#sinking my teeth into this and never letting go

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Can I request a Telemachus x reader smut? Specifically after the slaughter of the suitors while Odysseus and Penelope reunite. Hehe thank you!!

A/n: YES! He's such a cutie.

Warnings: p in v , telemachus is covered in blood, telemachus dirty talks ( this man letting out his years of frustrations on you 👀)

The halls of your home still reek of blood and vengeance. The air is heavy with smoke from overturned torches, and the cries of dying men still echo faintly in the walls. But it’s over now.

Odysseus has reclaimed his throne. Penelope has wept and clung to him like a woman reborn.

And Telemachus?

He finds you in the shadows of the corridor, just past the carnage.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, but his voice is low, almost trembling. You can see the red on his hands—some of it is his, most of it not. There’s a storm behind his eyes. Too much death. Too many years. Too much waiting.

“I stayed,” you say, stepping closer. “For you.”

His breath catches. For a moment, you think he’ll walk away, disappear into the dark to let his parents have their story.

But instead, he reaches for you like a man who’s finally allowed to feel. His mouth is on yours before you can say another word, and his hands are rough and trembling, pulling you flush against him.

It’s frantic. Desperate. He backs you into the wall of the hallway, the cold stone against your spine making you gasp—and that sound drives him wild.

“Say my name,” he growls against your throat.

“Telemachus,” you breathe, your fingers sliding under the hem of his tunic, feeling the muscles still tight with adrenaline. “I thought I lost you.”

“You’ll never lose me.” He grips your thigh, lifting it around his waist. “Not now. Not ever.”

His armor is half-undone, and he fumbles with your clothes like he’s afraid this is a dream, like you might vanish with the dawn. But the heat of your skin against his is real, and when he finally thrusts into you, it’s with all the pent-up rage and longing of a man who’s waited his whole life to be seen as more than a boy.

The corridor is silent now, save for the soft sound of your bodies meeting, your stifled moans, and his whispered promises in your ear.

“You’re mine,” he says, over and over, voice breaking. “Mine.”

And when it’s over, you’re still pressed against the stone, breathless, trembling, and utterly wrecked—in the best way.

Oh, you want spice? Say less.

Here’s a spicier continuation of that scene—still right after the slaughter, but now the intensity and detail get turned up. We’re leaning into the tension, dominance, and raw need Telemachus has been holding back for far too long.A

You’re still pinned against the cold stone wall, your heart thudding wildly in your chest. Telemachus’ hands are everywhere—rough with blood and battle, claiming you like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You waited for me,” he murmurs against your neck, voice low and dark. “Now I’m going to ruin you for anyone else.”

His words make your knees buckle, but he’s already hoisting you up—your legs wrapped tight around his waist as he carries you into one of the unused rooms off the corridor. The door slams shut behind you, and he sets you down only long enough to rip the bloodied tunic from his chest. You drink him in—his broad shoulders, the scars, the raw power in his frame. He catches your gaze and smirks.

“See something you like?” he taunts.

You don’t answer—you just slide your hands down his chest, grazing the line of dark hair below his navel, before sinking to your knees.

He hisses through his teeth as you take him into your mouth—he’s already hard, thick and pulsing in your hands, and the way he growls your name as his head tips back has heat pooling between your thighs.

But he doesn’t let you finish.

“Not like this,” he growls, dragging you back to your feet. “I need to feel you.”

He strips you bare, not gently, but reverently—like he’s unwrapping a gift meant only for him. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch, and then he bends you over the table behind you, one hand pressing into your lower back.

“You have no idea how long I’ve imagined this,” he whispers into your ear, lining himself up at your entrance. “How many nights I stroked myself thinking of how you’d sound when I finally—”

He thrusts in, deep and hard, cutting off his own sentence and drawing a loud cry from your lips.

He fucks you like a man possessed—deep, relentless, his hips slamming into you with wild rhythm. One hand wraps in your hair, tugging your head back so he can bite your neck, your shoulder. Marking you.

The table creaks beneath you. Your moans echo in the dim room, along with his grunts and filthy praise.

“So fucking tight,” he pants. “So good for me. You’re mine. Gods, you’re mine.”

Your climax builds fast—sharp and burning—and when it hits, you shatter, calling out his name like a prayer. He’s not far behind, pulling you flush against him as he spills inside you with a deep groan, holding you through it like you’re something precious he almost lost.

After, he presses kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, your lips—softer now, but no less possessive.

“We’ll clean the blood tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Tonight, I’m not letting you leave this bed.”

And he doesn’t.

He takes you again. And again.

Until you’re too sore to move, too drunk on him to care,Your thighs are trembling. You’ve already come twice, and your body feels spent, marked, owned.

But Telemachus isn’t finished with you.

He’s sprawled beside you now, chest slick with sweat, hand lazily tracing circles over your thigh as he watches you catch your breath. There’s a smirk tugging at his lips—like he’s not done proving something.

“You look ruined,” he murmurs, voice rough from growling your name for the last hour. “But I think you’ve got more in you.”

You whimper as he trails his fingers between your legs, brushing your oversensitive core. Your hips jerk, and he laughs low in his throat, leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder.

“What’s the matter, little one? Too much for you?”

You blink up at him, dazed and flushed.

“No,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good girl.”

The tone shifts.

Suddenly, his hand is around your throat���not tight, but firm. Dominant. He pushes you back into the pillows, hovering over you like a predator. His other hand slides down your body, spreading your thighs apart once more.

“You want more?” he growls, voice dripping with sin. “Then open those legs for your prince like the needy little thing you are.”

Your breath catches. You obey.

“That’s it,” he praises, voice like silk and smoke. “Such a pretty little slut. All mine.”

And then he’s inside you again.

This time, it’s rougher. More controlled. His hand stays on your throat, his thumb brushing your pulse while he ruts into you with long, punishing thrusts.

You cry out—half moan, half sob—and he loves it.

“Gods, listen to you,” he pants. “So fucking loud for me. You want the whole palace to know how desperate you are? How wet you get for your prince’s cock?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please—please don’t stop—”

He growls and fucks you harder.

“Of course you like this. Filthy little thing. You like being used, don’t you?”

You can’t even form words anymore. Your nails rake down his back, and he groans, dropping his forehead to yours as your walls flutter around him.

“Come for me,” he growls. “One more. I want to feel you fall apart."

And gods—you do.

You scream his name as your body clamps down on him, spasming with a white-hot rush that steals the air from your lungs. He follows with a snarl, biting down on your shoulder as he spills into you, deep and possessive.

When it’s over, you’re both gasping. Shaking.

He doesn’t move for a long moment—just holds you close, forehead still resting against yours.

Then his hands soften.

He eases out of you, cradling your body with almost reverent care. He grabs a cloth and cleans between your thighs, kissing your hip as he does.

“You did so good for me,” he murmurs. His voice is tender now, barely above a whisper. “My perfect girl. My goddess.”

You can barely keep your eyes open as he wraps you in his arms, pulling a blanket over the two of you. His lips brush your forehead, your cheek, your collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Sleep, sweet thing. I’ll protect you now. Always.”

And you do—drifting off to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, knowing you’re safe.

Loved. Owned.

[urdreamydoodles]

I love your headcanons!! I’d love to see how you think the X-men would react to the reader playfully biting them, in or out of the bedroom, whatever scenario you’d like (you can go with any characters, but bonus points for Logan, Erik, Charles, and perhaps a new one, Victor Creed 👀)

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You bite them playfully

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson, Victor Creed, Julian Keller, Kitty Pryde, Cable, Warren Worthington III, Morph, Mystique, Magik & Alex Summers

Reply to anon: OMG yes, Victor my little mad dog!

Logan Howlett

- You don’t expect him to react. Not really. He’s endured bullets, blades, and the unrelenting weight of time itself. A playful bite from you should be nothing—should be a drop of rain against an unshakable mountain. And yet, the moment your teeth graze his skin, a low growl rumbles from deep within his chest, something primal and unbidden. His muscles tense beneath your touch, like an animal caught between instinct and restraint.

- His gaze finds yours, sharp and golden, flickering with something unreadable. His lips curl into the faintest smirk, but his eyes betray him—dark with challenge, with something wilder lurking beneath. “That all you got, darlin’?” he rasps, his voice rough as gravel, his fingers curling at his sides as if resisting the urge to seize you right then and there.

- But Logan is nothing if not a man of action. A heartbeat later, his arm is around your waist, pulling you in close, the heat of his body searing against yours. His voice dips lower, a teasing growl, though there’s a dangerous edge to it now. “Y’know what they say, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “You bite a wolf, you better be ready for it to bite back.”

- And he does. Maybe not in the way you expect—not with teeth, but with hands that grip too tight, with lips that press too hard, with a possessiveness that lingers in every touch. Because Logan doesn’t do playful. He does hunger. He does need. And if you dare to tease the beast, you’d best be ready for the storm that follows.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy freezes the moment your teeth press against his skin—not from pain, not from surprise, but from something far more dangerous. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smirk yet, but the promise of one. And then, ever so slowly, he tilts his head toward you, his red-on-black eyes gleaming with mischief.

- “Ma belle, you tryna kill me?” he drawls, his accent thick and lazy, but his voice carries that unmistakable edge of heat. His fingers brush over your arm, slow and deliberate, as if tracing the intent behind your bite. “'Cause I gotta warn you, chérie… I ain’t the kind to die easy.”

- The next thing you know, he’s got you backed against the nearest surface, one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing the curve of your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His grin is downright wicked now, his gaze molten with amusement and something darker. “See, you play this game wit’ me, mon amour, you best know the rules.” His breath is warm against your lips, teasing, taunting. “You bite me? I devour you.”

- And then he leans in, and oh—Remy doesn’t just kiss. He claims. He teases. He tastes. His lips ghost over yours, never quite giving you what you want, never quite letting you escape, because if you’re going to start a game with the Ragin’ Cajun, you better be ready to lose.

Kurt Wagner

- The moment your teeth sink lightly into his skin, Kurt stills, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, his mind goes utterly blank—because of course you would do this, of course you would find new ways to unravel him, to leave him speechless and stumbling. His tail flicks once, betraying his surprise, before curling around your waist in retaliation.

- And then—oh. Oh, then he laughs. A low, breathy chuckle that rumbles in his chest, warm and so utterly Kurt. “Mein Schatz,” he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement, his golden eyes gleaming. “Was that supposed to be threatening? Because I must say… you might have to try harder.”

- But his tail tightens ever so slightly, his hands settling on your hips, his body pressing just a little closer. His voice drops into something softer now, something teasing but fond. “Or perhaps you weren’t trying to scare me at all,” he muses, brushing his nose against yours, an intimate little gesture that makes your heart stutter. “Perhaps you were simply asking for a little attention, ja?”

- And oh, does he give it. He moves fast—so fast you barely register the shift before you’re elsewhere, whisked away in a blink of smoke and laughter. One moment you’re standing, the next you’re tangled in his arms, wrapped in the warmth of his teleportation, caught between breathless kisses and whispered endearments. Because if you’re going to bite him, liebling, he’s going to make sure you never regret it.

Scott Summers

- Scott’s reaction is immediate—sharp inhale, muscles tensing beneath your touch, jaw tightening as if trying to suppress whatever instinct just surged through him. His discipline, his restraint—it has always been his armor, his cage. But you—you have a habit of making him forget himself.

- “What was that?” he asks, voice lower than usual, a little rough around the edges, though the slight flush creeping up his neck betrays him. His fingers flex at his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or set you firmly away. But his ruby-red gaze is locked onto you now, and he is searching—for your intent, for your reasoning, for something he can brace himself against.

- “You can’t just—” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, as if that will somehow ground him. His lips part, like he wants to scold you, like he wants to tell you biting is not part of a proper battle strategy, but the words never come. Instead, his hand lifts, cups your chin, his thumb grazing over your lower lip in something dangerously close to reverence.

- And then, ever so slowly, his lips brush against yours—light, testing, but oh-so-intense. Because Scott Summers does not give in easily. He does not let himself have. But you—you are different. You are his exception. And if you are going to play with fire, then you had best be prepared to burn.

Jean Grey

- Jean stills the moment your teeth graze her skin, not in fear or surprise, but in the way someone freezes when they have just stepped into the unknown. She has felt so many things in her lifetime—pain, joy, rage, divinity itself—but the sharp, teasing sensation of you doing this? That is something new. Her lips part slightly, a breath catching in her throat, and though she does not speak, you can hear her thoughts as if they are your own: What exactly are you trying to do to me?

- And then, oh, she smiles. Slow, knowing, the corners of her lips curving into something dangerously affectionate. Her fingers trace lightly over your arm, telekinetic energy humming faintly beneath her fingertips as she studies you with emerald eyes that gleam with amusement. “You do realize who you’re dealing with, don’t you?” she murmurs, voice soft but laced with something teasing, something nearly predatory. “You think you can surprise me, love? That’s adorable.”

- But Jean is not one to let challenges go unanswered. The next thing you know, her hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face toward hers with effortless ease. She doesn’t need to use her telekinesis to hold you there—no, the intensity in her gaze alone is enough. “Tell me,” she muses, leaning in so close her lips barely brush against yours. “Do you bite because you want my attention? Or because you already have it?”

- And before you can answer, she kisses you—deep, slow, deliberate. Not just a kiss, but a response, a promise. Because Jean Grey is made of passion and power, and if you wish to tease her, if you wish to provoke her, then you must be prepared for the storm you have just invited into your arms.

Ororo Munroe

- The moment your teeth press gently against her skin, a low, melodic hum escapes her—a sound not of displeasure, but of acknowledgment. Ororo Munroe has spent years cultivating grace, control, an unshakable presence that commands gods and mortals alike. And yet, this—this quiet, playful act of yours—catches her off guard in the most unexpected of ways.

- Her silver eyes flick toward you, gleaming with something unreadable, and for a moment, the air around you shifts, electricity humming faintly in the space between your bodies. Not as a threat, not as a warning, but as a reaction—as if even the very elements themselves are uncertain how to respond to the way you unravel her. “My love,” she says at last, her voice a soft, indulgent purr. “Was that meant to challenge me? Or are you merely being mischievous?”

- Slowly, her fingers trail along your shoulders, feather-light, teasing, carrying the same effortless power as the wind itself. And then, in one smooth motion, she moves—you don’t quite know how, only that one moment you are standing in place, and the next, the storm has wrapped itself around you. You are pulled flush against her, her presence enveloping you in warmth, in strength, in the quiet promise of something far greater than either of you can name.

- “If you seek my attention,” she whispers, her breath brushing against your ear like the gentlest breeze, “you need only ask.” And then, with a slow, deliberate smile, she leans in, her lips brushing over the spot where your bite had just been—a silent response, a wordless challenge of her own. Because if you are to tease a goddess, then you must be ready to be worshipped in return.

Rogue

- The second your teeth sink playfully into her skin, Rogue gasps—sharp, sudden, entirely unprepared. It’s not that she doesn’t like it, not at all, but more that she did not see it coming. For all her strength, all her bravado, you have just done something no enemy, no battle, no nightmare has ever managed to do: you have caught her off guard.

- “Sugah,” she breathes, her accent thickening just a bit, her voice a mixture of amusement and something else—something dangerous. Slowly, her green eyes flick to yours, and oh, that look—half-smirk, half-warning—tells you that you might have just started something you cannot finish. “Did you just… bite me?”

- And then, before you can answer, she does what Rogue does best—she acts. One moment, you are standing comfortably, the next, she has you pinned. Not roughly, not cruelly, but firmly, her gloved hands gripping your wrists, her breath hot against your skin. “Y’know,” she muses, tilting her head as she studies you, “if you wanted my attention that bad, all you had to do was ask.”

- But the glint in her eye betrays her—because for all her teasing, for all her bravado, the truth is simple: she loves this. Loves that you would dare to play with her, loves that you know exactly how to unravel her defenses, how to make her forget the space she so often has to keep between herself and the world. And so, with a wicked little smirk, she leans in, her lips hovering just above yours as she murmurs, “Hope you know what you started, darlin’. ‘Cause I don’t play fair.”

Erik Lehnsherr

- The moment your teeth press against his skin, Erik goes very, very still. Not out of fear, not out of surprise, but out of calculation. He is a man of war, of tragedy, of wounds both seen and unseen, and he has spent his entire life anticipating danger. But this—this playful, fleeting bite from you—is not something he had prepared for.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. Not in frustration, not in anger, but in something far deeper—something like acceptance. His sharp, silver gaze flicks to yours, unreadable yet knowing, and a slow, deliberate smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Liebling,” he murmurs, his voice as smooth as tempered steel. “Do you think this is a game?”

- He does not move immediately. No, Erik prefers patience, prefers anticipation, prefers to let you feel the weight of what you have just done. And then, finally, he acts. His fingers ghost over your jaw, light as a whisper, his touch deceptively gentle. But his grip—when it finally settles—is not. His hand tightens, not cruelly, but possessively, his thumb tracing over your pulse as he studies you like a puzzle he has yet to solve.

- “If you wish to test me,” he muses, his voice a low, dark promise, “then by all means… continue.” And then, in a move so smooth it leaves you breathless, he takes—captures your mouth with his, slow and unyielding, like gravity itself bending to his will. Because Erik Lehnsherr does not play. He conquers. And if you wish to tempt him, then you must be prepared to surrender.

Charles Xavier

- Charles Xavier is a man of the mind, a man who has unraveled the deepest corners of human thought and consciousness, who has witnessed the entirety of existence through the whispers of others’ souls. And yet, for all his knowledge, for all the mysteries he has unraveled, you still find a way to surprise him. The moment your teeth press against his skin—soft, playful, fleeting—he stills, blue eyes widening just slightly, as if he cannot quite believe that you, of all things, could ever be so unpredictable.

- But then, oh, then he laughs. Not a polite chuckle, not the refined sort of amusement he offers in conversations of wit and charm, but something richer, something real. A warm, low sound that spills from his lips like honey, as if you have just whispered the most delightful secret in the world. He tilts his head toward you, curiosity sparking in his gaze, and for a moment, you see it—the boy he once was, the one who believed in the simple joy of being alive. “My dear,” he muses, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips, “are you quite certain you wish to play this game with me?”

- Charles is a scholar, a tactician, a man who has spent his life wielding words and thoughts like weapons, and he is not one to let a challenge go unanswered. Before you can pull away, his fingers ghost along your wrist, light as a whisper, and suddenly—you feel it. Not words, not images, but a sensation, a feeling, as if he is pressing the weight of his affection directly into your soul. This is how he fights back—by letting you feel what you do to him, by drowning you in the sheer, unshakable depth of his love.

- “You are a fascinating creature,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, intimate thing, meant only for you. And then, with deliberate slowness, he leans in, his lips grazing the same spot where your teeth had just been, a silent response, a quiet promise. Because Charles Xavier is a man of the mind—but with you, he has learned to love the body, too.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda Maximoff has spent her entire life on the precipice of chaos. Magic flows through her like a storm, raw and untamed, and though she has learned to control it, there is still a part of her that lingers on the edge—uncertain, fragile, waiting for the world to turn against her. But you—you are different. You do not fear her, do not tread lightly as if she is glass that might shatter at the slightest touch. No, you play with her, tease her, press your teeth against her skin in a gesture so human, so simple, that for a moment, she forgets the weight of her own power.

- Her breath catches—just a little, just enough for you to notice. Her fingers curl against your arm, not to push you away, but to steady herself, as if grounding herself in the moment, in you. And then, slowly, her lips curve into something soft, something real. “You’re bold,” she murmurs, her voice laced with quiet amusement, but there is something else there, too—something dangerous. A challenge. A warning. Because Wanda Maximoff is not someone you tease without consequences.

- Before you can react, she moves. The world shifts around you, a flicker of crimson in the air, and suddenly, you are weightless, as if gravity itself has forgotten you exist. Her magic hums against your skin, curling around you like the brush of unseen fingertips, and she watches you with a look that is pure mischief. “Tell me, darling,” she whispers, tilting her head ever so slightly, “was that meant to tempt me?”

- And then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she leans in—her lips barely grazing your skin, a phantom touch, a promise of something more. Because Wanda Maximoff is chaos incarnate, and if you wish to play with her, then you must be prepared to dance in the storm.

Pietro Maximoff

- It happens so quickly that even you don’t realize what you’ve done. One moment, Pietro Maximoff is standing before you, talking, teasing, filling the space between you with his usual boundless energy, and the next—your teeth graze his skin, a fleeting, playful bite, quick as lightning itself. And then? He’s gone. A blur of silver and laughter, a gust of wind where he once stood.

- But before you can even blink, he is back—and oh, that look on his face. His lips are curled into a smirk, his blue eyes gleaming with something wild, something electric. “Really?” he breathes, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “You think you can bite me? Me?” His laughter rings out, sharp and bright, and suddenly, he is moving again—circling you, his presence a flickering pulse in the air, there and gone all at once.

- And then, he strikes. Not with speed, not with force, but with something far worse—anticipation. He stops right behind you, so close that his breath is warm against your ear, his voice a whisper of pure, unfiltered mischief. “You know what they say about quick reflexes, don’t you?” he murmurs, and before you can even think to react, his lips brush against your neck—a flicker of a kiss, a ghost of a touch, so fleeting you almost question if it happened at all.

- And then? He’s gone again. Laughing, running, taunting. Because Pietro Maximoff is not someone who is caught—he is the storm itself, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to chase the wind.

Hank McCoy

- Hank McCoy is not a man who is easily surprised. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, unraveling the mysteries of science, of genetics, of the very fabric of existence itself. And yet, for all his intellect, for all his careful observations of the world—he does not see you coming. The moment your teeth press playfully into his skin, his entire body freezes, blue fur bristling slightly, golden eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

- “Oh, my stars and garters,” he breathes, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of a man whose entire world has just shifted. Slowly, his gaze flicks down to you, studying you with the same meticulous focus he applies to his research, as if you are some rare, fascinating discovery he has yet to fully understand. “You do realize,” he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, “that by initiating such an experiment, you are opening yourself up to… repercussions, yes?”

- And then, oh, his smile. Slow, wickedly amused, utterly delighted. Before you can react, he moves—not with the hesitant carefulness of a man afraid of his own strength, but with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how to turn the tables. One moment, you are standing, the next, you are swept off your feet, cradled in arms that are both impossibly strong and impossibly gentle. “Ah,” he muses, adjusting his grip as if holding you is the most natural thing in the world, “I do believe I now have the advantage.”

- And then, with a quiet chuckle, he leans in—not to bite, not to tease, but to kiss the very spot where your teeth had been, slow and deliberate, a scholar testing a theory. Because Hank McCoy is a man of knowledge—but when it comes to you, he is more than willing to be a student of the unknown.

Emma Frost

- The moment your teeth graze her skin, Emma Frost’s response is immediate—a slow, measured inhale, the faintest arch of a perfectly sculpted brow. She does not startle, does not react with anything so crass as surprise. No, Emma assesses. A woman of elegance, of control, she has spent a lifetime ensuring that no one catches her off guard, that no one slips beneath the carefully constructed ice of her composure. And yet, you have done it, a playful bite against porcelain skin, an action so simple yet so bold that, for the briefest moment, even the White Queen falters.

- But then, oh, then she smiles. Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous. A curl of her lips that carries no warmth, only sharp amusement and something far more wicked. “Darling,” she purrs, voice smooth as silk, laced with the faintest edge of laughter, “if you wanted to get my attention, there are… other ways to do so.” Her fingers ghost along your wrist, deceptively gentle, a reminder that while you may have started this game, she is the one who will dictate how it ends.

- She does not retaliate with force, nor does she melt into you like some lovesick fool. No, Emma punishes in the most exquisite way possible—she makes you wait. A brush of her fingertips against your jaw, a lingering glance, the press of her body close enough to promise but never enough to give. “Tell me,” she murmurs, tilting her head, voice rich with amusement, “was that truly your best effort?”

- And then, when you least expect it, she strikes. A shift of movement so swift, so precise, that you don’t even register it until it’s happening—her lips against your pulse point, her teeth grazing the same spot where you dared to mark her. It is not surrender. It is not an answer. It is a lesson. A warning. A challenge. Because Emma Frost does not lose—but she does enjoy playing with her prey.

Laura Kinney

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Laura reacts. No hesitation, no pause—her body tenses, muscles coiling like a predator poised to strike. Instinct kicks in before thought, before reason, before she can even register that it’s you. And for a split second, you feel it—the sheer, terrifying violence that lurks beneath her skin, the razor’s edge of a woman who has spent her entire life as a weapon.

- But then, just as quickly as the tension rises, it fades. A sharp exhale, a flicker of recognition, golden eyes narrowing as she processes what you’ve done. There is no laughter, no teasing retort—just a look. Calculating. Intense. Confused, but not displeased. “…You bit me,” she says at last, voice flat, as if stating the most bizarre fact in the world.

- And then? She tilts her head, considering you in that unnerving, almost animalistic way of hers. “Why?” The question is genuine—Laura has never been one for mind games or coy affections, has never understood the subtle language of teasing and playfulness. Biting is something she associates with combat, with survival. But with you? With you, it is different.

- Slowly, tentatively, she mirrors the action. A nip, precise and measured, as if she is testing this new form of affection, as if she is learning you the way she has learned every other part of the world—through experience, through instinct. And when she pulls back, there is something new in her gaze, something raw and unspoken. Because Laura Kinney may not understand why you did it, but she knows one thing with certainty—if you bite, then she will bite back.

Wade Wilson

- You barely have time to finish biting him before Wade gasps—loud, theatrical, utterly over-the-top. “OH. MY. GOD.” His hands fly to his chest, staggering back as if you have mortally wounded him. “DID YOU JUST—YOU DID. YOU ABSOLUTELY DID.” His voice is thick with emotion, somewhere between scandalized and delighted. “Babe. You bit me. Like a feral little love-goblin. That’s so hot.”

- And then? Then, all hell breaks loose. Within seconds, he is biting you back—but not just once, no, because Wade Wilson is incapable of moderation. He is nibbling at your cheek, at your shoulder, at your hand, peppering you with playful, exaggerated love-bites while making increasingly absurd noises. “CHOMP.” He sinks his teeth into the air dramatically, eyes wide with manic glee. “RAWR. Oh, sorry, that was my dinosaur impression. But honestly? If I were a dinosaur, I’d be a love-raptor. A snuggle-saurus. A Wade-a-don Rex, if you will.”

- The worst part? He does not stop talking. “You’re lucky I don’t have rabies,” he chatters, waggling his brows. “I mean, I might. I did lick a questionable taco truck the other day. But, y’know, if I do have rabies, then I guess that makes you my one and only transmission method—romantic, right?” He grins, then gasps again, as if struck by a sudden epiphany. “WAIT. Does this mean we’re in a vampire romance now? Am I your dark, brooding, undead lover? Babe, I gotta be honest, I am so ready to emotionally gaslight you across centuries of longing.”

- But then—just when you think he’s going to turn this into a full-fledged one-man show—he pauses. Just for a moment. The humor dims slightly, enough for something softer to slip through. And then, in a rare, fleeting act of sincerity, Wade leans in, pressing a kiss—not a bite, not a joke, but a kiss—to the very spot where your teeth had been. “…Seriously, though,” he murmurs, voice warm and uncharacteristically quiet, “that was, like, really cute. You’re really cute.” And then, just as quickly as it appeared, the moment is gone, swallowed up in another round of ridiculous, dramatic antics. But for that one, brief second? He meant it.

Victor Creed

- The instant your teeth graze his skin, Victor Creed laughs—a low, rumbling thing that vibrates in his chest, a sound that is both amused and hungry. He does not startle. He does not pause. No, Victor reacts the way a predator does when something small and delicate dares to bare its teeth—with interest.

- His fingers curl at your waist, grip firm, possessive, a wordless acknowledgment of what you have done. “Now that’s adorable,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “Little thing thinks she’s got fangs.” His golden eyes gleam as he studies you, head tilting slightly, as if debating whether to play along—or devour you whole.

- And then? He leans in. Closer, until his breath is warm against your ear, until you feel the sheer size of him, the sheer power in every inch of his body. “You wanna play rough, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something darker, something edged with promise. “You sure you can handle that?” And then, without hesitation, he bites back. Not gentle. Not teasing. But slow, deliberate, lingering—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who you are dealing with.

- When he pulls away, his grin is wolfish, sharp and deadly. “That all you got?” he taunts, dragging a thumb over the mark he’s left behind. “C’mon, now. If you’re gonna bite, bite like you mean it.” And with that, he watches, waits, golden eyes glinting with something dangerous, something wild. Because Victor Creed is a man who thrives on blood and instinct, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to lose.

Julian Keller

- The moment your teeth graze his skin, Julian smirks. A slow, lazy curl of his lips, equal parts cocky and intrigued. He doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t react with surprise—no, Julian Keller is a man who thrives in the unexpected, who wears confidence like a second skin. “Well, well,” he drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable, “look at you. Feisty today, huh?” His voice is low, smooth, laced with the kind of arrogance that makes you want to bite him again—harder, just to wipe that smug expression off his face.

- But then, before you can so much as think about it, he moves. Swift, fluid, his telekinesis pressing against you, pinning you in place—not harsh, not cruel, but playful. A silent reminder of who he is, of what he can do. His grip at your waist tightens ever so slightly, his body angled close, so very close, and for a second, it feels less like a game and more like a challenge. “That supposed to be some kind of warning, babe?” he teases, his breath warm against your ear. “’Cause if you’re picking fights, you should know—I never back down.”

- He doesn’t retaliate immediately. No, Julian waits. He lets anticipation build, lets you think you’ve won—that you’ve caught him off guard, that he’ll let this slide. But then, just as you relax, he strikes. A sharp nip against your jaw, quick and precise, a mimicry of what you had done to him. But unlike you, he doesn’t stop there. No, Julian Keller is competitive, and if you’re playing this game, then he’s playing to win.

- “Gotta admit,” he murmurs against your skin, voice a quiet rasp, “you’ve got guts. I like that.” His grip loosens, but that smirk remains, his green eyes gleaming with challenge. “But next time? Maybe try a little harder.” And just like that, he pulls away, walking off as if nothing happened, as if he hasn’t just left you standing there, heart pounding, already plotting your revenge.

Kitty Pryde

- “Oh!” The moment your teeth press into her shoulder, Kitty lets out a startled squeak, her entire body jerking in surprise. She phases instinctively, and before you even register what’s happening, you’re biting nothing—your teeth sinking into empty air as she slips through you, her molecules scattering like mist. It’s not that she minds, not really. It’s just that she wasn’t expecting it. And Kitty Pryde does not like being caught off guard.

- “Did you just—?” Her voice is breathless, half-laughing, half-accusing, her wide eyes locking onto yours. There’s no anger there, no real irritation—just confusion and delight, an almost incredulous sort of amusement at the fact that you, of all people, had dared to bite her. “Okay, rude,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest in mock offense. “You can’t just do that without warning! What if I phased and got stuck inside the floor? You’d feel really bad, wouldn’t you?”

- But her protests are all for show, because the next second, she’s grinning, her playful side taking over. Kitty Pryde is mischief wrapped in kindness, and if you think for one second that she’s letting this go unanswered, you’re sorely mistaken. “Y’know,” she muses, tapping a finger to her chin, “if this is how we’re communicating now, I could phase my hand into your ribs and just… give your heart a little squeeze. Not lethal! Just, y’know… uncomfortable.”

- And yet, despite her teasing, despite her empty threats, there’s a warmth in her gaze, an unmistakable fondness in the way she leans in, brushing her lips—soft, fleeting—against the spot where your teeth had been. “But,” she murmurs, voice dipping into something gentler, something real, “I think I like this way better.” And then, with one final cheeky grin, she phases through you once more, vanishing just before you can grab her in retaliation.

Nathan Summers

- The moment you bite him, Cable pauses. No visible reaction. No sharp inhale, no startled flinch. He simply stills, his entire body locking into that unnerving, soldier-like stillness. His metal hand, which had been resting at your waist, remains unmoving, his entire frame rigid as if waiting, assessing. It’s instinct, honed over decades of battle, of survival. Because Nathan Summers is not a man accustomed to softness, and affection—even when playful—is something he has never learned to anticipate.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. His head tilts just slightly, his cybernetic eye dimming, the faintest flicker of something amused passing through his otherwise unreadable expression. “…Did you just bite me?” His voice is low, gravelly, tinged with something between disbelief and reluctant amusement. “Huh.” He says nothing else for a long moment, simply watching you, studying you as if trying to decipher what exactly prompted you to do such a thing.

- And then, finally, he shakes his head, a quiet huff escaping him—something that might, under very specific lighting conditions, be mistaken for a chuckle. “You’ve got guts,” he mutters, the corner of his lips twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk. “Reckless, but gutsy.” His organic hand brushes against the spot where your teeth had been, as if committing the sensation to memory.

- He doesn’t bite back. Doesn’t tease or taunt or retaliate. No, Cable is not a man who plays games. Instead, he opts for something simpler, something quieter—his hand cupping the back of your head, his lips pressing against your forehead in a rare display of open tenderness. A silent acknowledgment. A wordless acceptance. Because Nathan Summers may not understand softness, but for you, he is willing to learn.

Warren Worthington III

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Warren lets out a sharp gasp—a mix of surprise and something dangerously close to pleasure. His wings flare instinctively, feathers rustling with a sudden, unconscious movement, his entire body reacting before his mind can catch up. Because Warren Worthington III is a man of control, of composure—and yet, with you, it seems to shatter so easily.

- “Did you—” His voice is breathless, his pupils blown wide, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You just—” He swallows, as if struggling to find the right words, as if the simple act of you biting him has completely short-circuited his mind. He is an angel carved from marble, all sharp lines and celestial grace, and yet here he stands, utterly undone by something so small, so mortal.

- And then, something shifts. A slow, wicked smile tugs at his lips, the sharp edge of his Archangel persona slipping into his gaze. “You really shouldn’t do that,” he murmurs, voice a velvet purr. “Not unless you’re prepared for the consequences.” His wings snap forward in an instant, encircling you in a cocoon of soft, gilded feathers, trapping you against his chest. His fingers ghost over your jaw, tilting your chin up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

- “Because now?” His lips brush against the very spot you had marked, his voice dropping into something dangerous, something electric. “Now it’s my turn.” And then, before you can even think to protest, Warren Worthington III—heir, angel, warrior—bites back.

Kevin Sydney

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Kevin’s entire form shifts in surprise. One second, he’s his usual self—sharp jaw, bright eyes, that ever-present smirk—and the next, he’s you, your own expression of mischief mirrored back at you. His voice, now an exact replica of yours, lilts with exaggerated amusement: “Wow, is this what I look like when I do something reckless? No wonder you love me.”

- He lets the illusion linger just long enough to make you blink in disbelief before shifting back, his laughter spilling out in warm, unrestrained waves. There’s no irritation, no reprimand—just the unshakable joy of a man who thrives on unpredictability, who relishes in the absurd. “Biting, huh? I like this new development,” he teases, rubbing the spot where your teeth had been with faux contemplation. “I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting that, but hey, I do have a thing for surprises.”

- He retaliates in the most Morph-like way possible—by suddenly growing a pair of exaggerated fangs and snapping playfully at you, his grin widening as if daring you to test your luck again. “C’mon, babe, if we’re making this a thing, let’s make it fun,” he quips, waggling his eyebrows in an over-the-top display of challenge. “What’s next? Claw marks? A dramatic villain monologue? Give me something to work with!”

- And yet, despite all the jokes, despite the effortless laughter, there’s something softer underneath. Because Kevin Sydney is a man who hides behind humor, who masks emotion with theatrics—but the way he touches you now, fingers brushing idly along your wrist, is genuine. “Seriously, though,” he murmurs, his usual grin dimming into something real, “I like when you do things that catch me off guard. It reminds me that life’s worth sticking around for.”

Raven Darkhölme

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Mystique doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t jerk away. Instead, she merely stares, her yellow eyes sharp, assessing, calculating. It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking—whether she’s amused, annoyed, or considering shifting into someone entirely different just to make you regret it. “Interesting,” she murmurs at last, her voice low, velvet-smooth, carrying an edge of intrigue that makes your heart stutter.

- Then, before you can so much as blink, she moves. A blur of shifting colors, of muscle and bone rearranging in an instant—and suddenly, she’s behind you, her lips a ghost of a presence against your ear. “You really think you can surprise me?” she purrs, her breath cool against your skin. “I’ve spent lifetimes being a step ahead. If you wanted to catch me off guard, you’d have to try harder than that.”

- But despite her words, despite her unshakable composure, there’s an undeniable interest in her tone. Because Raven Darkhölme is a woman who’s spent decades in control, who rarely allows herself to be touched without permission—and yet, you’ve just walked right through every layer of her defenses without fear. And that? That fascinates her more than she’d care to admit.

- “Brave,” she muses at last, her fingers tracing the very spot you had bitten, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she adds, “But reckless.” And just like that, she shifts—her form melting into someone else, someone entirely unfamiliar—before disappearing into the shadows, leaving only her voice lingering behind: “I will be returning the favor.”

Illyana Rasputina

- The moment your teeth sink into her skin, Illyana freezes. Not in shock, not in discomfort, but in something else—something unreadable, something ancient and dangerous. Because Illyana Rasputina is not a woman accustomed to softness, and affection—even playful—has always been laced with sharp edges in her world. Her grip on her Soulsword tightens, and for a fraction of a second, her eyes flicker with golden fire, as if Hell itself has stirred in response.

- And then, she turns to you—slowly, deliberately, her expression eerily calm. “Did you just bite me?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s something lethal beneath it, something that makes even the air around her still. She doesn’t sound angry. If anything, she sounds… curious. As if she’s trying to decide whether this is something to be annoyed by—or something to encourage.

- And then, after what feels like an eternity, she laughs. It’s low, dark, a sound that carries the weight of fire and steel, of war and something far older than you could ever comprehend. “Hah. You’re bold,” she muses, tilting her head, considering you with something between amusement and fondness. “I like it.” Then, with a flick of her wrist, her Soulsword vanishes, and she leans in—so very close, her breath warm against your throat.

- “But you do realize,” she murmurs, her voice a whisper of shadows, “that I always bite back.” And before you can so much as react, she’s gone—vanished in a flash of eldritch fire, leaving nothing behind but the lingering heat of her presence and the unshakable knowledge that this game has only just begun.

Alex Summers

- The second your teeth graze his skin, Alex jumps—a sharp, involuntary reaction, his entire body tensing as if you’ve just electrocuted him. “What the hell?!” he blurts out, twisting to look at you with wide, startled eyes. There’s no immediate anger, no irritation—just sheer, genuine confusion, as if he cannot comprehend why you would do something so reckless.

- And then, as realization dawns, his expression changes. His brows furrow, his lips twitch, and before you can so much as breathe, he lets out a laugh—not the kind you were expecting, not cocky or smug, but genuine. It’s warm, boyish, disbelieving, the kind of laugh that makes the edges of his eyes crinkle. “You bit me,” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t quite wrap his mind around it. “Are you—are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

- And yet, despite his reaction, despite his initial shock, there’s something undeniably fond in the way he looks at you now. Because Alex Summers is a man who has spent his life in the shadow of expectation, of responsibility, of chaos—and here you are, bringing something light into his world, something unexpected, something good. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind that as much as he pretends to.

- “Alright, fine,” he relents at last, rubbing his neck where your teeth had been, his grin turning almost challenging. “But just so you know? I’m keeping score.” And with that, he leans in—his lips brushing against your jaw, a teasing warning before he suddenly nips at your skin in retaliation, pulling back with a satisfied smirk. “Your move.”

[baocean]

piss off your parents

chapter eight - the opposite of selfish

tiny note from the author - 😈😈

his phone

her phone

you had only gotten to the end of the back porch before you saw john b push rafe off jj.

you’d never seen people fight in real life, you felt frozen in time as tears brimmed your eyes. and it hurt, because you felt like an idiot.

watching jj stumble and fall into the sand, you gasped.

literally frozen at the end of the stairs, cleo was suddenly by your side, pulling you towards her friends grouping around jj.

a bloody rafe and kelce stormed by you, glaring as rafe aimed a, “fucking traitor,” at you.

jj was leaning on sarah’s shoulder as pope brushed his hair out of his face when you got close. they were all yelling at each other, speaking over each other.

“what happened?” you spoke, looking around the group, hoping any of them would answer.

“rafe said-” sarah started, before jj shook his head, stopping her.

“don’t.”

“what? why?” you pried, eyes frantically searching the group as you grasped at cleo again.

“j, why don’t you go with yn, get cleaned up. we’ll get people out of here.” john b pushed him away from sarah and towards you.

jj stumbled but caught his footing, finally meeting your eyes, blue flooded with guilt.

“um, okay. come on, jj.” you whispered, grabbing his arm and turning towards the house.

he was silent as you guided him into the house, letting him lead you towards a bathroom.

“sit on the sink.” you told him, bending down to look underneath in hopes of finding some medical supplies. when he scoffed, you met his eyes again, giving him a look. “sit.”

his eyes rolled back for only a second, then hopped up on the sink.

you settled on paper towels and the hand soap when you couldn’t find anything. you assumed that would do the job well enough.

you wiped the blood off his cheeks and chin, being extra careful under his eye where a bruise was already forming.

he had been silent for almost ten minutes now, and just as you were getting worried he was seriously hurt, he muttered, “i’m sorry, bunny.”

“are you okay?” you asked, shaking your head at his apology.

“never been better.” he grinned, revealing the blood staining his teeth.

you couldn’t help but smile, rolling your eyes. “that’s all that matters.”

his eyes searched your face as you cleaned his face. one hand on his cheek, the other rubbing a cloth across his nose.

jj’s eyes traced along the forehead wrinkle as you focused. noticed the scar you had on your eyebrow, saw the birthmark on your eyelid when your eyes shifted downwards.

it was like he couldn’t help it, but when his eyes fell to your lips, he closed them and shuddered.

“sorry, did i hurt you?” you asked, pulling back from him.

when your hand left his cheek, he leaned back into it, almost subconsciously.

you clocked the action, freezing when his chin brushed against your wrist.

“i just- you know. i never had anyone take care of me after shit like this happened. especially not after my dad would- after my dad would hit me.”

he refused to open his eyes, and you were glad when your face scrunched in pain.

“i’m so sorry.” you mumbled, not fighting your better judgement when your thumb brushed against his cheek.

“why’re you sorry?” it was like you two were scared of someone hearing you, keeping your voices so low only you could hear him, only he could hear you.

“i’ve been complaining about my parents all while you had to go through unthinkable things. i must sound so selfish.” you let out a breathy laugh.

“you’re the exact opposite of selfish.” was all jj said. you waited for something more, but after a few beats, you nodded and continued cleaning his face.

there was a cut on the side of his eye and you wondered if you should offer him a bandaid.

once he was cleaned off, you cleared your throat and backed away from him. finally, he opened his eyes, but kept them on the floor.

he hopped off the counter, barely looking at you. “thanks for everything, bunny.”

and then he was gone.

her phone

masterlist link | next chapter

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[batsybat91]

Smut! Minors, Do Not Interact!!

CW: Office sex, unsafe sex, sexual frustration

Summary: You're Leon's secretary, and both of you are blue-balled in your office. Leon decides to remedy that today.

Seeing men hard in their pants always gets you riled up. You don't know why it sets you off, but it does. It doesn't happen very often, because you don't have a boyfriend. It's unfortunate that you don't get to experience that thrill; the one you get when you know you're the cause of their erection.

You are a secretary for Leon Kennedy at the DSO. He is the best boss you've ever had - and goddamn, he is sexy. Sometimes, he catches you ogling him, the way you squirm in your seat like you want to jump his bones right there. You've fantasized about Leon in every dirty way possible. It's upsetting that you can't climb him like a tree. The things you would let that man do to you-

God, you're getting yourself horny again. This is the worst part of work. That pressure begins to build between your hips, and it becomes increasingly obvious that you won't be able to focus on work today. This happens every once in a while, when all you can think about is going home to finish yourself off.

Leon brusquely walks out of his office. You suddenly remember a letter someone left for him at your desk, just outside of his office. "Oh, Leon!" you say, voice an octave higher than usual. "I- I have you- a letter for you."

You see it. The rock-hard length of his cock bouncing inside his slacks. "I'm busy!" he snaps at you.

He never snaps at you. But you are too busy staring at his crotch to care. "Fuck," you gasp. "Sorry, Mr. Kennedy."

"Don't call me that!" he groans.

"Sorry!" you squeak out again.

"Stop looking!" he growls.

"I- I'm sorry!" you apologize for the third time.

"Get in my office," he snarls. You can't get up fast enough. Today, you wore a skirt. That means easy access, if he decides to fuck you.

He locks the door behind you, then draws the blinds. There isn't a camera in this office, so you know he's not worried about anyone seeing you.

Lips crash into yours, desperate, hungry, needy. He grinds against you and God- the feeling of his length against your clothed cunt drives you insane.

"You're mine." He kisses your neck, sucking at your oversensitive skin.

"Fuck, yes, Mr. Kennedy, yours," you affirm, drunk on the feeling of his zipper brushing your clit.

"You think I don't see the way you look at me? The hunger in your eyes? The way you squirm in your seat like you can't stand the sight of me?" Leon asks between firey kisses.

"No," you admit. He swipes everything off your desk and lays you back against it. Leon's big hands slip under your skirt to yank your panties to your knees.

"I should have fucked you sooner." He nips your earlobe.

"Yes!" you agree, dazed from the sheer amount of hormones flooding your system.

He unbuttons his slacks, then pulls them down just enough to let his red, angry cock free. You watch it bounce as he jerks his hand over his length once. Pre-cum gathers at the tip, and you damn near lose your mind.

"Leon!" you exclaim. You can't think of anything else to say. He pushes your skirt up, pulling you to the edge of the desk. Then, he is inside of you. One sharp thrust, and he's bottomed out. You want to cry out, but his hand is over your mouth.

"Can't believe you," he says, eyes focused on the sight of his dick sliding in and out of your core. He's never loved a sight so much. "Always making me hard. Fuck! You're beautiful, baby. Just want to sink my teeth into you."

"Leon," you mumble against his hand. His thrusts are erratic, and you're barely able to register what's happening. God, it feels good. You need more. You are ravenous, groping for his collar. You yank him down to your level. Leon's lips meet yours in a bruising kiss as he fucks you.

His thumb comes down to brush your clit, and fireworks explode in the back of your vision. His mouth swallows all your sounds, ensuring no one can hear you.

He is rough. Every snap of his hips against yours makes you want to scream. But he won't let you. Tears pricking at the edge of your vision as he drives into you, you claw at his suit jacket. He breaks the kiss for air, and you immediately move to bury your head against his shoulder. "Mmph!" you moan, muffled by his suit jacket.

"Fuck- you're so tight-" he chokes, panting like a wild animal.

One last thrust is all it takes for the two of you to come together. You are certain tears flow from your eyes now. Not from pain, but from the sheer realization that Leon Kennedy is fucking you. You feel full, even when he pulls out. "Leon," you whine softly. His pleasure drips from you onto his desk, smearing over your thighs.

"I'm taking you to my bed tonight." He presses another searing kiss to your lips as if to seal the promise.

[onlyyoucanhurtlikethis]

breaking point - kylian mbappe, one shot (smut)

this is the first time i post smut here, please don't interact if you're not comfortable. please do say something if you read and have something to say (critical feedback is always welcome).

i have more pg-13 friendly pieces on my page

Kylian feels himself slipping. His control, his restraint—both are unraveling with every breathy moan that spills from her lips, with the way her body tightens around him like she never wants to let go. He’s buried so deep inside her, his thrusts rough, deliberate, every movement sending sharp pleasure straight through both of them.

His hands grip her thighs, spreading her open wider, making her take every inch of him. And fuck, she takes him so well—like she was made for this, for him. The sight of her beneath him, flushed and desperate, only makes his need sharper.

Her body trembles, overwhelmed but wanting more. She looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, mouth slightly parted, her breath uneven. Every deep thrust knocks another gasping whimper out of her, her fingers clenching the sheets, then his back, like she’s trying to ground herself.

Kylian watches her, his jaw tight. He leans down, lips brushing against her ear. “You feel that?” His voice is deep, rough, teetering on the edge of something darker. “How deep I am?”

She exhales shakily, her nails dragging over his skin. “Yes.”

His fingers press harder into her hips. “Say it properly.”

Her breath stutters as another sharp thrust rocks through her. “You’re so deep, Kylian—fuck, I can feel you everywhere.”

A deep groan rumbles from his chest at the way she says his name, at how ruined she already sounds. He rewards her with a slow, hard thrust, his cock hitting the deepest spot inside her, making her cry out.

His teeth graze her throat, his breath hot against her skin. He wants to bite down. Wants to mark her.

“Do it,” she breathes suddenly, as if reading his mind. Her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him closer. “Bite me.”

Kylian groans, his restraint snapping. He sinks his teeth into the soft curve of her neck—not too hard, but enough to make her gasp, her entire body shuddering beneath him. Her nails dig into his back in response, raking down his skin, and fuck, he loves it.

He soothes the mark with his tongue, lips trailing lower, tasting the heat of her skin. “That good for you, bébé?”

She lets out a breathy moan, tilting her head to the side, giving him more. “Again.”

His lips curl into a smirk against her skin before he bites down again, lower this time, leaving another mark just above her collarbone. She gasps, her hips jerking up against him, her body clenching around him so tight it nearly drives him insane.

Kylian growls, his grip on her hips turning bruising. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she breathes.

His hands move, fingers wrapping loosely around her throat, testing. Her eyes flicker open, hazy with pleasure, and she nods quickly.

“More,” she whispers. “I want more.”

Kylian groans at the way she asks for it, at the desperation in her voice. He applies the slightest bit of pressure, enough to make her shiver, to make her body tighten around him.

“Fucking hell” he mutters, his voice raw, his hips snapping against hers in a brutal rhythm.

She moans at the force of it, her hands flying to his wrists, not to stop him but to hold him there, to urge him on.

“You take me so well,” Kylian breathes, his lips dragging along her jaw. “So fucking tight for me.” He thrusts deeper, harder, groaning as he feels her squeeze around him. “Like this pussy was made for my cock.”

She gasps, her entire body arching off the bed, her legs wrapping tighter around him. She can barely think, barely speak, but she wants to give him something back.

“Kylian—” she pants, her voice shaky, teasing. “Who would’ve thought, huh?”

He slows slightly, eyes flickering to hers. “What?”

“The internet.” Her lips curl faintly. “Saying I have no emotions.”

Kylian exhales a sharp laugh, then drives into her harder, making her cry out.

“Yeah?” His voice is low, mocking, eyes dark with amusement. “They think you’re cold—” Another deep thrust. “Detached—” He presses a kiss to her throat, his hand still wrapped around it. “While I have you here, crying and whimpering on my cock.”

She shudders, her breath completely wrecked. And then—

“I can beg too,” she whispers.

Kylian lets out a deep, guttural groan. “Go on, then.”

She pulls him down, her lips brushing against his ear. “Please, Kylian,” she breathes, voice shaking. “Please, fuck me harder.”

Something snaps in him.

His thrusts turn brutal, deep, almost punishing, and she feels every inch of it, every relentless movement pushing her closer to the edge. She’s a mess beneath him, her moans turning high-pitched, her hands grabbing at him desperately.

Kylian watches her fall apart, completely mesmerized. His lips brush against her cheek, his voice softer now, but no less intense.

“Tell me,” he murmurs. “Did you always know?”

Her dazed eyes flicker open. “Know what?”

“That you were mine,” Kylian breathes, his pace never faltering. “That I’d be the one fucking you like this, making you come apart.”

She whimpers, her fingers clenching around his wrists.

He leans down, kissing the corner of her lips. “Say it, bébé.”

She swallows, her voice barely a whisper. “I think I did.”

Kylian groans at her admission, something primal surging through him. His grip on her throat tightens slightly before he releases it, his fingers slipping between them, finding that sensitive spot, rubbing slow, teasing circles.

“You gonna come for me?” he murmurs against her lips. “Gonna come on my cock like a good girl?”

She nods frantically, her breath hitching. “Kylian—”

“That’s it,” he whispers, watching her fall apart completely, watching her tremble beneath him, her release hitting her so hard she can barely breathe.

The second she shatters, he follows, his grip on her tightening as he buries himself deep, spilling inside her with a groan that sounds almost reverent.

For a moment, neither of them move, tangled together, bodies still trembling, breath still uneven.

Then—

Kylian presses a slow, lingering kiss to her jaw, his lips curling into a lazy smirk.

“Guess the internet is wrong about you,” he murmurs, teasing but still breathless.

She huffs a weak laugh, her hand smacking his shoulder. “Shut up.”

He chuckles, kissing her again. “Never.”

[venusvity]

CHAPTER THREE: CURRENT DAY ... THE ANATOMY OF THE FALL.

STARRING ... JUNG YOONAH & SON JINHWA. WORD COUNT ... 4.1K SUMMARY ... Trapped in the web of motherhood. &&. WARNINGS INCLUDE I honestly don't think there's any warnings here besides this relationship being inappropriate, but you can let me know if I missed anything.

It started on a Sunday. 

Yoonah combed Hyunjun’s long black hair back with long drags of the brown wooden comb. She hummed as she did so. Hyunjun watched his reflection and Yoonah’s. He smiled when he looked at her lax face. She always felt at peace when getting ready for church with Hyunjun. It was just a him and her thing. Jinhwa stopped going to church with them years ago and Noah only went on major holidays, but Yoonah and Hyunjun went every Sunday morning. 

Hyunjun will be turning ten this year, but Yoonah has been in his life since before he could roll on his tummy. She taught him to do that. Most of what Hyunjun knows is from Yoonah’s teaching. 

Vividly, Yoonah can recall the first time she held Hyunjun. She was seventeen and he wasn’t even a year old. Jinhwa brought him to the Angelico building, showing off his new son like a grand prize that won him a blue ribbon at the state fair. Yoonah liked how proud he was to be a father, how delicately he handled an infant, and how she was one of the select few that actually got to hold the new born.

As she cooed down at a new born Hyunjun, he smiled and reached up at her nose. Jinhwa said that’s the first time he saw his son smile. Yoonah held onto that and never let it go.

Now, still with the face of a baby, Hyunjun stood in front of her, lanky and skinny, with fat on his cheeks that reminded Yoonah of a chipmunk storing nuts in their cheeks. He wore a dress shirt Yoonah bought for him, running his chubby fingers across the black buttons before he looked up at Yoonah’s reflection again. This time Yoonah meets his gaze. She smiled warmly at him and gave his cheek a rub with the back of her knuckles, watching as he smiled brightly at the affection, a childish giggle leaving his throat that made Yoonah laugh as well.

“My rice cake,” Yoonah teased as she gave his cheek a playful pinch which made Hyunjun laugh, turning his face out of her hand but leaning back into her thighs. He held onto her wrist, smiling up at her with a tilted back head. Hyunjun was missing four of his teeth, waiting for them to come in. Yoonah told Jinhwa he would need braces because his teeth looked like her’s when she was a child.

In a lot of ways, Hyunjun resembled Yoonah despite having no biological connection to her. She wondered if it was environmental, that if the world knew she raised him and he called her momma more than he ever got to call the woman who birthed him and gave her the blessing of him looking like her. That was a big reason why she liked taking Hyunjun to church. The old ladies always referred to him as her son and there was no one there to correct them, though no one really corrected them when Hyunjun would say Yoonah was his mother.

She is. 

She raised him. She grew up with him. He’s a part of her even if he never sat in her womb.

Yoonah felt her lips twitch when she thought about it for too long. She looked away from the mirror and patted Hyunjun’s shoulders, shaking him lightly in a playful fashion.

“Ready?” Yoonah asked though she knew the answer. Hyunjun nodded, taking her hand into his. He keeps growing, she thought, his hand can nearly fill her’s now and it made her chest ache. She could remember when he could barely wrap his small fingers around her thumb, now his palm is practically the same size as her’s. Jinhwa said he would hit his growth spurt soon as Noah hit his at eleven and Jinhwa hit his a twelve. Yoonah dreaded the day that Hyunjun got taller than her, knowing it would come suddenly and when she wasn’t looking. The thought made her stomach sink, but it didn’t show on her face as they walked down the stairs of their home.

Jinhwa’s home. His house. His roof. Yoonah called it her house although she knows it’s not.

Jinhwa was in the dining room, reading the paper with a cup of steaming coffee sitting next to him, presumably cooling off as Yoonah could still see the steam rolling out of the white mug Jinhwa always drank his morning coffee from. His silver-lined glasses sat atop the strong bridge of his nose, dark eyes scanning over the endless blocks of text. Yoonah likes to tease him by saying his age is shown by how often he reads the paper. Jinhwa’s gaze lifted when he heard the hard sole of Yoonah’s flats hit the hardwood floor. He smiled warmly at the sight of Yoonah and his son hand in hand, ready for church.

“So cute,” He cooed, standing from his chair to approach them. When he was close enough, Yoonah used her index finger to push his glasses up so they were actually aligned with his eyes, making him chuckle down at her as his hands fell on her waist naturally. His hands ran over the cream fabric of her dress, examining the length, the way it’s cut, and every detail. A silent test that Yoonah knew she’d pass. Sometimes, she felt she was the only one to pass Jinhwa’s silent evaluations. That’s how she ended up here, taking his son to Sunday mass without him. Yoonah watched his eyes take in every detail of her appearance and gave his shoulder a squeeze to bring his gaze back up to her face.

“Do you want to come with us?” Yoonah always offered even when she knew the answer. Hyunjun awkwardly swayed beside Yoonah and kept his gaze on the ground. Yoonah knew that Hyunjun didn’t like rejection especially from his father, but Yoonah would always ask if Jinhwa wanted to go with them, hoping one day he would say yes and stand with her in the pews once again.

“Not this time,” Jinhwa answered without giving her question even a moment to breathe. Yoonah pouted with a tilt of her head, putting her hand on Jinhwa’s cheek as her silent last plea. Jinhwa pouted down at her with a sigh, leaning into her palm as he held onto her wrist. “I have to go to the office soon. It’s really busy this time of year. Maybe next week, my love.” Yoonah knew next week would never come, but that never stopped her from asking. Jinhwa drops a hand to nudge Hyunjun’s cheek, making the boy look up at him. Yoonah could never tell how Hyunjun felt about his father. One day, Jinhwa was all he wanted and the next he was detached. She figured it was a boy thing. He would always be more partial to her because was his mother.

“You’ll take care of momma for me, won’t you, Hyunjun?” Jinhwa asked in a deeper voice than the one he spoke to Yoonah in. Hyunjun only nodded wordlessly and tugged on Yoonah’s hand, silently telling her he wanted to leave. Yoonah wondered what it was today that Hyunjun was upset with his father over. Sometimes, he just woke up angry. He’s a growing boy, she told herself when he would have a tantrum or turn to silence, he will grow out of it when he’s grown.

“We’re going to be late,” Yoonah told Jinhwa in a gentle voice, giving his cheek a pat to turn his attention back on her. Jinhwa nodded as wordlessly as his son, smiling fondly down at Yoonah as she dropped her hand to the side of his neck. She pressed herself on her toes to press a peck to his lips. Jinhwa’s hand rests on the back of her neck, stilling her once she drops back onto flat feet. She kept her gaze on his face like she was taught to, waiting for the hand to raise and free her. 

Jinhwa used his other hand to untuck the heart shaped pendant on the gold chain around her neck from the inside of her dress. He adjusted the collar of her dress as well before moving to tuck her hair behind her ears, showing her round face off more. Jinhwa smiled when she was prepped to his image, leaning down to peak her lips again. Yoonah felt stiff, her hands at her side like a stalled robot waiting for their owner to flip the power switch.

Jinhwa lifted his hand from the back of her neck and stepped out of their way, rounding back to his cooled coffee. Yoonah could feel Hyunjun’s hand tighten around her as he began to pull her out the door.

“See you guys later,” Jinhwa called as they stepped into the crisp autumn air, Yoonah’s nose crinkled at the coolness of the air, throwing a wave behind her with her free hand.

“Bye, my love!” She called, closing the door with her foot.

—

“What has you upset at papa today?” Yoonah asked as her and Hyunjun sat at their usual spot after mass. They always went to one of those ‘serve yourself’ ice cream shops. Hyunjun would always get some wacky ice cream that made Yoonah want to hurl because of how sweet it would be while she always got a vanilla cone.

Hyunjun didn’t respond at first, he wouldn’t even make eye contact with Yoonah. He kept his gaze on the neon orange pushup pop in his hand. There’s a small pout on his full lips when his father is mentioned. It made Yoonah’s chest ache. 

There’s one constant that Yoonah had seen from Jinhwa and it was how much he loved Hyunjun. She knew he loved both his sons, but there was a kindness with Hyunjun she rarely saw him use with Noah. Yoonah had a theory it’s because Hyunjun was only his son. Since his mother died so shortly after his birth, the only parent he had before Yoonah became involved was Jinhwa. Hyunjun was solely raised by Jinhwa. Yoonah could see there was a different look in Jinhwa’s eyes when he looked at Hyunjun, but she’d never say anything about it.

“I want to start training.” Yoonah swore her blood ran cold. A lump formed in her throat, but she played it cool and took a small bite of her ice cream. Hyunjun didn’t notice her shift in mood, but she didn’t expect him to. He’s a child.

“I like singing and I want to be better at it. After I learn to sing, I can be an idol like bubu and you. It’ll be fun, but papa said I’m too young. That’s weird. Bubu started training when he was ten. I should be able to too.” His rant is accentuated with a pout that would usually having her cooing, but she can’t bring herself to say anything or change the blank expression on her face.

“It’s a hard job, Hyunjun.” Is all Yoonah can think to say. Hyunjun knitted his brows as he shook his head, biting on the plastic of his tube to get more of the orange slush out of it. Yoonah watched him closely, blinking hard as she studied his face. “You’ll be ready when you’re…” Twelve? Too young. Thirteen? Too young. Fourteen? Still too young. Yoonah couldn’t come up with an age that would appease her and Hyunjun even when he looked up at her expectantly.

Yoonah forced a smile to ease him.

“Older.”

Hyunjun grumbles something around the plastic in his mouth, but Yoonah doesn’t hear it. She only watched him gnaw on it some more as a ringing slowly filled her ears. The thought of Hyunjun in the practice room, alone, being watched by adults that tear apart his every move, every flaw, critique his still changing appearance. The thought makes her sick. The idea of her baby being watched by people four times his age, figuring out what parts of him are able to be sold and what parts must be changed to meet the industry standard, brings tears to her eyes. She blinked at him again, seeing a flash of her younger self for a moment. Yoonah blinked again and she was gone, Hyunjun sitting where he always sat.

“I don’t want to be too old,” Hyunjun tried to explain to Yoonah, but he was talking to an expert. “If I wait too long, I’ll be too old. No one wants old idols.”

“Do you even want to be an idol?” Yoonah asked abruptly, looking up from the table. “What happened to fashion? You wanted to be a designer.” He’s not even ten yet. It doesn’t matter what he wants to do because it will change by the next season, but Yoonah couldn’t entertain this idea even for a moment.

Hyunjun shrugged as he looked down at the table. When he looks down, he looks like his father.

“It would be easier to be an idol.”

“It wouldn’t be.”

“Yes, it would. Papa-”

“Papa told you no,” Yoonah reminded him swiftly, watching Hyunjun roll his eyes. She never reprimanded him for ‘attitude’ she felt as if that was hypocritical. Yoonah would be turning 27 this year and she still rolled her eyes when Jinhwa said something she didn't like. It was rare she spoke to Hyunjun seriously, let alone reprimand him. That was for his father to handle, though Jinhwa was adamantly against corporal punishment with Hyunjun as the mere thought of laying a hand on a child deeply upset him. He would raise his voice and get stern, but she’s never seen him raise a hand on his youngest son.

“Papa is smart and wouldn’t tell you no without a reason. He can only help you so much if you don’t listen.” Yoonah could feel her ice cream cone begin to melt, causing her to become more agitated. She sighed, standing from the small white wired table they sat at and dumping her cone in the trash, shaking her hand of the creamy white liquid with an unamused gaze.

“Hurry up,” Yoonah tells him as she sits back down, plucking napkins from the container that sat between them. “We need to be back in time for lunch.”

Hyunjun said nothing. He stared at her with his big round eyes as he mindlessly and slowly chewed on the plastic in his mouth. Yoonah blinked at him as she took in his helpless expression. He was an emotional child which only fed Yoonah’s delusion that he was her own child more. She knew he would get tears in his eyes soon and eventually start silently crying. Yoonah always found that odd about Hyunjun. As he grew older, his cries got softer. In a way, she gets it, but her cries never grew softer, she swore they got louder and louder and louder with every passing year of her life.

Yoonah reached over to pet his hair soothingly.

“I’ll talk to papa about it when we get home,” Yoonah told him with a defeated sigh. It was worth it as she watched Hyunjun light up and sit up straighter as if a burden was lifted from his frail shoulders as if one wasn’t looming above him, threatening to consume him.

His hypocrisy always irked her.

Even when she was younger, Jinhwa would say he hated something then turn around and do it. The shorts on those girls are too short, he would say, then have Yoonah promoting in the same pair the next week. Children deserve to be children, he would tell her, then have Klara working on her fourteenth birthday. It was the little things that made her eyes narrow and jaw tick when she looked at him.

“I don’t think it’s appropriate for him to start training before he’s twelve. That’s all I told him.” Though Yoonah agrees with his words, she thinks back to pictures of Noah in the practice room when he was ten. The running water against the white dishes makes a soothing background noise, but Yoonah is anything but soothed. 

“What changed?” Yoonah dryly asks, feeling Jinhwa’s shoulder bump into her bicep as he rises Hyunjun’s dinner plate. He stills, glancing over at her as she keeps her gaze on the sink.The air between them shifts, but it’s nothing Yoonah hasn’t felt before. She’s been around this man for half her life, has been his makeshift wife for half of a half, she knows Son Jinhwa better than anyone. She’s loved him better than anyone. He’s that line of poetry she keeps repeating and can’t let go of because it spoke to her so clearly.

“He did. Times are different now,” Jinhwa explains, putting the dish in the drying rack. He glances at her again as he grabs a napkin to dry his hands. “I’m older.”

“You’ve always been older.” Yoonah says it before she means to. Her hands stall for a moment when the words hit the atmosphere, watching as the water cascades down the white dish. She can feel Jinhwa staring at her, making her continue as normal, but the shift is obvious. They both feel it. It makes Yoonah sick. 

Jinhwa puts his hand on the small of her back, leaning down and kissing the side of her head, reminding her that he towers over her in every aspect. This house is his, this kitchen is his, the dish is his, Hyunjun is his son, everything is his and Yoonah feels empty handed. She looks in front of her at the feeling of his lips on the side of her head, but then his hand lifts to the back of her neck, holding her in place. Over the years, Jinhwa’s grip has loosened, but the hold stayed the same. He knew Yoonah wouldn’t run anymore so he stopped holding tight. Still, his hand is heavy and she feels a lump in her throat at the weight of it.

“Did something happen that you want to tell me about, my love?” He puts more pressure on the lower part of her neck, making her tilt her head up with a small whimper. It didn’t hurt but it was uncomfortable. She looks up at him now, feeling his other hand on her cheek. Her hands go up as if to push him away, but they rest on his chest. She shakes her head with tightly shut lips, wrapping her fingers around his shirt. He’s still in his work clothes, but the top buttons are unbuttoned and his tie is off. Yoonah changed completely into casual clothes by the time they had dinner. They never looked like they were going to the same place even when they were.

Jinhwa gives Yoonah a sad look, tilting his head down at her and scratching at her scalp to sooth her, but it only makes her gaze drop to the collar of his shirt. There’s an uneasy feeling in her stomach. Jinhwa has always been older. He would always be older. Yoonah feels two feet tall, she feels twelve again, and she can’t explain it.

Yoonah presses the back of her hand against her temple, shaking her head.

“When Hyunjun was telling me about wanting to be a trainee…I just got really upset,” She tells with through a whisper, shutting her eyes as she does so turning her head out of the way with a deep sigh, trying to push Jinhwa away even just a step but nothing budges. Jinhwa holds her neck tighter to still her, but that only makes Yoonah close her eyes tighter and press harder against his chest.

“Why? I told him no. There’s no reason to be upset, Yoonah.”

“You didn’t tell me no, Jinhwa,” Yoonah interjects with a slight raise of her voice, looking up at him with a watery gaze. She gives him a forceful shrug that has him letting go of her finally, using her now free hands to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. “And I’m mad about it. I’m upset.”

Jinhwa gives her a moment to herself, staring at her with an unyielding gaze, but after a moment he reaches for her again. Yoonah swats his hands away with a frustrated groan, rolling her eyes as she takes a step away from him, looking like a leopard ready to pounce on her pray. She waits for him to try, a choked sob leaving her throat that she doesn’t mean to let fall out. She’s upset. Yoonah never dealt with being upset well even as a child.

Jinhwa knew that. He knew everything because he had been there for everything.

Jinhwa sighs at her defiance, rubbing his chin as he looks away from her to gather himself. Yoonah watches him with a deep breath through her sloped nose, the water teetering on the edge of her waterline spilling out when she blinks. She watches Jinhwa look up at the ceiling with a deep breath, causing her jaw to tick. He’s frustrated with her and she can tell which only makes her more angry.

“You’re angry about something that happened over ten years ago?” He’s feigning care and concern, but Yoonah knows he thinks it’s stupid. Yoonah rolls her eyes again, making him step forward and reach to put his hand on the back of her neck, but she moves away from him with a large step back that nearly has her bumping into the fridge. Jinhwa sighs again, this time with more annoyance and clearer frustration in the way his chest rises.

Yoonah tilts her head at him, biting the inside of her cheek with a tilt of her head. “I’ve always been angry. I’m always angry. It never fucking stops, Jinhwa.” Yoonah can try to explain this to him over and over again, but she can’t even explain it to herself more often than not. There’s moments where the light hits her and blinds her, she gets it, she’s blind but she finally sees then the plug is pulled and she’s in the dark again. She never gets it.

“It’s been over ten years, Yoonah. I can’t change the past,” Jinhwa tells her in that condescending way he does when he’s working with narrowed eyes and a raise of his brows to challenge her. “Why would you want me to? You’re a fucking star. This is what you’re upset over? That I made you the idols of idols?”

“You’re being stupid on purpose,” Yoonah argues with a slow shake of her head. “I hate when you do that. You know what I’m talking about.”

“So, what? You want me to apologize for picking you at an audition you went to? That’s what you want?”

“Jinhwa, I was twelve!” Yoonah shouts over him, hitting his chest with two tightly shut fists, shoving him as well. Jinhwa takes a step back with a sigh, covering his mouth with one hand as the other rests on his hip, turning away from her to collect his thoughts. He shrugs in dejection and confusion, throwing his hand on his hip up and letting it drop on his thigh.

“And it turned out fine, Yoonah. You’re fine. Things turned out great for you. What do you want from this conversation?”

Yoonah doesn’t know what she wants from this. Maybe she just wants it off her chest, for him to hear it, but she knows he already knows it. She can see it in his dark brown eyes. There’s a sickening feeling in her gut, but her bottom lip quivers. She wants to scream at him, to hit him, but she covers her eyes with her hand as a trembling sob leaves her full lips.

“He’s so little, Jinhwa,” Yoonah sobs, shutting her eyes tightly as she leans against the fridge. She hears the quiet sigh leave his lips and feels him move closer to her. Instead of the back of her neck, he gently pulls her in by her shoulder. When Yoonah presses into his chest, she wraps her arms around his waist as her face buried into his chest over where his heartbeat slowly.

“I can’t have him end up like me,” Yoonah whimpers, but he shushes her soothingly. His large hands run over her silky black hair, rubbing her back with his other hand. 

Like us, flashes in her head for a moment and it makes her whimper softly, squeezing him tighter. Her tears stain his shirt as she holds onto him like he’s her last chance.

[twistedpink]

Pardon my sleep deprived brain, been thinking about Coworker Leona on a set for a show and I'm salivating. You gave me ingredients and I cooked a meal for you Hun! Enjoy!

Ps. I'm being nice to him again! Am I okay?

The chemistry is easy between you and Coworker Leona. To easy.

I mean, can anyone blame you for it? He literally loads the gun and you fire with all the banter and witty replies you both share. The director has to remind you both to cool it cause you can't have more chemistry than the main cast. As if that's ever stopped other shows from having minor characters that the fan base just sinks their teeth into. The tenth time you are asked to not "stare each other down like you wanted to rip each other clothes off" (a fan's words not yours or his surely ;) ) you both are banned from the set for a few days. Too bad the tabloids get a front row seat to a coffee date instead, doing nothing to quiet the shipping wars happening online.

Footsie is a natural part of your relationship as coworkers, if anyone asks it's war. You sip a smoothie while he munches on some barbequed meat on a stick from a food cart near the set. Both of you stewing over being overlooked again for main casting as the usual box office beefcakes and long legs take front and center. It was a familiar dance that came with the territory of being second rate. At least the footsie game was pleasing, maybe even a bit comforting to know neither of you were in this alone. Special attention was still attention after all.

Not that anyone has the balls to break you both up with your camera presence. You both had become something of a joke on sets. Bonnie and Clyde, Romeo and Juliet, Frodo and Sam... Yeah you both cringed at each comparison. Greedy greedy money makers are always looking to mooch off of you both but unwilling (cowards) to give you both center stage and to really let the sparks fly. Just one chance Mr. Director!

Coworker Leona who makes it a point to flirt/ make his move with the other cast memebers to try to get out...until he sees he's been boxed in. Cue a sulking lion you now have been tasked with to cheer up or at least poke at till he can do his scenes properly. At the end of the day you always had his back no matter who was watching and it came through on screen.

Coworker Leona who growls out obscene things as you listen to him rant with a mouth a mother would faint at. Sometimes you wonder just what made him so bitter, but you'd never asked.

Coworker Leona who surprisingly gossips despite his quiet nature and rough exterior. You hadn't expected him to be interested in Vil's latest success (being recast as the villain again) and openly jeering the blonde when he walks by. Okay maybe not gossiping but verbal sparring like the mastermind he is. Sometimes you wonder why you dare to go toe to toe with him if it could mean being shredded by his tongue, but where's the fun in that?

Coworker Leona who drags you off between takes to "practice" but it's well known he's "talking" with you to burn off the tension and maybe just give the fans more to speculate about. If neither of you could make it big on screen, at least you'd blow up the internet with hints here and there. Swollen lips and flushed cheeks always had everyone and their mother talking.

At the end of the day both you and Coworker Leona hang out after completing a season of the show you're working on. Neither of you know if you'll get called back cause you were such menaces, but ...who doesn't love some good publicity. Even if it comes from the underdogs. Maybe the writers will wise up and give the fans what they want. A steamy scene with their favorite duo perhaps?

EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

[bibuckagenda]

Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered lyrics that make me feral about Buddie:

“Men are not a new sensation, I’ve done pretty well I think”

“He’s a fool and don’t I know it, but a fool can have his charms. I’m in love and don’t I show it, like a babe in arms”

“Loves the same old sad sensation. Lately I’ve not slept a wink, since this half-pint imitation put me on the blink”

“Burned a lot, but learned a lot, and now you are broke, so you earned a lot. Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered no more”

[peapod20001]

@carbonateddelusion

And Ero took that literally

[habibisagi]

[dallonwrites]

the first chapter of lover boy is really intense on an emotional level because So Many Things happen in quick succession it's like beau barely gets a chance to breathe and process it. meanwhile RR opening chapter is just felix and dorothy arguing in a laundromat.

[usernyoom]

"i feel like the red bull daniel. he is still here."

[daz4i]

one thing abt me is that i'll fixate on the bird boy

[tonycries]

I Lasted Ten Rounds!

Synopsis. Marathons - they’re better in bed.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, marathon séx, major overstím, pússydrunk boys, CÚMPLAY, creampíes, mean Geto, squírting, innappropríate use of jujutsu (Gojo and Sukuna), pússy-slappíng, best friend!Choso, aphrodísiacs, true form Sukuna, dp, spítting, BRÉEDING, making them cry, full nélson, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.9k

A/N. Hope y’all have a good leak day mwah <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 5 rounds

“Raw.” he breathes, and there’s a strained - almost whiny - shudder being wrenched out of Toji’s hulking body when he sinks inch after long, hefty inch into your plush cunt. Bullying past the barely-there resistance of that first ring of muscle with such a harsh tug of your pliant body down his swollen cock. “R-raw. You- fuck- you finally let me–”

No, it wasn’t the first time you let Toji fuck you into these silken bedsheets without a condom - that was a few hours ago. But that didn’t stop him from spitting out that same, strained accusation, the same greedy little push and pull of his toned hips smacking sloppily against your clingy pussy. 

He was addicted. 

“O-oh, Toji–” you’re babbling, swollen lips glossed with tears, thighs burning at just how long he’s been pounding into you like this. “S’already the- the third? Fourth? Or-”

“Fifth.” he’s cutting you off, with a hoarse chuckle - voice shot already. “Fifth n’-” Head lolling drunkenly into the crook of your neck, it’s all he can do to bite out brokenly, “-oh, my girl- hope y’know m’not hahhh- letting you go until I physically can’t anymore.”

Fifth, huh?

Oh, it was setting in - fuck, was he feeling it. You were so pretty underneath him, sweat-slicked body splayed out all shamefully for him, slurring words barely coherently. And Toji couldn’t even keep his eyes open, stars popping up behind his lids at every one of your velvety clenches, abs burning with each ravaged mash of his overworked, weepy head against your ravaged g-spot.

Fingers jittery where he’s hauling your body desperately to his muscled one. Clinging onto you so close - like a lifeline - that you could hear every tremoringly quiet ah! ah ah! following those long, solid glides, feel his happy trail scratching against your sluttily arched back. 

It almost hurt - but it hurt so good, that even after painting your gluey, sloshing insides white four times tonight already, Toji wanted more more more-

A bludgeoning knee comes down to shove your thighs spread even wider, spreading your puffy pussy lips so gapingly around his thick shaft. 

“Oh sh-shit.” he’s hissing. And Toji Fushiguro never stutters, he never throws his head back to let out such pained whimper like this.“Such a f-filthy pussy.” His pretty pink lips purse to spit a languid wad of his spit down on the bullseye of your slobbering cunt. The chilling dredges oozing a slow trail down your split-open pussy. “The fifth time- n’ y’pretend like this cute cunt of yours can’t handle more of me.”

“Ngh-” your teeth are clamping around one of the cushiony pillows, trembly fingers scrambling jerkily at the headboard, the plush mattress, anything- “You’re in s-so deep- feels like m’gonna pass out. How the hell are you still going?”

Toji rolls his eyes, acting for all the world like those whiny little words of yours don’t have his red, angry tip painting your insides with another honeyed coat of his sweltering precum. “Told ya not to hah- test me doll- just had to run that pretty mouth, huh?”

You’re keening when all five of his calloused fingers come up to smush your cheeks together embarrassingly, “Saying m’not gonna last going in raw- look where ya are now.” Toji’s craning his head to leave wet little kisses up your spine, your jaw, your forehead. Fully bending you in half to meet his lips, angling his riotous hips to graze his sensitive slit right against the swollen, bruised divots on your cervix. “Look where I am- I can’t stop.” 

And your hypnotized hips can only manage to give a last sticky heave meeting Toji’s drunken staccato before splaying limply down on the bed. Moaning around the lewd sucking of his lips around your heavy tongue. 

“No- no come back- shit, m’not-” He’s slowly losing control of those lingering thrusts, desperation bleeding into the way his big arms frantically circle around your weakening waist. Dragging you up, up, up like some glorified ragdoll, “How are ya n-not able to keep up when you hah- came up with the idea, ma.” And for all how gentle he’s being suckling on your pouty lower lip, one hand of his glides down easily to cup at your bulging pussy. Smearing in another quick, branding stream of saliva on your struggling, swollen folds spread so lewdly open around his thick hilt, “Ohhh, gonna make a man lose his sanity with a pussy this heavenly. Doesn’t seem so fair now, does it?”

That delirious little shake of your head makes him bare his canines in a grin, smiling at how utterly fucked-out you were on his mean cock. There’s a lazy, glistening trail of drool at the corner of your lips that Toji idles out his hot tongue to lick away, “Now now. Why don’t you- ah- use those words like a big girl, huh?” 

“Hah- didn’t-” those wet gurgles bubble at your throat, dying down after each harsh clash into your most sensitive spot. He’s reaching every nook and cranny inside of you - drilling cock expanding even girthier with each heady second. “Didn’t think you’d get so-” Another pretty glob of spit onto your cunt, “-addicted!”

“Well, what can I- hah- say?” Each taunting word is pushing you further and further up the bed, Toji’s tense hips hammering into you with no rhythm and rhyme now. Just lingering, mindless grinds chasing that painfully good smack! of his heavy, cum-filled balls at your ass, “When- ngh- when life gives you a wife this cute-”

You think he’s cumming - you think you’re cumming. But you can’t even be fully sure at this point, your own high nothing more than a few white-hot tingles, Toji’s overwhelmed cock straining to squeeze out a few more wispy strings of his milky seed. Until you were drenched in a silky coating down your inner thighs, beading pearly drops of his seed and your sweet sweet juices. To stuff you full even more.“-fuck her at least five times.”

“At- at least?”

Toji grins, “At least.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - As many as you can take (and a lil’ more!)

“My love.” Two soft pads of Nanami’s long fingers tap gently on your cheek, lingering when he lovingly cups your glossy pout. “My love.”

Biting your lip, you whine at his heated intrusion at your pretty cunt. Free hand thumbing open your soppingly wet slit to spread even wider around his thick hilt, scratching up so rawly against those neat tufts of blond at his sharp pelvis. “N’nothing, s’just that- hahh–” cocking your head to nuzzle his large palm, “You’re not- not tired, Ken?”

“Doesn’t matter.” he breathes, minty hot breath fanning your face when he leans in. And you think he’s going to kiss you - to maybe mouth away those big fat, overstimulated tears rolling down your face - but instead, Nanami’s stern lips wrap around your lolling tongue. Sucking. Moaning so depravedly. “All that matters is that- hngh- that–” Splaying out all five fingers on your stomach, pressing down hard where he can feel the divot of his very head, “-the mother of my future kids s’doing alright.”

He can feel that rotund clenching of your snug channel, the way your pussy grows increasingly more soaked with every stuttering nudge at your g-spot. 

When the heady bedroom air is only punctuated with a few sticky squelches from your cunt Nanami has to grit out - to force himself to speak. “Please-” hissing at the velvety silk or his seed swirling around your hole, it makes his toes curl, overworked balls squeeze achingly. Shit. “Give me an answer- please, darling, your cunt s’driving me insane. Fuck- I’ve- I’ve lost count at this point how many times I-”

At this, you can’t help but giggle. Reaching up to lick at the stray, glistening tear falling down his sharp cheekbone, “Are- are you crying, Ken?” The heels of your trembly feet curl tightly against the sinful dimples at the end of his spine, plunging him even deeper into the gloopy bottom of your pussy. “Can’t take any more?”

“No!” Nanami’s usually steady voice just cracks pitifully at the end. “No no no- just- hngh! I can take it- can give y’more. Anything for you, ma.”

Each of his hammering thrusts are slowly getting meaner. Slowly losing control. They’re haphazardly alternating between long, thorough slams of his entirely swollen length to mere jutting, half-thrusts - as if it just pained him to part with your clingy pussy more than that. 

And, shit, he’s so thick - so jaw-slackingly hefty when he twitches animalistically against all your sensitive spots. Gliding in solid, wet smears of his leaky tip against your cervix reminding you of the sheer strength he held. Fucking you so mean, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it - tired, fatigued body moving on animal instinct.

“Darling–” Nanami’s wet croon has you blinking away the lusty haze in your pupils, locking them with his own blown-out ones. “Eyes on me- have to make sure you can- ngh-” You can hear his jaw click with strain when you’re giving an experimental squeeze of your velvety cunt, “-m-me. Hafta make sure you can take it- you can take it, right?”

You’re gasping out brokenly, nodding in response to his question - thighs jittery and you don’t know whether you want to run or fuck yourself back down for more more more-

“Then why are you running, ma?”

Just as those billowing words leave his mouth, Nanami’s falling back onto his thick thighs, grabbing your body right along to seat you prettily down his brutal dick. It was devastating. It was sloppy how silky, stringy ropes of cum were rushing down in a glossy coat. Smacking so sluggishly down below.

“Wh-what?” you’re batting your teary lashes, jaw hanging open at just how much this didn’t sound like your usually gentle husband. Deep voice jagged, gutturally dangerous - he was talking to you in a steady, hard tone as if you were some prey. Setting his lewd sights on you to mash up even harder into your pretty cunt. 

He’s breathing out shakily in a way that told you he was getting close, thighs aching, red tip so angry and flinching in such a dizzy way. “Why- are- you-” The metal band of his gold wedding ring burns into your heated skin, digging possessively when he hauls you close. “-running away? Don’t- don’t think you can escape, darling.”

Those drenched silk sheets bunch up messily behind you at just how firmly he was halting your escape. “S’jus’-” you’re whining, in that syrupy sweet tone that makes him only grow painfully harder. Stiffening his back to drill copious inches, he’s tracing his fingertips back across your stomach. “-you’re in so deep. Think m’- hah, think m’getting close.”

“A-ah– of course you are.” he whimpers, tone lilting upwards at the end. It was just so stimulating how you were taking him so well despite being stuffed to the brim, overflowing in a creamy sheen. “Gotta- gotta get my pretty lady to cum- ngh! Breed her pussy full.” And oh, despite how composed Nanami seemed on the outside you could sense the waver in his words, the way his ruthless pace was evening out to something more messy. Untamed. “Make her the most beautiful momma.”

Brows knitting deeper and deeper every, it hurt - fuck, but it hurt more to not stuff you full until you were round and glowing. To leave even the tiniest chance of you being carried out of this bedroom without carrying his future kid. 

“You can do it- cum f’me.” It’s almost like he’s whispering to himself at this point, stamina withering. One hand of his guides your other own down from your searing grip on his unkept strands, down past his tear-slicked cheeks, down past his wobbly plump lips. Wrapping your fingers tightly around Nanami’s pale neck, forcing your nails to dig into the sweat-beaded skin. “Cum f’me- jus this once, because after this time m’not gonna be playing nice, my love.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - 7 rounds

“Shhh, gorgeous.” Geto’s hushed, smooth voice in your ear would almost be soothing, his large thumb gliding against the very peak of your puffed-up clit almost distracting- “S’all part of your special initiation.”

If it wasn’t for the rest of the cult standing behind those semi-sheer watching all of this happen to you, that is. 

Ah, you didn’t know whether that syrupy sweet idea of a special initiation - a rite of passage “just for you” - had you joining Geto’s religious association even sooner.  

Because here you were - your thighs burning with the relentless stretch of Geto’s forearms hooked underneath them, spreading you so fucking shamelessly towards where the countless others in the group were stood behind the covering around the creaky bed. A barely-there sense of privacy while he just ravaged you into the meanest full nelson possible. 

“Oh- fuuuck–” Geto’s groaning at your drunken little squirms on his cock, mouth salivating at the wet squelches being wrenched out with each pressurized thrust. “Just one more round now- come on, seven’s my lucky number. And y’wanna hngh- finish the initiation- right, pretty girl?”

His two strong legs plant even more vice-like on the absolutely drenched sheets, seeping into the creamy puddle of cum and honeyed slick spreading further and further each obscene second. 

That lolling nod of your delirious head has him crashing his sensitive, throbbing tip against your spongy g-spot, already so branded with the bruises of his divot. Holding back each whine after whine threatening to drag out from his throat when your swollen lips meet his in a sloppy graze of a kiss.

Shit, you were so cute - no wonder he had the fucking brilliant idea of fucking you like this. Even if it hurt - even if his achy cock was rubbing raw, over and over and-

“Aww, my pretty baby wants a kiss?” Geto’s leering grin only grows when he glides a dripping coat of wispy precum right across the back of your cervix, it’s so hot inside you - and you feel drunk off of every ooze of his cum from before, sloshing down in a milky white sheen. “Well not until you hngh-” He’s moving to bite down onto your earlobe, pussydrunk mind wondering whether your gummy walls were shaping around every ridge and vein of his shaft by now. “-cum f’me once more.”

“S-Sugu–” your eyes are rolling to the back of your head at the warm, wet cascade of his juices down your thighs, slipping and sliding you easily down his girthy length. “Don’t know if I- if I can cum- hah-” That admonishing smack! on your achy clit is taken in stride, gaping your gummy entrance even wider to swallow his every fucking inch greedily. “But- but I wanna. Wanna cum f’you so badly.”

There’s a muted shuffling from behind the curtains that have Geto’s darkened eyes narrowing in hostility, and he’s possessively turning his head to take in that sinful view of you down below. 

Shit- he could’ve almost came from just the sheer sight. The sight of your glisteningly puffy folds stretched to their limits around the creamy translucent ring around his thick hilt. Velvety walls contorting to massage his attritioning veins, grinding in thorough, purposeful gyrations against his heavily twitching balls. 

You were taking him so good.

And Geto’s never been more happy you couldn’t see the full plane of his face. Eyes rolling to the back of his head at the mere sight, teeth biting down on his plump lower lip as if to draw blood. 

“Then do it.” Geto’s biceps just bulge against the small of your waist when they dig into a restraining loop around your body, pinning you down so helplessly to his sculpted front. “Cum f’me like a good girl then. Show me, show them-” The hand not rolling over your sensitive clit dips upwards to angle your face towards the still-watching crowd. His lips are drag so slowly at your heated ear, “-show them what a good girl you are f’me.”

Your cute, wobbly lips cry out in a broken little whine - and then your slutty cunt is just gushing down the entirety of Geto’s furious front. Slobbering a glossy, glossy sheen that coats his milky skin, syrupy and sticking - meshing your bodies so close together he doesn’t know where you begin and where he ends. 

”Good girl- good- hah- good girl.” Geto’s gritting out, trying for all the world to not sound as wrecked as he feels right now. Fuck, ignoring the spiking sensitivity, the stars behind his eyes to chase every little suck of your sopping wet walls, thighs trembly, eyes crinkling with such pathetically big tears. Shit, he’s pussydrunk. Only babbling out, “Ohhh- so perfect f’me, right? Even squirting- too generous f’me, gorgeous.”

It only takes a few more gasps from his ragged chest - heaves even. Delicately pink tip stuffing you so wholly full it’s like you’re about to explode, and Geto’s not too far behind. 

Not at all, in fact, with the way a final, harsh nudge against your springy cervix has him spurting out ribbons of creamy white cum. Oozing out in a thick, viscous polish that drools out of your bulging slit. Leaving a lewd trail of evidence where Geto’s fat cock was rummaging your poor insides. Over and over until he’s shooting nothing but blanks.

And it’s so hot, that you can almost feel it in your lungs. Limbs twitching mindlessly, he’s finding it easy to pull out - to display the gloopy filling lazily trickling out of you. Those slender fingers of his on your clit dance just downwards to circle the ring of your sloppy hole, swirling around that messy gloss. He coats his fingers until they just gleam in the dim lighting. Around and around. 

With a look of pure, unfiltered pride Geto clears his throat authoritatively. Jolting, you realize he’s not addressing you this time, “Everyone, say hello to your new second-in-command.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 6 rounds

Choso thinks he’s cumming - Choso thinks he’s crying, begging out such broken little pleas in your open mouth. He’s wrapping five pale, jittery fingers of his around the furiously red base of his cock, angling the bulbous head of his fat tip just right to press deeply into your greedy entrance. 

“Oh!” you’re smirking down at your best friend, biting back a wrecked moan at just how much he was stretching you, barely even reeling back at the brief resistance. His shredded patience can only wait a beat - two - more watching the snug channel of your cunt gush down in thick, hot streams of his seed from earlier, before bucking his hips up, up up- “Even five times wasn’t enough for you? What did I hah- tell ya about th-the-”

“I know I know, m’sorry, baby–” Choso cries, dark lashes batting at his cheeks when his eyes scrunch up into a pathetic bawl. “M’sorry I accidentally ate your- your ‘special chocolate’ but I fuck- it feels like m’burning all over. Like m’gonna die if I don’t fuck your cute cunt.”

And yet his bruising grip on your hips don’t waver, he’s still prying down your sticky body onto his, strong arms wrenching open your thighs to straddle him even wider. Still so needy - so hot all over with the itching greed to fuck you until one of you breaks.

Truly, it was a surprise to come home and find out your sweet best friend had raided that joke stash of aphrodisiac chocolate gifted by your coworkers last week - a welcome surprise. 

Because here he was - splayed out on your drenched silken sheets, big fat tears glistening across his cheekbones, toned body jolting so harshly at each one of your touches. So pussydrunk that you almost wondered whether it hurt, how his poor, overworked cock wasn’t fucking seizing at this point.

And even if it did, Choso wouldn’t complain - not one bit. 

“Please-” his breath comes out in a feverish puff, as wild as the fingers now toying with your swollen clit. Smearing the creamy dredges of his seed all over your puffed-up folds in tight little circles over and over and- 

Slam!

In a split-second, Choso’s hands are being pinned above his head. It would’ve looked almost comical - your much smaller ones restraining his own, fingers twitching animalistically with every sloppy drag down his pulsingly needy length - but oh, was Choso letting you. Letting himself be used like your favorite toy. 

“You’re being real greedy, Cho–” your teasing voice sends shivers wracking down his entire body. Powerful thighs bucking up in pressurized ruts up into your squelching cunt. “First you ate my- hah- secret stash, n’ now you’re being so hasty makin’ me cum.”

Each one of your words are punctuated by a sticky slam down onto his slowly-reddening pelvis, the fat of your ass being smacked with his sharp hipbones. You were riding him to insanity. 

“Yes!” Choso’s jaw hangs deliriously open, rosy red lips forming around your name again and again like a mantra. “M’so greedy- so greedy for your pretty pussy.” He whines, and just the feeling of your velvety walls milking his fat length for so long has his syrupy mess of a mind thrown into such a primal frenzy. “Can’t help it when you’re so heavenly, baby– K-keep wantin’ to fuck this cunt forever.”

The painful pull of your fingers weaving into his dark strands have him keening, latching onto the very tips of your sensitive nipples bouncing temptingly onto his face. “Can’t help it.” he echoes, swirling his hot tongue around your sweet areola, looking up at you with his gorgeously glassy, dark eyes. “Really can’t help it.”

There’s such a sickly, syrupy sweet staccato of Choso’s probing tip pressing deep into the drippingly wet g-spot inside you. And slowly - but steadily - your deft fingers find themselves dancing a path down to wrap around Choso’s heavily gulping throat. Breath hitching when they squeeze-

“Cum f’me, Cho-” he raises his lolling head up to meet yours, meshing back into a messy excuse of a kiss. Your teeth sink down to tug on his pouty bottom lip, fingers tightening, “Cum f’me- s’all to cure you of this chocolate after a-all, right?” 

At the reminder of that, his wrists try to wrench useless in your other hand’s vice-like hold. And honestly, Choso doesn’t know if he wants to cum again - he doesn’t know if he can. But the soft clingy feeling of your walls against his girthy shaft have him gasping, poor, overworked balls so raw. Tight and clenching painfully with every crashing push into your g-spot. He’s absolutely ruined. 

And both of you know it.

Oh, his head was so light now - your fingers vice-like around his pale throat. The only thing that Choso can seem to urgently choke out right about now is a honeyed, dragged-out drawl of, “Spit-” His wild cock leaking hot precum in another drippingly saturated wave everywhere, “Spit in my mouth, baby–”

And you do - that translucent wad of saliva barely hitting right in the middle of Choso’s lolling-out tongue before he cums. That ravaged divot on the very tip of his fat head stuttering out only one, two tiny beads of milky seed before he’s riding out such an addictively dry orgasm. 

Dewy eyes rolling to the back of his head, body sweat-slicked and clinging onto yours with creamy strings of cum and spit. So desperate when he’s fucking into you so filthy, pummelling you along the curve of his length like he was trying to drag out another milky stream of seed. Again and again and-

It takes only a split-second to break out of your hold - of course, it does - and you’re barely even registering it when Choso pins you back onto the sloppy mess of your soaked sheets. Hips still relentless, voice still ragged- “Think we’re gonna hafta hah- skip the dating n’ go straight to marriage after this, baby.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 8 (and a half) rounds

If there was ever a time that the infamous king of curses would let out raspy little whimpers of his baritone voice - muscled just heaving deep gasps, looking at you all four eyes glistening with wet tears, hearts in his gaze - it would be right now. 

When the day sitting around his throne had been too long, when there’d been just a few too many scum curses groveling at his feet. 

When you were sprawled all prettily on his muscular, manspread thighs, your expensive robes pulled up just enough for that gummy cunt of yours to stretch open gapingly around his two matchingly rock-hard cocks. The plush of your ass on full, obscene display for him, limbs twitching with each swallowed-up inch down his fat, throbbing lengths. 

“Fuuck- take it easy, woman.” he’s hissing, powerful hip rutting upwards to skim his sensitive tip over the ends of your slobbering pussy. 

That has you pouty tearily, huffing out a low, “W-well- jus’ want you to hngh- be right-” Skittish fingers fluttering over to where you could feel him coating every hidden spot of your insides in his potent seed, angry cockhead bruising your taut channel more and more open around him. It was such a delicious stretch. And you’re pressing down where you can feel the divot of his head knock feverishly on your womb, splattering around milky dredges inside you, “-here.” 

Sukuna’s hips just surge forwards, like he didn’t even realize what he was doing. 

“Kuna- wh-wha-” you’re barely able to get out, whirling your head half-lucidly over your shoulder. But you don’t get very far - because one domineering palm hastily turns your face right back. “What are you-”

“No.” he’s letting out a strangled moan, leaving neat little indentations of his black, sharpened fingernails on your skin. “No you don’t get to- oh–” In a flash, sharp canines are digging menacingly right above the pulsepoint on your throat, and his hot breath fans over your ear. “Ah- y’don’t get to see me hngh- like this- fuckin’ embarrassing. I can’t even-” 

Sukuna’s cutting himself off by getting up onto two unsteady feet, holding you plastered so close onto his bowed body. The position is so precarious that for a second you’re worried, wondering how the hell the two of you haven’t broken any bones these past eight rounds. 

It’s his reversed curse technique, you later learn - but for now all you can do is gasp at your legs dangling in midair, spine arched back against his bulging pecs in a perfect arch, raising your head up, up, up and oh-

His eyes are aflame, glowing through the hypnotically dim lighting. Teeth bared into such a vicious grin one which only curls wider when you ask, “C-can’t even what, Kuna?”

He hisses down at the absolutely sultry look on your face - kiss-bitten lips falling slack into a soft oh! eyes half-lidded and miles away, your moans ringing through his ears like his favorite melody. “Heh- the fuckin- ah-” Another staggering push past your clingy sopping walls have him spitting out little swears, vision blurring dangerously at the corners. “-the fuckin’ audacity t-to ask me that, knowing what yer doing to me. S’pposed to help me relax but you’re hngh- driving me insane.”

You swear, you could feel his bulbous heads grow even thicker, expanding their way into contorting your gripping walls around his very shape. The even deeper intrusion has him throwing his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing with a dragged out moan of your name. 

A limp hand of yours dares to thread its way into Sukuna’s, tugging - pulling, “Look at me, please–?” And when he finally does - though, not before punishing the curve of your ass with such a stinging smack - you smirk, “Look so- ngh! pretty when you’re ruined like this, Kuna.”

That makes him falter - it makes his eyes grow just a bit wider, the insides of your elastic cunt being inflated open with another fresh wave of his furiously leaking precum. 

“Don’t-” Sukuna clears his throat of any traitorous dredges of a whimper, “Don’t push your- your luck, brat.”

But he couldn’t hide the fondness in his tone, that tiny little drawl of a whimper in his words. Heavy, pink lashes clumping up together with his overstimulating tears. It only takes a few more solid rams into your sweet hole - milking the bloated ends of his lengths for something delicious - a few more sharp, branding slams of his curving balls against your cunt. So large and aching for release that when they do, the sheer volume of Sukuna’s cum makes you dizzy.

Double the amount. It overspills, splattering half the thick, silky contents onto the decadent throne room floor. Soiling a sinful little puddle that he just can’t help but smile at, tutting mockingly, “Now now, look what you’ve done- making things even- hngh! even more stressful f’me now with this to clean up.” 

Out of his four beefy arms, two of them pin your own easily behind your back, the other dipping down to roll your puffed-up clit between his thick index and thumb. And the last one- fuck, the last one was pooling all the milky white ribbons of cum slobbering out of your stretched-out entrance. Velvety spurts dousing your walls once more - and he’s having so much fun, molding out your gummy cunt around to squeeze his fingers right in-between his two cocks. 

Still rutting into you - still cumming from both heads - every jackhammering thrust sparks stars behind his eyes. Back muscles curving deeper and deeper into you when he replaces every dredge of cum oozing down your saturated slit with a new one. The thrumming hum of his jujutsu making you keen-

“So messy. Such a filthy cunt my woman has-” he sighs, in a dark little way you knew meant he was just seconds away from tearing you apart. “Hmmm…wonder if it’ll be more relaxing. if I cum dry?”

♡ GOJO SATORU - RIP.

The strongest looks up at you with big, teary blue eyes, long lashes twinkling his pretty cheekbones every time he’s batting them. “Please. Just the tip-”

“Toru-”

“Please.” Gojo whimpers out, two of his massive hands laying at rest on the curving globes of your ass. Squeezing. Kneading you desperately in shallow, lazy grinds up and down his furiously leaky cock, “Please, sweetheart, don’t think I can handle cockwarming.” His abds are aching when they flex upwards towards you, “Haven’t had my hngh- fill just yet.”

You’re gasping when he has the audacity to give your plump clit a sharp smack! the pressurized buzz of his jujutsu from earlier sending white-hot electricity running down your arched spine. Splaying your cunt so deliciously to massage against your bulging g-spot. “N-nice try.” you grit out, legs trembling at the feeling of his thick, potent cum sliding out of your surprised entrance. “But I don’t think you’re ready- you’ve already set the lights off with your jujutsu being overstimulated, Toru.”

“Jus’ the tip- m’kay? Just the tip, I swear-” If you were of a clearer state of mind maybe you’d have pointed out that Gojo was well past the tip at this point. Feeling his fat head curve at your womb, knocking in a merciless, methodical pace. “Just missed you so much today- hah- gotta make up for lost time.”

He flashes you a devilish grin - one you’re somewhat ashamed to admit has your sopping cunt drip down a fresh sheen of your sweet sweet juices down his curvaceous length. Pooling at his frantically, painfully squeezing balls. 

And Gojo notices - of course, he does - even with his six eyes getting a bit too bleary right about the eighth? ninth? round. Ah, fuck, it didn’t matter anyway- 

“Then- then that’s good, isn’t it? Lights out- across all of hah- Tokyo, I bet.” His wretchedly strained tone is so different from the incessant pace of his bullying cock. Bludgeoning deep into your most secure spots, he’s nudging apart every velvety crevice of your walls, making such a mess of the creamy white seed of his dripping from the inside. Gliding his nose up the sweat-slicked column of your throat, “So really- we have nothing better to do. How about you- hngh- let me paint this pretty pussy white all over again?”

Of course, you wanted him to - but it was so fun how your barest tease makes Gojo fall apart. Pouty lips running a mile a minute.

His words are almost sleepy, and both of you aren’t even lucid enough to do anything about the ever-spreading puddle of cum and slick right below you. Meshing your lips drunkenly in an intoxicatingly sloppy kiss, “Come onnnn–” he’s babbling at your pointed silence. “One more? M’begging- begging, sweetheart. You got the strongest on his ah- knees n’ unable to use his powers.”

You knew so many people - so many curses - would kill to have Satoru Gojo all helpless like this. His lips moving faster than his overstimulated mind right now, drool dripping down the side of his rosy red mouth. So sensitive right now - unable to fight back. The only show of his previous prowess of strength being a stray flicker of blue lightning at his eyes when you’re cushioning his fat length with your clingy walls just a bit too hard, 

He’s heaving now - gasping deep, lungfuls of air every time his bruising grip is just bouncing your pliant body erratically down onto his. Wreckless, lunging slams that have your knees weak, stars flickering behind your lids. 

“Come on- come onnn–” He spits so syrupy sweetly into your panting, open mouth. Slender fingers wrapping around your clit, and it just throbs with the steady hum of his reversed curse technique. Stopping the two of you from breaking bones - because shit, how the hell is Gojo going to fuck up into you like an animal. Desperate little pleas of yes! yes! yes! wrenching from you at the stimulation. “Give it t’me, missed so much when you were gone out today. Please-”

“Hngh! S’too- too-” you’re drawling out incoherent sentences to match his. “Yeah- fuck yes- jus’ like that, Toru–” 

It’s only because of Gojo’s ungodly stamina that he was even able to last this long - the fact that he hadn’t fucked himself into a stupor at this point. And that’s the only thing, along with a few fumes of his reversed curse technique that have him careening smacking away your pathetic attempts to meet his thrusts.

The sensitivity too much, that he’s bawling - unable to handle the saturated drags of your slobbering pussy down his raw shaft. Mouth lolling open when you feel two big arms circle around your waist, mumbling tearily, “Wait- fuck hold that- think m’-” Like something snaps in the air.

Because then he’s cumming - at least, Gojo can feel himself cumming. This time, there’s no shattering of lightbulbs, no gleaming power in his pupils, because his poor body was too fucked-out for this. Too tired to do anything but have his heavy, strained-out balls just clench, shooting up wispy blanks into your readily swallowing pussy. 

“Oh!” he’s throwing his head back at the sheer overwhelming pleasure, beading out only a few, pearly little beads of sticky seed. But fuck, was Gojo riding out his high - riding out yours. Fucking you through each convulsing little clench of your silky cum-slicked walls, a high you’ve barely even registered still. “I don’t- I don’t know if I-”

“Don’t, Toru.” you warn, but it’s too late - only one, fleeting glance at your prettily stuffed pussy, the creamy little outer ring on your entrance, the way your puffy folds are just quivering like you’re in need of more - has Gojo intaking a sharp gasp. 

His wrecked eyes widen, looking almost afraid. Breath hitching, his words are shrill - barely audible, “Think- think we haven’t made up for lost time yet, sweetheart.”

“Toru, I was gone for five hours.”

“And?”

A/N. Gojo nation will we get a comeback today plsplspls?!

Plagiarism not authorized.

[fushiguho]

warnings pussy whipped satoru, breeding :p

satoru gojo who gets sooo fucking drunk off the way you ride his cock that he’s drooling all over himself. splayed beneath your body and blabbering, a rivulet of saliva dribbling from the corner of his gaped mouth, trickling down his neck.

scattered wisps of ivory adorn the pillow beneath his head, stray pieces framing his perfect face and wreathing around his chin. he’s not there, not really, yet all he can feel is you. clinging to your pretty body with searing hands, pulling you closer, fucking you deeper. he wants to consume you—embody every last bit of your overwhelming pleasure to absorb you wholly, completely.

“fuck, you’re so pretty,” he babbles in a single, gasping breath. his hands reach for the sides of your face, pulling you close. “you’re so fuckin’ pretty… god, you feel s— so good, gimme a kiss, baby.”

the kiss is so sloppy and haphazard and wet. and his lips are feverish as he whines into your mouth, hungrily sucking on your tongue. something of a whimper leaves him as he briefly parts from your mouth, a thin gossamer of glittery saliva wedding your lips.

a roaming hand finds yours, grabbing it before greedily directing it toward his parting lips. three of your fingers are prying his jaw open, pressing against the jagged point of his canines. satoru let’s off the prettiest groan, his warm wet tongue dragging over the soft pads of your digits before closing his lips around them and sucking.

“phf— fuck meee,” he muffles, slobbering down your knuckles.

the boy is whipped.

his eyes have gone dark, pupils blown into pretty, lustful hearts. you could do anything to him and he would let you, or even beg you. he will never be ashamed of his need for you, for your body. not even as his desperate hips begin to rut beneath you; sloppy and stuttered as he greedily follows the pounce of your body.

he needs more. needs to feel the tightening of your messy little pussy around his cock, and the way you’re going to drip all the way down to the fat of his swollen balls when you finally cum on it like he needs you to.

“fuh— fuck me, baby.” a pretty, unabashed groan follows his request, head woozy as it sinks deeper into the plush pillow. “ohhh, fuck me… please, fuck me h-harder. oh my… oh my god, i need it.”

satoru watches as you reach behind yourself, blindly grabbing ahold of his tensing thighs. he hiccups when you lean back, drunkenly following the undulation of your hips as your head lolls to the side, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. his hands are reaching out for you, desperate to feel the buck of your body as you take his cock like it’s the last thing you’ll ever fucking do.

his lips part, brows screwing together. “like that… fuck me like that.”

“like this?” you hum, a teasing lilt in your voice.

he nods dumbly, mouth gaping while a fleeting breath escapes him. big, greedy hands wander your body—smoothing over the fat of your ass, trailing up the sides of your waist, dragging over those pretty, sensitive nipples. his palms are even creeping beneath the depraved arch of your back and forcing you deeper.

“m’gonna cummm,” it’s a whiny little breath, lips twisting while his face contorts in overwhelming pleasure. “c-can’t hold it, fuck you’re gonna make me cum.”

“inside.”

“huh?”

“please?” you breathe, rolling your hips once. “cum with me.”

a beat passes and his hips stutter, cock twitching inside of you. he doesn’t even question you, instead he’s reaching a hand between your searing bodies to circle your aching clit with the warm pads of his fingers, encouraging your looming orgasm. satoru exhales a nasty moan when your hips buck harder, your pretty pussy tightening around him in desperation.

“cum with me.” you whisper again, pulling his lips between yours in a messy kiss.

and he does, immediately. he’s filling you up with sloppy thrusts, whining into your mouth like the prettiest, most disciplined boy. your wet, aching pussy throbs around all of his warm cum as he messily empties himself inside of you. sinful strings of arousal stretch between your sexes as satoru nurses you through your own orgasm, inadvertently fucking his seed deeper.

as you cum around him, your bountiful arousal spills all over his swollen balls, eventually dribbling down far enough to ruin the silken sheets beneath him. his chest heaves, hips bucking shallowly in efforts to chase his cum as it dribbles from the seams of your pretty, overstuffed pussy.

“baby, i wanna cum again… think i can get it deeper this time.”

[stardustquills]

thinking about sylus making you be on top, despite your protests. currently giggling and kicking my feet like a schoolgirl with a crush. 18+ mdni.

cw; smut, unprotected p in v, creampie, oral (f recieving), switch!sylus, pet names (kitten, sweetie), praise kink, sylus being annoying

wc; 1.5k

-

“come on, sweetie,” sylus teased, half-lidded eyes and a smirk cast your way. his hand lazily pumped his hard cock, head thrown back on the pillows behind him. “you’ll be fine-”

“sylus.” you cut him off with a whine. you hid your flushed face in your hands. he thought that was pointless. you’re naked in his bed. “i’ve never been on top before. i don’t wanna. why can’t you-“

“i’m always on top.” now it was his turn to cut you off. he didn’t mind always being on top - he was just being a prick because you were the one who initiated. sylus grabbed one of your wrists, pulling you closer to him. “you’ll be okay. i’ll help you through it.”

you let him pull you towards him, apprehensive and hesitant. he guided one of your hands down to his cock, his hand encasing yours as he helped you pump. sylus’ eyes closed as your hand moved under his. you watched his adam’s apple as he swallowed, a soft moan escaping his parted lips.

you didn’t even notice when his eyes opened again, garnet iris’ flickering all over your body. your own eyes were fixated on his pretty pink lips, still parted as he let out a melody of sighs. your gaze slipped down to his neck, where you could see the marks you’d left a few days prior, then down to his chest, hard muscles tensing as you stroked him, a light sheen of sweat on his abs.

finally, your eyes went further south, landing on the veiny cock in your hand. pearls of precum leaked from the angry tip and you could feel your own pool of arousal building. you couldn’t take your eyes off of it even if you tried. it was just too pretty - just like every other part of sylus.

his laughter snapped you out of your trance. “see something you want, kitten?”

“perhaps…”

“get on top, then.”

another whine left your throat. you shot him a pointed look, but he could see through it, see the hunger that laid just past that layer of annoyance. he could always see through you, no matter what irritated glance you sent at him.

maybe he’ll let it go if you give him a treat? so you leant down, licking your lips. you only managed to kiss the tip before his free hand dug itself into your hair, yanking your head up away with from his cock.

“ah ah,” he chided, raising an eyebrow. “being nice won’t get you out of this, sweetie.”

“sylus-“ you pleaded with a pout.

“it’s either you on top or nothing.” his eyes stared into yours, his tone leaving no room for your pathetic arguments. “what’s it going to be?”

when you didn’t say anything, only glaring at him, he knew what the answer was. but still, he decided he needed to hear your words be.

“well?” his rich voice purred. he grabbed your chin between his thumb and forefinger, bringing your face towards his. “i need words, kitten.”

a beat of silence, then, “fine.”

“fine, what?”

“…i’ll be on top.”

sylus smirked, letting go of your chin and lightly tapping your cheek a few times. “good girl.”

you found yourself on top of him, letting yourself leisurely sink down onto his dick. sylus was still being a jackass - he didn’t help you at all! just kept his hands resting on your thighs, watching with hungry eyes as he disappeared into you. your hands were splayed on your chest, bottom lip tucked under your teeth as you ever so slowly sat on him. you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding once your hips connected with his, a sigh of relief escaping you.

you felt awkward being on top. you didn’t know how to move, didn’t know how to do anything as you just stared at the spot where you and sylus connected. you like that for a moment too long, causing sylus to speak up.

“you gonna move?”

“i-“ you cleared your throat when you heard how meek you sounded. “i don’t know how,”

“just roll your hips,” sylus whispered, surprisingly gentle and soft compared to the last time he spoke. his eyes landed on your face, taking in the blush on your cheeks that began to grow. “like you do when you sit on my face.”

“sylus-!”

“what?” he laughed, fingers tapping your thighs. “maybe if you’re good, i’ll reward you.”

“you’re mean.”

“should i take away the offer?”

“no!” you responded almost too quickly, shaking your head and earning a chuckle from the man underneath you. you loved sitting on sylus’ face, but he cherished it more than you did.

he was a giver, after all.

you rolled your hips like he said, shakily exhaling as he reached a new depth in you. you weren’t used to the deep penetration from the get go - he’d always ease you into it, starting with slow, shallow thrusts before they blurred into hard and fast ones.

but still, it felt so wonderful. continuing to rock your hips against his, a pretty string of moans and sighs of sylus’ name left you. you took what you wanted, eyes closing as you threw your head back, and sylus watched proudly as you finally were on top of him, doing all of the work.

you started gaining confidence as you heard his own sounds of pleasure, soft murmurs of “there you go, kitten,” and “atta girl, you got it,” as his own eyes closed. you decided to start bouncing in his cock, a darling whine as you felt him ram into your cervix violently.

only a handful of bounces later and your thighs started burning, so you went back to rolling your hips against him. sylus noticed, of course, another demeaning snicker leaving him as his eyes opened.

he reached towards your face, brushing the strands of hair away from your face while your hips worked against his. “does it burn?” velvety and caring voice making your eyes snap to his. his hands moved up your thighs, settling nicely on the curve of your hips. “do you want some help, kitten?”

he already knew the answer before you nodded. his hands helped you up and down, his own hips bucking up to meet yours. tits bouncing in front of his face, your fucked out expression, and you on top of him - sylus thinks he’s at the pearly gates of heaven.

if he died, this is what he’d see in the afterlife. his perfect, sexy girlfriend riding his cock, absolutely losing herself. he thinks he’s enjoying this more than you are!

“s-sylus, h-ahh!” you lifted your head to look at him, hands still splayed on his chest. his dick absolutely ruined you, even more so with this new angle. brushing against that spongy spot, you let out a loud noise. “fffuck!”

“mm-yeah, you like being on top, don’t you?” he groaned when your nails dug into his chest, leaving crescent-shaped indents. “you’re doing so well, too.”

his hands wrap around your waist, pinning you against him as he starts slamming his thick cock into you, unable to hold back any longer. and just like all the times before, you took it like the amazing girlfriend you were. “hah, squeezing my cock so good,” he moaned into your ears.

his moans were much more musical than when he was actually singing.

only a handful of thrusts later and you’re coming undone quicker than you ever have - sylus has strong suspicions it’s because you’re on top, riding him like you fucking own him. he follows soon after, releasing his own pleasure into you. the sound of skin slapping skin slowly subdues as his tempo came to a halt, his face falling forward onto you chest.

he stayed like that for a few moments. just catching his breath as he buried his face into your tits.

sylus is a man of his word. so obviously, he kept his word - slipping himself out of you with a whine from you. he shifted so he laid on his back, his hands on your thighs encouraging to move up his body.

“wanna eat this pretty pussy,” he practically purred, eyes trained on your cunt. he grinned happily as you complied, thighs on either side of his head as you lowered yourself down onto him.

out of habit, one hand seized a fistful of his hair as the other held onto the headboard, steadying yourself as he ate you out like a man starved. a long lick, from your gaping hole to you clit, before he moved back to your slippery slit, greedily lapping up your combined fluids. he deliberately shook his head against you, making sure his nose rubbed against your puffy clit.

it was a nasty sight - your boyfriend’s mouth working wonders on you as his laughs were muffled by your cunt. he drank up your combined come as his hands wrapped around your thighs, immobilizing you against him.

with hearts floating in his red eyes, he looked up at you so lovingly, watching your every expression and reaction to his ministrations. sylus thinks he could stay like this for hours; eating out his girl after coming in her might be his favourite pastime. but fuck he can’t get the way you looked on top of him out of his head. next time, he thinks he’ll make you tie him up so you’d really have to do all of the work.

he’ll make you be in top more often from now on!

-

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