#my jaw drops to the floor every time like .... they just SAY shit without even thinking about it for a moment | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

itneverendshere · 2 months ago

Text

wake up in the mornin' and to your smell - r.c (+18)

pairing: kelce's!sister x hockey!rafe warnings: SMUT. request: Can we pls get more parts for brothers bsf!rafe where it’s the morning after ans they did it GOOD and she’s all shy n stuff bcz duh she might act all tough but w him it’s different and he’s enjoying it sm

It was the first time you woke up with him.

The first thing you noticed wasn’t the soreness between your thighs or the warmth of the sheets twisted around your torso.

Not even the ache between your hips, which was almost overshadowed by the memory of how it got there. Just the quiet movement of his chest beside you, the peaceful rhythm of Rafe Cameron sleeping soundly in your bed.

You should’ve slipped out, wrapped yourself in the hoodie you left draped over your desk chair, and padded to the bathroom before he stirred. Maybe taken a second to fix your hair—because, of course, you’d passed out without twisting your hair up, without so much as reaching for your bonnet.

But instead, you stayed in place, blinking up at the ceiling, hoping it would offer some kind of answer as to what you’re supposed to do next.

Because, technically, this wasn’t new.

The sneaking around, it had been happening for weeks, months, maybe. You’d had sex everywhere except a bed. His car, your car, the locker room after practice, the laundry room at a party, once against a tree at some bonfire neither of them even remembers the reason for.

But never, never in a bed, never in your dorms, never somewhere where you had to face the aftermath. Usually, once you were done, you went back to class, or to a party, or Rafe went back to practice.

No lingering.

The first time you “slept” with him, the bench had been hard against your back, his hands bruising against your skin, the faint sound of his teammates approaching outside the door making the whole thing feel forbidden.You’d been half-dressed, your skirt rucked up, and he’d dropped his towel on the floor.

But this—waking up next to him, in sheets that still smell like him, watching the curve of his mouth as he breathed deeply in his sleep—this was new. And you didn’t know what to do with it.

You shifted slightly, meaning to turn away, and get some distance between yourself and his overheating body, but the movement made him stir.

You winced as his arm tightened around your waist instinctively, tugging you back against his chest. “Mmm, don’t do that,” his lips brushed against your shoulder.

“Do what?” you whispered back.

His palm pressed against your hip, thumb stroking over your skin in a slow ticklish pattern. “Move away from me like you’re tryna escape.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes even as your heart pounded like you were twelve all over again. “I’m not trying to escape.”

“Good,” he murmured, lips pressing softly against your shoulder again before he nuzzled into the crook of your neck like it was his second nature.

Rafe was acting like you two woke up like this all the time as if this wasn’t something you were going to overthink the second you got out of bed.

That was the thing about him, he’d always been good at making you feel like you didn’t have to think so much.

Always knew how to tease you out of your head, and used it against you every chance he got.

Like when his hand skimmed lower, fingers grazing beneath the curve of your waist. “How are you so pretty in the morning?”

You blinked at him. Then blinked again.

“Shut the hell up.”

Rafe laughed, unbothered, he knew how much you hated that kind of shit. Which, of course, he did. This was Rafe, and he loved saying things he knew would make you flustered.

“I’m serious. Look at you.”

You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut. “My hair looks crazy.”

“So?” He didn’t agree or pretend to entertain the idea.

“So?” you scoffed, shifting to finally turn and face him properly. “I look like I got…”

“Fucked?” Rafe grinned wider. “Yeah, ‘cause I did that.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You sore?” he asked teasing, his voice dipping in that lazy amusement that always made you want to smack him and kiss him at the same time.

Sore was an understatement; it was all his fault.

“I can’t stand you,” you muttered childishly, nudging your elbow back against his ribs, but he just laughed.

All you wanted was to groan at how much you loved the sound.

As if he wasn’t already too much—too pretty, too talented, he just had to be the best you’d ever had. He knew what he was doing and dared to be hung like that too. God had favorites, and clearly, you were one of them.

“That’s a yes,” he drawled, sounding too pleased with himself.

You let out an exasperated sigh, fighting against the warmth creeping up your back. “You’re so fuckin’ annoying.”

“And yet, here I am,” he pointed out, smug as ever, and when you don’t have a comeback fast enough for the first time in your life, he chuckled again.

“Unfortunately,” you sighed, burying your face in your pillow to hide the involuntary grin taking over your expression.

“Yeah?” His hand moved again, fingers slipping beneath the covers to pinch at your thigh, making you jolt slightly. “That why you were moanin’ my name last night?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Oh right, that was screamin’.”

You groaned, reaching back to swat at him blindly, but he just laughed again, catching your wrist before you could do any real damage.

Rafe always made it impossible. You huffed against the pillow, stubbornly avoiding his gaze even as he tugged at your wrist, pulling you back into him with that ridiculous grin you hated to love.

“Shut up,” you muttered, voice muffled against the fabric.

He pressed a third kiss to your shoulder, a little less teasing, and you hated how much you wanted to turn and kiss him back.

“A little higher pitched, but you’re almost there.”

“Get out.”

His hand brushed up your thigh, his palm rough against your skin. “But I’m so comfortable here.”

“That makes one of us.”

Rafe just scoffed, his mouth trailing lazily up your neck until his nose nudged behind your ear. “Yeah? You debatin’ it right now?”

You hated the way he sounded, all amused like he already knew the answer. Mostly because he did. You sucked in a breath, willing your body to behave, but it was useless when his fingers kept moving, grazing over your hip in a way that made you want to melt.

You exhaled sharply, finally turning your head to glare at him. It didn’t have the effect you wanted. He was looking at you like that, all sleepy-eyed, hair sticking up at odd angles, as if he belonged in your bed.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Your fingers twitched against the sheets, tempted to reach up, run through his hair. But that wasn’t part of the deal. There were rules to this. No overthinking.

Rafe’s thumb skimmed up your ribs, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts. His eyes flickered over your face. Then, his lips curled into that shit-eating grin that made you want to strangle him.

“Didn’t know you could bend like that.”

Nevermind, you were going to knock him out with a hockey stick.

“Rafe.”

He just grinned wider, “How come you never told me you had that in you?"

You shoved at his chest. “Go back to sleep.”

“What? Just sayin'. Damn. You been hidin' that from me?” His fingers slid lazily up your arm.“If I had known you were that flexible, I woulda put you in a headlock weeks ago.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You like it enough,” he shot back, smirking “You just mad ‘cause now I know you can do all that, and I’m gonna be expectin’ it every time.”

You smacked his arm, but that only made him chuckle, burying his face in your neck as his teeth scraped playfully over your skin.

“You’re so annoying,” you repeated the insult, trying to scoot away, but he pulled you back in, his arm locking around your waist.

“Yeah?” He kissed the corner of your jaw. “That why you were beggin’yesterday?”

You scoffed, horrified, but he was already laughing, ducking out of the way before you could slap him again, “If anyone was begging, it was you.”

His eyes lit up as he looked down at you. “Shit, you got me there. Matter of fact... might beg now too.”

“I have class in thirty,” you reminded him.

He pouted, brows furrowing like a kicked puppy. “I just need ten minutes.”

“No.”

His lips brushed against yours, voice dropping into that dangerous, coaxing drawl. “Five?”

“Rafe.”

He was already nudging your thighs apart with his, hard as rock, sliding in between—not putting in, just coating himself in your arousal and rocking a little back and forth, luring you in. Both of you moaned, loud and shameless, like sluts, and you would’ve been embarrassed if he didn’t sound just as needy as you felt.

Your brain turned to mush the second you felt him.

“Rafe,” you warned again, but it was weak.

He groaned against your neck. “Two?”

He didn't wait for an answer—he never did. Just kept teasing, gliding his cock through your slick folds, the weight of him pressing and sliding just enough to make you squirm.

"C’mon, lemme make you feel good before class. Promise I’ll be quick."

Liar.

Rafe’s fingers dug into your hip, holding you in place while he moved, then, he hiked your leg up, throwing it over his hip like he had all the time in the world, spreading you wider so he could slide even messier, wetter, the thick head of him catching at your clit in a way that made your stomach drop to the bottom of the ocean.

You shuddered, nails digging into his bulky forearm. "You're such a fucking—"

"Yeah?" He cut you off with a lazy grin, pressing harder this time, drawing out the friction just to watch your face twist. "Finish that sentence."

You couldn't.

“Not fair,” you murmured against his mouth, as he rolled his hips. His other hand was already trailing up, palm greedy as he squeezed a handful of your tit, thumb brushing over your nipple just to watch it pebble up. You arched into his touch, biting back a moan as he saw right through it.

He always did.

"That's what I thought," Rafe hummed, smug, dipping his head to bite at your jaw. His grip tightened, keeping you right where he wanted you, even if he knew you wouldn’t try to move away now. He nudged forward again, getting himself soaked. "So fuckin’ wet for me and I haven’t even put it in yet."

It was humiliating how easily he could wreck you, turn you into a desperate, panting mess with nothing but his cock sliding over you and that voice dripping in amusement.

He knew it, too. The smirk was still plastered on his face when he reached up, cradling your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Look at you," he murmured, lips hovering over yours, close enough to steal your breath but refusing to kiss you.

You swallowed hard, but before you could bite back, he crashed his mouth against yours, all tongue, swallowing your moan as he rutted against you, grinding dirty, making sure you felt every inch of him.

Then he pulled back, enough to pant against your lips, his forehead pressing against yours as he grinned. "Still got that class in thirty?"

You shifted, meaning to push him away, to sit up—anything that wasn’t this. But the way you arched, the way your hips tilted just right—

“Oh, shit—”

He slipped inside, easy, smooth, like your body was made for him, exactly where he was meant to be. You both froze, inhaling sharply at the sudden stretch, the obscene wetness letting him sink all the way in, with no resistance.

Rafe swore under his breath, hands gripping your hips, physically restraining himself, if he so much as twitched, it’d be over.

“The way you just—fuck.”

Your nails dug into his biceps, body pulsing around him, stomach twisting at the way he sounded, completely blindsided. He let out a shuddering breath, swallowing hard.

“You’re fuckin’ unreal.”

Your lips curled. “Might be.”

Rafe exhaled sharply, then laughed, hoarsely. “Dream girl.”

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

He didn’t say things like that. He flirted a shit ton, he teased, he riled you up until you were too frustrated to do anything but fall into him, but he didn’t say things that stuck. You’d overthink about it later, the words already buried deep into your brain like a splinter.

You whimpered into his mouth, fingers flying to his hair, twisting, nails scraping against his scalp, and he groaned.

You felt everything.

Lazy, filthy, perfect.

His lips found your jaw, then your throat, hands slipping up to cup your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples as he rocked into you again. He had you right where he wanted you, and he fucking knew it. Rafe moved his hips a little faster, testing, and you both gasped at the way you clenched down around him.

He groaned, rough against your throat. "You gotta stop doin' that."

You fluttered around him on purpose.

He cursed, pulling back just enough to thrust shallowly, teasing himself through your hole. Your nails raked down his back, and he fucking shuddered, breath hot against your jaw.

His hand trailed up your side, skimming over your ribs before wrapping around your throat—not squeezing, only reminding you that he had you, that you let him have you.

"You keep clenchin' up like that, I'm gonna think you don’t really wanna go to class." His thumb brushed your pulse, feeling how it skipped beneath his touch.

You swallowed hard, heat curling in your stomach. "I don’t."

"Fuckin' knew it."

His other hand slipped under your thigh, gripping hard as he tilted your hips up, changing the angle until you chocked on your own breath, making sure you felt the thick, heady sweep of him, filling you up in a way that made your toes curl, your head falling back against the pillow.

"Right there?" Rafe teased, breathless.

You nodded, barely able to do anything but take it. "Rafe—"

"Fuck," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "You feel so good. So warm."

He hummed, a soft, knowing sound, skimming his lips along your jawline, open-mouthed kisses, drawn-out, until his teeth scraped over your pulse.

“More," you pleaded, voice soft, almost shy. "Kiss me."

His lips parted, but instead, he exhaled sharply.

"You ask so sweet," his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. "How’m I supposed to say no to that?"

He rocked into you again, lazy and deep, kissing you like he had nowhere else to be, every inch of him pressed against you, surrounding you, smothering you in the best way. His fingers slipped between yours, tangling your hands together over your head.

You shivered. It was too much—the way he sounded, the way he touched you, the way he was looking at you. He your shoulder, biting down gently, sucking another mark into your skin.

"You’re gonna be late," he murmured, amused.

You let out a breathless laugh, tilting your head back, giving him more room. "Don’t care."

"Yeah?" He nudged his nose against your cheek, "That why you’re fuckin' dripping all over my cock?"

Rafe fucking ruined you.

There was no other way to put it.

You weren’t thinking, weren’t even capable of forming a single coherent thought, just a mess beneath him—babbling, body pliant as he rocked into you. You were taking every inch, stretched around him perfectly, your cunt gripping him like you never wanted to let go. And at this point, you didn’t.

“Ohhh, fuck,” you gasped, nails scraping over his broad shoulders. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—"

Rafe watched you with blown, lazy eyes. “That all you got for me?”

He dragged himself out unhurriedly, just to push back in deeper, and your back arched, head spinning at the obscene wet sounds between your bodies, at the way you could feel every ridge, every thick vein.

“Rafe,” you whined, voice breaking. Your brain was gone, absolutely fucking fried, your mouth running on autopilot. “S’too much—feels so—”

“Yeah?”

You nodded weakly, breath hitching as he tilted his hips, hitting that devastating spot inside you that made your thighs shake. Rafe swore under his breath, his grip bruising as he pushed your knee up to your chest, forcing himself even deeper.

“That why you’re all quiet, huh?”

You let out a broken moan, fingers digging into his biceps. “Can’t think—fuck, can’t think when you fuck me like this.”

And fuck—fuck—you’d be embarrassed if every time he sank in, his pelvis wasn’t pressed flush against your clit, pushing against the swollen little bud right, sending shocks of pleasure straight through your body. He pushed his hips deeper, grinding against you just to watch your mouth drop open.

“That right?” he cooed, “More?”

“Yes,” you huffed, so brainless, completely under his spell. “Yes, yes, just—just wanna, please—”

“Jesus Christ,” Rafe choked out, his rhythm stuttering. “You tryin’ to make me come?”

You’d never begged before, never once—not with anyone else. Sex had always been good, sure. You liked it, and enjoyed it, but you’d never been desperate for it.

Until him.

You let out the filthiest whimper, hands fisting the sheets, breath stuttering as your hips jerked up, chasing that friction, that perfect, devastating pressure. He moaned at the way you writhed against him, at the way your cunt clenched around him, pulsing, sucking him in like you never wanted him to leave.

His head dropped into your shoulder, gripping your hips tight to keep you still as he slammed into you again, making sure to press down, his pubic bone tickling against your clit in slow, filthy circles. You cried out, nails biting into his back, desperate, mindless, your hips lifting to meet every taunting thrust.

This wasn’t fucking, it was something else entirely.

“Say it again.”

Your brows furrowed. “Say what?”

He licked your lips, smirking against your skin. “Say please.”

Heat flushed through you, an embarrassing, all-consuming need curling in your stomach. You panted, licking your swollen lips, barely able to keep your eyes open as his hands never stopped moving. Sliding up your body, tracing the dip of your waist, rolling your nipple between his fingers just to hear you whimper.

You swallowed hard, your pride already flushed down the toilet, which never mattered when he was looking at you like that.

“C’mon,” he coaxed, his tone all sweet. “You can do better than that.”

“Please,” you choked out, every ounce of shame dissolving into nothing, “Please, Rafe, don’t stop.”

He groaned, long and guttural, pulling his cock out leisurely before slamming back in, punching a moan from your throat.

“Can’t stop,” he murmured against your throat, lips worshiping your skin, tongue flicking out to taste. “Fuckin’ impossible.”

His thrusts never picked up, it was excruciating. His forehead was pressed against yours now, breath hot and heavy between you, both of you panting into the same space.

You whimpered, fingers twisting into his hair, pulling hard enough to make his eyes flutter shut for a second, jaw going slack, but then they snapped open again—blue and blown out, locked onto yours, because you knew he needed to watch you fall apart beneath him.

He tilted his head then, licking his lips as he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a painfully wet kiss. His tongue swept along yours, lazily. You whined into his mouth, and he swallowed it, groaning in his throat.

He wasn’t fucking you—he was pressing into you, as deep as humanly possible.

His tongue curled around yours, sucking, licking, all spit and heat, but neither of you cared. His lips lingered against yours, before he pulled back just an inch—just enough to let a thin string of saliva stretch between your mouths.

Your head fell back, a broken moan spilling from your lips, but Rafe didn’t let you escape. His hand was on your jaw instantly, forcing you to look at him.

"Nuh-uh," he murmured, his nose brushing yours, "Stay with me. Keep lookin’ at me."

His tongue flicked out, running over your swollen bottom lip, tasting the wet heat of your breath before he skimmed his teeth along it, teasing. His lips wrapped around your tongue, pulling it into his mouth, sucking. He groaned deep in his throat at the taste of you, at the way you let him, at how fucking eager you were, melting into him with a desperate little cry. Your lips were slick, your chins wet, when he finally pulled back, panting, but you were already chasing his again.

“More."

Rafe groaned, tipping your chin up with his thumb, eyes heavy-lidded as he dragged his tongue up the side of yours, before sucking it back into his mouth. He fucked into you deep, making sure you felt everything as he swallowed your whole fucking soul.

"Mmmm,” rasped against your lips, voice shaking. "You’re so fuckin’ sweet. Could do this forever."

His thumb brushed against your cheek, his breathing ragged as he rocked into you, as if his only purpose in life was to keep you filled.

“God,” he murmured, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe “You feel that?”

You could only garble in response, your fingers digging into his back, pretty nails leaving crescent moons in his skin. Of course, you felt it—how could you not? Every thick inch of him dragged against that devastating spot inside you, over and over, stretching you enough to make you tremble but never giving you enough to push you over the edge. He was torturing you with how good it felt.

He hummed, his lips curling as he brushed his nose against yours. “Can’t even talk, huh?”

You tried—you really did. But all that came out was a soft, breathless squeak, your head tilting back against the pillow. Rafe caught your cheeks before you could look away again.

“Uh-uh,” he scolded, his voice deep, “Wanna hear you.” He punctuated his words with another sluggish thrust, and your entire body shuddered. A high, needy sound slipped from your lips, and his pupils blew wide. “Shit, there it is.”

His hand slipped down your body, before his palm settled low on your stomach, pressing down—light at first, then firmer, right where he was inside you. Your breath hitched, the pressure making your walls flutter around him. His cock twitched in response, and he swore under his breath, hips stuttering for the first time since he started.

“Fuck,” he groaned, shaking his head. “You feel me?”

You nodded weakly, breath catching in your throat.

“That’s me,” he rasped. “Deep as I can go.”

Your entire body clenched around him, and Rafe let out a ragged moan, dropping his forehead on your chest.

“You’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind,” he panted.

You barely had the strength to smirk, but you managed. “M-Maybe that’s the plan.”

His mouth was right there, so close, and then—his breath fanned over the swell of your breast before he latched on, tongue flicking over your nipple before sucking hard, deep. A shaky sound escaped you, fingers flying to his neck, pulling, making him groan against your skin.

"Rafe—"

He hummed, satisfied, sucking again, harder this time, his hips rolling forward in tandem with the wet pull of his mouth. You pressed yourself further into his mouth, and he could only sigh at the way you offered yourself up so easily, so desperate for more, his tongue laving over your sensitive skin before moving to the other, giving it the same attention. He licked and sucked, as he murmured against you.

“Could stay right here all fucking day,” he whispered, kissing over your breast between words, his hand slipping up to squeeze the other. "Right here—fuck—just like this."

Your thighs tightened around him, your whole body buzzing, over-sensitive, overstimulated, yet still somehow desperate for more. His tongue flicked over your nipple again before he pulled away to watch the way it pebbled under his breath.

Rafe’s hands never stopped moving or touching—tracing yearning circles over your arms, cupping your breasts, his thumbs swiping over your pebbled nipples, just because he knew how much it made you shudder. He smeared open-mouthed kisses over your chest, up your throat, tasting the sweat on your skin. His lips ghosted over yours, teasing, never fully kissing you, and you couldn’t take it anymore.

Your hands slid up his arms, over his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex beneath your fingers until they found their way into his hair.

You tugged for the millionth time that morning, making him grunt.

His lips feathered against your jaw, “Keep pulling like that and I won’t last.”

You couldn’t get enough, couldn’t feel enough, no matter how close he was, it still wasn’t enough. You needed more.

“Let me,” you panted against his lips, licking into his mouth between words. “Wanna be on top.”

Rafe’s eyes fluttered open, lips slick and pink from sucking at your skin. His fingers flexed against your waist, jaw clenching at the need in your voice, you were already trying to move, to take control.

“Yeah?” His voice was hoarse, a little desperate. His hands slid down, gripping your ass as he rolled onto his back, bringing you with him.

The second you were straddling him, you let out a shaky breath, feeling how deep he was like this, how he stretched you just right, the angle hitting something devastating.

Rafe smirked, hands already running up your thighs, gripping, kneading the flesh, watching the way you trembled above him. He let his head drop back against the headboard as you ground down experimentally, testing.

You pressed both hands against his broad chest, feeling his heartbeat hammering against your palm. His body was burning beneath yours, and god, the way he looked—his hair disheveled from your fingers, his lips swollen, it was making you delirious.

You needed more.

You started moving, deep rolls of your hips, letting him stroke against every aching, sensitive spot inside you, making you both shudder. Rafe swore under his breath, his grip tightening as his head tipped back, jaw clenched.

“Fuck—just like that,” he groaned, his hands sliding up, thumbs brushing just beneath your chest. “Look so fuckin’ pretty riding me like this.”

You leaned down, grazing your lips over his throat, tasting his skin, feeling the way he shook as you pressed kisses down to his collarbone, licking, biting, marking him up the way he did you.

Rafe’s hands flew to your ass, gripping, rolling you deeper onto his cock, making you gasp against his skin. "You tryin' to fuckin’ ruin me?" He couldn't decide what he wanted more—your hips, your tits, your face. "’Cause it's working."

You whimpered, lifting your hips before sinking down again, making you both gasp. His eyes locked on your face, watching every twitch, shudder, every whimper.

"You feel so good," you whispered, rubbing your hands down his chest, over his abs, feeling them tense beneath your palms. "So deep, Rafe."

His breath stuttered, his hands sliding back to your waist, guiding you into a slow, lewd grind, helping you glide him against that spot that made you tremble.

"You wanna feel me in your fuckin’ stomach, huh?" His voice was a rasp, a tease, but his eyes were half-lidded, his mouth parted in awe, watching the way you moved. "Gotta have me so deep you feel me for days?"

You gasped, nails digging into his skin. "Shit—yes, yes, please—”

Rafe growled, sitting up so fast you squealed, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you in, your chests flush as his mouth crashed against yours. He kissed you matching the lazy intoxicating drag of his cock inside you, his hands everywhere—your back, your thighs, your face. He traced over your cheek, his thumb swiping just beneath your lip, pressing, feeling the way your mouth parted even more for him, giving him everything, his fingers slid into your hair, gripping at the roots, angling your head just right so he could dive in deeper.

He pulled back, painting against your lips, forehead pressed to yours, eyes hazy. Your thighs trembled where they were wrapped around his hips, his fingers slipping between you, pressing against your clit, rubbing tight circles that sent white-hot pleasure curling up your spine.

“That’s it,” he murmured, “Know you’re close—feel you squeezin’ me.” His forehead pressed harder against yours, his breath uneven, restraint hanging by a thread. “Come on, pretty girl, wanna feel it.”

You whimpered, gasping as the tension inside you coiled impossibly tight. Every drag of his cock, every flick of his fingers, every breathy moan against your lips—it was too much. Your nails scraped down his chest, dragging red lines, but Rafe barely felt it, wholeheartedly focused on the way you were shaking, how your walls clenched around him like you were made to take him.

Your head dropped back, mouth falling open as you moaned, "Y-Yeah—oh my God—Rafe—"

Rafe groaned as he slammed up into you, chasing his own high, his movements frantic now. “Fuck—fuck—”

Your thighs shook, your back arching as your orgasm slammed into you, your cunt tightening around his cock like you never wanted to let go.

"Shit—oh shit, fuckkk—" You gasped, babbling, the words barely forming as your body convulsed around him, muscles tensing and releasing with every wave of pleasure.

He felt it—the way you gushed around him, drenching him, the obscene, slick sounds making his jaw clench.

"Baby," he rasped, voice tight, "You're fuckin’ coming all over me—makin’ such a goddamn mess—”

You whined, helpless, your hips still rolling, chasing every last drop of pleasure. Your thighs were sticky, coating him all over, dripping down, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Rafe’s hands were shaking as he held you, watching the way you quivered, breathless, ruined. He thrust up once, twice—grinding deep into your overstimulated cunt, making you wail. His jaw clenched, a ragged groan ripping from his throat.

Your mouth was open, little gasps spilling out as he kept fucking up into you, chasing his own high. His thrusts were hungry, his fingers digging into your ass, keeping you exactly where he wanted you

Your body was completely overstimulated, but you didn’t stop, or couldn’t stop. You were too dizzy off the way Rafe was ruining you, how he was holding you down, forcing you to take every inch that had your mind blanking.

Your lips brushed against his ear, as you pouted, "Rafe—baby, you’re so deep—’s so much, so fucking big—" Your words slurred, just a string of filthy, broken sounds, no shame left. "You f-feel that? How I’m dripping down your cock? So messy, all over you—your fuckin’ cum, all yours—"

Rafe let out a wrecked groan, his whole body tensing, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. His head fell back, eyes squeezed shut, jaw slack, completely lost in it.

"Fuck," he choked, his abs flexing under your touch, "Shit, you’re—" He cut himself off with a whimper, actually fucking whimpering, because you were still talking, still feeding him filth, still pulling him deeper into that haze.

"Need you to cum—need to feel it, wanna feel you inside me—" Your voice was high, needy, almost delirious. You pressed sloppy kisses along his jaw, panting against his skin, shoving your hand into his hair, tugging. "You’re so good, fuck me so good—please, please give it to me—wanna feel you break inside me—"

Rafe cursed, the sound strangled, his hips stuttering as his whole body locked up. His eyes rolled back, his lips parting in a silent moan, almost crying from how hard he came. His cock twitched violently, pulse after pulse of hot cum spilling inside you, so much, too much, his whole body shaking, his chest heaving as he tried—and failed—to catch his breath.

His hands were still trying to hold you still, but he was weak, twitching, shaking.

You were both past the point of reason or past the point of stopping.

You kept milking him through it, dragging out every shudder, every pulse of pleasure, every last wrecked noise from his throat.

Rafe’s hands flew to your waist, trying to still you, to slow you down—but he was already spent, his face twisted in agony, pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. You were just as fucked out, but you couldn’t stop, not when it felt this good

You shuddered when your body finally stopped, his hands smoothing up your back, grounding you. He pressed his forehead against your cheek, breathing hard, chest still rising and falling against yours. His lips found your skin, his thumb brushing along your cheek, soothing, even though neither of you could form words yet.

His cock twitched inside you one last time, overstimulated, and a broken sigh slipped past his lips as he moved, rolling onto his side with you still wrapped around him, his cock slipping free, and you both hissed at the loss.

You felt the remnants of him between your thighs, the sticky evidence of everything you'd just done, but you didn’t care when Rafe was already tilting your head up, capturing your lips in another kiss.

"Gimme a minute," he hummed against your mouth, smirking as he kissed you again, slower this time, fingers skimming lazily down your back. "Then we're doing that again."

You exhaled a breathless laugh, already melting against him. "Yeah?"

He nipped at your bottom lip, voice thick with promise. "Yeah."

You’d worry about the pet names later.

1K notes · View notes

metranart · 9 months ago

Note

hi! it’s me

i wanted to ask you how would the jjk guys react to you getting their lips tatted on you..?(specifically gojo)

like you got them with lipstick and they kiss a paper then the tattoo artist makes it a stencil in red and you put it right under your boob..?

(don’t do this if your uncomfy with it! also take your time your probably busy)

xoxo,em! take care

Hi sweets, sorry for the long wait, I've been awfully busy but here it is, I made it specially smutty to compensate lol hope you like it :) btw... I love your requests ;)

How would the JJK guys react to you getting their lips tattooed on you 💋

Ft. Gojo Satoru, Nanami Kento, Choso, Suguru Geto, Ryomen Sukuna.

SATORU GOJO

Five missed calls and four unseen texts. Gojo sighs, scratching the back of his neck, he hated it when you left him on read. What could you be doing that was so damn important to ignore him.

The sound he had been waiting for since the day started makes his ears ring with excitement and without wasting a second, he opens the text message with your name on it.

Gojo Satoru's eyes widen, and his black glasses slide down the bridge of his nose almost comically thanks to his jaw dropping a little, all at the sight of the picture attached to a cute and adorable message that says:

"Do you like it?"

Gojo growls under his breath, subtly pulling with a shaky finger at the collar of his shirt, suddenly it's too hot there, his cheeks turn an accusatory red and his breathing has grown labored. Even his palms are sweating, for fuck's sake! What's wrong with him?! It's just the shape of his lips on the delicious curve of your under-boob. Shit! He's about to bust a cap inside his pants.

"Satoru-" Nanami's stoic voice breaks his trance and looking around almost as if had forgotten he was in the middle of a briefing, gets up and without any further explanation than: "Emergency!" Leaves the school, leaving behind and unattended, all his duties and mental sanity.

"Did you see the message on his phone, Geto?" a puff of smoke lazily comes out of Shoko’s curious mouth and Geto shrugs. "I saw that it was from (Y/N)." The black-haired snickers and everyone let out a unison, heavy sigh.

Gojo arrives in less time than is humanly possible at your apartment and without warning, not even a ‘hey, babe’, or a: ‘I just teleported myself into your room, hope you don’t mind’. You are dragged by your tall and strong boyfriend, special grade sorcerer and stripped of your top.

"S-Satoru, baby?"

You try to figure out what has him so bristled and with the delicacy of a saint but the curiosity of a child, he yanks your bra up, your delicious breast spills from underneath and his tattooed lips greet him.

"Shit!" is the first word you hear him say and it's almost a painful pant. "Those are my lips, aren't they? This is why you asked me to kiss that paper using the lipstick-...." he sounds accusatory but also incredibly excited.

You nod and let out a sigh that you didn't know were holding. "Phew! When you didn’t answer my text, I thought you didn't like it-"

"Not like it..." he sounds almost offended, and your bra is discarded when he pushes you on your back in the bed. "Not like it?! I love it! I want to eat you whole, (Y/N), I'm only holding back because I need to ask something first."

Being pinned down by his weight and his gentle hands on either side of your jaw, Gojo steals the little space and whispers his question against your ear. "Are you still sensitive from the tattoo, or can I give you a new one with the original source?"

He kisses your earlobe playfully, and you can’t help but giggle dumbly, as you can't help your voice from shaking with excitement. "I’m not made of sugar-"

You can't even finish the sentence when his lips begin the endless and shameless work of awakening every nerve ending in your skin, the desperation palpable in the white-haired sorcerer as every piece of clothing is torn from your body and his and discarded on the floor as impure.

Purple mockeries of your tattoo in the form of hickeys adorn every patch of your sensitive neck like a new necklace, small bites from the small curve of your shoulder to the sinful curve of your waist, nipples swollen and perked from the greedy skating of his tongue on them. Gojo is not being rough, but he is not being gentle either, he is brutal in his advance but methodical and careful that your moans do not change tone.

"I'm going to tattoo myself on you from the inside out," his warn is muffled against your breast as his mouth devours the plump peak of flesh. Paying special attention to pressing his lips against your tattoo over and over and over again, as if certifying its authenticity and quality. The silhouette was exact, the perfect shape of his greedy lips. It was an almost erotic sight for him.

"Huh?"

"Sure,” he chuckled low before keep going, “white ink specially made for you. You'll see, I’m an awesome artist," having you panting, sweating and squirming isn’t enough for him. Oh no! he needs more, Satoru Gojo claims for something more permanent than a mere tattoo. "...My tattoos last nine months inside, and eighteen years outside, they talk and call you mommy, I’m that talented, sweets" tangled between his muscular limbs, your new resting place, he does whatever the fuck he wants with you.

You feel the massive shape of his warm cock against your thigh, he’s been pumping himself no end, not letting you touch him not letting you aid him for fear of wasting his first load, that tasty, thick load he's been preparing especially for you. The mere graze of your fingers on him will be his end, he knows it, so he won’t ask nor accept your help, even when he longs to wrap your fist around his throbbing cock, desperate to help relieve the burning ache deep in his gut. Or better yet, wrap your perfect mouth around his cock and suck him off– NO! he now’s not the time for him to be negligent.

Once loaded, abandons his quest for relief and rests his warm palm on your belly massaging it as if molding it to fit something of his, while the other keeps playing with your cunt, enjoying the way you suck his fingers deeper when he turns his attention back to your poor, neglected clit.

“I never thought someone would be able to awaken my paternal instinct-... did my clan hire you, sweets?” he scoffed, playfully. He can tell that you’re close, not just from the needy moans and whimpers but the way your muscles are tensing and spasming around his digits. The desperate rocking of your hips against his palm, as a firm beg for relief.

“It's just a tattoo....”

“Na ah!” His hand continues playing with your tummy, your navel, the curve of your waist almost obsessively while his tongue makes out with the curve of your neck. “This was your way of telling me that you want me forever..." long finger prod at your gummy walls, searching for that hidden blessed spot that’s gonna make you go wild–

"Let me show you how gifted I am, my sweet girl..."

He finds it in matter of seconds, and you lose all kind of restriction and complaint and Gojo can’t help but smirk against your neck as you tighten and quiver around his digits. Pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, his thumb pressed over your clit, flicking at the sensitive pearl as he suckles a deep purple hickey on the skin. Long, thick fingers guiding you through madness with each and every stroke, it’s too much for your poor, oversensitive body to handle.

"Y-Yes, Satoru, shown me, fill me, mark me-… do whatever the fuck you want-"

You convulse in the spare seconds of glorious pleasure before cumming with a strangled shriek, and Gojo’s groan muffles against your skin when can finally sink in one roll of his hips, feeding you that fat cock he’s been pumping to the edge just for this exact moment, buries deep inside you, kissing your cervix in that one thrust of raw meat. With an animalistic grunt, spills his soul inside your womb, pouring every last drop of cum he's been cooking in those heavy balls until he empties himself, flooding your inside with his gifted seed. A rush of juices gushes from your trembling cunt onto your connected lower halves, and you feel and hear him pant like a dog next to your ear, as both come down from the high.

"Am I your favorite tattoo artist or what?"

CLICK HERE FOR THE NSFW ART FOR THIS DRABBLE 🥵

NANAMI KENTO

He's stoic and serious, almost unmoving in his unflappable staring as you lift your shirt so he can see your new tattoo. His silent disposition is starting to make you more than a little nervous, since you know that Nanami Kento isn't exactly a crazy animal, but rather, a calm and quiet being who hides a wild side that he only shares with those closest to him. Making you wonder if you fall into that category or not, as his silence as he inspects the tattoo of his lips under your boob is virtually killing you with anxiety.

"Those are your lips, my love." You explain again, even though you've already done it three times, and you receive the same ‘mphm’ sound he made the first three times.

"Remember? -… remember when I ask you to kiss a paper?"

"I do."

"Well, I gave that to the tattoo artist, and he made it a stencil in red and then I ask him to put it right under my boob...?"

"I see."

Those calm eyes, analyze from every possible angle the tattoo of his lips on your skin, it had never been so difficult for you to read your boyfriend. "Do you like it, do you hate it? Tell me anything, Kento."

Silence and more close observation.

You close your eyes, squeezing your eyelids shut as you take that deep breath of air, you need so much, and you are about to demand an answer when you feel it...

Your eyelids suddenly open looking down and there you find him: Your stoic, boyfriend, the sensible and calm man who is always in control, kneeling in front of you while pressing his lips against your tattoo, the round softness of your boob loses its shape momentarily as the blond pushes his face more firmly against the plump skin. The most unexpected kiss that you have ever shared and for some reason, the most erotic, too.

"K-Ken?"

"Did it hurt?" he asks suddenly from his kneeling position and the threat of you stuttering makes you just shake your head. Nanami steals another kiss against the softness of your breast like he can’t have enough of the sensation. "Are you sure it doesn't hurt?"

You nod, mesmerized by the sudden attention this blond showers you with, his hands caressing your bare back from top to bottom, slow and gentle with the tips of his fingers, it's delicious and it melts away the anxiety you may have been feeling, now, malleable in his hands. You let his face sink further into the curve of the tattoo of his lips and you moan his name as if you want to taste it rolling down your tongue.

"Nanami."

"... Do you still have the lipstick?"

"Huh?" That request brings you out of your reverie a little, and you look at him with some confusion, to which he smiles, that smile that makes you weak in the knees. "Y-Yes, it's in my purse."

"Lend it to me, darling."

With his palm splayed wide open he waits for you to hand over the lipstick. Digging for the cosmetic, he waits patiently until it's resting in his open hand and before you can air your doubts, he stands up, lifting you into his arms to take you with him, those muscular limbs feel like the safest place in the world and you nuzzle your nose into his neck to breathe in his scent combined with his cologne, and it’s intoxicating, so much so that you almost miss his next question.

“I’d like to suggest a few other places where my lips would look just as amazing on your body.”

“Kento!” you startle, it’s adorable to him and closing the distance, he presses his lips to yours, tasting, nibbing and licking as he carries you to his room. “You take suggestions don’t you, sweetie?”

He chuckles at the flush growing wild on your cheeks, and you feel the softness of the mattress on your back as he sets you down with the care of a saint, before beginning to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt. Your body shivers in anticipation and his lips curve up into the cheekiest grin you’ve ever seen him make, his large hand reaching out one elegant finger towards you and beckoning you with it.

You’re on your knees in front of him in seconds, his knuckles running down the length of your jaw in a silky caress that has you purring like a kitten, leaning into his touch. That smile only stretches further, as your eyes flutter shut and you feel the greedy grip on his lips, hunting for another kiss.

Unfortunately, it ends too soon, and your mouth holds that pouty shape that demands another sweet kiss, but instead of his fleshy lips, you feel the creamy slick of lipstick painting your lips.

“Tell me, (Y/N),” Nanami is delighted with how docile you are to him as he finishes painting your lips red, and it’s the sound of his pants zipper coming down that catapults your eyes open, “what would you think of me tattooing your lips right here?”

His finger points along his defined obliques and your mouth waters, this man was sincerely praised by the gods themselves, every muscle in his abdomen defined, those deep lines going down to his crotch giving that ‘v’ shape to his torso, that sinful path of golden hair that disappears under his trousers. It's too much for you.

"I think I need to see what it looks like first and then I can give you an informed answer, Kento."

His broad chest rises and falls violently, sweat runs down his forehead and his cheeks are an explosion of color. This is your masterpiece. Nanami Kento’s fat cock fits with effort in your mouth, but you certainly do your best to get it to touch the back of your throat with every thrust, you can feel him getting close, his thighs tremble under your hands, his forearm covers his eyes, his cheeks are about to explode… he’s too close, and your tongue curling around the tip doesn’t help him resist, you suck him off for over ten minutes and you’re proud of that pleasurable ache in your jaw when he comes shamelessly hard at the back of your throat and your name rips through his esophagus as it echoes through the walls of his apartment. Eventually, his hand stops keeping your head pressed against his pelvis, and with a wet pop, his still semi-erect cock hangs in front of your face, lubed in your saliva.

“You’re right, I think it would look nice.”

You tell him, admiring the lipstick residue that adorns the shape of his cock and balls, a crimson kiss near the base, another at the shiny, cum-dripping tip, another resting on the roundness of his coarse balls, and you love the whole image. You want a fucking mural in your living room with this image.

“Hell no,” the blonde says breathlessly, barely trying to recover from your masterful blowjob, “…no needle is going to touch me down there,” he threatens playfully but serious enough, “if you like the way it looks, you’re going to have to paint it yourself every time.”

A giggle escapes your mouth, red lipstick smeared on your lips as you grin evilly at him.

“You have yourself a deal, baby."

CLICK HERE FOR THE NSFW ART FOR THIS DRABBLE 🥵

CHOSO KAMO

Choso can't control where the blood goes since, he met you, his cursed technique is out of control. That damn tattoo of his lips on the curve of your under-boob is driving him crazy, he thinks of it and the blood goes down to his crotch. He thinks of you and the blood makes a tent in his pants.

It's a mess that he's had to control with shameful continuous masturbation sessions. Jerking himself off, over and over, with your name as a mantra and the image of his lips tattooed on your breast as his banner.

"Shit, just go away."

He murmurs with a tight voice, while his fist milks his fat cock in fast and violent motions, his flesh swollen painfully for more than an hour, he doesn't want you to come home from work and find him touching himself, he doesn't want you to find out that he lost control of his cursed technique. He had to lower himself to watching porn, something he had never done before, but it was of no use. So, he put on cream and although it had relieved him on other occasions, this time wasn't working its charm. Fuck! Pleaaaase-... maybe he needs more cream to slide better? No, no matter how much cream he spreads on it never compares even a little to your tight, little pussy.

And it is the desperation, that he is running out of time that drives him to this miserable act. He takes, that one photo he treasures so much, out of the frame and places it between his fingers, his excitement growing as he looks at it, it is working. He beats his piece of swollen flesh more eagerly, grunting and growling like a dying animal, Fuck! he's close...his eyes close in concentration and his hand increases speed and pressure as his mouth hangs open… almost there, he can feel his balls tensing and tightening, so close, just a few more pumps, a couple more strokes, a little more pressure, almost there… his guts tighten and his brain enraptures in the moment forgetting to mind his surroundings, to enjoy the divine sensation that grows and grows and grows and FUCK!-

Choso Kamo cums, hard and heavy, rope after rope of creamy cum shoots out of the head of his cock like a mockery of how blood usually does when he uses his cursed technique, the pressurized jet of creamy juice spills out and doesn't finish pouring for about a minute straight. Once his balls are an empty, trembling sack, Choso can breathe again, his sweaty and naked torso rises and falls with violence that calms down the more air he sucks, the sweat begins to dry on his skin and his cheeks feel less hot. This was what he needed, the photo helped him a lot, although he can feel how he bathed it in cum, he can fix it quickly, clean every single trail of his sin before you get home-

"C-Choso?"

His hand, which was riding out the last few strokes of pleasure on his ultra-sensitive cock freezes and his eyes snap open to find you staring at the mess he is, just what he wanted to avoid, damn it! -

"B-Baby, I-" he starts to stutter and stops abruptly when his eyes register what he did.

Your cheeks are painted a deep red but that's to be expected, what's not to be expected are the cum globes that slide down your pretty face, down your cheeks, varnishing your eyelashes and part of your eye, messing up your perfect hairdo, staining your work uniform. Choso enraptured himself so much in his own fantasy that he didn't notice when you walked through the door, or when you approached him.

Now, he has no idea how to begin to apologize, the words are stuck in his dry throat. Are you angry? Are you furious with him? Your beautiful eyes only watch him, better said, ogle him: pants pooling at his ankles, shirt bunched up to his neck, his cock limp but slowly filling with blood again between his trembling fingers, the cockhead shiny and pink and still, spewing cum to further mortify him.

Choso is paralyzed, unable to move and his mouth barely managing to open to spit out any explanation, snaps shut again from the shame that crushes him.

But that shame turns to bewilderment when his eyes catch the subtle movement of your hand gathering a glob of his cum that slides down your cheek, with all the delicacy and grace that define you, and you play with it for a second between your fingers before opening your mouth and dipping the digits between your tongue. Choso's jaw drops to the floor and his breathing hastens again, his cursed technique going out of control once more, summoning blood to that still throbbing and extra-sensitive part.

Your pretty lips curve into a feline grin that makes him feel like your prey, and he swallows hard, clenching his fists to keep his body from shaking, when his eyes meet yours.

“Is this what you do when I go to work, sweetheart?” you ask, licking your lips to collect the cum resting there, “you jerk off while looking at my graduation picture?” a flirtatious giggle escapes you when you specify, “...same picture where your little brother is, too, how dirty.”

Choso is a bundle of nerves, blood just keeps pooling where it shouldn’t, he’s so hard and swollen that your eyes drop there almost automatically.

“I’ll take care of cleaning everything-”

You interrupt his apology, raising a finger to get his attention so he can see you, as you lift your pencil skirt up to your thighs and slowly settle yourself comfortably on top of his lap, nestling his cock between your warm stockinged thighs. Choso shivers and carefully as if asking for permission, let his large hands slide down those wide, inviting thighs.

“…How about you start by cleaning me up first?�� Your warm hand tangles around his firm erection and he growls low, “Then you get me dirty again,” you slide those fingers up and down on his stiffness in shameless incitement and smile when notice his eyes roll back his skull, “and we repeat it all until dawn.”

“Yesyesyesyesyes, whatever my girl wants-…” the words rush from his mouth, “…just one request,” an eyebrow rises on your face, and he grins, warm and almost, shyly. “May I see the tattoo of my lips again?”

CLICK HERE TO READ ALL MY JJK SMUT FANFICTION COMMISSIONS

SUGURU GETO

“Do you… Do you really like it, Suguru?” You ask, lolling your head forward and humming when his fingers slowly travel up and unclasp your bra, the last barrier you have left to cover yourself. Every little breathy sound you make comes ragged and soiled with a mix of uncertainty and excitement.

“Way too much, baby,” his low voice carefully admits from above you. “I don’t know why you hid it from me in the first place. Don’t—don’t do that. You don’t have to. EVER.”

Your breathing keeps picking up when he keeps trailing his hands around either side of your now naked torso, running the tips of his fingers down your ribs and slowly tracing the curve of your breast, letting the pads of his fingers memorize the shape of his tattooed lips on your skin.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” Suguru whisper, quite suddenly emboldened by his growing need. The gentle caresses pause at the very top of perked nipple, holding there for a second while he seems to think about it. “Please, don’t make me repeat myself.”

Soon his touch lifts away and he appreciates the sound your hands make, as those little limbs make haste in follow his request, the muffled shuffling of fabric being stripped of your skin somewhere close by and the soft noise it makes dropping to the floor, close to erotic to the first-grade sorcerer. And then suddenly—

“Oh, God—” you breathe, nearly melting into the seat of his school office when large, warm palms meet your skin and slowly start to ride the curve of your neck and collarbone downwards. Dammit, why does it feel so good? Suguru Geto smirks, like the knowing devil that he is. “Do my hands feel amazing, baby? It’s just two palms, ten fingers-”

“…. But they’re so strong and raspy and big….” Your mouth babbles unrestrainedly, “touch me more, Geto….”

One palm butterfly out across your breast and you moan, lewdly loud. “If Director Yaga hears, I’m going to be so fired, pretty.”

“S-Sorry…”

Dipping and squeezing the soft, pillowy flesh of your boobs, Suguru Geto stares down at you, drinking every emotion and expression he can rip out of you. “Ho—fuck, like that.” Your approval is everything to him.

“I know,” Suguru murmurs, his voice ocean-deep and scraping across the shell of your eager ear when he leans closer from his privileged height to press one bended knee to the chair, right in between your thighs. He lets one hand drift down into the space he created and rub circles on the moist mound of flesh there, as his other hand comes up to cradle your chin, urging you to stretch your neck up and long for him. “You look so pretty like this— all naked and horny for me.”

“Someone might come in, lock the door…” you breathe in protest, remembering your shy nature, and he ignores you, slowly dragging his palm down your trembling slit.

“You don't get a tattoo as sensual as that, if you don't want everyone to drool after you,” he says, and you’re helpless to stop the embarrassing way your knees suddenly jerk farther apart when his hand moves to press a fat finger on your clit. “… Showing all the monkeys how sexy you are, and then showing them that you belong ONLY to me.”

And then he squeeeezes your bundle of nerves, and your hips nearly come off the seat with it.

Nothing else exists besides your boyfriend’s pair of hands now gripping the bottom of the chair, to position your body closer to him. You hear yourself take exactly one shaky breath before his arms suddenly slithered under your knees, hauling you forward. Your lower back dips in at the angle, your pelvis now jutted out and propped up by the edge of the seat.

Suguru Geto licks his lips as if he as if a banquet were being presented to him and the following is him lowering himself to the floor in front of you, running those deliciously strong palms up the length of your thighs. Your new position encourages you to spread your legs wider for him.

“I think my lips, tattooed here,” his long, cascading loose hair caresses the inner skin of your thighs as he leans down to the lower curve of your tummy and places a soft, warm kiss, “would look great, as well.”

“Y-You think?”

Your quivering lips exhale at the feeling of his hot, plump lips meeting your feverish skin, and hearing the sound of his breath hitch at the visual you give him, goosebumps spread all you’re your body.

“I know it,” He promises, opening you up wider, subtly moving himself closer into the gap and letting you cradle his torso with your knees.

“Mine to feast on, mine to pamper,” the special grade sorcerer rumbles quietly, his grip on your thighs tightening as he licks his lips, hungrier. “So, mine to… own.”

“….-Own?”

And then you’re abruptly cut off by your own gasp when a soft, dexterous tongue slowly envelopes your clit. His lips slick between your folds as his rogue tongue flicks out like hot velvet to flutter greedily over your clit, humming low in his throat as he eats you with unreserved gluttony.

“Fuck, this is heaven. This is fucking heaven,” he rumbles against your sloppy pussy, “my sweet girl laying with her legs open and letting me eat her after I’m done giving classes—….”

“Su-Sugu… oh, fuck—” Your words are barely discernible through the pleasure, deformed by the sound of your breaths and gasps. “Do—Do you think someone can h-hear us?”

Suguru smirk is swallow by your folds and his snicker muffled by his need to keep eating you to even let you know that a six eyes user had been spying from the other side of the door since you started.

“Noones at the school at these hours but us teachers, baby. Don’t worry your pretty head.”

His fingers curl against your thighs, his tongue swirling gentle circles around your swollen clit as he sinks two of his thick fingers deep inside your cunt. Both of your hands thrust out without thinking and snatch at his loose raven mane, fingers burying themselves into thick waves of hair. “Oh—f-fuck—”

He makes a rough little growl into your warmth every time you tug on his hair, and you tug every time, he pulls his fingers out and then pushes them back in again, until it becomes a vicious circle where both do that steadily, over and over until you’re sweating, hips arching up and doing everything you can to entice him to hurry the fuck up.

Suguru snickers again at your impatience, instead, he’s unbelievably slow, continuing to lick his hot tongue through your folds as his eager finger fuck you, so utterly patient and steadfast, learning the right notes to drive you crazy.

“You are close, aren’t you, dove?” he flicks that wicked tongue applying more pressure to your abused clit, “something’s beginning to burn in your core, I can see the cursed energy spreading threateningly along the muscles in your pelvis.” Suguru narrated what he felt with his own cursed energy, without a doubt the out-looker seeing the same as he was, just in HD. “It rises through your abdomen like unstoppable wave, seeps down into your knees and wraps around them. Your breathing is getting shallower, the base of your lungs suddenly feels too cramped by the oncoming explosion. I know, baby, just let it happen, don’t hold back. You can squirt on my face. I’m eager for you to baptize me on your fountain of love—”

“Stop it, Suguru… I’m-I’m not…. I will not….”

Your resistance is nothing but amusing to him, this is your nemesis. You hate how sensitive you are, how easy your boyfriends read you and undoes you with his mere tongue, you hate that squirting jet that makes your toes curl and your eyes blank, but once it’s over, makes you very aware of the mess you made.

Suguru finally speeds up, and that rock steady display of ferocity makes you want to cry.

“—I-I’m gonna cum,” you breathe, everything inside pulling up fierce and tight, your chest heaving and your grip in his hair turning to iron. “—Oh, fuck, I’m g-gonna cum—I-I—”

A quiet mhmmm sound rumbles low in gentle encouragement, and then he takes a second to softly suck on your clit to push you over the edge. His fingers curl, press up hard against something absolutely fucking devastating inside you, Suguru Geto knows you so well is almost unfair, and bite your lip is all you can do to stifle a sob when your body suddenly erupts in searing burning ecstasy.

Your back arches and you cum in his mouth, wailing his name while he groans raggedly and drags you through it. It’s hot and wet, in equal parts chaos and bliss. You’re still trying to calm your breathing when a gentle softness presses against your lips, mindful of rewarding you with as much love as he can profess in one single, chaste kiss. It’s over way too soon though, and by the time you open your eyes again, you blearily blink them at him. He’s already standing, impeccable and not one strand of raven hair out of place. A swift smirk curving his lips while his stare never strays from your destroyed persona, heaving and sweating and naked in a public place. Fuck! He adores you so much.

“Are you hungry?” He eventually asks looking straight ahead instead of you, the low frequency of his natural voice not masked anymore by his arousal.

You blink up at him twice, still slouched over the seat butt-naked, trying to figure out who is he talking to, all your clothes spread around his desk and the floor when you hear some familiar voice answer from the other side of the door.

“Starving.”

CLICK HERE TO READ ALL MY JJK SMUT FANFICTION COMMISSIONS

RYOMEN SUKUNA

The euphoric sway of his hips meeting yours should be an affront to the natural order, your boyfriend, Ryomen Sukuna, had been maintaining the same rhythm, precision and firmness in each thrust for more than forty minutes.

You are cockdrunk, you don’t remember your own name, only his. Which comes out of your trembling lips in pieces or unfinished syllables. Your mind is a mess, a rabid mess of hormones and pleasure, but your insides are the most affected, making you endure mini-orgasm after mini-orgasm that shake your frame violently, leaving all your muscles exhausted and sweaty. Breathing ragged, face pressed against the sheets of his bed and your wrists swallowed by his large hands against the firm mattress, while he introduced you again and again to your new deity, his thick cock, which seemed just as hard and ready to continue making a mess of you.

“…I’m sure you’ll think twice about pulling a stunt like that again now, won’t you, princess?”

Although his voice was breathless, it was still firm and solid, not like your pathetic moans.

“I…I thought you’d-…that you’d like it, Kuna-...” That sentence trailed from your half-open lips, between a sigh and a moan as he changed the angle to hit that spot of nerves inside you that made you see stars.

“I know you meant well but it was still unacceptable,” your boyfriend scolds you again, and a delicious shiver runs down your spine as his hands abandons your wrists in order to better hook on either side of your hip. The mere sensation of his thick fingers digging into your soft skin makes you cum again. "Fuck- you squeeze me so good, baby..." he praises, plunging his massive cock deeper into your quivering hole just to draw out more sensations, "-.... shit! If I cum again, are you going to keep it warm for me inside your tummy, princess?"

"Kuna, yes, always..." you moan into the sheets miserably, "don't stay mad at me, please, my love-"

"I loved the tattoo of my lips on your under-boob, don't doubt that" he affirms, firm thrusts clapping his midsection with yours, like giving his stamina a cheer. "But I HATED the fact that some guy had to do it. Don't you know any female tattoo artists, Isn't this the era of women's empowerment?"

You crawl forward and he catches you before you can shift positions. "Kuna, baby... let me ride you, so I can control the speed... I can't cum again-"

"I. Don't. care." He replies, skewering you again on his veiny, thick piece of meat that still feels like stone. "I'll put it in you as fast as I want and as long as I want until you learn your lesson-"

"Which is?"

"You, cocky little thing." He chuckles and emphasizes each word with a thrust. "Nobody. Touches. You. But. ME! Just ME."

“Mine.” Thrust, “Mine~” thrust, thrust, thrust, “MINE.” Thrustthrustthrustthrustthrustthrust—

Sukuna doesn´t hold himself back, even after he comes for the sixth time, he keeps going.

Slipping in and out of you, still rock hard, twisting you uncaringly in all kinds of positions and surfaces that his room provides, just fucking his cum inside you with every unpunished thrust.

You are tired, you are actually exhausted, you are emotional-... and you are drained.

“—I'm yours, just yours... hands off, w-world.... just y-yours~”

His hips stop, finally halting all movement when you give him what he's looking for, he just wants to hear that over and over again from your quivering lips and raspy throat, he just wants you to say it again. Maybe you should tattoo that as well.

Making you come one last glorious and almost painful time. Your naked body is left, used, sweaty and worn but warmly and safely wrapped in his arms. A huge smirk on his lips before he kisses your eyelids, so you open them again and once again you do.

"Now that we got that out of the way, let me see it again..." Sukuna asks, gently squeezing your tattooed boob inside his large palm, letting his eyes scan each patch of skin and how well he marked you with little hints of hickeys and teeth. "...I think we can play twister with every mark I left on your body," he snickers amused, "...but let's start with those lips on your breast."

“Jerk.”

He grins, satisfied. Hugging you harder to plaster your form closer to him, squeezing that sassy grin out of your pretty face.

CLICK HERE FOR THE NSFW ART FOR THIS DRABBLE 🥵

1K notes · View notes

ilium-ilia · 2 months ago

Text

Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter One: glass half shattered

tw: verbal abuse, name calling, domestic violence

It’s seven in the morning and you’re already crying.

Dirty plates and bowls teeter upon one another in your sink, balanced so flippantly you fear your breathing might knock them down. You’re not sure how it’s filled up so quickly. Full to the brim, nearly overflowing. Dried food crusts on every prong of each fork and the rim of each glass—neglected, and not even rinsed before being placed in the sink to rot and fester. An old Halloween themed mug catches tiny drops of water that fall from the rusty faucet, and you find the sight oddly comforting. How relieving it is to know that you are not the only leaky thing within the pallid walls of this apartment.

“Really, babe? This is fucking ridiculous.”

Your hazy vision clears slightly when you blink, forcing more tears to roll down your cheeks in a never-ending tidal wave. Choking back a pule, you look at the man in front of you with an irritatingly quivering bottom lip. His eyes are dull—bored. There was a time when he once looked at you with adoration. Those irises used to be so vibrant when he caught sight of you, glistening like the prismatic refractions of stained glass windows. Now, heavy set brows furrow as he gestures to the sink flippantly, as if he has better things to do than be here with you.

“You can’t be crying over dirty dishes,” Eric says, his voice far from demulcent.

“I’m not crying over dirty dishes, I’m crying because they’re not done,” you correct.

“So then fucking clean them!” he huffs, exacerbated. He gestures at you with both hands, palms facing up and fingers curling inwards like the rotting legs of dead beetles. “I don’t understand why this is so hard for you. Jesus Christ, you’re crying like a goddamn kid over this and it’s pissing me off.”

Closing your eyes, you force a deep breath into your lungs. You don’t feel much better when you open them again. “I’m just frustrated because I asked you to clean them last night so I’d have clean dishes for breakfast before work this morning.”

“Okay, so I forgot! You don’t have to crucify me for it,” Eric snaps. Groaning, he runs a hand through mussed hair which only further disrupts the strands.

“You forget every time and that’s why it hurts,” you cry, tone all but begging for him to understand. Your hand rests against the countertop as you attempt to stabilize yourself, lest you fall through the floor. “It was the same thing last week! It’s the same thing every damn time! You forget, and I have to do it. I always have to do it!”

“God forbid you have to pull your fucking weight around here, right?”

Your quarreling pauses for a split moment and the only sound that dares to sing is the faucet spewing its tears into the sink. Cordolium morphs into bitter shock as your lips part, your heart suddenly struck with an aching sorrow. The shock itself is almost enough to kill you, but the contempt in Eric’s eyes is the final blow.

“You did not just say that to me,” you mumble, dumbfounded.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Eric challenges. “Look at you. Just woke up and you’ve already found something to bitch about. I have to do everything around here, don’t I? I work, I pay your bills. Hell, you wouldn’t be able to survive without me.”

Incisors chewing on the slick flesh inside your cheek, you tilt your head as you smear your tears off of your cheek. “Eric, you can’t even do the fucking dishes. Don’t pull that shit on me. The apartment is in my name. You moved in with me. All I’m asking for is a little fucking respect and-”

Your monologue is interrupted by sharp nails and the edge of the counter in your low back. Eric’s face is suddenly inches away from yours and you have no choice but to look at the virulent rage in his eyes as he holds your head still, unforgiving fingers digging into your jaw and hips pinning you to the counter. He snarls like a rabid dog and you can nearly taste the stale cigarette smoke on his breath. He pulls a squeak from your vocal chords as his forehead rests against yours. It’s difficult to tell if he’s going to kiss you or rip you to shreds, but he licks his lips all the same.

“You get respect when you give it, and all I’m hearing is an awful lot of bitching,” he seethes. “You’re really starting to piss me off, love. If you want to act like a child I’m gonna start treating you like one, you understand?”

It’s difficult to nod when he’s gripping your face like this, but you manage the movement. Humiliation burns the back of your neck as you let out a shuddering breath. Desperate fingers slowly wrap around his wrist, and you find your thumb rubbing over his wrist as if to soothe him.

“Let go of me,” you say, words balancing on the edge of an order and a plea.

Eric contemplates your words as if he doesn’t want to listen. There is an insurmountable amount of power that he holds in the palm of his hand—the soft flesh of your cheek and the brittle bone of your jaw. He could move his hand down to the soft flesh of your throat. All it would take is a little squeeze. Instead, he relents. Bony fingers slip away from your face as he steps back. He stares at you for so long you think he might change his mind; eventually he turns away and scoffs.

“You think you’re so fucking tough,” he grumbles before leaving you alone in the kitchen. “Can’t even do the fucking dishes.”

Eric rages through the house, heavy feet stomping on the floor until he reaches the bedroom where he slams the door shut. Trembling fingers rub at your face in an attempt to quell the ache but you can feel the blood begin to pool in your cheeks already. Your downstairs neighbors have turned the TV on again. It’s loud enough to drown out the sound of the argument you were forced into, but the damage is already done.

You don’t eat breakfast.

It’s difficult not to lament your lost meal, but as you trudge into work with a forced smile on your face, you remind yourself that it’s for the best. After all, Eric’s right; you really do need him. He might not help around with cleaning as much as you’d like him to, and he spends his weekends god knows where doing who knows what, but he shares the bills. Nothing more than a glorified roommate, he’s always petulant these days—snapping at you for any mere sight of conceived retraction from you.

A growl gnaws at your stomach, but the pain doesn’t hit. You lost your appetite the moment your boyfriend laid hands on you.

Computers and cash machines whirl to life as you ready your teller’s station for the morning rush. Within no time everything begins to hum with electricity. You turn on the large television screen on your right where it displays exchange rates and helpful information, and before you settle behind your desk you ensure to straighten out the sign informing patrons of common financial scams and how to avoid them. Everything is up and running. As you log in, you remind yourself to be the blithe, helpful bank teller you always are.

“Rough morning?”

The quiet voice of your coworker—Cheryl—scares you out of your skin. Lips parted and heart thumping, you jump and look on your left to find her polite smile and neatly pressed blazer. Cheryl tosses her faux leather purse on the back counter before looking at you expectantly with a raised brow. In the worst of ways, she reminds you of your mother.

“I’m sorry?” you reply.

“You’re here extra early. Earlier than I am,” she explains with flapping hands before walking to her desk. “Usually you’re having a bad morning when you’re here before me. Eric isn’t giving you trouble again, is he?”

Sighing, you give her a gauche chuckle before turning your eyes back to your monitor. Clicking on your mouse, you pretend to do work while the cogs in your mind begin to turn. Your jaw still aches, but you don’t feel like spilling your guts on the floor before work begins. “Oh, not really. Just… had issues with the dishes this morning.”

Work drones on the way it always does—with a push and pull. It’s a dance that you know well. One that you could do with your eyes closed. A gentle trickle of customers waxes and wanes like the waves of the ocean as your queue begins to fill. It starts out soft before it becomes a flood that forces you to wade through waist-high water. Still, you are amicable. You show an equanimity that most people only dream of achieving as you handle deposits, withdrawals, and everything in between.

It’s an easy job. Mindless—for you, anyway. Each word you speak flows off your tongue like thick honey as you politely smile at grumbling customers and send them on their way. You’re treated like a brick wall. Nothing more than an object to be barked at until you magically dispense the service they desire. You don’t mind. It’s easier to act this way—like a performer. Completing tasks like a metallic android until—

—until he arrives.

His name is Simon Riley, and he stands in front of you like a cyclopean statue—unmoving and unbreakable. Surrounding customers eye him with wariness as they soak up his masked face and the drawn hood of his jumper. His bulk is so wide that he blocks out the line behind him like the moon eclipses the sun. It’s fitting, you realize. He is mysterious like the moon; dressed in black with eyes as stygian as the streets at night. A medical style fabric mask obscures his face, but you can still see the way his jaw dances beneath it as he slides his ID face down across the counter.

“Hey there,” you greet him with a smile. It feels like the first authentic simper you’ve given anyone all day today.

“Morning,” he hums.

“The usual?”

“Yeah.”

Simon is your inconsistent consistency. At least, you like to think of him as much. He arrives every Thursday around mid-morning to withdraw the same amount of cash—enough for what you assume he uses in the week. He refuses to use any sort of ATM, and he always chooses your lane. At least, he does while he’s here. Internal records logged on his account show he’s a military man; a soldier. He is volatile in where he is in the world, but so long as he’s in London, you can always count on him to end up in front of your desk somehow.

He watches you with quiet eyes as you ignore his ID and go straight to retrieving his cash. You’ve only seen that picture of him once when he first started banking, and ever since then you’ve refused to look at it again—as if you’re doing him a favor for not witnessing what he tries so hard to obscure. Each movement of your fingers is scrutinized as he slips a thumb into the pocket of his jeans. Simon always feels like such a stain in places like this—around people like you. The people with bright smiles; who wear clean clothes and attend the perfect nine to five. Each wall in the room glistens with power and wealth, something that he’s never really felt like he can come close to without it tarnishing.

If it wasn’t for you, he would have switched banks a long time ago.

“Here you go!” you say, your voice chipper as you hold out the envelope for him.

Large hands threaten to engulf yours as he reaches for the money, but his fingers never do so much as graze your skin. Simon doesn’t bother counting the cash before folding the envelope and shoving it into the pocket of his jumper. He’s been banking with you for quite some time, and you’ve never miscounted before; he trusts you with that much, at least.

“Thanks.” It’s short, gruff—to the point. He gathers his ID off of the counter and stows that away next to his envelope before turning to leave. Several wary looks burn into the back of his skull, but he ignores them.

“Have a good one!” you call after him.

Have a good one. It’s the same farewell you always give him. Of course, there’s a factitious answer that burns the tip of his tongue every time you say it. Have a good what? But he knows better than to be a smart ass. Though really, the question is a valid one in his mind. Have a good what? Day? Afternoon? Life?

Would you still say that to him if you knew how far gone he is?

After that short interaction, Simon doesn’t see you again for a few weeks. He’s off doing what he does best—being a soldier. At times, it feels like it’s all he knows how to do. Run. Shoot. Kill. Stab. He’s long since made peace with his contriteness. The bodies stack up behind him like a pyre waiting to be lit and the stench of it doesn’t even bother him anymore. All he does is wash the blood from his uniform and repeat it all the next day if he even lives long enough to see it.

But he always does, even when he knows he shouldn’t. Which means he always returns back home to his small studio apartment. It’s not much, but it’s not on the ground floor, and it’s quaint enough for a man who’s never home to enjoy it anyway. The walls are tawny and forever ooze stale nicotine from every pore due to some asshole who couldn’t be arsed to open a window when they smoked. The wood floor is scratched to the point Simon’s certain someone was murdered here, which would explain the odd stain outside of the bathroom door. The only item worse for wear than he is, is the ugly nightstand sitting next to his bed that he bought off of some old man at a car boot sale for a fiver.

Some nights it feels too cramped. Like there’s not enough elbow room and the ceiling scrapes too close to his head for comfort. Sometimes it’s as if the walls are closing in around him like the tight confines of a coffin, and his mouth goes dry as if he’s choking on dirt. Everything—every detail, every crack in that damn apartment suffocates him as he lays in bed and stares at the water damaged ceiling above him.

His only solace is his training. Countless years spent wading through gore and limbless bodies has chipped at him just as much as it’s built him back up. Thick fingers curl into the sheets as he grounds himself—he tells himself he’s far away from his grave; far away from Mexico and those reprobates. By the time his heart stills, the alarm clock on his nightstand glares at him in unforgiving crimson light.

05:23

He has to go to the bank soon.

Simon manages to get two hours of sleep before the morning sun peeks through his window and rouses him. He wakes himself up with a frigid shower before washing the dishes and making breakfast for himself as he watches the morning news with dull eyes. There’s a segment on rising tensions between Russia and Urzikstan that makes him chuckle, and he finds himself savoring his tea, glad to not be in the field fighting off terrorists.

After breakfast, he sets off across London for a walk to the bank. He splits crowds like a razor before he broods for a bit on public transport. He sits at the back of his bus with his eyes scanning every person trudging their way to work. There’s not a single face on that vehicle that he has not committed to his temporary memory, or an exit that’s out of view. He likes it this way—being able to watch. Never leaving his back exposed.

He breathes easier when he gets off at his stop and his bank is within view. The structure glistens with freshly washed windows, and customers keep the doors swinging as they come and go like schools of fish.

When Simon enters the building, he’s able to immediately sense that something is off.

Shaking off his discomfort, he stands in line with his ID ready for viewing, but as he waits with his head tilted down he realizes what’s missing. There’s no sign of your usual winsome voice—the same one that’s so saccharine that it makes him feel queasy at the mere sound. Your voice is hoarse; raw and dry as if you’re spewing sand from your mouth with each word you speak.

Keeping his eyes trained at the exits, Simon passes it off as you having a cold until he’s the next person in line. Standing before you, he’s able to witness your appearance and he feels apoplectic bile begin to rise in his throat. It sears his tongue into submission, forcing him to keep quiet as he looks at your face.

Bright as always, you greet him with your standard the usual? but your words sound clogged in his ears. He doesn’t answer you. All Simon can look at is your smile, and how lopsided it is because of the deep cut that slices the corner of your mouth and the swelling that consumes your left cheek.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

#ilium writing #sr ilia #everything you touch #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

453 notes · View notes

mintyys-blog · 9 days ago

Note

could I request a main mark and variants x reader and how they'd react to a reader who wants to have sex with them while their in their suits and roleplaying like a heroxvillain thing.

(For the variants i was thinking something more correlating to them like with viltrumite mark the reader is a rebel he has to punish, etc)

HEADCANON | variants reacting to their s/o wanting to roleplay hero x villain scenarios

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: roleplay, sexual themes, swearing, dirty talk, smut, rough sex, crying during sex (it’s all consensual!), breeding kink,

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work (AI generated or otherwise) without my permission. @ mintyys-blog

MAIN MARK

Text Message — 9:47 PM

Y/N: Don’t take the suit off when you get home. I wanna try something new tonight.

Mark stares at the message mid-air, still hovering just above the city skyline, wind catching his hair. His eyes widen slowly. “Oh my god…”

He knows exactly what that means. The tone. The subtext. The last time you told him to leave the suit on, it ended with him blushing so hard he couldn’t meet your eyes for a week. And you’re saying new this time? He flies faster.

When he lands outside your place, the lights are low. Curtains drawn. His boots hit the floor with a heavy thud as he steps through the door. The suit is still clinging to his chest, gloves on, mask on. “Babe?” he calls softly.

Silence.

Then—heels clicking across the floor. You emerge from the shadows, sultry and dangerous. Dressed in revealing attire that left little to the imagination, holding a prop weapon you absolutely had to order online for this exact scenario.

“Well, well… Invincible. Right on time.” Mark blinks. “Oh. Oh we’re really doing this.” He smiles nervously, cheeks flushing as you circle him like a predator, dragging your gloved fingers across the ‘I’ on his chest. “I just robbed three banks, tied up a few sidekicks, and broke into your hideout. What are you gonna do about it, hero?”

His breath hitches. “I—I should take you in.”

“Should,” you echo, leaning in until your lips barely graze his. “But you won’t.”

Mark stiffens. His fists clench at his sides like he doesn’t know where to put his hands. You can practically feel his heart pounding through the suit. “You’re bluffing,” he mutters, trying to keep his voice even. “You don’t actually want me to punish you.”

“Oh, I do. I just don’t think you’ve got it in you.” He groans under his breath. “You’re not playing fair…”

You back him up until his knees hit the edge of the couch, and he drops into it with a helpless little grunt. You climb over him, straddling his lap, suit cool beneath your fingers as you slide your hands down his chest and lower. He shudders—half from the sensation, half from how deeply he’s fallen into this.

“What are you waiting for?” you taunt. “Are you scared of the big bad villain?” His jaw tightens. His eyes meet yours—and there it is: that beautiful blend of flustered and fascinated. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispers. “You’ll die happy.”

You unzip just enough to get him out, letting the suit cling around his thighs. He gasps—already hard, twitching in your grip. You roll your hips against him, dragging your lips along his throat. “You should arrest me,” you murmur. “Put me in cuffs. Drag me to your HQ and make an example of me…”

Mark groans again, hips jerking under you. “Holy shit…”He can’t even keep up anymore.

His breath stutters in broken, desperate gasps beneath you, each one punched from his lungs as you grind down harder—slower—making him feel every goddamn inch of you. The suit clings to his skin, slick with sweat, flexing over every tense muscle as he tries and fails to hold it together.

Your hands are firm on his chest, keeping him pinned to the couch. His thighs twitch beneath you, hips jerking upward in helpless rhythm, trying to chase the heat of your body no matter how tightly you ride him.

“Y/N—fuck—I-I’m not gonna last—”

“You think I care?” you whisper into his ear, voice like a weapon. “You’re not supposed to last. You’re just here to take it.”

Mark lets out a strangled sound—somewhere between a moan and a sob—and his grip tightens around your hips, fingers digging through the fabric as you bounce against him. His suit creaks with every motion, the stretch of it framing his body like a second skin. You never even bothered to pull it off fully—just enough to get him out, leave him exposed and vulnerable underneath while the rest of him stays wrapped in Invincible’s uniform. Your walls clamp down on him, and you kiss his jaw, rocking your body just the way he likes. The control is intoxicating. Watching him fall apart in costume is even better.

Your pace quickens—just slightly—enough to make him cry out again, throwing his head back against the cushions, mouth open and eyes fluttering shut. He’s so deep, so warm inside you, and every time you rock your hips, he gets louder. Less coherent. Less like the powerful hero the world knows and more like your needy little mess. “Oh my gosh, Y/N—please, please—” You lean down, bite at his jaw, your breath hot against his neck. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours—I’m yours, fuck—!”

He spills with a strangled groan, hips jerking wildly beneath you as he cums deep inside. You ride it out—slow and cruel—milking every twitch, every gasp, your hands splayed across his chest like you’re claiming him. His nails scratch along your back as he clings to you, panting hard, chest rising in sharp, trembling bursts.

Your name stumbles from his lips like a prayer. Like surrender. And you don’t let up—not immediately. You roll your hips just enough to draw another whimper out of him. His hands tremble against your waist. “Sensitive,” he breathes, blinking up at you with glassy eyes. “Y/N, please—I can’t—”

You finally slow, lips brushing his forehead, stroking his hair back as he shivers under you. He’s ruined. Flushed. Still hard, still twitching from the overstimulation, his suit clinging to his glowing, spent body.

“Good boy,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You played your role perfectly.” He pants and then flips you over, “I think I need a rematch.”

SINISTER MARK

“You’re late, hero.”

The shadows part as Sinister Mark steps into view. Not just Mark—this version of him is darker. Colder. His suit is torn in places, splattered with blood that definitely isn’t his. His eyes glow with amusement and something meaner—the smirk on his lips practically feral. “Did you really think you could stop me all by yourself?”

You try to hold your ground, but your heart is pounding. You didn’t come here to win—you came here to lose. And he knows it. “You’re shaking,” he taunts, stalking toward you. “Is that fear… or excitement?”

He’s towering over you in seconds, gloved hand grabbing your chin, tilting your face up so you can’t look away. “You wore the suit for me, didn’t you?” His voice drops lower. Darker. “Came in all dressed up… like a lamb begging the wolf to ruin her.”

You tremble. “You’re the villain. It’s my job to stop you,” you whisper. “Then stop me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek. “Come on, hero. Use that righteous little voice. Call me a monster. Fight back.”

You don’t. Your breath stutters. He grins. “That’s what I thought.”

With one hand, he shoves you against a nearby crate, bending you forward until your hands grip the edge. His hand trails up your thigh—over your still-intact suit—and then slides up between your legs, cupping you through the fabric. “So wet already,” he growls, pressing harder. “You like being hunted, don’t you?”

You whimper. “Say it,” he hisses, hot against your ear. “Say you want me to break you.”

“I want it—I want you to—fuck—” He rips your suit open like it’s paper. The sound of fabric tearing fills the air just before he frees himself—already rock-hard, flushed and thick. He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t ask again. He lines up and thrusts into you all at once, slamming forward with enough force to make your knees buckle.

“damn,” he snarls, grabbing your hips and dragging you back onto him again. “You’re tight, even when you’re begging for it.” You cry out, the stretch overwhelming, delicious. He pounds into you relentlessly, the sound of skin against skin echoing off concrete and metal. You’re bent, helpless, arms shaking as he ruins you from behind.

“So much for being the good guy,” he growls, slamming in deep enough to steal your breath. “I thought heroes didn’t bend over for the enemy.”

“I’m—not—a hero—” you choke out between thrusts. “No,” he grunts, pulling your hair to make you arch for him. “You’re mine.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to leave his name etched into your bones. There’s no tenderness in the way he moves—just raw, possessive power, hips slamming against your ass with each ruthless thrust, dragging deep inside you until you’re gasping for breath. His grip on your waist bruises, controlling every angle, every stroke, like your body belongs to him and him alone.

“You feel that?” he growls, voice rough, right against your ear as your back arches. “That’s how a villain fucks. No mercy. No hesitation.” You’re sobbing—desperate and delirious—as your orgasm hits you like a freight train. Your entire body seizes, walls pulsing around him in frantic, needy rhythm. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He fucks you through the aftershocks like he’s chasing something far past release—like he’s trying to break you open.

“That’s it,” he hisses, snarling against the curve of your shoulder. “You’re not coming back from this, hero. You’re mine now.”

You choke on a moan as he thrusts harder, slamming in deeper than you thought possible. His cock drags against your most sensitive spot with cruel precision, over and over, turning your overstimulation into a fresh wave of unbearable pleasure. Then you hear it—his breath catching, his pace stuttering. “F-fuck, you’re—God—take it, Y/N—”

He cums with a guttural sound, baring his teeth as he presses flush against you, cock twitching deep inside while he fills you to the brim. You can feel every pulse, every desperate thrust of his hips as he rides it out, keeping himself buried inside you as he empties everything into your trembling body.

But even then, he doesn’t pull out. He stays there—grinding against your overstimulated walls with slow, cruel rolls of his hips. Making sure you take every drop. Making sure you remember it. “Gonna walk around dripping like a good little traitor,” he murmurs against your neck, voice low and wicked. “Let the whole damn world know who ruined you.”

Your knees finally give out, legs trembling too hard to hold yourself up. You collapse forward over the crate, gasping, suit torn and clinging to your slick, used body. Mark leans over you, cock still buried inside, keeping you plugged and full like you’re nothing more than a prize. His hands trail down your spine—mocking gentle—before gripping your hips again.

“You still breathing, sweetheart?” he taunts, thumb pressing against the bite mark on your shoulder. “Good. Because we’re not done.”

MOHAWK MARK

You show up in costume, heart pounding, fully prepared to stick to the script.

You’re the golden hero. He’s the rogue threat—the one no one can control. You were supposed to bring him in. Restrain him. End this.

But when you find him waiting on the rooftop, arms crossed, that cocky smirk plastered across his face, you already know you’ve lost.

“Aww, you wore the little hero suit just for me?” Mohawk Mark drawls, licking his bottom lip as his eyes rake over you. “Bet you’re soaked underneath it.”

You straighten your back. Try to hold your ground.

“You’re under arrest.”

He laughs. Low, amused, totally unfazed.

“Babe, the only thing getting locked up tonight is your legs around my fuckin’ waist.”

Before you can react, he’s on you—literally. One flash of speed and your back hits the rooftop’s concrete edge. He cages you in with his arms, body flushed tight against yours, the heat radiating from his suit making your breath catch.

“Tell me somethin’, hero,” he whispers, fingers playing with the zipper at your collar. “You come all this way thinkin’ you could fight me? Or were you hopin’ I’d bend you over and fuck that smug little mission outta you?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Not when he’s kissing down your neck, biting at your collarbone, fingers yanking your suit down just enough to expose your chest to the cold air and his hungry mouth.

He doesn’t waste time. He’s too impatient. Too wild. One second you’re standing, the next you’re flipped, moaning, bent over a roof vent with your suit peeled just enough to reveal exactly what he wants.

“You look so much better like this,” he growls, freeing himself from his suit in one quick motion. You catch a glimpse—thick, leaking, painfully hard—and your thighs clench in anticipation.

“You ready?” he grunts, dragging the blunt head of his cock against your soaked folds. “You ready to get fucked like the losing side?”

You barely manage a nod before he’s slamming into you from behind, hard and deep, punching the air from your lungs with the force of his thrust. You cry out—half in shock, half in raw pleasure—as he immediately sets a brutal rhythm, hips smacking against your ass, hands gripping your hips so tightly he might leave bruises.

“Shit, listen to you,” he pants, groaning as you clench around him. “Moanin’ like you ain’t been touched in weeks. You needed this, huh?”

You can barely speak. Every thrust has you choking on moans, fingers clawing at the rooftop edge as he uses you like he owns you. His pace is fast, sloppy, furious—like he’s punishing you for ever thinking you had the upper hand.

“You thought you could come out here, give me some weak-ass lecture, and walk away clean?” he snarls into your ear. “Nah, sweetheart. You’re mine. My little hero bitch. And I’m gonna make sure everyone knows it.”

He slaps your ass hard, and you jolt, screaming his name as your orgasm hits like a car crash—sharp, overwhelming, your legs going weak beneath you. Mark doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, panting, laughing darkly when your body trembles under his grip. “Yeah, that’s right. Gimme one more.” He keeps thrusting—hard, rough, relentless—until you’re sobbing, overstimulated, shaking beneath him.

Then with a loud, guttural growl, he buries himself deep and cums, hips grinding into your ass as he fills you to the brim. You feel every pulse, every twitch as he empties himself inside you, head falling against your back. “Fuck, babe…”

He stays there, panting, sweat dripping from his brow as he pulls your suit back up with shaking fingers. “Shit… wanna go again?”

PRISONER MARK

The cuffs click into place—tight around his wrists, locked above his head—and Prisoner Mark watches you from where he’s chained to the headboard, muscles tense under his prison suit. He’s letting you do this. Letting himself be vulnerable. But that doesn’t stop the memories from flickering at the edges of his vision—the cold cells, the beatings, the isolation. You must see it in his eyes, because you pause, hands still on the zipper of your mock-guard uniform.

“We don’t have to do this,” you whisper, voice soft, your hand brushing his jaw. “If this feels too close to… before, I’ll stop.” Mark’s breath catches in his throat. You asked. You care. Not like them. Not like the bastards who locked him away like a rabid dog. “No,” he says, voice low, rough. “I want it. I trust you.”

Your chest tightens at that. There’s something in his voice—a plea beneath the grit. A silent need to rewrite what happened. To turn it into something he chooses. Something that belongs to you two. So you nod. You press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth and step back, slipping fully into character now.

“You’ve been a problem since the minute they threw you in my block,” you say coolly, walking around him with your boots clicking on the floor. “Defiant. Arrogant. Dangerous.”

Mark’s lips twist into a crooked smile, eyes gleaming. “You’re turned on by it.”

You slap his thigh—not hard, just enough to make him twitch. You lean down, grip his chin, and force his eyes up to meet yours.

“You don’t speak unless spoken to, prisoner.”

He growls, hips jerking slightly against his restraints. There’s a flash of fire in his eyes, but underneath it—hunger. Willingness. He’s playing along, letting you take control.

You unzip his jumpsuit slowly, exposing the hard lines of his chest, his abs, the trail of hair that leads down between his legs. He’s already getting hard. The sight makes your breath catch.

You step between his spread knees and lean close, your lips brushing his ear. “You know what happens to prisoners who act out?”

“They get punished,” he whispers, voice trembling with arousal. “Exactly.”

Your hand trails down his chest, nails scraping gently over his skin until you reach his cock—fully hard now, twitching with need. You stroke him slow at first, watching the way his jaw clenches, the way his arms tense against the cuffs. He’s being good. Letting you lead.

“So desperate,” you murmur, teasing the head with your thumb. “This what you wanted? To be chained up and used like the filthy inmate you are?”

“Yes,” he groans. “Use me.” You climb into his lap, positioning yourself just right before sinking down onto him—inch by inch—watching the way his head tips back, throat bobbing, muscles straining like he wants to break the cuffs and take control. But he doesn’t. He lets you. “Fuck, baby…” he gasps. “You feel so—shit— so good…”

You ride him slow and deep, hands on his chest, taking everything he has to give and then more. Every time your hips meet his, he gasps, moans, eyes rolling back like he’s falling apart under you. “Look at you,” you breathe, speeding up, grinding down harder. “You pretend you’re dangerous, but you’re just a good little prisoner, aren’t you?”

“Yours,” he pants, voice hoarse. “Only yours. I—fuck—I’m gonna—” He cums hard, loud and helpless, trembling beneath you as his cock pulses inside. You don’t stop, riding him through it until he’s gasping, overstimulated, wrecked.

Finally, you slow. He breaks the cuffs, kissing you once more. Mark collapses forward into your arms, breathing ragged, forehead resting against your shoulder. “You okay?” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. He nods into your neck. “That was perfect,” he says quietly. “You make it safe to fall apart.”

OMNI MARK

“You think you understand me,” Omni Mark says flatly. “You think if you offer yourself up like this, I’ll change.”

You stand your ground, heart hammering as his brown eyes rake over you, assessing everything. The way your breath catches. The slight tremble in your hands. “You’re not offering peace,” he says. “You’re offering your body.”

You don’t deny it. Not when his voice alone sends heat pooling low in your stomach. “If it keeps more blood from spilling,” you whisper, stepping toward him, “then yes. I’ll offer myself to you.”

He stares, unreadable. Then— “Take off your clothes.” It’s not a request. It’s a command. You obey, slowly unzipping your costume, trembling as you let it fall. You expect some flicker of emotion in him—lust, hunger, anything—but there’s only silence. His gaze moves over you clinically, like he’s memorizing every flaw.

Then he steps forward and grabs you—one hand around your throat, the other sliding between your thighs like he owns you already. “You don’t even understand what you’ve given me,” he murmurs, fingers dragging over your heat. “Your body… your dignity… your cause.”

He tears through your resistance like it’s nothing, bending you over the nearest table, his suit still on as he yanks your hips back and thrusts into you without warning. You scream—part shock, part raw pleasure—as he stretches you wide, every inch of him relentless, punishing. “So tight,” he mutters. “And yet you begged for this.”

He sets a slow, brutal rhythm, one hand braced on your lower back, the other gripping your jaw to keep you facing forward. “You feel that?” he growls. “That’s me rewriting your purpose. This is who you serve now.” Your moans break through the static in your mind—each thrust forcing your body closer to collapse, your legs shaking as he slams deeper, harder, barely letting you breathe.

You try to speak—say his name—but he grabs your hair and pulls your head back. “Don’t say my name,” he growls in your ear. “You don’t get to humanize me.”

You cum hard, clenching tight around him, gasping his name anyway—and that’s when he snaps. He groans, low and deadly, and drives in deep—hips flush, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with a slow, possessive snarl. He stays buried, hands gripping your hips like he’ll never let you go. “You’ve just ended the war,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “But not how you imagined.”

You collapse forward, used and shaking, your body slick with sweat and cum, legs barely holding you upright. Omni Mark pulls out slowly, carefully tucking himself back into his suit. His fingers trail along your spine, oddly gentle.

“Sleep. You’ll need your strength. I’m not finished with you.”

VILTRUMITE MARK

Your wrists are pinned above your head, your thighs spread wide over his hips, and Viltrumite Mark is fucking into you like he’s trying to ruin you.

“You think I’d let you run your mouth without consequences?” he snarls into your neck, breath hot and sharp. “Thought you could get away with teasing me, saying you didn’t want to carry my kid? That I wasn’t ‘worthy’?”

His thrusts are deep, brutal, calculated. Every snap of his hips has you gasping, legs shaking from the overwhelming pleasure building in your core. His grip on your waist is bruising, his pace unforgiving. “Say it now,” he growls. “Say you want it. Say you want me to breed you.”

You’re too dazed to speak—too full, too stretched, every inch of you burning with how hard he’s fucking you into the mattress. But Mark doesn’t stop. He leans in, one hand cupping the underside of your thigh to push you open even wider. “You’re gonna take every drop,” he growls. “I’m going to put a baby in you, and you’re going to carry it. You’re going to be mine. Say it.”

You moan, loud and desperate, back arching beneath him. “I—I want it—fuck—Mark, please, I want your baby—” That’s all he needs.

He slams into you once, twice, growling as he buries himself to the hilt and cums—hot, thick, and possessive. You feel it spill deep inside you, feel how full you become as he doesn’t stop thrusting, forcing it deeper, like he’s determined to make sure you don’t waste a single drop. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your throat, voice ragged, teeth grazing your skin. “Take it. All of it. That’s what you were made for.”

You’re limp under him, trembling, body twitching from overstimulation and heat. His hand strokes your belly softly, almost reverently, even as he stays inside you—still rock-hard, already pulsing again.

“You’re not done,” he whispers, eyes glowing with something primal. “Not until I know you’re knocked up.” He pauses immediately the second your hand presses to his chest—his breathing heavy, cock still twitching inside you, buried to the hilt.

You’re flushed, legs trembling around his hips, sweat clinging to your skin, but there’s no panic in your eyes. Just that dizzy, blissed-out haze that comes after being thoroughly ruined by someone you trust.

Mark blinks, concern creeping into his expression as he starts to slowly, carefully pull out of you, thick ropes of his cum already leaking from your swollen pussy. “Too much?” he murmurs, voice low, still slightly breathless.

You shake your head, a dazed, dreamy smile spreading across your face as your fingers trail down from his chest to his arm. “No… just—give me a sec,” you breathe, heart still pounding. “That was perfect. Actually better than what I imagined.”

Mark’s whole body softens. He leans over you, all that raw aggression melting into something rare and warm, and wraps his arms around you. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then another to your cheek, then one right above your heart. “You’re incredible,” he says, voice still husky. “Didn’t mean to push so hard—just… the way you looked under me… saying you wanted it, I—fuck.”

You laugh, breathless and giddy, and let yourself melt into his chest, legs still wrapped around his waist. His hand strokes up and down your back, grounding you. “I’ve never seen you like that,” you murmur. “You looked like you were gonna rip the planet apart just to come inside me.”

He chuckles low, and it rumbles through your whole body. “I was close,” he admits. “You make me lose it.” You lay there together, skin pressed close, his cum slowly dripping down your thigh as he holds you like you’re precious—because to him, you are.

And when he pulls back just enough to look at you again, that dominant gleam still flickers in his eyes. “Let me know when you’re ready for round two,” he says, tone softer now. “I meant what I said. I’m not stopping until I know you’re mine completely.”

MASKLESS MARK

You had barely shut the door behind you before he had you pinned—back against the wall, his body flush against yours, lips crashing into yours with that familiar, needy aggression.

Maskless Mark never says much. Not during missions. Not even when he’s dragging his enemies through blood and steel. But when it’s just the two of you, when the rest of the world is shut out, you feel every word he doesn’t say through his hands, his mouth, his body.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, dragging your clothes off in torn pieces, eyes dark and locked on yours. His gaze doesn’t waver—not once. “Been thinking about you all day,” he mutters against your neck, voice gravel and heat. “Couldn’t get the way you sounded last time out of my head.”

Your back hits the nearest surface—a wall, the edge of the kitchen counter, you can’t even tell—because he’s already inside you, one thrust burying him deep in your soaked, waiting heat. You gasp, eyes rolling as your nails rake down his back. “Mark—fuck—”

He doesn’t respond with words. He just tightens his grip, holding your hips in place as he sets a bruising pace, every thrust slamming into you like he’s trying to knock the air from your lungs.

He growls low in his throat, forehead pressed to yours, strands of dark hair falling into his eyes as he stares down at you, watching the way you fall apart under him. “You’re mine,” he finally says, voice low and sharp, hips pounding. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp, legs shaking, overwhelmed but aching for more. “Always yours—”

The sound he makes is almost a groan, almost a growl. He drives in harder, faster, your soaked walls clenching tight around him until your head falls back and you’re crying out, cumming hard, body twitching in his arms. But he doesn’t stop. He presses you tighter against the wall, lips brushing your jaw, and fucks you through it—ruthlessly, like he needs to feel every aftershock, every squeeze of your body around his cock.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he kisses the corner of your eye, a rare softness hidden in the storm of him. “You take me so well,” he murmurs. “Always do.” And when he cums, it’s with a strangled groan in your ear, hands gripping you tight like if he lets go, you’ll vanish.

You both collapse after that—breathing ragged, limbs tangled, your back pressed to his chest as he sits with you on the floor. He doesn’t speak. Just buries his face in your neck and holds you there, silent, but full of everything he can’t say out loud.

You’re still trembling when he pulls out, slow and careful, like he’s worried you might shatter if he moves too fast. His hands stay on your waist, grounding you, his breath hot against your shoulder as he holds you against him on the floor.

The silence stretches—heavy, charged, but not awkward. Just full.

Maskless Mark finally speaks, voice hoarse, low: “That what you wanted? Should I have been rougher?” His words are careful. There’s no guilt in them—he’s too honest for that. But you can feel it in the way his fingers curl a little tighter against your skin, how his eyes flick to yours, searching for the answer.

Before he can say anything else, you kiss him. You lean in, hands on his jaw, and press your mouth to his—slow and sure, melting into him. No urgency. Just heat and thanks and yes, this, exactly this. He stills under you, like he’s stunned for a split second. Then he kisses you back with a quiet kind of intensity, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, the other still firm on your waist.

When you finally break the kiss, breath mingling, you look into his eyes—dark and unreadable, but softer now. Just a little. “It was perfect,” you whisper. “You were perfect.”

He exhales through his nose, jaw flexing like he’s trying to process that, absorb it. He still doesn’t say much, but his grip loosens—softer now, his hands massaging the tension from your thighs, thumbs brushing soothing circles into your skin. Then he stands and lifts you into his arms like you weigh nothing.

“Come on,” he mutters. “You need water. A shower. Your legs are shaking.” You smirk, arms wrapping around his neck. “You gonna carry me everywhere now?”

“If I have to.” He’s quiet again as he sets you down gently on the bed, covers pulled back, and disappears for a moment to grab a towel and a glass of water. When he returns, he kneels beside you, offering both with that serious, unreadable look of his—but his eyes never leave yours.

You take the water, sip slow, and reach for his hand. He lets you take it. He never says I love you. But the way he sits there with you—unmoving, solid, present—says it for him.

FULL MASK MARK

He doesn’t speak when he slams the door behind him.

You had sent the message hours ago: “Keep the mask on. Don’t hold back.” And now, standing in the doorway, Full Mask Mark says nothing—he just looks at you.

Still in his suit, blood dried on the fabric from a fight hours earlier, that glowing blue visor fixed on you like a predator sizing up prey.

You feel your breath catch. Anticipation coils low in your belly.

“You’re late,” you tease, voice light.

He moves without a word.

In a second, you’re pinned to the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist, his gloved hands gripping your thighs so tightly you’re sure they’ll bruise. The hard line of his cock presses against your soaked panties, still clothed, still masked, his face unreadable behind that sleek blue metal.

You can’t see his eyes. You can’t read his face. But the way he touches you? There’s no doubt—he’s hungry.

He tears your clothes. No ceremony. Just raw need. Then he shoves aside his suit just enough to free himself and thrusts in—one smooth, hard stroke that leaves you gasping, back arching against the wall.

“F-fuck—Mark—!”

No reply. Just the sound of his gritted breath behind the mask, the slam of his hips into yours, the obscene wet slap of skin on skin as he drives into you like he’s trying to destroy every inch of you.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow.

He fucks you hard, merciless, but it’s not impersonal. The way his hands grip your hips, the way he catches you when your body slips on the wall, the way he lowers you just right to take every inch—he knows you. Knows what you need.

Your hands grip the back of his neck, fingers pressing into the hard seam where metal meets skin.

“You’re—nngh—not even gonna talk to me?” you manage to breathe, half-laughing, half-moan.

He pulls back just enough to grab your throat—not squeezing, just holding—and leans in close, his breath filtered and distorted through the mask.

“You told me not to hold back,” he growls, voice rough through the modulator. “So shut up. And take it.”

You nearly cum from that alone. He fucks you until you’re limp in his arms, body trembling, voice broken as you moan his name again and again. And when you finally collapse together on the bed, your body aching, wrecked and sated, he still doesn’t remove the mask.

But his touch softens. He wraps you in his arms like you’re made of something precious. Presses the cool metal of his masked forehead to yours. And for a moment, in the silence, you feel safe. “You okay?” he asks quietly—only then, only after.

You nod, burying your face into his chest. “More than okay,” you whisper. “I love when you fuck me like that.”

He hums, low and pleased. Then his hand slides up your spine. “Good. I’m not done.”

#x reader #reader insert #x female reader #mark grayson x reader #sinister mark x reader #sinister mark smut #mohawk mark x reader #mohawk mark smut

257 notes · View notes

leriexoxo · 27 days ago

Text

OFF LIMITS

Pairing: Seo Changbin x Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Genre: Best friends to lovers, Angst, Smut, Possessive!Changbin

Tags: Jealousy, possessiveness, toxic tension, smut, rough sex, wall sex, oral (f receiving), marking/biting, mild dom!Changbin, unprotected sex (wrap it up, folks), light degradation, obsession themes, emotionally charged fight-sex, power imbalance, Changbin being hot and scary.

Summary: Your best friend has a bad habit of scaring off every guy who shows even a shred of interest in you. You’re sick of it—until one night, he finally tells you why. And once that line is crossed, there’s no going back.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He did it again.

Another guy. Another almost-date. Another quiet apology you had to text out while Changbin stood behind you, arms crossed, breathing like he’d just finished a set of deadlifts instead of scaring the shit out of the one decent human being you’d talked to in months.

“You’re unbelievable,” you hissed, slamming the front door behind you. “That’s the third guy you’ve chased off this semester.”

Changbin didn’t look at you. He bent down to untie his sneakers, jaw set like he’d already made peace with being the villain in your life.

You dropped your bag on the floor, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you like being the reason I’m single?”

“I don’t like seeing you around guys who don’t deserve you,” he muttered.

You laughed, bitter and sharp. “Deserve me? They’re not even getting past the first text, Bin. You’ve got every guy within a mile radius scared shitless of me because of you. What do you want from me?”

He looked up.

And for a moment—just a flash—you saw it. The storm he tried to keep buried. The heat behind his eyes that had nothing to do with friendship.

“I want you to stop pretending like you don’t belong to me.”

You froze.

“What?”

He stood slowly, the weight of his words still thick in the air. He wasn’t even angry now. He just looked tired. Worn down. Like he’d been holding this in for too long and didn’t care if it ruined everything.

“You heard me.”

Your throat tightened. “You can’t just—just say that and expect me to go along with it.”

“I’m not asking you to go along with anything,” he snapped. “But I sure as hell won’t stand by and watch some asshole put his hands on you when he doesn’t even know your favorite song, or how you fake a laugh when you’re nervous, or how you shut down when you’re overwhelmed.”

“You’re my best friend,” you shot back, voice rising. “You’re supposed to want me happy—not sabotage it every time someone gets close!”

“I do want you happy!” He stepped closer. “But not with someone else. Not when it’s been me this whole fucking time.”

You blinked.

Your chest ached, and you hated how it sounded too much like hope. “So what? This was your plan? Act like a psychopath until I give up and let you have me?”

His jaw flexed. “I didn’t plan this. I just… I can’t watch you belong to anyone else.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was volatile. Thick. The kind of silence that came before something dangerous.

He stepped back. “You want a boyfriend? Fine. Go find one. But don’t expect me to watch it happen without wanting to break his fucking jaw.”

He left after that.

Didn’t wait for you to argue. Didn’t turn around when you called his name.

Just walked out the door with that twisted knot of need and fury still coiled tight between you.

—

You didn’t hear from him for two days.

Which wasn’t like him. Changbin was clingy in his own way—chaotic texts at midnight, gym selfies with stupid captions, food pics followed by “u want some?” even if he was already outside your door with it. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was loud. Sharp. It made everything else feel off-kilter.

Worse than that—you missed him.

Not in the I need my best friend way. No. You missed the version of him you saw in that moment. The fury. The honesty. The raw, possessive hunger he’d let slip when he thought you wouldn’t listen.

You’d been craving something.

And maybe it had always been him.

You didn’t say it out loud. Wouldn’t dare.

But you thought about it when your phone stayed quiet. Thought about it when you tried to go out with another guy, only to sit there the whole time wondering if Changbin would find out. Wondering if he’d come for him.

Wondering if you wanted him to.

—-

You lasted until Friday night.

That’s when you saw him again.

He was at Minho’s place—of course. Everyone was there. Music too loud, lights too low. You walked in and felt it immediately. The tension. Like the air snapped different the second your eyes met across the room.

Changbin was leaned back on the couch, legs spread, drink in hand, looking like he’d been watching the door for you.

And the second your date touched your lower back to guide you inside—his expression dropped.

It wasn’t obvious. Just a subtle shift in his jaw, a twitch in the corner of his mouth.

But you knew him. You felt it.

He stood before you could pretend it didn’t happen.

Walked right past everyone like it was just the two of you in the room.

And he stopped right in front of you, eyes locked on yours.

“Come with me.”

You blinked. “I’m here with—”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

Your date—Kai? Ken? You already forgot—stepped forward, trying to puff his chest.

“Hey, man—”

“I said,” Changbin turned his head slowly, “she’s coming with me.”

The guy looked between you two, saw whatever was unfolding, and backed down.

Just like the others.

You were too stunned to argue. Or maybe you weren’t stunned at all. Maybe you were just done pretending you didn’t want him to drag you away.

He took your hand.

Led you up the stairs, down the hall, into a guest room where the music was muffled and the air buzzed with everything you hadn’t said yet.

He closed the door. Locked it.

And for the first time in days—you let the silence settle.

“You had no right,” you said, softly. “To come get me. To act like that.”

He leaned against the door.

“I know.”

You crossed your arms. “Then why?”

He looked at you—really looked at you. And this time, his voice was low. Fragile, but sharp around the edges.

“Because I’d rather lose you than watch someone else touch you.”

You hated how your knees almost gave.

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m not yours.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re not,” he agreed.

Another step. His breath hit your cheek.

“But you could be.”

And that was the line.

The moment everything you’d tried to suppress finally cracked and splintered into something you couldn’t control anymore.

You didn’t speak.

You just kissed him.

The second your lips touched his, something in him broke.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow.

Changbin shoved you back against the wall with a grunt, hands already in your hair, yanking your head to the side so he could crash his mouth down on your throat, biting—not kissing—and it made you gasp so loud it echoed off the walls.

“You think I don’t see it?” he growled, voice already wrecked, breath hot against your skin. “The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention? The way you want me to lose my fucking mind?”

His hands were everywhere—grabbing, gripping, owning. Your shirt hit the floor before you could respond. Your bra followed. And when his mouth found your chest, you cried out like you’d been waiting for this exact moment to break.

“Mine,” he muttered, dragging his tongue between your breasts, biting the swell of one, squeezing the other with enough force to make your knees buckle. “All of this fucking mine.”

He didn’t wait to undress you fully. Just shoved your shorts and panties down in one rough pull, breathing hard when he dropped to his knees in front of you like it wasn’t even a choice—like he needed to worship before he claimed.

“Bin—”

Your voice cracked when he hooked your thighs over his shoulders and devoured you.

No teasing.

No buildup.

Just his mouth, hot and ruthless, tongue fucking in deep while his nose rubbed your clit like he was born to ruin you. He growled into you like he’d finally tasted what he’d been starving for and couldn’t get enough.

You were already shaking, clinging to his hair, riding the edge with dizzy, unhinged whimpers when he pulled back and stood.

“You’re gonna come on my cock,” he rasped. “Not my tongue.”

He undid his jeans like he was about to snap them in half, and when his cock hit the air—thick, flushed, leaking—your breath hitched hard.

“Turn around,” he ordered. “Hands on the fucking wall.”

You hesitated. He growled low in his throat and grabbed your waist, manhandling you into place. You felt the heat of him behind you, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip like he was about to mark you for life.

Then he pushed in.

No warning. No easing.

Just in—deep and brutal and perfect, and your moan cracked loud enough to wake the whole house.

“Fuck, you feel better than I dreamed,” he grunted into your ear, thrusting so deep your legs shook. “Been losing my mind thinking about this. About you. About ruining every hole you’ve got until you forget every name but mine.”

His pace was relentless. Desperate. Like he’d waited so long he couldn’t stop now even if he wanted to. You clawed at the wall, panting, wrecked, undone—and when he reached around to rub your clit in tight, angry circles, you screamed for him.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice hoarse. “Say you belong to me.”

You whined, half out of your mind.

“Say it.”

“Fuck—I belong to you!”

That was it.

He snapped—hips slamming harder, hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so he could kiss you with teeth and tongue and rage.

You came first.

Shaking. Screaming. Gone.

He followed with a broken moan, spilling deep inside you, jaw clenched like he couldn’t believe what he’d just done. What he finally had.

You both slid down the wall.

Silent.

Breathing hard.

Bodies still tangled.

And somewhere in all the heat and wreckage, you realized something terrifying—

You’d let him do it again.

And again.

Because no one would ever touch you like that.

No one else could.

—-

You didn’t see him the next day.

He didn’t text. Didn’t call. And that should’ve been the end of it, right? A mistake between best friends. A line crossed. A one-time slip fueled by tension and need.

Except when you got home that night, your spare key was missing.

The one you kept hidden under the flower pot by the door.

And when you stepped inside—heart hammering—you found him.

In your kitchen.

Sweat-slick from the gym, black tank clinging to his chest, hair pushed back, jaw tight. Like he’d moved in.

You dropped your bag. “What the fuck are you—”

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

“Because I didn’t want to talk to you, Changbin.”

He didn’t flinch. Just kept his eyes on you—dark, unreadable, burning.

“You didn’t want to talk after I fucked you like that?”

“I didn’t ask for that. You pushed me into it—”

“I didn’t push you into anything.” His voice dropped. “You wanted it. You begged for it. Don’t rewrite what happened just because it scared you.”

You froze.

He stepped closer.

“I know what this is,” he whispered. “You do too. You’re just pretending it didn’t change everything.”

“You’re my best friend,” you said, weaker this time.

“Not anymore.”

You opened your mouth. He cut you off.

“I saw the way you came for me. Felt it. You think any guy you bring home after this is gonna make you feel like that? Like I did?”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

He stepped closer, pressing you into the wall again—but different this time. No kiss. No rush.

Just his body boxing yours in. His presence overwhelming.

“Do you know what it’s been like?” he murmured, so low you almost didn’t hear it. “Watching you date? Watching you touch them? Pretending I don’t wanna break their faces every time they even look at you?”

“You scared them all off—”

“Good. They don’t deserve you.”

“Neither do you.”

His eyes narrowed.

“But I’ll take you anyway.”

Then he leaned down—slowly, nose brushing your cheek, lips dragging across your ear.

“I’m not sorry for any of it.”

You shivered.

“And I’m not stopping.”

“You’re obsessed,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, voice thick. “With my girl.”

You grabbed his shirt to push him away—but ended up fisting it instead.

He growled—low, dangerous.

“You don’t get to fight me when your thighs are already pressed together.”

“Go to hell.”

“Only if you come with me.”

He kissed you like he was sealing a deal.

And this time, when he lifted you up—dragged you down onto the kitchen table, yanked your panties to the side and filled you up with no prep, no warning, just pure, primal need—you didn’t pretend to resist.

Because you were already his.

And you were just starting to realize that maybe… maybe you liked it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: So last night my friend and i were simping over videos of changbin in LATAM 🥹 safe to say “Off Limits” is my brain vomit from last night

Please dont forget to comment, like and rebloggggg!!!

#changbin x female reader #skz imagines #changbin x y/n #changbin angst #changbin x you #changbin fanfic #changbin #changbin smut #straykids changbin #possessive #best friends #friends to lovers

137 notes · View notes

gsspgrl777 · 1 year ago

Text

Oops...

[Josh Futturman x Female Reader]

POV: You and Josh are bffs, but a seemingly normal visit to his house takes an unexpected turn...

Warnings: Masturbation, pnv, mommy kink (????), idk just like pure smut (plus Josh being a needy, whimpering bottom 😜) ((sorry guys I had writers block so this is like the worst thing I’ve ever written))

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You and Josh have been friends for years. Your houses are next door to each other so you hang out every day. One of you will walk over to the others house after school and spend the rest of the evening there. Even on weekends you'd hang out all day. So your decision to walk over this one Saturday wasn't out of the ordinary.

You show up to his house and let yourself in with the copy of his key that he gave you. You call out his name, only he doesn't respond. He was supposed to be home alone all day. Suddenly, you hear a strange noise coming from his room.

He must be playing a video game or something. You whisper to yourself, walking towards his bedroom

As you lean into his room you see that his eyes are closed. His hand is moving fast, his pants are at his ankles.

“Fuck... y/n-” He moaned.

You froze. Was he thinking about... you????

Holy fuck. Shit... SHIT!

You start to back out of the doorway and try not to make any noise, but end up bumping into the door. He looks up at you in shock.

“Y/n… Jesus… I thought you had plans today what are you doing here… God damn… Did you have to barge in here like this?” Josh grumbles, covering himself.

"Well... I had my key copy and I just thought I'd come say hi. I'm so sorry I-"

"Let me know next time don't just-"

Just say it just say it just say it

"Do you want me to help you? You know... finish?"

Josh’s jaw dropped. “You… Are you for real?”

You had been friends for so long, but there had always been something there. Some kind of unspoken tension pulling you together.

"Yeah... if you want"

He swallowed his pride. “I mean… yeah- yes, please.”

You walk over to him pulling off your jeans and leaving them on the floor, your shirt is next. You straddle him on his chair and he quickly removes your bra, massaging your bare breasts. He kisses your chest and neck. He keeps looking up into your eyes, like he's pleading without saying a word.

The only thing separating your heat from him is the thin layer of your underwear. You grind on his lap, making him moan.

"Please... fuck. Just let me... inside," he whimpers.

"Ok, ok."

You take off your underwear throwing them on the floor and slowly lower yourself down onto his throbbing cock. You both moan as he sinks into you. He begins to thrust into you helplessly, hitting your g-spot with ease. Your clit rubbing against his pelvis as you ride him. It doesn't take long before he's a whimpering mess underneath you.

"Fuck... mommy. Please-"

Woah. You had been called mommy before a few times but this was different. Hearing him say it so helplessly felt different. It felt great. HE felt great. Who would have thought Josh of all people would make you feel so good?

"You're doing so good, baby, keep going. Almost there."

He pushes into you with ease, your bodies fitting together like a puzzle. His big dick pushing up into your cervix as he grabs your waist to keep you steady.

He whimpers and moans, so close to finishing. All it takes a few more sloppy thrusts to put you both over the edge. You clench around him and he twitches inside of you. His cum spilling out of you as you ride out your climaxes.

Breathlessly, Josh says, "Shit... well that was unexpected. I guess now we have to have a whole 'what are we' talk and try not to ruin our friendship and stuff so you know, thanks for that."

You smirk at him. "Oops"

616 notes · View notes

autisticlancemcclain · 2 years ago

Text

“No.”

Lance groans loudly, forgoing smacking his face in his hands and going straight for banging his head repeatedly against the elevator doors, which Keith thinks is a touch dramatic. But regardless he crosses his arms over his chest and stubbornly refuses to budge from his position.

“Keith. For the love of God.”

“God is dead and I’m not climbing out of a goddamn ten thousand foot elevator hatch with you.”

Keith admittedly puts a tad too much emphasis on the ‘with you’ part of the sentence. It’s obvious in the way Lance stops and lifts his head up and glares at Keith so icily he doesn’t need to squint to make out Lance’s expression in the low emergency lights; his eyes practically burn a hole through Keith’s forehead. Keith winces but doesn’t say anything.

“You have gone toe to toe with a goddamn zombie dictator,” Lance grinds out, “but you’re too much of a pussy to climb an elevator shaft?”

Keith stiffens. “I’m not — shut up!”

Smirking, now, visibly delighted that he’s managed to press Keith’s buttons (God Keith wants to punch him), Lance leans against the elevator wall, hip cocked, feigning nonchalance.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he says, inspecting his nails like it doesn’t matter. “I just never would have thought that the best pilot out of the Garrison and literal pilot of the Red Lion is, you know, a chicken.”

Keith clenches his fists. Lance is frustrated and bored and pushing Keith’s buttons because there’s fuck else to do. He is. Keith knows this.

But he is so goddamn good at it.

“I’m not a fucking chicken, Cargo Pilot.”

‘Cargo Pilot’ is usually a hole-in-one insult that’s guaranteed to make Lance bristle, sure to make him bare his teeth and go bright red and generally lose his absolute shit. Keith is even sparing in his use of the term, careful not to let it lose its potency.

But because the universe hates him and also Lance is the most annoying motherfucker alive, his smirk only widens, and he flexes his fingers, still fucking casual, still not even bothering to look up in Keith’s direction.

I hate you, Keith thinks, with feeling.

“Sure,” Lance says, without. He shrugs. “Prove it.”

For a second Keith thinks he’s so mad that he might. But then he imagines it fully, pictures his bare back pressed against Lance’s, feet planted on the slippery castle walls, lights probably still out, struggling to put one foot in front of the other and drag each other upright. He thinks of how much effort that would take and how easily he would start to sweat, how easily every shift of their muscles would loosen the friction-borne grip between them, how easily his foot could slip. He thinks of how long a ten thousand foot drop would take, how long he would have to accept that he’s going to die before he splats on the pristine floor.

His stomach turns. His face goes green.

Lance’s jaw drops.

“Oh my God, you’re afraid of heights!”

“I am not!” Keith snaps, because he isn’t, he just has a fucking brain. “It’s just — it’s ten thousand fucking feet, Lance!”

“A pilot!” Lance screeches. “A pilot afraid of heights!”

“You are so goddamn extra!” Keith cries.

Lance makes more vague screeching noises. He gestures furiously at Keith, then pauses, then makes a sound in the back of his throat akin to a loudly dying whale, then gestures back at Keith, then at the ceiling, then at the elevator as a whole. Then he lets out one loud, long, final yell, completely wordless and directed at what Keith can only assume is the heavens, and stops, closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and very calmly crawls onto the floor, belly first, and lays perfectly flat with his face pressed to the tiles.

“I hate it here,” he says serenely. He pauses for a minute, thoughtful. “Also, I hate you.”

“Ditto,” Keith mutters, finally giving up and joining him on the floor. He tips his head back until it thumps on the elevator wall and sighs, loud and long, wondering vaguely if this is punishment for the hundreds of times he mocked Shiro for his fear of squirrels. He truly thinks it might be.

All he wanted was twenty goddamn minutes in the pool. That’s all. He’d have even taken ten. He just wanted to swim a few laps, maybe float for a bit, and pretend he was in a lake somewhere without pressing problems such as saving the universe and the fate of every single soul in it.

Eight minutes, really. Seven.

The lights flicker back on. Lance lifts his head, hopeful, then stretches out one ridiculously long leg (seriously what is the deal with that he’s basically a giraffe, it’s too much, Keith should talk to someone about it because since when were legs allowed to be that — long and shapely, or whatever, it’s weird) and presses the closest button with his toe.

It does nothing. Lance stares at it for a few minutes, as if attempting to bring the elevator alive by manifestation alone, but no life is forthcoming. Lance huffs sadly and returns his face to the floor.

“That’s really disgusting,” Keith says, although he has his fair share of Floor Time. “People walk on this floor all the time.”

Lance doesn’t bother looking up, groaning loudly for several minutes before simply rolling away to the opposite side of the elevator.

“Shut up,” he says finally, after so long Keith almost forgets his original comment. “You just —”

Abruptly he straightens up, pulling the towel off his neck and crawling forward to place it in the middle of the elevator. Keith rolls his eyes so hard it actually hurts, a little.

“You and your commentary stay on the loser stinky mullet half of the elevator,” Lance says. “The pretty half that’s not infected with your rancid vibes belongs to me.”

“Were you trained to be this annoying?” Keith ponders, half out of genuine curiosity. “Like, do you do this on purpose?”

“Ignoring you now,” Lance says primly.

Keith scowls. He’s not — Keith isn’t the one who’s too irritating to be around without going insane.

“I’m ignoring you, asshole.”

Lance doesn’t respond. Keith closes one eye and holds up his thumb and forefinger to the approximate shape of Lance’s face, pretending he’s squishing his head. It brings him great peace.

After a while, though, he starts to get restless. His legs starts bouncing, up and down so fast it’s blurry, and then his fingers start to tap, but the feeling of rustling under his skin only gets worse, spinning faster and faster and coil tightening more and more in his stomach until he just — implodes, really, until his brain goes boom and says if you don’t get moving right this second, and Keith says in response to it, believe me I’m on it. He’s scrambling to his feet before he has the conscious thought to do so, hands moving before he tells them to and pushing him upright, bare feet padding rapidly on the floor as he paces, three steps until he hits the wall then pivot then three steps then pivot then three steps again. Over and over and over. His fingers stop tapping but his shoulders get twitchy; itchy under his skin and on it, sweaty because there’s no airflow and this goddamn elevator is sweltering. Or he’s just hot. He usually runs hot. He’s not sure and he doesn’t care to know, because the pool would have been refreshing but instead he’s stuck in a ten by ten by ten cube stuck somewhere on a ten thousand foot tube and to his right his rival-slash-teammate keeps huffing and rubbing his hands on his arms and muttering to himself.

“Could you maybe cut that out,” Keith snaps, which is entirely unfair because his pacing isn’t quiet, but Keith is three seconds away from attempting to climb the walls and it’s Lance, anyway, when are they not arguing, so it doesn’t matter.

Maybe when you’re having a crisis-brought bonding moment, says a voice in his brain. Stuck elevators are kind of a crisis.

Shut up or I’m going to give myself a concussion, Keith responds to it.

“Not my fault it’s goddamn freezing in here,” Lance snaps.

Keith pauses. He looks down at Lance. He frowns.

“Your lips are blue,” he observes, bewildered.

“Eat shit,” Lance responds, predictably. He’s fucking — he’s shivering.

Keith is made astutely aware of the cooling sweat on his back and grimaces.

“Lance,” he says slowly, “it is not cold in here.”

Lance blows out a breath like the goddamn weight of the world is on his shoulders. He flicks his eyes up to meet Keith’s, who is standing behind his head and leaning down, and somehow manages to seem like the more put-together person between them, which is bonkers.

“I’m anaemic, stupid.”

Keith blinks. Suddenly the air feels very solemn, and he shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.

“I didn’t know you had an eating disorder,” he manages eventually.

Lance’s faces scrunches up in confusion for seven whole seconds before it clears, and he looks at Keith like he is the dumbest man alive and then bursts out laughing.

“That’s — anorexic, you idiot! I don’t have enough blood!”

“Oh,” Keith says, face heating. He scowls as Lance continues to laugh way harder than what was called for, clutching his stomach with tears rolling down his face. He pokes Lance aggressively with his toe, and by that he means his kicks him. “Will you stop — it’s not that funny, dickhead!”

“It really is,” Lance wheezes.

Keith scowls harder. His face is as red as his shorts and the flush is starting to spread down his chest and Lance notices and it only makes him laugh more, because he’s a shithead of the worst kind. “I hope you choke.”

Keith flicks his towel over his head and yanks, embarrassed, stomping to the other side of the elevator as if that will somehow make Lance shut up faster. It doesn’t, obviously, and he hears Lance laugh for several minutes until he finally winds down to giggling, then eventually nothing.

Keith harrumphs quietly to himself. He resolves to sticking in his corner like he should have from the very beginning, until the elevator starts moving again or someone on the team comes to save them. At this point he’s so done he wouldn’t even care if it was Shiro, wouldn’t even care if Shiro gloated about it for eternity (Keith saved his ass from government experimentation, anyway, so he wins by default for the rest of time). He faces his corner and pulls his knees to his chest and starts picking at a loose thread in the seam of his shorts to amuse himself.

Several minutes later, he hears Lance shifting. He ignores it. He pulls at the thread until it comes loose, then busies himself with tying the thread into the most complicated and random knot he can.

A few more minutes later, and there’s the sound of fabric rustling and draping, then quiet cursing. Keith untangles and retangles his knot for the fourth time.

After what must be a half hour, Keith hears the sound of teeth chattering.

He sighs. He looks forlornly at his knot.

“I could just ignore him,” he mutters to himself. “He probably won’t die.”

He thinks of how short Lance’s shorts are. He pinches his own towel in his fingertips, so thin he can practically feel his fingerprints. He remembers blue lips and a clenched jaw and raised gooseflesh.

He sighs loudly, more of a groan, and flicks his ball of thread away.

It takes Lance a few seconds to respond to Keith looming over him, which is worrying. But eventually he cracks open one brown eye and flares up at Keith.

“What,” he mutters. His teeth are chattering so bad it sounds like two words.

“You’re freezing,” Keith says. His voice is softer than he expected it to be.

Lance huffs, closing his eye again and curling further into himself. “No shit.”

Keith frowns. “I’m not.”

“Well, rub it in, why dontcha.”

Keith frowns. “You’re not understanding.”

Lance ignores him. Keith has a sudden and vivid memory of the year Shiro and Adam drove him up to Seattle in the winter so he could be more cultured, or whatever (or less of a desert menace, Adam had argued, and perhaps more inclined to stop biting people), and spent the whole car ride lecturing him about hypothermia.

“It doesn’t take very long to set in,” Shiro had said.

“And once you have it you need to warm up or your heart can stop,” Adam had finished, very serious.

Suddenly Keith starts to feel very panicked.

Lukewarm tea, warm blankets, skin to skin contact with someone who’s warm, were Shiro’s instructions. And then possibly hospital.

Well. Keith has one of those things.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he wraps a gentle hand around Lance’s shoulder, tugging him upright, then pulls him forward so his cradled hands are pressed against Keith’s chest and his head is tucked into the junction of Keith’s neck.

Worryingly, it takes Lance almost thirty seconds to start complaining.

“You smell like mullet,” he whines. But he doesn’t move away. In fact, he burrows closer.

Keith swallows down his worry. “Mullets don’t smell like anything, dumbass.” He brings his hands up to press against Lance’s back. Lance groans, curling deeper into Keith’s hold. His nose is icy and burns a trail across Keith’s shoulder, down his collarbone. Keith’s flush from earlier makes an enthusiastic return, because nothing good still exists in the world.

“I still think you’re annoying,” Lance mumbles. Every move of his lip brushes against Keith’s skin.

“Shut up and focus on not freezing to death,” Keith snaps.

Lance snorts. “I’m not gonna freeze to death, doofus. It’s just a dead elevator. Once I fell asleep on the Garrison rooftop in January and only had to spend three days in urgent care, so basically I can withstand anything.”

Keith pauses. He tries to reconcile the Lance who just said that to the Lance who came up with a life saving plan in thirty seconds on the Balmera to the Lance who threatened to stick Keith in a wormhole to the Lance who smiled and said they made a good team before passing out in Keith’s arms.

“You are a very confusing person,” he says when all the reconciling does absolutely nothing.

“Thank you,” Lance says, sounding pleased.

Keith snorts and tightens his hold. Lance sighs and sags a little. Slowly his fingers stop feeling so much like ice blocks, and his breathing doesn’t sound so erratic. Keith doesn’t know how long it’s been. He stopped trying to count somewhere between when Lance’s cheek squished against his chest and his fingers started tracing featherlight patterns across his skin.

Lance yawns. Keith tries to fight his but ends up yawning anyway.

“Is it bad to let a person with hypothermia sleep?” he mumbles, half-slurring his words.

Lance hums. “‘M not hypothermic.”

“Dunno. Could be.”

He sighs again, a puff of air against Keith’s neck, and spreads his palms against Keith’s chest, flat. “‘M not. You’re too warm.” He pauses. “Freak.”

His tone is fond. The corners of Keith’s lips quirk up. “Weirdo.”

“Mhm.”

He falls asleep trying to count Lance’s breaths. It’s — groundbreaking, somehow.

———

(“Oh, my God.”

Keith cracks open bleary eyes, lifting a hand to rub his face. Lance groans from his place on Keith’s chest — in a puddle of drool, why is that not nearly as revolting as it should be — and snatches Keith’s wrist way faster than he should be able to as groggy as he is, placing it back around his waist.

“Oh, my God,” the voice repeats, gleeful.

“Shut up, Shiro,” Keith mutters. “Fuck.”

It takes him a minute.

His eyes fly open at the same time as Lance’s, and they look at each other, and then Keith is being shoved and kicked at the same time somehow and Lance is scrambling backwards at the speed of light, screeching. A loud bang makes Keith look over and he discovers his brother, who is dead to him, collapsed on the floor, laughing so loud Zarkon can probably hear him.

“What — Shiro — go — stop fucking laughing, you piece of shit!”

Lance continues to screech. Keith whips a towel at him.

“You gay pining loser!” Shiro shrieks. “I’m going to tell literally everyone!”

Keith puts his head in his hands and wishes he’d fallen down the goddamn elevator shaft.)

525 notes · View notes

visionarymode · 2 years ago

Text

Murderous

✧ warnings: smut, language, 18+

✧ pairing: jimmy uso x female reader

✧ word count: 2,738

“I can’t believe you brought a real knife,” she shook her head while taking off her black boots. It was around one in the morning and she and Jimmy just got back from her best friend’s Halloween party.

“It’s good I did! You ain’t seen those thirsty fuckers staring at your ass all night. I was ready to slice ‘em” he exaggerated bringing the knife to his neck.

“That’s why you kept grabbing it all night…” she giggled remembering how he’d pull her to his chest and grab a handful every time a group of people came up to have a conversation.

“Hell yeah that’s why I kept grabbin’ it! This all mine,” he growled against her lips as he spanked her, her tutu from the bunny costume fluffing up.

“Yours only baby,” she smiled, kissing him for further reassurance.

“Mmm, damn right,” he mumbled sucking on her tongue as he groped her one more time. He scooped her up in his arms and pinned her against the wall as he left sloppy kisses down her neck.

“Mm, you still wanna party huh?” she breathed out with a giggle.

“That party was lame as hell anyways,” he pecked her lips. She dropped her jaw at his comment.

“Don’t come for bestie like that! It was fun,” she nudged his chest to defend her.

“Man they didn’t even have any beer pong!” he kissed his teeth making her chuckle again.

“Don’t we still have that tennis table in the basement?” she asked with curiosity.

“Yeah, why?”

“You wanted beer pong let’s play some beer pong,” she expressed dropping down to the floor.

He started laughing as she turned around with furrowed brows.

“What? Don’t think I can beat you?” she asked still a bit tipsy from earlier.

“Hell nah. I will whoop that ass,” he pointed his knife at her before setting his Michael Myers mask on the counter. Then an idea popped in her head.

“Let’s make it interesting then,” she chimed in with a smirk.

He raised his brows with anticipation as he crossed his arms. She walked towards him to zip down his jumpsuit before getting on her tiptoes to meet his lips.

“How about…strip beer pong?” she suggested with a grin. He grinned back and nodded his head.

“Shit okay,” he laughed excitingly pecking her lips.

“Let me go get that table,” he slid his finger down her chest before poking her belly.

✧✧✧✧✧

“Okay, I think that’s all of them.”

She finished pouring the beer in the last solo cup and placed the bottle on the counter.

“Wait- this isn’t even fair you only have the jumpsuit on,” she realized looking over at his costume.

“I ain’t gonna be takin’ anything off. Those cups…” he pointed at the cups in front of her.

“Are gonna be empty in about three minutes,” he dramatically held up three fingers with a big ass grin.

“Yeah okay,” she scoffed.

“Ladies first.”

He rested his hands on each side of the table fully focused on her. She was extremely confident once the idea of the game came about, but she hadn’t played beer pong in years. His taunting and her swirling tipsy mind weren’t helping her focus.

“You gonna forfeit already?” he chuckled.

“Shut up,” she kept her eyes on his cups and tossed the ping pong ball and made the shot.

“Drink & strip bitch,” she laughed pointing at him. He shook his head and chugged the beer.

“Okay okay.” he mumbled wiping droplets of beer off his mouth.

He went to zip down the jumpsuit but instead took off his shoes.

“Now what the fuck?” she asked eyeing him in annoyance.

“Whatchu’ mean? It’s on my body, so I’m gonna take it off my body!” he flaunted his arms up and down.

“Pussy,” she muttered under her breath.

“Whatchu’ say?” he asked before tossing the ping pong ball straight in her cup without even looking. She dropped her jaw at his effortless throw.

“Yeaaaaaah, who’s the pussy now?” he laughed rubbing his hands together.

“Drink and strip baby!” he mocked her. She rolled her eyes and chugged the beer taking off her bunny ears. He kissed his teeth in response.

“What? It’s on my body!” she mocked back.

She missed the next three shots and he was about to make his fourth shot in a row. She’d already taken off her boots and necklace, leaving her with just her corset, tutu, and of course…her bra and panties. He made another perfect shot in her cup and started clapping his hands obnoxiously loud.

“Go ‘head and take that little tutu off,” he pointed at it with a big ass smirk.

She chugged the drink and threw it to the side as she slipped the tutu off, revealing her white lace thong. He gawked at the view, licking his lips with desire.

“Don’t get distracted now,” she drunkenly teased giving him a spin to get a full 360 view of her ass.

“Mmmm,” he bit his lip but she threw the tutu in his face causing him to come back to.

“My turn!” she sang and ended up missing her shot, again.

“What the fuck?!” she dropped her jaw at the failed attempt as he laughed at her. It was his turn again and to no surprise, he made it in the cup with ease.

“Who the one? Jim Uso the one!” he yelled with a laugh putting up his finger in the air like a goof.

She stared at him in defeat and sighed as she took the ping pong ball out the cup and took her time drinking the beer. Droplets fell down her chin and onto her breasts that were spilling out the corset.

“I don’t wanna play anymore,” she remarked wiping the beer off her mouth with her thumb.

“Uh uh. Strip.”

She tried to shoot him a glare but instead failed at hiding her smile. She was drunk, tired, and at this point very horny. She walked over to his side of the table and kept her eyes on his as she unzipped the back of her black corset revealing her matching white lace bra.

“I said I don’t wanna play anymore…” she threw the corset across the room and jumped up on the table continuing to tease him.

He eyes fixated on her half naked body in front of him, almost like he was mentally planning how to fuck her up right then and there.

“What, you gonna murder me?” she playfully whispered, scooting further back as she lifted her right leg on the table.

He deeply chuckled and stood over her with the knife in his hand, practically staring into her soul.

“Yeah…” he used the flat side of the knife to lift up her chin to meet his dark and hungry gaze.

“…I’m gonna murder this pussy,” he deeply spoke against her lips. She bit her lip as he slowly ran his hand up her bare thigh. Her body erupted in goosebumps at his touch and he responded to her arousal by sliding his tongue in her mouth. She held herself up with her hands spread back on the table as she kissed back. He dragged his tongue over her neck, audibly smacking it against her skin.

“Mmm, baby…” she moaned with her eyes shut as her head fell back. She felt like she was floating as he smoothly traced his warm tongue on her neck.

He continued to suck on the same spot and she knew it would leave a bruise.

“I’m gonna mark up every inch of this body you know why?” he asked grazing the cold steel down her chest making her squirm beneath him.

“Why?” she whispered, lifting her head up to lock her eyes with his as he slid it down her thighs.

“Because it’s mine. Turn that ass around and get on your hands and knees,” he demanded.

She obeyed and got on all fours, looking back at him zipping down the jumpsuit so his upper tanned and tattooed body was exposed. The view made her arch her back and angle her ass in the air closer to him.

“Mmmm daddy,” she complimented as he ran his palm over her ass in response.

He then smacked it with the flat side of the knife and the cool contact made her gasp. He ran his two middle fingers along her drenched thong and let out a chuckle.

“You soakin’ for me already huh?”

he grabbed her ass with both hands, leaving sloppy kisses and bites on each cheek.

“Nobody can get you drippin’ like I do…” he breathed against her inner thighs leaving soft kisses but staying away from her clothed pussy.

“Baby please,” she whined again with a shaky breath.

His wet slurps near her clothed hole were making her pussy throb uncontrollably. He spanked her with the knife again, the cool contact turning her on even more.

“Whatchu’ want?” he asked as he hooked his fingers under the left side of her panties vindictively toying with her.

“I wanna cum in your mouth baby…” she squirmed again as he slid the knife down her lower back.

His deep and evil laugh made her pussy thump louder. Her head dropped down again with shaky breath before he slit the left hip of her panties with the knife.

“Damn right you gon’ cum,” he deeply spoke as he cut the other side of her thong with the blade. He purposely snatched her panties from the bottom, his fingers sliding over her pussy revealing her wet mess. He tossed her cut up thong across the room and gripped her hips towards his mouth. He opened her slick folds and loudly spit between them.

“Fuck…” she moaned as he used his two fingers to spread his saliva along her drenched entrance. He slowly slipped those same fingers inside her causing her to gasp as she used her hands to push back and grind against his fingers.

“You like that baby?” he sinfully asked, pumping his fingers in and out of her at a faster pace, the sloshing sounds growing louder.

“Y-yessss,” she cried struggling to hold herself up. He brought his thumb over her clit to run smooth circles over it causing her body to tremble from her climax creeping up.

“I’m gonna cum fuck…” she moaned before he slowly slipped his fingers out grabbing the knife to spank her again.

“Uh uh. Not yet.” He spread open her slick folds with his thumbs before gliding his thick wet tongue along her entrance making her moan loudly again.

“Fuuuuuuck baby…” she gasped as he slowly lapped up and down her pussy, humming against her. He used both hands to jiggle her ass before aggressively slapping it leaving a visible red hand print. He continued to make out with her pussy, his tongue speedily licking her up as his beard tickled her inner thighs.

“Jim-Jimmy…” she moaned feeling overly drunk with pleasure as his pace and sounds of his tongue slurping her up grew increasingly rapid.

“Yeah…cum for daddy,” he coached her knowing she was on the verge of releasing. To think that he couldn’t flick his tongue any faster, he did the unthinkable and ate her up like there was no tomorrow.

“Oh my goooooood,” she moaned and he moaned in unison as she squirted in his mouth, on his beard and down her inner thighs as she dripped from overflowing cum.

“Mmmmm,” he groaned, licking up every drop of her. She felt her mind spinning from her orgasm, deeply panting from all her screaming.

“Yeah no other man can make you cum like that…” he chuckled running his hands up your back to unclip your bra.

“Let’s go,” he spanked her with the cool steel again as he flipped her over.

“Go where…” she faintly asked before he grabbed her cheeks and pressed his forehead on hers.

“I’m not done with your ass yet,” he strictly uttered, picking her up in his arms and heading up the stairs. The moonlight peeked through the curtains as he gently tossed her on the bed. She bit her lip watching his silhouette become visible. He slipped off his jumpsuit, his hard and thick bulge poking out his boxers. He took them off as his pretty, long brown dick seeped with pre cum sprung out.

“You should dress up like a serial killer every…day,” she smirked scooting back on the fluffy sheets as he hovered over her.

“Yeah? You like it huh?” he softly asked grabbing the knife from the end of the bed to lift her chin up with it.

“Mhm,” she softly moaned staring into his deep brown eyes as he brought the knife up to his lips, sticking out his long and pretty pink tongue to lick the steel, his other hand dropping down to her sticky mess.

“You like when I fuck you up like this?” he whispered against her lips, firmly holding the knife beneath her chin.

“Yeah baby…” she shakily moaned as he dragged his tip trickling with his cum up and down her entrance, dampening it even more.

“Whose pussy is this?” he purred in her ear as he slowly slid his length inside her soaked hole.

“Mmmm yours,” she whimpered as he thrusted every inch of his shaft inside of her with slow and steady strokes.

“You’re damn fuckin’ right it’s mine,” he grunted, picking up the pace as his sloppy dick drove in and out of her.

“I love you…” she moaned as his cold chain caressed her chest.

“I love you baby,” he pronounced back as he bit her bottom lip before gliding his tongue in her mouth. They both pulled back, their mouths parting open as they moaned in unison as he impulsively buried himself inside of her. His dick slipped out from how fast he was thrusting into her and he took the opportunity to get them both on their side, her back leaning against his glistening chest. He nibbled on her earlobe as a low grunt escaped his mouth, pushing himself back inside her with heavier strokes.

“You like when I’m deep in this pussy baby?” he wickedly whispered in her ear. He hooked his arm under her right leg to spread open her legs wider, pile driving his dick in her as she clenched around him.

“Yesssss daddy,” she cried out as her breasts started bouncing with how hard he was ramming into her. She felt him in the pit of her stomach as her eyes fluttered, overwhelmed with pleasure. The headboard battered against the wall from how rough he was plunging into her.

“Fuck baby…look at me,” he groaned. His voice blared in her ear but she was too engulfed in ecstasy to turn her head. Her heart was pounding in her chest at the same rate his thick dick was pounding into her pussy. He used the same arm that held up her leg to turn her jaw towards him.

“You gon’ milk this dick baby?” he panted as he locked eyes with her teary ones.

“Mmmm…y-y-yes,” she choked out. Her voice was a faint whisper compared to the sound of his balls slapping against her skin blaring over it. He licked his lips as his dick spasmed from her walls contracting around his warmth. Shockwaves took over her body as she came on his dick, his own orgasm following as he thrusted himself in her one last time filling her up with every drop of his seed.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he moaned as his hand dragged down the the back of her thigh to play with her clit to help her come down from her high. They laid there with their chests heaving as he cupped her face to bring her back to his lips, lazily and sloppily kissing her as he continued to swirl his thumb around her clit. Her legs still slightly shaking from how hard he made her cum. The sheets under them were completely soaked from their juices. He slowly slipped his dick out causing them both to moan one last time.

“Oh my god-“ she panted as she moved away strands of her hair that stuck to her forehead and face. He breathlessly chuckled pulling her closer.

“Told you I’d murder this pussy,” he playfully gritted through his teeth against her lips, grabbing her ass causing her to grin.

✧✧✧✧✧

thank you so much for reading! <3 I hope y'all enjoyed this halloween inspired jimmy fic 🎃😈

let me know if you want to be added to my tag list :)

you can read my other fics here ❤️‍🔥

tag list ♡ @harmshake @cyberdejos2 @foreverlyjay @sassginaswanmills @theninthwonder @jeyusos-girl @bebesobrielo @2-muchsauce @southerngirl41 @walkintheprk @venusesworld

#wwe #jimmy uso #jimmy uso x reader #jimmy uso smut #jimmy uso imagine #jimmy uso fanfiction #jimmy uso x fem reader #jimmy uso x you #jimmy uso x oc

403 notes · View notes

bloodinwine · 5 months ago

Text

I've seen some posts here and there about comments on people's fic, how they can come across as too demanding or really just not kind. It's been a little over a year, so I still feel like a baby to fandom - but I think I've experienced enough to have an opinion about this now (or I should say, understand my own feelings about this). I apologize for my rambles... First, I want to acknowledge that comment anxiety is so real. There are people so well-intentioned, who may want to express how much they love your story but just don't have the words or are so fearful that it will be taken the wrong way. Sometimes I do worry that having a criteria for what constitutes as the right way to leave a comment can make this anxiety worse for some people. Now, I've gotten comments before that could be read as "demanding" but I just try and see it as someone being excited and wanting to read more! At the same time, man....if only one could see the amount of TIME that was poured into that piece you just devoured. Because real talk...I tend to feel pretty hollow for a few days after a chapter drop. Like...in the most dramatic way possible. HOLLOW. EMPTY. NUMB. The comments that do come in DO bring a smile to my face and they DO mean so much to me and they DO motivate me to continue. But I am just utterly depleted and it takes me awhile to get my shit back together. I think part of it has to do with like...the amount of hours, days, I poured into this and how it can literally just be consumed in like 20 minutes. Most people will consume your art and some people will engage with it - and there is a difference. But that's kind of how it goes, once you release it you don't have any control over how someone chooses to respond to it.

The same could be said for visual art. Every art piece you see, it takes you one second to glance at and hit the like button. The amount of time and patience and care that went into it though? I can't even wrap my head around it. Since writing fic, it really got me thinking....there are SO. MANY. BOOKS. that I've read, many that have influenced me, had my jaw dropping to the floor, that I absolutely LOVED, changed my life and guess what? I've not once reached out to the authors in any form to express my appreciation. I don't even actually know what point I'm trying to make. (Again, rambling.) But I guess if you choose to read and you find the engagement exhausting so you don't want to leave a comment - I think that's okay. It would feel really awesome to the fic writer - who isn't making any money or getting anything else out of the time they'd put in - but if it's too overwhelming, then don't push yourself. Life is hard and sometimes you just need a place to escape without the pressure or sense of obligation to say something. I can understand this, too.

And for those who have taken the time, you have become a part of my own journey as I go on to write this ridiculous story. And I don't say that lightly. Whatever happens, or however fandom culture gets shaped or changes - I hope we all just continue to treat each other well and be kind, be kind and be kind always.

#june rambles #comment anxiety #fandom culture #idk what point i was making here #but oh well #i love you all #sometimes it's hard for the writer #sometimes it's hard for the reader #it's okay

62 notes · View notes

plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 8 days ago

Text

what we burn for

one-shot

Pairing: Dean x Viv

Warnings: angst, kissing, dry humping (kinda?)

Word Count: 1,865

a/n: bit different to what i usually do. i made this for @emeraldcrs because she's actually a sweetheart who made me an edit i wasn't expecting at all (and it made me so happy, i cried!!!) and i wanted to show her how much i appreciated the picture AND her. so... i wrote this lil one-shot for her. hope you like it, viv! <3

The spell fizzled out like everything else she touched these days—half-formed, smoke curling in on itself, then gone. No flash of light. No gust of power. Just the dim flicker of candles and her own breath, short and sharp in the dark.

Vivien wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, smudging ash and dried blood down her jaw. Her palms were still warm from the magic, but the chill of the stone floor crept into her knees, reminding her how long she'd been kneeling in the circle. Three hours.

Three months. Three months since he'd left. Three months since she told him not to. Three months since he did anyway.

She stood slowly, every joint aching from stillness and spite, and blew out the centre candle with a whisper of breath. The wind outside howled through the eaves, shaking the old academy's bones. The candles flared. Then—

Footsteps.

Her entire body tensed before she even turned. She knew the weight of those steps. The drag of his boots. The hesitation masked in swagger.

She didn't look when the door creaked open. Just said, voice flat, "You're late."

"You always were a shitty host," Dean muttered from behind her.

Vivien exhaled through her nose. "And you always did love making an entrance."

She heard the door click shut. Heard him breathe—tight, shallow. Smelled the dried blood before she saw it. He was hurt. Again. She didn't turn around.

Dean stepped closer, boots echoing on the stone. "You summon something?"

"Nothing worth keeping."

There was silence then. The kind that grew teeth. It stretched between them like a trap, daring either of them to spring it.

Finally, she spoke, low and sharp: "Why are you here?"

"You left pie on my windowsill," he said. A pause. "Three months ago."

Her jaw clenched. "So you came running?"

"I bled on three continents since then, Viv. Don't flatter yourself."

She turned at that.

And there he was.

Bruised cheekbone. New scar at the hinge of his jaw. Flannel half-soaked from the rain. Eyes that wouldn't meet hers, not yet. That same unbearable smell—gunpowder, leather, and everything she couldn't forget.

"You look like shit," she said.

"You still talk too much," he replied.

But his voice cracked a little.

And she saw it—just for a second—the grief buried under his smirk. The loneliness. The ache.

Vivien crossed her arms. "You left without a word."

Dean looked at her, really looked at her, and the candles flickered again.

"I had to," he said.

"No, you didn't."

Another silence.

Then: "I didn't know if I'd make it back."

"You didn't even say goodbye."

"I didn't think you'd want me to."

She flinched. Just a little. But it was enough. She hated the way his voice dropped when he was about to lie to her.

"I didn't think you'd want me to," Dean said again, quieter this time, like if he softened it enough it wouldn't hit so hard.

Vivien let the silence stretch until it hurt.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend you don't know exactly what you mean to me."

His jaw flexed. His hands—cut up and raw—curled into fists at his sides. "I'm not pretending anything."

"Oh please," she snapped. "You disappear for months, come back bloodied to hell, act like nothing happened, and I'm just supposed to what—bake you another pie?"

Dean's mouth opened. Closed. He looked away.

"That's what you do, right?" She kept going, voice sharper now, breath catching. "Come back when you feel like it. Bleed on my doorstep. Take what you want and leave again."

"That's not fair," he bit out.

"Isn't it?"

"No," he growled. "You don't get to stand there and act like I don't think about you every goddamn day I'm gone. Like I don't check your warding sigils from the road. Like I don't go out of my mind thinking about whether some goddamn vamp's gonna sink its teeth into your throat the second I'm not here—"

"Then stay, Dean!" She shouted, the words ricocheting off the stone walls. "Stay, just once. Choose something that doesn't end in blood!"

"I can't!"

The crack in his voice stopped her cold.

"I can't stay, Viv," he repeated, softer now, voice fraying. "Not when I'm the thing that brings the blood."

Vivien stared at him, chest heaving. The magic still hadn't settled—she could feel it fizzing in her palms like carbonation under her skin.

"You think I don't bleed without you here?" She whispered. "You think my world just... stops falling apart because you're not around to see it?"

Dean looked at her like she'd just torn open something inside him. Something he'd locked down tight.

"You left, Dean," she said. "And I waited. Like a goddamn fool, I waited. Every hunt, every spell, every night I woke up choking on air because I thought maybe this time, you weren't coming back—"

"Vivien."

She froze.

Not Viv. Vivien.

He only said it when he was bleeding on the inside. When he meant every word that followed. When he didn't want to.

Dean took one step toward her. Just one. But it hit harder than any blow.

"You think I don't want to stay?" He asked. "You think I don't want to crawl into that bed upstairs and forget every bad thing that's ever touched us? You think I don't dream about it?"

He swallowed hard.

"But I don't get to have nice things, Vivien. I never have. And I sure as hell don't get to have you."

Silence, again.

But this time it wasn't sharp. It was suffocating.

Vivien took a slow, shaking breath.

"You already do."

She said it so quietly, Dean almost didn't hear it. But the words landed like a match in dry grass. And when he looked at her—really looked—he saw it.

The way her chest heaved like she'd just run ten miles. The shimmer of unshed tears in those ever-shifting eyes—stormlight and steel. The faint, trembling pulse in her throat like her body couldn't decide if it wanted to fight him or fall into him.

Dean took another step forward.

She didn't move. Not away.

He reached up, slowly, fingers brushing a streak of soot from her cheek. His hand lingered there, rough knuckles against her skin, warm and shaking.

"You think I don't feel it too?" He whispered.

Vivien's lips parted, but no sound came out.

"You think I haven't tried to bury it?" He said, lower now. Closer. "I've tried to fuck it out. Drink it out. Burn it out. Doesn't work."

She blinked, barely breathing.

"I still taste your name when I bleed."

That broke something.

She surged forward, fingers twisted in his jacket, and kissed him like it was the last thing she'd ever do.

And Dean—Dean grabbed her like he was drowning. One hand at her jaw, the other around her waist, dragging her flush to him as he kissed her back with every ugly, unsaid thing he never had the guts to speak.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet. It was months of longing, of fear, of all those nights they'd spent apart wishing they were braver than this.

His mouth devoured her, their teeth clashing, breath ragged, her fingers tugging hard at his hair until he groaned into her.

And then—then—it changed. She whimpered. Just a tiny, desperate sound against his lips.

Dean froze.

Then pulled back just an inch, just enough to say, voice dark and low against her mouth: "Oh... you like that, huh?"

Her breath hitched.

Dean grinned—sharp, smug, wrecked—and shoved her back against the stone wall behind them. Not hard. But with purpose. Her gasp punched the air between them.

"Wrap your leg around me, Viv."

She did. Instinctively. Magic shivered in the air the second her thigh hooked around his waist.

Dean slid a hand between them, grabbed her thigh—firm—and shifted, pressing her down on the solid line of his own.

She gasped again, forehead falling to his shoulder. "Dean—"

"Shhh." His voice was rough silk against her ear. "Don't talk. Just let me."

He rocked up, slow and steady, dragging her against him like he needed this, needed her, and her nails dug into his back as her hips jerked once, then again.

Dean groaned into her neck. "That's it. C'mon, Vivien."

Another gasp. A choked little sob against his throat.

Her magic crackled—candles exploded in the room, snuffing out in a rush of wind.

He didn't stop. Didn't flinch.

"Let go," he whispered. "I've got you. I've always got you."

And when she came, shuddering against him, Dean held her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

i really, really hope you liked this, viv. i really love the russell aesthetic you made me and i just wanted to give you a lil something in return! <3

#dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #pfiahc writes #my writing #love my moots <3 #emeraldcrs #viv <3 #dean x viv #dean winchester x vivien

26 notes · View notes

l0vergirlsw0rld · 7 months ago

Text

day eleven: humiliation | NSFW MDNI 18+

The door slammed shut behind Logan as he stomped inside, his heavy boots echoing against the floor. You had done absolutely nothing today, and the place was a mess. Last night's leftover pots and pans were still soaking in the sink. The laundry basket was still full of dirty clothes, and the table was still cluttered with the impulsive DIY projects you had worked on during the weekend. Logan had asked you to do your share of the housekeeping and tidy up while he was at work today, and you had completely forgotten and partially didn't care to.

After taking in the state of the messy apartment, he stopped in front of you, towering over you, his eyes raking down your body with something close to disgust, you were still dressed in the t-shirt and pyjama pants you had gone to sleep in. He looked pissed, his face hard and jaw clenched, muscles tense under his flannel shirt. You could feel the tension crackling in the air as you stood there, frozen in place. You knew what was coming—he had that look in his eyes, the one he got when he was pissed off and needed to rage.

"You think you can just sit around and do fuck-all while I'm out there working my ass off to pay the bills?" he snarled, his voice low and venomous.

You flinched at his words, the sting of them hitting harder than you expected. He’d never said it outright like this before. Sure, Logan wasn’t always the warmest, but this—this was different. He looked at you like you were beneath him like you were just a nuisance in his life.

"Well? You got nothing to say for yourself?" he barked, stepping closer, his broad chest almost brushing against you.

You swallowed hard, your mouth dry, as you tried to form words. "I—I'm sorry. I totally forgot—"

"Shut the fuck up," he cut you off sharply, his hand gripping your chin, forcing your face upward to meet his darkened gaze. "I don’t want to hear your bullshit apologies anymore. If you're really sorry, then fucking prove it."

Your heart raced as his words cut through you, the familiar ache between your legs flaring up despite the humiliation that burned your cheeks. You knew where this was going. He wanted to break you down—to remind you of your place beneath him. And even though every part of your mind screamed to push back, your body betrayed you. You craved it.

"On your knees," he ordered, his voice gruff and filled with disdain. "Now."

You hesitated for only a second before you dropped to the floor, your knees hitting the hardwood with a soft thud. You felt a wave of humiliation wash over you as you looked up at him, his cocky smirk infuriating and intoxicating all at once.

"That’s better," Logan growled, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness, savoring the way your eyes followed his every movement. "You like this, don’t you? You like being treated like a piece of shit. Don’t try to pretend otherwise."

You didn’t respond, but your breath hitched as he yanked his pants down just enough to free his already-hard cock. The sight of it made your throat tighten, but you knew what he wanted. He wasn’t going to be gentle—not today. He wanted to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

"Open your mouth," he commanded, his voice dripping with disdain. "Let’s see if you can do something right for once."

You opened your mouth obediently, your heart racing as he stepped forward, gripping your hair roughly with one hand as he guided his cock to your lips. There was no tenderness, no warmth in his touch. This wasn’t about pleasure—it was about power since you weren't listening to him at all lately.

He pushed into your mouth with a groan, forcing his thick length past your lips and down your throat without giving you time to adjust. You gagged immediately, your throat constricting around him as he hit the back of it, but Logan didn’t stop. He held your head in place, his fingers tangling in your hair as he started to thrust, fucking your mouth like you were nothing more than a toy for him to use.

"Look at you," Logan sneered, his voice hoarse with lust and anger. "Choking on my cock like a fucking slut. Can’t even take it properly, can you?"

Tears welled in your eyes as you struggled to breathe, your hands gripping his thighs for balance as he continued to thrust into your mouth. The wet, obscene sounds of your gagging filled the room, but Logan didn’t care. In fact, it seemed to spur him on.

"God, you’re pathetic," he growled, pulling out of your mouth just long enough to let you gasp for air before shoving himself back in. "I bet you love this, huh? Getting used like the worthless stay-at-home-whore you are."

You moaned around him, your humiliation mixing with the aching desire between your legs. You hated how much you loved this—how much you needed him to tear you down, to remind you of your place beneath him.

"Fuck, you can’t even speak with my cock in your mouth," Logan grunted, his pace growing faster, more brutal. "But you don’t need to, do you? You’re just a hole for me to fuck."

Your throat burned, your jaw ached, but you didn’t pull away. You wanted to please him, to show him that you could take it, no matter how rough he was. And you knew that the more you gave in, the more he would push.

After what felt like forever, Logan finally pulled back, his cock slick with your spit, leaving you gasping for air, your mouth sore from the abuse. He grabbed you by the hair, yanking you to your feet with a roughness that sent a jolt of heat through your body.

"Turn around," he ordered, his voice low and dangerous. "Bend over the fucking couch."

You scrambled to obey, your legs shaking as you bent over the back of the couch, your hands gripping the cushions for support. You could feel his presence behind you, could hear the rustle of his pants as he yanked them further down.

"Look at you," Logan growled, slapping your ass hard, making you yelp. "So fucking wet already. You’re disgusting. Bet' ya played with your pussy all day on that couch while I was out there making money for us. Pathetic, needy slut. "

You bit your lip, your face flushing with both shame and arousal. He was right—you were soaked from your previous orgasms today, the fabric of your panties sticking to your aching core. You could feel how badly you wanted him, even though his words cut deep.

Logan didn’t waste any time. He yanked your panties down roughly, leaving them around your thighs as he positioned himself behind you. Without warning, he slammed into you, burying his cock deep inside your soaking-wet pussy with a harsh thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

"Fuck," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he started fucking you hard and fast. "This is all you’re good for, isn’t it? Getting fucked like a whore."

You cried out, your body trembling as he pounded into you, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure and pain through you. You could feel the tears welling in your eyes again, but you didn’t care. The humiliation, the degradation—it only made the pleasure more intense, more overwhelming.

"Say it," Logan growled, his voice rough and breathless. "Tell me what you are."

"I—I'm your whore," you gasped, your voice shaky and filled with shame.

"Damn right you are," he hissed, slapping your ass again, harder this time. "You’re my fucking slut. Nothing more."

You moaned, the sting of his words and the sharp slap of his hand only pushing you closer to the edge. You could feel your body tightening, the heat building inside of you as Logan continued to fuck you brutally, using you like you were nothing.

"Fuck, you’re so fucking tight," Logan groaned, his hands gripping your hips harder as he slammed into you. "You’re gonna come, aren’t you? You’re gonna come from getting treated like the little whore you are."

You nodded frantically, your body teetering on the edge of release. You hated how much you wanted it—how much you needed it.

"Then fucking come," Logan growled, his thrusts growing even rougher, more punishing. "Come all over my cock, you fucking slut."

And with that, you shattered, your body convulsing as your orgasm tore through you, the pleasure so intense it left you trembling. You cried out, your voice muffled by the cushions as Logan continued to fuck you through your release, his cock driving deep inside you, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until you were a shaking, breathless mess.

Finally, with a low, guttural groan, Logan came, his cock twitching inside you as he spilled his release deep inside your pussy. He held you in place, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he rode out his own orgasm, his breath ragged in your ear.

When he finally pulled out, you collapsed onto the couch, your body exhausted and trembling. You could feel his cum leaking out of you, could still hear the harshness of his breath as he stood behind you.

But even as the shame and humiliation settled in, you couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction.

🏷️:@back2thebasics @spookyfunhottub, @lanassmarty, @hypermarvellove @kbear8863 @squishyfruitloop, @v3rdee @instantpersonawombat, @a-leg-without-fear, @cherrypieyourface

If you'd like to join my tagged list and be notified whenever I post new content, click ->-> HERE<-<-, instructions will follow.

->->masterlist<-<-

131 notes · View notes

acute-crashout-jeyuso · 2 months ago

Text

Ry’s Blurb of the Week!

Purpose: The purpose of these mini one-shots is to gauge audience reactions to different pairings and dynamics. By exploring various relationships in short, self-contained stories, I can assess which characters and connections resonate most with readers before developing them further in longer works. I can also get little ideas out of my mind. Also I can practice on my fluffs 😂

Note: Blurbs are exclusive to my tumblr as my long form fics are exclusive to my Ao3 account. 🩷

Solo/Rhea (Friendly Competition)

Rhea wasn’t the type to admit when she was in over her head, but as she stood at the tee in Topgolf, gripping a club like it was a foreign object, she was starting to regret talking all that trash.

Across from her, Solo leaned against the railing, arms crossed, watching her with that unreadable expression of his. Calm. Unbothered. A silent wall of confidence that made her itch to knock him down a peg.

“C’mon, Josephhhhh,” Rhea taunted, using his real name on purpose, just to get a rise out of him. “You scared I might embarrass you in front of all these people?”

Solo exhaled a short breath—his version of a laugh. “Nah. Just waiting for you to actually hit the ball.”

Rhea narrowed her eyes at him before setting her stance again. She swung—wildly. The club barely clipped the ball, sending it skidding a few feet across the turf instead of soaring into one of the targets like she’d intended.

Solo’s low chuckle rumbled from his chest. “You done?”

Rhea gritted her teeth, adjusting her grip. “Nah. That was just a warm-up.”

Solo didn’t respond, just nodded at the screen tracking their scores. He hadn’t even taken a shot yet, but somehow, she already felt like she was losing.

By the time she finally managed to hit a halfway decent shot, Solo had stepped up to take his turn. No stance adjustments. No hesitation. Just a smooth, effortless swing that sent the ball flying into the farthest target.

The scoreboard updated instantly. A perfect shot.

Rhea scoffed. “Alright, so you’ve done this before.”

Solo smirked. “Maybe.”

She groaned. “I hate you.”

“Not my fault you suck at golf.”

Their competitive streak took over from there. Rhea refused to let him win without a fight, so she tried every trick she could think of—adjusting her grip, watching tutorials on her phone when Solo wasn’t looking, even taking pointers from the overly friendly employee who kept checking in on them.

None of it mattered. Solo was in a league of his own, landing shot after shot with precision that made her want to throw her club into the netting.

By the last round, she was one point away from losing their bet. If she won, Solo would have to wear her entrance gear—spiked leather jacket and all—for a full week. If she lost, she’d have to post a video publicly declaring him the better athlete.

No way in hell was she letting that happen.

With a deep breath, she took her final shot. The ball sailed further than any of her others, landing right in the target she needed. She threw her arms up in victory, turning to Solo with a smug grin.

“Boom! Top that, Sikoa.”

Solo didn’t even flinch. He stepped up, took his shot without a word, and watched as the ball landed in the exact same target—but in the center, scoring just enough to push him over her.

Rhea’s jaw dropped. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

Solo finally smiled, shaking his head as he turned to her. “Better luck next time, champ.”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I’m never gonna live this down.”

“Nah,” Solo agreed. “And I’m picking bowling next time.”

She’d lost, but at least she had another shot at revenge.

Rhea followed Solo toward the exit, still grumbling about her loss. He didn’t say much—he never did—but the smirk tugging at his lips was enough to drive her up the damn wall.

“You know,” she started, catching up to him, “if we’re talking real sports, I’d wipe the floor with you.”

Solo didn’t even look at her. “That so?”

“Yeah,” she huffed. “Put me in the ring with you, see what happens.”

He let out a short breath, something like amusement, but didn’t argue. Instead, he grabbed her by the wrist just before they reached the parking lot, tugging her to a stop.

“You mad?” he asked, low and teasing.

Rhea scoffed. “I don’t get mad.”

Solo raised a brow. “You were about to throw your club off the balcony.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was considering it. There’s a difference.”

For a moment, they just stood there, her pulse still thrumming from the rush of competition. Solo, calm as ever, held her gaze with that quiet intensity of his. He wasn’t one for trash talk, but he didn’t have to be. He knew he’d won, and he was letting her sit with that.

She stepped closer, tilting her head. “You really think you’re better than me?”

Solo didn’t back up, didn’t react beyond a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think,” he said simply. “I know.”

Rhea hated how that sent a thrill down her spine. Maybe it was the competition, maybe it was just him—the way he was so effortlessly composed when she was nothing but fire and sharp edges.

“Mm,” she hummed, considering him for a second longer.

Then, before she could overthink it, she grabbed the front of his hoodie and pulled him down into a kiss.

It wasn’t soft—not with her. It was playful, teasing, the way she was when she wanted something. Solo didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just let her kiss him like she had a point to prove.

When she finally leaned back, she grinned. “There. I win.”

Solo blinked once, slow and unreadable. Then he leaned down, barely a breath away from her lips.

“Not yet,” he murmured.

And then he kissed her.

Slower this time, deliberate, like he was proving his own point. It sent a rush through her stomach, stealing whatever snarky comeback she had loaded up. When he pulled back, there was that damn smirk again.

“Now I win,” he said.

Rhea stared at him for half a second before laughing, shaking her head. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You still down for bowling?”

She shoved his shoulder, but her grin hadn’t faded. “I’m taking you down next time.”

Solo just shrugged, already heading for the car. “We’ll see.”

She narrowed her eyes but followed, already plotting her next move. Maybe she’d let him win again—just to see what else she could get out of him.

#rhea and solo #solo sikoa #solo #rhea x solo #solo x rhea #rysblurb #one shot #rhea ripley fanfic #solo sikoa fanfiction #wwe the bloodline #wwe fanfiction

30 notes · View notes

v-ternus · 2 years ago

Text

*that* SwissDew video

So ughhhhhhhh, yall saw that right?!?!? Anyways. It made me start thinking. And then my brain did some thinking with @iamthecomet And our combined thinking has now left me with 1.5k words of nasty.

Under the cut for your reading pleasure :)

The stage lights barely have a chance to dim before Swiss is herding Dew backstage, hand on his back, planted firmly.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dew snarls as he’s accidentally shoved into the shoulder of an unsuspecting techie. Swiss swings his head back to mumble a half-assed apology, only to keep moving forward. He doesnt dignify the question with a response beyond plastering a shit-eating grin across his face.

The rest of the walk back to the dressing room goes by quickly and Dew is practically thrown in right as he turns the doorknob. He tries to find his balance but his boots catch on a part of the scrunched up carpet and it sends him to the floor. He falls hard, dropping all of his weight onto his knees. He’s sure they’ll be black and blue by the end of the night.

Swiss closes the door behind them and postures himself right in front of Dew.

“Infront of everyone?” Dew grits through his question, jaw clenched at the disaster that Swiss could’ve caused.

Swiss brings a hand up to cradle Dew’s face and coos as he thumbs across his heated cheeks. “Dont pretend like you didnt like it bug.” Dew has no rebuttal. Because of course he liked it—

He liked the way Swiss’ hand splayed over his hip and waist in an attempt to hold him steady while his other hand gripped his cock. He liked when Swiss dug his fangs into his tense flesh.

He especially liked the way the fans cheered as he was gropped in front of them all.

He’s been hard since then, struggling to play his parts with each second that passed by. He almost missed his cues because he couldnt walk without his guitar rubbing against him.

Dew is pulled out of his head when Swiss drops himself down to his knees, loosely interlacing his legs with Dew’s. His free hands falls to the front of Dew’s uniform and palms at his crotch. Dew looks down and the sight makes him whine. Swiss’ hand covers up so much of his lap. Its as if they both thought the same, cause Dew swears he heard Swiss laugh.

“Stop teasing bitch,” he tries to sound unamused, aggressive even. But he fails. His voice wavers as Swiss squeezes his throbbing cock particularly harder.

“But its fun to watch you like this,” Swiss says as he kneads at Dew. They both know he could be meaner, mean enough to leave Dew achingly hard and alone, but thats not what Swiss wants right now.

He palms at Dew for a mere moment longer before he finally starts unlacing his pants. He works the garments down just enough for Dew’s cock to spring up towards his vest, the ruddy tip spreading his slick across the delicate velvet.

Swiss drags a finger along the short length, tracing along the vein that runs on the underside, stopping at the spot right under the head. He makes Dew hiss when he presses against down and watches as a bead of pre wells up at the tip.

“You’re an asshole.” Swiss chuckles again, loving the way Dew squirms and protests under his touch. “I know.”

He gives Dew no time to adjust— he just sends things from zero to a hundred. The teasing and feather light touches turn into a warm hand completely wrapping around his cock and slowly stroking from root to tip. The pleasure is a relief, and he makes sure to share his enjoyment. Breathy moans freely fall from his lips and they sound like music to Swiss' ears.

“You sound so pretty Dew.” Swiss sounds like he means every word.

“Fuck you.”

Swiss tightens his grip before tutting his disappointment. His eyes cast over Dew with a stern, cold look on his face. “That’s a bit rude isnt it?” Dew tries to ignore the game Swiss is playing at.

“But I think I'm feeling really generous right now princess,”

“Dont call me that.” Anything but that, Dew thinks.

Swiss brings his free hand up to thumb at the base of one of Dew’s horns. Its nice, nice enough that a low purr rumbles through him. But whatever softness he was basking in goes up in flames as Swiss uses said horn to wrench his head back. His neck bends at an unnatural angle and he feels exposed.

“Shh baby, Daddy knows what’s best, doesnt he?” Swiss’ voice drips thick, laced with poison that floods Dew’s bloodstream.

Swiss leans forward to rest his forehead against Dew’s.

A sinister smile creeps over Swiss’ face as he moves his grip to wrap around Dew’s dick and balls. Much to Dew's displeasure, he squeezes. Really squeezes. And hell it fucking hurts. Tears threaten to fall from the corners of Dew's eyes. He winces and tries to pull himself backwards, away from the pain. But all it does is tug against his already tender groin.

“Here’s how this is going to work baby,” Dew breathes through the pain and focuses on the deep voice weaving into his hazy mind. He listens to the sounds of sin and depravity and it reminds him of all of their other nights spent like this– Swiss just taking him apart, putting him through the thick of it until he has proper streaks of tears working down his chiseled features.

“You get to cum whenever you’re ready,” Dew’s breath hitches, sensing a trap. There’s gotta be a catch to this. Dew manages to make eye contact and he’s surprised by what stares back at him. The golden eyes trained on him have suddenly gone soft, donning a warmer, less threatening gaze. Had it been any other night, it would be endearing, but tonight, its nothing better than a threat.

“You just gotta fuck this cute little clit into my fist, how’s that sound Princess?”

There it is.

Dew nods mindlessly. Says anything and agrees to it all, just to get the crushing grip away from his jewels.

“Yeah… whatever. Fuck, just let go.” Having finally gotten his answer, Swiss’ hand withdraws and returns with a kinder touch. This time, the hand moves to cup Dew’s balls. He rolls them gently, tugs at them just enough to make Dew groan before backing off again.

“Are you ready princess?” There’s that fucking word again. Swiss doesn't wait for a response, he just sits up, and holds his fist right over Dew’s achingly red dick. Dew takes what's offered and rocks his hips up. The sound he lets out is embarrassing at best— a high, feminine moan that shoots from Swiss’ ears, straight down to his cock. He's now pressed up tight against the seam in his underwear.

Dew keeps rocking, chasing his release so that this can all just be over. The filthy wet noises he's making between them fill the otherwise hushed room.

He can't stop himself from listening to Swiss whisper how pretty he gets like this, or how he cant wait to get back to the hotel so he can dress him up in that lingerie set Aether had bought.

Swiss feels Dew's cock kick at the mere mention of Aether, he files that away for a later date.

“You want me to breed you nice and good after this Dewy? I’ll fill you with my kits, you’d be so full.”

“Shut up,” Dew groans. “Shut up and just let me finish.” His eyes screw up tight and he tries to think of anything else besides Swiss’ words, but it's a futile attempt. The words flash across his mind and echo in his ears.

Swiss can feel how close he is, he can feel each twitch of Dew’s cock when his thrusts press him into Swiss’ hand just right. Dew starts to lose his pace, thrusts quickly becoming uncoordinated ad his breathing becomes more and more ragged.

Swiss watches his quickly pitiful moves and decides to help him out. He starts to jerk him off, doing his best to match the pace of his hips so that his fist bottoms out at the top of his thrusts.

“Are you close my love?” Swiss presses his lips against the side of his mate's face, breathes in his scent, warm and burnt, and presses a kiss to his temple. He hears a pleased hum and knows that this is his chance.

"Whenever you're ready Dewy." Dew tries to speak. He tries to find the words-- any words-- that could describe this moment. But his brain just wont seem to work. All he can do is pant and feel each decadent, wet glide of Swiss' hand over the swollen head of his cock.

"Close. -m close,"

“Go ahead and squirt all over daddy’s hand,” Swiss surprises even himself with how he was able to say the words.

Something inside Dew unravels. He surges forward, digs his claws into Swiss’ sides as he cums. They watch as milky ropes of his spend stripe over Swiss' hand.

Swiss works him through his orgasm, lightly stroking until his cock is drained of all he has to give. He only stops when Dew twitches from overstimulation.

Some of his cum drips down to the floor and Swiss groans in disappointment. There's always next time.

The multi ghoul leans forward and crashes his lips into Dew's. The kiss is lazy and there's no sense of urgency to go along with it. They just kneel in the middle of the room, and lap at whatever parts they can reach.

Swiss pulls back and catches an eyeful of Dew’s puffy red lips and the blissed out look across his face.

“You were so good for me princess.”

Dew feels his cock make a feeble attempt at filling out again– princess.

#nameless ghouls #the band ghost #swiss #dew #swissdew #swiss x dew #dewdrop ghoul #ghost band #fire ghoul #multi ghoul #swisstopher #ghost fic #ghost band fanfic #vee writes #dewdrop ghost #swiss x dewdrop #swiss ghoul #swiss ghost #ghouls

290 notes · View notes

mjonthetrack · 5 days ago

Text

collide

Chapter Five: "Two Different Suns"

Jimmy leaned back against the old leather couch in Jey’s living room, arms crossed, eyes heavy-lidded. The TV buzzed with some loud-ass music video — half-naked girls twerking, gold grills flashing. Noise he wasn’t used to anymore.

"You see her around?" Jimmy finally asked, voice low like the words were almost too heavy to say.

Jey looked up from rolling a blunt, pausing with the leaf paper between his fingers. "Who?"

Jimmy didn’t even gotta say her name. Jey already knew.

He sighed, sitting back. "Nah, bro...not in years."

Jimmy’s jaw ticked.

"After you stopped getting visits...Em came 'round for a little bit," Jey said, voice softer than Jimmy expected. "Still dropped off gifts for Ma...still showed love on birthdays, lil shit like that. But after year five? She dipped."

"Why?"

Jey looked down, started licking the blunt slow, thinking hard. Finally said, "Said it hurt too much. Seein' me was like seein' you...and it was fuckin' her up."

Jimmy stared at the ceiling. Silent. Numb.

Fifteen years inside. He thought about her every day. Some nights, it was the only thing that kept him breathing — just remembering the way she used to say his name all sweet and sharp, like she was mad but still loved him.

He didn’t blame her. He couldn't. He knew pain changed people. He just wished he could’ve told her he never stopped being hers, even if the world made her forget.

"You need a fresh start, bruh," Jey said after a beat, clapping Jimmy on the thigh. "Can’t bring old ghosts into new life."

Jimmy huffed a laugh, dry as hell. "Easy for you to say."

Jey stood up, stretched, tattoos flexing on his arms. "Come on. We gettin' you right."

The barber’s chair felt alien under Jimmy’s weight — like he was a tourist in his own damn body.

"You look like you just did a nickel," the barber cracked, snapping the cape around Jimmy’s neck.

"Try fifteen," Jimmy said without looking up.

The whole shop went quiet for a second. Then a round of low "Damn, bro" and respectful nods rippled through the chairs.

Jey grinned wide, flashing his gold fronts. "This my twin. Fresh out. We gettin' him back on king time."

The clippers buzzed to life. Jimmy watched chunks of his overgrown hair fall to the floor, watched his reflection sharpen in the mirror. The man staring back wasn’t the 19-year-old kid who got cuffed and thrown in a backseat.

He was something else now. Harder. Older. Still standing, though.

After the cut, Jey drove them back to the apartment, kicking the door open like they was teenagers again.

He tossed a black duffel bag at Jimmy’s chest.

"What's this?"

"Open it, fool."

Jimmy unzipped it — saw new kicks, raw denim jeans, fresh white tees, a bomber jacket with gold stitching. Clean, sharp. Oakland king style.

At the bottom of the bag, tucked between a stack of crispy folded hundreds, sat a fat Cuban link chain and a Rolex glinting under the weak apartment light.

Jimmy just stared.

"Been savin' for you, bro," Jey said, shrugging like it wasn't a big deal. "Every hustle, every flip...made sure you had somethin' when you touched down."

Jimmy felt something crawl up his throat — pride, grief, love — but he swallowed it down.

"Can't rock that county blues no more," Jey joked, nudging him. "Time to look like money again."

Jimmy grinned for the first real time since breathing free air. "Appreciate you, Jayce."

"Ain't nothin'," Jey said, bumping fists with him. "Now let's get you outside. Let 'em know Big Uso back."

Meanwhile, across town, Emori was pressing a hot comb through a client’s thick roots, the hiss of steam and hair grease filling the shop.

Her hands worked on autopilot, quick, practiced. Each movement precise.

She kept one ear tuned to the gossip floating around — baby daddy drama, somebody’s cousin fighting at a block party, rumors about a new plug setting up shop.

Nothing about Jimmy.

Not that she was looking. Not that she was listening. Not that she still dreamed about him sometimes, waking up tangled in sweat and silence, her heart racing like she was still seventeen.

The dryer buzzed, the phone rang, the music played. Life moved on.

And Emori Carter moved with it.

Stone-faced. Steady. Unbreakable.

Because that's what the hood made you when it stole all the things you couldn't get back.

Chapter Six: "Stack or Starve"

The buzz of the tattoo gun was a steady hum in the back of Jey’s small studio — a legit spot set up in a converted storefront down near 84th, tucked between a smoke shop and an old-ass laundromat.

Jimmy leaned back in the chair, arms relaxed at his sides, face tight as the needle dragged across his skin.

"Quit actin' like you ain't been through worse," Jey teased, sitting steady behind him, the gun dancing over Jimmy's thick forearm, black ink swallowing old faded prison tattoos one by one.

"Ain't about the pain," Jimmy muttered. "It's about you heavy-handed as fuck."

Jey cracked up, the laugh rattling in his chest. "Gotta make sure it stick, Uso."

Jimmy chuckled too, that rare sound pulling out of him unguarded.

He watched the mirror across the room, saw his reflection — saw the new ink crawling up his arm, thick Polynesian tribal pieces, scriptures of faith and survival inked into his chest, a roaring lion stitched over his heart.

The prison tats — the shaky letters, the broken crowns, the marks of hard years — disappeared under the real art.

A fresh canvas.

Fresh everything.

By the end of the week, Jimmy had full sleeves, a covered chest, ink up his neck, his hands, even a few pieces running down his ribs and over his thighs. The man who walked into that shop was gone.

And for the first time in fifteen years, Jimmy was making real money.

$150 for a forearm tat. $300 for custom back pieces. Tips fat enough to make a man dizzy.

He kept his hands clean. Let Jey handle whatever street shit still floated around the edges — he wasn’t stupid. He knew Jey was still flipping small packs here and there.

But Jimmy stayed out of that lane.

Ink and hustle. That was it.

Across the city, Emori was peeling a lace front off a client’s scalp, wiping her hands down with alcohol pads, brain already spinning about the next shipment of shea butter and clip-ins she needed to order.

Same grind, different day.

She locked up the salon around nine, swinging next door to the beauty supply to check receipts, count drawers. Keke had left a note taped to the register: "Short twenty dollars — kid snatched a pack of durags. Sorry, Em."

She sighed, crumpling the note and tossing it.

In the hood, some shit never changed.

As she clicked through the inventory on the computer, her phone lit up. She glanced down.

Montez.

She rolled her eyes so hard she gave herself a headache.

She hit Ignore and went back to her screen.

Ten minutes later, the store bell jingled. She looked up.

Speak of the damn devil.

Montez stood there in a bubble jacket way too big for spring, his Timberlands heavy on the polished floor, a chain swinging over his shirt. Still fine in a dusty, low-budget kind of way.

"Em," he said, flashing a grin he probably thought still worked.

"Store's closed," she said without missing a beat, locking the drawer with a hard click.

"Come on, don’t be like that," he said, walking closer, hands spread like he was innocent. "Been thinkin’ 'bout you."

"That’s too bad," she said dryly, grabbing her keys.

Montez chuckled like he was used to getting curved. "Ain't nobody else compare, Mo. You know that."

She paused, bag slung over her shoulder. Looked him dead in the face.

"Tez...you was never competition for nobody," she said, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "You was just a chapter. One I barely even read."

He flinched a little, that male ego cracking. "Man...whatever."

She smiled, cold as ice. "Exactly."

She walked past him, flipped the CLOSED sign, locked the door, and never looked back.

Jimmy sat on the curb outside the shop, a sandwich clutched in one hand, a fat wad of cash tucked deep in his pocket. His body ached in the good way — tired, but fed, but free.

The city buzzed around him — cars whipping by, kids popping wheelies on beat-up bikes, girls laughing too loud across the street.

He caught a glimpse of something bright in the corner of his eye — a small crowd of girls ducking into a beauty supply two blocks down.

He thought about Em again. How she used to braid her hair with those little gold beads. How she used to wear bamboo hoops big enough to catch dreams.

Jimmy dragged his eyes back to his sandwich. Took a bite.

Told himself to focus.

Told himself she was just a memory.

But somewhere deep down, he already knew:

You don’t forget your first love.

Especially when she the only real thing you ever had.

Chapter Seven: "Building Kingdoms Outta Concrete"

The sun baked the cracked sidewalks as Jimmy popped the door of the Impala, fresh off the lot — not brand new, but clean, smooth, reliable. Dark gray, shining under the spring sun like a second chance.

He tossed his keys in his palm, chain swinging heavy over his fitted white tee, fresh ink peeking out from under his sleeves.

"Man, look at you," Jey said, sliding into the passenger seat. "Out here lookin' like you never missed a beat."

Jimmy smirked, adjusting the rearview mirror. "Told you. Grown man moves only."

They laughed, that deep brother laugh that only twins knew.

And when they pulled up to their new spot — a duplex on the east side, still the hood, but the kind where lawns got cut and kids rode scooters instead of carrying burners — Jimmy sat back for a second just soaking it in.

Big windows. A tiny patch of backyard. A front door that didn’t creak when you opened it.

He gripped the steering wheel, breathing deep.

Freedom smelled like hot concrete and pine cleaner.

Across the strip, Emori was finalizing the paperwork at the bank, tapping her nails against the counter.

It felt surreal — owning not just her salon, not just her beauty supply, but now the empty brick building at the end of the block.

The deed had her name on it.

Emori Monique Carter.

She didn’t even know what she was gonna put there yet — maybe a braiding academy, maybe a juice bar, maybe a lil daycare for the mamas who needed somewhere safe to leave their babies while they hustled.

All she knew was: she ran that strip now.

From the dusty end near the liquor store all the way down to the newly painted crosswalks.

It was hers.

Blood, tears, sacrifice.

"Congratulations, Miss Carter," the banker smiled, sliding the final paperwork across the desk.

Emori signed it, steady hand, no hesitation.

"Appreciate you," she said, voice cool, even though her heart was pounding like she just scored the winning shot at state.

Later that afternoon, Jimmy parked the Impala outside a new barbershop two blocks away from his old stomping grounds — word on the street was they needed someone to do ink and he was ready to stack even higher.

As he crossed the street, head down, sunglasses on, a small group of women laughed their way past him, shopping bags swinging from their arms.

He didn't look up — too focused on his feet, the sidewalk, the next move.

But if he had...he would've seen her.

Emori, walking with her head high, a slow proud strut, big hoops gleaming, her curls bouncing, a bag from the city recorder’s office clutched in her manicured hand.

She laughed at something Keke said beside her, flashing that smile Jimmy used to dream about.

They passed within ten feet of each other.

Two old souls, two broken hearts, ships in the daylight.

Neither looked up. Neither saw.

But something in the air shifted, like the city itself was holding its breath.

Later that night, Jimmy sat on the back steps of the duplex, a cold beer sweating in his palm, the sky stretched deep and purple overhead.

"You ever wonder...what if?" he asked Jey, voice almost a whisper.

Jey shrugged, flicking ash off his blunt. "Only thing that matter is what is."

Jimmy nodded, quiet.

He wasn’t nineteen anymore. Wasn't dreaming about the future in a backseat with a gun under the seat.

He was thirty-four. Fresh out. Flesh and blood and breath.

And somewhere out there...she was too.

Meanwhile, Emori sat cross-legged on her worn velvet couch, still in her sweats, hair tied up, the new deed resting on the coffee table like a damn trophy.

She sipped cheap wine out of a Mason jar, scrolling through business ideas on her iPad.

Ignoring Montez’s fifth "You up?" text of the night.

The hood didn’t give easy wins.

You had to take them, clutch them tight, and pray they didn’t slip out your fingers.

And Emori Monique Carter?

She wasn’t letting go of a damn thing.

Not this time.

#x black oc #romance #jimmy uso fanfiction #jimmy uso x black oc #mature fic

12 notes · View notes