#how to catch bass | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

edenarchives · 3 months ago

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♯┆𝐅𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐 .ᐟ — 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: After one unforgettable shoot with Bakugo, you’re left unable to finish with anyone else—on or off camera. He’s the only one who’s ever made it real. When you run into him at a party, the sexual tension explodes, leading to a filthy, passionate reconnection that neither of you can shake.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: MATURE CONTENT 18+ Explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), face riding, fingering, public sex, overstimulation, squirting, rough sex, degradation + praise, light dom/sub dynamics, breeding kink references, creampie, soft aftercare, strong language, alcohol mention, sex industry themes.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 8.2k (omg)

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

You haven’t cum in weeks.

Not on set. Not in the shower. Not with the $300 vibrator your manager sent as a “self-care” gift. Not even with that one video you shot with Keigo—the one that used to always do the trick.

Nothing works anymore.

Every orgasm you fake now feels like a cheap knockoff. Just muscle memory. Fake moans, fake trembling, fake gasps as the camera zooms in on your face like it’s catching something real. You used to be good at this—great, actually. Made your name off it. You could sell pleasure better than anyone. But now?

Now it’s all broken.

Because Katsuki Bakugo had the audacity to actually make you finish. Not once. Not twice. But over and over until your voice was hoarse and your legs wouldn’t stop shaking. And the worst part wasn’t even how good it felt—it was how real it was. He didn’t just make you come, he pulled it out of you. Like he knew exactly what buttons to press, what noises made you unravel, what rhythm would keep you teetering right on that edge. And then he’d tip you over it like it was nothing.

And ever since then?

Every other guy has felt like cardboard. Even the good ones. Even the pros. You tried not to be obvious about it on set, but your heart’s not in it. Your body’s not either. You’re back to acting, and that just makes it worse. Because now you know what it’s like to actually feel it. To lose control. To not have to fake it.

He ruined you.

And you hate him for it.

Kind of.

Maybe.

You dream about him. That same low, hungry growl in his voice. The weight of his hands on your thighs. The way he looked at you after the cameras cut, like he knew. Like he’d figured you out and wasn’t gonna let you forget it.

And you haven’t.

You still haven’t.

Which is why this fucking party is the last place you want to be.

You stand outside the mansion in heels that and a dress that hugs you like sin, arms crossed and jaw clenched. Your manager’s text is still glowing on your lock screen:

Be nice. Good networking. Smile.

Yeah, whatever.

Keigo’s place is massive. Of course it is. He’s been in the industry since forever, and he’s got that kind of charm that makes people want to party with him. His invite list is basically the who’s who of adult film, plus a few influencers trying to act like they belong. You hate these things. Too loud. Too fake. Everyone pretending to be friends, pretending they don’t judge each other for who they’ve worked with or how many followers they have. It’s all for show.

Still, you walk in. You know how to play the game.

The place is packed. Low red lighting makes everything look softer, sexier. Music pulses through the floor, the bass low and smooth. You’re barely through the front door before someone offers you a glass of champagne. You take it and downs half in one go.

A few people wave at you. A few others eye you up and down, probably checking who you came with. You fake a smile, offer a nod, and keep moving. You’re not here to socialize. You’re not here to flirt or network or play nice.

You’re here because your manager told you to be.

You end up leaning against the edge of a fancy-ass velvet couch, letting the music drown out your thoughts. The champagne doesn’t help much. Neither does the way some guy you vaguely recognise is trying to start a conversation with you, talking about some upcoming project and how “you should totally collab.” You tune him out.

And that’s when it happens.

You feel it before you sees it. Like something in the air shifts. Like static on your skin.

Your spine straightens. Your fingers tighten around the glass.

And then—there he is.

Across the room. Leaning against the wall like he owns the place. Dressed in black, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, rings glinting on his fingers. Blonde hair messy in that perfect, careless way. His eyes scan the crowd, bored and sharp all at once.

And then they land on you.

The breath catches in your throat. For a second, the music fades. The party disappears. It’s just him.

Bakugo.

His eyes narrow just slightly. Like he’s surprised to see you here. Like he’s not surprised that you look this good.

He pushes off the wall.

Starts walking.

Right toward you.

Your heart is beating way too fast. You hate that it is. You want to look away. Pretend you don’t care. But you can’t.

Because even now—especially now—your body remembers exactly what he did to you. The way he touched you. The way he looked at you. Like he wasn’t playing a part. Like it was real.

And worse—you know he remembers, too.

He stops in front of you. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just look’s at you.

Up close, he looks even better than you remembers. Like he’s been working out more. Like he hasn’t lost a second of sleep over you even though you haven’t stopped losing it over him.

“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he says finally, voice low and scratchy.

“Didn’t think you’d be,” you shoot back, arms still crossed. Your tone is cool, but your pulse is sprinting.

He smirks. That same damn smirk that used to drive you crazy. Still does.

“Keigo dragged me,” he says. “Said it’d be good to ‘be seen.’ Whatever the fuck that means.”

“Sounds familiar.”

You stand there in silence for a second. The air between you is thick. Heavy. Loaded.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes drifting down to the drink in your hand. “You good?”

“Peachy.”

“Mm.”

Another pause.

Then he leans in—just a little.

“You fake it again today?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath hitches. You hate that he knows. Hate that he’s right.

You don’t answer.

He chuckles under his breath. Not mean. Just… smug. Like he knew it. Like he never had a doubt.

“I did,” you admit finally, voice tight.

He steps in just a little closer. Not touching you. Not yet. But you can feel the heat coming off him. The way his presence wraps around you like a damn trap.

“You try with someone else yet?”

You swallow hard. Your eyes flick away.

He already knows the answer.

“No one’s been good enough, huh?” he murmurs.

You wants to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both.

Instead, you down the rest of her champagne in one go.

He watches you the whole time.

Still smirking.

Still standing way too close.

“Why are you here, Bakugo?” You asks, voice low.

His eyes drop to your lips. Then back up.

“Maybe I missed you.”

He says it so casually.

Maybe I missed you.

Like it’s no big deal. Like he hasn’t completely wrecked your life and walked away with a goddamn smirk.

You set your empty glass down, not caring where it lands. Your heart’s still hammering in your chest, but it’s not nerves—it’s need. Hot and bitter and building in your gut like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.

You don’t look away. Don’t soften. You just say it—because fuck it. What’s the point in pretending anymore?

“I haven’t cum since you.”

His smirk falters. Just a little. But enough.

“I’m serious,” you add, stepping closer, voice low. “Nothing works. Not my hands. Not toys. Not other guys. I film a scene and fake it like always, but it’s worse now. So much worse. Because now I know what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Bakugo’s jaw tenses. His hands curl slightly at his sides, like he’s holding himself back.

You lean in, close enough that your words are only for him.

“You ruined me.”

His breath comes out sharp. Controlled—but barely.

“You think I don’t know that?” he mutters. “You think I haven’t been fuckin’ losing it, thinking about that day?”

He looks down at you, eyes dark and burning.

“You were the best thing I ever had in front of a camera. Fuck—probably the best I’ve ever had, period.”

Your stomach flips. Heat flashes under your skin.

“Every time I close my eyes,” he goes on, voice getting rougher, “I see you. Bent over, whimpering, beggin’ for it. You remember that? The way you sounded?”

You swallow, throat tight.

He leans down, lips brushing just behind your ear.

“Do you remember how wet you were when I spread you open?” he whispers. “How your thighs were shaking so bad I had to hold you down?”

Your knees nearly buckle. You grip the edge of the couch behind you, the only thing keeping you upright.

“I remember,” you breathe. “I can’t stop remembering.”

His nose grazes your jaw, not quite touching your mouth, but close enough that the air feels electric between you.

“I jerked off to that shoot so many times I lost count,” he says. “Watched it back with the volume turned all the way up. Had to bite my fuckin’ fist just to keep quiet.”

Your thighs press together. Everything in you is throbbing.

“I tried,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I tried to fuck it out. Tried to touch myself. Tried to forget it.”

Bakugo pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, lips parted.

“And?”

You shake your head slowly. “Didn’t work.”

His chest rises and falls a little faster now. You can see it. Feel it.

“I need you,” you say, honest and raw and a little unhinged. “Not even just your cock—you. The way you touched me. The way you talked to me. My body remembers you like muscle memory.”

He groans, low and quiet, like it slips out without his permission.

“You know what that does to me?” he mutters. “Hearin’ you say that? Standin’ here in that tight little dress, legs pressed together like you’re already aching for it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

“You want me to remind you what it feels like?” he asks, stepping in close again. His hand hovers near your hip, not touching, but so close. “Want me to bend you over that couch right now and make you scream my name again?”

Your breath shudders out of you.

“You want me to tell you all the things I’d do to you if we weren’t in the middle of this fuckin’ party?”

You nod. Slow. Deliberate.

“Say it.”

You look up at him, eyes sharp. “I want you to ruin me again.”

His control shatters for half a second. His tongue runs across his teeth. His hands twitch at his sides like they’re desperate to grab you.

“You want my fingers down your panties, feelin’ how wet you are just from talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“You want my mouth on your neck while I tell you how I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget every other name you’ve ever moaned?”

“Yes,” you whisper, voice wrecked.

“You wanna know what I’d do to you if I dragged you into one of those empty rooms upstairs?”

“Tell me.”

He leans in again, mouth right at your ear, his breath hot and filthy.

“I’d eat your pussy until your legs give out. I’d make you ride my face until you’re crying. And then I’d bend you over the bed and ruin that tight little cunt all over again. No cameras. No crew. Just you, screamin’ my name into the pillow like you need me.”

You whimper. Actually fucking whimper. Your knees almost give out.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes again, and his voice drops to a growl.

“Tell me to stop, or I’m taking you upstairs right now.”

Your eyes burn into his.

“I’m not telling you shit.”

He grabs your wrist—gently, but with purpose—and starts walking.

The music fades behind you as you two leave the main room, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and rough and so sure. It’s not forceful—never forceful—but it’s firm. Intentional. Like he knows exactly where he’s taking you, and you’re not even thinking about stopping him.

You follow.

Of course you follow.

The air in the hallway is cooler, quieter. Dim lights line the walls, casting long shadows, the bass of the party now just a distant thump behind closed doors. Every step echoes in your ears. Your heels click against the tile, but you barely hear them. All you can feel is his hand. His grip. The burn of his touch where your skin meets.

He’s walking fast. Focused. Like he’s barely holding himself together.

But then—he pauses.

Right in the middle of the hallway, without a word, he stops. Still holding your wrist, but frozen in place.

And then he looks back at you.

And fuck.

Your cheeks are flushed, eyes wide and glassy with heat. Your lips are parted, and you’re biting the bottom one like you don’t even realize it. Your breath is shallow. Your chest rises and falls way too fast. And you look—

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

It just hits him all at once.

The image of you like that—flushed, dazed, following him willingly down some dim hallway in a dress that barely covers your ass. Your mouth red from chewing on your lip, eyes shining like you want to be devoured.

It’s too much.

It’s way too much.

Bakugo turns around in one sharp move and pushes your back against the wall.

You gasp, more out of surprise than anything, and your back hits the cool plaster with a soft thud.

He doesn’t give you time to speak.

His mouth is on yours before you can breathe.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s a claim.

His lips crash into yours like he’s starved. Like he’s been dying for this. His other hand finds your waist, squeezing tight, pulling you flush against him until there’s not an inch of space left between your bodies.

And fuck, you melt.

You kiss him back with just as much heat, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer like you want to climb inside him. His mouth moves against yours with wild precision—like he knows exactly what you need and he’s giving it. All tongue and teeth and soft, filthy groans that vibrate against your lips.

His hand slips down to your hip, gripping tight. Your back arches. You moan into his mouth when his tongue brushes yours, and he growls—a low, guttural sound that sends heat straight between your thighs.

He pulls back for just a second, breathing hard.

“Been wantin’ to do that since the fuckin’ shoot,” he mutters, voice rough and wrecked.

You grab his shirt tighter, dragging him back in.

“Then shut up and do it again.”

And he does.

He kisses you like he needs it to survive. Like your mouth is the only thing that’s going to keep him sane. His hand slides up, fingers brushing under the edge of your dress, just a taste of skin, and you gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound greedily.

Right now, it’s just him and you and all that fucking need you’ve both been drowning in for weeks.

Your hands are in his hair now, tugging, and he groans like you’re driving him insane. His lips trail down to your jaw, your neck, kissing and biting and licking like he wants to leave a mark—something real. Something that says mine.

“You feel that?” he growls against your skin, grinding his hips against yours. “That’s what you fuckin’ do to me.”

You whimper.

“You think I haven’t been aching for this? You think I don’t wake up hard, pissed off, because it’s not you under me?”

“Bakugo—”

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you missed me.”

“I missed you,” you breathe. “So fucking much.”

He grabs your face, tilts it up, and kisses you again. Harder. Deeper.

He’s losing it. Right here, in the middle of some stupid hallway, with your hands on his chest and your mouth so fucking soft and perfect under his.

Fuck he was gonna wait. He really was.

One more hallway, maybe two. Find a room, lock the door, throw you on the bed and wreck you the way you’ve been dreaming about. But then his hand drifts lower, just a little. Just enough to feel the hem of your dress under his fingers. His palm slides up, slow and sure, bunching the fabric higher and higher until—

He groans. Loud. Filthy. Like it physically hits him.

“No fuckin’ panties?”

You flinch, just a little. Lips parted, eyes dark.

“Were you expecting something to happen tonight, baby?” he breathes, voice thick with heat. “You showin’ up like this just for me?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Bakugo presses his forehead to yours for a second, breathing hard.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, voice low and ragged. “You’re my dirty little whore, aren’t you?”

You whimper.

“You come to this party all dressed up, no fuckin’ panties, already wet for me…”

His hands are on your thighs now, spreading them just a bit. Your backs against the wall, breathing like you just ran a mile.

“You wanted this,” he growls. “You needed this.”

And then—he drops to his knees.

Just like that.

Right there in the middle of the hallway.

The air leaves your lungs in a gasp. Your back hits the wall harder this time, legs shaking, heart pounding in your throat.

“Bakugo—” you hiss, panic in your voice. “Someone could see—!”

He looks up at you, eyes dark and fucking wild.

“Baby,” he says, voice calm and sinful. “You’re a pornstar.”

He licks his lips.

“Let them see.”

And then he’s between your thighs.

One of your legs stays planted on the ground, barely holding you up. The other—he lifts and hooks it over his shoulder, gripping tight behind your knee with one hand, keeping you open for him. Exposed. Spread. His other hand pins your hip to the wall like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

Then—

Then his mouth is on you.

He groans the second he tastes you, like he’s been dreaming of this moment. Like the taste of you is everything he’s been starving for. His tongue is hot and greedy, licking through your folds, lips sealing around your clit as he sucks, hard, and you cry out, hand flying to his hair for balance.

“F-fuck—Bakugo—”

He growls against your pussy, the vibration shooting up your spine like lightning.

“Been thinkin’ about this pussy every fuckin’ day,” he mutters between licks. “You taste even better than I remembered.”

Your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud, mouth open, chest heaving. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you know is his mouth—his tongue flicking and licking and circling your clit just right, dragging slow, wet moans from your throat that you couldn’t fake if you tried.

His fingers dig into the back of your thigh, holding you still. Your other leg trembles, barely keeping you upright. Your dress is bunched around your waist, forgotten, as he devours you like a man possessed.

“You hear yourself?” he growls, voice muffled against your soaked cunt. “You hear how fuckin’ wet you are?”

“Y-yes—fuck—”

He flattens his tongue against your clit and drags it, slow and firm, and you nearly collapse.

“You gonna cum for me like this, baby?” he asks, licking up your slit, tongue dipping in like he wants to taste every part of you. “Gonna make a fuckin’ mess on my face?”

You’re nodding, eyes wide, lips parted in silent gasps. Your hand’s gripping his hair so tight it must hurt, but he doesn’t care. He loves it.

“Thought about this every night,” he mutters. “Me on my knees. You fallin’ apart. No cameras. No crew. Just me eatin’ you out like it’s the only thing I’m good at.”

And it is.

God, it fucking is.

Your thighs are shaking. Your stomach’s tight. You’re right there, and he knows it.

So he goes harder.

Sucks on your clit like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, tongue flicking fast and filthy, relentless. Your legs nearly give out.

You scream his name.

And then you’re gone.

Your orgasm hits like a truck, ripping through your body as you cry out, nails digging into his scalp. Your leg twitches in his grip, your body writhing against the wall as you cum for the first time in weeks—for real.

Bakugo doesn’t stop. Not until he’s sure you’re done. Not until he’s sucked you through every last wave, tongue gentle now, soft little licks that make you squirm from the sensitivity.

He pulls back, panting.

His chin’s shiny. His lips are swollen.

And he looks fucking proud.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You taste like fuckin’ heaven.”

You can’t speak. Can barely breathe. Your legs are jelly, your face flushed, your dress still hiked around your hips.

And he’s still on his knees.

Looking up at you like he owns you.

Like he always has.

You’re still trembling.

One leg weak, back still pressed to the wall, dress bunched around your hips and mouth parted in a breathless, wrecked little gasp. Your head’s spinning, body soaked in sweat and pleasure, but it’s not enough. Not for him.

Bakugo stays on his knees for a second longer, just staring up at you like he’s watching the aftermath of his own destruction—and loving every second of it. His jaw’s tight, eyes wild, chest rising and falling with every ragged breath.

Then he moves.

He rises slowly, all smooth, deliberate heat, and crowds you against the wall again, towering over you. His hand slips behind your neck and pulls you in, and his mouth crashes into yours—hot and messy, all tongue and teeth and need.

You moan into it. Loud. Desperate.

He doesn’t give a shit if anyone hears.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth, making you taste herself. He kisses you like a man obsessed, like he needs you in his lungs to fucking breathe. His hands are everywhere—sliding over your hips, your ass, up your back, gripping tight like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.

“You feel what you do to me?” he growls against your lips.

You whimper when his hips roll into yours, and fuck—he’s hard. So fucking hard it feels like it’s about to tear through his pants. Thick and heavy and ready, pressed right up against your soaked heat.

Your whole body jolts at the contact, and suddenly something shifts in you.

You’re not just trembling anymore—you’re burning. You grabs him by the front of his shirt and pushes off the wall, stumbling forward on shaky legs.

“Where’s the room?” You pant.

He grins, drunk on the sound of you.

“End of the hall. Second door.”

You don’t even wait.

Bakugo catches your wrist again as you try to walk, sees your knees still unsteady, and without saying a word—he scoops you up. Hands under your thighs, body flush to his, carrying you like you’re light as air.

You gasp. “I can walk—!”

He growls, “Don’t care.”

He carries you like you weigh nothing, like you belongs in his arms. Your legs are still trembling from the orgasm he just pulled out of you in the hallway, but your hands never stop moving—gripping his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck, dragging your lips along his jaw just to feel him shiver.

He kicks open the door, steps inside, and shoves it shut with his foot. The lock clicks.

He sets you down—not on the bed. He pins you against the wall again, just for a second, breathing hard, eyes locked on yours. His hands are all over you, sliding down your body, squeezing your hips like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real.

And you’re looking up at him with that same fucked-out, fire-in-your-veins look that’s been haunting his dreams since your shoot.

And then—slowly—you start to sink to your knees.

His breath catches.

“Wait,” he mutters, chest heaving, “you—fuck—what’re you—”

You’re already looking up at him through your lashes, fingers tugging his belt loose with quick, desperate movements.

“You ruined me,” you say, voice low and dangerously sweet. “Let me return the favor.”

Bakugo swears under his breath as you pull his cock free—hard and leaking, twitching in your grip. Your fingers wrap around him, slow and teasing, and he shudders.

And then your mouth is on him.

“Fucking hell,” he chokes out, his hand flying to your hair, not pushing, just holding, gripping tight like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Your lips wrap around the head, tongue swirling in slow, wet circles, tasting him like you’ve been waiting for this moment since the second the cameras cut. You slide down his length, inch by inch, until your lips are stretched around him and your throat is already working to take more.

“Jesus fuck, baby—”

His voice is raw. Wrecked. You moan around him and his hips jerk.

“Just like that,” he groans, jaw tight. “That’s it. My perfect fuckin’ mouth.”

You hum, sending vibrations through him that almost make his knees buckle. Your hand strokes what you can’t fit, your spit coating him, dripping down your wrist. You’re relentless—pulling off to lick the tip, spit pooling on your tongue before you sink back down again.

Bakugo’s head hits the wall behind him with a soft thud. His eyes flutter shut, mouth open, breathing hard.

“You know what you fuckin’ do to me?” he growls, voice shaking. “You know how many nights I’ve jerked off thinking about you like this?”

You pull off, slowly, dragging your tongue up the underside of his cock as you go.

“Tell me,” you whisper.

He grabs your jaw, tilts your face up toward him, cock resting against your cheek.

“I’d picture this mouth every fuckin’ time,” he breathes. “Your lips all shiny, tongue out, eyes begging. Just like this.”

You moan and take him back into your mouth deep, throat fluttering around him, and he loses it. His hand tightens in your hair as his hips stutter forward, fucking into your mouth once, twice—then forcing himself to stop.

“Fuck—stop,” he groans, pulling you off with a shaky hand, even though it kills him. “Gonna blow if you keep that shit up.”

Your lips are swollen, spit dripping down your chin, eyes glazed and smug.

“Good,” you purr.

He yanks you up off the floor and spins you, pushing your back toward the bed.

“You wanna ruin me?” he growls, voice low and filthy. “Let’s see if that pretty little cunt can finish the job.”

He manhandles you onto the bed like he owns it.

Like he owns you.

You land on your back, dress still hiked up around your waist, thighs spread open without shame. Your chest is heaving, lips wet, eyes locked on him like he’s the only thing you see.

And fuck—he might as well be.

Bakugo shrugs off his shirt in one smooth pull, muscles flexing, abs on full display, veins in his arms popping from how hard he’s holding himself back. His cock’s still out, thick and leaking, twitching with every step closer.

“You sit there lookin’ like that,” he growls, crawling up onto the bed, “and expect me to take it slow?”

You grin. Daring. “I don’t expect you to do anything except ruin me.”

He laughs—dark and mean—and grabs your ankles, dragging you down the bed until your ass is right at the edge, legs hanging off, wide open for him.

“You’re fuckin’ insane,” he mutters.

And then he’s on you.

One hand hooked under your knee, pushing it back toward your chest, the other lining himself up. His eyes are locked on your soaked cunt like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted. The tip of his cock brushes your entrance, and you both moan.

“You feel that?” he mutters, dragging it through your folds, teasing your clit. “You’re fuckin’ dripping for me.”

“Need you,” you gasp, already trembling again. “Bakugo, please—”

“Please what?” he growls, leaning over you, tip just barely nudging inside. “Say it.”

“Please fuck me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He slams into you in one deep, smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Your back arches off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream as he stretches you—thick and deep and perfect.

Bakugo groans, eyes rolling back. “Fuck—this pussy missed me, huh?”

“Yes—fuck yes—”

He pulls back and thrusts again, harder this time, making the bed creak under you.

“I can feel it,” he pants. “The way you’re squeezing me. Your cunt’s starving for it.”

His pace builds—relentless, deep, every thrust angled just right to hit that spot that makes you sob. One of his hands grabs your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb brushing over your jaw like he owns you.

“You like that, baby?” he growls. “You like bein’ fucked stupid?”

You nod, gasping, eyes rolling back. “Yes—yes, fuck, harder—”

He gives it to you.

Hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls, your moans getting louder, messier, realer. Your nails drag down his back, your thighs locked around his hips as you cling to him like you’re about to fall apart.

“Gonna cum for me again?” he mutters, leaning down, forehead pressed to yours. “Gonna cream on my cock like a good fuckin’ girl?”

“I—I can’t—” you whimper.

“You can. You will.”

He reaches between them and rubs your clit—fast, tight circles—and you scream.

Your entire body locks up, and then you break.

You cum hard, legs shaking, mouth open, nails digging into his shoulders. He doesn’t stop—keeps fucking you through it, eyes locked on your wrecked, blissed-out face.

“Goddamn,” he grits out. “You’re fuckin’ unreal.”

His thrusts get rougher, deeper, like he’s chasing the edge��but then, suddenly, he pulls out.

You let out a broken whine, head thrown back against the mattress, body still twitching from your orgasm. Your pussy clenches around nothing, fluttering in the absence of him, wet and ruined and aching for more.

“N-no,” you gasp. “Why’d you—why’d you stop—”

Bakugo’s hovering over you, chest heaving, every muscle in his body tight like a live wire. His cock is soaked, twitching as it rests against your thigh, flushed and throbbing with the need to be buried again.

“Could’ve fucked blown in that pretty pussy just now,” he growls, voice wrecked. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

He leans down, kisses you hard—filthy and deep, tongue licking into your mouth like he owns it. When he pulls back, his voice is rough, laced with heat and control.

“Don’t wanna cum yet,” he pants. “Wanna watch you fall apart again.”

His fingers trail between your thighs, sliding through the slick mess he left behind. You gasp, hips twitching, eyes rolling when he pushes two fingers into you without warning—slow and deep.

“Still so fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, voice low as he watches your face twist in pleasure. “So wet for me. You like bein’ stuffed full, huh?”

You nod frantically, legs spreading wider, hips grinding down into his hand like you’re starved for it.

“Good,” he says, curling his fingers just right, pressing into that soft spot that makes your legs jump. “You’re gonna cum on my fingers now.”

“*Fuck—Katsuki—”

“Yeah?” he smirks, eyes locked on where his fingers disappear inside you. “You close again, baby? Didn’t even give you a break.”

He keeps rubbing your clit with his thumb, fingers stroking in and out slow and deep, dragging slick sounds from between your thighs that make him groan under his breath.

“You’re so fuckin’ messy already,” he says, voice tight. “Look at you. All wrecked for me.”

You sob, head tossing back, hand fisting the sheets.

“Cum again,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. “Wanna feel you squeeze my fingers. Wanna make a mess before I fuck you proper.”

And you do.

Your body jerks, thighs clenching around his wrist, another orgasm ripping through you so fast and hard you nearly scream. Your cunt pulses around his fingers, clenching down with each wave, slick gushing down to his palm as you trembles through it.

Bakugo watches you lose it, feels your walls fluttering around his fingers, and his cock twitches, aching with the need to be back inside you.

But not yet.

He pulls his hand out slow, dragging it over your swollen, soaked folds, and brings his fingers to his mouth.

Sucks them clean.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, eyes never leaving yours.

You look wrecked—eyes glassy, chest heaving, lips parted like you’re still trying to breathe.

He leans in, kisses you slow, and lines himself up again.

“You ready for more?” he murmurs against your lips.

You nod, barely able to speak.

He smirks, voice dark and low.

“Good.”

He slides back into you slow. Painfully slow.

His cock pushes in deep, stretching your ruined cunt all over again, and he groans at how wet, warm, perfect you still are—even after two orgasms and his fingers inside you. You’re flushed and boneless beneath him, lips parted, hair stuck to your face, eyes barely open.

Cockdrunk.

And he knows it.

He watches your face twist as he sinks in fully, his hips flush against yours, but doesn’t move.

Just stays there. Buried to the hilt.

You whine.

He pulls back, just a little.

Thrusts again—slow, deep, teasing. Like he’s savoring every inch. Your walls flutter around him, still clenching like you can’t let go, and he groans through gritted teeth.

“You feel that?” he pants. “How tight you still are?”

You nod, whining, legs twitching.

He does it again.

Slow.

Deep.

Unbearable.

You cry out, hips jerking up toward him, trying to chase more—anything—but he holds your hips still, smirking down at your wrecked face.

“Aw, what’s wrong, baby?” he coos, breathless. “Not enough for you?”

You whimper. “Suki—”

He grins. “Tryin’ to fuck yourself on my cock now?”

And you are—rocking your hips up in tiny, desperate motions, your hands gripping the sheets, voice a string of needy little noises that go straight to his dick.

“You’re such a desperate little whore,” he groans. “Can’t even wait for me to fuck you proper, huh?”

“Suki—please—please—”

Your voice is high, slurred, half-sobs and gasp, like you’re not even forming real words anymore. Your cunt squeezes him so tight he nearly loses it.

“Oh my fucking god,” he mutters, shaking his head like he’s in pain. “You sound so fuckin’ wrecked—‘please, Suki’—you know what that does to me?”

You nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Need it—need you—need more—please—”

And then he snaps.

His grip on your hips tightens, and he slams into you.

No mercy. No hesitation.

Just filthy, hard, deep thrusts that rock the bed against the wall.

You scream, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing—just his body, his cock, him, pounding into you like he’s trying to bury himself in your soul.

“You want more?” he growls, voice wrecked. “Take it. Take every fuckin’ inch.”

You’re so loud now—moaning with every thrust, your back arching, body jerking with the force of it.

“I—I’m cumming—” you cry, body locking up again, cunt fluttering like you’re gonna break.

But he doesn’t stop.

He won’t stop.

“Yeah, baby? Already? Barely even started.”

Your third orgasm crashes through you like a wave, soaking him all over again. Your body trembles under his, and still—still—he doesn’t let up.

He grabs your legs, throws them over his shoulders, and folds you in half.

Then leans forward.

His body presses into yours, hands braced on either side of your head, his cock now driving in deeper than ever before, dragging against your walls in a way that makes you sob.

The angle is brutal. Relentless.

You gasp—eyes wide, mouth falling open. Your whole body freezes.

“Suki—!” You squeal. “Wait—wait—I think—I think I’m gonna pee—!”

He knows.

He fucking knows.

And the second you say it?

Bakugo groans. Loud. Wrecked. Ferally turned on.

“Oh fuck, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna squirt for me?”

You’re panicking now, overwhelmed, the pleasure too much, too fast, building into something different.

“I—I can’t—Suki—Suki—!”

“Yes you can,” he growls. “Let it go. It’s okay. Fuckin’ do it.”

And you do.

Your body jerks once—twice—and then you scream, back arching off the bed as a gush of slick explodes from between your thighs, soaking both of them, soaking the sheets. Your legs shake violently. Your pussy clenches and flutters and gushes, and he pulls out just in time to watch it all.

“Holy fuck—” he groans.

He’s panting, cock dripping, and you’re still shaking, still coming, body twitching like you’ve been electrocuted.

He doesn’t even give you a second.

His hand dives down, fingers rubbing your clit fast—tight circles, no mercy.

“Gonna make a mess all over me, huh?” he pants. “Gonna soak my fuckin’ cock next?”

You’re sobbing, overwhelmed, body still spasming as more slick gushes out of you, squirting again, harder, soaking his hand and the sheets and your thighs.

“You’re such a dirty fuckin’ slut,” he groans, mouth open, watching you fall apart. “Look at you—fuckin’ look at you—”

When you finally start to come down, body trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks, Bakugo grabs your hips and slams back inside.

No pause.

No recovery.

Just more.

More of him.

He fucks you through the overstimulation, pounding into your soaked, sensitive pussy, growling every time your cunt clenches around him.

You’re babbling again, sobbing out moans and whines, brainless.

He’s close now. So close. His thrusts get sloppier, deeper, hips stuttering.

And then—

You grab his face, eyes barely open, voice slurred and high and ruined.

“Cum inside me,” you beg. “Please, Suki—want it inside—need you to fill me up—please—please—”

His whole body locks up.

His eyes roll back.

And he blows.

“Oh fuck baby, yes yes yes, FUCK—!”

His cock pulses inside you as he empties out, the hardest orgasm of his life, ropes of cum shooting deep into your twitching cunt. He groans through his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, body shaking as he keeps thrusting, slow now, drawing out every pulse, every drop.

You moan at the feeling—full, warm, messy.

“You take it so fuckin’ well,” he pants, kissing you hard. “Made for me, baby. Fuckin’ made for this.”

His cock finally softens inside you, and he collapses onto your chest, both of you panting, soaked in sweat, slick, and cum.

You’re trembling. He’s still groaning.

And neither of you can speak.

Bakugo’s chest is still heaving as he lowers himself onto his elbows, careful not to crush you. His cock slips free, spent and messy, and you wince from the overstimulation. He’s already watching you—eyes dark, but softer now. More present.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face.

You nod slowly, eyes fluttering shut, voice hoarse. “Yeah… just—holy shit.”

He lets out a quiet, breathless laugh and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Yeah. No kidding.”

You’re still trembling beneath him, body twitching with aftershocks. Your skin’s flushed and glowing, your chest rising and falling fast, and for a moment he just stares. Watches you breathe. Watches you try to come back to yourself.

He reaches for the edge of the bed, grabs the nearest towel—probably Keigo’s fancy ass silk robe or something, who cares—and gently wipes between your thighs. You twitch, gasps softly, but doesn’t stop him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice low. “I know you’re sensitive. Just wanna clean you up a bit.”

His touch is careful. Gentle. Like you’re made of glass now, even though he just had you screaming his name with your legs over his shoulders.

You watch him through half-lidded eyes. “Didn’t think you’d be the sweet type after railing me like that.”

He smirks, eyes flicking up to yours. “Shut up. You’re lucky I didn’t pass out.”

He finishes wiping you down, tosses the towel to the floor, and climbs back onto the bed beside you. One arm snakes around your waist, pulling you into his chest. You hum and bury your face into his shoulder, breathing him in.

It’s quiet now.

Just the sound of your breathing. The faint music still thumping somewhere in the house. His heartbeat under your cheek.

Bakugo presses his lips to the top of your head and holds you close.

“You really didn’t wear any panties tonight?”

You giggle sleepily. “Hoped you’d be here.”

His chest rumbles with a laugh, but there’s something else in it too—something warm. Dangerous.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice low, lips brushing your temple, “just tell me what you want.”

You shift, just slightly, enough to look up at him.

Your voice is quiet.

Real.

“You,” you whisper. “I want you.”

He stares at you.

Heart pounding.

And says nothing.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

A few months later you’re standing outside.

The air is warm. Quiet.

No cameras. No script. No fake moans echoing off studio walls. Just the sound of a car pulling away from the curb, leaving behind nothing but soft tire tracks on the gravel and a sudden, still silence.

You exhale.

It’s done.

Your manager waved goodbye with glossy eyes and a box of farewell cupcakes like it was some emotional graduation ceremony. And maybe it was. A part of your life—the biggest part—is officially over. No more lights. No more contracts. No more “one last scene” promises.

You’re out.

Retired.

And free.

Your fans had been devastated, of course. The internet flooded with edits, fanpages posting heartfelt tributes, DM requests piling up asking if you were okay, if you’ll ever return. But you were calm about it. Because you had made your money. More than enough. Enough to buy three lives if you wanted. Yours, your future kids’, and their kids.

And for the first time… you didn’t feel like you owed anyone anything.

The gravel crunches under your feet as you walks up the driveway of your new house. It’s not huge. Not flashy. Just a little white-brick home with a cracked front step and windows that let the morning sun spill inside. There’s barely any furniture yet. The walls are still too clean. But you open the front door and walk in anyway, because it’s yours.

You walk through the living room. Kicks off your shoes. Run your fingers along the kitchen counter. There’s a faint smell of fresh paint and wood polish and something warm. Like home.

And then—warm arms wrap around your waist.

You’re startled for a second.

Until he nuzzles into the side of your neck, all soft breath and scratchy stubble, and you relax instantly.

“Hey,” Bakugo murmurs against your skin.

You let out a breathy laugh. “You scared me.”

He hums. “You’re the one who snuck in without saying hi.”

“I live here,” you tease.

“Hey,” he says. “We live here.”

His arms tighten around your middle. His hands are calloused and warm, and he smells like clean linen and cedarwood shampoo. He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder and then another behind your ear.

“You know,” he says, voice low and teasing, “we gotta christen all the rooms.”

You snort. “You’re horrible.”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

You turn in his arms, facing him now—barefoot and smiling, cheeks warm, heart full.

Because this is the part no one saw coming.

After that night at Keigo’s house—after the hallway, after the bedroom, after you whispered “I want you” like it was the most honest thing you’d ever said—Bakugo was done.

He left the industry the next day.

Didn’t tell anyone at first. Just walked off set, deleted the shoot schedule, and never looked back. He didn’t need the job. Didn’t want it. Not if it meant being surrounded by people who weren’t you.

He pursued you properly after that. Not with half-assed flirty texts or casual hookups. He showed up for you. Asked you out. Cooked for you. Slept next to you, not just with you. You thought it would feel weird—awkward, even. But it didn’t.

It felt easy. Natural. Real.

You left the industry a week later. For yourself. For him. For whatever this life was becoming.

Now?

Now you’re here.

In a half-empty house with your names on the mortgage and a stupid list of furniture you still need to buy, and for the first time in forever, you feel like you can just breathe.

Bakugo kisses you softly. Just once.

Then he smirks.

“Bedroom’s still got space on the headboard for scratches.”

“Bakugo.”

“What?” he shrugs, already lifting you up by the thighs. “I’m sentimental.”

You laugh, cling to him, and let him carry you down the hallway, your new life unfolding behind every door.

Your bedroom’s bathed in soft afternoon light when he pushes open the door with his foot.

It’s nothing fancy—white walls, wooden floors, a tall dresser with half the drawers still empty. The bed’s made, kind of, one corner of the blanket folded back like it’s been waiting for them. A single mug sits on the nightstand. Your side.

He lays you down gently, like you’re something delicate. Like he hasn’t already had you screaming into his pillow a dozen times since you moved in.

You pull him down with you, fingers hooked in the collar of his shirt.

Your mouths meet in a slow, lazy kiss. It’s not heated or rushed—it’s warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss you only give to someone when there’s no performance behind it. No pretending.

Just love.

He crawls over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other on your hip, thumb brushing circles into the soft skin there. You exhale against his lips, smiling.

“You gonna make good on your promise?” You tease, eyes fluttering open.

“Which one?”

“‘Christen all the rooms.’”

He grins, teeth and cocky heat.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thought I’d start with this one. Seems the most important.”

Your heart thuds. You try to act unbothered, but his weight on top of you, the way his hand slips under your shirt, palm warm on your stomach—it makes your stomach flutter.

“But we’ve already-,” you laugh, running your fingers through his hair.

“Shut up,” he mumbles into your neck, kissing there slowly. “I know.”

You laugh.

“You make me crazy,” you whisper.

His mouth stills.

He pulls back, looking down at you.

And there’s something in his face that wasn’t there before.

Something quiet. Serious.

“I think about it,” he says softly. “The future.”

You stare up at him, breath caught.

“You ever do that?”

You nod, slow. “All the time.”

He leans down, presses his forehead to yours.

“I want it all,” he murmurs. “With you.”

Your hands slide up his back, feeling every tense line of muscle under your palms. You pull him closer. Your noses bump. Your lips brush.

“Me too.”

He kisses you then—not playful, not teasing. Just real. Long and deep. Like he’s telling you something in a language only your mouths understand.

When he pulls back, he whispers against your lips, “I love you.”

You exhale and smile. “I love you too.”

His hand slips between you, fingertips ghosting down your stomach, between your thighs. He touches you like he’s got all night. Like there’s nowhere else you need to be. Like loving you isn’t something he wants—it’s something he needs.

You gasp softly, hips shifting under his touch.

“You always get like this when you talk about the future?” You whisper.

He laughs quietly. “Only with you.”

Your thighs part for him. You’re already wet. Already aching.

“Then don’t stop,” You breathe.

He doesn’t.

He makes love to you slow. Hands in your hair, forehead pressed to yours. No loud moans. No biting. No rush. Just the steady rhythm of your bodies moving like they were made to fit.

After, you lay tangled together, half under the blankets, half on top of each other. Skin warm. Hearts steady.

He runs his hand down your spine. You hum.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a few minutes.

“Mm?”

“If we ever have a kid,” he says casually, “we’re not naming them after Keigo. I don’t care how much that bastard tries to bribe us.”

You bark out a laugh, pressing your face into his chest. “I wasn’t going to!”

“He’s already been hinting. You know he has.”

“I’m naming our first kid after someone normal, like—Ida or something.”

Bakugo looks physically pained. “Absolutely not.”

You laugh until your stomachs hurt, until your eyes sting with leftover tears, and then he kisses you again—slow and sweet.

“You really want all that?” You ask later, voice small.

He nods.

“You and me,” he says. “Little monsters running around. A house full of loud shit and chaos and love.”

You bite your lip. “And a couch that doesn’t suck.”

He smirks. “Yeah. That too.”

You fall asleep like that. Wrapped up in each other. Wrapped up in something soft and real and permanent.

Something that, for the first time in both your lives, has nothing to do with being watched.

And everything to do with being seen.

TAGS <3

@2elusional @cosmicaoii @kizsuki @kodzubaby

#bakugo katuski #smut #my hero academia #bakugo smut #bakugo x reader #bakugo fic #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #edens archive #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha #mha bakugou

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goyardgoyangi · 1 month ago

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street racer! sukuna flying you out

You’ve never flown this far for a man before. Not for a boyfriend. Not for family. And Sukuna’s neither of those things—not exactly. Not officially.

But when your phone lit up at 2:03 a.m. with his name and a text that read: Tickets in your email. I want you there, you didn’t even hesitate.

You stared at the screen for maybe thirty seconds, heart pounding like a drum in your throat, rereading the words until they didn’t look like real language anymore.

The airport is a blur of escalators, overpriced coffee, and stiff plastic seats. Your fingers wrap tight around the phone in your lap the entire time, like it might vanish if you let go. You keep checking the itinerary like the tickets will disappear, like he might change his mind.

The flight is quiet. Too quiet. You keep looking out the window even though the clouds all start to look the same after a while. You scroll through old texts—most of them short, chaotic, voice notes, a few shirtless selfies he never even commented on after sending. There’s one photo of you he took when you weren’t looking, sun hitting your skin just right.

You wonder if he looks at it too.

The room he booked was ridiculous—plush king bed, balcony overlooking the city, bathroom big enough to echo in. The towels are folded like little swans, and there’s a basket of fruit on the coffee table that you know he didn’t pick, but somehow it still feels like a love language.

You glance at the bed, then toward the empty side of the room. He’s not here.

Your heart dips before you catch yourself. You’re not here for him like that. Not officially. Not yet.

Still, your name is on the reservation. You wonder if he had to spell it out loud—if he got annoyed when they asked for your ID, or if he said it proud like it meant something. You picture him at the front desk, arms crossed, scowling while the poor receptionist stammers through the check-in. The thought makes your stomach flutter.

By the time you make it to the track, the sun is brutal and the crowd feels like it’s vibrating. Everything is loud: the engines revving like wild animals, bass-heavy music pulsing through the speakers, vendors yelling about merch and drinks and souvenir flags. And there it is—his banner. Sukuna’s face smirking down from the overhead display, tattoos sharp beneath the collar of his fireproof suit. He looks like he was born for this, like chaos bends around him.

You try to shrink into your hoodie. You feel like you shouldn’t be here—like you’re intruding on a moment that belongs to him. You’re just a girl in the crowd, aren’t you? A fly-in. Temporary.

But then— “Thought I told you to be in the VIP tent.”

You turn, heart skipping—and there he is.

Hair tied back, suit half unzipped and slung around his waist, black tank clinging to his chest like it was painted on. His tattoos coil around his biceps, disappearing beneath fabric in smooth lines that look almost sacred. He’s squinting against the sunlight, sunglasses dangling from one hand, and he’s looking at you like he’s been scanning the crowd for hours just to find you.

“Hey,” you breathe, surprised by how relieved you feel at the sight of him.

He looks you up and down, then sighs, “Didn’t I tell you to wait where it’s shady?”

You shrug, trying not to smile. “Didn’t want to be in the way.”

He steps closer, tugging on the sleeve of your jacket with two fingers. “You wearing sunscreen?”

“…No?”

He shakes his head, muttering something about stubborn girls under his breath, and pulls a small travel tube from his back pocket like he knew you'd be reckless. He doesn’t even say anything—just squeezes some into his palm and gently smooths it across your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, your forehead. His fingers are rough but careful, his brow furrowed in concentration like he’s tuning a car, not touching a girl.

You blink up at him, stunned silent.

“There,” he murmurs. “Can’t have you going back sunburned.”

“You always take care of your pit crew like this?”

He snorts. “You think I flew you out here just to keep you hidden?”

You roll your eyes at his sass. “Didn’t fly me first class either.”

“You liked that window seat or not?”

You try not to laugh, but he sees the way your mouth pulls into a smile, the way your eyes soften. He always sees it.

You always do this—pretend it’s casual, pretend he doesn’t mean more than he should. Pretend the butterflies are just nerves, pretend you’re just friends with benefits with frequent flyer miles. But the way he’s looking at you now… the way he touches you like you matter? It makes pretending feel stupid.

He steps in until your toes nearly touch. “Come with me.”

You blink. “Where?”

“To the pit. I want you there when I line up.”

Your brows lift. “Are you sure?”

He leans in, voice low. “I don’t want to look over and not see you.”

Your chest twists. “You’re gonna make me think you actually like me.”

“Maybe I fuckin’ do,” he says easily—like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true.

You’re still short-circuiting when he laces his fingers with yours and starts pulling you through the crowd. His hand is warm, a little calloused, his grip loose but certain. It’s not just for show. He doesn’t let go, not once. Not when security waves you through. Not when pit crew nod in passing, glancing at you like you’re familiar. Like you belong.

It’s chaos around you, heat and noise and movement, but he stays close—always checking if you’re still beside him. His thumb rubs across the back of your hand once, slow and thoughtless. You wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it.

When you reach the pit, his car glints under the sun like a weapon. Matte black, red striping, the number 20 on the hood. Same number tattooed on his hands. You’re not even into cars, but you have to admit—this one looks mean. Fast. Like it has a heart that beats the same as his.

He lets go of your hand to shrug on his fireproof jacket and zip it up. A crew member hands him his helmet. You catch him sneaking a glance at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

“You nervous?” you ask, voice soft.

He’s quiet for a second, then glances at the track, then at you. “Nah. Not about the race.”

That shouldn’t hit the way it does, but it does.

You cross your arms, chewing the inside of your cheek while he tugs on his gloves. You don’t know what to say. You’re not even sure what you are to him.

But before the crew can herd him toward the lineup, Sukuna turns to you again.

“You stay right here, yeah?” His voice is low, almost drowned out by the rising engines. “Don’t disappear on me.”

“I won’t,” you say quietly.

He steps in close again, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes locked on yours.

Then—just when you think he might lean in to whisper something—

He kisses your forehead.

Not your cheek. Not your lips.

Your forehead.

It’s simple, but it knocks the air out of you.

He pulls back just a little. “Be good.”

You nod, a little dumb. A little dizzy.

And when he turns to walk toward the car, you already know—whether he wins or not, whether this thing between you ever has a name—you’ll remember this moment forever.

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downtherabbitholewithlucy · 2 years ago

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🖤😈This Sexy Devil😈🖤

#looking sinfully delicious #sure I'm a big fan of Samuel in green stage lighting #but something about the rich red hue covering his skin especially during spooky szn... it just does it for me.#like I kinda wanna see some vampire fangs on him in that last pic. see how the side profile of an elongated canine looks from that angle #then casually tip my neck to the side for easy access (haha)#Sam Rivers #Limp Bizkit #nu metal #SAM. I. AM.#Sammy Boy #Bass Boss #Catch me simpin' for Samuel on Sam Rivers Sunday #down the rabbit hole

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strangerexee · 2 months ago

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(1) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

You weren’t even supposed to be out that night.

Whole week had been trash — your boss on your ass, car acting stupid, apartment loud as hell with neighbors fighting through the walls.

You needed a break.

So when your girls hit you up — “Bitch, we outside tonight, put some heels on” — you said yes.

You didn’t even think twice.

Short dress. Glossy lips. The kind of heels that said you might make a bad decision if the right man breathed on your neck.

The club was packed — lights flashing, bass thumping deep in your chest — and you felt yourself finally breathe when you got a drink in your hand and a song you loved came on.

You were dancing, laughing, living your little free life — when you felt it.

Eyes.

Heavy.

Watching.

You turned your head — slow — and caught them across the room.

Two of them.

Tall. Built like trouble. Dark eyes gleaming under the lights like wolves in the woods.

And fine?

God help you.

One leaned back against the wall — arms folded, chewing on a toothpick — looking at you like he already knew what you tasted like.

The other was talking to some girl, but his eyes? Still on you.

You swallowed — heart hammering.

Your friends screamed when the song switched — dragging you further onto the dancefloor — but you kept glancing back.

Who the hell was that? You couldn't really tell.

Fast-forward twenty minutes — you outside cooling off, drink in your hand, scrolling on your phone.

And he stepped to you.

The one from inside.

Black jeans. Black hoodie. Gold chain swinging. Those heavy-lidded eyes eating you alive.

“What’s your name, lil’ mama?” he said, voice low and slow.

You squinted up at him — heart pounding — but your mouth moved faster than your brain.

He was tall in that way that made you straighten your spine, hoodie hanging loose on that broad-ass frame like it was clinging for dear life. Gold glinted at his neck, catching the low streetlights, and the way his eyes moved—

Slow. Unhurried. Heavy-lidded like sin itself.

He wasn’t blinking. Wasn’t smiling either. He was watching.

And it was doing something to you that your little glossed-up, club-ready self hadn’t prepared for.

You scoffed lightly, not letting your eyes linger too long on his mouth, or his hands—veined, tatted, big enough to make your thighs press a little closer.

“Who, me?” You sipped your drink. “I don’t know you like that, sir.”

That “sir” was sweet. Smart. Maybe a little sharp.

And it made his jaw tick.

He dragged his tongue across his teeth, slowly, like he liked the way you tasted already.

“You gon’ know me,” he said. “Sooner or later.”

Lord.

He didn’t say it loud. Didn’t say it with a smile.

Just…stated it. Like gravity. Like fact.

You swallowed hard and tried not to show how hot your neck was getting.

He took a step closer.

Not enough to scare you. Just enough for the space between you to feel smaller. Warmer.

You leaned back against the wall casually, trying to play it cute—but your pulse was thudding. Your friends were still inside, probably throwing ass to the beat, and you were out here flirting with a man who could’ve been the devil’s body double.

“What’s your name?” you asked, voice smooth.

He smirked—but barely.

“Smoke.”

“That your real name?”

“Nah. But it’s the one you need to remember.”

You hummed, glancing down at your phone. Trying not to melt.

You had heard the name before. People whispered about him.

And his brother, Stack.

The Moore twins.

Trouble in two different fonts.

But Smoke? Smoke was the one they said moved different. Quieter. Crueler.

The one you didn’t want mad.

He didn’t act out.

He handled shit.

And here he was. In your face. Asking your name like it wasn’t probably already in his notes app under “sweet lil’ thing in that pretty dress.”

“You dangerous?” you asked him, tilting your head.

“What you think?” he said, voice low. “I look dangerous to you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t need one.

Because the way your lashes dipped told him plenty. The way you bit the inside of your cheek, looked away real quick like you weren’t all hot in the chest…

Yeah. He knew what time it was.

But still—you had the final move. And you weren’t about to let him play you into giving it all up like a dumb little groupie.

So instead—you smiled.

Real pretty.

You put your hand out slow, took his phone when he offered it, and dropped your number in.

Just your first name. Nothing more.

He looked down at it like it was gold.

And when you handed it back—you leaned in. Light. Soft.

Kissed his cheek.

“That’s all you getting tonight, smoke.”

And then you turned—heels clicking, dress swaying—walking right back into the club like you hadn’t just left the king of the damn city standing there with your number in his hand and a smirk blooming slow on his face.

He didn’t even chase you.

Just watched.

You woke up in your bed with one heel still on and glitter in your eyelashes.

Head pounding.

Mouth dry.

Phone buzzing.

“Ughhh…”

You rolled over and squinted at the screen.

Smoke (Mobile) 9:07 AM.

Hell no.

You tossed the phone face down and curled back under the blanket. Mind still foggy with club lights and too many tequila shots, feet sore from dancing in heels you should’ve thrown out two summers ago.

The night felt like a dream.

A blur.

Except him.

You remembered him crystal clear.

That voice. That smirk. That goddamn cheek kiss you gave him like some sweet lil’ Southern belle.

You groaned into your pillow.

Why did you do that?

Phone buzzed again.

Smoke (Mobile) 9:12 AM.

Back-to-back?

You side-eyed the screen, biting your lip.

And then—

Third call.

Smoke (Mobile) Incoming Call…

You stared.

Then finally hit ignore.

“Sir, it’s not even 10am,” you muttered, dragging yourself upright.

You made it to the kitchen, sipping orange juice straight from the bottle like a menace, still in last night’s dress with one strap slipping off your shoulder.

You rubbed your temples, then your phone dinged.

Unknown Address shared a location with you.

Your stomach flipped.

No name. No message.

Just a red pin hovering over your damn building.

You froze.

Then another message dropped.

“Come open the door”

No punctuation.

No emojis.

Just that.

Your eyes snapped to the door.

Was he joking?

You tiptoed over, heartbeat in your damn mouth. Peeked through the peephole.

And there he was.

Black hoodie. Hood up. Leaning against the wall like he owned the entire floor. One hand in his pocket. Other hand holding his phone. Head down.

Smoke at your damn front door like he’d lived there his whole life.

You didn’t even think.

Just unlocked it.

He looked up when it clicked open — and that slow, heavy gaze rolled over you like smoke under a door.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyes dipping down your body. “You always look like this in the morning?”

You pulled the door open wider and stepped aside, blinking up at him.

“How the hell you know where I stay?”

He stepped in without answering, brushing your shoulder — his presence thick — that quiet heat pouring off him again.

He looked around slow. Clocked your messy counter, the couch, the half-dead plant in the corner.

“You live alone?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, arms crossed. “You still ain’t answer—”

“I will get to that,” he said, low. “I asked a question.”

You stared at him, mouth open.

He just smirked.

“Relax,” he said. “Ain’t like I kicked the door in. You let me in.”

Damn.

You did let him in.

Something about the way he stood — tall, calm, like a storm in a hoodie — made your mouth dry.

You cleared your throat.

“I need a shower.”

“Go ahead,” he said, tossing himself onto your couch like it belonged to him. “I’ll be here.”

You blinked.

He pulled his hood down, leaned back, spread his legs — just making space. His gold chain caught the light. His eyes flicked to you.

“Go on, baby. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You stood there like a deer in headlights, every nerve buzzing.

You turned and headed to the bathroom — lowkey speed-walking — and locked the door behind you.

Your back hit the wood. Chest rising and falling.

Why was this man in your house?

More importantly—

Why did it feel good?

You stripped, hot all over, and stepped into the shower.

Let the water run over you while your mind raced.

He was sitting on your couch.

Comfortable.

Knowing damn well you were naked in the next room.

And your heart was pounding like you liked it.

You stepped out, dripping, towel wrapped around you, and cracked the door open to peek.

He was still there. Phone in hand. One knee bouncing slow.

“You good?” he called out, not even turning around.

“Yeah…”

You closed the door fast and leaned against the sink.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t ask to come in.

Just showed up.

Showed up and sat there like he belonged.

And maybe that was the scariest part.

Because some twisted, hungover, half-dressed part of you?

Kinda wanted him to.

Anyway —

You weren’t about to be that girl. Walking out in a towel like you ain’t have an ounce of sense. He was fine, yeah. Dangerous, yes. Built like everything you knew you should run from…

But still.

You had dignity.

Even if you did keep looking at yourself in the mirror—checking your face, adjusting your curls, heart thudding like you had something to prove.

You took your time. Went out the bathroom and into your bedroom.

Lotioned slow. Fresh pair of panties. Cotton shorts. Cropped tank top, soft and snug, your favorite one that always sat just right.

Simple. Cute. Still had a little “you can leave if you want, I ain’t pressed” to it.

Even though you were very much pressed.

You stared at the door for a second.

Took a breath.

Then turned the knob and stepped out.

The scent of your vanilla body cream followed you like a cloud as you moved through the hallway—each barefoot step slow, hesitant, but steady.

And there he was.

Smoke.

Exactly where you left him.

Leaning back into your couch like it was a throne. Legs spread. One arm tossed over the backrest. Phone gone now—he was looking at you.

Eyes dragging from your face, to your neck, to your waist, to your thighs.

Slow.

Like he was learning you.

“You clean?” he said, voice low, warm.

You nodded once.

“You still here?”

He smirked.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“You mad about that?”

“I ain’t say that.”

He nodded, eyes never leaving yours.

“But you thought about it.”

You shrugged, stepping into the kitchen to pour a glass of water—partly to distract yourself, partly to avoid looking back at him.

He watched you move, the way your shorts hugged your curves, the way your fingers curled around the glass.

“You let all strangers up in your spot like this?”

“You a stranger?” you asked, turning to lean against the counter.

His lips curved.

“Not after last night.”

You swallowed and sipped slow, heart tight in your chest.

"I kissed your cheek — you're acting like we fucked."

He wasn’t loud.

He wasn’t boastful.

But something about the way he said it — like you were already his — made your skin hum.

“So,” you said, setting the glass down. “You just…decided to pull up? No warning?”

“You ain’t answer the phone,” he said simply. “You gave me your number, yeah? Thought that meant something.”

You squinted.

“So you tracked me down?”

“Didn’t have to,” he said. “You know how many people know you? Or watch you? You too pretty to be out here thinking nobody’s paying attention.”

That made your breath catch.

And he saw it.

He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, voice dropping deeper.

“Don’t matter how late you leave. Don’t matter what you post or what you don’t. Eyes on you. Always. I’m just the first one to say something about it.”

You didn’t know if you were flattered or terrified.

Maybe both.

But you crossed your arms, trying to act cool.

“You always this intense?”

“Only when I want something.”

That shut you up.

Because that gaze? That posture?

He didn’t look like he wanted your number anymore.

He wanted you.

And not in some quick, messy way.

No.

He wanted to pull you. Keep you. Figure out how your day started and ended. Learn what made you tick. Put his name in your phone and in your mouth, just to hear how it sounded.

He wanted to sit on your couch with his hood off and his legs wide and look at you like you were already home.

And it was scaring you.

Just a little.

“You hungry?” you asked finally, voice smaller than you meant.

He leaned back, eyes raking over you again.

“I’m good. Unless you cooking.”

“You ain’t getting all that today, sir,” you said, smiled a little. “I’m still hungover.”

“I could fix that.”

You gave him a look.

He just chuckled — low and short — like he already knew he’d wear you down eventually.

And maybe he was right.

Because when you sat down across from him, arms still crossed, biting the inside of your cheek —

You didn’t tell him to leave.

But the quiet stretched out thick between you.

Not awkward — but heavy. Heavy like smoke after a fire. The kind of silence that made your skin itch ‘cause you felt like you were supposed to be doing something, saying something — but he was doing just fine saying nothing.

His eyes moved slow when he looked at you.

Not greedy, but precise.

Like he was trying to clock your tells. Your tics. The way you blinked when you got nervous. The little tongue poke when you were being smart.

Made you wanna fidget.

But you didn’t.

You sat on that couch, one leg crossed over the other, arms still tucked under your chest like a shield, trying not to let your eyes drop to the gold chain hanging loose around his neck.

That chain was disrespectful.

“So what you do?” you asked finally. “For work. For money. Or is that a rude question?”

Smoke snorted low — amused.

“What I do,” he said, dragging the word out, “ain’t always something you ask in daylight. Especially not when you still smell like vanilla body oil and got your knees showin’.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Sir—”

“But since you asked,” he cut in, “I got a few things. People call. I handle it.”

“So vague.”

“You want details, or you want the truth?”

“Both.”

He smiled—slow, lazy, like it tasted good in his mouth.

“Truth is, I move weight. Truth is, I don’t clock in nowhere. Truth is…” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, head tilting just slightly. “I don’t let nobody tell me what to do. Been that way since I was fourteen.”

You blinked.

He didn’t sound like he was bragging. No hype, no theatrics. Just matter of fact. Like he knew what he was and wasn’t about to apologize for it.

“So you are perilous.”

“I’m useful.”

“That what they call it now?”

“Only when I’m being nice,” he said, eyes dipping low as he glanced over your body again, “which I usually ain’t.”

You felt your breath catch. Again.

God, this man was good.

“I feel like I should tell you I don’t get down with all that,” you said, voice light, deflecting. “I like peace. Quiet. I like my little paycheck and my little business and my little sanity.”

“And yet,” he said, “you still gave me your number.”

Damn.

He had you there.

You leaned back, lips pursed.

“You’re real sure of yourself.”

“Nah,” he said. “I’m just sure about you.”

You looked away.

Because what the hell do you say to that?

No man ever told you that before—not like that. Not like he meant it.

Not like he already decided that the two of you were something, and your mouth just hadn’t caught up yet.

“You ever get tired?” you asked. “Of acting like nothing scares you?”

“You ever get tired of pretending you don’t like when I act like that?”

You snorted, surprised.

“You good at reading people?”

“I’m good at reading you.”

That stopped you. Again.

You felt your arms uncross before you even realized you were doing it.

Like some part of you was already surrendering.

Your voice was softer when you said, “Why me?”

Smoke let that question sit.

Then —

“’Cause you smart. Real smart. But messy with it. Like you trying to keep it together and falling apart at the same time.”

You blinked.

Hard.

“And you pretty,” he added. “But you don’t lead with it. You act like it ain’t your weapon. That’s cute. Dangerous too.”

Your throat got tight.

“And I like the way you talk. Mouth slick. You got fight in you. But your eyes? They stay looking for something. You tired, but not done yet.”

His voice dropped.

“I like that.”

You weren’t sure what emotion was creeping up your chest, but it was hot. Heavy. A little scared, a little intrigued. A lot turned on.

You leaned your head back on the couch.

“You always do this?” you asked. “Pull girls in with that therapy voice and street prophet energy?”

“Nah,” he said. “You special. I don’t do repeat games.”

You swallowed again.

"Right, right..."

Felt your stomach knot.

“You staying long?” you asked.

“Long as you let me.”

You looked at him.

He was still sitting back like he owned the room. But now his hand was resting on his thigh, slow-tapping, like he was thinking about moving.

Like he wanted to.

“Don't you got a brother?” you asked randomly, needing to ground yourself.

He nodded.

“Twin.”

You tilted your head.

“Fraternal or Identical?”

“Identical.”

“So there's two of you running around town?”

Smoke smirked.

“Yeah. But he ain’t me.”

You smiled — real slow.

“Noted.”

He tilted his head.

“Why? You planning to test it?”

“I don’t repeat games either.”

That made him grin — wide this time.

“Told you,” he said. “You real slick. Keep playing like that and you gon’ have a hard time getting rid of me.”

“Who said I wanted to?”

You didn’t even mean to say that out loud.

But the way his eyes lit up? Whew.

“Aight then,” he said, voice silk. “Now we getting somewhere.”

You rolled your eyes, checking the time without meaning to.

He’d been on your couch longer than some of your exes lasted in your bed. Legs spread like he paid rent here. Voice low and lazy like he had nowhere else to be.

So you said it.

“You don’t got shit else to do today?”

Smoke turned to you with that half-smirk, half-squint thing he kept doing. Like every word out your mouth amused him more than the last.

“I mean, I’m flattered,” you added, kicking your bare heel against the floor. “But I know y’all street boys don’t just sit still like this. Ain’t you got corners to stand on or money to count or something?”

He snorted.

“You think that’s all I do?”

“Ain’t say that,” you shrugged. “But I know you didn’t wake up and decide to play house on my couch. I’m not that fine.”

“You are that fine,” he said easily. “I just got better taste than time.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Boy, whatever.”

But he didn’t respond.

His phone buzzed.

Once. Then again.

You clocked the quick glance he gave it. The screen lit up bright across his thigh. He tapped it, turned it face-down, didn’t move.

“What’s that?” you asked, leaning a little.

“Nothing.”

“Your girl?”

That made him grin. Head tipping back a little as he stared at the ceiling like he couldn’t believe you asked that.

“You think I’d sit this long in your house if I had somebody else blowing up my shit?”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen men do worse for less.”

“Ain’t my girl,” he said, straight-faced now. “If I had one, I’d have said it.”

You gave him a long look.

Didn’t say anything else.

But then the phone rang.

Loud. Sudden. The name flashed up — too quick for you to catch it — but his mood shifted the moment he saw it.

Just a flick of something. That calm-mask tightening.

“Yo,” he answered, standing up.

His tone dropped. Business.

He turned away, walked toward your door.

You stayed on the couch.

Didn’t ask.

You weren’t stupid. You didn’t need the details. Man like him? Phone call like that? It wasn’t brunch plans.

“Aight,” he said into the phone. “I’m on my way.”

He hung up.

Turned around.

And there it was — the shift back.

That calm he wore like armor.

You didn’t bother asking what it was. You already knew better.

Instead, you pulled your phone into your hand and scrolled. Just enough to let him know you weren’t pressed.

He watched you for a second. Then:

“Lemme get a kiss.”

You scoffed — head jerking up.

“You for real?”

“Deadass.”

“You wasn’t even here ten minutes and now you tryna act like this our place. Boy, please—”

“C’mon, baby,” he said, slow and syrupy. “You not gon’ do me like that.”

And the worst part?

You folded.

Not fast. Not right away.

But slow, like butter melting on hot bread.

You rolled your eyes — hard enough to give attitude — and stood.

“You so needy,” you muttered.

“You like that.”

You walked over.

He was already smirking.

And when you got close enough for him to reach — you knew.

You knew what he was gon’ do.

Still leaned in.

Still let him pull you in soft. One hand to your lower back, the other brushing your jaw.

His lips found yours like he’d kissed you before.

Like he’d been thinking about it since the second he saw you.

The kiss was slow — firm. Not sloppy, not rushed.

Just pressure. Warmth. Intention.

And right when you started to lean in deeper—

Boom.

Not one, but both his hands slid down to your ass.

Gripped.

Full palms, full squeeze.

You pulled back just enough to give him a look.

“Really?”

“You surprised?”

You tried to step back.

He didn’t let you.

Just stood there with that fucking smirk, hands still in place like they had a right to be there.

“You gon’ let go?”

“You gon’ ask me nice?”

“Smoke.”

“Aight, aight.” He finally eased up. “Go on then. I’ll call you.”

“Please don't.”

He leaned in one more time — kissed the corner of your mouth.

Then he was gone.

Door clicked shut behind him.

And your heart?

Still tapping a wild rhythm in your chest.

What the hell was that?

And why the hell did it feel like the beginning of something you wasn’t ready for?

#elijah moore #elijah smoke moore #sinners x reader #sinners imagine #sinners smut #sinners #sinners 2025 #sinners movie #michael b jordan #elijah moore x reader #elijah smoke Moore x reader #smoke and stack #strangerexee #au fanfiction

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vvampirelust · 8 months ago

Text

midnight cowboy

warnings: smut, reverse cowgirl, kinda mean!sevika, brief spanking, BIG MAMA (she is a warning.)

this was inspired by JADE’s song, ‘midnight cowboy’

Neon lights glare through the window, illuminating the dark space, and the two figures inside. Flashes of purple and blue casting over their silhouettes. Muffled bass thumps, echoing from the nightlight outside. It’s almost silent other wise, heavy breathing filling the void.

Sevika’s mechanical arm rests behind her head, leaning back on it, her cold grey eyes alert, watching. There’s a smug look on her face, smoke pouring in spirals from her nose as she takes a drag from the blunt between her lips. She tears her eyes from your naked form, down to your hands and grunts when you roughly tighten the harness around her thigh. Saddling her up. “Easy.” She bites.

You simply chuckle in response, knowing fine well she likes when you try to play a little rough.

Sevika’s purplish strap stands tall on her hips, thick and ridged, made to make you feel everything. Your cunt throbs at the sight, thighs squeezing. It suited Sevika perfectly, big and intimidating. Her free hand comes to wrap around it, stroking the thick length up and down. You’re staring hungrily, folds dripping with slick, eager to have Sevika inside you.

Her head tilts, “You gonna get on with it, or what?” She asks gruffly, daringly. Eyes trailing down to the mess between your thighs, demeanour faltering ever so slightly at the sight of your glistening cunt. Sevika hums, patting her thigh, “Come ‘n ride me, gorgeous. Show me what you’re made of.” She challenges through another puff of smoke, settling back against the headboard.

Lip caught between your teeth, you nod dumbly, “Need your cock, Sevika,” you sigh, climbing her eagerly, watching her smirk. You turn around on her lap, straddling her thighs. It takes Sevika by surprise, which doesn’t happen often, having expected you to ride facing her. Now she has a full view of your back, her eyes trailing down the length of you. She admires your curves, the swell of your ass and fuck, your cunt.

Which was winding down on the tip of her strap, coating Sevika’s cock in your sticky juices. She catches on your entrance and you gasp, walls fluttering as you tease yourself.

Sevika’s groan dances with your long moan when you finally sink down on her cock. Feeling lightheaded as you stretch around the size of her, so deep inside your cunt, you can feel her in your throat. Sevika’s groan turns into a dark laugh, flesh hand wiping to snatch the blunt from her lips, tossing it aside. “You really are just fucking nasty, aren’t you, girl?” her words are harsh as she sits up, the movement forcing her cock deeper. You whine, cut off by Sevika’s arm wrapping around your chest, tugging your back flush against her.

“Fuckin’ slut, look at you,” she drawls, mechanical hand finding your waist, running down, freezing against your hot skin. “Fuck, look at these curves. Just move-yeah that’s it. Nice and slow,” Sevika guides you, grip on your waist urging you to grind down on her, hips rolling for her hard eyes to admire.

Your soft moans echo, whimpers slipping out whenever her cock hits those spots inside you that have you lost for breath. “Sevika, please,” you have no idea what you’re pleading for. Sevika simply grunts in response, leaning down to attack your neck with her mouth. Sucking hard enough to leave marks, looking down your body as you continue to rock your hips back against her. You suck in a sharp, deep breath, Sevika watching how your tits move as you heave, perky nipple just begging to be pinched and bitten. So she does, pawing and groping at your tits until you’re whining and squirming on her cock.

You start to grind down harder, faster, desperate for more. More noises slip past your lips, growing louder with each rut of your hips. You want to bounce on her cock, feel her sliding in and out of your soaked pussy. Yet Sevika lays a sharp smack to your thigh, “What did i just say?” she murmurs nipping your skin, “Slow.”

With a whine you sit back on her cock, “I need more,” you punctuate with a hard roll of your hips, the pressure giving Sevika friction to which she groans. “Lemme ride you. Give me more, please. I wanna feel you in my tummy.” You sound pathetic, and it gets Sevika off, wanting to see just how desperate you can get. “Please, Sev-“ You cut yourself off with a whimper as you attempt to bounce on her, feeling her cock shifting deliciously against your fluttering walls. “More,” you sigh quietly, lost in the pleasure.

It’s short lived as you’re suddenly shoved forward onto your hands, Sevika scoffing behind you. “You want more?” She sneers, laying a slap to your ass. “Take it.” You’re looking at her over your shoulder, eyebrows raised. Sevika rolls her eyes, her impatience evident as she gestures to you sitting still on her cock. “Get on with it. Fuck yourself dumb, doll, gimme a good show.”

You start slow, lifting off her cock until only her tip sheathed. Letting Sevika see how well you take her as you sink down to the hilt, curses falling from your lips in whispered whines. Sevika hums her approval, eyes trained on the way you begin bouncing on her cock. Quickening the pace of your thrusts, your head falls back in pleasure. Bracing yourself using her thighs, you pant out little whines and whimpers, feeling her so deep, gliding against your sensitive walls.

“Sevika, fuck!” you cry out, voice strained, “Feels s-so good.” That coil beginning to wind up in your stomach, making you clench and attempt to keep her lodged in your cunt. You can hear Sevika’s heavy breath behind you, clearly affected by watching you ride her. Yet her tone is smug, her voice dropping lower, “Come on. You can do better than that.”

Her hands slide to cup your ass, the contrast of hot and cold sending sparks flying across your body. She spreads you open to her gaze as you start to pick up pace, slamming down harder on her cock. She watches the way your cunt swallows her whole, how you were gripping her cock whenever she slid out. Sevika curses behind you, low and husky, “That’s it.”

The need to cum overpowers the ache in your legs, the need to please Sevika. Your eyebrows are furrowed, moans spilling as you bounce up and down, again and again. Fucking yourself hard on her cock, making your head feel fuzzy. “I- fuck,” it feels so good. She’s so deep in your tummy, hitting all the right spots. “I’m gonna…fuck…i’m gonna cum,” you manage, whining, feeling the pressure building up in your core.

Sevika doesn’t even answer, entrance by the crease, the jiggle of your ass against her hips. Your thighs start shaking, inching closer and closer. It drives you wild, riding Sevika like a goddamn cowgirl. Your nails dig into her skin, hard, and she only groans at the feeling. You’re chanting her name in a whispered prayer, voice rising in pitch as your orgasm begins to take over.

It washes over you dramatically, wave after wave. You can’t get a word out, mouth dropped in a silent moan, convulsing atop her. Your cunt is squeezing her rhythmically, like a vice, unable to comprehend the feelings taking over your body. Your thrusts become weaker, attempting to fuck yourself through it. You aren’t given a chance to ride out your high before you feel Sevika’s hand fisting your hair. She grips your hair like a ponytail, tugging your head back as she readjusts herself. And then she makes you scream.

Sevika pistons her hips to meet your thrusts, fucking up into you with an aggression. Your moans come out in broken sobs as she overstimulates your cunt. Your neck strains with how tight Sevika holds your hair, pulling you so far back you could nearly see her upside down. “Got another one in you, don’t ya’?” Sevika growls, grunting with each thrust of her cock into your dripping cunt. Strings of your slick are falling to the bed beneath you, soaking Sevika’s thighs, leaving a ring of cum around the base of her cock.

It’s too much. Far too much. But still not enough. The way she’s rutting into you like a dog in heat, making you see fucking stars. Having not recovered from your first orgasm and she’s already fucking you into the next one. Her free hand finds your hip, gripping tightly and using her strength to bounce you on top of her. “Good fucking girl,” she drawls through a grunt, “Taking me so well.”

You sob out in pleasure as a response, listening to the obscene wet sounds. Paired with the slapping of Sevika’s hips against your ass. It was filthy, pornographic, but it simply made you want it more. Sevika was pushing you past your limits, and a sick, twisted part of you got off on it. The way she used you like a toy.

And you let her, body pliant as she fucked up into you, cock hitting deeper than you ever thought possible. Your legs were trembling, so close to giving out beneath you. “Fuckin’ look at you. Making a mess of my dick,” Sevika practically snarls, tugging your hair harder and rutting into you deeper. “Gonna cum, doll?”

You couldn’t speak, attempting a weak nod as you whined. Your cunt was tightening around her cock again and you were gasping for air. It was all too much. The feeling of her cock, the fuzziness in your head. “Please, please, please please,” you whimper, needing to let go.

Sevika chuckles darkly, gripping your hip tighter. “Want it bad, huh?” Her tip was pushing into that spot with each thrust, pulling on your hair until she was able to latch her teeth into your neck.

That was your breaking point, the coil in your tummy snapping. Sevika forces another orgasm out of you. She grunts with each thrust, fucking you through the near unbearable pleasure. Your moans release in broken screams and squeaks, arms giving out as you fall back into her. Sevika wraps her arm around your middle, cooing in your ear, rutting her hips up over and over, letting you feel everything.

“Ohhh,” you’re shuddering in her hold, “Oh my god!” Your hand shoots behind you to grab a hold of the back of her neck, grounding yourself. You don’t even register the tears falling from your eyes from how hard she made you cum. You have to turn your head and bury your face into her, panting for breath, still shaking. You can feel Sevika stroking her mechanical thumb over your hip, offering a form of comfort.

She’s laughing in your ear, smug expression gracing her face. She lets go of your hair to grab your face, smushing your cheeks. “I think it’s my turn, doll.” She says quietly, gruffly, breath hot against the shell of your ear, “Gonna ride that pretty face of yours. Let’s see how much you can take.”

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