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yeyinde · 4 months ago

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my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around.

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry.

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long.

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare.

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for.

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried.

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could.

Domineering. Grossly possessive.

He has you already, but that's not enough.

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be.

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse.

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out.

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life.

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous.

Dismissive.

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe.

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only.

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm.

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time.

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy.

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time.

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away.

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content.

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him.

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile.

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce.

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut.

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable.

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct.

Good girl.

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye.

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

#*infidelity but does it really count when your wife is getting in the way of your family 🙄#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #while i def have my suspicions that white ariana is the anti-christ i did listen to needy on repeat while writing this #captain john price #john price #captain price #pricefics

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yandere-daydreams · 1 month ago

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tw - unreality, eldritch!yandere, prolonged captivity, implied nsfw, and voyeurism.

You might’ve been the only one left.

If there was another living person in town, they were either too assimilated or too well hidden to find. Everyone else – the unliving, the possessed, the altered – had that glassy sheen over their eyes, that thoughtless smile painted over their lips, that sense of connected omniscience that meant you could walk into a café you’d never visited before and the beaming barista would already know your name, your order, and your mother’s address. There were no strangers anymore, not really, no differentiation between your closest friend and your coldest acquaintance. Everyone knew everything, especially about you.

You still went to work, for some reason. There wasn’t really a point. What few responsibilities you had as a professional pencil pusher dried up months ago, leaving you in a state of white-collar limbo. Occasionally, you’d get an email, but the message was always disjointed and nonsensical, like filler text in a bad office simulator game. Sometimes, your phone would ring, but there’d only ever be heavy breathing and the muffled sound of wet flesh hitting stone on the other side. After a while, you stopped answering.

Your boss would stop by your cubicle, make small talk over lukewarm coffee. He was the attractive, older type – all grey-streaked hair and tailored suits. He used to hate you. You couldn’t remember when he change his mind.

“We’re grabbing a round of drinks on the company card tonight,” he explained. “To celebrate the end of another tough week.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“It’s the least I could do. You’re such a hard worker, (Y/n).”

You glanced up from the sticky note you were currently folding into a paper crane. This would be your forty-seventh attempt. “I am?”

He laughed as if you’d said the funniest thing in the world and rested a hand on your arm, leaning in a little too close for comfort. “So, you’re coming?”

“I’d rather gauge my own eyes out.”

“Sounds like a date.” He squeezed your shoulder before drawing back. “We’ll be waiting.”

You didn’t go. You would stop coming in a few days later, but the phone calls followed you home.

Not that ‘home’ had ever meant safety. The infection had seeped into the architecture, gotten control of the roots. There were swaths of days where you didn’t – couldn’t – leave, every door disappearing and every window sealing itself shut, trapping you in. Others, it almost seemed to force you out – every wall suddenly glass and every door hanging open despite your best attempts to keep them closed. You’d find a fully stocked fridge suddenly empty, or every word of your favorite paperback abruptly replaced with encouraging messages to stretch your legs, get fresh air, go outside. Once, you even tried to leave town altogether. Your car broke down after the first mile, so you walked in an endlessly straight line, never turning, never looking back, never stopping. Somehow, you found yourself on your own doorstep, door open wide as if welcoming you back.

You spent that night on your lawn, sobbing into the grass while your neighbors formed a uniform circle around you, watching. Guarding. Smiling.

Things devolved quickly. You tried your hand at burning down a local bookstore, but the clerk stood beside you all the while, snuffing out every match you managed to light. You poured yourself drinks at up-town bars and slept in velvet-lined booths, never so much as attempting to pay your tab. You skinny-dipped in a mall fountain during peak hours, bathing under cheap plastic skylights and harsh fluorescents. No one paid you a second glance. There were no kids in town anymore, and everyone seemed to glow with a sort of unnatural, off-putting beauty. Like they were grooming themselves to your preferences. Like the town was preening itself to better capture your attention.

You sat in the corner of an old-fashioned diner, staring silently at the table while a handful of other customers pretend to talk amongst themselves around you - the inflections familiar but the words gibberish. Thirty minutes passed before a waitress wandered over, notebook in hand and smile wide enough to strain. “What can I get for you, darlin’?”

“I want to leave.”

“Afraid that’s not on the menu.”

“Then tell what you want. Why you’re keeping me here.”

“Coming right up, sugar.”

A silver platter too nice to be in a place like this was brought to your table. A golden wedding band stood solitary one side and, on the other, bridal lingerie, nearly folded and white as a dove.

Your stomach dropped. You considered getting up, going home, but that wouldn’t have made a difference. You were surrounded, cornered, imprisoned.

And eventually, you would have to reckon with the needs of your warden.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere oc #yandere monster #yandere eldritch #yandere drabble #monster x reader #eldritch horror x reader

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nightingfright · 7 months ago

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Simon “ghost” riley is a watcher. he likes to stare a lot, at your face, your body, but especially when you’re masturbating.

Some days he just doesn’t feel like a person worthy of touching you his angel so he becomes his moniker, walking around your shared flat like a ghost.

It was a complete accident the first time, you hadn’t heard from him that he was back.he wanted to just come home and sleep, to wake up to your face and warm breakfast and shake off the horrors of his job.

His mind was still on autopilot, steps silent, as he pushed open the door to your shared bedroom, he’d expected you to be asleep. Instead, you were splayed out on the bed, fingers deftly pleasuring your sex, your phone playing a home movie the two of you had made a few days before he was deployed.

You didn’t notice him at first, lost in the pleasure that had you dripping arousal onto the sheets. He hasn’t expected that sight. Sure, you’d got off in front of him before, but somewhere back in his mind, Simon preened at the sight of you watching those videos for your own pleasure.

He finally moved into your line of sight, and after the brief flicker of fear that there was someone in your room, your eyes lit up.You moved to go greet him, but he stopped you with a hand. “keep going, love.” He wasn’t your Simon just yet.

He watched with analyzing eyes as you laid back, parting your thighs just a bit more so he could see every dip and swell of your body, committing every twitch and moan to his memory.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #simon riley smut #simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader #call of duty #fright writes

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mattsundaes · 10 months ago

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red feathers fan across your line of sight, blocking the television from view as keigo chirps, "hey baby, what do you wanna order for din—"

"shhhhhh."

leaning forward off of the couch, you grab keigo by the pocket of his sweatpants and tug him sideways out of the way. he blinks, letting out a small huff before unceremoniously collapsing onto the cushion beside you, face smushed against your shoulder.

"imagine if you liked paying attention to your boyfriend as much as you like watching your sho—"

"keigo!"

his wings droop, and he groans, sliding even lower to drop his head face down in your lap.

"AND NEXT UP, WE'VE GOT TODAY'S SPECIAL SEGMENT ON THE NUMBER TWO HERO...HAWKS!"

keigo perks up and rolls over, eyes darting from the footage of his skyscraper fire rescue the other day to the proud smile on your face as you stare at the screen.

his feathers ruffle, and he preens.

"you know you've got the real thing right in fron—"

this time, when you place a finger over his lips and continue to ignore him, he just rolls his eyes and grins, making himself comfortable in your lap.

#hawks x reader #hawks #keigo takami #keigo takami x reader #dee writes #my hero academia #rambling: k. takami

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drgnflyteabox · 5 months ago

Text

daddy cool ⋆˙⟡

john price x fem!reader summary: “I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.” ↪or the one in which hairy muscle daddy john price asks you to show him your skills disco style tags/warnings: 70s clubbing, body hair is a central theme, scent kink, daddy kink, deepthroating, rough oral (m), cigars, some alcohol, manipulation if you squint,vaginal fingering + sex, a bit of exhibition kink but not really at all (one line), 'little' not used as a size indicator, dom/sub, oral (f), tiny gape mention

“I think he’s interested in you,” Debbie whisper-screams in your ear. It’s hard to hear her over the boom of the drums, over the four on the floor beat and soaring voices.

“Really?”

“Girl,” she laughs, incredulous. You look over your shoulder and sure enough he’s fixing you with a stare hot enough to burn through steel.

He’s flanked by two others, but you hardly notice them. You’re staring right into the deep V of his open shirt, at the fur peeking out of it, at the pink of his tongue as it swipes his bottom lip under his mustache. Sinful.

The booth he’s sitting in is draped with orange translucent curtains, creating some illusion of privacy. No overhead lights, either, just a soft cave and dark burgundy leather. Perfect for a bear like him.

“Should I go over there?” you whisper-scream back, curling closer to Debbie, “he’s a bonafide stud.”

She laughs, throwing her long hair over her shoulder, “yeah he is, and he’s looking at you, girl.”

You peek again. He’s smiling this time, like someone who knew you’d look twice. Beyond his shirt, his pants are so goddamn tight you can see almost everything. Christ, who let him out of the house looking like that?

“I’m gonna go over,” you say before you can stop yourself.

A saxophone disco beat booms through the club, thrumming right through you down to your toes, which you move to dance your way to him. Debbie laughs behind you, disappearing into the crowd.

Your hips go side to side, your teeth bite your bottom lip, and you fix him with what you hope is a clear message; you’re hot.

He stays exactly where he is. There’s a smugness about him now, the same smugness you saw when you looked twice.

You can’t really blame him for it. Someone that looks like that is bound to expect attention, desire.

God, he’s just your type. A quiet kind of arrogance, one arm slung over the back of the booth as he lifts a cigar up to his mouth and puffs. Lazily, like a big lion that knows he doesn’t have to hunt to get his food.

“Hello, love,” he says slowly when you get close enough. You’re still bouncing to the music, but you lean forward to hear him better.

“Interested in me, are you?” you’re going for a coy, simpering kind of approach. Something about him makes you want to lay it on thick, want to seduce. To preen a little.

His knuckles are dark in the lighting, hairy and tough like he works with his hands, which you catch as he pats the booth beside him.

You hadn’t even noticed his companions leaving.

“Saw you dancing,” he lifts a glass from the table, dark liquid, his mustache getting wet, “thought you might be interested, too.”

“You thought right,” you slide in beside him, the leather seat cool even through your tight bootcut pants. You tilt your knees towards him, lifting an elbow to match his on the back of the booth.

Reds, yellows, oranges dance on his skin. The occasional sparkle of the disco ball peeks through, but mostly it filters through the orange booth curtains and spreads into an archipelago of little bright spots. This lighting agrees with him, accentuates the best parts, makes them look darker and more defined. You’d feel like a pervert looking down his shirt if he wasn’t also doing the same to you.

“Name’s John, love,” and when you tell him yours he says, “that’s fitting.”

“So, what do you do?” boring, typical– but it’s all you’ve got. You’re surprised you can get words out at all with the drool pooling in your mouth. This close, you can see how his shirt strains where his shoulders move. A little too small, but it’s probably on purpose.

Should be illegal, honestly.

His eyes crinkle in the corners. He’s the kind of guy whose entire face changes when he smiles, who looks disarmingly more approachable that way.

“I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.”

“Talent?” you cross one leg over the other, trilling internally with satisfaction when you see his eyes fall to your thighs.

You know you aren’t being subtle in the least– and you aren’t trying to be. But you won’t say anything outright, not yet, not while the anticipation feels this tasty.

The booth isn’t private, but it is insulated. The music is loud, but not too loud, just enough that it thrums through you, that you can hear him. Anita Ward croons in your ear, encouraging you. He can ring your bell, that’s for sure.

“That’s right,” he puffs again. The smell makes you lightheaded.

“Moviestars, you mean?” you roll your ankle around, watching him watch you, wondering if he likes the polish colour you picked.

You like that he’s visibly affected; licking his lips, that meaty hand climbing higher up his thigh.

“Something like that, love,” he smiles again, leans back in the booth and launches a counter attack to your leggy flirtations – he spreads those legs, feet pointed out, hunched just so that his belly starts poking out of those sinfully tight pants.

Motherfucker.

Looking back up at him, his eyes are crinkled at you, head tilted forward. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Which movies have you produced?” you lean your head on your hand, looking at him through your lashes, “anything I’ve seen?”

“I hope so,�� he hums. His eyes flit down to your feet again, up to your midriff, then back to your eyes– it’s hot, but it’s also not just a flirtation. He’s assessing, “have you seen Swan Lady? The Nun and the Two Vikings?”

You frown, “no, I haven’t heard of either.”

“How about Call of Duty: Servicing the Captain?”

Ah, it clicks. Your eyebrows go up, into your hairline, “you make pornos?”

“Aye, smart girl,” he gruffs.

Pornos, huh. You could laugh– he looks the part. A little sleazy, unabashed. Masculine not to the point of parody but it’s close. The ‘stache is in style, but in combination with everything else is just the cherry on top.

You only have one question, “you don’t star in any?”

“I prefer working behind the scenes,” something about the way he says behind feels filthy.

John tells all. He does scout, finds girls who want to have a good time (like you), and gently (or so he says) nudges them in front of the camera. I can always sniff ‘em out, he says. The ones that’ll do well on film, that have star quality.

“How can you tell?” you ask, lips pulling on your straw. John has ordered you a tequila sunrise.

You can’t help but trace the skin of his neck with your eyes, roving at the bob of his Adam's apple as he explains. Girls who can take the gloves off, so to speak. Says he can tell by the way they move, how free they are with their bodies.

A little dubious, but it’s honestly doing it for you. You wonder what he saw when you danced up to him, if the sway of your body was free, liberated.

Doesn’t take long at all for him to invite you out either way. John puts his hand on your knee and squeezes, gets real close, gruffs that his place is nearby.

“What do you say, sweetheart?” and of course the only answer is yes, please.

Boney M. soars around you as you follow him out, your hand holding his, your fingers stroking the hairs on his knuckles.

She’s crazy for her daddy!

On the drive over, he keeps that big paw on your thigh, squeezing almost subconsciously. Just the flex of his fingers.

You widen your knees, hoping for that rough palm to slide upwards, glancing at John as he drives one-handed. Not your first rodeo going home with a man from the disco, but it sure is the first time you’ve felt so keyed up about it.

He’s huge, takes up an absurd amount of room in the car, knee knocking into yours. He even drives sexy, so sure and in control.

“You think I could be in one of your movies?” you say, impish, looking to provoke.

John glances at you for just a second too long, too intense. You can tell he’s picturing you in front of the cameras.

“That what you want?”

“Just picturing it,” you simper, shifting your knee to deliberately touch him again. His fingers flex against your thigh again, jaw moving.

The air is warm, breezy, lights passing by like twinkling firebugs. You roll your window down, smiling at the feeling.

“Oh you're picturing it, are you? Is that making you wet, sweetheart?”

Fuck. It certainly is now.

“Only if you can be my co-star.”

“Is that right?” he laughs, low and deep. His hand climbs higher, “‘fraid I’m just the recruiter, but I’ll have to do a quality test.”

“Quality test?”

“Mm,” he hums, “need to make sure you’re ready for the camera, don’t I? You think you’ve got star quality, then prove it.”

Your panties are sticky.

“I can do that,” you breathe.

“Yeah? Can you prove you can show off your star quality for me, sweetheart?” his fingers slide, achingly slow, to the gusset of your pants, “that you can look into that camera and show the world you’re a good girl?”

They press against you, right up against your clit through the fabric. You fight to stay still, to not come across like you’re desperate, but god it’s hard. You ache.

“Mhm,” you breathe, subtly tilting your hips forward as he idly pets your pussy.

“Not an answer,” he says firmly. Butterflies dance in your stomach, the air slowly being siphoned out, leaving you hot and bothered. John is barely affected, it seems, driving still, gliding through the night.

“Sorry,” you swallow, “I can do that, daddy.”

“Much better.”

“Still want to prove it to me, love?” he moves to a glass cabinet, pulling out a little box. It opens with a click, revealing a neat row of thick cigars.

“Yes,” you stand in the middle of his living room, appreciating the atmosphere he’s made; low lighting, oranges, reds everywhere. Brown leather and the heady smell of cigar smoke, of leather polish and an incense-y kind of musk.

He walks back towards you, brand new cigar between his fingers, steps heavy on the carpet. You’re made aware of the height difference when he stands right in front of you, looking down not unkindly.

Your skin prickles at his gaze, the same one from the club; that assessment. Like he’s measuring you, testing you, scanning you.

John leans forward, breath puffing lightly across your face. He smells like his house does, only there’s a bit of whiskey mixed in.

You can’t help but squirm just a little, thighs rubbing together, both to relieve the pulsing ache of your pussy and that it’s impossible to stay composed under that gaze.

“Drop down,” he says finally, “to your knees, sweetheart.”

From your knees, you get a good fucking look at those tight pants– at the bulge in them. The hair on his chest sticks out a little, too, peeking at you from above. Hot. So hot.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, daddy,” you bite your lip again.

“Keep those hands down, alright?” he leans to the side and picks up a cigar lighter, watching you as he lights up.

John stands over you, new cigar lit, plumes of smoke drifting from his fingers. His expression is neutral, though he hums in a pleased way as he strokes the softness of your cheek.

“Take me out,” he commands.

You lean forward with your mouth, unable to resist giving him a good long sniff before you pull at his zipper with your teeth. He smells good, musky and strong, a little cologne there but mostly it’s natural.

When your teeth gently take his briefs, pulling, he cups the back of your head with a big hand and strokes your hair.

“Are you going to take it all, sweetheart? Right down your throat?”

You let his cock flop out of his underwear, heavy. The bush surrounding it makes your mouth water. It looks so good, long and a little curved, bouncing as if it’s teasing you.

You nod finally, hands squeezed into fists in your lap just the way he asked, “yes, daddy.”

“That’s my girl. Are you going to give daddy’s cock a little kiss first?”

You lean forward, lips pursed, planting a little kiss on the mushroom head of his cock. Though you ache to lick your lips, to taste him, you wait.

“That’s a good little girl,” he murmurs, “open your mouth.”

You do, holding your tongue out.

He grips the base, holding his cock up, tapping your tongue with the head. You almost whine, before he grips your head firmer and holds you still so he can slide the entire length of that monster right to the back of your throat.

Your nose hits his pubic bone, buried in the coarse hairs there, overwhelmed, hands balling into fists.

“That’s right,” he grunts, “hold it right there, sweetheart, show me you’ve got what it takes.”

God, he’s all the way in, a perfect fit. You try to stay still, anchoring yourself to him, to his palm, to the possibility of hearing good girl.

You gag a little, coughing around him, tears burning at your eyes as drool plip plops onto your chest.

Finally, he pulls out, stroking your hair, “good girl, such a good girl. Ready?”

“Yes,” you garble around the heady of his cock, clit swollen and needy, hands pressing hard into your thighs, “please fuck my face, daddy.”

He does, his pistoning, fucking your mouth like it’s a cunt. His hand cradles the back of your head, pushing you, hips moving, grunting when he’s not taking the occasional puff of his cigar.

You throb in your panties, body scorching hot, gagging every so often around the thick meat of John’s cock. Drool falls in viscous strings, tears following, the world dropping away.

Nothing else but the slide of his cock in and out of your mouth exists, matters.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he pants raggedly.

You have no idea how long he lasts, only that when he’s finished you're an absolute mess. Wet faced and panting.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, wiping the tears from your cheeks with his rough thumbs. You look up at him through your clumped lashes, mouth open, “did so well for me, hm?”

“Thank you, daddy,” your voice is a little gravelly, but not painful.

John pulls you up with a hand at your bicep, walking you down a hallway off his living room and towards an open door.

It’s his bedroom– and it’s decorated exactly as you’d imagined it.

The bed is huge, kingsized with a radio inlay and a thick, padded headboard that extends all around the mattress in a kind of cradle. His sheets are silk, dark, and dark orange.

“Nice digs,” you laugh, “you sure you aren’t a pornstar?”

He laughs behind you, setting his lit cigar into the ashtray on the bedside table. He slowly strips out of his clothes, getting totally naked. Then he slides in, and leans back.

“Give me a show, sweetheart.”

You hum, swaying again. You aren’t a pro at this kind of stuff, but it’s fun regardless to pull your shirt up and over your head like you’re a dirty dancer.

“Like this, daddy?”

John hums.

You slowly slide your pants down, turning so he can watch your ass move, kicking them away. You hear the slick sounds of him jerking his cock as you do.

“Should I take my panties off?” you ask, thumbs slipping into the elastic.

“Yes, take them off,” he grunts, “turn around.”

You do, then slowly slip your panties off. He licks his bottom lip again, quick.

“Come here.”

You slide onto the bed, on your knees, then crawl forward until you’re beside him, where he pushes you to lay on your side.

His heavy palm finds the naked skin of your hip, squeezing, “still want to show me your star power, sweetheart?”

“Yes, daddy,” you’re back in it, eyes half lidded. Your pussy is making a wet spot on your thighs, “I wanna show you.”

He pushes you to your back, slaps your thighs until you open your legs and hold them out. Then he pauses, hand at the junction of your thigh and hip, thumb inching towards your pussy.

“Look how wet you are, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You clench, tilting your hips up. Your clit throbs.

“Ah ah, get back down,” he tuts.

Your ass touches the bed again, hips forced down by sheer willpower. His thumb finally reaches you, pulling aside your pussylip to gaze at your wetness.

It gushes out of you, and you’re sure he can see the way your hole clenches.

“Desperate little cunt, isn't she?” he uses his other hand, two two fingers coming to pull the hood of your clit up and just watch as it jumps needily, “awe, poor thing.”

“Please, daddy,” you could cry, “please, touch me.”

“Touch where, love? Touch this needy little clit?”

“Yes, please!”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he abandons holding you open to bring his thumb to your exposed clit, rubbing in circles. You shout, a tremor immediately beginning. It’s too much and not enough at once, electric and icy-hot.

Then he slips those fingers inside you, slow and testing at first, but when he realizes just how wet and soft you are he curls them inside you deeply and oh, fuck, your eyes roll back into your head.

“That’s the spot, that’s it,” he grunts, shaking you, taking you apart.

John only fingers you long enough to let your wetness spill out of you, wetting your thighs, soaking his fingers– until you’re ready for his cock.

“You’re ready,” he lays the length of it against your pussy for a moment, letting your swollen lips hug his length, before he shifts back and nudges the head at your hole, “yeah, you’re ready for it.”

He stuffs you fucking full. You’ve never been so stuffed in your life, thankful for his diligent attention earlier or you might be really feeling the weight of him.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, back arching, nipples rubbing against his chest hair. It sparks pleasure from your tits right down your cunt, body aflame, hands scratching through the hair at his back.

It’s like fucking a bear, or a werewolf. He’s relentless, too, without mercy. Plows into you hard and long, thrusts measured, never faltering.

John fucks like a pornstar, there’s no doubt about it. He takes up so much space on top of you that without his arms holding him up you worry about being crushed– you crave it, too.

“Good fucking girl,” he snarls, lip curling, mustache going with it, “want to be on camera, do ya? Let me hear you.”

You let loose, mouth open in one long drawn out sound, interposed only by the gasps you let out each time he hits you deep.

You tilt your head back, bearing your throat, taking each heavy thrust and crying out with them, squeezing around him.

“I’m gonna give it all to you, sweetheart, fuck,” he snaps his hips faster now, “and you’re gonna take it all like a star.”

You nod desperately, feeling his pubes each time he thrusts to the hilt, wet with your juices. You’re so fucking close, one breath to your clit and you’d lose your mind.

He straightens, hands going to your hips, tightening, as he snaps one, two, three times and tenses–

His head snaps back, neck bulging with veins as he comes, teeth bared in a growl as he curses, “fuck, good girl, that’s right– good fucking pussy–”

Hot come shoots inside, heating you up further, making you whine with frustration and satisfaction both.

When the taut line of his body relaxes and he pulls out, a flood of come following him, he slides to his stomach and spreads you open with his thumbs.

“Let daddy make it up to you, sweetheart,” he murmurs to your pussy, “he’s not usually so selfish.”

John looks down first. Your pussy is swollen, well-fucked, and you can feel a slight gape.

“Poor little pussy,” he murmurs, then seals his mouth over your clit until you fall apart.

“You sure you aren’t a pornstar?” your cheek is pressed to his chest, basking in the furriness, arm and leg thrown over his body.

He laughs, “I’m sure, sweetheart. But I will say–” he pauses to lean down and kiss the corner of your mouth, mustache still damp, “you’ve definitely got star quality.”

#happy valentines day!#thank you syoddeye for the cig picture its soooooo ruff ruff #theres a little easter egg in there for u #john price x reader #john price #john price/reader #price x reader #price/reader #john price smut #jeopardized my midterm to get this out on valentines day #drgnfly writes

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d3ltanine · 4 months ago

Note

vixcamgirl reader?? 👀💕

content warnings › exhibitionism. clit play. strap-on usage. vi being referred to as ‘puppy’. lots of praise. bit of aftercare towards the end.

“are you guys ready?” you preen at the recording video camera, smiling big and bright as your fingers fiddle with the frilly lace that lines your panties. “I don’t think y’all are.”

you’ve been teasing your fans about your partner for a while now. and, it’s safe to say they’ve grown impatient with your consistent secrecy. a barely in-frame photo of her beefy arms, a picture of your sitting on her abs, and whatever other dirty shit you can dig up in your gallery. they need to see the real, full thing.

it only took a few anonymous messages, and some much needed reassurance from your girlfriend, to bring her on.

the chat spams messages at your playful mockery, though a few do manage to catch your eye.

pussylicker666: yes yes yes~!!

butchbitch: BRING HER ON NOW.

bbcstroker3: she a man?

choco3756: I bet she’s so hot..

cultcoochie: she got a bush? do you wash it?

you call violet over with a jerky nod of your chin, reaching a hand out to grab hers and dragging her forwards once she doesn’t willingly step into frame. she grins nervously at the flashing device; looking like a shy school girl despite her wide, muscular frame.

“soo, everyone! this is violet— or, well, vi. my girlfriend.” you introduce, crawling onto the bed behind her to drape yourself over her back, feeling all over her muscles possessively. warm lips meet the side of her neck, and she jumps. letting out an apprehensive giggle at the sudden affection. “she’ll be joining us for today.”

vi flushes at the fingers coming up to squish her cheeks, making her lips pucker out adorably as she whines out for you to stop.

“come on, baby. say hi to the people.” “..hi.”

everyone, including you, relish in her shy tone.

quickly maneuvering to sit down beside her, you show off the toys you might be tonight using to your viewers. from small vibes to ridiculously large dildos. most, if not any of them, wont be. usually, camgirls don’t do this. but, you like to keep your fans in the know. not wanting them to get bored and unfollow. though, a little surprise is good every now and then.

your girlfriend looks understandably skittish, even though she willingly agreed to this. you gave her the entire run down from the moment you asked her about it; told her you’d stop the stream with some bullshit excuse if she were to ever hey too uncomfortable with what you were doing.

“are you ready, honey?” your syrupy voice drizzling in her ear makes her recoil. violet gives you a shaken nod, making a cute little “um” as your palm presses against her binded chest. easing her back to rest on her elbows.

“yep! yeah, ready.” she gasps, followed by a strained chuckle as you unbutton her jeans. she watches your fingers fiddle with the latches with unwavering attention, only looking away once her boxers were revealed. stupid, spongebob print boxers.

you giggle at the sight of the ironic pair of underwear, giving her a raised brow of amusement before slowly dragging them down her fat quads. she could’ve changed them before coming on here, but oh well.

vi flusters under your questioning look. leaning back against the headboard so she can cover her face with her arms, sighing out soft noises of displeasure. a little “stop it” leaving that mouth. what else could she have worn? it was wash day for christ’s sake!

you raise her legs for her when she doesn’t, tossing the soiled garment away with a sickening giggle. allowing the tense limbs settle back into a comfortable position, you slowly ease them farther apart. exposing her soggy, matted bush for thousands of perverted eyes to see.

“look at how wet she is.”

the girl beneath you lets out a small moan of discomfort as you spread her swollen lips apart with your index and middle fingers, showcasing her pretty pink insides to your fans as thick globs of grool ooze from her painfully obvious tight hole. traveling down between her ass cheeks, past her anus, to then create a small puddle below. it almost has her hand between her legs to try and cover herself up. but you wouldn’t be having that.

being on live video is fine, sure. whatever. but, do you have to exploit and embarrass her?

“i swear she’s always like this..” you mumble, leaving her puffy, hairy lips alone to then brush your thumb over the pearl of her massive clit. which is peeking out between her folds to greet the audience. “..oh- and look who came out to say hello.”

violet squeaks as your unwavering touch sets off fireworks in her belly, abs clenching and twitching as you caress the throbbing nerve bundle with little care. it has her hips jerking upwards, searching for more friction where there is none.

“ah, please-“ she mutters, instantly regretting what she said. the chat raving on about her pitiful response.

you want to be mean to her, desperately. but, this is your first stream with her. so, you guess you could be a bit nicer. a bit more lenient.

“oh, oh!” a subtle blush blossomed on her cheeks as you nudge yourself deeper between her legs, pulling her lower half onto your lap to begin steadily stroking over her sizeable clitoris. which was twitching and pulsating beneath the supple pad of your pollex. reaching around with your other hand to reposition your phone and angle between the both of your intertwined bodies

her socked toes curl in on the soles of her feet, quiet mumbles of pleasure growing to that octave you’re so very familiar with. gooey arousal drips onto your clothed crotch, the heat of it making your pussy throb to life. panties dirtied with an obvious wet stain on the front.

the startings of an orgasm swell up in her gut, muscles stiffening to the point of an intense cramp. just as she’s about to experience that saccharine release, you snatch your hand away. causing your sweet girl to let out a little cry of despair. she was just about to come.

“‘m sorry, baby.” you croon hushedly, kissing away the tears that are surely bubbling at the corners of her eyes. such a whiny, pathetic girl, she is. “I gotta put on a good show.”

violet sniffles, but nods nonetheless. letting the fire in her belly snuff out before you start the seemingly endlesss assault of edging her.

tear stains streak her rosy face, lips quivering in a pout, brows furrowed as yet another climax slips through her fingers. she’s feeling unsatisfied, yet overstimulated. unfamiliar from how fulfilled she usually is when she’s with you.

just one touch sends her flying back against the wall, flinching away from a singular brush of your knuckles. her poor clit is matching the natural color of her hair, looking as if it’s got its own heartbeat from how hard you’ve got her throbbing. her cute little asshole clenches tight whenever you bring her to the brink; only to drag her back off the ledge with adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

“aww, poor puppy.”

violet wails as your fingers drag up her slit, gathering her slick and spreading it across her inner thighs and lower stomach. defiling freckled flesh from the waist down, skin glistening with her own mess.

butchbitch: don’t be mean :(

d4ddysgirl: give the dog a treat! she’s been good :c

the comments encourage you to give her a reward, so, you might as well. right?

you purr at the weeping girl beneath you, kissing away saltine teardrops as your delicate palm caresss her inner thigh; keeping her nice and districted as your other hand finds the toy box set off to the far right. pulling out a matte black leather harness and sparkling galaxy dildo. a present your girlfriend had given you a while back.

her eyes flutter shut when you tongue invades her mouth, her own pushing out to meet yours in a sloppy tango. large, scarred hands grab at the back of your neck, burying themselves in your hair as she tries her best to keep you close.

she can’t hear the faint click of the metal buckles over the wet smack of your lips; only aware of what’s going on around her once the bulbous, manmade head of your cock nudges her leaking hole. her legs would’ve snapped shut, if it weren’t for your waist being in the way. squirming backwards to run from the impending doom that is your cock; standing tall and proud between your thighs.

“ah, hey—“ violet squeaks, breaking away from the kiss in a panic because that damn thing is way too big. “—I can’t take that!”

“yes you can.” comes your unavoidable encouragement, the obnoxious chimes of donations hitting your bank account filling the ringing silence. this’ll probably one of your biggest streams, yet. “I know you can.”

you’ve got to keep the show rolling.

“you’re my good girl, yeah?”

she eventually nods with a pitiful hiccup, trembling limbs reluctantly spreading wide as your reach back down; spreading her slick along your cock like lube. she’s wet enough for it, embarrassingly.

“I’m your good girl.” she agrees, raising her hips as you drag a pillow below her lower back. you’re going to give the audience what they want in due time, but damn your girl being uncomfortable. her ankles lock around your back as you slide your dick through her folds, the smooth silicone against her pussy doing numbers on her nerve receptors.

her spine locks in a rigid arch as you guide the head down to her narrow entry way, slowly pushing the girthy mass in with quiet concentration. your brows furl as she cries, pressing a hand down on her tense tummy to make sure she doesn’t try to escape again.

fat pussy lips stretch over your cock, the loud squelch of you invading her insides make her wanting to curl up and die on the spot. this isn’t the first time you’ve had intercourse, no. but it damn sure feels like it.

vi’s fingers scramble to try and pry your hands off of her, but you just smack them away. contemplating restraining them behind her head once you’ve bottomed out. her bitching and whining have only gotten louder, and that’s only gaining you more and more viewers from stream shares and recommendations.

“good girl, vi. take it for me, baby.”

her tight cunny clings to the thick dildo, preventing you from pulling out too far as you slowly rock your hips back and forth. the stinging pain everytime your tip crashes into her cervix excruciating, yet blissful.

blunt nails drag down your forearms to leave scorching red lines in their wake, body set alight with ecstacy as your pace slowly accelerates. one of her eyelids has fallen heavy; jaw dropped loosely, tongue lolled out against her bottom lip and slippery with drool. she looks like one of those girls you’d find in a poorly animated hentai video. and you’re loving it.

“everyone seein’ this?” you hum, reaching back for the webcam and holding it in unsteadily. focusing it on violet’s pornographic expression as you somehow fuck yourself deeper into her twisted insides, the tip just a bit away from breaching her womb. the expertly carved veins rub deliciously against her g-spot. and, it’s then, she knows it’s over.

“isn’t she so pretty? getting fucked like a dog.”

she can even think to hide herself as the pressure in her stomach reaches an all time high. sobbing into the air as a mindboggling, soulshattering orgasm shreds through her very being. vi’s face scrunches in what seems like pain as she gushes around your cock, throat stuttering to let out a deep, choked up, howling, moan she can barely get out.

a few more agonizing thrusts to work her through elation, and she’s beggging for you to pull out. cunt sore and raw from the beating it’s been through. you know good and well she’s done with sex for the night.

slowly drawing your hips back, you try to be as careful as possible. even as she’s blubbering and coughing beneath you. you worry, in the back of your mind, that your viewers haven’t had their fill. which would mean that you’d stop racking in checks. but, you were pleasantly wrong.

you didn’t really have time to look at your phone, but you knew they were sending something good. or hoped, at least.

“you did such a good job, baby. such a good job.” your praises are like a morning bird’s chirps to her. leaning into your warm chest as you wipe her up with dampened washcloth, already prepared before even hitting the on switch.

once she’s cleaned up and ready for bed, you give a curt goodbye to your fans. turning off your camera and the phone it’s connected to, tossing them on the dresser to be forgotten about for the rest of the night.

she’s almost asleep, lashes fluttering as her eyes struggle to stay open. you can’t blame her, she’s been through some intense shit.

“going to sleep?” you ask, laughing as she nods and rolls her head onto your shoulder. soft snores soon filling the otherwise quiet air; save for the tv you just turned on, and the faint whirr of the air conditioning. she clings to you like a baby koala would hang onto its mother, not letting you move an inch away. it’s just too comfortable and her body’s already immobilized with exhaustion. “annnnd she’s out.”

in some way you manage to wiggle your way under the sheets with vi still on top of you, slowly pulling the covers up and draping them around you both. this would probably be the best rest she’s had in forever.

“sleep tight, honey.”

#vi arcane #violet arcane #vi x reader #vi x you #vi smut #arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane smut #arcane x you #wlw #wlw smut #cam gal #𐂯 fics.#𐂯 asks.

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writers-potion · 1 year ago

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Let's Talk About Pacing Our Fight Scenes.

For Fast-Paced Parts:

Short words with single syllables. Immediately > at once/ endeavour > try/ indicate > point at/ investigate > check out.

Short sentences, the shorter the better.

Partial sentences to blaze through multiple senses and actions within a few lines.

Short paragraphs

Lots of verbs.

Few adjectives and adverbs.

Cut down on -ing form of verbs, as it can make words longer

Use simple past tense

Avoid conjunctions and link words.

Avoid internal thought - your characters are irrational, ruthless and in the flow of pure action.

For Slow-Paced Parts:

Use medium/long sentences

the paragraphs are longer: three lines minimum

Include longer words with more syllables

Use adjectives and maybe a couple of adverbs.

Insert the thoughts of the PoV character.

Words for Action Scenes

act, alter, attack, avert, back, block, bang, bash, battle, beat, beg, belt, bend, best, bite, blacken, bleed, blind, blister, blow, blunt, boil, bolt, boot, bore, bow, box, brace, brag, brash, brawl, break, breathe, brush, buck, bulgde, burn, burst, cackle, call, can, carry, cart, carve, catch, check, chop, chuck, clack, clank, clap, clash, claw, clear, cleave, click, cliff, cling, clip, close, club, cock, coil, cold, collar, come, con, connect, corner, cost, count, counter, cover, cower, crack, crackle, cram, crash, crawl, creep, crinkle, cross, crouch, rush, cry, cuff, cull, cup, curl, curse, curve, cusp, cut, dart, dash, deepen, dig, deep, dip, ditch, drive, drop, duck, dump, ede, effect, erect, escape, exert, expect, feint, fight, fire fist, fit, flag, flare, flash, flick, fling, flip, flock, force, gash, gasp, get, gore, grab, grasp, grip, grope, group, hack, harden, heat, help, hit, hop, hurl, hurry, impale, jab, jar, jerk, join, jolt, jump, keep, kick, kill, knee, knock, knot, knuckle, leak, leap, let, lever, lick, lift, lock, loop, lop, plunge, mask, nick, nip, open, oppose, pace, pack, pain, pair, pale, palm, pan, pant, parry, part, pass, paste, pat, peak, peck, pelt, pick, pierce, pile, ping, piss, pit, pivot, plot, pluck, plug, plunge, ply, point, pool, pop, pose, pot, pound, pour, powder, pray, preen, prepare, prey, prick, prickle, print, probe, pry, pull, pulp, pulse, pump, punch, pursue, push, quarry, quarter, quest, race, raise, rake, ram, rap, rasp, rear, retreat, rip, riposte, rivert, roar, rock, roll, rope, round, rouse, run, rush, sap, scale, scalp, scan, score,scream, seek, seep, shake, shape, sharpen, shock, shoot, shop, slap, slap, slash, slice, slick, slip, slit, smash, snap, snare, snatch, snipe, sock, space, spar, spark, speed, spike, spill, spin, spit, splash, spoil, spring, spur, spurt, spy, squirm, stand, steert, step, stick, strap, strike, stuff, suck, support, swat, sweat, sweep, swingm tack, tag, take, target, taste, team, tear, tent, test, thrash, throw, thrust, thud, tick, tide, tilt, time, tire, top, toss, tower, toy, trap, trick, trigger, trip, triumph, trouble, trump, try, tuck, tug, twril, twitch, weaken, wet, whip, whirl, whirr, whoop, whoosh, whop, work, zap, zip.

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

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tiza0925 · 4 months ago

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You're my Angel | 18+

Warnings/Tags: nsfw, afab/female!reader, heavy use of petnames, blowjobs, dirty talk, praise kink, rough bokuto, raw sex, wet and messy, pussy eating, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, pussy slapping, vaginal fingering, squirting, creampie, choking kink, spit kink ♡ SET IN A TIMELINE WHERE ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED-UP AND OVER 18 YEARS

Pairing: Bokuto Koutarou x Female Reader

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Bokuto, who turns out to be a lot harsher in bed than anyone thought.

Which is funny considering he acts like this gentle giant out in public with you.

Kissing you oh so sweetly. Running his knuckles up and down your arms lovingly.

Worshipping you in public, making you feel all soft and happy—everyone watching how delicate Bokuto treats you.

“Would you like some water, baby?”

“Are you tired, princess?”

“Want me to carry that for you, love?”

But behind closed doors? In your guys’ bedroom?

God—he’s practically a monster.

“Does that feel good, princess?” Bokuto asks as he tightens his hold on your hair, pushing his cock deeper down your throat. “You like it when I stuff your pretty mouth like this?”

When you two are alone, Bokuto is fucking insatiable and greedy with you.

You whimper around the girth of his cock as you suck him, feeling the weight of it heavy on your tongue, drool dripping down your chin as he fucks your mouth.

Bokuto holds your head in place—even when he’s using all of his strength, he’s still somehow gentle with it—and fucks your mouth like it’s nothing more than a fucktoy for him.

He groans, low and sweet. “There you go. Taking it all, baby.” You feel the tip of his dick hit the back of your throat. “Choking on my cock like a good little princess for me.”

He pulls out suddenly, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip of his cock, and you sputter with a cough as you try to catch your breath.

Bokuto cups your cheek—his palm so, so fucking gentle with the way he holds your face, it’s such a huge contrast to how he was abusing your throat—and he rolls the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip.

He takes in how red and plump it is, wet from your saliva, how your eyes are teary from gagging on his fat cock—and he smiles down at you all softly. “Such a pretty girl.”

And god, you preen over the praises he gives you.

“You wanna show me how good you can be for me?”

How he makes you feel like you’re doing all of this to please him—being so good and making him happy—it all does things to you.

It also makes it so easy to comply as you let him guide you to get on your stomach, ass out in the air, and arching your back for him.

“Fuck,” Bokuto groans as he gets a handful of your ass, groping and squeezing it possessively as he kneads the flesh. “So perfect. Spread your legs for me, angel, let me see that pretty pussy.”

And when you do, opening your legs a bit more so you’re all vulnerable for Bokuto to see—

He groans at the sight of your slick pussy. “Fuck, baby. You're dripping wet for me already, aren't you? Such a needy little princess.”

He lines himself up, rubbing the head of his cock against your entrance, letting it run through your slick folds and kissing your clit—teasing and making you drool with a line of your fluids beginning to leak down, creating a string that falls towards the bed.

It’s a fucking sight and Bokuto goes hazy with it, mumbling, “I need to taste you.”

He drops to his knees behind you, gripping your ass cheeks roughly as he spreads you wide—revealing more of your cunt, all warm and cute as he licks his lips.

He doesn’t let you get another thought in before he leans forward to bury his face in between your legs, licking and sucking at your dripping folds as he groans against your skin.

And fuck—he’s messy and hungry when he eats you out.

Tongue twirling around your sensitive clit. Licking into you and sucking on your slit—tongue rolling as he makes noises, your juices leaking down his chin—

Sometimes it’s too much with the way he devours your puffy little pussy, making you twitch and gasp as you feel heat tingling up your spine and your nipples grow heavy with how close you are to coming.

“Oh god—Ko—” You sob, feeling him focus his attention on your clit, flicking the sensitive nub rapidly before giving your sopping cunt wide, flat strokes over and over with his tongue—starting from your clit and licking to your hole.

Covering your entire pussy with his mouth, sucking and kissing and eating it like a man high off the taste of you—

He doesn’t stop until you cry with a moan, your orgasm throbbing over you as you come on Bokuto’s relentless tongue.

“That’s it,” Bokuto groans in satisfaction, lapping up your fluids, making sure he gets every drop, licking your sloppy pussy until you’re almost overstimulated. “Come on my face like a good girl.”

Then he spits on it, making you gasp, before going back in to glide his tongue over your cunt—twirling it inside, a whimper escaping your throat—

But he’s not done.

He gives your soaked pussy a slap, his hand heavy and rough as it hits your poor little clit and folds—making you gasp and fall forward to shift away from the stinging touch.

He stands to lean over you, his breath hot against your ear as his face brushes against your cheek. “I need to feel you come on my fingers.”

He slips two fingers inside your cunt, hearing the wet squelch as he goes as deep as his fingers can reach, and starts a steady rhythm of fingering your pussy.

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes. “I-I can’t—”

“I know you can, baby.” Bokuto coos, hooking two fingers into your walls, his knuckles brushing against your g-spot, and he moves his arm up and down—causing your body to shake with it as he brings you to another orgasm.

“Fuck—“ Your eyes roll back, everything hot and blurry, as heat coils in your belly and your pussy buzzes with liquid pleasure as you squeeze and come on Bokuto’s fingers.

You feel your bladder get all tight and full, and you scream with a moan when Bokuto doesn’t stop and—

And fuck—you feel fluids spray out of you as you come.

Coming out in quick spurts, gushing all over Bokuto’s hand and thighs as he fingers you through it—hearing him let out a satisfied sound deep from his throat and right next to your ear.

“Look at that, princess,” Bokuto’s voice is rough and throaty, his fingers slipping out of you and giving your cunt another wet slap. “Look at the mess you made, soaking the bed with your pretty juices.”

He gives your cheek a sickeningly gentle kiss as he rubs and holds your pussy, his lips warm against your skin as he murmurs, “I wanna feel you do that again on my cock, love. You can do that for me, right?” He nips your ear, whispering. “You can be a good girl for me.”

And how are you supposed to refuse that?

Despite how achy you feel and how oversensitive—you don’t say no.

You let him turn you around to lay on your back as he pushes your legs towards your chest, exposing your dripping pussy to him.

You moan when he rubs the fat tip of his cock along your slit, your pussy folds hugging the length of him as it drools on him, feeling the heavy and warm weight of his dick against your cunt.

And your eyes go cross-eyed when you feel a thick palm press against your throat—his fingers wrap around your neck—and he squeezes enough to get you lightheaded and feeling oh so fucking good.

He rocks his hips, teasing your slutty pussy as the tip of his dick bumps against your clit, and he leans down to brush his lips against yours, murmuring, “Let me fuck this tight pussy, baby. Let me claim it as mine and fill you up with my cum until you're dripping. I need to feel your walls squeezing my cock as I split you open.”

He reaches with his other hand to grab your breast, pinching your nipple roughly. “Show me how a good girl makes her pussy feel around me.”

Fuck.

You shiver, feeling your nipples grow hard, and lean in to kiss him—mouth opening to slip your tongue into his mouth, moaning as you rock your hips in tandem with his to get him to slip inside you.

“That’s my good angel,” Bokuto smirks against your lips, and he wastes no time in pushing his cock into your greedy pussy—going as deep as he can go until you’re nearly choking on it.

“Oh god—” You choke with a moan with how fucking full you feel, his fat dick splitting you open as he slowly rolls his hips to fuck it in and out of you.

“You’re so goddamn tight, princess,” Bokuto picks up the pace, the wet sound of him fucking your abused pussy fills your ears, his balls slapping against your ass cheeks. “You take it so well.”

And when he fucks you—he does it to ruin you.

Squeezing your throat until you can’t speak.

Pounding into that little pussy until you’re creaming on his cock and you’re so fucking wet you can hardly feel him anymore.

You can barely speak—just a litany of curses and gasps leaves your mouth as he fucks you.

“Open your mouth,” Bokuto says so softly when he leans close, his movements never stopping as you hear the loud smacking of his hips hitting your ass with every delicious roll of his hips.

And you listen, plump lips parting and waiting as you look at him with doe eyes, feeling heat go through your body when you see the satisfied grin he gives you in return.

He’s nasty with it when he fucks you too—spitting in your mouth, a glob of his saliva lands on your tongue that makes you clench around him—and he gives your delicate throat another squeeze as he murmurs, “Swallow.”

And when he comes—fuck it’s so much and so messy that you nearly swell with it.

He lets out a low groan and buries his cock deep inside your pussy, thick loads of hot, sticky cum spurts inside you, as he buries his head in the crook of your neck.

He fills you to the brim. “Take every last drop, baby.” And your pussy drinks it all—like it’s thirsty for his cum as you throb around him, breathing heavily as little bits of his cum begin to leak with how full your cunt is.

“God,” Bokuto huffs against your neck as he slides one hand down to touch your belly, feeling it a little inflated. “You took it all like a good girl. Your pussy is nice and full now. I bet you can feel it sloshing around in there, angel.”

And when he finally pulls out, his softening cock slipping out of your well-fucked pussy—all red and fat and puffy with your juices and his cum everywhere—he doesn’t stop playing with your pretty cunt.

He slides two fingers up your slit, collecting his cum—god it’s so much he just knows you’ll be leaking for days after this—and he pushes his load back into your sweet pussy, watching the way your face changes with pleasure as he leisurely fingers his cum back inside you.

“Let me take care of you now, love,” He moves forward to give your forehead a soft kiss. “You did so good for me.”

end.

Masterpost

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