#my head is spinning and i am feeling weak

[omnom-obeyme]

Also if you're interested in doing crack/fluff type stuff, how about MC getting sick and, while very loopy on cold medicine, saying "don't tell anyone ok but you're my favorite brother"

Bonus and optional comedy points of the brothers later find out that MC actually said the same thing to all of them while they were sick and delirious. Bonus bonus points if mc doesn’t even remember these conversations lol

You're My Favorite

Pairings: Brothers x reader (separate)

Warnings: MC is sick and the brothers don't understand how to dose cough medicine for humans. It's all fluff, folks

This sucks.

That's the only thing on your mind as you lie back in the pillow nest you made for yourself. You're honestly not certain how you got sick in the Devildom, and thinking about the semantics of trying to figure out why germs interfere with your immune system here has your foggy mind spinning.

Luckily, your demons always have you covered! They happened to have a bottle of medicine that's been deemed safe for humans. Somehow. But...that's strange. You're starting to feel a little funny.

"Ah, there you are...just as I left you," Lucifer murmurs as he shuts your bedroom door behind him. He places a steaming tea cup on your nightstand and sits down on the edge of your bed.

You flop over onto your belly and peek up at him from under your droopy eyelids. There's a serene look on your face despite your miserable condition.

When the back of Lucifer's hand meets your forehead to check your temperature, a goofy grin appears on your face. His hand slides down to cup your cheek, and he heaves out an affectionate sigh.

"Lucifer?" you murmur dreamily.

"Hmm? What is it, MC?"

"I have something...very important to tell you," you declare as you lift a weak finger to wag in his face.

"Oh?" he places his hand on yours to lower it back down to your side.

"Mm-hmm," you mumble. "Don't tell anyone, okay? But you're my favorite brother."

Lucifer's hand and breath still. Outwardly, he's impassive, inwardly, he might as well be squealing and leaping with joy.

"Of course I am," he says nonchalantly. Thank the Devildom you're too out of it to see the hearts swirling around in his eyes.

Lucifer leans down and presses a tender kiss to your forehead. He can't help the way his touch becomes more tender or the way he keeps fussing over you over the next few days as you recover.

Poor Mammon's been sick with worry ever since finding out you're sick. He's the one who found the medicine for you in the first place! He's glued himself to your side since the first sniffle, and that's where you find yourself now.

You're propped up in your bed, head and chest feeling fuzzy with Mammon to your side. His arms are wrapped around yours, and his head is on your bicep.

"You gotta tell me when you're feelin' better, MC. No, scratch that. Tell me how you're feelin' every hour. On the hour! Ya hear me? I have a no-late check-in policy."

You bite your lip, but a giggle slips out of you regardless. Mammon's nose twitches as your fingers brush over it.

"H-hey! Watch it!"

"Don't tell anyone, okay? But you're my favorite brother," you murmur affectionately.

"Of course I am, ya silly human!" Mammon says as he practically puffs up. "Who else would be your favorite? I'm your first and best man. No one else stacks up to The Great Mammon!"

Still, Mammon's cheeks turn bright pink, and his arms tighten around yours.

"Damn straight, I'm your favorite," he mumbles.

Levi can't help but feel less than useless in this situation. He rarely even leaves his room, so he rarely gets sick. Couple that with the fact that you're a sick human? He's in over his head.

He can't just leave you by yourself, though! He could never abandon you in your hour of need! That's how he finds himself shifting on his feet awkwardly as he hovers a few feet from your bed.

You feel his presence before he can say anything. Your head shoots up, and your droopy eyes squint for a moment as you try to identify him.

"Levi!" you cheer in your scratchy voice.

"H-hey, MC. Uhm, I was just wondering if you were down for a 'Help! My Human Companion Was Turned into a Frog and Needs True Love's Kiss to Anthropomorphize!" with me?" he asks bashfully. "I know you're sick and all, but, uhm, I just thought it might be nice to watch it together."

"Oh, Levi..." you grin happily and make grabby hands at the cherry candies he brought for you. "Don't tell anyone, okay? But you're my favorite brother."

Levi's vision goes fuzzy and the next thing he knows, he's blinking up at you from the floor. "Y-yeah...sounds great..."

Satan's voice is smooth as he reads to you from a book of Devildom fairytales. Your cheek is smushed against his shoulder, and your eyes flutter lazily. You're pretty sure you're drooling on his shoulder, but Satan doesn't say a word about it.

"And...that's the last one in this book. Do you want me to find another one?"

The shaky nod you give him is his signal, and he's gently shifting you off his shoulder to grab another book. He settles back onto his bed next to you and pulls you into his side again.

"Alright, this is more of a fantasy novella than anything, but I think you'll like it. Has the medicine kicked in yet?"

You nod dumbly and sniffle weakly. Satan's arm slides around your waist, and he begins reading again. After a few moments, you feel his eyes on you.

"Satan?" your voice is muffled against his shoulder.

"MC?" he murmurs back.

"Hmm?"

"No, you wanted my attention."

"Oh. Yeah. It's important. Don't tell anyone, okay? But you're my favorite brother."

"You're my favorite, too," Satan whispers. His arm tugs you closer, and he continues reading until you fall asleep.

Don't blame him, okay, but he really doesn't like being around sick people. When he comes to visit you, he's wearing a face mask and long sleeves. The mattress sinks a bit as he sits down next to you, and he reaches out to pat your back.

"Hey, hon. How are you feeling?" he asks quietly.

"Peachy," you murmur before sneezing. Asmo recoils and then hastily straightens himself back out.

"That's lovely, hon. You look...well..." he frowns and lightly pushes your hair off your forehead.

"You're so pretty Asmo. Your lips are shiny, and you smell like strawberries."

Asmo bites back a grin at the sound of your loopy voice, an his hand slides down to cup your cheek.

"I'm glad your taste is still impeccable even though you're sick," he says cheerfully.

"Mm-hmm. Don't tell anyone, okay? But you're my favorite brother."

Asmo's heart does a little flip, and, sickness be damned, he leans forward and squishes his cheek against yours.

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear that, hon! I mean, of course I am, but still! It's great to hear you admit it. Why don't you keep showering me in praise? I'm sure it'll make you feel better."

Beel's carrying a mountain of snacks and treats in his arms when he makes it to your room. He drops most of them on your desk, but manages to carry a small thermos of warm broth over to your bedside.

There's a quiet, metallic thunk as the thermos hits the wood of your nightstand.

"I brough you snacks," Beel says quietly.

A dazed grin appears on your face, and you reach up to pat Beel's arm.

"Thank you, Beelie. My head's all spinny. Think I'd fall if I tried to stand," you mumble. "Woah...I forgot how strong you are..."

Beel blushes and laughs quietly.

"I...guess I'm pretty strong. I have to be to protect my brothers. And you, of course."

"Beel...you gotta promise me something," you murmur.

"Of course, MC."

"You can't tell anyone, but...you're my favorite brother."

Beel's face immediately splits into a happy smile, and he sits down on your bed. The bed frame protests under his added weight, but he just brings the thermos of broth up to your mouth happily.

"C'mon, MC. You need to eat to keep up your strength."

"Stop squirming," comes the grumbled complaint right in your ear.

You let out a soft huff and push at Belphie's face. He's breathing right on your neck, and it's not helping the feverish heat you're experiencing.

"Belphie...you're stinky." Because that's for sure what you were trying to communicate. I guess.

"I am not stinky. I smell like fresh laundry."

"You literally wear the same thing everyday--" you're cut off by Belphie's hand slapping over your mouth.

"You're annoying. Shut up."

"Okay, rude. Also, you smell, and that's worse than being annoying."

"MC, I swear to everything in the Devildom--" it's your turn to cut him off.

"Don't tell anyone, okay? But you're my favorite brother. I like bickering with you."

"Of course I'm your favorite," he grumbles. "Now be quiet and sleep. You need it. I'm tired of you getting snot on my shoulder while you sleep."

He says that, but he makes no move to shift you away from his shoulder.

You're finally feeling better a few days later and manage to pull yourself out of bed for breakfast. You make your way downstairs, but pause at the doorway to listen in on the conversation.

"You'll never guess what MC told me while I was tendin' to them!" you hear Mammon declare proudly.

"Did they tell you they're sick of your clinging?" Satan asks dryly.

"You little--No! They said that I'm their favorite," Mammon brags smugly.

Belphie lifts his head up from the table and shakes his head.

"No, MC said that I'm their favorite."

"Nuh-uh, I'm MC's favorite," Asmo pipes up. "They said so, and, honestly, who can blame them?"

"Is there anyone here who MC didn't say was their favorite?" cuts in Lucifer's tired voice. When he's met with silence, he just says, "Then we'll just have to ask them. Ah, there they are now."

Oh, Diavolo help you...you don't remember any of this at all.

You sheepishly peek out from the doorway, and Mammon immediately calls out, "Oi! Human! Who's your actual favorite?"

You feel a cold sweat break out on the back of your neck, and you let out a nervous laugh.

"Haha! I'm actually not hungry, and Diavolo asked me to come early to look something over, sogottagobyeeeee!" you call while booking it for the door. No way in the Devildom are you getting stuck in that argument.

do not use my headers or repost my work without my permission. art and characters belong to the obey me franchise and are not my original works.

[ruinix]

Please write a story about Quinn waking up on top of y/n with a hard on, but not wanting to wake her up so he dry humps her leg but then wakes her up because his thighs are rubbing against her clit.

Dominate Quinn please!! With smut!! 🙏

Hi, lovely. What does it feel like to be in a jar? Yeah, I just put you in a jar. Coz you made me horny 💔 Jk. You've distracted me. 🤕🤕🤕 My lawyers (my braincells) will be contacting you soon. 🙂‍↔️ Anyway, it got long 🧍🏻‍♀️🧍🏻‍♀️🧍🏻‍♀️

18+. Whore thoughts. Smut. Dom/sub dynamic: Subby Quinn. Dry humping your leg (while you're asleep but with consent/permission). Horny Quinny. Slight Oral (f receiving). Unprotected sex. Dual POV.

Quinn woke up with a jolt. Whatever dream he just woke up from was instantly deleted from his memory, but his body still remembered the rush of a dream. He simply knew he had a wet dream. He must've been so deep in your pussy, but fuck, he didn't remember.

He was sweating. He was burning. He felt fucking wet as pre-cum dripped down his cock.

His arms tightened around you, his eyes watching how a ray of sun hit your cheeks, over your nose. The light grazed the tips of your eyelashes. Your breath was levelled. You looked heavenly.

You weren't fazed when his weight was partially on you. You knew how much he liked cuddling you with his face buried on your neck or your chest, his arm greedily tugging you under him, his leg over yours. He was basically on top of you but also not. He didn't want you to suffocate with his weight. However, you didn't seem to mind. There were days that he would be mostly on you or sometimes, not quite.

You always let him and that made him into a mush every time. You would encourage him to smell your wonderful scent—different lotions and body oils—with your nails scratching his scalp, lulling him to sleep. He loved that. However, there came his frequent problems during morning. Your scent would drown him in his dreams that would make him horny.

He would wake up with the raging boner. He was so horny that his head was spinning. Like right now. His cock ached. Quinn panted, shuddering at your softness, at your damning scent, at silkiness of your nightgown, because of course, you chose to wear one last night.

He swallowed a whine as he buried his face in your hair, shifting his leg between yours. He nearly came when he did so, but not because his sweatpants slid against his cock, but because he was basically rubbing his cock against your thighs despite the layers of clothing between you two. He was fucking leaking.

"Fuck, why the fuck am I this fucking horny?" He demanded to himself, screaming it in his head. It was barely seven in the morning. 7-fucking-AM, and he was already this pathetic? Was he serious?

"My Love," he muttered, nudging you, desperate for you to wake and possibly help him. "I need..." His thoughts trailed when you hummed, shifting underneath him, making him plush against your thigh, his leg brushing against your clothed pussy. He rasped, "My Love, please wake up. Need you."

Despite your countless permission that he could rub himself against you if he woke up first and got horny, he was always so desperate to have your attention. He needed to hear your praises, needed your encouragement. However, he couldn't resist. He was always so weak.

He rolled his hips, grinding down against your leg, shuddering at the heat building in his body, in his fucking soul. He whimpered, muttering your name. Why wouldn't you wake up? He needed you.

"My Love, my Love," he cried over and over again, his lips trembling as he kissed your shoulder.

˚｡⋆ ❀ ˖ ˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚

You woke up with a moan ready to spill from your lips. Pleasure zapped from your pussy, because your clit was getting grazed by Quinn's thigh from his desperate grinds. His biceps flexed and strained so he wouldn't crush you.

"Please wake up," he panted. His low and rumbly whimpers drew you from the lingering claws of your dreams. "Myloveineedyouneedyouneedyou."

Oh, your poor Quinny, so needy. You could feel him staining your nightgown. Maybe it was simply his sweat. Maybe. You'd like to think it was his pre-cum. His lips were trembling as he pressed tentative kisses along your neck. He never had dry-humped you this intensely before.

Softly, you caressed his cheek, guiding him to look at you.

A whine pushed out of his plump lips, his eyes shining with tears, his cheeks burning red. "You're awake. Thank fuck. Can we...can we..." He was stumbling on his words.

"Shh..." you shushed, pressing the pad of thumb on his lips, your touch lingering on the bottom one. You were delighted at the softness. "Up," you ordered, and he instantly lifted. You finally saw the damage on your silk nightgown and also those gray sweatpants of his. "If you're going to hump me," you trailed, spreading legs, tugging your nightgown up, showing your lace panties, a patch of wetness forming, "hump me here."

Quinn panted harder, gripping his cock over his pants. His pupils swallowed those uniquely colored eyes as they trained on your pussy.

"You can slide this to the side," you teased, sliding your finger over your slit before you slid your panties to the side, exposing your pussy. "Right here, Quinny."

At that point, he was already lying down, leaning face so fucking close. You swore your arousal dripped when he took a deep inhale. He looked at you with those sad looking eyes, pleading with you to satiate his hunger. That you would do.

˚｡⋆ ❀ ˖ ˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚

You were so pretty. It hurt. Quinn almost bawled when you hooked your leg over his shoulder, pulling him close. Instantly, he moved, his tongue licking your seam, from your dripping entrance to your clit. He groaned at your taste. He's been waiting for this for what seemed like hours. You tasted fucking divine. So he feasted your pussy.

Then you moaned, "That's it, Quinn. Fuck. You're making me so wet. So good," you breathed, tugging at his hair. "Such a good boy."

He preened. That was exactly what he needed. He sucked your clit, his fingers slipping into your quivering pussy. Then he licked then sucked. Over and over again. And every time, you called him your good boy, when he was being greedy as he gulped your arousal. He loved your pussy.

But you made him stop, made him remove every single bit of his clothes, not letting him take your panties off as you did it yourself. When you instructed him to sit against the headboard, he did. His chin, his lips, and his beard were coated with your pussy juices. Your heady scent caused his head to spin.

"Always so obedient," you chuckled, mounting his thighs, pressing your tits against his chest, your nipples pebbling under your gown that was hiked up. "But also, a bad boy."

Panic rose from his chest. When did he—

"You just humped my leg, Quinny. You made a mess." You slid your pussy along his length, making his eyes roll. "I want to spoil you, so you can have me any time you wanted."

He managed to say, "I just wanna hear your voice while I fuck you."

He was so turned on.

Your eyes sparkled as you smiled. You grabbed his cheek, your thumbs softly caressing his cheekbones.

"You better not come until I tell you," you whispered like a queen declaring a decree. You grinned, kissing him softly. "You can do that for me, right, Q?"

Quinn thought he could do it. He thought he could hold back, but when you sank down his cock, he was already gritting his teeth, his nails digging into your hips, his vision spotting at the edges. He couldn't stop gasping and groaning. He couldn't kiss you like he wanted to, because he couldn't function. He could barely breathe.

Your pussy clenched around him like you were sucking his soul from his dick. Your sharp nails streaked red lines over his chest as you rode him. Even if it would fuck him up, he thrusted upwards, taking his cock deeper in your pussy.

Both of you moaned. As you back arched, he was leaning in to desperately lick the bead of sweat on your neck. He was so close. He tried to control his breaths. It was fucking hard.

"My Love," he plead as you rolled your hips, grinding your clit against his abdomen. "I'm close."

"Hold it, Quinn," you gritted, your right hand lightly pressing on his throat. "Hold it. Be a good boy for me."

Those words were not helping him. At all. His hand snaked towards your clit, teasing and circling it that had you screaming, had your thrusts turn clumsier, had you desperately kiss him.

"Oh, fuck, Quinn. Just need to come first." You panted against his lips. "Make me come first."

With a renewed fervor, his chest aching from how hard his heart race, he slammed you down as he thrusted upwards. As you let out a breathy scream, he grunted. Any other thought in his head vanished except for a mantra: "Hold it. Give her what she wants. She's more important."

His focus was homed your moans, your stuttering praise for him to continue what he was doing and that he was your good boy, and your 'I love you's that he could feel right down his fucking soul before he could utter it back. His senses filled with everything that was you.

He realized this was what he craved when he woke up. It wasn't your pussy to satiate his lust. He craved you. You with your attention, your touch, and your love. You. Just you. Sex and your praises were just a bonus.

Then with one final thrust, you came, your pussy walls greedily squeezing and clamping around him, and he did too. He poured everything he could give deep inside your pussy.

"So good, Quinny," you panted, your forehead resting in his. Your eyes blinked so slowly, gazing at his and his lips and back. "You're my good boy, aren't you?"

He inhaled sharply, because his still-cumming dick twitched and it fucking hurt. Still, He liked that.

"You need to let me rest." He shook his head.

"Just a bit," you giggled, gasping as his hold tightened. "It's a good thing we're free today. We can fuck all day."

It was a tempting offer. Really. Quinn could manage. He would try to.

But as both of you tenderly ran your hands on each other's skin, marveling each other's warmth, your tummy rumbled so loudly that it made you both pause. Your eyes met then you laughed together.

"Food first?" Quinn grinned.

"Food first," you echoed.

Good morning to me (i fell asleep writing this). Good morning/night to you, lovelies 😌😌😌

Lovelies @dancerbailey3 @loser-pretty-girl @r0wdymaize86 @tiredallthetimex @quinnintheabyss @macka @hughesmybaby

But then when you said, "I love you, Quinn," he broke.

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[arolesbianism]

There's a well 🎉

[tender-rosiey]

Can u do a drabble with jjk men where their child gets into a physical fight?

"MY KID IS NOT GUILTY, YOUR HONOR!"

— when your kid with gojo, sukuna, nanami, geto, and toji gets into a fight (f!reader)

GOJO SATORU:

your husband happily swings your hands together, as you walk to the principal���s office. meanwhile, you’re worried sick about s/n and what happened to him.

satoru rubs your hand reassuringly before slamming the door open and yelling, “did you win?!”

your eyes widen, but before you interject, s/n replies back enthusiastically, “yes, I did!”

you hurry to your son, kneeling in front of him to check him thoroughly.

you let out a sigh of relief when you see that he isn’t hurt in any way. sensing your distress, he hugs you. “I missed you, mama,” he says, snuggling into your neck.

“me too,” you smile and almost get lost in the moment, but then you hear a camera shutter. you look back and see your husband, holding a camera.

“oops, don’t mind me, hun.”

the dad of the other boy—who you didn’t notice was even there—stands up, livid, “can you take this a bit more seriously?! my son is injured!”

you’re about to reply yourself, but then satoru beats you to it. he stands right in front of the man and looks down at him, “surely, you’re not yelling at my wife, right?”

the man stumbles back into his chair, and satoru stares him down, making him sink even further into the chair.

the mother then speaks to you, “what your son did is unacceptable! look at how my baby is right now!”

looking at the other boy, you decide that the mother has every right to be mad. his nose is bleed profusely. you’re pretty sure it’s broken.

you look at your son and quirk an eyebrow, “s/n? what happened?”

“I was showing my friends the picture I got of you, and he said you were ugly! he can’t do that!”

your husband turns back and gasps, “he did what?!”

as if the dad himself is the one that is getting scolded, his eyes get teary.

meanwhile, you see the mother whispering to the boy, and he nods, ashamed. she looks back at you and says, “however, what your son did is not acceptable.”

“I know that the reaction was a bit much, but what your son did is also unacceptable,” you answer with your son nodding behind you.

“well—can you not be so close to my husband?” she snaps at satoru, whose cursed energy is increasing.

“you and your husband need to get taught a lesson if you raise a kid that’s so stupid he thinks my beautiful, divinie, and drop dead gorgeous wife is ugly,” he states, and the lady finds herself shrinking back beside her husband.

the little boy also scrambles into his parents’ embrace.

you place your hand on satoru’s forearm, and he immediately relaxes.

you smile and press a kiss to his cheek then pat your son’s back before instructing him softly, “you have to apologize for hurting him so much, though, s/n, okay?”

your son, ever the obedient sweetheart when it comes to you, looks at the boy, “I am sorry, but you should be sorry too!”

the other boy nods, crying, “I am sorry!”

your son nods, satisfied with the answer. your husband then picks s/n up and spins him around as he sings his praises, “I am so proud of you for defending mama like that! so so proud!”

the boy grins happily and hugs his dad. satoru then raises his finger, “but you gotta know that people are weak, so we can only do this to them all the time.”

your son nods eagerly, before wiggling to the ground. he runs to you, excited to tell you about his day. you grin and listen to him happily, ignoring the crying family on the other side.

your husband kisses the top of your head before turning to the principal with a smirk, “so, principal, is there anything you would like to say?”

“I am gonna piss myself.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA:

you dragged sukuna to the principal’s office, after you got a call of a major incident happening involving him. your husband insisted on dismissing it, but you just had a feeling that something is seriously wrong.

you both enter the office, eyes immediately falling on your son who is sitting unbothered on the chair. meanwhile, the principal is resting his elbows on the desk and striking a pose that could only be described as trouble.

when s/n sees you two, his eyes light up, and he runs to give you—and only you—a hug. sukuna scowls, “what about me?”

“you said you don’t like my hugs,” your son huffs, averting his eyes away. sukuna stares at him for a second, before picking him up by the scruff and placing him in his arms.

the boy looks at his dad, shocked, before snuggling into his embrace.

your husband leans his head just a bit on s/n’s head. you both then direct your attention to the waiting principal.

the principal taps his fingers together, but sukuna grumbles, “are you not gonna talk?”

you stifle a giggle—which sukuna notices and you notice the slight smirk now present on his face. the principal looks up at the three of you then speaks slowly, “well, you see…”

he looks up, “your son set my car on fire.”

a few beats pass.

then your husband barks out a laugh, one so hearty that it catches everyone but you off-guard.

the principal looks incredously at sukuna. your son tilts his head in confusion, before sukuna ruffles his hair, “how did you even do that? seriously, that’s my son for you!”

the boy thrives off his dad’s praise, and they get lost in their world, as your son details how he orchestrated everything.

the principal frowns, vexed. he clears his throat to speak up, “sir, I think you might have misheard. I am saying your son—”

“did I ask you to repeat yourself?”

the tone leaves no room for discussion, and it also sends shivers down the principal’s spine. your little boy snickers, and you side-eye him, effectively shutting him up.

the principal shakes his head slowly, then he looks at you for help.

truthfully, the man has every right to be both terrified and offended cause what the hell kinda is able to set a car on fire and act so nonchalant about it? it’s the kinda kid with a dad who backs him up for it.

however, the man assumes that voice of reason is you.

you want to help, but you’re just too tired. so, you smile, “I understand that what happened is harsh, sir,” he lights up, then you continue, “but surely, you can get a new one, right?”

the man pauses and looks at you with wide eyes, before spluttering, “wha—ma’am, you can’t be serious—"

“surely, you. can. get. a. new. one. right?” you glare.

the man nods frantically.

sukuna smirks pridefully, and he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. he leans his face near your ear and whispers, “my kinda woman.”

you smile and wrap your arm around his waist and squeeze his hip in return. you both exchange affectionate bedroom looks, forgetting about the frightened principal.

meanwhile, s/n looks at you guys, wrorried, and murmurs, “mom, you’re scarier than dad.”

despite what he says, s/n jumps into your arms and nuzzles against your cheek. your husband rolls his eyes with no real annoyance behind them.

with all the courage left in him, the principal smiles nervously and stutters, “you—you can leave now; I sincerely and deeply apologize for the hold up.”

nobody moves an inch.

“…please leave.”

NANAMI KENTO:

you, your husband, and your daughter are now seated in the principal’s office.

you are waiting for the other kid and her parents to come in as well. you’re tapping your feet, restlessly, but kento lays his hand on your knee and rubs it gently.

he nods at you, and you smile.

you know your daughter would never fight unprovoked. said daughter gets off her chair and climbs into your lap. she hugs you tightly, and you instantly start petting her hair.

she lets a small sigh, but then the principal enters the office with the other parents in toe. you see your husband’s eyes narrow, before he leans close to d/n and asks gently, “isn’t that the girl you said was bullying your friend?”

your daughter nods intensely and whispers back, “she was about to hit her today, and you told me not to let people bully others! that’s why I hit her.”

you pat her head, and she grins. kento hums then nods, “I get that, but couldn’t you get a teacher, sweetheart?”

“the teacher would’ve taken too long!” your daughter huffs, and she is right. but, there still is a lesson that she needs to understand.

the principal clears his throat and sits in his chair. “well mr. and mrs. nanami, your daughter has inflicted pain on a friend of hers—”

“bullies aren’t my friends!”

good saying, but this probably isn’t the time. you pat her back, and she instantly understands what you mean, so she—begrudgingly—calms down.

the principal continues, “as I was saying, she hit her classmate, and as you can see, it left a bruise. such violent acts are prohibited in this respected establishment.”

“shouldn’t bullying be prohibited as well?” you ask, and the man splutters.

“that doesn’t happen—”

“i can assure you that my wife is speaking the truth,” kento backs you up, “if you would like, we can check the cameras or what the teachers say regarding the environment you’re fostering.”

your daughter’s head starts spinning from the big words.

your husband places a hand on the top of her head before resuming, “while I acknowledge that my daughter shouldn’t have been physical in defending her friend, you ought to acknowledge that what the other girl did was also unacceptable.”

“and since you want to solve the root of the problem, shouldn’t you punish the one that did the bullying and warranted my daughter to act in defense?” you press on, and the principal gulps.

the father of the girl stands up, “my princess would do no such thing—”

“your record isn’t that pretty either, so I suggest you sit down,” you say with a smile, and it does the trick. the man immediately sticks to his wife—who has said nothing, and you assume it’s because she knew what her daughter did.

everybody keeps staring at each other for a while, with your daughter having a staring contest with the other girl.

“we will deal with our daughter accordingly,” kento speaks up as he stands up, straightening his suit, “but we expect that the girl is also held accountable for her shameful actions. thank you.”

you and d/n get up, and the three of you exit the office—like icons. kento holds your hand and d/n’s, and you giggle, “did you see how they looked?”

“should you be encouraging d/n about laughing at others?” your husband asks with a small quirk of his eyebrow. you nod confidently.

“if they’re rude then yes!”

he shakes his head helplessly with a smile. then your daughter looks up to kento as you are walking and says excitedly, “dad, I won!”

your husband looks down at her then smiles gently, nodding as he gives her a thumbs up. you raise your eyebrows and gasp lowly, “hypocrisy?”

“hmm, I don’t know.”

GETO SUGURU:

your daughters hang off their dad’s back as you guys head to the principal’s office. they squeal and giggle, and suguru has an ever-permanent smile.

he is holding onto your hand gently and says, “don’t worry; I doubt that the girls actually caused damage.”

“I know, but what I am curious about is why they would get into something,” you reply, pensive, “I know my daughters very well,” you smile, and the girls grin.

they start chanting your name, clapping, and saying I love you a million times.

you open the door slowly and are met with the principal standing in front of his desk and a girl standing on top of it. your eyebrows furrow in confusion, as you all enter.

your husband wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close. he tilts his head, “so, what’s wrong?”

the man drums his fingers on the desk, leaning back, “your daughters have ganged up on my daughter.”

the both of you take a moment to examine the girl from afar. there seems nothing wrong with her: no bruise, no blood, no nothing.

you exchange looks, and you take the turn to speak up, “your daughter looks okay to me.”

the man huffs and crosses his arms, “she was hurt emotionally! severely too!”

the girl nods strongly and pouts. her dad gasps and hugs her. he then starts coddling her before asking her, “what did they say to you, sugarplum?”

“they said that I looked like a mole rat, daddy!” she replies, hand on her chest as she ‘falls’ to her knees, “and—and that’s only one of the many bad things they said!”

the man gasps yet again and starts comforting her.

you and your husband let out a snort, barely containing your laughter. the girls puff their chest in confidence. you and suguru look at each other with a poorly hidden grin, and you get caught.

the man fumes, “you’re laughing at my dear sweet princess sugar?!”

“no, we are laughing at the insult,” you reply.

“it’s quite creative,” suguru chuckles before turning to the girls who have long let go of him. he kneels down and asks them, “why did you guys do that?”

“she pulled my hair!” one of the twins spoke.

the other chimes in, “and she made fun of me.”

“oh.”

just from that word alone, you can tell which path your husband is gonna take in continuing this conversation. you have a half a mind to make him summon rainbow dragon to take you home.

you just wanted to know the reason, and suguru is probably never going to leave it at that. forget how ‘calm’ he usually is, his family should never be insulted.

“…see, this why you’re all a bunch of monkeys.”

“monkeys!!” the twins scream in unison.

this time both the principal and the daughter gasp incredulously. your secretly a diva of a husband carries your girls then holds your hand before exiting the office.

he walks in silence, and you quirk an eyebrow, “so, what are you going to do, mister ‘filthy monkeys’?”

“I have a feeling that you’re making fun of me, honey.”

“and that feeling would be right.”

the girls settle on his shoulders, freeing his arms, and he takes the chance to tickle you. you squeal, “suguru, stop! I am serious! not in public!”

“but you’re being mean, sweetheart,” he mock pouts, “such bad things you’re saying.”

your roll your eyes, and you guys continue on your merry way back home.

that event passed by like a breeze, but for some reason, the school has been appointed a new principal because the last one went missing.

I wonder why.

FUSHIGURO TOJI:

“relax, ma,” your husband says as he rubs your shoulder in hopes of comforting you, “the kid is surely fine; he is our son after all.”

“I know, toji! but what if he did get hurt?” you fret then scowl, “I swear to god, if they harm a single hair on megumi’s head, I will make them wish they were never born!”

toji smirks lightly and ruffles your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, before opening the door. he sees megumi sat, arms crossed and frowning.

involuntary, toji lets out a sigh of relief, and you waste no time in going to your son and checking on him, bombarding him with questions.

“did you get hurt?”

“no.”

“did he hurt you?”

“no.”

“are you okay?”

“yes.”

“are you sure?”

“yes, mom, I am fine,” megumi murmurs, cheeks heating up at your affection. toji chuckles at the display before looking at the principal.

the man purses his lips before sighing, “your son has beaten up jay.”

you and your husband blink silently. then your husband tilts his head, “who?”

the principal grits his teeth before standing up. he crosses his arms before huffing, “jay, the son of the town’s mayor! that boy is as important as his father, yet your son has so brazenly hurt him!”

you frown, “I don’t care who he is, and I am sure that my son won’t hit somebody for no reason!”

megumi nods, and you smile at him.

you pat his hair gently, and he reluctantly leans into the affection. meanwhile, toji has been listening silently before turning to megumi and asking, “who the hell is that?”

“the one with the sea slug hair,” he replies instantly. you let out a hum of recognition.

your husband stares blankly before he clicks his finger, “oh,” he then looks at megumi and ruffles his hair with a small grin, “I hated that kid’s dad—good job.”

megumi lets out a small smile before giving his dad a thumbs up. you roll your eyes with no real annoyance behind them and side-eye toji.

toji chuckles then looks at the fuming principal. the man, now red in the face, yells, “mr fushiguro, that is unacceptable behavior from both you and your son!”

“…okay?”

you shake your head and usher megumi out of the room. you and toji share a look, before you close the door. the moment it clicks, your husband turns to the principal with a blank face.

he takes a few steps, stopping right in front of the man. toji grabs the principal’s shoulder then speaks lowly, “you won’t speak of this, ‘kay?”

he nods frantically, face contorting as he tries to compose himself. toji smirks and heads to the door with a small wave, “see ya never, teach.”

your husband finds you and megumi in the school’s garden.

he sees megumi and yuuji—his friend—playing together, while you relax on the bench. for some reason, toji feels a wave of warmth flood his chest as when he sees you and megumi smiling.

yuuji yells something to you that makes you laugh heartily. toji feels himself relax and smile just slightly. it’s moments like these he feels ever so grateful to have you in his life.

and he swears to forever protect you and megumi. he has acknowledged a long time ago that his only wish is to be by your side.

that’s why, in no time, he is behind you, effectively blocking the sun. you look up from where you’re sat to your husband.

“hey pretty,” he hums.

you chuckle as he rests his elbows on the bench, “slain?”

he grins, “slain.”

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[flwrstqr]

LAY YOUR LOVE ON ME ✶ WHEN THEY CHECK YOU OUT ◞

SCR𝓲PT ᪲ 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾

【 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐋𝒪𝐕𝐄 】 ' 𝒏. enhypen & fem!rea. ❜ 7OO established relationship fluff headcanons ˊᯅˋ kissing skinship petnames &CLICK

다니 ⠀⦂ HAPPY ENHYPEN COACHELLA DAY (> <) by the time this is posted,, they're probably mid-performance or ending TT

LEE HEESEUNG

you’re standing by the mirror, lazily applying a sheer pink gloss to your lips, and heeseung watches from behind—he mutters, “fuck,” under his breath. you glance at him through the mirror, pretending not to notice the way he’s practically burning holes into your reflection. “baby,” he drawls, sauntering up behind you, “you tryna kill me or what?” his hands find your waist, and he dips his head to your ear, voice dropping, “you always look good, but this? this is criminal.” you hum, smirking as you press your lips together for the final coat. “what? a little gloss got you weak?” he groans, resting his forehead on your shoulder. “you have no idea. come here, pretty girl. lemme ruin it.”

PARK JAY

you do a little spin in front of the mirror, the fabric of the new dress swaying around your legs, and jay just stands there—completely entranced. he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes going up and down. “that’s my princess,” he says, and when you glance over, he’s already walking toward you. “you look beautiful,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “you really like it?” you whisper, a little shy, and his smile only softens more. “i didn’t just like it on the mannequin, baby. i imagined you in it—and i was still underestimating how stunning you’d look.” you wrap your arms around his neck, and he presses a kiss to your forehead. “perfect,” he says again. “just perfect.”

SIM JAKE

you’re casually tying your hair up, completely unaware of the effect it’s having on jake until you hear a low whistle from behind you. you turn slightly, catching him leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, that cocky smirk tugging at his lips. “you do that on purpose, don’t you?” he teases, eyes shamelessly dragging down your neck like he’s already memorized every inch. you roll your eyes, but he’s already up, standing behind you, before his lips brush your neck. “how the hell did i get this lucky?” he mutters. “no seriously, baby, you’re tying your hair and i’m ready to risk it all. you tryna kill me today?” you laugh, trying to squirm away, but he only grins wider. you’re not going anywhere. i’m obsessed, remember?”

PARK SUNGHOON

you’re talking about something random—weekend plans, maybe—but sunghoon’s barely following, his eyes flickering to your lips mid-sentence and lingering a beat too long. he shifts slightly, leans back on the couch like he’s unbothered, but the way he bites his bottom lip says otherwise. “mm, yeah?” he says absently, trying to keep the conversation going, but his gaze drops again and definitely not subtle. “you’re not even listening,” you tease, and he shrugs, eyes flicking back up to yours. “i am,” he says smoothly, voice low. “just... multitasking.” you raise an eyebrow and he lets out the tiniest scoff, clearly caught. “can’t help it, baby. you’re distracting as hell,” he mutters. “keep talking, though. i like your lips—i mean i like listening to you talk”

KIM SUNOO

sunoo leans against the doorway, arms crossed and eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing that matters. you’re standing in front of the mirror, carefully putting on your earrings, when you feel his gaze. “stop looking at me like that,” you mumble, heat crawling up your neck, but he just pouts, chin dipping slightly as he tilts his head. “but you’re so cute,” he whines, pushing off the wall and coming up behind you, and staring at you through the mirror. “can’t help it, baby.” his cheek rests against yours, eyes meeting yours in the mirror as he grins, nose scrunching in that way that makes your heart actually do a cartwheel. “you’re gonna make me late,” you huff, and he giggles, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “worth it though.”

YANG JUNGWON

you’re half-asleep, tangled in the sheets with your hair sticking out in every direction, face bare and eyes barely open when jungwon walks in, carrying two mugs of tea. he pauses mid-step, eyes softening immediately as he sets the cups down and crawls onto the bed beside you. “you’re the prettiest thing i’ve ever seen,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, brushing a strand of hair off your face. you groan, hiding under the covers. “wonnie, i literally look like a monster.” he just laughs, tugging the blanket down gently. “a very cute poster,” he teases, kissing your forehead with the sweetest smile. “my cute monster.” you swat at his chest, but he just smiles, slipping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer. “i mean it, baby. makeup or not—you’re always so pretty to me.” and the worst part is, he reallymeans it.

NISHIMURA RIKI

you’re on your tiptoes, fingers barely brushing the box on the top shelf, tank top riding up just enough to make you curse under your breath—and of course, riki’s there, leaning against the doorway like he’s watching a damn show. “need help?” he drawls, voice low and smug, arms crossed as his eyes shamelessly drop to your exposed skin. you shoot him a glare over your shoulder, “i’ve got it,” but he’s already moving closer, chest brushing your back. “sure, baby,” he chuckles, plucking the box down with ease. “just figured i’d help before you broke your neck.” you swat at him, but he only laughs harder. “you’re so cute when you’re mad,” he murmurs. god, you hate him. hate how your heart races. hate how he knows it. hate how good he looks when he smirks like that.

[jeonginsleftcheek]

Used (drabble)

pairing: felix x afab!reader, implied ot8 x reader

genre: filthy smut

wc: 723

warnings: cockwarming, unprotected sex, partner sharing, degradation, praise, LOTS of dirty talk, creampie, breeding kink, reader is called slut

a/n: i'm in a lil writing slump so this is an attempt at getting out of it, enjoy (i guess😭)💕

You were currently lying under your best friend Felix, your legs wrapped around him and his cock buried deep inside your heat. It wasn't the first time he needed the closeness and the comfort and you were happy to be of service, letting him seek your warmth.

You were scrolling on your phone as he almost fell asleep on top of you but then you shifted just a little, making him groan into your neck.

"Y/n." he whined before lifting up and looking at you. You tossed your phone aside and gave him a smirk.

"Spread your legs." his voice was dark and a shiver ran up your spine, doing as you were told.

Felix started to move slowly, fucking your stretched wet pussy, his eyes rolling back at the feeling as he grunted.

You gasped, letting out a string of moans as you clutched onto him.

"Did you cockwarm the other guys like this, hm?" he asked, dragging his cock through your walls.

"Mm, yeah." you whimpered when his tip hit your spot.

"Tell me how you did it." Felix wrapped one hand around your neck, his other squeezing on your breast.

"I- I cockwarmed Hyunjin while he was painting." you started.

"Yeah? Did you let him fuck you?" Felix pinched your nipple, making you whine as he still fucked into you with languid movement.

"Yes. He bended me over his table and fucked me hard." you bit on your lip, your pussy clenching around Felix's length.

"Who else?" he smirked, pulling his cock almost completely out before rocking back into you harder, making you moan.

"C-Chan." you whimpered. "In the studio."

"Mhm." he squeezed your neck a little and you gasped, lifting your middle up to meet his thrusts.

"Did he fuck you good after that?"

"He fucked me so good." you whimpered as Felix gripped your thighs, pushing your knees up to your shoulders.

"And Changbin?"

"I cockwarmed him with my mouth." you confessed and Felix twitched inside you, the image of you kneeling with your mouth stuffed full of Changbin's cock made him weak.

"I bet you liked your little mouth stretched around him, hm?" Felix gripped the flesh on the back of your thighs as he fucked you a little harder, your pussy so warm and wet around him.

"I loved it." you whined, nails digging into the mattress under you.

"What about last night? I heard you and Seungmin." Felix smirked, increasing his speed and making you even more wet, the squelching sounds of your pussy filling up the room.

"He fucked me from behind. I even let him put it in my ass." you whimpered at the memory.

"Damn, you really are just a little slut, aren't you?" Felix groaned, rocking his hips into yours and making you moan as you clenched hard around him.

"I am." you confirmed, biting on your lip.

"Tell me more." Felix demanded, fucking you harder and making your head spin.

"I fucked Jeongin this morning."

"Yeah? Did you ride him like a good girl?"

"I did." you whimpered, so close to release.

"You wanna cum, slut?" Felix grinned, his fingertips grazing your sensitive clit.

"Y-yes, please!" you moaned.

"Cum around me." he ordered, flicking your clit as he kept fucking into you hard.

"Ah, Felix!" you fell apart, exploding around him as he kept fucking you through your high and chasing his own.

"You want my cum, slut?" he panted and you gasped, gripping onto his arms.

"P-please!"

"Fuck, I know you love to be stuffed by all eight of us. Want us to breed this greedy little pussy?" Felix grunted, fucking you so hard that you came around him once again.

"Yes I do!" you cried out and he exploded, ropes od warm cum filling you up.

"Minho told me to stretch you good for him today." Felix breathed hard before pulling out.

"Mm." you whimpered at the emptiness but that was soon replaced by four of his fingers pushing inside your fucked out pussy.

"So, I'm not done with you yet. You're gonna take it like a good slut until Minho comes to fuck you." he smirked at your teary eyes as he continued fucking you hard with his fingers.

You whined, spreading your legs more, happy to be used by all eight of your best friends.

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[tiramissyoucake]

Omni-man Mark hnnnn, piv, fem reader, he gets to bust inside

MINORS + AGELESS BLOGS DNI

Omni-vincible Mark lucked out the best when it came to you in his universe. You weren't an enemy, a friend, a superpowered phenomenon, you were his wife.

His adorable, obedient little wife. He comes home from a long day doing heroics and he sees you prettying up the house, clad in a comfortable shirt with an apron hugging your figure, adorably tied at your back. You always greeted him with a hug and a kiss and an offer for lunch.

He thought people were weak, sure, but he loves how weak you are compared to him. Mark was already a powerhouse Viltrumite, but watching you easily comply as he handles you never failed to excite him, you were weaker than him and eager to please him, like a good pet.

Your ring glinted, squeezed between his fingers as his hand intertwined with yours, his mouth over yours as he kissed you so deeply it made your head spin, his hips repeatedly pistoning into your warmth. Deep. Deep. Deep. It's like his body was trying to swallow you whole.

He parts from your lips, saliva coating your and his lips as his arms move to bracket your head, watching your expression as broken moans were forced out of you with every thrust of his cock. "That's it," he pants against your lips. "That's a good little housewife." It's impressive how stable his tone was compared to how quickly his hips slapped against yours.

The sound of sheets rustling and skin plapping against skin echoed in your shared bedroom, you were going cross-eyed at your husband's onslaught as your hands trembled and clung to his shoulders, legs helplessly locked around his waist. He loved having you like this, seeing just how much he affected you in its rawest form.

This was the best reward he could ask for, he didn't care for civilian applause, medals or appraisals from anyone outside this home, as long as his adorable wife would welcome him home with a kiss, a warm meal and a warm bed he can fuck you in, he's happy.

Mark had already brought you over the edge twice and it still wasn't enough, he wasn't sure if it's alien stamina or if he was just that horny, but he wouldn't stop until he'd filled you, his dick slamming into you relentlessly as the bed groaned and creaked. "You still with me?"

"Mmmh..! Mmaaark...!!" You looked like you were in cloud nine, every thrust he'd bottom out before another would be delivered, you knew marrying a half-Viltrumite would be tricky but you didn't know he was so... insatiable. But you never had any trouble taking him, he makes sure of it.

He needs to feel you cum and squeeze him in at least twice or three times if he really wanted you drunk with his cock, then he'd take it easy. Pausing to make sure you're looking at him before he'd pepper gentle kisses on your lips, his hips now moving slowly but hitting the same depth in your quivering pussy, a squelching noise replaced the skin slapping as he took his time to finish.

"Who's my adorable pet?" It was sweet, never mocking. You whimper in response, oversensitive and spent as he chased his own orgasm. "M-me... I am...!"

"Mmmh- yes, yes you are..." He pants against your lips, watching your features turn to bliss as he pins his hips to yours as close as possible, finally filling you. "There you go..." He nestled his hips into you with a groan that was overlayed by a moan from you. "Nice and deep, just how you like it.." he murmured, a breathless chuckle escaping him as you whined. "I love you, sweetheart."

he was always so thorough, he wanted to make sure his cum would be embedded into you, globs of white that overflowed threatened to leak past his cock, leaving no room for doubt, a good husband should keep his wife full and satisfied, always.

[soulofapatrick]

Don’t Tempt Me - Xaden Riorson x female reader

Summary: Xaden finds you burnt out on the training field 

Warnings: none 

Words: 6k (somehow)

Notes: Not my fave and not proofread

Y/N's POV

The sun hangs low over Basgiath, bleeding gold and deep crimson across the sky, its light casting jagged shadows over the towering battlements. The war college looms around me, its stone walls unyielding, its presence as foreboding as ever. The air is thick with the lingering scent of sweat and scorched leather, remnants of a day spent in brutal training.

The air is thick with the scent of fresh earth and damp stone as I sprint across the training yard, my feet pounding the ground with a rhythm that feels like a heartbeat—a constant reminder of my inadequacies. Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes, but I refuse to wipe it away. I don’t have time to care about that. I only have time to run.

Over and over, I push myself to the brink, my body screaming in protest, muscles tight with fatigue. My breaths are ragged, desperate for air that feels like it's slowly being stolen from me. But the pain doesn’t matter. It’s nothing compared to the quiet voice inside my head, the one that whispers my doubts and my fears, the one that tells me I’m not enough.

You can’t keep doing this.

It’s Virethalon’s voice. Low, firm, and impossibly calm, like he always is when he sees me teetering on the edge. His presence pulses in my mind, filling the quiet spaces with a calm I can’t find within myself.

Stop, he says again, the warning clear. You’ll burn out before you ever get the chance to fly.

But I ignore him. I have to. I can’t stop, not when the weight of everyone’s expectations hangs so heavily on my shoulders. I can’t afford to be weak. I can’t afford to be what everyone expects—a failure.

My legs scream, my body trembling with every step, but I push harder. Faster. A flip, a backflip, then a roll, twisting midair in an effort to improve my reaction time, my agility. I force my limbs to obey, despite how they beg for rest, despite how my mind is breaking under the strain.

I am not enough. I’m not strong enough to make it here.

Each fall, each misstep echoes the same message in my mind: You don’t belong.

The words are a sting in my chest, sharp and bitter, poisoning the air in front of me. The instructors don’t believe in me, not truly. They’re waiting for me to break, to fail in front of everyone. The other cadets—they’re watching too, eager to see how long I’ll last.

Stop.

Virethalon’s voice is more insistent now, rising with frustration. I know he’s watching, can feel his eyes on me, even though he’s nowhere near. You don’t need to prove anything.

I don’t stop. I can’t. If I stop now, the quiet, haunting voice of failure will take over. If I stop, I’ll feel it—the shame of not being able to meet the impossible standard everyone else expects from me.

The ground shifts beneath me as I sprint forward, my foot catching on something, my body twisting unnaturally in the air. For a split second, time seems to stretch—slow, agonising. And then, I crash.

The world flips. My body slams into the earth, my hands and knees taking the brunt of it. The impact rattles my bones, sharp and unforgiving. My breath is knocked out of me, and for a moment, I just lay there, feeling the tremor of my body as it tries to recover from the shock.

I’m not moving. I can’t move.

Gentle hands find my shoulders before I can even process what’s happening. The pressure is firm yet careful, guiding me, coaxing me into a sitting position. My body trembles from exhaustion, every muscle protesting the movement, every joint aching with the weight of my own failure. I try to steady myself, but the effort makes the world spin, and I can’t seem to get my bearings.

The cold stone beneath me is a cruel reminder of how far I’ve pushed myself. My hands shake, fingers stiff from too much strain, and I finally drop my head, trying to hide the rush of heat that floods my face.

And then, I feel him.

His presence looms over me like a shadow, suffocating and unavoidable. My heart skips a beat, and I immediately wish I could melt into the ground, anything to escape the situation. But it’s too late.

I glance up—my breath catches as I come face to face with him. Xaden Riorson. He stands before me, looking like a damn god, his tall, muscular frame casting a shadow over me. The way his wide shoulders fill out his leather jacket should be illegal. He’s built like someone who’s spent years training and fighting, his chest massive, arms heavily muscled. His dark hair is windblown and tousled, the kind of messy that only makes him look more dangerous. His tawny-brown skin is kissed by the sun, and the dark stubble along his jawline only adds to the rough, untamed look. His eyes—gold-flecked onyx—are locked on mine with an intensity that makes me feel like I’m about to be set ablaze, and I would rather do anything else than face him like this.

I rub my face with both hands, hoping to hide the blush that’s rising to my cheeks. Of all the ways for this to end—of course, it’s Xaden Riorson who catches me. And of course, he looks like that.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growls, his voice a deep rumble of anger that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “You’re an idiot.”

I blink, half-frozen, half in disbelief. The audacity. “Oh, wow. Thank you, Wing Leader,” I drawl, sarcasm practically dripping from my tongue. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

Xaden’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t bite back—at least, not yet. Instead, his eyes flicker over me, and I know he’s assessing the damage. My exhaustion. The way I’m trembling, barely able to hold myself upright. It’s the worst feeling in the world. I’m embarrassed as hell that he’s seeing me like this—weak, on the edge of crumbling.

“I told you to stop before you reached this point,” he mutters, shaking his head. There’s an edge of frustration in his tone now, and I can’t decide if I want to hit something or laugh at how he sounds like he’s scolding a child.

“Yeah, well, you know me,” I say, wiping a bead of sweat off my brow, trying to make myself sound more in control than I feel. “Can’t resist proving everyone wrong.” I let out a bitter laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes. “But, hey, thanks for showing up and saving the day. Just what every soldier needs: an overbearing Wing Leader.”

A flash of something—maybe amusement, maybe exasperation—crosses his face, but it’s gone too quickly for me to read it properly. His dark brows furrow, and he steps closer, invading my space. “You’re burning yourself out. You can’t keep going like this.”

I force myself to sit up straighter, determined not to appear as weak as I feel, but I can’t hide the tremor in my limbs. The ache in my muscles is almost unbearable now, and Virethalon’s voice echoes through my mind—Stop, or you’ll destroy yourself. But I ignore it, as I have for hours.

I grit my teeth. “I don’t need your help, okay? I don’t need anyone’s help.”

I try to push myself to my feet, but my body betrays me, buckling underneath me like a broken chair. I stumble, gasping for breath, my hand reaching out for support but finding nothing.

Xaden’s eyes flash with anger again, but his movements are faster than I can process. He’s at my side in a heartbeat, and before I can even protest, he lifts me up, cradling me against him in one smooth, powerful motion. His arms are like iron around me, and my body, still trembling with exhaustion, goes stiff against him.

“What the hell are you doing?” I gasp, still trying to regain some semblance of control. I push against his chest—unsuccessfully—my arms too weak to do anything more than flop uselessly at my sides. “Put me down, you asshole!”

Xaden doesn’t respond immediately. He doesn’t have to. His grip tightens, holding me effortlessly against him as he carries me toward the barracks. “I told you to stop, but you never listen. So now you’re paying the price.” His tone is laced with annoyance, but there’s something else beneath it—something that makes my heart twist. Maybe it’s concern, maybe it’s guilt, but I can’t focus on that. I’m too busy trying to avoid the heat that floods my face.

“You’re such a prick,” I mutter, my voice half muffled by his chest. I’m so fucking embarrassed, and I hate that I feel this way. His warmth, his scent, is all-consuming, and my skin burns at the contact. But I refuse to admit it. “I don’t need you to carry me like some helpless baby.”

“Funny,” he says, his voice low, “because you sure look like one right now.”

I can practically hear the smirk in his voice, and I want to punch him. I should punch him. But I don’t have the energy, so I settle for biting my lip, muttering curses under my breath as he carries me.

The weight of his presence presses against me, and I can feel his muscles shifting beneath me, each movement of his body reminding me of just how powerful he is. And for all my protests, for all my sarcasm, I don’t want to admit that I’m secretly grateful. Grateful that he’s here. Grateful that he doesn’t let me fall apart.

Even if it means I have to endure his endless teasing.

Xaden’s warm eyes flicker down at me, and this time, there’s something softer there. Almost like...he understands. But I’m too stubborn to let myself believe it.

Xaden doesn’t say a word as he carries me through the barracks, the warmth of his body pressing against mine as I try to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks. I’m too tired to fight it. His presence is too overwhelming, and I can feel his heartbeat steady against me. Every step he takes is calculated, strong, as though it’s second nature for him to carry someone in his arms like this. It’s as if he’s done it a hundred times—though I have to wonder just how many times I’ve crossed his mind before today.

Xaden moves with a quiet grace, his large frame effortlessly navigating the corridors of the dorm building as though he’s done this a thousand times before. He steps softly, almost soundlessly, his footsteps absorbed by the shadows that seem to cling to him like a second skin. My heart races, but it's not from exertion anymore—it's the way he's so effortlessly commanding in everything he does. The weight of his arms around me, the heat radiating from his body, and the way my mind seems to short-circuit whenever I’m near him make it hard to think straight.

We pass the first-year rooms—mine included—and I can’t help but cringe at the thought of being caught sneaking past curfew. But Xaden moves with such precision, such mastery of his surroundings, that the idea of us being caught seems laughable. No one can hear us, no one even notices us. It’s like we’re ghosts, gliding past the rooms, unseen by anyone else.

I briefly wonder how he does it—how he’s so adept at slipping through the shadows, unnoticed, silent. But then, he’s always been a mystery to me. The kind of mystery I’ve never quite been able to figure out. And maybe, in a way, I don't want to.

Finally, we reach the staircase that leads to the upper floors, and with a swift glance in either direction, Xaden steps into the shadows, carrying me effortlessly up the stairs. We move past the landing and down the hallway to the last door—the one I know leads to his room. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause, and with a final quiet push of the door, we’re inside.

Xaden doesn’t put me down right away. His arms remain around me, his hold firm, as if he’s unwilling to let go. As if, for a brief moment, he’s afraid to lose the connection. The closeness between us feels suffocating, overwhelming, and yet I can’t bring myself to pull away. Every inch of my body is acutely aware of his presence, the heat of his skin seeping into mine, the muscle and strength in his arms keeping me held too close. I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against me, mirroring the frantic pulse racing through my veins.

His dark eyes meet mine, and I swear, for a second, everything else falls away. His gaze is fierce, like a storm trapped behind his irises, flickering with a raw intensity that sends a wave of heat rushing through me. I’m suddenly aware of how painfully close we are—so close that if I moved even an inch, I’d be pressed against him completely. My breath catches, and I can’t look away, trapped in the gravity of his stare, like he’s pulling me toward him without even trying. And then, as if trying to fight whatever is building between us, his eyes flicker to my lips, and I feel it—the pull—stronger than anything I’ve ever felt.

But just as quickly as the moment seems to rise, he jerks his gaze away, his jaw tightening with the effort to control himself. It’s like he’s trying to push back the part of him that’s aware—aware of the magnetic pull between us, aware of how much he’s been fighting this… whatever this is. He shakes his head slightly, as though dismissing the thought entirely, like he’s trying to shut down the desire that flares in him. But I see it in his eyes—the flicker of something primal. Something I can’t ignore.

Finally, he sets me down, but he doesn’t let go immediately. He’s still so close that I can feel his breath on my skin, a whisper of warmth against the cold, the tension stretching taut between us, like a string pulled too tight. My pulse races as I settle onto the bed, the soft covers pressing against me, but my chest feels like it’s about to burst. I try to catch my breath, but it’s like the air in the room has thickened, heavy with unsaid words and the suffocating weight of everything unsaid.

Xaden doesn’t back away. He hovers, towering over me, his presence suffusing the space around us. I can feel the heat radiating off him, his body just a breath away, and every inch of me is screaming to close the distance. But I don’t move. I’m not sure I can. His nearness makes every part of me ache, makes every nerve light up, thrumming with the raw electricity that crackles between us.

His voice cuts through the thick silence, deep and steady, but there’s something almost... softer now, something gentler that makes my heart stutter. “Stay here,” he commands, his words pressing down on me like a physical weight, making my chest tighten. The force of his tone is undeniable, but there’s an undercurrent of something else—something that makes my stomach flutter. Something dangerous and thrilling all at once. "Be a good girl. Don’t go anywhere.”

I feel those words in my bones, in the very marrow of my being. The way he says it—it’s like a promise, a command that makes my heart race faster than it should. And yet, there’s a tenderness beneath it, a strange gentleness that pulls at me, twists my insides into knots. He wants to keep me here, close. He wants to possess this moment with me, even though I can feel the struggle in him—his body yearning to cross the line, but his mind pulling him back, trying to control what’s growing between us.

His gaze holds mine, unwavering, and I swear I see something break in his eyes—something raw and unspoken. It’s as if he’s holding himself back from doing something he knows would be too much, too dangerous. But the look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know: the battle is far from over, and this tension—this charge—it’s only just beginning.

I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. Every muscle in my body is taut, every nerve alive with an electric hum. Xaden disappears into the adjoining ensuite, his heavy footsteps echoing softly across the stone floor. I can hear the gentle hiss of the water filling the tub, the steady flow of it working in rhythm with the hammering of my heart. The tension between us lingers, the silence more suffocating now than ever before, and I can’t shake the feeling of his gaze still lingering on me even as he disappears from the room.

I should feel grateful for the space—should breathe, slow my pulse—but all I can think of is him. The way he’s so effortlessly commanding, yet there’s this softness beneath it that I can't quite place. The way he had looked at me, his expression a battle between restraint and something far more intense.

My fingers twitch, almost compulsively, and I reach for my boots, needing to do something. My body is still shaking from the exertion, from the near-collapse, and now my brain feels fuzzy, the exhaustion creeping in faster than I expected. I should just wait, I know I should, but I feel... out of control. I need to regain some semblance of normalcy, something to anchor me.

I struggle to bend down, but my balance is still far off from the punishment I just put my body through. My vision swims a little, and before I can register what’s happening, my body tips forward, sending me sprawling from the edge of the bed with a yelp. The floor greets me hard, and a shock of pain shoots up my spine, but it's nothing compared to the embarrassment that floods through me in waves. My pulse spikes, and I scramble, feeling utterly ridiculous.

A sharp, almost instinctive growl of frustration rises in the air—Xaden. He’s already moving quickly, a blur of motion as he rushes back into the room, his broad form filling the doorway in an instant. His dark eyes sweep over me, a flicker of concern passing through them, but it’s quickly replaced with something harder—almost irritated.

"You really are a disaster, aren't you?" His voice is deep, but there's a teasing bite to it, even as he crosses the room toward me in strides that eat up the distance. I can’t even find it in me to be offended. I’m too busy feeling like a complete fool.

Before I can open my mouth to respond, he’s crouching in front of me, his hands reaching for my arms to steady me. The sheer strength in his touch almost knocks the wind out of me as he helps me back onto my feet, the warmth of his hands traveling through my skin and straight to my chest. He doesn’t say anything else, but the way his eyes linger on me for a moment, as though making sure I’m okay, sends something fluttering nervously in my stomach.

“Try not to break anything else, would you?” His voice is softer now, as though the weight of the moment has finally broken through that icy exterior of his. His lips curve into a smirk, but there’s no denying the genuine care beneath the sarcasm.

Xaden moves with quiet precision, his hands wrapping around my waist, gentle but firm, as he guides me toward the bed. The heat from his touch lingers on my skin, and despite everything, I can't help but shiver. His grip is unyielding, his presence surrounding me, and as I sit on the edge of the bed, he stands in front of me, towering over me. The dim light from the room casts shadows across his features, making him look even more intimidating than usual, but there’s something in his eyes that betrays the mask he’s trying so hard to maintain.

His hands rest on my knees for a moment, and his gaze flickers to mine. There’s a question there, unspoken, something almost vulnerable beneath that stoic expression. I can see the battle waging in his eyes. He doesn’t want to touch me—at least, that’s what his expression says. But his eyes… those eyes of molten gold flecked with onyx… they betray him, flashing with an intensity I can’t quite read.

And then, in a moment that feels both like an eternity and a breath, Xaden sinks to his knees in front of me. The movement is fluid, almost too graceful, and my heart skips a beat. It feels wrong to be this close, too intimate. His presence is overwhelming, and I can feel the tension in the room thickening with every inch of space he closes between us.

Xaden kneels before me, his hands gentle but firm as he removes my boots. His touch is careful, almost reverent, but the tension is unmistakable. Each movement is deliberate, like he's holding himself back from something. The weight of his gaze on me is intense—smouldering, even—and I can feel every inch of him watching, noticing, memorising.

As he pulls off the second boot, his fingers brush against my calf, sending a jolt through me. My breath catches, and I instinctively tense, but it's more from the electric charge between us than the discomfort of my body. I don’t know why it affects me like this—this man who’s never once been shy about hiding the way he feels or thinking that his touch doesn’t matter—but in this moment, it matters. It matters more than it should.

He looks up then, his gaze locking onto mine. The heat in his eyes is unmistakable, a dark storm brewing just beneath the surface. His brow furrows slightly, and for a split second, I wonder if he’s questioning something—me, himself, what we’re both doing here, like this. But then his eyes flick lower, and I can see the hesitation there, a silent question that hangs in the air between us.

His fingers hover at the waistband of my tracksuit bottoms, brushing lightly against my hips. The touch is almost too soft, as if he’s trying to gauge my reaction before crossing a line that’s already dangerously blurred. He doesn’t say a word—he doesn’t have to. The question is in his eyes, in the way his lips part ever so slightly, in the subtle tension in his jaw. It’s an unspoken request, one that I know all too well.

I can feel the pulse of uncertainty in my veins, but something about this—about him—makes me lower my defences, just a little. Without even thinking, I raise my hips slightly, just enough to give him the signal. My movement is small, almost imperceptible, but it's enough. His breath hitches, and I can see the way his eyes flicker, a momentary loss of control before he tightens his grip on his composure.

Xaden exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath all this time, and I can see it in his expression—the struggle between what he wants and what he’s trying so hard to resist. His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my tracksuit bottoms, and I feel the slightest tremor in his touch. He’s slow, deliberate, like he’s savouring the moment, but also like he’s afraid that if he moves too quickly, the entire thing might shatter.

The air between us crackles with an electric tension, and as he helps me out of the fabric, I’m left feeling exposed in a way that’s more than physical. My heartbeat is louder than anything else, pounding in my ears, and for a moment, I forget about the aches in my body, the bruises, the exhaustion. It’s as though the world has narrowed to just us. Just this. And I can’t seem to pull away from him, from the way he makes me feel, from the way his hands linger a little too long at the edge of my clothing, as if to remind me that he sees me—every part of me.

I know it’s not supposed to feel this way, not like this. But every glance, every touch, every quiet, unspoken word between us is enough to unravel the careful walls I’ve built. And yet, even as he pulls the tracksuit bottoms off, his hands gentle but insistent, there’s something else in his eyes—something that tells me he’s fighting every urge to touch me, to kiss me. But he doesn’t. He never does.

I can’t decide whether that makes it harder or easier.

And when he finishes, leaving me in nothing but my sports bra and panties, I feel more vulnerable than I’ve ever been—completely at his mercy, exposed in more ways than one. The air is thick with unspoken words, and even as I sit there, trying to catch my breath, I know this isn’t over.

Xaden lets out a frustrated sound, a low, throaty growl that resonates deep in his chest. His breath stutters as his forehead falls gently to my thigh, the weight of it anchoring me in place. The intensity of the moment is suffocating, like the world around us has slowed to a stop, leaving only the two of us, tangled in something we can’t deny. His hands are gripping the edge of the bed, his knuckles white, and I can feel the tension in his body, a tight coil of restraint and hunger.

And then, in one swift, desperate motion, he surges upward, his lips crashing against mine. There’s no warning, no hesitation. Just pure, raw need. His mouth takes mine with a fierce intensity that leaves me breathless, as though he’s been holding back for far too long and now there’s no more control. It’s like he’s been starved for this—starved for me—and he doesn’t want to let me go, not even for a second.

I kiss him back with everything I have, my hands finding the sides of his face, pulling him closer, as if I can’t get enough. Every part of me feels alive with the heat between us, my skin tingling where his fingers brush against it, my heart thudding erratically in my chest. He tastes like fire—burning hot, consuming—and I can’t help but fall into him, into the kiss, into the feeling of him. I can feel the weight of his body pressing against mine, the strength of him, but it’s not overbearing. It’s grounding, like he’s pulling me into his orbit.

His hands move quickly, urgently, as if he’s afraid the moment will slip away from him. Before I can fully comprehend what’s happening, he’s lifting me effortlessly from the bed, and suddenly I’m straddling his thighs. His hands settle on my hips, holding me in place, the heat of his body radiating into mine. I can feel the way his pulse races beneath his skin, the way his chest rises and falls against mine. The kiss deepens, growing even more frantic, and I don’t know whether it’s the intensity of it or the way he’s holding me that makes everything else feel so insignificant.

He pulls me closer, his hands guiding me with a possessive, yet gentle touch, and I can feel the thrum of energy between us, something electric, something undeniable. My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him closer, and the sound of his breathing, his heavy exhales, fills the space between us. I can hear the way he’s fighting for control, the way his muscles tighten with the effort of keeping his composure.

But I don’t want him to. I don’t want him to hold back.

I don’t want him to fight it anymore.

I can feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of my sports bra, his chest pressing against mine with each movement, and I’m acutely aware of how close we are, how easy it would be to lose ourselves completely in this. And yet, even as we continue kissing, tangled in each other’s embrace, there’s a part of me that’s still unsure, still trying to catch up with everything happening around me. But when his hands slide down to my thighs, gripping them with such possessiveness, that uncertainty melts away, replaced by a heady rush of desire.

The kiss breaks, but just for a moment, both of us gasping for air. His lips hover above mine, and I can see the raw intensity in his eyes, a mixture of frustration and something else—something far more tender, even if it’s buried beneath the layers of urgency.

"Don't stop," he mutters, his voice rough and low. His hands tighten around me, pulling me against him, as if he’s trying to make sure I’m real. “Please don’t stop.”

And all I can do is nod, my chest still rising and falling with the rapid pace of my heart. I don't want to stop either.

The air between us feels thick with heat, charged with a tension that I don't want to break, even as the reality of what we’re doing begins to settle in. Xaden’s hands are still firm on my hips, his grip tightening with every shift of my body, and I can feel every muscle in his form, every bit of control he's holding onto, fighting to stay composed. He pulls me closer again, the fabric of my sports bra barely separating us, his chest brushing against mine as he presses his forehead to mine, both of us gasping for breath.

The heat from his skin, the closeness of his body, is too much to ignore. It's overwhelming in the best way. I can hear my own pulse hammering in my ears, feel the electricity between us that neither of us can escape. He looks at me, his gold-flecked eyes searching mine, his breath ragged as if he's barely holding on to the edge of whatever control he has left.

I can't stop myself from raising my hand to touch his face, my fingers trailing down the line of his jaw, tracing the hard curve of his chin, feeling the roughness of his stubble. The tenderness in my touch makes him shiver, his breath catching in his throat, and for a brief second, everything else fades. There’s no training, no curfew, no expectations—just the two of us, caught in something far more complex than either of us ever intended.

His lips brush against mine once more, a soft, tentative kiss, but it feels more intimate than the previous fiery moments. It's full of the unspoken things, the feelings we've been hiding, buried beneath layers of duty and unacknowledged desire. Xaden pulls back slowly, just enough to look at me, his eyes heavy with something unreadable.

"I—" he starts, his voice thick with emotion, but I stop him, my fingers pressing gently to his lips.

“I know," I whisper. "I know, Xaden. We don’t need to say it.”

The words hang in the air between us, unspoken yet understood. He looks at me, really looks at me, and for once, there’s no pretension, no walls between us. Just a moment of raw honesty.

But then, he pulls back just a fraction, his hands slowly loosening their grip on me, as if reluctant to let go but knowing he has to. His eyes soften, a flicker of something tender passing over his features before he runs a hand through his windblown hair, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“You should rest,” he murmurs, though there’s a trace of something unreadable in his voice. “You’ve pushed yourself too hard tonight.”

I nod, feeling the weight of his words as the adrenaline from our moment starts to ebb away, leaving me with a sense of vulnerability, of exhaustion I hadn’t realised had been creeping up on me. My body is still sore from the training, but now, there’s an ache of a different kind, a deep, resonating need I’m not sure how to deal with.

“You’re right,” I murmur, my voice hoarse. “About that bath…”

Xaden’s hands gently guide me to my feet, his fingers lingering on my hips just a moment longer than necessary, as if making sure I’m steady before he lets go. His touch is firm but considerate, grounding me, reminding me that he’s here, present, in this moment. I almost wish he didn’t have to pull away so soon, but the space between us feels impossible to close for reasons I can’t quite name.

With a soft grunt, Xaden rises to his full height, towering over me for a moment before he reaches down and picks me up again, effortlessly moving me toward the bed. His strong arms encircle my waist, and I feel the heat radiating from his chest, the power in his body that he keeps so carefully controlled. He sets me down gently on the edge of the mattress, the softness of the sheets a stark contrast to the tension that still crackles in the air between us.

I sit there for a moment, watching him, as he turns toward the bathroom, his broad back stretching as he moves, his muscular frame rippling with every step. His windblown black hair falls just above his collar, and I can't help but stare at the way he walks—confident, purposeful, but there’s an undercurrent of something, a quiet storm inside him that’s barely contained.

The silence feels heavy, too heavy, until I finally speak up, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

“... Maybe you could join me?”

The moment they leave my mouth, time seems to slow. Xaden freezes in his tracks, his hand hovering over the doorframe, his back to me. For a breathless second, I wonder if he didn’t hear me, if the words just got lost in the space between us. But then, the tension in his body is palpable. His shoulders tighten, his jaw clenches, and I watch as a low, almost imperceptible sound slips from his throat—a frustrated, breathy exhale that he seems to be holding back with all his strength.

He doesn’t turn around right away, but when he does, his eyes meet mine, and there's a flicker of something dangerous there. It’s not anger. It’s hunger—raw, palpable, and so intense that it sends a shiver down my spine. I can't look away, can't tear my gaze from his. The silence between us stretches, thickening, until I can almost feel the heat coming off of him.

"You really want that?" His voice is low, a little strained, like he's trying to rein himself in. There's a slight tremor in his hands, and his posture is tense, like a coil ready to snap. He’s trying to keep himself in check, and I know he’s holding back everything he wants to say, everything he wants to do. But there's something in his eyes, a flicker of vulnerability, of yearning, that betrays the composure he’s trying so hard to maintain.

I nod slowly, heart pounding in my chest as I search his face, looking for any sign of hesitation, any clue that I’ve crossed a line. But there’s none. Instead, he takes a step toward me, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he’s waiting for me to stop him, to give him some sort of excuse to turn back. But I don’t.

I don’t know what happens next, only that the space between us feels like it’s been stretched so thin that it could snap at any moment. Xaden is so close now, his presence overwhelming, and I can’t breathe, not properly. All I can do is stare at him, feel the pull, the need between us, and wonder if he can feel it too.

“Don’t tempt me,” he mutters under his breath, before stepping into the bathroom, leaving me to wonder if he’ll give in, if he’ll actually let this tension between us break.

Part Two ⇒ Giving Into Temptation

Fourth Wing Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

@xadenswhore @fanficscuziranout @daisydark @Mariahoedt @marrass @

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[11:57 am]

(cw: f!reader, profanity, mentions of sex and other heated scenarios, spin off of this)

Realistically, the last thing you'd expected from a Halloween make out with your best friend, fratboy!Haechan, was a friends with benefits situation. Especially after you both confessed your feelings for each other. You didn't feel like you should be the one to initiate the conversation about being official either. Like, hello?! You'd been the one to start the actual physical intimacy! You weren't the type of girl to go around and make out with just anyone!

You figured you were at least a little bit, the very slightest bit, also guilty for how long this... arrangement was going on. Could you really help it when he was just so eager to be affectionate? You were weak to his whining and begging. Your excuses for coming over to play video games or study weren't even actually believable anymore. Really, it was more like you were trying to convince yourself.

And that was the reason today. When you'd ducked upstairs without so much as a "hi" sent to the guys that were downstairs. An hour later when you both emerged from his room with swollen lips, wrinkled clothes, and messy hair, it became very obvious that no studying was going on at all.

Not that any of the guys ever believed it anyway. Sure, there was no shame behind closed doors. They guys know there's no shame. At all. You two passionate freaks are never quiet. Never. Even in front of them, Haechan never shies away from incessantly flirting or kissing you. So yeah, those excuses are really just for you.

Now though, you're leaned against the kitchen island, snacking on some chips and sipping on water after a very long and heated session of... whatever it was that happened in Haechan's room. To be honest, the second his lips touched your own, your brain melted and your sole purpose became to follow wherever he led you.

He was glued to your back, body pressed closely against your own as he slumped against you and blinked slowly, opening his mouth for you to feed him with a soft, "ahh" right in your ear when he wanted more. When his mouth wasn't busy with chewing, he was pressing soft, wet kisses on the side of your neck shamelessly.

"What the hell is going on in here?" You hear someone ask.

Slowly, probably because your mind isn't working to its full ability yet, you turn your head to find Johnny standing in the doorway with a look of disgust. You pop another chip between your lips before very casually asking, "we're snacking. Do you want some?"

"Yeah, he's snacking on your neck right now. I'm so confused right now," Johnny sighs with a shake of his head. He walks over to the fridge and gets himself his own water before leaning on the opposite end of the counter with a scrutinous gaze. He shakes a pointed finger between you and Haechan, "so what is this?"

Haechan gently sinks his teeth into the slope of your shoulder to draw a shiver from you before pulling away with an annoyed sigh, "bro, can my smoking hot girlfriend and I get some peace or are you going to stand there and judge like a freak?"

Your brain finally starts to catch up right then and it shows on your face as your brows furrow with confusion, "I'm not your girlfriend."

Haechan freezes, turning your body so you can meet his confused gaze. "Uhhh yes you are, that's why we just had sex in my room," Haechan points out.

"You never asked me to be your girlfriend!" You argue.

"So what happened on Halloween when we made out in my room? I told you I liked you and had a crush on you since I first saw you so what the hell was that to you then?"

"That was you telling me you liked me and me showing you I liked you too, but you have never asked me to be your girlfriend!"

"Was that not implied?! We literally make out, we have sex, we go on dates. I send you pictures of be in the shower-"

Johnny chokes on his water, "oh, gross dude."

Haechan's scream of, "why are you still here?" overlaps your voice as you explain, "he sends me selfies of his shampoo mohawk."

Johnny can only laugh to himself as he leaves the kitchen. Haechan is left to cup your cheeks with a grip that expresses his absolute desperation, "are you doing this with other people? Please say no."

"No!" you exclaim, "are you?"

"I thought you were my girlfriend, I'm not a cheater, so no. I'm not doing what we do with anyone else," Haechan tells you exasperatedly.

"So in your head, we've been dating for like two months now?" You ask, leaning into his hold to rest your head against his chest.

"Well, no, in my head we've been dating since we first met. I've been telling everyone that we've been dating for two months, yeah," you feel him nod.

"Are you going to ask me now then?" you drawl out, looking up at him to meet his eyes.

He groans playfully before leaning down so his forehead is pressed against yours, "will you be my girlfriend?"

"Yes!" You exclaim excitedly.

"Even though you basically already were. Geez, woman, you're a spoiled girl."

[banj0possum]

Bloody Red Roses

Yandere!Evil King x GN!Reader

CW: kidnapping, weirdo behavior, pretty mellow for now

👑 It was known throughout the land that King Alistair of the Obsidian Kingdom was a terrifying and cruel ruler. His heart held no mercy for those who opposed him.

👑 His dark magic was one to be feared, many know better than to ever go against him and his undead soldiers.

👑 Recently, he’s set his sights on your kingdom. He was planning on overthrowing a few lands and expanding his territory, and with your kingdom’s promising resources and location, he saw it as the perfect prize.

👑 But he isn’t a war mongering psychopath who declares war right then and there, no no he’s much more sophisticated than that, he’s going to kidnap the princess instead!

👑 He needed a bride anyway, so for him it’s a win/win!

👑 “Sir! We got her! We got the princess!” The door opening and the rattling of bones got Alistair’s attention. He sent a few of his skeleton soldiers to capture the princess whilst on a carriage ride through the borders of his territory.

👑 There were many guards protecting the area, but their weapons were no match for enemies who couldn’t die, and with a little bit of sleeping potion, carrying the princess away will be easy as pie.

👑 “Excellent~ and you brought her to my chambers like I told you correct?”

👑 They nod and scamper alongside the king to meet the princess

👑 “Oh princess~ are you awake ye- !!” His eyes widen and he cuts himself off. The person unconscious and tied up in his bed was indeed a royal, but the princess they were not.

👑 “What. Is. This?” He growls, the soldier’s bones rattle in fear

👑 “W-well you sai-“ “Does this look like a princess to you?! How am I going to take over their stupid kingdom if don’t have a bride!?” He scowls angrily.

👑 He hears you tossing and turning in your sleep, you let out a soft little squeak as you reposition yourself to be hugging one of his pillows.

👑 “…”

👑 “Uhm…your highness..?”

👑 “Leave. I’m done with your stupidity..I’ll deal with them myself..”

👑 The soldiers waste no time running off to who knows where as Alistair looks at you with cold eyes.

👑 “Hm…”

👑 He takes a seat by the bed, watching you as he figures out what to do with you.

👑 He’s trying to figure out a strategy, but he keeps getting distracted by your form. You looked so small and delicate, maybe he could…no that’s stupid he could never..could he?

👑 His thoughts plague him a awhile longer until he notices you waking up.

👑 Your muscles are weak, your head feels like it’s spinning, and it takes a bit for you to get back to your senses and realize what happened.

👑 You jolt awake, remember of the attack and almost scream at the sight of Alistair, but he was quick to covers your mouth and try to ease your panic. It took a while, but he managed to get you to stop fussing so he could take off your binds.

👑 “Apologies for this little..incident, I was supposed to take your sister..but now that you know my plan for your little kingdom, I have no choice but to keep you here. Perhaps I don’t need a princess to marry after all, I could just use you as ransom..” he chuckles.

👑 He sees the tea in your cup rippling in your shakes hold and scoffs, bringing his hand to hold your wrist to still your trembling “Oh don’t be so scared now, I don’t bite..”

👑 It was just supposed to be a means to make you stop shaking, but your skin…your big pitiful eyes staring up at him..he didn’t want to let go.

👑 So he kept you, for ransom of course, not for anything else..

👑 With you at his disposal, he started preparing negotiations with your kingdom to see what they’ll do to get you back.

👑 But in the mean time, he had to deal with you somehow..

👑 He settled on just letting you wander around the castle (with supervision of course)

👑 But then he starts to wonder what you do everyday, what did you even like to do? If you were staying with him, he might as well talk with you for the time being.

👑 It started off sort of awkward, he spotted you by the garden feeding some birds with two soldiers watching you. He approached and waved at the soldiers to leave them alone together. You thought you were in trouble but to your surprise, he just asked you how you were doing..

👑 “I uhm..heard you like going out here everyday..I figured I’d join you…Don’t take it the wrong way, I just had some..free time..that’s all..”

👑 The whole interaction was unusual. It wasn’t like him to be so casual and calm with someone, especially a royal of another kingdom.

👑 He enjoys the reactions you give him whenever he talks about his role as the dark king of the Obsidian Kingdom. Your nervous but polite smile masks your mortification of him, but it’s adorable to him nonetheless

👑 “What? A scared of the big bad king? How cute.”

👑 Your little talks slowly became frequent, for the king, it even became something he couldn’t help but do. What can he say? He was so used to your presence it seemed wrong to not talk to you at least once..plus he had to check to see if you weren’t planning an escape so..

👑 “Where have you been my little rose? I haven’t seen you all day.”

👑 His interest in your interactions turned to fondness the more he picked up on your cute little quirks. He takes note of the things you find funny or interesting, he brings them up in order to see that adorable little smile of yours, and that giggle, oh god that giggle…

👑 He denies it so much at first, but slowly starts to accept the fact that he wants- no, needs you with him

👑 Soon he started to want your presence even more, offering to eat meals alongside you instead of eating whenever he’s schedule allowed it, he started eating scheduled meals for you <3 we love self care guys

👑 “Of course I’m eating with you tonight. After all we never got to finish our conversation.”

👑 He loves watching you, even when simply eating or any mundane thing, you will more often than not catch him staring at you. You’re just so cute and soft! Definitely not like the snobby and overly stiff men and women he’s seen.

👑 He couldn’t have you trying to escape so what better plan than to keep you by his side 24/7? Then you’ll never be out of his sight!

👑 “What’s so wrong with letting you tag along my dear? I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself with me.”

👑 And what if you try and sneak out from your chambers? Clearly you need to be moved to his chambers, that way he can make sure you’re behaving.

👑 Oh and of course in case you get lost, he made you a cute collar with the royal insignia on it! Isn’t it pretty? He used your favorite colors and everything!

👑 Of course he needs to fulfill his kingly duties. But how can he leave you alone for that long? No worries, you can sit right on his lap! That way you won’t have to stand for a long time and hurt your feet.

👑 And those clothes? So simple and out of style, perhaps you should wear something more fitting to his kingdom’s styles? Like a cute outfit with lace and ruffles! You look so delicate and graceful in it! He can’t help but buy you lots more outfits like that! Tis only fair for a person of your status.

👑 “How about this one? It compliments your form…what do you mean it looks too cutesy? I think it looks perfect for you.”

👑 he’s the type to not do much physical affection, but dear god does he crave both giving and receiving it. Give him a kiss or a caress of his cheek and he struggles to keep his composure and not melt to your touch

👑 Simply put, he might not seem like it (at least he thinks he does) but he can’t live without you. He couldn’t fathom the fact he was planning on trading you for a kingdom, you’re way more valuable than some puny kingdom!

👑 He even considers his original plan, you wouldn’t mind right? Besides, he bets you look absolutely exquisite in a little wedding dress~! Even if you don’t want a dress, an elegant suit would perfect on you~!

👑 “Where do you think you’re going my rose?”

It’s finally here guys ✨✨✨ I know it’s been a while but I’ve been busy with school and genshin. Anyway we got em in the end! Thank you for being so patient guys !! qwq

[bradleysass]

caught - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 846 - slightly NSFW

Dinner in the Great Hall is chaos. Loud, noisy, filled with clattering plates and shrieking laughter. James Potter, for once, couldn’t care less about any of it. He mumbled some excuse about needing to finish a Charms essay, waved Sirius off with a grin, and practically sprinted back up the Gryffindor Tower.

Because Regulus Black—Regulus bloody Black, in all his infuriatingly perfect, sharp-tongued, cold-glare glory—is sitting on the edge of James' bed, legs crossed, looking like he owns the place.

He’s in his uniform still, though the green tie is hanging loose around his neck and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone. His robe is pooled beside him, abandoned in a way that looks like sin incarnate.

James shuts the dorm door carefully behind him, tosses the lock charm out of habit—

It doesn’t catch.

He frowns.

Regulus arches a brow. “Problem?”

“Nah,” James says, brushing it off. “Just stubborn.” He closes the distance between them in two steps, palms sliding over Regulus’ thighs with that cocky grin he knows drives him insane. “Unlike someone.”

“Keep talking,” Regulus drawls, cool as ever, but his fingers are already in James' hair, pulling him in.

They kiss like they’re going to starve without it—like they’ve been pretending for months not to want this. And now that the seal’s broken, there’s no stopping.

Regulus shudders when James kisses down his neck, unfastening his trousers with the kind of reckless confidence that usually gets him detention. But this? This is worth every bloody rule in the book.

The way Regulus breathes his name—James—is enough to make his knees weak.

He sinks to the floor without hesitation, tongue tracing the sharp cut of Regulus’ hipbone before dipping lower. His hands press to his thighs, firm and reverent, holding him there like he’s a gift.

Regulus lets out a shaky exhale and tips his head back, already lost to it. His knuckles go white gripping the sheets.

It’s slow at first. Teasing. James likes this part—watching Regulus fall apart bit by bit, the way his composure crumbles when James hums around him, lashes fluttering shut.

“Fuck,” Regulus groans, voice ragged. “You're going to—fuck, James—”

That’s when the door slams open behind them.

James freezes.

Regulus doesn’t register it immediately—he’s too far gone—but James feels his entire soul leave his body as a very familiar voice yells:

“Oi, Prongs, you forgot your—WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK—”

James turns his head slowly, painfully, like he’s about to witness the end of his own life.

Sirius Black is standing in the doorway, a half-spilled Butterbeer in hand, mouth hanging open, staring in horror at the sight before him: his best friend, kneeling in front of his very startled, very flushed younger brother.

Regulus makes a strangled sound and yanks the discarded robe over his lap like it’ll fix any of this.

James, still on his knees, lips swollen, hair a mess, looks up at Sirius like a deer caught in headlights.

“Hey,” James says weakly, voice an octave too high.

“Hey? HEY?!” Sirius shrieks, looking like he might spontaneously combust. “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!”

Regulus, to his credit, straightens his spine, clears his throat, and says with unnerving calm, “A situation you would not be in if you knocked like a normal person.”

Sirius starts choking on his own words. “You—he—you’re—were you blowing him?!”

“I mean,” James mutters, glancing down and then back up again, “I wasn’t not—”

“OH MY GOD.”

There’s a loud thunk as Sirius’s Butterbeer hits the floor. He spins around dramatically—too dramatically—and smacks face-first into the doorframe.

Regulus winces. James yelps.

“Pads, are you—?”

Sirius bolts out the door like the tower is on fire.

A long, horrified silence descends.

Regulus exhales deeply and slumps back against the bedframe. “I am going to murder him.”

“I am going to have to explain this. He’s going to tell Remus. He’s going to tell PETER. Peter is never going to let this go—he’s going to make a bloody chart—”

Regulus rubs a hand over his face. “Why didn’t the lock work?”

James looks at the door, defeated. “It’s been dodgy since third year.”

“Now you tell me.”

“I didn’t think you would want to do this in the dorm!” James protests. “You showed up! And you looked—like that. You can’t just sit on my bed looking like a fucking fever dream and expect me to behave!”

Regulus blinks. “A fever dream?”

James shrugs, half-crazed. “You’re very compelling!”

Regulus snorts, then bites his lip trying not to laugh.

James flops onto the floor with a groan. “He’s never going to let this go.”

There’s a pause, then Regulus smirks and leans over him, fingers slipping back into his hair.

“Well,” he murmurs, dangerously amused. “We might as well make it worth the scandal.”

James blinks. “Wait, are you seriously still turned on right now?”

Regulus smirks. “Are you not?”

James groans again. “Oh, Merlin. You’re evil.”

“And you’re still on your knees.”

“…Point taken.”

[gloomwitchwrites]

What If 141 and the best enemies to lovers line of all time...

"Who did this to you?"

Cue protective instincts and sexiness

hehe I am giggling!! Okay. Listen. I am fully aware that this is an enemies to lovers trope, but I don't think it applies to all of the 141 guys in that manner. Is there protectiveness? Yes. Is there a bit of spice? Yes, if you squint really hard. Is there also some sweetness thrown in? Absolutely there is. I had lots of fun with this one. I hope you enjoy it!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x 141!Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, brief blood and injury, hurt/comfort, brief suggestive themes, protectiveness, light angst

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Who did this?” Kyle bends forward at the waist, pressing a bag of frozen peas to your face. His concern is genuine. You can see that, but it’s strange. The two of you get on, but this is something else.

Kyle looks…angry like your injury personally offends him.

“It’s nothing,” you murmur. “Things happen during sparing. It’s fine.”

Kyle’s frown only deepens. He doesn’t believe you. And why should he? The person you were placed with took it too far. And it was all to impress him as if putting you in your place would somehow grant his favor.

It’s clearly done the opposite. He could care less about your sparring partner.

“It was your sparring partner, wasn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Just press the peas to your forehead a little harder.

This time, Kyle’s frown turns slightly upward. “Jokes on them, ya?”

You glance at him sideways. “How so?”

Kyle is grinning. It’s stunning. All pearly white teeth.

“Because I have my eye on someone else,” he says simply, as if that answers everything.

Though you cannot see yourself, you feel your face growing hot under Kyle’s gaze.

“You shouldn’t say thing like that,” you reply.

“Why? It’s true.”

John Price

“Who did this?”

“Why do you care so much, John?”

You attempt to pull your face out of his grasp but he holds firm.

“Of course I care,” he replies. The two of you stare into each other’s eyes, chests heaving. John is close. Too close. So close he could easily brush his lips against yours.

“I don’t know why,” you murmur.

“You do,” he affirms, authority in his tone.

Do you? Maybe. Perhaps. Deep within yourself you truly know the reason but can’t decide to speak it to the air. That would make this real. Whatever this is between the two of you.

‘Tell me who did this?”

“And do that what?”

“What the fuck I want to them, love.”

“It’s nothing. You shouldn’t worry about it,” you reply, again trying to escape from him.

But John isn’t having it. His other hand hooks around your upper arm, and then you’re pressed closed to him. He is so warm. All strength.

“Let go,” you say, but there is no volume behind it. It is weak. Not even a protest.

“Tell me,” he repeats, head dipping slightly.

Yes. Close enough to kiss.

“Tell me,” he says again, this time softer.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon’s blood beats heavy. It is tinged with metal. A lace of fire that cannot abate.

His boots slap against the linoleum floor. The overhead lights are bright. Clinical. He is a shadow here. A dark specter.

No one stops him. No one glances his way.

And why should they?

He is a man made fury.

There were hands put upon you. A training exercise taken too far. Simon was not there. And he doesn’t know why. Not exactly. But he’s furious. Protective. The fact that he could not stop this only infuriates him further.

To him, this is a failure.

He doesn’t come to a stop. Doesn’t knock. He barges right on in.

The nurse yelps. Spins suddenly. Face red.

You glance up, eyes wide at first but soothing slightly as they land on Simon. You’re bruised. Stitched up.

Fucking hell.

“Out,” barks Simon.

The nurse leaves but stares him down the entire time. He approaches the table, and lightly brushes the backs of his fingers against the wound on your forehead.

“Who did this?” he asks.

“Simon—”

“Which fucker?” he growls, bending forward slightly to look into your eyes.

“Should see the other guy,” you joke, smiling.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny shouldn’t feel this way. He shouldn’t. You’re not his. Even if he wishes it were so.

Every swing of his fist sends the building frustration outward, shooting into the massive boxing bag before him. It’s a poor substitute for the face he truly wants to smash. Several faces that is. Two specifically.

Who did this?

The words slipped from him unbidden. An instant anger. You had only scowled. Told him you could handle yourself. And you can. Johnny knows this. But he’s still fucking pissed about it. Still seething.

All the fucker got was a quick slap on the wrist. A promise to not do it again.

That sits sour in Johnny’s belly.

But you didn’t cave, no matter how much Johnny insisted that he’d take care of it on your behalf. So he is here, punching the shit out of something that isn’t flesh.

He wishes he could take away your pain. Take away the memory. Give it to himself to carry. You don’t turn on your own. There’s no honor in what happened.

But as much as he wants it to be true, Johnny can do nothing.

You are not his.

Even if he wants to be.

[ruinix]

you think you'd be able to write smth with pillow prince! quinn x reader by any chance? Your luke one was so so good!

Hey there, lovely. I am so happy that you liked pillow prince Lukey (here). My braincells turned into a more angst route, but don't worry you will be swooping in to save the day.

Disclaimer: This fic is in no way telling that Q gets panic attacks. This is only fiction. If you experience panic attacks, there are many ways to manage them—grounding and breathing techniques and medication. You will be okay. You can skip over the Angst. There will be a blue page-break. Only if you want to...Do whatever that pleases you, lovelies.

Sidenote, new banner format unlocked...how do we feel about it? 🥺 (Canva is a lifesaver. Like always, pictures came from Pinterest. We thank Pinterest gods.)

18+. Whore thoughts. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Severe Panic attack (Hyperventilation, verge of passing out). Self-doubts. Smut. Pillow prince!Quinn. Dom/Sub Dynamic: Subby Quinn. Unprotected sex. ⬇️

Quinn tried so hard.

As a captain, he needed to come up with strategies on ice. As a captain, he must lead his team to victories. As a captain, he must endure. His pain didn't matter. He needed to play through gritted teeth, swallowing his groan as he pushed his muscles harder, keeping his face free from any signs of discomfort, any signs of weakness. He must be strong. He must be resilient. He must. He must.

Yet even the strongest soldiers break.

As soon as Quinn exited his car, his head was spinning. His axis tilted while he turned his front door open. He could barely locked the door as he sagged against the wall, his chest squeezing, the corners of his vision darkening and compressing closer and closer until he had no choice but to close his eyes, yet even the darkness closed in. Tighter. Squeezing him. Caging him.

Cold sweat beaded his skin. His hands trembled with the violent shivers running down his body. His heart pounded, slamming violently against the chest that felt like vise. He needed out, yet the only thing he could do was drop to the floor as he panted shallow breaths that did nothing for him. He couldn't breath, taking in a lot of air yet no oxygen reaches arteries. He gripped the front of his shirt, right over his chest. He covered his lips with his other hand.

He tried controlling his breath, tried forcing himself to breathe through nose, tried to exhale as long as he could. Yet he failed. Just like how he failed to get his team a win tonight.

He couldn't do this. No matter what he did, it didn't feel enough. If he couldn't even get his shit together, how could he lead the—

"Quinn!"

Your voice sounded far away, muted, distorted, like he was underwater while you were screaming for him, but it managed to bring him up. He opened his eyes to see you rushing towards him with a paper bag. You held it securely over his mouth and nose, gripping him by his shoulders, pushing him against the wall using your hand that clasped his.

"Breathe, Q," you said. "Match my breaths."

Quinn tried, his tears falling when he couldn't. His vision turned splotchier, tears falling down his cheeks. He was going to pass out.

"Breathe for me, Quintin," you ordered. Your voice deepened a tone as you push against his chest harder. "Breathe. For. Me."

Quinn focused. His whole being stood in attention to your words. For you, he would. One breath at a time.

Through dimmed vision, he looked on the rise and fall of your chest. When you inhaled, he inhaled. When you exhale, he did. Then you started telling him to focus.

You demanded five things he could see. His eyes, with blurry and tight vision, trailed.

Your diamond stud earrings. Your hoodie that was his. The hair clip that held all your hair. The flowers he had brought yesterday that was now on a vase. Your face, tight with worry.

He nodded. Now, you asked for four things he could touch. His hand moved.

The cold tiles of the hallway. The grout in between. The softness and firmness of your hand that gave him reassuring squeeze. The delicate skin of your cheek with wetness of your tear that fell as you blinked.

He nodded. You sought three things he could hear. His ears listened beyond his ragged breaths.

Your music blaring from the living room. Someone's dog barking through the night. Your voice as you muttered his name—firm and strong yet so afraid.

He dipped his chin. He's no longer suffocating but trapped. You urged for two things he could smell. He used his inhale beyond breathing.

The lingering smell of what you've cooked. Your soft, sweet, florally perfume.

He held your cheek. His hand was not as shaky. His heart was not beating in pain. He leaned forward, his tears rolling down his cheeks. One look from him and you knew what he needed. Still, you asked for what he could taste, before you crossed the space and pressed your lips against his.

You with the taste of caramel and fruits and mint.

A whimper escaped him as he turned desperate when you deepened the kiss your tongue moving with his, encouraging him our of the darkest corners of his mind. You've brought him out of the confines of his mind, grounding him to reality that he wasn't alone.

After a few more seconds, you gave him one final peck. You rested your forehead against his, your hands on his cheeks, fingers grazing his jaw. You settled on his lap. He could feel you shaking—not as much as he did, but you are.

But before his guilt pooled in his chest, you muttered, loud and clear, "Oh, Quinn, my sweet boy. I got you. I got all of you."

He sobbed, his tongue finally working, no longer feeling like lead in his mouth. He told you about everything. Every fucking weight settling on his fucking shoulders. Every loss that piled and cut him down. His disappointment that festered because the playoffs felt so fucking faraway. He ranted and ranted.

You listened. Your hands moved, smoothening over his chest, his shoulders, his collarbones, his cheeks. Not once did you look at Quinn like you were tired of him. You knew he needed you so you provided your touch, your comfort, your presence. He knew you understood him. He knew because you knew him more than he did. You were always his pillar. So strong as you held every piece of him while he broke into pieces. So kind as you held him firmly, waiting for him to gather up those pieces, letting him feel your weight on his lap, on his chest more than the pressure on his shoulders.

"Let it out, Q." You started humming a tune that eased his soul. "You did what you can. It's enough. You're enough, Quinn."

Before you, if someone were to tell him that, he would scoff and would beat himself further down. Being in the NHL, those words sometimes felt untrue.

Now, with you, he greedily take it in. He desperately needed to hear it.

You knew that, so you repeated those words every time he crashed down, every time he get swallowed by panic attacks as soon as he reached his home.

The only place he could be vulnerable. The only place he could just be Quinn.

Not the Canucks captain.

Not anyone.

Just Quinn.

Minutes turning into an hour. You both would stay in the entry way until his tremors stopped, until he finished crying, until all that was left was Quinn, all pieced together, all comfortable with your hands rub his back.

"Feeling better?" You asked, pressing a kiss on his neck, right on his pulse. When he nodded, you grinned at him, pride shining in your eyes. "That's my good boy."

Shiver ran down his spine. The praise has engrained itself to his needs. He could barely say anything—too exhausted—standing up because you told him to, trailing after you then sitting down on the sofa because you told him to.

He followed everything you ordered. He feel secure and content when he does so.. It felt natural. It felt good. In this home, he didn't need to put up a front. He didn't need to exhaust himself by staying in control. He only needed—wanted and yearned—to let go because he was in good hands. Your hands. You were safe. The safest in this world.

He watched you scooped soup into bowls. He wasn't blind not to see the meal you had prepared—now in containers—that should be for dinner, but you knew he never liked eating after a panic attack. You quickly put it in the fridge before you came over with the bowls. For him and you.

"Eat," you said with a smile.

The hair on his body stood. His heart was, again, pounding in his chest. Fluttering in satisfaction, instead of thundering in pain. He loved your commands. Casual. Simple. Ever since the beginning of your relationship, you were in control. Not in a controlling way, no. More in a caring and loving way. Affectionate. It made him all mushy and pliant to your wishes. Quinn yearned your control over him. So he followed. No questions. No complaints.

You started talking about your day, further removing Quinn from any more lingering thoughts of everything that weighed him down. You told him about the parcels you had to unbox, happily telling Quinn that you washed the hoodie he had requested. The more you talk, the more his lips stretched into a smile, his gaze softening, his soup emptying.

At some point, after you took your bowls, after you take of your hoodie, Quinn's eyes wandered down to your chest, to your pebbled nipples, under your thin and cropped camisole. Then down to your exposed lower abdomen as your sweatpants—his—slid an inch as you settled beside him, your arm linking with his. Despite the exhaustion, his cock stirred.

He couldn't focus on the movie you started, not when you were so close, not when he realized you weren't wearing anything under those pants, not when you leg came up, wrapping around his, fully cuddling him. He couldn't listen or see beyond you. It got harder when you settled further, your thigh grazing his fucking hard-on as you slide it upwards.

"My love," he rasped, his hands turning into fists.

You smirked, eyes travelling to meet his. You moved your thigh, letting him to feel the friction, his blood thrumming through his veins. You teased, "Does my sweet boy need something?"

"Please," he begged, needing to touch you but he knew he couldn't. Not yet. Not without your permission.

He whined when you got off him. He hated the few seconds you weren't touching, but he sighed as your hands glide over his thighs, undoing his pants, unzipping him, tugging the waistband of his boxers. His cock sprung up. So hard that he was fucking dripping with pre-cum.

"You're so hard, Q. Look at you getting yourself wet." You grinned, your eyes tracking the bead sliding down and down, licking your beautiful lips. "Oh, so messy, Q. What will I do to you?"

Quinn cursed, gritting his teeth as you lazily jerked him. He panted, lifting his hips when you moved to remove his pants.

"Such a good boy," you praised, leaning over. Your tongue glided from his base to his tip, licking away the mess he was creating on himself. "Mmhmm, you're so divine, Quinn."

"Fuck!" He could only curse, stripping his shirt, hiding his face behind his arm as he weakly jutted his hips. "Oh, please, my Love." When you licked his sensitive slit—kissing, sucking, and spitting on it—his eyes rolled up just from the sensation, from the pleasure zapping though his whole body. "Don't wanna come so quickly. Can't."

"You can, Quinn. You can." You encouraged as you jerked him harder, using both your spit and his pre-cum. "I'll take care of you, Quinn. You can let go. I have you."

He shook his head, whimpering, whining, sobbing. He didn't know how to say it. He didn't want to come in your mouth even if it felt fucking amazing. No. He wanted—

"My sweet boy forgot his words," you hummed, standing up while your hand still jerked up and down his length. Just one push on your pants, it fell off. You mounted his lap, exchanging your hand with your pussy. So fucking wet as you ride along his length. "So needy, Quinn. Next time, I need you to tell me what you want, okay, handsome?"

You gripped his wrists, guiding his hands to your hips. He grasped them with need, anchoring himself to you as you finally take his cock into your weeping pussy.

"Yes." Quinn nodded, stuttering his moans. You were so tight, so perfect around him. So wet and ready for him. "Please.. Please. Please."

"Needy boy," you whispered into his ear, nipping his earlobe, sucking it. "My sweet, perfect, needy Quinn. You feel so good. Do I feel good?"

Your praises etched themselves deeper than anything that could touch him. All he could think about was how your pussy felt, how your hands touch him so gently yet so roughly as your nails dug into his skin, making him groan from the mixed sensation of pain and pleasure.

"Yes." He cried out.

Your pussy squeezed, making him writhe. You grabbed his cheeks, kissing him. You moan into it, into his soul, as you greedily swallowed his sounds. He could feel your smile, your delight. It was crystal clear to both of you that he was utterly yours. To take. To fuck. To love. That was exactly what Quinn wanted.

When you rolled your hips, taking him deeper, he let out a loud moan, his head tipping back. He gasped, breathing choppy whines as you kissed and marked his neck.

"That's it, Q. Just let go," you moaned. "You are perfect. There's not a thing that I would change about you. My good boy."

He still tried to hold back. Pleasure wrecked down his spine, his eyes turning blurry, his heart pounding, his balls tightening. He was so desperate to hear you say that he was your good boy. Especially when you started kissing and sucking the sensitive skin where his jaw meet his ear, when you kept encouraging him to let go. He tried and tried and tried, but he was so weak.

"I got you, Quinn," you said as you let out your moan. The familiar pulses of your pussy got Quinn's resolve to break. "Let's come together. Be a good boy for me. Come."

And he did. When your words became an order, it was harder to last. You wanted him to be good, and he was. He came hard so hard that his eyes were once again rolling back. Every spurt felt like it was drawn from his very soul. His vision hazed over with a film but sharpened at the sight of your face of pleasure. Your pussy convulsed around his cock, as you let out your own shout as you crashed down with him.

You both panted, sweat dripping down your temples. It took you both minutes to recover. You laid on him, your camisole was now transparent on some places from your and his sweat. Your breaths hit each other's skin. Your lazy smiles marked your faces as much as the red-blue kiss marks you've made on his neck.

"I love you," Quinn muttered, hissing when you squeezed around him. He tucked your hair away from your face. "Thank you for bringing me back. Thank you for being here."

"I will do everything for you, Quinn." You kissed his nose. Your eyes filled with tears. "I love you, my Heart."

His eyes watered immediately from that. While he professed his love every time he calls you his Love, you always did too when you call him your Heart. It meant that if he lived, you would too. Even if one of you fell deep into the trenches, the other would always be there, helping each other to heal, to be strong, to be whole.

You were two beings with lives entwined. Until you have children or not. Until you two grew old that your backs would curve. Until your next lives.

Not one of you would let go.

Never.

This could've been a drabble. It might get formatted into a drabble...who knows...Hope you like it! 🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️

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[literaila]

hey v ! what about peter and reader getting ready to go somewhere and after reader puts on some red lipstick peter can't stop kissing her ?

lipstick

warnings: ugh, peter

*

“how many times have you done that?”

peter is standing behind you, leaning against the wall, probably ruining your focus, or your makeup, or your sanity. he’s probably staring just to mess with you.

you refrain from smiling in the mirror. wipe a smudge with your nail. “i don’t know, peter,” you meet his eyes, and his nefarious smirk. “how many times have you watched me do it?”

“i got lost somewhere around the first time.”

you laugh at him, crumbling the napkin you’ve been using, now filled with kiss marks, and turning it around so you can throw it at peter. “are you sick?” you ask him.

instead of answering, he licks his lip and unfolds the napkin, staring at the red marks, creases and tireless efforts arranged in a messy pattern. “this is like art.”

“why are you acting like you’ve never seen anyone wear lipstick before?”

“what?” he asks, hand to his chest. “i cant watch you get ready? i’m banned from being in the bathroom when you are?”

“yes, and yes.”

it does not escape your notice when peter tucks the napkin into his pocket for safekeeping.

he shrugs. “i don’t mind breaking the rules.”

you scoff at him and pat his shoulder as you walk past him through the doorway. “i would’ve locked you out if i knew you were going to be weird about it.”

“weird? how am i being weird?”

“you were lurking. you’re still lurking.”

“i’m talking to my girlfriend. that’s part of our contract.”

“you’re following me.”

peter smiles. “well, i like you.”

you roll your eyes, almost—almost—smiling when you feel his arms wrap around your waist. “please don’t make me argue about your stalker like tendencies.”

“we don’t have to argue,” peter says, kissing the space beneath your ear. his breath is hot.

“i need to put my shoes on, peter.”

he smiles, his teeth clashing against your skin like a dreadful reminder. some type of jumpscare—minus the fact that you merely lean into him, sans jumping. “we can spare fifteen minutes.”

“how can you be thinking about anything besides the fact that we’re already late to meet may?”

he nibbles on the skin by your collarbone, then licks it, as reprieve. “it must be the lipstick.”

“you’ve literally seen me with lipstick before. i wore some on our first date.”

“‘s probably why i like it so much.”

his lips are needy as they crawl around your skin. his hands are stationary, but they pose their own threat as they lurk.

“peter, we have to go.”

“i’m not known for my punctuality,” he spins you around, his lips curled in mischief, “you know.”

“i’m aware.”

you refuse to indulge him. your brows furrow, your hands held in the air—just so you can avoid accidentally touching him. purposefully.

“then why are you so worried?” peter asks, kissing your cheek.

“i’m not kissing you,” you say, instead of answering.

“you’re not?” peter pouts like a child. he is far too grown.

“no.”

“how come?”

you try to pull away from him, but, shockingly, peter is stronger than you are. your will is weak. “you’re going to smudge my lipstick. i just finished.”

“you have more, don’t you?”

“not the point.”

“what?” he asks, his voice so serious and teasing. “you don’t want to kiss me?”

“no, i do not.”

you look away from him, admiring a wall that has always been there.

“are you sure?” peter asks, ducking so he can catch your eyes again, because he is nothing if not cruel.

you break, pouting. “peter,” you whine, “we’re not going to be late again.”

“i think we are.”

“you can kiss me when we get home later,” you promise, trying again to wiggle out of his grasp.

“that is a terrible compromise.”

“you won’t compromise,” you snap back. “what else am i supposed to do?”

peter grins, tilting his head. “okay. i have an idea. how about i kiss you, and then we leave? you don’t even have to kiss back, even though we’d both prefer it that way.”

“i’ll kiss you,” you mock him. “you’re the worst negotiator i’ve ever met.”

“then how come we haven’t left yet?”

you scowl at him, and he scowls back, but his eyes are alight.

your skin is ravenous with an ache to touch him, he’s so close that kissing him would be nothing—merely breathing, really—but you don’t want to lose this game to peter. and you dont want him to stop looking at you.

he pretends to check a watch. “hmm, it’s getting awfully late.”

“are you british all of the sudden?”

peter grins, biting his lip before he tries to bite you. you lean away. “if you like my accent, all you have to do is say so.”

“i like it when you get out of my way, and stop trying to sabotage me. i like that a lot.”

“no clue what you mean, dear.”

you roll your eyes and manage to cross your arms in his hold.

“i wonder how we could solve this,” peter muses, tapping his finger on your waist. “it’s a big problem.”

“i could leave you behind and have lunch with may myself.”

“that’s one option.”

you roll your eyes again.

“i was thinking something else, though,” peter says, and he’s closer now, but you’re sure that you never saw him move. “something more… proactive.”

“shove it, peter.”

“you don’t even want to hear it?”

you sigh, leaning your chest into him, out of pure delusion. “fine. what?”

peter smiles at you, eyes catching eyes.

the look on his face is soft, delirious. he’s got that look in his eyes, and that smile on his face, and he’s still staring at you like he’s mesmerized by whatever you’re doing.

“what?” you repeat, but softly, like you can’t find your voice in the chest cavity peters taken hold of.

“kiss me,” he says, softly, and it’s really not your fault that his lips are already brushing yours.

and it’s not your fault when you lean in, sighing in relief at the mere feel of him.

you’re almost breathless, from the tiniest of kisses.

but then you kiss peter again, and again, and your hands finally wrap around him—keeping hold of something real in this fake reality—and your voice isn’t your own when you groan at peter for making you do this.

you have evacuated your body. you have lost common sense.

but it doesn’t matter, because kissing peter has always made you forget all of that.

and it still does, when he pulls back, grinning like he’s won. “see?” he says, voice ragged. “it was simple.”

“we’re going to be late and it’s your fault.”

peter laughs, kissing you again, staring at your red lips. “gladly. i’ll take all the blame.”

“and you’re making it up to me later.”

“whatever you say,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

he releases you and watches as you finally put on your shoes.

you don’t think it necessary to mention the red marks on his lips. it’s not like it’s your fault they’re there.

*

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Finnish polka" - Ivar the Boneless x Reader

SUMMARY: After helping one of the northern Jarls, the Lothbrok brothers attend a celebratory feast. There, they're faced with a tradition of warriors catching flower crowns that belong to young women. How surprised Ivar is when you almost shove your crown into his hands.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.1k

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Ivar is tired.

Of course he's glad that Jarl Thorstein came out victorious. And that his brothers are fine. Still, he feels weary as the adrenaline leaves his body. His legs start to ache. Ivar downs the rest of his mead in hopes it makes him a little more deaf to his mood.

The upbeat, bright music fills his mind like an obsessive thought. His heart beats to the rhythm tapped by the feet of dancing women. They spin, jump and run around with flower crowns sitting atop their heads. How the wreaths remain immovable, he can't quite say.

Ivar is also angry.

As the local tradition entails, when the song ends, all the dancing young maidens will throw their flower crowns to the crowd. Whoever catches it, is believed to be the girl's lover chosen by the gods. However, whether the couple indulges and trusts gods' judgement is a different story. But if the wreath falls to the floor, the girl is said to remain unmarried for the next five years.

Ivar knows the chance of him somehow catching one of those is near zero. He's sitting quite far from the dancers. Even if he did catch it, he's disillusioned about the imminent dissatisfaction of the flower crown's ownert. Not only is he disabled in a way that almost entirely excludes him from fighting but he's also infamous for his ruthless nature and vengeful heart. Hardly a man who invokes desire. Still, some naive piece of him remains hopeful that maybe he's wrong. Maybe he can be terrible and loved all the same.

He shakes those weak delusions away from himself before they sour his mood further.

His piercing eyes have been following one of the dancers for the better part of the song when he catches himself. Her movements look effortless even when the musicians pick up the tempo. Clearly, she's done this dance one too many times to have any doubts about what she's doing. Joy beams from her in a way that makes her appear almost shining. The wreath on the top of her head is mostly green with white and red flowers. It makes Ivar think of the woods surrounding Kattegat; it makes him think of home.

Ivar leans toward Oddleif, one of the Jarl's men, who's sitting next to him.

"Who is she?"

Oddleif looks at Ivar out of the corner of his eye. He scoffs, takes a large sip of his drink and only then decides to answer:

"If you're thinking of catching her flower crown, don't." His blond braids dance slightly as he shakes his head. There's a hint of laughter hiding in the back of Oddleif's throat. "Half of the surviving army wants it."

"I have no care for flowers," Ivar lies through his teeth. "They have no use. They wilt and die and soon no one remembers them. I am simply curious about her."

"Her father is the blacksmith. You might have seen him in the battle, swinging that damned sledgehammer." Ivar silently nods. He remembers that man - tall as a pine tree and wider than a stable. The blacksmith invokes respect even when he's not decimating enemies like a troll equipped with a tree trunk. "He said once that he'll let any man marry his daughter but only if he can lift an anvil. Tried it once myself. Not that I had any success as you can imagine." Oddleif laughs bitterly and continues drinking. His eyes are glued to the dancers but Ivar knows that right now, the two of them are admiring the very same girl with a flower crown like a forest.

The melody continues to quicken. Despite being out of breath, you don't want it to end. Your feet ache but they do not falter nor do they stumble. It seems that their muscles know the dance better than your mind. There are a dozen girls dancing with you but you do not see them. Not really. They appear worlds away from you and the song of bagpipes and strings.

And then appears he.

A slouched, dark figure flies before your eyes as you're doing another pirouette. The man simply sits there, in the corner, but his presence is overwhelming. Or so you think. He does nothing and yet he tears his way into your microcosm of quick footwork, turns and lively polka.

You recognize him. Of course you do. Many whispers, equally frightened and amazed, have spoken of him. You have believed in all of them until the moment you met his gaze for that split second. Right then, somewhere between blinks and breaths, you renounce every gossip you've ever heard about him. A voice in the back of your head, a trickster or an oracle, nags at you to learn the truth yourself.

When the lively, fast melody comes to a stop, you find yourself shaken awake from the thoughts about Ivar the Boneless. The end of the song seems somewhat abrupt to you as you've been letting your fantasy run wild without paying much attention to what's going on around you. Dancing the last part purely by the memory of your muscles. The moment musicians stop playing, a small crowd begins to form in front of you. Men of different class, age and ancestry reach out their hands. Each one of them is more determined than the other to catch your wreath. They start to yell something but considering that the inside of the long hall is awfully loud anyway, you can't make out any words. Reading their lips, you can only tell when they're exclaiming different variations of your name.

They're only pushing towards you, shoving each other away. You keep taking steps backwards but the distance you create with each step is quickly shortened with the men calling out to you. You knew there would be many of them in front of you but never assumed that many. Instead of somewhat flattering, the siege is terrifying and imposing.

Looking for help or advice, just something that will ease your tension, you silently look around the long hall. Your gaze falls on the same slouched, dark figure. Strange peacefulness washes over you when his eyes meet yours.

The dim candlelight seems to bend around Ivar, making his corner appear darker than anywhere else in the long hall. He's simply sitting there. Maybe he's not interested? But the way he's staring at you shows nothing if not burning curiosity. The sons of Ragnar aren't know for their patience. No, they're said to take whatever they want the moment their desire sparks. Despite that, the youngest of them, and arguably the most famous, appears to be waiting. But for what exactly?

The fresh pine needles prick your skin. You furrow your eyebrows. Your gaze falls to the wreath and then comes back to Ivar. Could it be...?

It isn't much of a throw, really. You toss the flower crown towards him without looking anywhere else but into Ivar's eyes. Without as much as blinking, he catches the wreath with ease as though he has been prepared for that. Low murmurs hit your ears but quickly the sounds of disappointment fall silent as it's made clear who caught your wreath. Despite their initial determination, the men who had been reaching out to you suddenly disperse like fog does in the early morning. They knew better than to get under the skin of a Lothbrok. Especially that one.

"I believe this belongs to you."

Ivar is holding up the wreath. Despite his words, he makes no effort to offer it back to you. His eyes are bright and glistening, the corner of his mouth is tugged ever-so-slightly upwards. He appears amused.

At first, it was nice to finally sit down after dancing for what seemed to be hours on end. But now, when you're facing the consequences of your spur-of-the-moment decision, the tension sets in once more. This time, however, it doesn't feel threatening. In turn, the nervousness is somewhat welcome like the jittery state before a surprise is revealed.

"If I wanted to keep it, I wouldn't have thrown it," you answer in a light tone.

"And why should I keep it?"

The blue eyes study you for a moment. It's a strange feeling - you can't help but think that the longer you are in Ivar's presence, talking or not, he's reading your mind and soul. He stares at you in a way that tells you he already holds all the answers but wants you to confirm them.

"It's said to bring good luck." You shrug your shoulders. "Until the wreath wilts and dies, Freya and Freyr will look after you."

Ivar looks at the flower crown again. Only now, when he's holding it, does he realize that for a flower crown, there aren't many flowers. A few sandworts and poppies, yes, but the wreath is made mostly of evergreen plants. It might take weeks until the crown wilts.

The microcosm seems closed again. Now it's not you and the bagpipes but you and him. It's strange and it's new but it's not threatening. It's not the kind of presence a man of his infamy should have. Or perhaps you've simply fallen for his honey trap.

"Why did you throw it to me?" Ivar tries to make the question seem unimportant, just curiosity brought to light. But he can't quite convince himself that he doesn't care. There's a hint of something vulnerable and genuine when the words roll off his tongue. It's easy to miss like a dandelion clock carried away by a gust of wind.

You wish you knew the answer yourself.

"I don't know really," you say honestly. "Perhaps it was one of the gods that threw the flower crown for me." You make a pause. Ivar's face is unreadable. "Or perhaps I have no interest in urgent, desperate men."

Ivar chuckles. A deep shadow is covering part of his face, making him appear kind of sinister. For a moment, you question whether he's laughing with you or at you.

"And what exactly makes you think I'm not urgent or desperate?" he continues. You notice his smile is growing wider. That glint of amusement in his blue eyes has changed in mischief. "What if I'm worse than all of them? You surely know who I am."

"Of course I do, Ivar the Boneless," you drone the words. In a barely noticeable fashion, he clenches his jaw when you say his name. It makes him feel a strange, burning sensation in his stomach but Ivar is left unsure whether he likes it or detests. "The whispers of your ruthless character are unending."

"But you're not afraid?" he asks with both disbelief and suspicion. A girl with a flower crown doesn't necessarily strike him as fearless in any way. Or this whole strange situation is a little too good, too dream-like, for him to accept it at face-value.

Ivar's smile falters when your face takes on a confident, maybe even arrogant, expression. He's taken aback.

"I'm a woman of the North," you say while leaning towards him on the table. The distance between your faces shortnes. "The only person I fear is my own reflection."

The sudden closeness makes Ivar inhale sharply. The strong smell of pine needles fills his nostrils. For a moment, his imagination runs wild but it's not his fault - he has no grasp on it:

How those big eyes glistened in the semi-dark of the long hall as you were staring at him. Your smirk, somewhat challenging and beckoning him to push on. Then, the smell of conifer that shakes all senses awake. His fantasy leaves the northern snows and travelles to forests, to him brushing pine needles from your hair and your naked, flushes skin smelling of evergreen trees.

But quickly his shaken awake, to his utmost displeasure, by you:

"Well, if you don't want it, I suppose I should take it back, no?"

Your hand unsurely reaches out for the wreath in Ivar's hand. He's quick to pull his arm back.

"It's bad luck to take back gifts," he states plainly. In an act of nonchalance, Ivar is playing with the wreath, spinning it around his finger. "I should like to keep it."

Sometimes you come back to the night you've met the infamous Viking, when you're rendered sleepless while he's calmly breathing next to you, getting the rest he desperately needs. How funny all of it seems - that a flower crown in bloodied, merciless hands could lead to having a genuine crown on your head. Maybe you were right, after all, and it really was the hand of one of the gods that threw the wreath for you.

[claynine]

Hi, I was wondering if you could write about Muzan in his final form getting pegged by the reader? And maybe add some pet play if that's okay for you?

Thought I'd do this ask as the first one back lol, hope you enjoy! (Btw I'm working on all the requests I have, dont worry! ♡)

Warning: bondage, pet-play, praise, pegging,

Embarrassed, he felt absolutely embarrassed yet... he couldn't deny that he liked it. The way your hands were squeezing his plump thighs, nails digging into his skin, leaving red stripes along the way. It felt delicious, making his mouth water.

"Tell me, Muzan-sama..." you purred, you're fangs showing as you smirked up at him. You gripped his thighs again, earning a grunt from him. "Are you... my good boy?"

He glared weakly at you, no, no, he's the demon lord. But... the thought of being a good boy, no, of being your good boy... it made his head spin into a mind space were he couldn't do anything else but say...

"Yes..." he said quietly, almost to soft for your liking. "I am..."

You smiled, pulling yourself up. He looked beautiful, his hands tied tightly to the headboard of his king size bed. His white locks creating a halo around his head, his face showing nothing but lust. Truly, a masterpiece.

"Good, I guess then... I should give my good boy a prize, right?" He tensed at your words, feeling suddenly lightheaded at what he saw.

You pulled your kimono off, showing your bear body, and a white, big strap on. He burned holes at you, hating the idea of being fucked by you instead of fucking you. He could easily break free from his restraints, kill you on the spot, yet... he couldn't. Fuck, he couldn't.

You grabbed his marked thighs, spreading them apart. You poked his entrance with the tip of the strap, looking at his reaction. He sucked in a deep breath, brazing himself, he didn't stop you, he couldn't stop you, not when he felt so good just by being weak against you.

"My good boy..." you leaned forward, and bit his exposed neck, he gasped softly as you begin to push inside him.

It was big, too big. Heck, maybe even bigger than his own. And that made it hotter.

"Fuck you." he glared at you as you pulled away from him, smiling. The darkness of his room enhanced the brightness of his red eyes.

"Muzan-sama, that's not nice." You pushed all the way inside him, he chocked on his spit.

"F-fuck-..." you leaned forward again, pushing one of his legs on your shoulder, letting the tip press directly on his prostate. He swore he was seeing stars.

"Especially since I plan on fucking you really good..." he looked down as you pulled out, almost entirely.

"Agh! W-wait... shit-" you thrust inside him fully, watching his stomach bulge at the size of your dick.

He moaned loudly, and you enjoyed the sound. Thrusting inside him roughly, rearranging his guts nicely and thoroughly. Making sure he felt as much pleasure as possible. And fuck he was feeling it.

"Y-yes... fuck yes...!" He moaned, his nails digging into his palm, drawing blood. His body felt hot, as if he was in hell right now, and still he felt like he was in heaven at the same time.

The room was filled with his moans, the sticky clap of your hips meeting his. Your eyes stuck to his face. Big red eyes rolled back, tears forming.

"More, more-" he tried to look at you straight in the eye, so he could demand you to go harder. But his eyes flew to the back of his head with every delicious hit the tip of your strap landed on his prostate.

"So cute, my little master, hm?" He didn't comprehend what you said anymore.

"Cum-... gonna- gonna cum-" he tried to alarm, as his pleasure weld up into a ball, ready to explode at any second, one more thrust, just one-

He looked at you in shock as you stopped. His eyes filled with tears, a weak glare directed your way.

"Do you deserve to cum?" You asked him, you thrusted into him harshly, he moaned out, on the brink of his orgasm. "I don't think you do..."

He felt like crying, even though he already was unbeknownst to him. He moved his hips desperately, looking for any friction.

"Don't- don't stop-" he finally used his force, breaking out of his restraints, but to your surprise he didn't use his freedom to kill you.

He gripped your hips, his tentacles appearing out of nowhere, they wrapped themselves around you.

"Cum, let me cum, I'm a good boy!" His deep, demanding voice now unrecognizable. "Please-"

You gripped his hips tightly, and began moving faster than before. Your lips twisted into a smirk, you kissed him, swallowing his moans.

Muzan on the other hand was crying. He felt too good, his senses turned to mush, electricity flowing through his body. He gripped the sheets, tearing holes in them. You pulled away letting his screams of pleasure consume the room.

"Cumming, Cumming, fuuuck-" his trapped your body as he came, biting your shoulder, you moaned in pain.

His stomach was stained white with his cum, he continued to twitch as you pulled out slowly. His eyes closed shamely as his cheeks turned pink. How was he going to explain this...?

Obviously the uppermoons heard, as the next day he clearly walked funny. And even though all the demons were quiet, a certain demon with rainbow eyes couldn't hold his giggles.

Don't copy.

Property of clay9z.