his tongue when you open and entice him to take you.

Satoru pulls on the elastic of your skirt, raising it up until it’s past your waist. The hem of your skirt now barely covers your exposed pussy, the ruffles brushing it against it as you shift.

He turns and bends you over the vanity, the mirror’s lights shining brightly in your face. It’s not that far off from stage lighting — white rings reflected back in your pupils as you stare back at your reflection.

“You know how cute you are?” he whispers into your ear, so close you can feel the warmth from his words. “Look what you’ve done to me.”

You can’t exactly look back to see it, but you feel it. Something solid pressed against you, wrapped in the cotton of his pants, sliding in between your wet folds. It only takes a moment for him to free himself from the confine of fabric, to feel something hot and heavy and real pushing against you.

“You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of this,” he says, cockhead sitting on top of your folds. Just feeling you, skin to skin, earns a visceral reaction from him. He can’t stop himself from moaning at the warmth of your cunt, even when it’s just the tip sinking in.

Satoru savors every moment of pushing himself into you, hands shaking as he searches to hold yours. The sound you let out once he bottoms out is foreign to your ears. It stretches you out so much you regret not turning around to get a good look at it.

Satoru starts slow, but you can feel the restraint in his movements. A languid roll of his hips as he fucks into you, littering your neck with kisses. You attempt to tell him not to bite, but all you can let out is a sweet moan when he does.

The drag of his cock against your walls is dangerously addictive, like you could be hooked on this forever. And though it feels good, it’s not enough. His strokes are teasingly slow, as if he wants you to ask for more.

Again, Satoru stumps you by showing how much self control he has. If his wotagei was anything to go off of, you were expecting something frenzied and manic. But you do see a part of his passion reflected in his actions. In the way his words leave his tongue, honeyed and sweet. In the way he fucks you with a tenderness you weren’t sure he would ever be capable of.

“Feelin’ good?”

“Mmhm,” you nod, attempting to hold your voice back from sounding any lewder.

Satoru’s eyes watch over you through the reflection, corners of his lips upturned as you lose yourself into him, voice nothing but dulcet moans. A rush of red rises to his cheeks, making him burn brighter than before.

“God, you’re going to be the end of me,” Satoru groans, his chest pressing against your back until there’s no space left between your bodies, the heat radiating off of him making it feel like you’re melting. With the way he’s rolling his hips into you, you might as well be. Each drag of his cock makes you dizzy, makes you wish you threw your ideals to the side far sooner.

It just feels too good; part of you wonders if this is how lovers do. Maybe not in this particular location or situation, but in the way his hand reaches over to yours. Fingers finding each other and intertwining once again, as if this was always the way it was meant to be. Something drums up in your heart – you don’t want to let go. Desire unfurls in your chest and you want to live in the moment, but you also wish you could bottle it up and save it forever, especially when his soft lips gently kiss your neck before biting to leave yet another mark.

As sweet as it is, you think you’re getting a bit greedy. You want to see more, want to see the Satoru you’ve come to appreciate in all his frenzied affection. With the way he’s moving so slow, he has to be testing you, right? A way to make you say the magic words just so he can hear them, the tone and pitch of your voice, the way you enunciate every syllable so sweetly, commit them to memory. Or maybe he thinks you can’t handle it, in which case, you want to show him you can. A way of thanking him for his years of support.

You don’t do it on purpose – you just can’t help it, looking at him all doe-eyed and a slight pout to your lips. “S-Satoru, harder,” you whine, and something breaks in him. Any ounce of self control goes out the window as soon as you mutter those words.

“Whatever you say, princess,” he mewls, arms wrapping around your lower waist.

His fingers search for your clit, flipping through the layers of ruffles before pressing onto the bud. Within moments he’s playing with it like it’s all he’s ever known, until he has you whining and wincing from his touch. Drawing rough shapes around the bundle of nerves until your muscles squeeze around him.

He starts fucking into you harder, the sound of skin slapping far too loud to ignore. Your hand grips onto his harder, skin balmy from the sweat and heat emanating from both of you.

“You like that, princess?” he asks in a huff, barely able to contain his lust.

All you’re able to let out is a whimper and a nod, and Satoru takes it as a sign to continue.

You don’t recognize yourself in the reflection, tiara crooked, stage outfit unkempt, the debauched expressions you make as your number one fan fucks you senseless. But it doesn’t matter – there’s only one thing on your mind at this very moment, that hot tension in your stomach rapidly rolling towards its peak.

“S-Satoru, I’m, I’m gonna cum-”

“Cum for me,” Satoru growls breathily into your ear, gently kissing the shell before continuing, “let it all out just for me.”

When your climax washes over you, it’s far more intense than the others he’s given you tonight. Legs trembling as pure bliss rushes throughout your body, even as Satoru continues fucking you through it. It’s too much, moaning his name as a way to talk yourself through it. Every part of you is warm and fuzzy as pleasure runs its course.

Satoru isn’t far behind, he’d probably want this to last longer but he just can’t – not with the way your walls clench and squeeze around him. With a few more strokes he’s burying himself deep into you, huffing and panting as he empties hot, white ropes of his seed into you.

It takes a moment to peel away from him, and the second you do, he’s quick to tighten his grasp around you, to hold you in your arms just a bit longer.

Satoru gives you a kiss on the cheek, something gentle and chaste.

“Did you like your present?”

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk smut #gojo satoru smut #cw.dubcon #sen writes #sen fics #s.jjk #idoltalk

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soju-vibe · 1 year ago

Text

⋆｡° ʚĭɞೃfairy˚˖grunge°˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚✧˖° with lookbook🧚‍♀️

Actually, I just tried making it at first and only after completing it, I decided on a fairy grunge concept (same as the way I usually work🤭). Plz enjoy it and I've been through a lot of testing but if you still have any other issues plz let me know! And the shirring midi skirt is a modified item from the vampire pack skirt, so it's a vampire pack dlc add-on. You need a vampire pack to use this skirt.

Vintage Frill Top_fixed (Issue Fixed! u can redownload it!) - EA mesh edit - 28 swatches - teen - elder

Cubic Ribbed Sleeveless - EA mesh edit - 18 swatches - teen - elder

Shirring Midi Skirt_Vampire Add-On (Issue Fixed!) - EA mesh edit - 27 swatches - teen - elder

SFS DOWNLOAD

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witchpassing · 21 days ago

Note

the Standard Reference Maid herself... you'll have to forgive me for saying this, marissa, but i've always found ms. izayoi to be a fairly middle-of-the-pack maid, visually speaking. perfectly neat and elegant, of course, but a little low on flourish; perhaps befitting her nature as a representative of her kind...? that said, as with any maid worth her apron, she goes up a full letter grade if she's wearing tights, and the specifics of her terrible personality grant her a charm that her design alone can't be expected to convey. four frills out of five for the ever-professional sakuya-san.

#enquiries #maid review service

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gremlingottoosilly · 1 year ago

Note

imagining a scenario where Mrs. König packs her husband’s lunch so he can take it to work (or like, he can take it with him on the day he’s deployed, if that makes sense)

and like, she spoils him for lunch. literally

cuts the crusts off his sandwiches

peels his orange

little fancy shapes for his fruit??? you bet

those gummy snacks and cookies??? absolutely

and can’t forget, a lovely note (maybe even a very explicit photo >wink wink<)

and keep it up, now König expects his lunch made by Mrs. König!!!!

which is her evil plan all along because i bet one day when she’s incredibly angry when she makes his lunch…

and he opens to find:

sandwich crusts ON.

n o c o o k i e

orange is orange. unpeeled

no notes of love

fruit is fruit shaped. not dino shaped :(

now König can spend three months of deployment thinking about his actions.

I recently got addicted to those lunch box videos on TikTok, anon, I AM INVESTED!! Just being Konig's housewife, having the prettiest apron with some cute frills all around, with laces and little ribbons everywhere - it's not really practical, but you have a huge collection of those and you can afford to make them a bit messy, and dirty. You don't have a lot of things to do at home, watching TV and sitting on your laptop gets boring after the first few weeks, especially when Konig has desk duty and leaves the house for the whole day instead of spending time with you or getting on facetime while on his mission. You're cooking for him, take out so so many lunchbox ideas!! Spend too much money on various lunchboxes, on different designs, and all of those cute things you can use to cut bread and fruits, to make some elaborate shapes and slowly engage your husband to eat cute stuff instead of just sliding his card to get some slop on the base( Everyone is so so so jealous of him, he is getting rice balls with nice seasonings and little seaweed cutouts that make it look like pandas, he is having all of those cute shapes for his apples and carrots!! That giant three-story boxed with ice and metal sections...and then it all suddenly stops.

He is not just getting a dry and cold sandwich - they are literally just covered in their shop packaging, you don't even bother to cook for him anymore. sometimes you miss the days entirely, leaving him to return to the base kitchen and find out that he is unable to eat here anymore because he just knows he messed up and you're mad at him( this is the only way you can get to him - Konig isn't a cruel husband, even though he keeps you locked in the house, but he is a pretty dense one, ignoring your wishes and often making you beg for even the slightest of privileges, like getting out of the house to do your garden, or go to some nice cafes and actually see people. He will apologize profusely, knowing how much he hurt you( his heart still in the wrong place, he don't understand why would you want to join some dumb book club when you can spend time at home, but he is forced to allow you to go out, just so he could see his pretty housewife smiling again, caring for him like a proper girl should

#cod #konig x reader #konig #yandere konig

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brewed-pangolin · 3 months ago

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The Adonis belt. Gym Rat Soap's most prized secret weapon.

Smug bastard teasing you with it by wearing a tattered gym shirt torn just below his navel.

Those sculpted devil horns luring your gaze to the waistband of his shorts, then dangerously lower to the Scottish iron hidden just beneath the veil of nylon fabric.

You don't care when he catches your eyes staring at him. He's used to it. Boosts his ego. Puffing his chest out as he moves on from the bench press to the nearest rower. Your addicted stare never leaving his and that overly confident stride.

"Are you done?"

A loud voice asks, pulling you out of a daze. Realizing you've been sitting on the bike motionless with a gaping maw for the better part of two full minutes.

"Oh shit. Sorry." Is all you can manage, another apology rolling over your lips as you hastily wipe down the seat of the bike.

Escaping to a corner bench to lick your wounds of embarrassment. Taking a few long sips from your water bottle, cooling the heat radiating in your lower belly. Unaware of the figure turning around the corner until he blocks your view of the gym completely.

"Ya a'right, lass?" He questions, noting your flusterd state. His voice hoarse and low. A sinfully thick accent particularly accentuating the 'ass'.

You nod. Barely.

Words a far gone cry. Mind blank. Fully dumbstruck as this 'sculpted by the God's' man stands above in all his smug glory.

"Aye? Ya sure? Could use a good cardio partner."

You hesitate. Pondering his words in your garbage disposal of a brain, leaning over to take a quick glance at the packed running section behind him.

"The treadmills are full." You state, trying to contain the silent tremble in your voice. Failing due to the dark look on his eyes.

He scoffs. Shaking his head. The frills of his mohawk swaying from excess sweat as he closes the distance. Never removing his hungry stare.

"Wasn't referrin' to tha' kinda cardio."

Fuck.

Gym Rat Soap Masterlist

#soap sqaud™️#gym rat soap #hes such a menace #i love him #the curse of adonis #johnny soap mactavish #soap mactavish #johnny mactavish x you #johnny mactavish x reader #cod soap #call of duty #cod

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hotyanderedaddies · 11 months ago

Note

you are legit my fav author on here your stories are amazing, could I possibly request yandere wolf daddy with a forced feminized male reader ( who secretly enjoys it)

and can I be 🪬 anon? :3

[Yandere! Werewolf Daddy x Male! Reader]

·゜·:.。..。.:·☆·゜·:.。..。.:·☆

"Princess, it's time to wake up," Daddy whispered into your ear as he tightened his hold on you, squeezing you in closer to his hairy chest. He leaned down and placed a large kiss onto your forehead, exaggerating his kissing noises.

You grunted in response, already rolling your eyes at the older werewolf's foolishness.

The big werewolf rolled out from under you and stood up from the bed, stretching his powerful arms over himself. He looked down at you and mock-frowned when he saw that you haven't budged, too tired to get out of bed at such an obscene hour (7 AM).

Daddy crossed his muscled arms over his beefy chest, tsking at you. "Princess," he warned, putting on an authoritative air, "it's time to get up so we can get ready for the day. Now be a good girl and listen to Daddy."

"Shut up..." you whined, shoving the bubblegum pink pillow over your head in frustration.

You heard Daddy utter out a low growl.

Before you knew it, Daddy threw your tiny body over his broad shoulder. He stomped over towards the bathroom, plopping you on your feet in front of the tub.

"I'll lay your clothes out on the bed," Daddy said as he reached over and turned on the hot water for the shower, steam already billowing out. "Unless, you want some of Daddy's help?"

"Pass," you muttered, slamming the bathroom door shut so that you had some semblance of privacy.

As you washed yourself under the hot water of the shower, you couldn't help but sigh as you lathered up your hair with the sickly sweet strawberry scented shampoo. It was such a girly smell and the bottle was even bright pink with flecks of glitter garnishing it- you wouldn't have been caught dead using it at the gym with all of your buddies around.

Still, even you had to admit that it did smell a little good. You couldn't resist taking a big whiff of the sweet strawberries as you lathered up your longer hair that Daddy forbade you to cut.

Normally, you opted for buzzcuts since it was an easier style to manage, but now your hair was shaggy and starting to cover up your ears due to its longer-than-normal length.

After rinsing out the suds from your hair, you grabbed your equally sweet smelling body wash (this one shaped like a red candied apple), and washed yourself.

It's been four months since Daddy stole you.

You'd been packing up your stuff to move out of your freshman dorm at college. You'd been all set to leave the next morning and had lied down to get some much needed sleep.

That'd been when Daddy had snuck in through your open window, and had snatched you out of bed.

He'd taken you to the cabin he calls "Home", where he'd claimed that you were soulmates and where he dotes on you hand and foot...

and where he insists on calling you "Princess", "Baby Girl", "Sweetiepie", et cetera.

Daddy dresses you up in the girliest clothes that he can find, and he keeps on giving you gifts that would traditionally belong on the more feminine side of the spectrum (roses, jewelry, vibrators).

It was mortifying for a manly athlete such as yourself... or at least, it used to be.

Despite your annoyance, even you had to admit that having such a strong, hunky, muscly wolf daddy pampering you constantly was sorta nice.

Ignoring your irritation for the time being, you stepped out of the shower and dried yourself off. You walked back into the bedroom and nearly wailed at the hot pink hoodie and light blue skinny jeans that Daddy had picked out for you to wear. It was a rather tame outfit considering that there were no frills or glitter this time; but you were never a big fan of pink to be honest.

Still, not wanting another spanking, you yanked on the clothes, surprised at how soft the fabric of the hoode was. Despite its garish color, the fabric was soft to the touch like fleece, and you could definitely smell Daddy's musk on it from when he absolutely rolled around on it to scent it.

As you examined yourself in the mirror, the bedroom door swung open and Daddy sauntered in, wearing tattered blue jeans and no shirt, allowing his buff chest muscles to be on display.

The split second his eyes landed on you, Daddy rushed forward and wrapped you up in his arms, nuzzling you lovingly.

"You look so cute, Princess," Daddy gushed happily. "You're Daddy's Baby Girl, right?"

The way Daddy looked at you with such love and adoration in his eyes, combined with the softness of the hoodie, the sweet scent of the strawberry shampoo, and the firmness of Daddy's large muscles caused you to completely melt into the wolf daddy's hold.

"Yeah, yeah," you mumbled, blushing slightly as you rested your head on Daddy's chest, hearing the deep rumble of contentment as he kissed your forehead.

#yandere boyfriend #yandere boy #yandere daddy #yandere x reader #yandere x you #werewolf #yandere werewolf #obsessive love #possessive boyfriend #Asks #Dom Daddy #Daddy x Reader #Male Reader #yandere x male darling #yandere x male reader

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the-californicationist · 11 months ago

Text

The Green Light

Price/FReader - somnophilia, cnc

MDNI/18+

AO3 - Comments/Reblogs lovingly appreciated

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+

John had been on four planes, three trains, two boats, and a goddamn moped to make it back home tonight, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept in a real bed. He could feel all of his bones individually, and they all ached in their own unique ways. He was bruised, limping, and wearing a shiner on one eye, battered to the point of agony. But still, despite his emotional, mental, and physical exhaustion; all he could think about was what color panties you had on.

It had started as a joke. You’d been watching some television show where the characters used the red-light, green-light system for getting down and dirty, and you’d suggested wearing bright green panties for when you wanted John to wake you up with his cock. Jokes turned into flirting, and flirting turned into an online purchase, and now, you were able to call him to action while you were fast asleep.

He’d been hesitant at first, but after you pinky promised that you’d tell him to stop if you wanted him to stop, he agreed to try it out. When he’d packed his bags to go back to his duty, you’d tucked one of your brand new green thongs into the side pocket, leaving him a clear message for when he came back. Now, as he walked in the house, he would kill to see those bright green frills tucked beneath his sheets, and he was hungry to taste your warm hole with his tongue.

John shed his gear bag and jacket at the door. He desperately needed a shower, but he was too eager, too needy. He made his way directly to your bedroom and peered into the dark. You were sound asleep, half in and half out of the duvet, making soft snuffling sounds against his pillow. You wanted to know the moment that he was home safe. So, there you were, sprawled and waiting for him.

He shucked off his pants and shirt, making himself naked in front of your sleeping form. John was already growing harder, and with each deep, sleepy breath, he hungered more and more to get a taste of your body. His eyes raked over your scantily clad form. The blanket was covering too much of you to tell him what you were wearing, but he knew it wasn't much. Your neck was bare down to your back, and your shapely calves led up to juicy, unclothed thighs. With a careful hand, John slowly tugged the blanket up over your ass, and he prayed to any god who would listen that your panties were garishly green.

The sigh that left his lungs struggled to escape, constricted by his gasping throat as he saw that you were clad in a neon green, crotchless bodysuit. It was so over the top, and such a departure from your cozy, comfy persona that he knew you’d picked it out on purpose, just for him, just for his return.

You snored a little and readjusted yourself, causing Price to step back, not wanting to wake you. But, as you did, the duvet slipped off of you and John could read the words you’d written in black sharpie before you’d gone to bed. Across your belly, just above your panty line, you’d scrawled, “Welcome home!” and added hearts leading down to your freshly shaven pussy.

John felt all of the blood in his enormous body rush to where it was needed: his heavy, throbbing cock.

Your center was uncovered in the crotchless outfit, and your folds gleamed in the dim light of the bedroom. You were wet, perhaps by your own hand earlier in the night, and John bent down to get a closer look. Gingerly, he used his fingers to gently press apart your lips, finding your core warm and ready for him. He let his thick digits slide into position, and he began to slowly massage lazy, easy circles into your walls.

Goddamn you were pliant. Your body’s willingness to cede to his heavy petting made him groan deeply, catching himself so he wouldn’t wake you up. As he pushed his fingers into you, your muscles eased. Usually, they were tight and tense, eager to come and excited to feel his presence. But now, you were asleep, ignorant of his work in your conscious mind, and only your body was available to communicate with him.

So, it did. Your body loosened you, relaxing your walls. It made your groin swell, filling it with blood. It sent him your wetness, letting him know all of his desires were welcome in you. He put his mouth to your clit, suckling on you as gently as he could, daring to taste your sweetness as he fingered you in your sleep. As you became slick enough to fuck in earnest on his hand, he created the most outrageous noises, sticky and milky, playing in your come with greedy joy, licking you over and over again, until he could feel you trembling beneath his mouth. You moaned, and he slowed his efforts, trying to determine if you were truly asleep. You went back to your deep breathing, and John decided it was now or never.

He mounted you like an animal, looming over you like a predator does to its prey, his huge shoulders and triceps bulging as he situated himself on the mattress. His breathing had become labored, and as he dipped the head of his cock into your pulsing hole, he let out a long, ragged sigh of relief.

You moaned again, involuntarily squeezing your walls around him, reacting in the way nature intended, shameless and bold in your sleeping want. You felt like heaven, like the most comforting embrace. And for a man weary with pain, being cradled by you in the soft petals of your flower was like being magically healed. He felt the plump head of his cock drag itself along your core, slipping through your relaxed wetness easily, searching for the bottom of your warm pool, sinking into you like a stone in a still pond, crashing through the silky embrace of your body.

John aimed to fuck you so slowly that you wouldn’t wake up until the very end. He wanted to see how far he could go, and he needed to show you how surely he trusted you. This was something you’d needed from him, and now that he knew how your body would react to his work, he hungered for it, too.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy you when you were awake and participating. You were excellent in bed, and you made him feel overcome with ecstasy nearly every time you fucked each other. But, there was something so innocent and honest about your sleeping form. Your unconscious body couldn’t hold itself back. If it was hungry for him, he would know it. Your body would feed itself to him; the ultimate submission. The responsibility and trust you’d given him was immense, and the honor of it felt better than any medal he’d ever pinned to his uniform.

He fucked you a little faster, making an effort not to distract you from your slumber, and he noticed your body was positively flooding your pussy with lubrication. You were about to come, he realized, and he watched, wide-eyed, as it happened.

Your body didn’t tense as it normally did. Instead, you rode your orgasm like a low wave, gently riding across the roiling, tumbling sea that was bursting within you. You nearly wet yourself from the outpouring of your slick, soaking John’s cock and matting the dense hair around his base. You were whimpering sweetly for him in an ancient tongue, one that society had suppressed. It was so natural to hear, and so pure. John reveled in you like Bacchus, slaking his thirst with your come, unable to sate his hedonism with just one taste. He wanted it all.

He tried to hold it together, but he heard himself whimpering above you, struggling to keep himself from following you into the pleasure-filled abyss.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered below his breath. He felt himself wanting to scream out your name, to wake you, to call you to join him in this joyful work, but he buried it somewhere deep in his throat, grunting darkly for you instead with each and every thrust.

Then, you moaned more intensely, and he knew you were stirring awake. He wanted to slow down, to lull you back to sleep, but his body was no longer under his command. It thrust him into you, loose like a hound off-leash, rushing and pounding with a singular purpose.

“John?” You whispered, trying to understand what was happening to you.

“Fuck, m’sorry, love,” he moaned, the words slurred and malformed, “Couldn’t wait. Had to have you. Right fuckin’ now.”

Your mind fed you all the pleasure you’d been missing, slamming into your brain all at once, and he felt the result. You bared down on him harder than you’d ever done before, your pussy clenching around his cock, making it almost impossible for him to move. The wet, supple friction that slipped across his hard rod was just what he needed to come, and you wrenched it from him, stealing it with your unimaginable fury of pleasure.

He gasped, unable to control his reactions,

“Oh! Oh, fuck! I’m… I’m gonna come. Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

You couldn’t say anything; you were blinded by your climax, feeling the waves of euphoria crash into you over and over, washing you in deep, a rapturous sea. John’s cock was so deep within you, making you feel so full, and since he had made you so soft and ready for him, your pleasure hit you as hard as it could.

As he filled you, you heard him beg for something he couldn’t name,

“Please, love… Fuck. Fuck. Bloody hell, please. Please…”

“Come in me, John,” you coaxed him, angling your hips so he could sink himself deeper into your center, “I want to feel you come in me. Please.”

He turned you onto your side and repositioned himself so that he could fuck you as your big spoon, wrapping you in his arms and locking you in place, trapping you against him as he bucked. As he did, he clutched at you cruelly, trying to channel all of his reserved energy into a last-moment’s effort. Now that you were awake, he could slam himself into you with abandon, and you felt him lose control of his movements. He was shaking your whole body, making your bones shudder beneath his huge weight, crafting sticky, popping, slapping noises as he slammed skin into glorious skin.

Finally, he stuttered in his pounding, and your pussy stretched with the tell-tale throb of his heavy cock as it pulsed from dumping rope after rope of cream into your hole. You could feel it filling you, hot and thick. His eyes were clenched shut, unable to face the unearthly passion you had wrought together.

“Welcome home, baby,” you kissed his hand gently, running your nails along his heavy forearm, earning yourself another tremulous groan.

He smiled at you, riding out his high in your dripping hole,

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #captain john price #captain price #john price #captain price x reader #cod #captain price x you

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maddiethedogstories · 4 months ago

Text

The Playdate - 1

"Come on, Mia! Get your little tushy in gear! We're already late!" Lisa, Mia's girlfriend yelled at the 25-year-old woman from the garage.

Mia was dragging her feet. The newly minted attorney was wearing her favorite, pink, My Little Pony T-shirt. Her cute jean shorts, embroidered with multicolored hearts and stars, were worn over childish, cotton Disney-princess panties. On her feet, she wore white socks with frills on the top under light-up, pink sneakers. Her hair was tied back in braids with cute pink ribbons tied into bows holding them in place. On top of her head sat her pink sunglasses with heart shaped rims. If it wasn't for her small, but noticable breasts, and curvy ass, she could have easily been mistaken for a second grader. And, given the Mommy Domme/Little Girl relationship she was in with Lisa, that was the point.

Normally, Mia would be ecstatic to have a 'middle' day out in the world with Lisa. Exploring her surroundings with all of the exuberance of a grade schooler while her 'Mommy' looked after her was exhilarating. Today, though, Mia was upset. Instead of going to the zoo, to a park, or to an aquarium, they were going over to Mommy's best friend Sasha's house for a playdate with Sasha's little, Tammy.

Mia hated playdates with Tammy. Mia had to agree, when Lisa brought it up, that Lisa and Tammy were always more than friendly and kind to her. However, in middle-mode, playdates with Tammy were always the worst.

Despite both women being into ageplay, Lisa preferred to act like she looked currently: like a precocious, sometimes bratty, sometimes angelic, seven-year-old. Tammy, however, on her best day, acted like a stupid, smelly little two-year-old. Worse, in Mia's opinion, sometimes, if Tammy was feeling really little, she would let herself regress so far that she wouldn't even let herself crawl. That meant that Sasha and Tammy's house was full of nothing but baby toys and every playdate in their home was incredibly boring for Mia as a middle.

However, if that was it, Mia wouldn't complain so much. She could always overcome boredom with a little tablet time, and, to keep the peace, Lisa was always ready to allow her to have that.

No, what worried Mia more than being bored playing with Tammy was Sasha. Despite always being kind and friendly to Mia, Mia couldn't help but feel like she was being stared at by a predator every time she was around the woman. Mia was resolutely a middle, not a little, meaning she never wore pull-ups or diapers, didn't use a pacifier, ate mostly adult foods, and, only rarely sucked her thumb. Mia had absolutely no interest in acting like a big smelly baby like Tammy.

Mia was certain, however, that Sasha wanted to drop Mia to Tammy's level. When Mia and Lisa spent time with Sasha and Tammy, Sasha was always 'accidentally' treating Mia like an infant or toddler. She'd bring Mia her juice in a bottle or sippy cup. She'd only talk to her in baby talk. Once, when Tammy pooped her pants, Sasha pulled back Mia's shorts and checked her first, causing the small woman to turn bright red in embarrassment.

However, every time Sasha was called out on her behavior, she quickly apologized and stated it was all just "a force of habit." Lisa always bought that excuse. Mia was not so certain.

Adding to Mia's fears about Sasha, Mia was certain that just two weeks ago she had caught Sasha trying to convince Mia's Mommy to put Mia in diapers over the phone. Mia confronted Lisa about the conversation, and the other woman had denied that that was what it was about. But, Mia had been with her Mommy long enough to know when her caregiver was lying to her.

And, that is what has brought Mia to her current predicament, armed with her pink, kid's edition, Kindle Fire, her pink headphones with cat ears, and a pack of gum, trying to delay her playdate with Baby Tammy at all costs.

"Come on, Mia! It's time to go! Stop lollygagging!" Lisa yelled at again from the door connecting the garage to the kitchen.

"But, Mom, do we have to? Tammy is SOOO boring?" Mia yelled back, knowing her protests were futile.

"Yes, we are going. We are not having this argument again. Sasha is Mommy's best friend, and I want to spend time with her. If playing with Baby Tammy gets too boring, you can always play with your tablet like you always do," Lisa lectured her partner.

Mia just sighed in response and walked to the car. She knew from experience there was no use fighting her partner on this issue. As Lisa jumped in the driver's seat, Mia climbed into her booster seat in the back and buckled herself in.

The drive to Sasha and Tammy's house didn't take long. In less than twenty minutes, Mia found herself standing next to Lisa on Sasha and Tammy's porch, knocking on the door. During the car ride, Mia has popped a stick of bubblegum into her mouth and was blowing bubbles impatiently while they waited for the door to open.

"Now, remember kiddo, I want you in your best behavior. Any shenanigans out of you will result in punishments, understood?" Lisa hissed out quietly.

POP

Lisa let the bubble she was blowing pop before responding, "Yes, Mom," and rolling hers eyes.

POP

"MIIIIAAAAAA!!!!!"

As Mia let her next bubblegum bubble pop, the door flung open and she was enveloped in a giant uncoordinated huge. Both the excited, childish tone of the hugger and the smell of stale urine and baby powder announced the identity of Mia's assailant as much as her visage. Tammy, the giant baby woman, who was 8 inches taller and 75 pounds heavier than Mia, squeezed the smaller woman tightly to her chest as she spoke.

"Me's so 'cited to see ya', Mia! Me miss you!" Tammy followed the statement by planting a messy, drooly kiss on Mia's lips. Mia pulled back in disgust. She went to wipe her lips clean, but as she reached her hand to her mouth, Tammy caught it and started to drag her friend forward. "Come on, Mia! Letth pway!" Tammy said as she all but carried Mia towards the front door.

Only a firm hand stopped Tammy from immediately carrying off her friend to her playroom.

"Patience, baby!" Sasha giggled, halting her charge's momentum, "Little Mia just got her! Let's give her a second to get settled before you run off with her. Maybe she wants something to drink or needs to go potty!"

Mia appreciated Sasha saving her from being carried off by Tammy like one of the bigger woman's dolls. But, she bristled at the use of the name 'Little Mia' and the subtly infantilizing statement about the 'potty.' Mia looked over at her own Mom for support, but only got a stern look that screamed, "Suck it up, buttercup."

Mia took a deep, calming breath before responding, as cheerily as she could muster, "Thanks, Miss Sasha! I don't need to use the bathroom, but some juice sounds nice!"

Lisa quickly followed Mia's words as she embraced her friend in a hug, "And I could do for some Mommy-juice, if you know what I mean. Good to see you again, sweetie." Lisa punctuated her statement by given her friend a platonic peck on the cheek.

"Well, let's not just stand around out here, come on in, and I'll get you both set up!" Sasha said as she lead both women into the house.

Tammy, for her part, bounced ahead of the procession, practically vibrating with toddler-like energy.

"Mommy, can me haf sum juice too? Me knows me not supposta, but, if Mia gets some," Tammy letting her question trail off as, much to Mia's frustration, Tammy drew a comparison between the middle and the little.

Mia bit her tongue again as Sasha responded. Mia was a middle, not some stupid adult-toddler, she could control her emotions like a big girl.

"Sure, baby, a little juice won't hurt you, and since your little friend here is having a glass too, it wouldn't seem fair to restrict you to milk or water like normal," Sasha said.

"Fanks, Mama!" Tammy responded exuberantly.

"Tammy, your Mommy told me you are starting something exciting today?" Lisa said quickly, changing the subject before Mia lost her cool.

"Yeth, Mith Lisa! Me potty training like a big girl!" Lisa lifted the front of the pink sundress she was wearing, showing off the extra-large GoodNites pull-up wrapped around her bottom underneath. To no one's shock, the padding already looked damp.

Lisa knelt down to inspect the padded underwear. "That's wonderful Tammy, but it looks like you might have had a potty accident," Lisa said, sliding a finger inside of the leg gathers of the pull-up to confirm how wet it was.

The energy immediately drained out of the large adult-baby. Tammy's face turned as pink as her undergarment as she looked at her feet despondently.

"Me sowwy, Mith Lisa. Me didn't even notice!" Tears started to swell up in Tammy's eyes as she spoke.

"Hush, that's okay! You're not supposed to be perfect your first day! Why don't you let Miss Lisa change you into a fresh pull-up while your Mommy gets everyone their juice?" Mia's partner said soothingly.

Tammy's mood instantly improved. "Otay, Mith Lisa, leth go!" Tammy grabbed Lisa by the hand and dragged the caregiver down the hall, off to her nursery.

Much to Mia's chagrin, that left her alone in the kitchen with Sasha. Mia awkwardly shuffled from foot to foot, playing with the cord of her headphones like a fidget while Sasha poured juice and wine for her guests.

"How are you doing little one? Have you been having lot's of fun with your Mommy lately? It sounds like you've been having all sorts of adventures," Sasha asked as she turned around and handed Mia a sippy cup full of what appeared to be grape juice.

"Uh, yeah, Miss Sasha, me and Mom have been having a great time! We, uh, went to the zoo the other day," Mia stopped talking and scrunched up her face as she was handed the sippy cup. "Um, I'm really sorry Miss Sasha, but, you know, I'm a big girl, I don't need a sippy cup."

Sasha dramatically slapped her hand to her forehead in response to Mia's statement. "Oh, I'm so sorry, little one! I just forget you're a big girl. I mean, you are so little standing next to my Little Tammy, I always just assume you're a little like her! Let me grab that cup from you, and I'll fix that."

Mia smiled graciously as she handed the cup back to Sasha, pleasantly surprised that the woman wasn't putting up a bigger fight. "Thank you, ma'am!" Mia chirped politely.

Sasha quickly turned around and poured the juice in the sippy cup into a more mature plastic cup without a lid for Mia. She turned around and held the cup out for Mia to grab. Mia reached out to grab it. As she did, however, Sasha inexplicably and unexpectedly moved the hand holding the cup into Mia's outstretched one, causing Sasha to lose her grip on the cup. Grape juice got all over the floor of the kitchen and, distressingly for Mia, all over her clothes.

"Oh my goodness!" Sasha said, inspecting the small woman now drenched in grape juice, "I thought you said you were a big girl and didn't need a sippy cup? Now you've spilt your juice everywhere and ruined your pretty clothes! Maybe you aren't as big as you think, huh?"

The predatory grin that haunted Mia's nightmares appeared on Sasha's face.

"What? No! But? You! You spilt the juice, I was just reaching for it?" Mia sputtered out. The small woman knew this wasn't her fault. Why was Sasha blaming this on her?

"Really? That's how you want to play it? Lie and say that it was my fault? I'm an adult, Mia. A real adult, not just an overgrown toddler playing pretend like you. Adults don't spill drinks. Kids do."

This was outrageous! How did that woman think she'd get away talking to her like this? How did that woman think that she could frame her for making this mess? Mia stomped her foot in righteous indignation.

"I am not a TODDLER! I did not spill the juice! You did!" Mia wailed as she stomped her foot again.

Unfortunately for the proud middle, just as she was confronting Sasha, her caregiver was coming around the corner.

"Mia Eileen! Are you throwing a temper tantrum? We've only been her for five minutes!" Lisa started to lay into her girlfriend, "I told you to behave and… oh my goodness, are you covered in juice? You ruined your outfit!"

"Mom! It's not my…" Mia was cut off by Sasha.

"Oh, Lisa, please don't be mad at Mia, it wasn't her fault. I tried to give her juice in a sippy cup, and she said she didn't need a sippy cup. But, when I gave her a big girl cup, she immediately spilt it everywhere. I should have known better then to believe her," Sasha said, placing a hand on Mia who was about to explode in anger. "And, it's not her fault she's having a temper tantrum. You know how baby girls like her have such a hard time controlling their emotions. Please don't hold that against you sweet baby girl!"

Mia immediately bit her tongue. Being reminded that only babies couldn't control their emotions forced her to realize that if she kept tantruming, she'd be playing right into the malevolent Mommy Domme's plan.

Mia took a deep breath, "Sorry, Mom. It was my fault; I was just, clumsy. It won't happen again."

Lisa let her rage subside, seeing Mia seemingly take responsibility for her behavior. Sasha smiled darkly, letting her hand slide to the small of Mia's back.

"Lisa, let me take Mia and find her new clothes. Tammy's quite a bit bigger than her, but we have a couple of outfits that were too small when we bought them and never returned. I'm sure one of them will fit," Sasha offered.

A pit formed in Mia's stomach. She knew that anything Sasha had bought for Tammy was going to be far to babyish for her tastes. However, she also knew she didn't have any other options. The downside of being a middle rather than a little was that her Mom didn't carry around a diaper bag full of extra outfits for the inevitable accident.

"That sounds great, Sash! Thank you so much for being so understanding," Lisa replied. She then turned on her charge, "Mia, do what Miss Sasha says and wear what she gives you. I do not want to hear about you having another outburst, got it?" She said sternly.

Mia swallowed her feelings. "Yes, Mom," she replied, allowing Sasha to lead her off to Tammy's nursery.

As Sasha led Mia back to Tammy's room, she spoke. "What a good girl, taking responsibility for your own mistakes! Maybe you really are a bigger girl then I've been telling your Mommy you are!"

Mia gritted her teeth, not rising to her tormentor's taunts. Lisa wanted Mia to behave for Lisa, and she was going to do her best to follow her girlfriend's instructions.

"Thank you for the compliment, Miss Sasha," Mia croaked out demurely as they reached the door to the nursery.

Mia had been in the obscenely pink room dozens of times. She hated it. Along one wall sat a giant, white, adult-sized crib. It was large enough to both hold and contain the larger Tammy. Mia knew if she was ever placed in it, there was no way she could escape.

Along the other open wall was a similarly large changing table. Ankle and wrist restraints were attached to each corner and a strapped dangled right at waist level. Mia shivered looking at it, imagining the humiliation of being strapped to it and forcefully diapered.

"You like it? Want to try it out?" Sasha jabbed as she saw the other woman's reaction to the piece of furniture.

"No, that's okay Miss Sasha," Mia responded, not wanting to give the woman any excuse to tie her to it.

Mia's eyes drifted around the room more. In a far corner, a large white rocking horse sat. Like the changing table, it had cuffs attached to where the rider's hands and feet would sit. More insidious, Mia knew from watching Tammy take a couple of interesting rides previously, the saddle of the horse also vibrated for the rider's pleasure. Mia shuddered again. Sasha just smiled knowingly.

Trying to not examine the dungeon disguised as a nursery any closer, Mia let Sasha lead her to the closet.

"Alright, what do we have here?" Sasha asked rhetorically as she started digging through her girlfriend-turned-daughter's clothes. "Oh, here we go, this is perfect! It might even be your size!"

Mia almost vomited as Sasha held the oversized toddler party dress to her body. The dress was pastel yellow with puffy sleeves. It was adorned with lace and had a short skirt made shorter by the petticoats sewn into it.

The petticoats insured that if the wearer beant over, they would flash their panties or whatever else they were wearing as underwear to anyone nearby. The dress, unfortunately, for Mia, also seemed to be made to fit her perfectly.

"Wonderful! This should fit exquisitely! And you'll look so cute in it, little one!" Sasha said as she held the infantile dress up to Mia's shoulders.

Mia did not want to put that dress on. She knew that it would make her look just like a toddler in her Sunday best. That was not the look she was trying to cultivate, especially in front of Tammy and Sasha. Carefully, so as not to seem ungrateful or like she was throwing another tantrum, Mia asked if there were any other options.

"Oh, you don't like the dress? We might have something else in here your size. The problem is that Little Tammy is so much bigger than you," Sasha said as she started digging through the closet.

It only took moments before she emerged with a other option: a pink onesie with the phrase "Mommy's Lil' Princess" written across the chest. Like the dress, it looked perfectly sized for Mia. It took all the determination that the small woman could muster to not gasp in shock at Sasha's ease at finding such a infantile garment in her size in Tammy's closet.

"Oh my goodness! This is adorable and should fit you perfectly! Is this better, baby?" Sasha asked, holding up the onesie with a dark smile.

"Um, no thank you! The dress is, uh, beautiful, and fine! Thank you!" Mia squeaked out hurriedly as Sasha descended on her.

"Ok, if you're sure! I know it's fancy and hard to play in. I know you don't want to worry about getting it wet or messy!" Sasha said, placing undue emphasis on the last three words in Mia:s opinion.

"No, the dress will be wonderful. I'll, uh, feel so pretty," Mia said, trying to convince Sasha to let her were the toddler dress rather than the onesie clearly meant for an adult infant. She couldn't believe what she was doing.

"Are you sure? It'd probably be easier to get to the potty in this onesie than in the dress, since it has just the snaps rather than all of those pretty petticoats. You don't want to have an accident, do you?" Sasha said, trying to convince Mia to wear the more infantile outfit and causing Mia to blush

"No, Miss Sasha, I'll wear the dress please. It's just so… pretty," Mia said as convincingly as she could through gritted teeth.

Sasha responded with a laugh and walked over to the smaller woman. "Well, if you really think it's pretty baby girl, who am I to stop you! Maybe I'll tell your Mommy how much you like it! I bet she could find you some more pretty little dresses like this!"

Mia blushed at the thought of Lisa filling her closet with garish baby dresses like this. It sounded like a nightmare. Mia was already too committed to her statement about the dress, and she was not going to put on that onesie.

"That would be nice, Miss Sasha," Mia said, politely.

"Wonderful!" Sasha responded condescendingly as she reached out and, without warning, began to undress Mia.

Mia immediately reached out to stop her Mom's best friend from undressing her. "Miss Sasha! I'm a big girl! I can dress myself!" Mia said indignantly.

Sasha slapped her hand away. "Does a big girl spill her juice all over herself?" She asked. "Does a big girl throw temper tantrums and blame their mistakes on other people?" Sasha continued. "Let me answer those questions for you: No!"

"We're only here because you haven't been acting like a big girl. Now, let me get you out of those sticky clothes and into this beautiful dress before you make a bigger mess than you already have!"

Once again, Mia wanted to rage. She wanted to yell. She wanted to scream. She wanted to stomp her feet. But, she knew she couldn't. Her best course of action to prove Sasha wrong and keep her dignity as a middle intact was to keep her emotions under control. So, despite her misgivings and frustrations, Mia let Sasha pull her shirt over her head, take her shoes and socks off, and slide her shorts off her legs, leaving her in nothing but her cute Disney princess cotton panties.

"Thank you, Miss Sasha." Mia chirped out politely, covering her breasts as best she could while waiting for the other woman to grab the yellow baby-dress.

"We may make a polite, big girl out of you yet Little Mia," Sasha responded.

NEXT CHAPTER

#ab/dl diaper #ab/dl kink #ab/dl story time #ab/dl caption #ab/dl couple #diaper stories #humiliation kink #ab/dl mommy #ab/dl babygirl #md/lg mommy #md/lg #md/lg little #md/lg kink #Md/LG middle #The Playdate

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