#inner thigh rash

[hoshigray]

𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 | nanami kento

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: dom! Nanami x fem/afab! reader - nipple play - hair pulling - doggy style + deep impact positions - restricted movements (using his tie on your hands) - overstimulation - pet names (angel, baby, love, sweetpea) - clitoral play - orgasm denial.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Oops, I did it again. Nanami being rough with his hands on your body. That's it, that's the tweet. Smthn quick thanks to MAPPA serving good food to the nanami fanatics on this week's ep

We all know Nanami Kento would treat his partner with the utmost care. There is no man you can put your entire faith in when it comes to your body than him. He's always perfect with you. Checking up on you to see if you're okay, rubbing circles on your back to calm you down from a haze, wiping tears on your face whenever he makes you feel so goddamn good. And let's not forget the kiss on the forehead he places so gently as he fucks you lovingly.

In terms of lovemaking and treating your body right, Nanami is undeniably the perfect candidate…

…However, there will occasionally be those moments when you’d want him to be just a tad rough with you. Nothing wrong with the soft, cutesy shit. No, no, you love it!  But let’s face it; when you have a man who looks so deliciously alluring to the eye, with his broad shoulders and strong forearms that peek from his dress shirt, you can’t blame your mind for indulging with wilder thoughts. Especially when you express said thoughts to him.

And he listens to your request with his absolute attention. He’ll ask for confirmation before he does anything rash. And when you give him the green flag, your fate is sealed for the rest of the night. 

“—Ggaahhh!! Ahaahnn!! Ken–Kentooo, you’re going—OhmyGod, OhmyGoood—“

“Shhh, don’t squirm too much, love.” He’ll whisper to your ear so hotly you nearly fall to your knees had it not been for his leg between yours, essentially making you ride his sturdy thigh. Your back pressed up against his abdomen while his hands roamed your body. One hand in your shirt, slipping your bra up to release your breast from the material, and for his hands to knead and play with your mounds. The other stuffed down your shorts and passed your panties, his fingers intimately close to your hot, wet folds. And you jerk when his ring finger presses down on your clit.

“Ahooo! Kento, stop, stooop!!” You don’t want him to stop — he knows you don’t want him to stop. “I’m gonna cum, it’s gonna happen—Nnnnmm!!!” He tweezes your nipple roughly, evoking an erotic shriek. 

“You better come on me,” he demands you. Oh, how he sounds so hot when he does that. “Make my hand filthy like you, baby.”

But that’s only the beginning. Wait until you two move into the bedroom with his pelvis rutting onto the cusp of your ass. Face down to the pillow and ass up for Nanami to station you, and his hand in your hair, lightly tugging it. Sweat shields your body and glistens from the bedroom lights, your hands tied behind your back by his necktie. You’ve left with nothing to stand your ground, forced to take in his cock that churns your inner walls. And, God, it feels so fucking good. 

“How’re you feeling there, angel?” Nanami, his pants and tie discarded with his shirt no longer buttoned up. The fingers in your hair massage your scalp. “Hmm? Are you feeling good?”

“…Uhhaaa—Ohohhh!” There’s no way you could give him a proper response in a position like this. Your head is so far gone that all you can think about is the commotion between your legs. The deeper he grinds his cock into your chasm, the deeper you sink into your blissful fog. Your hips begin to move involuntarily at this point; it just feels too exhilarating to stop! 

However, attending to your bliss has its faults, especially when you’re not paying attention to the man making you feel this way. Because Nanami pulls your hair, forcing your face upright from the pillows. You cry at the sudden yank, exposing the drool and tears that trickle down your pretty face.

“You know better than that, Y/n.” His serious voice is on, your cunt twitches around his length. “I need your words to let me know how good you’re feeling.”

“Ahck—Mmmm…S’ too good, Kentooo. Y’ make me feel so good. So fucking—Ahannn…good….” did you mean for your words to slur? Who cares. Just don’t stop; please keep it going. Please, please, please—

Nanami chuckles at your words and lets your face fall back to the pillow. “Good.”

But don’t think the fun stops there. Nope. It just keeps getting better. 

With your hands still tied, you now lie on your back to the comforter while he pistons his cock into you, one of your legs now on his shoulder to get a better angle to hit your sweet spots accurately. The wails you let out are uncontainable — there’s no point in stopping them from flying out your mouth. Your bottom lip is puffy from how much you’ve bitten it this entire time, and more tears fall to your neck.

Nanami looks at your expressions intently, mocha eyes never leaving your gorgeous face. It’s here that he finally withdraws his shirt and fucks you nude, sharing this intimate heat and passion with you. And, lord, he looks so fucking good right now. His tidy golden hair now with strands sticking to his forehead, sweat shared between your naked bodies, and his beautiful brown orbs taking you in like you’re the greatest treasure in the world. 

“Ohhfuck, ohhhfuuckin—Ohhh!!!” Oh, God. With the way the tip of his cock precisely hits and scrapes your tender spots, you can feel your climax coming to get you. “Kento, Ken–Nnmphh, I’m gonna, I’m gonna—“

And then it vanishes. It didn’t come. Why? Because Nanami immediately removes his length from your slick-coated slit, the electrifying tingles in your body subside in seconds. Of course, you whine to him with doe, tearful eyes. So cruel. He’s so just cruel, but you love it.

“Mmmm, sorry, sweetpea.” You know he’s not sorry. The tiny mischievous glint in his eyes is telling. “Let me hear you beg for it first, the I’ll give my baby what they want.”

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2023 — dividers from @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more

[chrrymlks]

୨୧﹕ mustang .ᐟ part one

pairing ; au!nicholas chavez x fem!reader contains ; 80s alternate universe , slight smut ( makeout , undressing ) , enemies to lovers , getting caught. a/n ; this is based off of the aesthetic and time period of the ‘monsters’ show, but it is NOT based off of the menendez brothers. it is also based on ‘challengers’, specifically the tennis scenes. nicholas is a rich kid in the 1980s in this fic. summary ; after a competitive tennis match between y/n and nicholas, they decide to let their anger out in another way.

A TIE BREAKER is the last thing y/n needed for this match, and she could tell nicholas was furious too, swaying from side to side with his eyebrows furrowed, sweat dripping down his forehead slowly after a long game. it didn’t help that it was in the middle of a heatwave, and y/n’s legs had rubbed together so much that a chafing rash had began to form on her inner thighs. with every movement there was a burning sensation, but at this point she didn’t care — she wanted to make a point to nicholas, that she was better than him. she wanted to humble this rich boy so much, that looking at her in public would anger him.

so, pushing through the pain, y/n got into position and held the tennis ball against her racket, before looking nicholas in the eyes, unafraid of his intense gaze. and without a second thought, she threw the ball up into the air and hit it towards him.

with every grunt and hit of the ball from nicholas, y/n’s heartbeat raced. his muscles glistened in the sunlight as sweat drenched them. it was attractive, sure, but he wasn’t attractive. y/n could never imagine being attracted to him. the spoiled momma’s boy? no fucking way. it only fuelled her need to succeed, to show him who’s boss. so, as soon as she saw the chance, y/n hit the ball as hard as she could to the other side of the net, and without fail the ball bounced just before the baseline before bouncing once again out of the court.

nicholas just watched as he lost — he knew it would’ve been impossible to save himself from that.

as y/n and half of the audience cheered, nick agitatedly rubbed his temples with his left hand, trying to compose himself. this was until he shouted a loud “FUCK!” as he threw his racket on the ground.

y/n laughed at his outburst as they both walked up to the net, “is someone mad?”.

nicholas didn’t answer, putting his hand out for a short handshake. but, instead of letting go, he grabbed y/n’s hand tighter and pulled her in slightly, his eyes locked on hers. nick muttered under his breath, loud enough for only her to hear, “you’re fucking dead to me”, before pushing her hand away and walking off.

y/n furrowed her eyebrows. for some reason she felt hurt? it’s not that she liked him, or wanted him to like her. but that was just… mean.

after packing her things and thanking people for congratulating her, y/n began to leave the small stadium with her tennis bag slung over her shoulder. she walked into the parking lot, making her way towards her car and shoving her bag into the trunk before spotting another car — and she knew exactly who’s it was. the red 1965 ford mustang parked next to the lamppost, two rows from her car was obviously nicholas’.

y/n furrowed her eyebrows. wondering why he was still here, she decided to walk towards the car.

it seemed like nicholas didn’t realise she was walking up to his driver’s side window since he was looking down, eyes closed as he rubbed his temples in annoyance. the girl stood there for a while, pondering on how to get his attention before clearing her throat.

nicholas flinched before looking up at the girl who just beat him, her face in an awkward expression, “so..”

“no” he cut her off immediately, “fuck off”

y/n was taken aback by his rude remark before responding, “okay, no. stop acting like a fucking child”

“being annoyed about losing is acting like a child?” nick scoffed, opening his car door.

the girl moved to the side so he could get out, her arms folding as she leaned against the expensive car, “yeah, it is”

after he got out of the car, he crossed his arms, mimicking her. she had to look up to him now, as he towered over her with an annoyed smirk on his face, “it’s not my fault you’re a bitch”

“it’s not my fault you’re a sore loser” she retaliates, causing him to take a few small steps closer to her. y/n had to look even further up at him, actually seeing his face now as he blocked the sun with his head. the smell of his cologne mixed with sweat filled her lungs, which was strangely attractive to her.

nicholas spoke in a much softer, yet condescending tone than before, “sore loser, huh?”

“sore.” y/n got in his face, “loser.”

the two sat in the tension for a minute, just inches away from each other’s faces. nicholas inhaled her exhale, and she did the same with him. their eyebrows remained furrowed as they looked into each other’s eyes, filled with hate. you couldn’t tell if he was about to punch her, or kiss her.

that was until the tension broke as they both rushed to smack their lips together in a sloppy yet passionate kiss. nicholas wrapped his arms around y/n’s waist, roughly grasping her, as she moved her hands to his neck — one hand ran through his hair as the other dug her nails into his neck, causing him to let out a grunt, kissing her even rougher.

nicholas removed one of his hands from her body, reaching behind her for the door handle and opening the car door. they both swiftly got into the backseat of the car and slammed the door shut behind them, never breaking the kiss.

he then started placing sloppy kisses along her cheek and down her neck, letting y/n catch her breath as she reached for his biceps. she grabbed his muscles, getting flashbacks from when she observed them on the court.

abruptly, nick moved his hands from her waist to her thighs and pulled her in closer, placing himself in between her legs, causing y/n to let out a gasp. nicholas looked up at her, giving a playful smile which she returned before sharing another rough passionate kiss.

as he moved his hand up her tennis skirt, he lightly grazed his fingertips along her upper thighs. y/n’s body shivered at his touch before a sudden, loud knock on the window interrupted them both.

ah shit.

part i | part ii

[innerfare]

Going Down On You - Part 2

Summary: how they go down on you

Characters: Shanks, Beckman, Mihawk, Crocodile, Doflamingo, Corazon, Smoker

Genre: pure smut

CW: NSFW // oral sex, shameless dirty talk, Doflamingo is a menace

——— 

Shanks: 

Swears it’s a hangover cure, and this man is hungover every single morning. He’ll wake up with a pounding headache, and before he’s even opened his eyes, he’s reaching for you. He’ll paw at you like a lazy animal until you remove your panties for him and he can fall face first into your delicious cunt. He’s trained your cunt like Pavlov’s dog, too, so that you wake up wet in the morning, your clit throbbing like an alarm clock. 

“Always ready for me,” he’ll mumble in his raspy morning voice. “Nice and wet. That's my girl.” 

You actually get a rash on your inner thighs from his stubble constantly rubbing against your sensitive skin, and you have to sheepishly approach Hongo for some sort of cream. Hongo has been on the Red Force long enough that he’s not phased, though you are so embarrassed you try to ban Shanks from going down on you for a while (spoiler alert: it doesn’t work). 

“I’d rather lose my arm than skip breakfast.” 

He’ll spend most of his time between your legs licking with broad strokes of his tongue, only pointing it and attacking your clit when you’re already on the brink of orgasm. He’ll finger you as you cum and won’t stop until you’re a crying mess, begging him to stop. Of course, he’ll only stop for as long as it takes him to get his cock out and push it in. 

Beckman: 

"Come here, babygirl. That's it."

Beckman drinks your juices like a nightcap. He’ll put you on his desk, the moonlight filtering in through the window and a lamp flickering in the corner, and unzip his pants to give his massive erection some breathing room before turning his attention to his babygirl. He likes to start slow, taking his sweet time with your nipples and leaving a trail of hickies around them, before finally burying his face between your shaking legs.  

“Give daddy a taste.” 

He’s nice and sweet about it, but don’t think he won’t hold you down if you start to squirm around too much. He goes down on you like you need it, not like you want it; he goes down on you like it’s for your own good. It’s for his own good, too, that thing that takes the edge off and helps him wind down after a stressful day. He wants your legs wrapped around his head and your hands tangled in his long hair. 

Oh, and he wants you to tell him that he owns you. Nobody else is allowed to taste your pussy; it's all his, and you'd better chant that while he draws your orgasm out of you.

Mihawk:

A proponent of fine dining. 

Will eat you out on the table, which kind of makes you feel like he’s doing it in public because his dining room is so large and there are massive windows with no curtains covering them; his insistence on you removing every article of clothing, not just your panties, and sitting on the table, feet on the edge, holding your legs as far apart as they’ll go only makes you feel more exposed. All the while, he remains entirely clothed. 

He’ll scold you if you wrap your legs around him. It’s his meal and he’s going to enjoy it precisely the way he wants, and the way he wants is uninhibited. He drags it out, too, edging you multiple times and lecturing you about delayed gratification if you complain. When he does finally allow you to cum, he tortures your clit for a moment after to be certain he saw you through your entire orgasm.  

Other times, he’ll be sitting in his chair and see you walk by and say, “y/n, come here.” He’ll have you strip down before laying you on the coffee table and working an orgasm or two out of you. Enjoys it so much that at times when he’s training or preparing for something, he’ll ban himself from indulging in your pussy because he needs to be focused. 

Crocodile:

Sir Crocodile has a big cock, but he normally stretches you with his fingers. Oral sex isn’t foreplay to him, it’s a separate thing entirely. He normally engages in it very late at night or very early in the morning when he’s exhausted and you’re half asleep. He’ll run his hand down your body, stopping briefly to massage your breasts, before pulling your legs apart. 

“Wake up,” he might grumble in your ear. Or he might not, instead waking you up with a few kisses to your clit.  

He probably kisses your pussy more than he kisses your mouth. He’ll make out with your leaky opening, swapping your juices for his saliva, part of him wishing he still had his other hand so he had more fingers to torture you with. But he’ll settle for one, going back and forth between your nipples and squeezing them until you cry out, then squeezing them some more.  

He doesn’t talk to you while he does it, a far cry from how he mocks and argues with you during penetrative sex. When he’s in an especially bad mood, he doesn’t take his hook off, and you wake up with it pushing into the soft flesh of your thigh, a silent warning not to close your legs on him. And when he’s finished, he’ll push you back to your side of the bed without a word. 

Doflamingo: 

Part of being his toy means being tormented with his tongue. He has a fucking giraffe tongue, and he puts it to good use, often laying back in bed and making you ride it like it’s his cock, moving it out of the way and then making fun of you when you struggle. He makes you talk to him the entire time, and when you’re not sitting on his face, you have to make eye contact with him. 

He’ll talk to you, too, and is so fucking patronizing. 

“Use your words, little one. Come on, you can do it. Don’t tell me it’s too much for you.” 

Uses a lot of different toys while he’s going down on you, typically a butt plug and nipple clamps. Has most definitely used a transponder snail to take pictures of your wet pussy, flush and swollen after he spent an entire afternoon tonguing it; the clicking sound of the snail camera was so humiliating but it made your pussy throb so much harder. 

One of his favorite things in the world is tying you up with his strings and spitting on your cunt. He has, on a handful of occasions, tied you up and allowed his subordinates to lick your pussy, but never lets them taste your cum; right when you’re on the edge, he’ll take over and make them watch while he takes your orgasm all for himself, usually with his cock. 

Corazon: 

Eating your pussy is his stress relief. The number of times you burned dinner because you were cooking and he came home in the middle and bent you over the counter for an appetizer is unreal. He always apologizes, but he doesn’t feel bad enough to stop doing it; he can’t stop doing it. And you’d be cruel to make him considering you can feel the tension leave his body as soon as his tongue runs through your folds. 

“I needed this so bad. Thank you so much.” 

When he’s not bending you over a counter, he wants you riding his face, and none of that hovering shit, either. He’ll wrap his arms around your thighs and hold you flush against his face, moaning as he laps at your folds.

“I can tell you need it, too. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” 

He’s so sweet about it, it’s unreal. Smiles the entire time, places so many sweet kisses on your clit and opening. A big fan of the two finger and tongue combo. Can work an orgasm out of you in record time. Never fucks you without making you cum at least once on his tongue (he’s 9’7 and his cock is proportional). 

Smoker: 

Smoker almost always ends up eating his cum out of you. He’s gone for weeks, even months at a time, and when he walks through that door, you’re dropping your panties or he’s ending it all. He has so much pent up energy he absolutely has to fuck you, but that doesn’t change the fact that what he’s been jerking off to every night is the thought of tasting you. 

“Don’t think for a second we’re finished yet.” 

He’ll take breaks to kiss you on the mouth, making you taste yourself. And then he’ll work his way back down your body, leaving hickies on your neck and biting your nipples before he’s back between your legs again, pushing his tongue into your hole to get every last drop of both of your juices out, his thumb seeing to your aching clit. 

You won’t even make it to the bed, he’ll just fuck you against the wall or on the counter and then drag you onto the floor to lick your cunt. He’s attempted to get you to the sofa before, but you just end up pushed against it while still on the floor, or else bent over the arm or sitting on the edge while he kneels between your legs. 

Also, the two of you don’t shower together often, but for some reason, the times you do shower together, he always ends up with his face between your legs. You’ve wasted so much water because he can’t keep his damn tongue to himself. And when he’s finished, he always places a few sweet kisses at your entrance as if to reward you for behaving. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[allurilove]

Yandere Professor x you

Rated 18 + — mature short content !

Includes: sweet talking, breath play, age gap, fucking in his classroom, pretty gender neutral, manipulation, abuse of power, obsessed professor.

*Everyone is of age, and older than eighteen. He is referred to as “your professor” his only existence is to be obsessed with the reader, and without you, he ceases to exist. This is purely fictional writing!*

Synopsis: He’s your strict professor, and you’re trying to get a better grade. You’ve never seen him be swayed by a student before, perhaps you would be the first.

Your grade has tanked by a lot. You had an unreasonable professor, the man was picky, and on your last test it was covered in corrections by that damn red pen of his.

You began to wonder what it would take for him to give you an A.

You wouldn’t consider yourself to be a bad student. In fact, this is the first time you have been close to failing. It was honestly your fault, you’ve read the reviews on this teacher and still chose to take the class anyways. You just wanted to challenge yourself.

You gawk at the paper he hands back to you. Your eye twitched at the big fat zero out of a hundred, and that might’ve been impressive just in itself. Not even one question right. You narrow your eyes at the professor who was still handing out the quiz back to the students.

When class ended, you slowly packed up your things, and you kept tabs on how many students were still left in the classroom. When the last student left, you got up from your seat, and stormed your way over to the professor.

Any sliver of dignity you had was gone. Your cheeks still flushed when he announced the lowest score to the whole class. You pushed that memory aside, and you crossed your arms as you stood in front of his desk.

“I don’t have time for this.” Your professor sighed, and his brows furrowed as he loosened up his tie.

He knew why you were coming over to talk to him. This was the worst grade you have gotten in his class. And really, he’s not surprised. In his opinion you have been slacking off. Your body bristles at his words, his eyes are cold and unforgiving.

Maybe if you weren’t a rash individual, you would’ve seen that his comments on your test was totally fake. Every circle and outline with a tiny scribble on the side? That was his way of professing his love for you, and about fifty “I love you’s.” were on the paper, but he knew you wouldn’t read them.

He did know that the grade would haunt you. He did know that it would make you desperate enough to come to him during office hours.

Your professor watched you with amusement as you crawled onto his lap, and you guiding his hands onto your body. He could already feel his dick stirring in his pants.

“This is hardly appropriate.” He said in a disapproving tone, though his hands do cup at your chest.

His thumb circles around your nipple, and the rest of his fingers gently squeeze at opportunity you have given to him. His other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you firmly in his lap.

It felt like you were trying to chip away at his resolve, his face was stern, and he listens to you rant on about the grade he gave you. Though, him letting you sit on his lap, let you subtly grind on his growing erection. With every whine and pout, you tried to play with his heart strings.

Your professor sighed, shook his head, and tried to pretend that there was no way you could make up for it. His hand slowly, and quietly, opening his drawer to grab for a condom.

It didn’t take long for him to agree when you took off his glasses, your lips capturing his in a searing kiss. He followed your lead, letting you feel like you were in control.

His hands groping at your ass and he puts you onto his desk, his body moving his way in between your legs. You wore something easy to slip off, your shorts and underwear now down to your ankles. He caressed your inner thighs, his lips now trailing down to your neck.

Your professor licked and sucked at your skin, his teeth gently nibbling at you, and he made sure to leave marks.

“You can be quite cute like this…” The older man mumbles, “…so pretty, so perfect.” he took a deep inhale as his nose was buried into your neck.

“Oh shit.” Your professor growled, his belt falling to the floor and his pants were pulled down roughly.

Before you knew it, he ripped open the condom wrapper and he slid it on his cock. He spit on his hand for lube, and gave his member a few pumps. He aligned his tip against your warmth.

His hands wrapped around your throat, squeezing the side of it, as his hips began to rock itself. His dick hit the deepest part of you, he went slow, and he was determined to find your sweet spot.

“Don’t be upset…” He cooed, and he kissed you in between his words. “I had to give you a zero.”

“You weren’t understanding my hints.”

He needed you. He wanted to be with you the moment you stepped inside his room, or maybe it was when he found out you signed up for his class. Your name was interesting to him, your looks, and the way you carried yourself got him hooked.

He took a couple points off on your first test, just to see what you would do. You certainly didn’t deserve it, and he thought you would’ve challenged him on it, or come talk to him. Or even offer your body to him sooner.

He did it over and over again, until you were on the verge of receiving an F. He was getting frustrated, and you were a damn tease.

He was never like this before, and if you exposed him, he could lose his job. But maybe then he could be with you in public? He let out a deep groan, his eyes rolling back as he was fucking you for his release.

Your professor didn’t realize that your face was turning pink, your nails scratching at his hands that were on your throat, and you were on the verge of cumming. You gasp as he finally let you breathe, his hands now on the desk behind you.

The room was filled with his vocalizations, his whimpers, his mumbles of how good you feel, and how much he needed this.

He even called you his baby, his good student, love, and when you finally came— his eyes were glued to the white substance dripping out of you.

That was when he knew you were going to be his. He was going to be the only one that could make you feel this way.

That day, you received the A you have been wanting. But you also indulged the man that’s been pining after you, and he never stopped.

Allure: Idk why, but i’ve been really active lately omg.

[figthoughts]

jensen with a beard is my equivalent of greek god cause omg he looks so good with it,the dean look is fucking hot too but the beard?has me kicking my feet

also stubble dean goooood 🦅🦅🦅🦅👹👹👹

anon i am CRYINF you are so right !!!!!! lemme share my thoughts on this because oh my god

all i think about when i see S9 dean is how good it’d feel to have his face between your thighs, carelessly letting his stubble scratch at your skin as he devours you, too into it to realise until he pulls back and sees the pink rash adorning your inner thighs. he’d defs apologise profusely as he kisses at your sore skin, promising to shave in the morning, but you wouldn’t let him!!!!!! the stinging pain is worth him looking so entirely delectable UGHHHHH

and jensen — DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED !!! i cannot deal with jensen and his fucking beard!!!!! him as soldier boy and beau arlen are my roman empires (do ppl still say that omg??) but him giving you beard rash along your jaw and neck as he attacks your skin with his lips. he’d probably be so smug about it, looking at you all marked up and covered in pretty pink little patches UGH or just the feeling of his beard against your forehead as you bury your face into his neck late at night?? need him so bad it’s unfair !!!!!

[andre-and-cal]

hii!! if u dont mind, could u do some submissive cal hcs pls? :3

Of course !! :D

Bottom Submissive Cal

Before Calvin and Andre had sex for the first time, Cal hadn’t really been fond of the prospect of taking it up the ass, even though he and Andre would be the only ones to know. Well— Cal didn’t really mind it necessarily, yet he did at the same time, if that makes sense. Essentially, Cal knew that at some point he’d have to let Andre see him, let him touch him and all— but he honestly kept putting it off. Kept brushing off Andre’s advances every time the other teen put his hand on his ass or inner leg. Later, Andre was initially kind of apprehensive to take Cal’s virginity, not wanting to accidentally hurt him, even though Cal insisted that he going to be fine.

When Andre jerks him off, the teen rubs his thumb over the slit on the tip of his dick, either mumbling out a soft, “You like that, Cal? You’re so fuckin’ wet… yeah, fuck, look at you,” or a hissing out a rough, “You’re such a messy little bastard. Why d’you cum so fucking easily? Horny bitch,”— Calvin’s fair-skinned cheeks redden at his observable taunts, and his groans become strained and animalistic; he sounds like some animal whining. Calvin enjoys it when Andre manhandles him, when he treats him like he’s lesser than, and his cock certainly does, too. Because he knows he’s at the same level as Andre— but feeling so… inferior compared to the older teen, at times, turns him on.

Cal and Andre have fucked before falling asleep before. They were in Cal’s bed, and Andre had gotten a bit of a “stiffy” after he and Cal were messing around and wrestling. Cal jokingly calling him “lieutenant” really made his cock twitch in his shorts. When they were doing missionary, he had to pat Cal’s cheek to remind him to be silent, and he clasped a hand over Cal’s mouth and forced him to be quiet, whispering a sharp, “Shhhh… c’mon, Cal, shut up. You’re getting too loud. C’mon now— do you want them to hear or some shit?”,, and needless to say, Cal shut his mouth. Eventually, they had to shift positions, with Cal on his hands and knees for Andre and Andre fucking into him slowly— yet his asshole still ended up all puffy and red after. It was better this way, with Cal whimpering into his pillows, getting drool all over the fabric. Andre ended up falling asleep on him, his shaft slipping out of his ass.

Cal has sensitive skin and gets rashes easily, so even the most minor scratches and lacerations result in his skin getting puffy and inflamed for a little while— only really for the rest of that day, though. Penetration to his asshole results in the rim getting swollen and red… Andre likes that. He feels like he owns him, like they own each other, and he knows Cal feels similarly because he hasn’t asked Andre to be gentler with his thrusts. When Calvin cuts himself, Andre gets easily aroused while watching the region encircling the thin, bloodied line extending across his wrist or thigh bulging and shifting into a light shade of pink. Sometimes he wonders if Cal has allergies.

Andre uses a lot of rhetorical questions to get Cal flustered. He kind of can tell what Cal’s body language entails when it comes to their intimacy. If he’s being shy, Andre knows he wants it. Cal isn’t shy around Andre anymore. He knows how much of a psycho he really is. If he’s being forward, Andre definitely knows he wants it. Andre doesn’t want them to get caught, either, even though the thrill of doing something kinda risky is appealing. But Cal and Andre will never risk fooling around in public places. Their bedrooms, the woods sometimes, and Andre’s car are one thing, but anywhere else is a no-go— unless they know the area is secluded, like the school bathrooms. They gain thrills from other activities, such as self-harming.

Cal easily cums in his boxers when he and Andre are dry humping or when he holds a gun up to his head. Because Calvin isn’t really afraid of dying anymore or of the prospect of the trigger somehow going off; he never has— he only remembers that fear from when he was younger. But it wasn’t necessarily a fear. It was just a sense of dread toward losing control of himself and his life, his living self. Now that he’s older and getting ready for Zero Day with Andre, he’s accepted the knowledge that he is going to die. The kindest way to go out is to go out with his boy, and he’s fully prepared to see what’s on the other side with the other teen.

[kisses4kaia]

I've been looking everywhere for new challengers content so I'm GLAD you're asking

idk if you just want thoughts or like fic ideas (I have both if you want to let me know) but I'll start with the thoughts cuz I needed to talk about patrick zweig 24/7 sorry

I can't stop thinking about marking him/him marking me LET ME EXPLAIN just in every way possible, hickeys, bite/scratch marks, all kind of bruises (given very lovingly and consensualy ofc)

him being so cocky for basically branding and claiming you BUT being even more proud of the marks on his own body, wearing slightly shorter shorts on the court the next day so it's showing a little etc...

anonnnnn this is too good to be true thank u (college!patrick x college!reader)

you and patrick zweig were not exclusive.

he ran around his tennis court, campus, parties, the city, getting in bed with whichever warm body welcomed him—you never knew him to be picky—and you did similarly, just not nearly as indulgent as he.

but for being just friends who fool around from time to time, patrick was awfully careless. his hands would get greedy and leave lasting bruises on your hip-dips (love handles, as he likes to call them), and his cologne lingered due to his insistence on you wearing his clothes while he fucked you.

all of the tell-tale signs of his familiarity with your body weren’t fooling anybody, but more than anything it was the marks. he loved displaying his whereabouts on your body with his mouth, and there wasn’t much that could top hearing the stutter in your voice when somebody points out the nasty rash on your collarbone. there was not much, but there was something.

the one thing patrick zweig adored more than marking you, was your marking of him. it wasn’t even the product of the love-bites he liked the most, although he was quite fond of those, but it was the feral cloud that overtook you, the heat of the passion getting to you and throwing your caution to the wind. it was the eagerness you had to really fuck him well, the best. making him feel your need and desires and all of your experiences without words through your sex was his favorite part—one of yours, too. and if that meant hurting him (at least a little bit) for him to get the sentiment, you could do that.

and even when he claims you went a little bit overboard, patrick still shows up to practice with you, shorts a little shorter due to what only could have been an intentional scrunching, spreading his heavy legs on his seat with his crotch and inner-thigh hickies exposed.

art shook his head and laughed when he saw them, and the look on your face seeing them, too. all his brunette friend could say in response was “you wish that was you, huh?” nodding down to art’s glares’ subject.

the retort was taken in good jest, but the flush of his friend’s cheeks at the comment made patrick wonder what both you and art would look like with matching stains of skin, whether it be hickies or bruises on love handles. he smiled at the thought, and stood to play.

[skineasi]

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[allurenamin-moved]

⎯ 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐝𝐬 ; 𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨

‣ synopsis: it's off with the promises and on with the action, and best believe that satisfaction will follow suit. wc: 3.7k

‣ tags: husband!nanami kento x wife!reader, angst, filthy smut, post-fight sex, shower sex, oral (f. receiving), hair pulling, nipple play, unprotected sex, black coded reader

‣ author's note: soooo for those of you who used to follow me on my old blog, you would know that this fic was originally written for someone else before i sweetly decided that lovely ken fitted the bill, hehe! nonetheless, hope y'all enjoy!

𝐈𝐅 anyone else was to describe it, lifelessness was the prime impression. There’s nothing else that one could possibly gather from your fairly cryptic manner; no words had fallen from your lips to aid the hypothesis.

You’re always so annoyingly adept at your motives. But somehow, there was still one - and only one - living soul that held the mindly means to figure this shit out. To figure you out. He would spend a considerably scant amount of time on such a task, yet fulfil it so thoroughly that the constant aching between your legs seemed more equitable than you would like it to be.     

He’d recognized it through the minute rising of your chest as if it were obvious. He’d recognized it in the concerningly restive footsteps to your shared bedroom. He’d recognized it in the amusingly shrewd vibrations of your voice box that he’d supposed were to display your deadly level of vexation. Even the fresh, new callousness of your hands had been sensed, the ground being much more than the wrathful nails pressed against your palms in a fist - a skillful maintenance of your bitterness. 

You’d hoped to be a mystery. You’d hoped to seem as composed as you believe yourself to be. But truth be told, you were utterly feeble in your means to conceal it; almost in a way that should have you cowering in humiliation. From careless hands inertly twisting your braids into a bun to your unrelaxed journey to the bathroom; cards were laid out. You fucking knew it. 

What lies beyond sustaining his oh so honorable hand as your lover - your spouse, or partner in crime as some might call it - is absolutely no reason he should know you this well. The wonders, the mysteries… the frailties of your being weren’t just on the back of his skillful hand, but were studied, revised and crammed tirelessly by means of writing on every wall he turned to. 

Fuck him, a cunning conscience with devil horns would whisper every two seconds to your delicate soul. Fuck his criminal wit. Fuck his willingness. Fuck those audacious, plump lips against your neck and his wispy “I missed you.” Fuck his free hand for its knowlege of the riddling workings of your body; sliding up your soft inner-thigh in dissonance with the tiny warm droplets. 

But most of all, fuck you. 

Fuck you for your sweet sighs of compliance. Fuck you for leaning back against his chest and serving absolute fuck-all to simmer his smauldering pride. Fuck you for carelessly rivaling your better judgment. 

Fuck you. The one message that he’d received throughout the noise of your mindly cursing… because Lord, was he just too damn good at fucking you. 

“Still don’t wanna talk to me?” His hand makes a bold move towards your aching cunt, leisurely and patient. Perversity had won the part as your middle name, commiserating you with honeyed whispers, convincing you that maybe, just maybe, the steamy torrent before you was well in outwitting the gears of your autonomy. The heat, the profuse clan of droplets crashing boorishly on your skin and on the shower floor, the wispy tendrils of steam, the cruel rashes of pleasure. Your instincts were hampered from the prospect of pushing him away. It wasn’t you. 

Your breathy shudders were back at failing you, alas, and giving a fuck was thoroughly out of the question. His finger proceeds, light rubs against your clit abettering the drift of his persistence, “Tell me, sweetheart. Are you ready to push me away like you always do?  Like you say I always do?”

“Ken…” You drag, lulled by the whispery milieu of the water, whilst afire by the skill of his fingers. You were beyond certain you’d heard a chuckle, a song of timeliness as per what you’d call it; a fair response to what was supposed to be a lesson learned. 

“Baby,” he murmurs against your neck once more, whilst long, beautiful fingers in a pair begin their jaunt to fuck you before his cock does. “I missed you. I missed you so fucking much and all you need is for me to prove it to you.” 

Your gasp might’ve said something, but you’d basked in it for only an appropriate instant. His fingers, slyly slipping between your folds hadn’t done much for your lively ire. They had, however, certainly succeeded in peeving you further. 

You wanted more. You needed more. 

“We both know that this isn’t enough to prove it. ” You managed to breathe out.

Kisses on your neck cease, and fingers retract from what was the miry wetness of your pussy, certainly ready for more than just a round of listlessly apologetic fingering. 

“Then what is?” He slyly murmurs. 

Damn you for having retained the valor to communicate thoroughly. Spinning around to face him (which was, by apt means, quite difficult), you gift your husband with a bold move of your own, bringing a hand up to grip tightly at the nape of his neck and shorten the distance between your burning faces. A piece of your mind was the treasured cargo. 

“I don’t know how long you’d hoped to play dumb with me, but it ends now. You know what I want.” You hiss through gritted teeth.

The deep and tyrannous buzz of your chest had barely succeeded in vanquishing the serene chaos of the atmosphere. In some obscure way, you felt like it mattered despite his fitting proximity to your lips. Hearing words could only do so much. It isn’t enough until his eardrums are damn near dissipated from your vague desires. 

But there’s no need. Hushed demands are sweet in entertaining his specialty as, afterall, he is your husband.

“Always so bossy.” He tuts. Though, he does all but support the remark. 

You’re moving backwards at his accord, coming in contact with the too-near dead end. You wind up grimacing softly at the rabid coldness of the wall against your shoulder blades and ass, instinctively deterred from the warmth of the recurring downpour. But all is effortlessly shirked once the stirring sensation of his cock against your thigh makes its rise. You feel so hot again, a manic arousal putting zero effort into making your head spin. The strengthening masses of steam would have to try harder. 

Just about sick and fucking tired, you pull him in to kiss you, hard, bringing vengeful tongues and teeth to clash against one another in zeal. With a nip of his teeth and swipe of his tongue on your bottom lip, perhaps a good start in replacing the venomous tidings of each other’s disagreements was put in place  A divine pair of hands is making ravenous journeys across the spacious sweeps of your melanated skin, helped by slippery suds that all but succeeded in concealing the scent of your unending keenness. 

“For what it’s worth,” he mutters, breaking the kiss, “I do know what you want. I always know what you want, and I’m always willing to give you what you want.” 

You’re fucked up. Manic. Aching. And your husband is having too much fun with you.

But one last peck against your lips is where it officially begins. 

He continues down your neck once more, whilst this time, your breasts are caught in the arrest of his hands, squeezing and thumbing across the supple skin of your nipples every now and then. 

It happened too quickly, too far from the likes of your expectations. As if only a nip at your collarbone later, his thumb is benevolently replaced by the eager muscle of his tongue, circling vigorously like his life depends on it… which, in this particular respect, it does. 

“Fuck, Ken.” You heave, almost whimpering, back arching in a deliverance of access. A pair of plump lips wrapping around the erect nub was your response.

He then does the same with your left tit, licking, lapping, sucking, skillfully relishing the flavor of your skin as if it were his last. Your hands had conceded defeat and befriended the burning itch to touch him once again. You bring them up for your fingers to card through the doused tresses of his blonde hair, which he’d been making points to trim every so often.

 You sensed an obscure motive behind it. He need not explain a damn thing, he’d probably say if you asked him about it. But the echoes of your casual “you look so much better with short hair” had made its homecoming. His beautiful cheeks would betray him in your honor, alluding with a pink hue at every vibration. You missed it, and you’re sure he missed it too. 

The same could be said about the recurring shifts in his physique. Although you’ve come to appreciate it more than dwell on the intricacy.

“Oh my God,” you moan as he releases your nipple with a final pop to placidly continue with open mouthed kisses down the valley of your chest, your stomach, then down to your pelvis. The feat had become less farfetched than thought to be. But still, it was about fucking time. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs once more, for what seemed like the umpteenth time to you. But it’s impossible to say that you didn’t appreciate it. 

As you basked in the sight of him knelt down before you in diligence, what you did say was, “You said you were gonna prove it to me. So prove it to me.” 

An index finger making its way back to your throbbing pussy, stroking in between your folds and up your slit to gather the flavourful mess of your arousal, serves the power of his cheeky rejoinder. “As you wish.” He murmurs before wontonly sucking on that fucking finger. 

A bullet was wisely dodged. Dissipating the chance of a thorough scolding for him to just fucking get on with it, he wastes absolutely no time. 

Senses fleeting, mouth forming an ‘o’ and hips arduously urged to buck against the art of his mouth and tongue, you free a series of curses as if it were a play for the casual streetwalker outside your house. One thing for sure is that the neighbors were pissed. Loafing folk sat in what was supposed to be the comfort of their homes in fumes, having attained the gall to complain if it weren’t for knowing of the obvious circumstance. 

If it weren’t for the sound of your husband’s name bouncing off your tongue in a notably pornograhpic lilt, the neighbors would’ve said something. And you’re aware of it. 

The strong, wet muscle zealously wiggles on your bundle of nerves before it is engulfed within the warmth of his mouth for him to suck softly. Your husband was finally fucking home. 

“Fuck, so good, Kento. Always s-so fucking good with your mouth.” Along with your words, the grip on his hair meliorates in palpable praise, earning you the pulsation of a deep hum sauntering amongst the nerves of your throbbing pussy. 

One last nip at your clit foregoes his hushed and mellow response, right before he eyes your zestful form through lidded, dragon-like irises. “So sweet.” he murmurs. “Sweet as always.”

He wastes not an ounce of time before diving in between your thighs again. 

Knees lose a few tinges of functionality at the momentous feel of his tongue parting your folds.  His hands dance up and down the stage of your lower body, caressing the small of your back before landing on the bounteous flesh of your hips to squeeze and detain you taut as he devours the absolute fuck out of you. Loud cries ensue in simple accordance. 

A thunderous call from reality was in your heavy braids having rebelliously twisted out of their bun to fall back onto the expanse of your shoulders and back, carelessly falling victim to the wrath of the downpour. You should be irritated. But his tongue, fucking you ever so sterningly, had garanteed failure to give a fuck about anything opposing the likes of his amazing apology. 

“Mmh- o-oh my… fuck!” More whimpers slip out in reverence as his head shakes vigorously from side to side, his nose rubbing against your clit before it is shortly replaced by his tongue again. He soothes the agonizing emptiness of your entrance with his long fingers; scissoring, curling, prodding sweetly at that spot that had, for too long, begged to be touched. 

He could only keep this up for so long. There’s only so many praising mewls you could set about as he laps at your clit, as he works his digits to what he would know to be your principle. His fingers fucked you so good, but not good enough to make your forget whatever else you had craved throughout the course of this dumb fucking stress-train. 

“Ken.”

The benevolent moil of his fingers ends as he returns to fucking you with his tongue again.

“Kento, please.”

Continually, his mouth shifts back and forth from your entrance to your still throbbing clit; licking, sucking and biting ever so softly. At decent levels you were certain that his neck was tired. 

“Kento! Kento, please,” you heave desperately,  “fuck me. Fuck me now. I need you to fuck me right now.” 

The unremitting sounds of the pouring atmosphere stood not a chance against your grippingly melodious pleas. He heard you, loud and crystal fucking clear. The treasurable element that many would identify to be control had blindly resided within his procurity. 

You weren’t going to let him have it for long. 

“Kento!” You mewl with absolute finality. Having devised the mastery from his hair still intertwined between your fingers, you harshly pull his head back for him to look up at you. “Quit playing games and fuck me!”

“Patience, Sweetheart. There’s time.” He, once again, proceeds in ways that effortlessly contradict the dulcet tone of his rules. Kisses already take small treads back up to your pelvis, then to your stomach. “I need you to be patient with me. I need you to lay low and let me fix things.”  He is soon up on his feet, his lips traveling towards the now acquaintable stop between your breasts. He lingers to plant a few more kisses on the spot, then slowly moves up to your neck as he murmurs, “I can make you feel so good. But only if you let me. Just trust me for once.” 

“Kento,” a sigh escapes your lips as you aid his treatment to your neck, leaning back and giving him access. 

“Just let me…” he stops to suck at the advantageously delicate skin before he’d then made it to your lips. “ …make things right.”

His lips were well guarded within the intention of connecting with yours, steeling you for what is soon to come. His hands were gentle too, having found purchase on the space of your hips and being so dexterous to the touch whilst his intentions were anything but. 

Your hands grip tightly at his broad shoulders, hopes instinctively goaded by his cock conveniently rubbing against your thigh again. You thought of it to be the final tease before he adheres to your lusty inclinations. But it is only after the heat of a “Turn around,” is softly blown against the flesh of your treated lips that he does what he’s raucously told. 

You do so without question, facing the wall in anticipation. 

Though (with arrant difficulty) you’re inwardly vowing to be obedient, your form misplaces all pretense of control. It is especially to the songy squelches behind you directly disclosing the act of your husband stroking his cock; your hands are against the wall as you’re moving your hips backwards to brush up against him. You’re fortunate that he responds with some form of enthusiasm, which is closing the distance between your eager bodies and lining himself up with your dripping entrance. 

The contact induces another knotty spate of desperate whimpers, which he obediently acknowledges, sinking into you with utmost precision. “Oh, f-fuck!” 

“Shh, you’re okay. You’re okay, Sweetheart.” 

The soothing response to your sonorous gasp was hushed and ever so demure, a stark polarity to the harsh grip of his winsomely big hands now on both of your breasts, squeezing like stress balls. 

“Kento,” you call out once more, “Kento! Fuck me. Please… fuck me.” 

The need for those words had successfully reached its coming of age; even posing as an anagram had been deducted as an option. You’ll never have to say them again. 

He begins to move, steady thrusts gradually progressing into a speedier rhythm. His grunts, as well as your whimpers, had joined in with the feat of increasing in a higher measure.

 “Baby,” It was his turn to silently twine a series of praises as you, in return, release a reverberant string of salacious cries for the neighbors to hear and possibly enjoy. “You look so beautiful like this. You always look so beautiful like this, taking me so well.” 

Your hips are once again a landing spot for his hands. You bring your hand down as well, letting it rest upon one of his as he fucks into your pussy with an unsparing velocity. 

The vibrancy was beyond sinful. The warm water continues to strike the lustily responsive flooring as his hips rival the noise with jarring contact against your ass. Each cry made up for a snarl, each word of praise made up for a cold shoulder, each thrust made up for a petty form of dismissal.

 He finds it within himself to slow down, the only unchanging fruit being the brunt in which his skin slams against yours. “I missed you, I missed the way you feel. Angel, tell me how good it feels.” He goads. 

“Oh, baby,” It had been your turn to sing the term of endearment. An urge to finally say “I missed you too” was frighteningly near, but remained still… in your favor, really. It seemed like your tongue’s desire to untangle was only in support of praising his touch; praising the way he felt inside of you, praising the clench of your walls around his length or the nudge of his tip against your dear sweet spot. “So good! So f-fucking good,” you mewl. “Please… please make me come.”

 But you’re empty again, pussy clenching around vain flecks of air. The incompleteness brought waves of confusion. Rhythmic pumps of irritation. A need to spew pleas that was soon held off by the gentle contact of his hand on the front of your neck. Your hand that was once atop his had made its way back against the wall.

It is when his grip gradually strengthens do you meet his return to fucking you senseless. Your sounds travel at staggering heights of volume amongst the echoey air. “Oh- Oh- fuck!” You scream. It encourages him. 

Groans, grunts and a final round of “Oh baby”s against your ear had made its endmost cut. A knot in your stomach signals an approach to orgasm. You were close. “Fuck, Ken…I’m gonna-” 

He doesn’t respond. Not with his familiar breathing of “Come for me” or anything else of the sort. No. He speeds up, in pursuit of something much, much more than a customary finish. A compromise. A refitted amity. Hopes had desperately arised from your moans. Hopes of an “I love you” reattaining its fittedness. It’s exactly what he murmurs against the shell of your ear as you reach your high, cumming with ear-cricking wails that do nothing but praise his laborious efforts. 

The jets and quells of warm liquid inside of you incline a decrease in the speed of his thrusts, which eventually turns into a steady stop once light sobs from overstimulation make their way into the cleft of echoes. 

“You’re okay,” he repeats against your neck. “You’re okay.”

Heavy breaths, weak knees,  and a space freighted with teeming clouds of steam. From the very moment that he’d pulled his cock out, that’s all he could’ve left it to be. You were slightly stunned, for a reason that wasn’t identifiable. 

Your loofah remains lifeless, devoid of its purpose with fluffy white froth sticking languidly out of its miniscule gaps. You were about to pick it up, mind unmoved from the strident feel of cum dripping down your inner thighs, to resume the sorrowful bout of washing away the sense of need that your husband could only do so much to vanquish. 

“Hey, relax.” 

You were still facing the wall. You weren’t making eye-contact. You weren’t going to. And you knew that he knew. But his feet were resolutely taut upon the shower floor. They reeked of intention. It seemed like he wasn’t done. 

It was still foreign to you, the slight suction between your back and his upper body that soon vacates as he bends down to retract the loofah. He’s up straight again.  “Can I?”

Yes please, the words had begged to be the ones to make ties with his mellow request, but all you managed to bring out was a hesitant “Sure.”

He proceeds enthusiastically, nonetheless. 

“I am, however, still waiting for you to…” he begins as he sweetly drags the contraption down the trail of your back, “rank the irrefutability of my proof.” 

Be it your weak knees or your opulent bathroom’s restored comfort, you suddenly feel that there’s no point in arguing the prowess of his sex skills. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll find the time to praise him with more words. 

Within the beat that you remain silent, your eyes instinctively follow his hand trailing towards the swell of your breasts, making it difficult to not stare. Studying the garish shine of soap down the smooth canvas of your melanin, and its corrivalry with the single shimmer of your husband’s wedding ring… was artful. Artistic. Just like him. Just like you always thought he was. 

It gave you time too; time to realize that all this was you. If only your pride allowed it, an immersive rewind to the oh so salacious removal of your dress and heels after what Namami had made out to be a stern “don’t talk to me” could teach you something. 

But despite it all, and you being greatly incapable of turning an inquisitive mind away from what was the flavorous scent of eager suds… control was a factor that you would do everything in your power to make yours. And yours only. 

“We’ll see, Ken.” You reply softly. 

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[luveline]

Idk if you’re still taking requests for Hotch but if you are— when I have bad anxiety I get a head to toe rash- hives and super itchy/hot. And Hotch comforts them/takes care of them, lots of reassurance. Thank you!

thank you for your request ♡ gn!reader

"Don't be so rough with yourself," Aaron says. You're in such a sad mood that he's managed to become the chipper one of you both. "Let me see." 

"I'm not being rough," you insist, smoothing Aloe Vera down your leg with two cruel hands.

You're being normal. Anything beyond petting is too mean for Aaron, though, and he takes your hands. 

Sleeves rolled to the elbows already, he certainly doesn't care about how messy and gross this feels. Head to toe, hives spot your skin. They crop up whenever you feel acutely anxious, worsen your anxiety by ten, and then linger unhealed. Aaron never signed up for this, and he's never baulked either way. You might even say he likes it. Not your incessant itching, but getting to help. 

Your foot on the bed, leg held up, he squirts Aloe Vera into his hands. It's cool, kept in his fridge specifically for you, a gesture that manages to cheer you up some.

"You're rough," he affirms, passing big palms up and down the flanks of your shin with a familiarity to aid your calm. His touch feels better than any medicine, though the itchiness prevails, and you're glad for it when he stops and ushers your opposite leg onto the bed. 

You curl a hand into his shirt to stop from falling over. "Sorry," you say. 

"It's okay. Don't worry about it, honey." 

"It's gross."

"Not any more gross than me." He's methodical at first, spreading the translucent gel in equal palmings down the length of your leg. He forgets what he's doing halfway through, feeling at your knee and inner thigh like he would laying in bed together, touching just to touch. 

"You don't get hives when you worry." 

"No, I get wrinkles. Mine are permanent, so really, you shouldn't complain." Your laugh makes him smile, happiness stickying his tone as he murmurs, "I should say sorry to you. I'm harassing you." 

He pushes the hem of your pyjama shorts up a touch as he spreads cold gel there. The linen shorts stick to the gel as soon as he moves his hand. You fan your face, feeling uncomfortably hot and scratchy. 

Aaron helps you put your foot back down on the floor and sizes you up. You've managed to cover pretty much every hive at this point, your skin shining with a green hue if you catch it in the light the right way. 

He sits down at the top of the bed and opens his nightstand drawer. Inside is a number of things, a cell phone, pills, a bag of throat soothers. He reaches toward the back and unveils a handheld fan, charged and raring to go as he turns it on and points it in your direction. The Aloe Vera suddenly feels wetter, the cold providing a quick relief. 

He's already asked you what's worrying you. He knew before the hives that something was wrong, not just because he's a profiler. He really, truly cares. Aaron's frowning now like the pain is his own, waving the fan in a gentle side to side. Your eyes slip closed, content to feel it wash over you like a rare breeze in the middle of summer. 

"You know the worst part about all of this?" he asks. 

"What, baby?" you ask, lips barely parted. This is the most escape you've found all day. "You can't kiss me?" 

"I can't kiss you," he says firmly. "How'd you know?" 

"You always say stuff like that." 

"You always provoke me…" Aaron shifts closer, taking your hand into his. "Feeling any better?" 

You preen at his soft touches, his thumb skirting lightly across your fingertips. "A little." 

"This is better than the Chinese menu, right?" 

Aaron had taken to fanning you with takeout menus whenever you got too hot before his recent purchase. He fanned you for hours, until you could imagine the twinging ache in his biceps, his overworked wrists, never once complaining. 

"This is amazing, Aaron, thank you," you breathe out. 

He kisses your fingertips. "You're welcome." 

[callsign-datura]

i loved your post describing ghosts dick! could you make one for another member of the 141? i love them equally so i dont care which one of them <3

Price... 6.7 inches. 17 centimeters. he's not very thick, but his dick is obsession-worthy. he's a menace. he knows how to fucking use what he's got. loves to fuck missionary and switch, sitting back on his legs and lifting you up by your hips to drag you onto him, splitting your cunt out on his cock and hitting that spot inside you that has you seeing white. this man fucking loves the faces you make. he stares at you so often, and this man knows about microexpression. he can tell if he hurts you on accident, he can tells if you're really liking something he's doing, and he takes advantage of that. 6.7 inches, 17 centimeters when he's hard. he's veiny, though. his cock is littered with them, and it's a real sensation ride whenever he's fucking you. he's heavy, too. even when he's hard and proud, it hangs a bit, and that's another reason why he likes missionary or when you're on your back or on your knees with your ass up and your front half down. it makes it a bit easier and doesn't really cause him to strain when he fucks you. don't even get me started on how it feels. your walls clamp on him over and over again when he's fucking you, cause goddammit, feeling his weight inside you is borderline comforting, even when you're on the verge of cumming. he also doesn't let his pubes grow too long. keeps himself trimmed. sometimes if he hasn't trimmed or shaved in a while, he doesn't like it when you surprise him while he's working; mostly because he doesn't want to give you a rash from the consistent friction, so he'll take extra care in fucking you during those times. he can never stay mad at you when you start panting and whimpering like that. and inevitably you do end up with a small rash on the inside of your thighs after, but he'll kiss it better, don't worry. he's vocal. very, very vocal. keeps his voice stern and low as he talks to you, talking you through each orgasm he inflicts on you, talking you through it as he overstimulates you... his voice never wavers. not very often, anyway. sometimes it'll shake a little when he whispers to you and he's about to cum, and you relish in it; that little tremor that fades into a grunt? holy fuck. cumming on the spot. slow fucker as well. slow and rough. bucks into you and pulls out slowly before bucking into you again, purring in that raspy voice of his at you as you mewl for him in that pretty voice of yours. angles his hips upward when you're on your back to drag along your inner wall, bucking deeper as if he's trying to mold his body with yours; which, in a way, he is. he wants nothing more than to stay inside you for however long he can. bonus kink list: cockwarming. no explanation needed. overstimulation, he kinda likes to see you whimper and grimace when he touches your over-sensitive flesh. always begs you for another, convincing you that you can take another; you can, after all. you end up cumming around 2 more times after that. breeding kink. no explanation needed for this one, but i will explain it anyway. if you're ever apart and he needs some kind of relief and he starts thinking about stuffing his cock into you and filling you up with his cum? hard on the spot oh my god. definitely wakes up hard if he dreams about you guys ever having kids.

[innerfare]

Smutty Shanks Headcanons

Summary: a collection of NSFW Shanks headcanons

Genre: pure smut

CW: oral sex, penetrative sex, slutty Shanks

———

Has a habit of asking people to join his crew when he wants to sleep with them. Beckman no longer wastes his breath trying to stop it, has simply resigned himself to the reality that his captain is a whore because… well, he is a whore. 

More than happy to share with others.

Has so much game, it’s unreal. Nobody had to teach this man how to pick people up at a bar, he was just born that way. And he has perhaps the most colorful body count of anyone in any of the seas, a list of past lovers that include pirates, marines, aristocrats, bureaucrats, and many a bar maid (there’s a green-haired one in the East Blue whom he is particularly sweet on and often finds himself reminiscing about). Gender, appearance, profession- none of this matters. If Red Hair Shanks has you in his sights, he’ll have you in his bed soon enough. 

Not the biggest dick, but above average and on the thicker side; definitely has a nice curve in it. Has never manscaped in his life, would be deeply offended if you suggested he should. He’d probably be offended if you shave, too. This man likes it natural and nasty. 

Kisses like he’s trying to swallow your tongue. Seriously, the messiest, sloppiest kisser, aims to swap as much saliva as possible with you; the type to share chewing gum with you. This holds true for when he goes down on you, too. 

Speaking of going down on you, he’s religious about it. He swears your pussy is a hangover cure and he’ll have a headache all day if he doesn’t get to taste you. You’ll end up with a rash on your inner thighs from his stubble, but if that’s the case, he’ll just bend you over and lick your cunt from behind to give your inner thighs a break. As much as the stubble bothers you at first, you quickly reach a point where you don’t think you’d be able to cum if a clean-shaven man put his face between your legs. 

Sometimes gets a case of whiskey dick (happens far more often than he’d ever admit), but he always makes it up to you come morning- to the point you’ve assured him repeatedly there’s no need (help, you’re so sore), but he feels he has something to prove. His whiskey dick isn’t even straight up dysfunction because he can still get hard, he just can’t cum, so even though he’ll fuck you good and make you cum, he feels like you haven’t been fucked properly until he’s finished inside you. 

Has a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde thing going on in that there are two versions of him in bed: 1) the easygoing drunk who is more than happy to lay back and let you do all the work while he watches your tits bounce (Shanks is a titties man, it’s practically canon), and 2) the pirate emperor who will pound mercilessly into you from behind, hands digging into your hips so hard they leave bruises. 

You always know when the pirate emperor is going to be the man waiting for you in bed that night based on how many jokes he cracks over dinner/drinks. If he’s in rare form, making even more jokes than usual, leaving the entire crew keeled over in laughter, he’ll be bending you over and snapping his hips against yours for a solid hour; basically, if Lucky Roux laughs until he cries, you are about to get fucked. Once you notice this pattern, you realize he makes eye contact with you while the crew is distracted by whatever joke he just told, and he always has a wicked gleam in his eye, as if his Conqueror’s Haki might just rear its powerful head. 

Pirate emperor Shanks is willing to risk it all, too. He’s not going to wait until his cabin door is shut to start tearing your clothes off. He’s not going to tell you to keep it down in case the crew overhears. He’s not going to double check you took your birth control that morning. He’s just going to fuck you, and you’re just going to take it. 

That being said, he’s never rough with you when you blow him. Blowjobs actually bring out the sweetest version of Shanks there is, the version who tells you to pace yourself and smiles brightly when he cums. He’ll hold your hair back for you, being very careful not to tangle it, and be sure not to thrust his hips forward; not into face fucking. 

Has the most ridiculous nicknames for you outside the bedroom, and these carry over into the bedroom, too. His favorite is to call you his red panda. Sometimes uses these silly nicknames to break some of the tension. 

Your most common position is with you on top, but his favorite position is prone bone. He likes your body flat against the mattress with his on top of you while he bottoms out inside. He’ll make you cross your ankles, too, so he can get even deeper. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[teencopandthesourwolf]

STFU!

for the @sterekdrabbles 30/09/24 challenge. the prompt words were VORACIOUS, LOUD, and MILK. also tagging @sterekdrabblesgonelong as this ended up going long (884 words) xp

also found HERE on ao3

rating: EXPLICIT

Derek finally caves, succumbing to Stiles's feral wiles and allowing Stiles to drag that disgustingly hot wolfy-ass beneath Stiles's not exactly fresh and not exactly sexy bed sheets, for what is the B-movie prelude to (god willing!) the night's main event that will hopefully see Stiles Stilinski getting royally fucked within an inch of his Gay Virgin life.

Stiles—albeit inexperienced in this department but very much making up for that with a voracious sort of enthusiasm, thank you very much—is in the middle of sloppily sucking Derek off. The werewolf's not actually knotted cock-end is currently mercilessly bumping the back of Stiles's throat (Stiles is loving the fact he's never had a gag reflex, and by all accounts so is Derek), before a mix of precome and spit is confusingly flicking up into Stiles's eyes and hair as Derek manhandles him to skillfully flip their positions, Derek now suddenly the one with a mouth stuffed full of steel-hard cock.

Stiles is instantly shrieking Derek's name like a lunatic (ha) at having Derek's brand-hot mouth clamped around him, so loud Derek has to shove all four fingers of his left hand into Stiles's mouth to essentially gag him—and hopefully desist any need the neighbours could have to call the Sheriff and tell Stiles's old man his only son might be getting his throat ripped out by a wild animal of unknown description.

It embarrassingly takes no time at all of Derek swallowing Stiles down like a champ (and giving his balls a glorious beard rash for him to jerk off over tomorrow) for Stiles to be dangerously close to shooting his load—directly into what feels likely to be Derek's fucking stomach at this point, because jesus fucking christ he's gonna come hard—and he finds himself slapping haphazardly and manically at the ball of Derek's shoulder with the palm of his hand, as if they're in an wrestling ring and Stiles is desperately trying to tap-out of a full nelson.  

“No-no-no! Stop-stop-stop, Der, please, you gotta—or I'm gonna, y'know, like I'll—and it'll happen, like—shiiiiiiit, oh, man, you cannot keep doing that with your tongue, big guy, or it's gonna be game over before it's even properly begun!” he manages to splutter out, indignant and rambling more than usual with the insane levels of pleasure now shooting throughout his body like a trillion miniscule lightning strikes.  

Derek, of course, completely ignores Stiles and absolutely keeps swirling his gorgeously warm and wet tongue around what is definitely the most intense hard-on of Stiles's eighteen years on this planet, like his dick is not actually a dick at all but Derek's favourite flavour of popsicle. Although, Stiles now knows that The D (or at least Derek Hale's fantastic D) does not, in fact, taste anything like any popsicle Stiles has ever consumed; it's maybe more like salt-water taffy, only with less sugar and a lot more salt and holy mother of god, Stiles loves, loves, loves it. And even trying his dumb best to distract himself from what he knows is the inevitable, to make this not-so-little slice of pure heaven last just a teensy bit longer, Stiles knows thinking about the taste of cock while getting blown by the hottest creature he's ever had the good fortune to lay eyes on is definitely not helping his situation one iota.  

Thank fucking fuck, Derek chooses this moment to relinquish the divine vacuum he's got going on between Stiles's inner thighs via what are probably now obscenely swollen-red lips, when he releases Stiles's erection with an incredibly filthy-sounding pop.   

Almost dizzy from the change in pressure around his junk, Stiles forces his head up to eye Derek (whose lips really are an obscenely swollen-red, which is even more outrageously hot than Stiles had imagined) just as Derek says, “I'm about to suck your deranged brain out through your pretty cock, Stiles, then I'm gonna milk you dry until you're begging me to stop. So, you better hang on to something, and be careful not to bite your tongue off when I stab mine into your slit and use it to fuck your dick till you're crying, okay?” as if he's talking into the McDonald's drive through speaker to order himself a Big Mac meal with large fries and a shake, and not unknowingly acting out a spank-bank worthy scene from one of Stiles's wet dreams. 

Hell, Stiles all but comes, there and fucking then, because who the fuck says shit like that?! 

His face is doing what must be a very strange mix of a smile and a frown as he just about manages to pathetically whine the words, “But Der, oh my god, I really, really need you to fuck me!”

And yeah, he's practically crying already.

Fuck off.  

Derek grins, then, and Stiles doesn't think he's ever been more his wild wolf-self as he licks his canines and growls out, “What makes you think I won't be taking advantage of what I know is your excellent refractory period, to make you orgasm like a fucking freight train, at least twice, before I rail your tight little ass until dawn and give you several more, hmm?” 

And—honestly, Stiles has never shut the fuck up faster in all his life.

.

come leave me a comment HERE over on ao3 :)

[anonpolls]

Note from Anon: “This poll brought to you by me griping to a friend that the heat rash on my inner thighs was so painful that it was slowing me down; they had no idea what I was talking about because their thighs don’t rub together, which is something I didn’t know was possible? | No judgement on anyone’s experience or body type, I was just surprised to learn that thigh friction isn’t a universal experience!”

-submit your poll!-

[bubuslutty]

headcanon: John Price likes to play with your clit until it hurts.

pairing: fem!reader x John price

word count: 1.4k

tags: dom!price, sub!reader, overstimulation, cumming untouched, oral (f receiving), subspace, fingering, manhandling, strength kink, pain kink ig, stomach bulge, size kink, rutting, making out, biting, crying, squirting, dirty talk, praise kink, spit kink, face slapping (not too hard tho, doesn't hurt), aftercare, use of words such as cunt + hole, she/her, no use of y/n, 3rd person pov, no physical descriptions of reader

warnings: THIS AINT NO RATED MOTHER FUCKING PG SHIT. THIS SHIT RATED PORN.

summary: uhhh I got this hc from a tiktok slide show abt nsfw cod hcs okay 🧍‍♀️ my gallery is filled with them.

a/n: I had to take multiple breaks while writing this. it's proofread by me so sorry for any mistakes, bon appétit bitches 💞

☆ John would spend hours between his lovey's legs, mouth sucking, licking, nipping and tongue shoved inside her wet hole repeatedly, mean and intense.

☆ would also pinch and rub her little clit, making her whine and cry even more

☆ would absolutely devour her, kiss and suck and bite her inner thighs, making the skin red and sensitive using his teeth and beard

☆ beard rashes!!!

☆ he would beg for her to squirt on his face, "Come on, lovey. Do it, do it for me, please?"

☆ King of dirty talk + praising at the same fucking time!!!

☆ "You taste so good, lovey. Look at your cunt, it's all wet, hm? Are you going to cum? Drench my face?"

☆ At first he would probably go gentle and slow, continuously kissing her stomach and hips while his fingers are deep inside her, opening her up just for his mouth, not even his cock.

☆ "Look at you, drooling all over me pillows. Did I fuck you stupid, sweetheart? But I'm just using my hands and mouth."

☆ "I haven't even fucked you properly, your sweet cunt's crying for me, hm?"

☆ "Sweet little slut, do you like having your clit sucked? Hm, yeah, yeah you do."

☆ Then at some point he would lay on his back, roll his baby on his front, chest to chest, pin both of her hands on her back with one strong hand and use the other to mercilessly fuck her hole with three fingers until she's crying and screaming, clit repeatedly rubbing against his happy trail, leaving wet marks on his skin and making her clit all red and swollen.

☆ John thrives in feeling her shake against him, her sweaty chest heaving up and down while she has her face buried in his neck, mouthing at his skin, unable to shut her mouth and stop any noises from spilling out.

☆ he can even feel her stomach bulging out when he drives his fingers in a bit too hard, which never fails to make his cock jump, all swollen and dripping all over itself and balls.

☆ and it would hurt. her pussy is aching and her clits all swollen and rubbed raw. but it feels good. so fucking good as long John is there. as long as he's the one touching her.

☆ He would keep this up, for so fucking long, changing positions and all, just to turn her into a mess, a literal rag doll, unable to open her eyes properly, or even able to remember her own name.

☆ He would lay her on her stomach and proceed to rut against the space between her cunt and hole until he comes all over her ass.

☆ John would lay on his side, drag his baby on her side, her back glued to his warm and ticklish chest, throw one of her legs over his thighs and bury his fingers inside her cunt while his other arm is cushioning her head and his fingers are holding her mouth open.

☆ He would kiss her swollen lips, spit inside her mouth and rub her own drool all over her pretty pink lips while she's panting and whining.

☆ John would manhandle her the way he wants all the time, not afraid to use his strength to get what he wants.

☆ At some point, he would lay her on her back, hover above her legs, pinning her against the mattress while using one of his hands to pin her arms above her head, to stop her from squirming.

☆ He would grab her chin between his bigger thicker fingers and hum, seeing her glazed eyes, eyes absolutely dark and fucking gone. And he hasn't even fucked her with his dick. But it's alright, because his baby is so fucked out of her mind, she hasn't even noticed.

☆ "Lovey, look at me."

☆ Lovey doesn't look at him, she can't even see straight and just keeps panting with her mouth open, face squished against the soft pillows.

☆ John slaps her cheek, never too hard to hurt, making her gasp and he grabs her chin a bit hard, dragging her face towards his.

☆ When she finally manages to meet his eyes, he smiles, eyes full of love and adoration, "There she is."

☆ "What's your name, lovey?" John asks and watches his baby blink at him, as if he spoke in a different language.

☆ He reaches down with one hand and pinches one of her nipples, making her jump.

☆ "What's your name?"

☆ Lovey frowns, trying her damn hardest to focus her eyes on his face, pouting.

☆ John just waits in silence until she cracks a smile and starts uncontrollably giggling, "I don't know…"

☆ Captain John Price, special forces and captain of task force 141, served over 18 years in the British army, fucking cums right then and there.

☆ He moans, his dick jerking and pulsing hot cum all over his Lovey's thighs and she matches his moan as soon as she feels it, throwing her head back and arching her back.

☆ He didn't even need to touch himself and he came so hard, his vision was swimming and he had to press his forehead against his girl's, collecting himself while his thick thighs kept twitching.

☆ Lovey is not able to understand just what happened, she just knows John came and she's happy he did, but tomorrow she will remember and John will be fucked for the rest of his life.

☆ She will have more reasons to keep him wrapped around her finger, and he isn't complaining one bit, it's just different, from anything he's ever experienced, and it's a bit scary, someone having this much power over this beast of a man.

☆ "I love you, I love you, love you so much, Lovey. I love yo-" John says, trying to calm down, and then Lovey raises her head with all of the energy left in her body and kisses him in the mouth.

☆ John immediately shuts up and lowers his head, deepening their kiss even more, devouring her sweet little mouth.

☆ When his thighs stop shaking, he pulls away, making her whine, and he shushes her, keeping a hand wrapped loosely around her neck.

☆ "I'm not leaving you, Lovey."

☆ After collecting himself as much as he can, he lifts her off the bed, both naked as the day they were born. She shivers, snuggling closer to his warm chest, "I know, but you have to pee, love."

☆ He carries her to the toilet, helping her sit down because she's absolutely fucking useless by her own, and he watches her pee, arms crossed and makes sure she doesn't fall sleep and cracks her head open on the wall.

☆ When she's done, he shuts the toilet's seat and helps her sit down, "Stay here, I'll run the bath, hm?"

☆ Lovey hums, leaning her head against the wall and closing her eyes while John runs the bath as quickly as he can. He doesn't bother with a bath bomb, oils or salt like his girl usually likes. The only reason they're having a bath instead of a shower, is because she's literally unable to stand up on her feet, and he can't wash and carry her at the same time, it'd be dangerous for both of them.

☆ When it's warm enough, he carries his love to the bath and washes her body as quick and as he can, and washes himself, then he stands up, rising himself with the shower head and rinses her right after.

☆ He dries her with the biggest fluffiest towel they own and helps her slip on a pair of soft underwear.

☆ John makes her sit on the armchair next to the window and quickly changes the sheets, leaving them next to the door, he'll take care of it tomorrow. And when he's all done he slips on his own pair of boxers and gets them both in bed, clean and warm.

☆ He's laying on his back, Lovey half laying on him, one of her legs thrown over his, head and hand on his chest, while he's smoking one of his cigars, content and comfortable, muscles truly relaxing and head empty.

☆ Lovey's breathing went back to normal, she's asleep, half of her weight on his body, reminding John that this isn't a dream. And he's never been happier.

tag list (pls ask to be added or removed): @obiwankenobis-lap @goapgrim @smalldemonlover @loveyhoneydovey @cutiecusp @pinkwigonmytv @mandythemint @itsberrydreemurstuff @tapioca-marzipan @fruitymoonbeams-blog @poohkie90 @chaoticevilbakugo @anubis-reed @thefairybird @skytacvia @marytvirgin @cynicalmnm @maechanexe @t0jis-worm @1800imgay @4ndjelij4 @multitargaryen @lilpothoscuttings @mysticalpandabear