#The tiny nails are IMPOSSIBLE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixeyesonathiel · 3 months ago

Text

roses bloom the prettiest in ruin

pairing – prime minister's son!gojo x princess!reader

summary : as the princess of a fallen monarchy, you were raised to uphold tradition, even in a world where your family’s power is little more than ceremony. as the son of the prime minister, satoru gojo was raised to rule.

your families have always been at odds—yours clinging to the past, his shaping the future. but satoru has never cared for politics, not when it comes to you. from the moment he met you, he’s been impossible to ignore—too bold, too persistent, too certain that your story was never meant to end in polite distance.

but in a world where power dictates fate, some lines aren’t meant to be crossed.

satoru has never been one to follow the rules.

tags –> oneshot, 8k wc, modern & royalty au, political intrigue, high society drama, forbidden love, slow burn but inevitable, gojo satoru is a menace but he’s your menace, power imbalance but he makes it so sexy, privilege and duty, crown and dagger, elopement but make it dramatic, longing stares in grand ballrooms, love like a loaded gun, he would burn the world for you, angsty but he's too freaky for the angst to actually angst

colletion m.list.

you were six years old when you first met him.

it was at a grand gala—one of those glittering, suffocating events where chandeliers dripped with light and the air smelled of imported champagne and expensive perfume. women in floor-length gowns whispered behind painted fans, their laughter soft and practiced, while men in tailored suits exchanged nods that meant more than words. your mother’s grip on your tiny hand was firm, guiding you through the maze of political smiles and calculating gazes. you were dressed in a satin gown the color of moonlight, your hair curled into delicate ringlets, a perfect little doll for the cameras. “posture.” your mother reminded, her voice a quiet warning against your ear, and you obediently lifted your chin. everything was rehearsed, every movement precise—but then you saw him.

a boy with hair like freshly fallen snow, sticking up in wild tufts as if he’d fought off every attempt to tame it. he stood apart from the other children, his tiny navy suit crisp but slightly disheveled, a stark contrast to his bored expression. a lollipop dangled lazily from his lips, his fingers tucked into his pockets like he had no interest in the stiff elegance of the evening. his eyes—impossibly blue, like the sky at its brightest—found yours, pinning you in place. you had been taught to be polite, to be charming, to be untouchable, but something about the way he looked at you made your heart skip. he tilted his head, considering you, and then grinned—wide and unapologetic, like he had just found something interesting in a room full of dull, gray figures.

and then, with all the reckless confidence of someone who had never been told no, he pulled the lollipop from his mouth and declared, “i like you! wanna get married?”

a hush fell over the room like a dropped veil, murmurs rising in its wake. your mother’s nails pressed into your palm, a silent warning, while prime minister gojo’s sharp gaze flicked toward his son with the weight of unspoken reprimand. but satoru only rocked back on his heels, unbothered by the sudden attention, his grin unwavering. your mind, young as it was, processed the absurdity of the moment—marriage? at six years old? but even then, you had been raised to know your worth, and so you gave him the sweetest, most well-practiced smile in your arsenal.

“silly,” you giggled, folding your hands in front of you like the perfect little princess you were trained to be. “princesses don’t marry commoners.”

for the first time, the boy’s expression shifted—not to disappointment, but to something else, something sharper, something amused. the grin stretching across his face didn’t falter; if anything, it widened, as if he had just been given a challenge. “then i guess i’ll just have to become a king.”

the murmurs that followed were no longer just of amusement. they carried something deeper, something weightier—speculation, curiosity, quiet calculations of what a union between the royal family and the prime minister’s bloodline could mean. your mother’s fingers tightened ever so slightly, enough to tell you that you had done something wrong, even if you didn’t quite understand what. but satoru, in all his childish arrogance, seemed entirely unbothered, as if the world would bend to his whims simply because he willed it to.

“a king?” you echoed, tilting your head in consideration. your tutors had taught you that kings were powerful, that they ruled with wisdom and strength, that they carried the weight of nations on their shoulders. but satoru didn’t look like a wise ruler—he looked like a mischievous prince, untamed and unyielding, someone who had never been denied a single thing in his life.

“mmhmm,” he hummed, hands on his hips, as if he could already picture himself wearing a crown. “and when i do, i’ll make you my queen.”

you only giggled, because at six years old, marriage was nothing more than a fairy tale, a distant dream wrapped in lace and golden crowns. besides, you knew—knew with the quiet certainty that only children possess—that your father would never allow it. still, something about the way he looked at you, with that unwavering confidence, sent a strange little flutter through your chest.

a palace attendant appeared at your side, quick and efficient, murmuring something about your father expecting you at his table. your mother’s sigh was nearly imperceptible as she turned you away from the scene, her fingers firm on your wrist. but even as you were led through the sea of glittering gowns and polished shoes, you could feel it—his gaze, lingering, unwavering, like a promise not yet spoken.

when you glanced back, he was still standing there, lollipop tucked back between his lips, watching you with an expression that made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t quite understand.

“i’ll come find you again, princess!” he called out, his voice brimming with the kind of certainty that didn’t allow for doubts.

and somehow, in that moment, you believed him.

true to his words, satoru gojo became a fixture in your world—loud, impossible, and utterly relentless.

satoru was always too much. too loud, too clever, too untouchable. he had that insufferable grin, the one that made you feel like he already knew how this story would end—like he had already seen you in white, standing beside him. from the moment he decided you were his, he followed you around like a stray cat who thought he owned the palace, when in truth, he only ever snuck his way in. the difference was that satoru wasn’t sneaking—he had the power to walk through the palace doors without consequence. his father, the prime minister, held the entire country in his palm, and satoru, his only son, carried himself like a prince, even without a crown.

“we should get married,” he told you every chance he got, as if it was inevitable. “i’d make a great king.”

“you’re no king, satoru.” you would scoff, adjusting the perfect bow at the back of your dress. “you’re a tyrant in the making.”

but he only ever laughed, because you never actually said no.

your fathers hated each other. the prime minister saw the royal family as nothing more than a ceremonial relic, a bloodline propped up by tradition with no real authority, while your father saw the gojo administration as a dictatorship in disguise, unchecked power wrapped in empty promises. the conflict between them was a cold war played behind closed doors, in councils and boardrooms where policy was made without your input. yet somehow, despite the quiet battle waged between them, you and satoru were always in the same rooms, always within reach of each other. whether it was diplomatic banquets, charity galas, or private functions where power was traded in hushed conversations, he was there. and oh, did he reach.

when you were eight, he stole your tiara during a diplomatic dinner and perched it atop his own head, flashing a smirk that made your cheeks burn. “look at me, i’m a king now.”

“give it back, satoru!” you huffed, arms crossed, lips pressed into a stubborn line.

“hmm… nah,” he hummed, tilting his head as if considering. then, with an impish glint in his eyes, he leaned forward and whispered, “but you can have it back if you give me a kiss.”

scandalized, you yanked the tiara off his head with a furious huff, your face burning as he cackled like a devil in silk.

when you were ten, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you away from the ballroom, dragging you through the empty halls until you burst onto the palace balcony. below, the city stretched endlessly, glittering against the night.

“you’re bored, aren’t you?” he murmured, voice softer than usual, those sky-bright eyes searching yours. “let’s run away.”

“don’t be ridiculous.” you scoffed, but you didn’t pull away.

instead, you let him hold your hand, let him be the one reckless thing in your carefully measured world.

when you were twelve, he found you curled beneath the oldest willow in the royal gardens, fists clenched in the fabric of your dress, trying to keep the sobs inside. another argument. another reminder that you would never be enough—not as a daughter, not as a princess, not as anything you were supposed to be. the sky was overcast, gray and heavy, the scent of rain thick in the air. you hadn’t heard his footsteps, hadn’t noticed him until he crouched in front of you, head tilting, gaze sharp and knowing.

satoru hated seeing you cry.

so, without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a lollipop, and unwrapped it with the ease of someone who did this often. “open,” he said, pressing the candy against your lips before you could argue, his tone light, teasing, but unyielding. the sugary scent hit you first—something cherry, something artificial, something that had no place in a world of gold-plated cutlery and imported delicacies. you hesitated, your pride warring with the quiet comfort he offered. but then, slowly, you parted your lips, and he pushed it onto your tongue, watching you like he was waiting for the weight in your chest to ease.

“sweet things always make you feel better.” his voice was softer this time, something careful beneath the teasing.

he was right. the taste melted against your tongue, sharp and cloying, and for the first time that day, the ache in your ribs loosened just a little. satoru grinned like he had just won something, bright and self-satisfied, always too pleased with himself. “see? tastes better when it’s from me, huh?”

you only nodded, small and quiet. he only laughed, the sound easy and unbothered, like the world hadn’t just collapsed around you.

in that moment, beneath a darkening sky, in a life that had never truly been yours, satoru became your first and only act of defiance. he became your escape. your rebellion. your one and only soft, sweet thing.

despite the tension in politics, despite the warnings and whispered disapproval, you and satoru always find each other.

your lessons are held in the same grand estate, halls lined with portraits of ancestors who once held the world in their hands. golden chandeliers hang heavy above you, casting a soft glow over the polished marble floors, the silence between lectures filled only by the ticking of antique clocks and the distant hum of the city beyond the palace gates. you see him in the brief moments between lessons, in the gaps between grand affairs, when the adults aren’t watching. but, of course, satoru never cares if they are. he walks into your space like he belongs there, like he has never once been told no in his life. and when he does, you pretend it doesn’t make the air in the room feel heavier.

“you’re such a fake,” he drawls one afternoon, lounging lazily in your study while you sit perfectly poised by the window. sunlight filters in behind you, casting you in a glow that makes you look untouchable, distant. “all that bowing and smiling—you don’t actually believe in any of that, do you?”

your fingers tighten over the silk of your skirts, nails pressing crescent moons into your palms. “it’s called duty, satoru. something you wouldn’t understand.”

he snorts, tipping his chair back on two legs, balancing with the ease of someone who never fears falling. “right. duty. you mean playing pretend.”

“i’m not playing pretend,” you snap, rising so suddenly that your chair scrapes against the floor, the sharp sound cutting through the still air.

but satoru only leans forward, elbow propped on the desk, chin in his palm, watching you with that infuriating, knowing look. “sure you are,” he says, like it’s fact. “you hate this. you hate them. but you smile and curtsy like a good little princess anyway.”

heat crawls up your spine, your breath catching in your throat. “what would you have me do? throw tantrums like you? break things until people listen?”

his smirk deepens. “at least i don’t lie about who i am.”

the words hit something raw, something you refuse to name. satoru has always been able to see too much, pick you apart with those impossibly blue eyes until you feel like nothing more than an open book in his hands. you hate that he can see through you so easily.

so you don’t answer. instead, you turn on your heel and storm out, the echo of your footsteps chasing you down the hall. when you reach your chambers, you throw the balcony doors shut behind you, and that night—for the first time in years—you leave them locked.

for a week, satoru does not show up.

no pebbles tapping against your window at midnight. no insufferable interruptions during your lessons. no infuriating, knowing glances across the dinner table when you’re forced to sit across from him.

at first, you tell yourself it’s a relief.

but the days stretch on, and the silence in your chambers grows unbearable. your eyes flick toward the balcony doors more times than you’re willing to admit, your ears straining for the sound of footsteps, of something—anything—that signals his presence. when you pass by the study, you hesitate just outside the door, waiting for a scoff, a teasing remark, anything to prove that he’s still there. but the room is empty, and all you have is the hollow weight of missing him.

when you finally unlock the balcony doors, the wind feels too cold against your skin, the vastness of the sky stretching too wide, too empty.

and then, at the next grand event, just when you begin to think that maybe he’s left you behind, that he had realized how asinine your friendship with him is, you feel it.

a gaze too familiar, too sharp, too knowing.

when you glance up, satoru is already watching you from across the ballroom, standing just beyond the golden glow of the chandeliers, half-shrouded in the dim candlelight. he is dressed in the sharp blues and silvers of his family’s colors, the embroidery on his suit catching the light, but his gaze is the brightest thing in the room. too familiar, too focused, too knowing—like he’s been waiting for you to notice him. the conversations around you dull, the clinking of crystal glasses and rustling of silk fading into something distant, inconsequential. because in a room full of dignitaries, of nobles and politicians vying for power, satoru looks at you like you’re the only one who matters. and it makes something tighten in your chest, something you refuse to name.

“your royal highness.” he greets smoothly, voice laced with amusement as he steps forward. the space between you is swallowed instantly, overtaken by his presence—too much, too overwhelming, like the weight of a storm pressing against your skin. he bows, just deep enough to be proper, but there is no real deference in the motion, no real submission in the way he tilts his head and looks at you through pale lashes. this is not a greeting; it’s a challenge.

“gojo.” your voice is even, perfectly poised, as distant as diplomacy demands. but he sees through it like he always does, like he always has, and you know this because his smirk deepens.

then, before you can stop him, he takes your hand—too bold, too improper, too much.

he lifts it to his lips, the movement deliberate, calculated, yet as effortless as breathing. your breath catches as his mouth brushes just above the lace of your glove, against the sliver of skin left exposed. his lips are warm, his breath soft against your wrist, but the effect is anything but gentle. it sears.

your pulse betrays you, a single, sharp beat against his touch.

his smirk spreads, slow and knowing. “you missed me, didn’t you?”

and the worst part—the part you loathe, the part that makes your throat tighten—is that you have no idea how to lie. not to him.

satoru gojo has always been insufferable.

he is a storm in human form—loud, reckless, impossible to ignore. but sometime between childhood games and midnight rendezvous, something shifts. the edges of him sharpen, shedding the remnants of boyhood, his limbs stretching into something longer, leaner, more dangerous. the mischief in his gaze is still there, but it is different now, laced with something you do not have the words for. something that makes your pulse stutter when he looks at you too long.

and yet, despite it all, he still finds you. always.

at thirteen, he corners you in the royal library, where the scent of parchment and ink lingers in the air. dust motes dance in the shafts of afternoon light, a quiet world away from the weight of courtly expectations. you are searching for an old genealogy record when fingers, long and deft, pluck the book from your hands with infuriating ease.

“you’re too stiff.” he murmurs, flipping the pages with little interest. “too dutiful. don’t you ever get tired of being perfect?”

“give it back, satoru.”

“make me.”

your patience snaps like a fraying thread. you lunge, reaching for the book, but he is already moving, slipping just out of reach, laughter curling in the silence. it becomes a chase, your breath quickening as he weaves between the towering shelves, always just a step ahead, always teasing. when you finally snatch it back, your heart is pounding, the heat of exertion warming your skin.

he is too close. the dim glow of lanterns catches in his eyes, his smirk lazy, triumphant.

“see?” he hums, voice smooth, teasing. “you’re more fun when you’re mad.”

at fourteen, he finds you on the palace rooftop.

it is past midnight, the city below pulsing with life, oblivious to the girl perched high above it—trapped in a golden cage lined with silk and duty. the wind tugs at your hair, whispering secrets you will never be free to follow. the stars scatter across the sky in cold indifference, the weight of history pressing against your ribs like an iron hand. up here, away from the watchful eyes of the court, you can almost pretend you are just a girl and not a symbol, not a piece on a chessboard carved long before you were born.

“you’re not supposed to be up here.” you murmur, your gaze fixed on the endless stretch of lights below, refusing to acknowledge the presence settling beside you.

“neither are you.” he counters, voice smooth as ever, careless as ever. he sits too close, shoulder pressing against yours, as if he belongs here, as if he always will.

his presence is warm in the cool night air, a stark contrast to the marble halls and empty courtesies you have known all your life. for a moment, neither of you speak. the wind rustles through the banners below, and the sounds of distant carriages echo faintly in the night.

“do you ever think about running away?” he muses, head tilting back, exposing the sharp angles of a jawline that is beginning to lose its boyish softness. his hair ruffles in the wind, a mess of white against the darkness.

“you’ve been talking about that since we were kids.” you sigh, fingers twisting in the fabric of your skirts.

“and you’ve been ignoring me since we were kids.” he points out, words laced with that familiar, infuriating amusement.

“maybe there’s a reason for that.”

he hums, entirely unbothered, as if he already knows the truth you won’t say aloud. “doesn’t change the fact that you never really leave, though.”

the words settle between you, quiet and heavy, pressing against the space where your heart beats a little too fast. you don’t respond because he’s right.

at fifteen, he crashes a diplomatic banquet, just to get a rise out of you.

he isn’t supposed to be here. technically, his father declined the invitation, sending his advisors in his place. but satoru gojo has never been one to follow the rules, especially when they tell him he can’t do something. so, of course, he waltzes into the ballroom as if he owns it, clad in midnight blue with a smirk that could start wars. the chandeliers cast a golden glow over the polished marble, music swelling in a practiced waltz, but the moment he steps in, the air shifts—people noticing, whispers beginning. his presence is an act of defiance, a quiet declaration that even the prime minister’s absence cannot erase the weight of his name.

you barely have time to react before he spots you, his grin widening like a cat who just found his favorite mouse. “your highness,” he drawls, stepping into your space as if he belongs there, as if you aren’t standing amongst foreign dignitaries who would love nothing more than to report this to your father. panic flares hot in your chest, but you refuse to let it show, only gripping his wrist and yanking him into the nearest shadowed alcove. he lets you, amusement dancing in his too-bright eyes, the scent of something expensive lingering on his skin. “what are you doing here?” you hiss, low and sharp, as distant voices hum just beyond the curtains.

“you missed me.” he answers, unbothered.

“i did not.”

“you totally did.”

you glare. he grins.

“besides,” he continues, leaning in, voice dropping to something low and private. “how could i miss the chance to see you all dressed up? you look…” his gaze flickers over you, slow, deliberate, appreciation flickering in those godforsaken, summer-sky eyes. “…stunning.”

your stomach flips, traitorous. you roll your eyes instead, fixing him with a pointed look, ignoring the heat that creeps up your neck. “if your father finds out—”

“who cares?” he shrugs, the picture of reckless ease, of untouchable confidence. “we’re just two childhood friends catching up, aren’t we?”

friends.

right.

but then, before you can snap back, he lifts your hand—bold, improper, scandalous—and bows his head, brushing his lips against the skin just above the lace of your glove. his breath ghosts warm against your wrist, lingering, deliberate, as if committing the shape of you to memory. a slow, teasing kiss, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he enjoys the way your pulse stutters beneath his mouth. you freeze, caught between outrage and something far more dangerous, something you refuse to name. his smirk deepens when he finally pulls away, watching you with eyes too sharp, too knowing.

“see?” he murmurs, amusement curling in his tone. “you don’t seem so bothered now.”

at sixteen, things shift again.

it happens during a fencing lesson, though neither of you are properly dressed for it. no heavy jackets, no masks—just wooden practice swords and the simmering tension that neither of you have the words for yet. the vast training hall is bathed in late afternoon light, golden streaks stretching across polished wooden floors, dust motes dancing in the air. you weren’t even supposed to spar today, but satoru had grabbed a sword off the rack, tossed you another, and grinned like he already knew how this would end. where you are disciplined, he is wild; where you are precise, he is unpredictable. he circles you now, blade tapping lazily against his shoulder, eyes bright with something electric.

“come on, princess,” he drawls, voice laced with challenge. “show me what all those lessons are worth.”

you do. you lunge, and he parries; you strike, and he meets you—wooden swords colliding in a flurry of sharp movements and breathless taunts. your footwork is flawless, your technique impeccable, but satoru is fast, too fast, slipping through your defenses like water through cupped hands. then, in a blink, he disarms you—sends your practice sword clattering across the floor. before you can react, he moves, pushing you back until your spine meets the wooden wall, his weight pressing just enough to keep you there. the air shifts, suddenly charged, his breath warm against your cheek, the scent of polished wood and something distinctly him curling in your lungs.

“yield.” he murmurs, voice thick with something unreadable.

you should push him away. should remind him of propriety, of duty, of the countless rules you are bound to. but you don’t—because his gaze is locked onto yours, and you can’t seem to look away. your heart hammers, pulse drumming loud in your ears, and for the first time, you realize how much taller he has gotten, how sharp the lines of his face have become. there’s something dark in his smirk now, something dangerous beneath the teasing edge. something you don’t have a name for yet.

“you know,” he murmurs, tilting his head, the dim glow of the lanterns casting sharp shadows across the planes of his face, “one day, they’re going to try to take you from me.”

your breath catches, fingers curling against the fabric of your sleeve. there is no mockery in his tone this time, no teasing edge to soften the words. just quiet, unwavering certainty, as if he has already seen the war they will wage over you, as if the battle lines have already been drawn. something cold slithers down your spine, something you don’t have a name for, because this—this is not the boy who used to steal your tiaras and drag you onto palace rooftops. this is someone else entirely, someone sharp-edged and merciless, someone who speaks as though he has already decided the outcome. someone you should fear.

“who?”

“your father. my father. the entire world.”

his voice is low, even, but the weight of it presses against you, heavier than the steel of his blade had been moments before. because satoru gojo has never been the kind of person who loses—not fights, not games, not people. and you know, with a sudden, sinking certainty, that he does not intend to start with you. his gaze flickers down, where your pulse jumps at your wrist, where the lace of your glove fails to hide the way your blood sings beneath your skin. he lifts your hand with ease, brings it to his lips, and presses another kiss to the exact same spot he always does—slow, deliberate, reverent. his lips linger just long enough for heat to unfurl in your stomach, for something traitorous to bloom in your chest.

“satoru—”

“they can try.” he interrupts, voice dropping lower, something wolfish curling at the edges of his grin. his breath ghosts over your skin, his hold unrelenting. “but i don’t share.”

then, as if nothing happened, he releases you. steps back. extends his hand, as if this is still the same fencing match, the same childhood game, as if he has not just shifted the very ground beneath your feet.

you don’t take it.

because suddenly, you are afraid. not of him, but of what you might become if you do.

something changed in satoru after that conversation and it must've had something to do with him suddenly messaging you to meet him in the middle of the night because you aren’t supposed to be here.

the castle is asleep, save for the flickering lanterns lining the outer walls, their glow barely touching the darkness beyond the royal gates. but there, just past the threshold of where he shouldn’t be, satoru waits—leaning against a stone pillar like he owns the place, bathed in moonlight and audacity. he sees you before you even step past the archway, his smirk unfurling slow and knowing, like he expected you all along.

“satoru,” you hiss, breathless with fury, your voice trembling as you glance over your shoulder, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. “if anyone sees you—” your words falter, your mind racing with the consequences, the scandal, the way your father’s face would darken if he caught you like this. but satoru doesn’t seem to care. he never does.

“then let them watch,” he says, his voice pure sin, a slow, teasing drawl that sinks beneath your skin, twisting deep in your stomach. he’s taller now, broader, his beauty sharper, more lethal—something sculpted for war, not courtly dances. and yet, the danger in him doesn’t make you step back. instead, it pulls you in, like a moth to a flame, even as your instincts scream at you to run. his presence is overwhelming, his gaze piercing, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering, about to fall.

he doesn’t wait for permission. instead, he tugs you forward with infuriating ease, his hands rough yet deliberate, your body colliding with his before you can even think to resist. your fingers curl instinctively into the delicate fabric of your nightgown, clutching at it like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. his touch is heat against silk, against skin, the space between you vanishing before you can catch your breath. you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours, the way his heartbeat matches the frantic rhythm of your own.

and then he kisses you.

it is nothing like the carefully instructed, polite kisses you’ve been warned to expect. there is no hesitation, no gentleness—only hunger, only greed, his lips pressing, parting, demanding like he has spent years waiting for this. and he has. your first kiss is not sweet or tender; it’s a wildfire, consuming everything in its path, leaving you breathless and dizzy. his hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer, and you can’t help but melt into him, your body betraying your mind as you lean into the heat of his touch.

you should push him away. you should remind him of duty, of war, of the blood-soaked line that has long divided your families. but you don’t. instead, you let him press you against the cold stone wall, the chill seeping through your gown as his mouth abandons yours, trailing lower—along your jaw, down the column of your throat. his breath is warm, his lips softer than they should be, the contrast making you shudder. when he reaches the spot wrist he had been lavishing attention since forever, he bites, slow and deliberate, his teeth sinking in just enough to make your breath hitch.

he feels it, hears it—your sharp inhale, your pulse rushing wildly beneath his lips, your fingers clenching in his jacket—and he laughs, low and pleased, his tongue soothing the mark he leaves behind. “you are so cute, your highness,” he murmurs against your skin, the words a silken promise, a loaded threat. “i might just ruin you myself before they could.” his voice is a whisper, a caress, and it sends a shiver down your spine, your mind racing with the implications of his words. but even as your thoughts scream at you to stop, your body betrays you, leaning into him, craving more of the chaos he brings.

before you turn seventeen, your fathers were at war.

not with swords, not with soldiers, but with power plays disguised as diplomacy, with whispered threats exchanged in the halls of government buildings. your father, the last vestige of a monarchy that no longer ruled, still held influence, still had loyalists willing to fight for the old ways. and satoru’s father, the prime minister, was the embodiment of the new world—modern, efficient, ruthless.

it was a battle for control, for legacy, for the future of a nation that no longer belonged to kings. but behind the headlines, behind the political chess match, there is this scandalous little thing going on between their heirs.

satoru is breathless against your lips, his hands pressing you against the cold marble walls of a grand ballroom. the air around you was thick with the scent of champagne and the faint sweetness of his cologne, mingling with the sharp chill of the stone at your back. hidden behind a velvet curtain, just out of sight, just out of reach, the muffled sounds of the gala outside felt like a distant dream. his fingers traced the curve of your waist, leaving trails of fire even through the layers of your dress, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours.

the dim light filtering through the curtain cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the glint of mischief in his summer sky eyes. you were trapped, not by his hands, but by the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“we shouldn’t be doing this.” you whispered, your voice trembling as much as your hands, but your fingers curled into his collar, betraying you. the fabric was soft under your touch, but the heat of his skin beneath it was enough to make your head spin.

satoru's breath hitched, a low, almost imperceptible sound that sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting. the words were meant to be a protest, a reminder of the rules, the consequences, but they came out weak, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. you knew you should pull away, should step back into the light where everything was safe and predictable, but the way he leaned into you, his forehead resting against yours, made it impossible to move.

“then tell me to stop,” satoru murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw, his voice an invitation and a taunt all at once. his hands slid up your arms, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every inch of you, and you could feel the faint tremor in his touch. “but you won’t, will you?” his words were soft, almost a whisper, but they carried the weight of certainty, of years of knowing you better than you knew yourself.

and god, he was right. you couldn’t tell him to stop, not when his breath was warm against your skin, not when his fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. the world outside the curtain didn’t exist anymore—it was just you and him, and the dangerous, exhilarating thing growing between you.

the older satoru got, the more he loved pushing you, breaking down every fragile, innocent piece of you until you were something else—something that belonged to him.

at seventeen, he kissed you in secret corridors, in the backseats of limousines, in his father’s estate where you were absolutely not supposed to be. each touch, each whispered word, was a challenge, a game he was determined to win. he thrived on the thrill of it, on the way your breath caught when he leaned in too close, on the way your eyes darted around nervously, always aware of the risk.

but no matter how many times you told yourself it was wrong, no matter how many times you tried to pull away, he always found a way to draw you back in. and deep down, you knew you didn’t want to resist.

“if they catch us, we’re finished,” you hissed, clutching at his wrist as he dragged you down a private hallway, past security cameras he had long since learned how to avoid.

your heels clicked softly against the polished floor, the sound echoing in the empty space, but his steps were silent, confident, as though he owned every inch of the estate. his grip on your hand was firm, unyielding, and you could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric of your glove. the hallway was dimly lit, the only light coming from the moon streaming through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the walls. you could hear the faint hum of the gala in the distance, a reminder of how far you’d strayed from the safety of the crowd, but satoru didn’t seem to care. he only smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he glanced back at you.

“then don’t let them catch us.” he said, his voice low and teasing, as though the idea of getting caught was just another part of the game. he stopped suddenly, pulling you into a secluded alcove, his hands sliding up your arms to rest on your shoulders. the space was small, intimate, and you could feel the heat of his body even through the layers of your dress.

he traced the edge of your gloves with his fingers before slipping them off entirely, his touch light but deliberate, and you shivered as his lips brushed against your bare wrists. “you still taste sweet,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and sending a jolt of electricity through you. “but i want more.” his voice was a whisper, a promise, and when you gasped, his smile turned sharp, knowing he had you exactly where he wanted you.

at eighteen, the arguments start.

they are sharp-edged things, honed by frustration, by fear, by the unbearable weight of wanting something neither of you are supposed to have. they happen in hushed whispers behind closed doors, in stolen moments between political meetings, in the space between your duty and his defiance.

the fight happens in the royal gardens, beneath the cold glow of lantern light. the evening air is thick with the scent of jasmine, too sweet, too cloying, pressing in around you like a reminder that this—this moment, this thing between you and him—should not exist. satoru stands before you, white-haired and furious, the shadows casting sharp lines across his face.

“you’re playing pretend.” he snaps, voice low and angry, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“and you’re reckless,” you bite back, every word laced with frustration, with fear. “our families—”

“our families don’t get to decide what i want.” his voice cuts through the night like a blade.

“it’s not that simple, satoru.”

“it is.” he steps closer, unrelenting. “you just don’t want to admit it.”

and maybe he’s right. because no matter how many times you tell yourself this has to end, no matter how hard you try to keep your distance, you always end up in his arms.

one night, he climbs the palace walls just to see you, tapping against your balcony door like a fairytale gone wrong. moonlight pools over him, silvering the edges of his hair, making him look almost otherworldly. he isn’t supposed to be here, in your world, in your life—but he is, always, always finding his way back to you.

“you're insane.” you whisper, glancing toward the locked door of your chambers, every nerve alight with the possibility of being caught despite having done this dance with him a lot of times.

“so stop me.” he challenges, standing too close, breath warm against your skin, eyes dark with something you can’t name.

but you never do.

at nineteen, it becomes something worse—something all-consuming.

it happens in the dead of night, far from the glittering ballrooms and suffocating eyes of court, in a forgotten wing of the palace where the candlelight flickers against aged stone. you shouldn't be here, but then again, neither should he. yet, satoru stands before you, disheveled from the wind, hair messier than usual, his cravat undone like he had run through the city just to reach you. there is something feverish in his expression, something that crackles in the air between you, thick as a storm about to break.

"marry me.” he says, voice hoarse, desperate, the words landing between you like a live wire.

you laugh, light and brittle, because surely this is one of his reckless games, another push to see how far he can take you before you break. “don’t be ridiculous.”

but he doesn’t smile. doesn’t tease.

his gaze darkens, something furious and unrelenting burning behind those godforsaken, summer-sky eyes.

"i’m serious," he says, fingers tightening around your wrist, thumb pressing against the flutter of your pulse. "we could disappear. right now. no titles, no families. just us."

your breath hitches, a treacherous, shaky thing. because the truth is—you want to say yes. want to follow him wherever he leads, want to run until your name is just an echo, until you are nothing but his and he is nothing but yours.

but you can’t.

and satoru gojo is not the type to be denied.

at twenty, it becomes undeniable—you and satoru were never meant to be together.

your fathers made sure of that. your engagement to a foreign prince was inked onto paper, sealed with signatures and handshakes, a carefully calculated move to secure the monarchy’s fragile standing. meanwhile, satoru was no longer just the prime minister’s son; he was the rising sun of the nation, the man poised to inherit an empire built on power, not love.

but neither of you had ever been good at listening.

the breaking point came on the night of your engagement announcement.

the ballroom was suffocating beneath the weight of gold and glass, chandeliers spilling warm light over a sea of carefully curated guests. you stood beside your fiancé—a stranger who held your hand like a possession, like a duty—accepting congratulations with a flawless smile, a mask you had worn since childhood.

and then you felt it.

a gaze that burned hotter than the lights above, pulling at the frayed edges of your resolve.

satoru stood at the far end of the room, silent, still. his presence was a fault line beneath the glittering facade of the ballroom, a quiet promise that everything was about to break. the golden glow of the chandeliers softened nothing—the sharp lines of his face, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled at his sides as if holding himself back. his expression was unreadable, carved from something colder than you’d ever seen, his usual mirth stripped away, leaving only something raw, something furious beneath the surface. and for the first time in your life, you couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

that terrified you.

you turned away, the weight of his stare pressing against your spine as you moved, each step measured, careful. past the marble pillars, through the gilded archways, down the quiet corridors where the walls didn’t have ears. your breaths came too shallow, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your throat, your hands trembling at your sides. the mask was slipping—cracking at the edges—and you just needed a moment. a moment away from the expectations, the duty, the suffocating weight of a future you never wanted.

but the second you stepped onto the darkened terrace, a hand closed around your wrist and yanked you into the shadows.

“satoru—!”

your gasp barely left your lips before your back hit the cold stone wall, the breath knocked from your lungs. the scent of him wrapped around you—something clean, something sharp, something familiar—and it made you dizzy. moonlight cut through the darkness, slashing across his face, catching the bright, seething blue of his eyes. his grip was firm, almost trembling, fingers pressing into your skin as if convincing himself you were real.

“tell me you don’t love me.”

his voice was low, ragged, the edges fraying with something desperate, something reckless.

you swallowed, your throat dry, your heart a wild thing caged in your ribs. you wanted to say it—to end this before it destroyed you both. but satoru was too close, his breath warm against your cheek, his presence a force of gravity you had never been able to escape.

“tell me,” he repeated, his voice an ache, a command, a plea. “and i’ll let you go.”

you couldn’t.

because you did love him—fiercely, recklessly, in a way that made it impossible to breathe. it wasn’t something delicate or gentle, not something you could tuck away behind locked doors and polite smiles. it was violent, all-consuming, a love that sank its teeth into you and refused to let go. a love that could ruin you, that already had.

his grip tightened, fingers pressing into the delicate bones of your wrist, and you knew he felt the way your pulse stuttered beneath his touch. “run away with me,” he whispered, voice low, raw, a plea wrapped in command. “leave all of this behind.”

for a moment, the world shrank to nothing but him—the way his breath ghosted over your lips, the sharp edge of desperation in his voice, the promise in the way he held you like you were something he would never surrender. like he would burn the world down before letting you go.

it was insanity. you were royalty. he was power itself. the country would burn for it.

but that night, when the palace fell silent and the world believed you were safely asleep in your chambers, you slipped out of bed and pressed your palm against the ornate mirror.

it clicked.

the passage behind it was cold, narrow, the air thick with dust and secrets. it had been there for centuries—an escape route once used by queens in times of war. but to you, it had always been his passage.

satoru had discovered it as a boy, slipping in and out of the palace long before he was supposed to. he had shown it to you when you were twelve, smirking as he dragged you through the hidden tunnels, laughing about how he could steal you away anytime he wanted.

now, years later, you were the one stealing yourself away.

you moved quickly, heart pounding, hands trembling as you pushed open the passage’s final door—out into the night, into the city that had never truly belonged to you. the air was crisp, thick with the scent of rain on pavement, the distant hum of traffic reminding you how far you were from the life you were supposed to be living. you had never been alone here, not really—not without guards, not without duty shackled to your wrists like golden cuffs. but tonight, the city stretched before you, dark and endless, a freedom you had never known how to grasp. and in that vast, unfamiliar quiet, he was waiting.

not at the gates, not where the guards stood watch. no, satoru gojo was leaning against the hood of a brand-new, custom-designed car, sleek and untraceable, its glossy frame catching the glow of the streetlights. his suit jacket was unbuttoned, tie loose around his collar, a portrait of effortless rebellion wrapped in money and recklessness. but it wasn’t the car or his defiant stance that made your breath hitch. it was where he was waiting. the old, abandoned chapel—the one the two of you had found as children, where you had once played pretend, weaving stories of running away, of rewriting fate, before you were old enough to understand how impossible that was. except now, as his sharp gaze found yours across the empty street, you realized he had never stopped believing in it.

“satoru.” you whispered, stepping closer, the word barely more than breath.

he didn’t speak. instead, he reached into his pocket, fingers curling around something small, something that had been weighing him down the entire night. for a moment, he only stared at it, thumb brushing over the edges, hesitant, as if still debating whether to do this—whether to let himself want this. then, with a quiet breath, he flipped open the velvet box, revealing what lay inside.

“marry me.”

your breath caught.

it wasn’t a question. he didn’t kneel, didn’t offer flowery words or grand declarations. he just stood there, holding it out, the blue diamond gleaming in the low light—impossible, priceless, his. he looked at it for another moment, then back at you, as if deciding, as if still waiting for some part of him to pull back.

but he never did.

you stared at him, stunned, breathless, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest like an iron hand. the world outside the chapel was still, the distant hum of the city muffled by the pounding in your ears. satoru stood before you, bathed in silver moonlight, sharp edges and reckless intent carved into his very being. his fingers were curled so tightly around the velvet box that his knuckles turned white, but his smirk—god, that damn smirk—never wavered. it was defiant, cocky, but underneath it, something deeper flickered in the ice of his eyes, something unspoken, something raw. he was waiting for you to understand, to accept that there was no going back after this.

"you said it yourself, didn’t you?” his voice was low, smooth, a blade sharpened with amusement and something darker. his lips curled, something dangerous in the way he looked at you, something wolfish—predatory in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. but his fingers, still gripping the box, betrayed him, tension coiling beneath the surface of his casual defiance. "princesses don’t marry commoners." he let the words settle between you, let them hang in the charged air like an accusation, like a challenge. then he took a step closer, slow and deliberate, gaze never leaving yours.

“so i guess it’s a good thing i’ve never been one.”

your heart slammed against your ribs, a wild, dizzying rhythm that sent heat rushing to your skin. the space between you shrank, the night folding in around the two of you, suffocating in its intensity. you had seen him serious before—calculating, determined, ruthless—but this was different. this was satoru stripped bare of pretense, of politics, of the role he had been born to play. this was him, standing in front of you, asking you to choose him, to burn down everything for him. the realization sent a sharp ache through your chest, twisting something deep inside you.

“you’re insane.” you whispered, but the words lacked conviction, your voice betraying the tremor beneath your carefully constructed walls.

his grin widened, wicked, knowing, a spark of satisfaction lighting up his too-bright eyes. “considering i’m about to whisk away the dearest princess of this country like a big bad wolf," he murmured, tilting his head, watching you through thick lashes, “i guess i am, but you'd let me anyway, won't you?”

he wasn’t wrong.

your fingers tightened around his, around the ring, around the impossible weight of what you were about to do. you didn’t even need to say yes—he already knew. the moment you let him slip that ring onto your finger, something shifted, something irreversible. satoru laughed, breathless, triumphant, his lips brushing against your knuckles, against the cold metal now resting against your skin like a brand. you felt it then—the silent vow, the inevitable destruction, the promise of a future you weren’t meant to have but would take anyway.

“see?” he murmured, lips ghosting just above the lace of your glove, his breath warm against your wrist. “fits perfectly.”

and then he drove—fast, reckless, free.

and you let him, because for the first time in your life, you wanted to be.

a/n : wrote this pretty fast when i was just yapping about it last night because this is what satoru brainrot & ovulation does to an idiot. if you see some errors please do tell & i apologize in advance, i stayed up all night writing this & now i finally get to sleep zzzz

also pls do tell if you are interested in the aftermath, i already have a rough plan on how it will go, just whole domesticity and fluffy stuff (as if he didn't corrupt you into eloping with him but let's not talk about that)

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #gojo x female reader #cross posted on ao3 #reader insert #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo fanfiction #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you #jjk oneshot #gojo oneshot #forbidden love #jujutsu kaisen

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sinkuna · 26 days ago

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୨୧ ― When Gojo Satoru’s arms are wrapped around your trembling form, when he’s buried so deep you can’t tell where he begins and you end, the world narrows to this- skin against skin, breath mingling in desperate gasps. His hips rolling into you with a desperation that makes your chest ache, each thrust a silent plea to be more than the weapon they made him.

There’s something fragile in the way he holds you, like you might disappear if he lets go even the slightest. Between ragged breaths, he tries to crack jokes, "Guess I really am… hah… Gifted in every way, huh?" But his voice breaks slightly, the joke falling flat as his forehead drops to yours. Those brilliant sky blue eyes, usually hidden behind dark lenses, are completely exposed now and you can see everything he’s been trying to hide.

This is where he becomes human. Not Gojo Satoru the six eyes bearer, not the lonely god on his pedestal- just a man wishing to create something beautiful instead of destroying everything he touches. When he’s moving inside you like this, creating friction and heat and something that feels like salvation… His past, the Gojo legacy, the isolation, the burden of being untouchable… All of it falls away.

"I love you," he whispers against your neck so quietly you almost miss it… The way he say it sounds like an apology, like a promise all at once... His pace becoming more urgent, more sloppy, as if he can fuck away every moment of emptiness that came before you…

Each moan you make, each broken cry of his name, builds something new in the ruins of what his family tried to make him…

As your nails rake down his back he arches into the sting, welcoming the marks that prove this isn't another hollow dream. Inside you, he's molten, complete, every thrust a quiet rebellion against the loneliness that's been his only companion since birth.

And when he finally spills inside you, it's with the desperate hope of planting something beautiful in the ashes of his bloodline. Starting over. Starting clean…

In the quiet of night when everything is said and done, as his cum dribbles out of your well used body, Gojo Satoru holds you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to humanity…

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The nursery glows amber in the soft light of a rubber ducky nightlight, casting gentle shadows that dance across pink walls. Gojo Satoru, folded impossibly into his newborn daughter’s crib like the world’s most devoted pretzel. All six foot three of him bent and twisted… One arm was draped protectively over the sleeping infant while the other hung awkwardly out past crib bars. His poor knees were tucked up, long legs hanging over rails at awkward angles that would make anyone else cramp.

But he doesn’t care about the discomfort, how could he when he has his precious angel snuggled up to him?

The gold band on his finger catches the duck's warm light, a simple band that represents everything he never thought he could have. His white hair falling across his forehead as he watches her tiny chest rise and fall, memorizing every detail of her peaceful face.

Down the hall, you’re fast asleep in your shared bed with his son curled against your side, small fist clutching at your nightshirt. Two heartbeats, steady and trusting.

Gojo’s white lashes flutter closed as exhaustion pulls at him, but his mind drifts to that conversation with Suguru all those years ago- that question that used to keep him awake: Are you the strongest because you’re Gojo Satoru, or are you Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest?

For years, he’d never really known how to answer… The question felt like a riddle designed to trap him in endless circles. To remind him he’s built his entire identity around being untouchable, unbeatable, alone at the pinnacle of power…

But now, cramped in this tiny crib with his daughter's tiny heartbeat against his and the memory of your sleep smile when he’d kissed you and his small son goodnight, the answer crystallizes with perfect clarity. He now understands how to answer his old friend’s question.

He’s the strongest because he has something worth being strong for. Not because the world demands it, not because his bloodline cursed him with power- but because this little girl and his photocopy twin -his son- needs their father to come home. Because you need your husband to survive every mission, every fight, every single day…

His daughter sighs in her sleep, and he presses a kiss to her forehead, whispering against her skin, "I'll always come home to you, princess."

For so long, Gojo Satoru carried the heavy curse of loneliness, a weight that seemed unshakable especially after Geto. But now, as his gaze drifts beyond the crib bars to the photography of the family he built, his heart swells with a quiet realization… The curse of loneliness vanished the moment he found you.

⋆｡˚꒰ঌ 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ໒꒱˚｡⋆

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vanesycho · 14 days ago

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• s.coups + fem!reader • cockwarming, soft dom!cheol, teasing, orgasm denial, begging, heavy tension, sub!reader 0,6k

“twitch again and I’ll pull out. you want that?”

but of course—your body betrays you. It’s not an act of defiance, not some bratty pushback. It’s desperation. he’s been inside you for too long—warm, thick, unmoving— pressing so deep it’s like your body doesn’t know how to handle it anymore.

every second he stays buried inside, your mind slips further. the stillness is unbearable, maddening, like being held right at the edge and never allowed to fall.

a soft whimper slipped past your lips, barely a sound, but more than enough for him to hear. his smile curved instantly, slow and amused, spreading across his lips like it had been waiting there the whole time. he didn’t bother hiding it—he never did.

no, he loved this part.

watching you fall apart, squirming with the need for more, while he stayed perfectly still inside you... it thrilled him. every helpless little sound you made reminded you who was in control—and that thrill? that was everything to him.

“please…” your voice cracked, barely more than a breath. “want to move…”

his grip on your hips tightened. firm, grounding, impossible to escape. “shh… don’t even think about it,” he murmured, voice low and steady against your ear. “you said you could take it, didn’t you?”

you buried your face into the crook of his neck, your body trembling with restrained need. his skin was hot against yours, every shallow breath brushing across your collarbone, making your nerves jolt.

the wetness between your thighs was overwhelming—slick, desperate, and far too much for this kind of stillness. his cock sat heavy and thick inside you, pressing right against that devastating spot, and yet… he didn’t move. not even an inch.

the sheer absence of motion made it worse. It turned your desire into a slow, burning ache that bloomed deep in your belly.

you clenched around him helplessly, needing something—anything—but he stayed painfully still, as if dragging out your desperation was just as satisfying as finally giving in.

being filled by him like this, completely motionless, felt like torture. a slow, beautiful kind of suffering—pleasurable, yes, but maddening enough to leave you trembling on the edge of breaking.

hands? resting on your thighs like a king. not moving. just staying there, his thumbs rubbing lazy circles. his voice like velvet with venom.

“I’m not even moving and look at you. breathing like I’m fucking you.”

when you finally pulled back from his shoulder and looked up at him, your eyes were glassy—filled with a raw mix of pain and pleasure.

sweat clung to your neck, small beads trailing down your skin as your lips parted, maybe hoping for a little mercy?

he chuckled��quiet, low, indulgent.

his fingers slid beneath your chin, lifting it gently. his thumb brushed across your lower lip, slow and possessive, like he was testing how much more you could take.

then he leaned back. relaxed, perfectly in control.

“poor baby… already shaking?”

his voice was nothing more than a whisper, rasping from the back of his throat, thick with amusement.

cheol stayed quiet for a moment, just listening—soaking in the soft, pained whimpers falling from your lips like it was the sweetest melody he’d ever heard.

his eyes darkened with amusement, a lazy smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, completely unbothered by your unraveling.

then—barely there—his hips shifted. just a tiny roll forward. barely enough to register… and yet, the fullness inside you moved, and the sudden sensation knocked the air right out of your lungs. your breath caught. your nails dug into his skin.

silence again.

until he leaned down, lips brushing your ear, voice low and unrelenting.

“If you want me to move… beg.”

a pause.

“and if I like how you beg...I’ll let you come.”

If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments and see a reblog! thank you so much for your support!

taglist: @vernorica123

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frosttbitten · 2 months ago

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warnings: amab ellie, unprotected sex, needy/whiny ellie, breeding kink, overstimulation, porn no plot lol but established relationship. not proof readddd

ellie's hands were tight around your hips that it hurt, the pain was dizzying. you could feel her cum leaking out of your poor, abused pussy, but you could also feel her cock pumping in and out of you after god knows how many rounds.

"baby," ellie's breath hit the shell of your ear, her voice a low whimper. you didn't know how long she'd been going, or how many times she'd cum, you could barely form a single thought at all, "need– fuck, babe, i need to knock you up."

her hips picked up in speed and the sound you let out was almost a scream, so overstimulated it almost hurt. ellie's pitiful cock was aching from how many times she'd cum, she was exhausted, but she didn't dare stop. she wanted to breed you, she needed it.

needed to see your tummy swell with her babies, needed to watch her cum spill out of your pussy just so she could stuff it back inside with her fingers. the little squeaks that kept leaving your mouth were so adorable, she couldn't help but grab one of your legs to place it up on her shoulder.

the new angle made your mouth fall open in a silent moan, your shaky hands came up to rest on her hips, nails biting into her skin, "e–ellie," you cried out when the tip of her cock hit your cervix. one of your hands held the back of her neck, keeping her head pressed against your shoulder.

"gonna look so– so fuckin' pretty, sweetheart," she panted in your ear, her fingers curling into the sheets beside your head as her cock throbbed inside you. your walls clamped down around her with the force of your rapidly approaching orgasm, making her choke on a groan.

a whimper tumbled from your mouth when two of her fingers came down to rub your clit in sloppy circles, involuntarily bucking your hips up to suck her cock in deeper. her other hand lifted the back of your knee so your other leg was on her shoulder too, her cock impossibly deep inside you, "oh, fuck!" your nails dug into the nape of her neck as she repeatedly rammed her thick length inside you over, and over again, clamping down hard around her when your juices gushed all over her cock.

ellie fucked you through your orgasm, reluctantly pulling her fingers away from your clit. she picked up her speed a tiny bit, using you like you weren't her girlfriend anymore, like you were just a hole for her to fill. ellie buried herself inside you to the hilt, spilling her sticky load inside you for what felt like the hundredth time tonight.

ellie's voice, her cock, her cum, it all made your head spin. you weren't even sure if you could handle another orgasm, or if you could handle more of her cum. your pussy couldn't hold any more of it, it was evident in the way it leaked from your hole and onto the sheets underneath you.

your girlfriend noticed, as she always did, and it made her pout.

under any other circumstances, you would've cooed at her and called her adorable, but you knew that look, she wasn't done. god, you didn't know if you could take any more.

your theory was proven right when she pulled out of your weeping pussy, hearing her whine when her cum spilled out onto the sheets. she wanted to breed you, but how was she supposed to do that when her precious cum wasn't where it needed to be?

ellie's fingers came up between your legs, making your thighs shake when she scooped some of her cum out from your cunt, then bringing her hand up to your open mouth and stuffing her fingers in your mouth. you were surprised at first, but then you sucked on the digits eagerly, swallowing every bit of her cum on them.

and while you were distracted, ellie was already inserting her cock back inside you, rolling her hips into you lazily. her middle and ring fingers pressed down on your tongue when you tried to protest, leaning over you to kiss your nose, "just let me have this? i gotta get you pregnant, babe, i need it."

you listened with a whimper, of course you did. you might've been tired, but you wanted this as bad as she did.

so with a bob of your head, you spread your legs wider for her, a tear of overstimulation slipping down your face.

ellie smiled at the sight, lowering her mouth down by your ear, "that's my sweet girl."

i need ellie to get me pregnant so bad its actually concerning now

also thanks for 300 followers :3

#ellie williams #the last of us #ellie williams smut #amab ellie williams #the last of us 2 #the last of us part 2 #ellie tlou #ellie the last of us #ellie williams x reader smut #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams tlou 2 #ellie williams tlou #ellie williams the last of us #ellie x fem reader #lesbian #wlw #sapphic #wuh luh wuh

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lovegasmic · 2 months ago

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O17 𖤐 KINTOBER ; HYBRIDS / KNOTTING + OMEGAVERSE

fox!sampo, lion!jing yuan, dragon!dan heng x f!reader ꒰ tw. ruts, knotting, squirting, mentions of breeding, marking, scenting, size difference, pet name bunny for for reader ( just in Sampo’s ) double dick and mentions of eggs for Dan Heng ꒱ sorry about no taglist, it's been so long and I can't find it ;-;

𖤐 to Sampo, having your willing self crushed under the weight of his body is always a must, although he is always feral during sex, his ruts are worse.

it’s been hours of endless fucking, the sheets are ruined with fluids and your moans now turned into incoherent half sentences, and Sampo finds you utterly delicious, with legs spread and on your tummy, barely managing to mewl through thrusts and your cheek squished against the pillow, not as if you had a chance to move with how his chest presses on your swear coated back, tail flicking across the inside of your thighs and pointy ears twitching in synch with each squelch of your overly stretched cunt.

a little laugh through gritted teeth makes your toes curl, “good little bunny” Sampo mutters amused, a trait of his, to keep that one amused tone in his voice even though he’s currently fucking your brains out, with deep strokes that has you babbling, “my good bunny, taking all of my cock like you are meant to”

“s’ deep, so deep...” it’s barely a whine, tip continuously bumping that spot that has you seeing stars.

“of course it is” he grins once again, dragging the sharp points of his fangs across your neck, leaving a trail of heat that’s soon soothed by his tongue, a silent way to leave his scent on your body, “we are not fucking, we are mating, my seed it’s meant to take in your cute womb” with a hand worming between your belly and the sheets, just to lay on your mound and rub your swollen clit with a perfect motion, one that has you creaming around the base of his cock that mercilessly slaps against your abused pussy.

𖤐 Jing Yuan, although always big, is almost impossible to take during his rut, with the slightly barbs around the girth that adds onto the sensation, like a textured condom but... better, and to make it worse, his need to breed forces himself to mount your pussy from the back.

“j-just a little more” he huffs like it hurts, and it probably does, his balls ache from the need to slam his big cock into your tiny hole, but he knows you can’t take it, and his little mate deserves to be drunk in pleasure, not pain.

so he’s patient, slowly pulling back just to sink another bit of that imponent length that’s thoroughly coated with slick and a bit of his own saliva, can’t blame him for drooling like a dog at the mere sight of your eager and spread cunt. and a choked grunt that mirrors your moans echo as he finally bottoms out, teeth immediately sinking into the back of your neck and he starts.

your hips are up in the air, held by sharp nails but they still swing with each hard slap of Jing Yuan’s cock inside your hole and heavy balls hitting your clit.

he can’t talk, instead, he just grunts and growls on your nape, keeping you steady so you just take it, take and take every huge inch of your lover’s cock rubbing every spot and triggering for more slick to pour, but even then, it’s too much, and it never ends without you squirting at least once and his knot keeping you locked at least thrice.

𖤐 who is this man and what has he done to your lover?

Dan Heng’s feral gaze and glowing dragonic features are almost like looking at another man, but he is there, panting, keeping your knees bent at the knee, squished against your tits and cunt in full display, ready to breed.

“you look so good like this” he swallows thickly, latching the engorged tip of one of his cocks against your pulsing slit, letting the other leave a sticky trail of precum across the crack of your ass while he sinks into you, painfully slow and he groans like it hurts, “oh, fuck—” it’s very uncharacteristically for him to curse, but damn, it has you throbbing.

“feels good” you whine, looking up at him in your compromising position, with glossy eyes and bottom lip shaking at the stretch.

another deep grunt leaves Dan Heng, releasing one of your thighs to press a hand on your belly, and his tail replaces the previous spot around your plush skin, “I’m going to get so deep, love, so deep in this pussy”

unconsciously, you buck your hips, seeking for more, more, more until he’s balls deep, tip dangerously close to your cervix but he does not care, immediately starting to fuck into you with deep strokes, it’s even a little messy and sloppy, but it feels so good you don’t care anymore, simply allowing your lover the pleasure to fuck your tight pussy until he threatens to fill you with more than just cum, but whether you can take his eggs or not can be decided later on.

#me posting? make a wish #honkai star rail smut #honkai star rail x reader #honkai smut #hsr smut #hsr x reader #hsr x reader smut #hsr sampo smut #hsr jing yuan smut #hsr dan heng smut #sampo x reader #sampo smut #jingyuan smut #jing yuan smut #dan heng smut #dan heng x reader #lovegasmic writes sampo #lovegasmic writes jingyuan #lovegasmic writes danheng

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ninisdollie · 22 days ago

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pinky promise - park sunghoon 𓈒ིུ ❤︎

‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Ⳋ᧙ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺

"In which Sunghoon is completely obsessed with his dumb, beautiful, sparkly girlfriend"

‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧ Content: +18MDNI

fem! reader x sunghoon, bimbo! reader, established relationship, i made reader extra bimbo so she has a boob job and a nose job, fluff, crack, not a full smut scene but dumbification, humiliation, unprotected sex, creampie.

hate comments will be deleted and blocked!! likes and reblogs are appreciated.

notes: this was on my drafts for so long omg, my bimbo reader x member saga continues, who should be next? let me know <3

The first time Sunghoon saw you, he didn’t really like you, he thought you were a walking headache.

You were in his economics lecture, twirling a glittery pen and chewing pink gum like it was a full-time job. You wore a tiny top which was definitely inappropriate for college, with the word “PRINCESS” bedazzled across the chest, your notebook filled with hearts and sparkly stickers instead of actual notes. You were staring at the ceiling probably thinking about which shade of pink was your favourite. He thought you were ridiculous.

He also couldn’t stop looking at you.

Your perfect blowout, impossibly shiny and curled at the ends like you'd just stepped out of a salon. The soft swoop of your lashes. The way your perfume, something sweet and expensive, lingered in the air whenever you walked past. The sound of your gum popping mid-lecture. It was maddening.

When you waved at him across the hall the next day, he looked behind him like you had to be talking to someone else.

You started sitting next to him in class. Talking to him between lectures. Asking him dumb questions like, “Do you think cats get embarrassed when they fall?” or “What if my lip gloss is too sparkly for school—like, legally?”

He tried to ignore you. He really did. But then you started bringing him little things, an extra coffee, snacks with cute sticky notes that said “Don’t forget to eat, cold boy” and before he knew it… you were just there all the time.

Everyone knew who you were, daddy’s girl, had a nose job at sixteen and a boob job at eighteen. Everything about you screamed money, privilege, and zero shame. You parked your bubblegum-pink convertible outside like you owned the damn place, engine still purring, music blasting some sugary pop anthem. Designer sunglasses perched on your nose, lips glossed and shiny like a reality show.

And Sunghoon hated girls like you.

Until he didn’t anymore.

You drove him fucking crazy.

And nothing pissed him off more than the fact that no matter how many times he rolled his eyes at you or snapped at you to “use your brain for once,” he always ended up with you curled up on his lap by the end of the night, pouting, giggling, and completely unaware of how obsessed he was.

The bowling alley lights glowed neon pink and blue, a dreamy haze over the slick floor and rows of plastic seats. You bounced up to the lane, pink ball cradled in both hands, wearing a pleated micro skirt that had absolutely zero business being worn in a bowling alley.

Sunghoon already had one hand to his temple.

“Okay, okay—watch me this time,” you chirped, sticking your tongue out with confidence that was completely unearned.

He watched. Unfortunately.

You swung horribly. The ball dropped with a loud thud that made a few kids in the next lane flinch, then rolled with tragic optimism straight into the gutter, again.

A long, painful silence.

You turned around with a hopeful smile, one acrylic nail to your bottom lip, your brows sticked together

“Did I hit… like, any of them?”

Sunghoon stared at the untouched pins.

“You hit my will to live. That’s what you hit.”

You burst out laughing, completely unfazed, trotting back to him with a giggle and zero shame.

“It’s not my fault the ball’s heavy! And slippery! And the floor is so weird, like, what even is oiling the lane? Is that real?”

Sunghoon blinked, already regretting choosing bowling for your weekly date.

“Yes. That’s real. It’s literally part of the sport.”

You leaned dramatically onto his shoulder, rolling your beautiful eyes decorated with pink shimmery eyeshadow.

“Ugh, sports.”

He side-eyed you, lips twitching like he was trying very hard not to smile.

“You are unreal. Actually brainless.”

“Brainless and beautiful,” you hummed proudly.

He handed you a bottle of water with the calmness of someone who had already accepted defeat on every level, of someone that loved his girlfriend so much even if she was getting on his nerves.

“At this point I’m surprised you didn’t throw the ball backwards.”

“Oh my god, is that allowed?!”

He closed his eyes.

“I’m going to need a refund on this date.”

You gasped, playfully smacking his chest.

“You love this. Don’t lie.”

“I love winning. You’re making that impossible by association.”

You let out a dramatic whine and flopped down into the seat next to him, pink gloss shining under the lights. You looked up at him through your fake lashes, blinking innocently.

“You could let me win…”

He turned to you, full deadpan.

“Not even if I was dying.”

You pouted.

“What if I kissed you?”

His expression faltered. Just slightly.

He hated how easily you got to him, how ridiculous you were, with your glitter and your fake tan and your complete inability to understand basic physics, and how despite all of that, his stomach still flipped like a middle schooler every time you leaned in close.

“…Still no,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

But his ears turned just a little pink.

You grinned.

“Okay. One more try. Watch this.”

Sunghoon leaned back with a long, suffering sigh, arms crossed as he watched you approach the lane like you were about to do a runway walk, not a sport.

You tossed the ball.

This time… it clipped the edge. Wobbled. And one lonely pin wobbled, wobbled…

Then fell.

You screamed.

“I got one!”

You spun around, throwing your arms up like you’d just landed a triple axel in the Olympics.

“Babe did you see that?! I got one!”

Sunghoon clapped once, dryly.

“Congratulations. You’ve reached the motor skills of a toddler.”

But when you threw yourself into his arms, giggling with pride, he caught you instantly, hands settling at your waist like second nature. Your breath was warm against his cheek, your lip gloss a little smeared from all your shouting, and god, you looked so proud of yourself.

So happy.

He couldn’t help it. His jaw softened, and his eyes flicked down to your lips. You noticed, grin stretching a little wider.

“Still not letting me win?” you whispered.

He groaned softly, then finally leaned in, brushing your lips with his, warm, slow, and just a little smug. His kisses were always the sweetest, but also the neediest, like he couldn’t resist tasting your cherry gloss on his tongue and how your plump lips - natural, because your father refused to let you get another thing done - moved against his.

“You’ll never win,” he murmured against your mouth.

“But I got you to kiss me,” you whispered back.

He pulled away with a tiny smirk.

“That doesn’t mean you’re not terrible at bowling.”

You beamed.

“So you admit I’m good at something.”

Sunghoon sighed, defeated.

“Yeah. Being annoying.”

Later that night, your legs were draped lazily across Sunghoon’s lap as you half-watched a rerun of Gossip Girl on his TV, spooning pink-frosted ice cream into your mouth with the tiny gold spoon you refused to let go of. Sunghoon had tried to take it from you earlier, saying it was impractical.

You nearly bit his hand.

Now he sat there, half-annoyed, half-smitten, poking at the remote and occasionally shooting side-eyes at your terrible taste in TV, which he was definitely not going to admit he had started following.

“I still don’t understand how someone could bowl that badly,” he muttered out of nowhere, shaking his head like he was personally offended.

“I have delicate wrists,” you said simply, licking ice cream from your spoon. “I’m not built for violence.”

“You’re built for chaos.”

“You’re built for being rude.”

“I’m built for reality,” he muttered.

You grinned, wiggling your toes against his thigh, until you suddenly sat up with a little gasp.

“Wait—I forgot!”

“Oh no,” he said immediately.

You bounced off the couch, your fuzzy pink slippers flopping, and grabbed your oversized Juicy Couture tote.

“I got you a present!”

Sunghoon looked like he was preparing for war.

“A what?”

“A little something,” you said brightly, pulling out a small, glossy pink box wrapped in a glitter ribbon. “A sexy thank-you gift. Because I’m sweet like that.”

So, he opened it.

And immediately froze.

Inside was a pair of black boxer briefs. At first glance, normal. But upon closer inspection, covered in little high-res photos of your face.

Pouting. Blowing kisses. Winking. Tongue out.

He held them up in horror.

“What the actual hell—”

You squealed.

“Aren’t they adorable?! Look, I picked the kissy face from my summer vacation selfie. That one’s your favorite, right?”

His jaw dropped slightly.

“You put your face on underwear.”

“Your underwear,” you corrected proudly. “It’s a custom print!”

He blinked again.

“You seriously expect me to wear these?”

“You’re gonna love them.”

“They’re deranged.”

“They’re personalized.” You pouted, staring at the boxers on his hands so proudly “You’re so ungrateful. I almost ordered the thong version.”

His nose scrunched.

“Why is that worse?”

“They had hearts that said ‘Daddy’s Favorite’ all over the front. You would’ve looked so cute.”

“I’m going to take your access to online stores.”

“You’re in love with me.”

He groaned, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

“I feel like I’m in a relationship with a walking pop-up ad.”

You rolled onto your side and propped your chin in your hand. “You say that, but I caught you smiling. Admit it.”

He looked down at the boxers again, defeated.

“I’m going to burn these.”

“You’re sooo going to wear them to bed.”

“I am not.”

“I’m going to take a picture when you do.”

He looked at you with genuine concern.

“You should donate your brain to the science, i genuinely have no idea how the fuck it works.”

You grinned wider, then crawled into his lap and tugged the boxers from his hand, holding them up between you like a trophy.

“You know,” you said playfully, brushing your lips against his jaw, “you’re kind of hot when you’re annoyed.”

His hands settled instinctively on your waist, and despite the chaos, despite the insanity of your gift, he didn’t push you away. His fingers tightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

“You’re insane,” he muttered again.

“And you like it.”

You kissed him softly, sugary-sweet and smiling against his mouth, and he let out a low breath like he was surrendering to a war he’d already lost.

“Thank God you’re cute and have fake boobs” he said under his breath.

“I’m gorgeous,” you whispered, kissing him again. “And you’re obsessed with me.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against yours.

“Unfortunately.”

You laughed, nuzzling into his chest as he wrapped his arms around you, and somewhere on the coffee table, your face-covered boxers sat like the world’s most deranged declaration of love.

And the next morning, when you woke up early and peeked under the blanket?

He was wearing them.

In the bedroom, Sunghoon worshipped you

He spoiled you, yes. Bought you pretty things, let you crawl into his lap just to be kissed, whispered soft pet names against your throat like they meant something sacred. But when it came to sex, he didn’t just spoil, he ruined.Constantly. Proudly. He loved how soft you got under him. How pliant. How you went quiet and fuzzy the second he touched you, all that usual chatter melting into breathy gasps and broken whimpers like you’d been made to be used.

It wasn’t just sex. It was a ritual.

That was the part that made his blood run hot, the way you gave in so easily. Like your body had memorized what he needed before he even asked. Like you were wired to fall apart for him.

You were perfect for him. Sweet. Obedient. Dumb in all the ways he liked.

Sometimes you wore lace just to catch his attention. Sometimes you whined for his hands in that sugar-sweet voice you knew drove him crazy. And sometimes, like that night, you were already breathless before he even undid his belt, squirming under his gaze like you needed him more than air.

And Sunghoon? He lived for it.

He lived for the way your thighs twitched when he called you his dumb little doll. For the way your breath hitched when his voice dropped and he ordered you to spread your legs. For the way you sighed his name like a prayer every time he said, “Good girl.”

He teased, he degraded, he controlled every second, and yet never once crossed your boundaries. Even when he was deep inside you, voice low and filthy in your ear, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, the care never left his touch.

And when it was over, when you were limp and trembling in the sheets, too blissed out to speak, he always gathered you into his arms. Always pressed a kiss to your temple. Always whispered soft, quiet things while he cleaned you up and tucked you into his chest.

But tonight, you knew you were pushing it.

The second you made that little comment — pouty and venom-laced — about him forgetting his wallet at brunch, you felt the air shift. Saw that flicker in his eyes. Not anger, not quite. No, Sunghoon never wasted energy on petty things.

It was something darker.

And now, your wrists were pinned above your head with one of his hands, fingers wrapped snug around your wrists, his rings cold against your skin. Your legs spread wide, your body flushed and trembling, caught in that hazy place between bratty resistance and desperate submission.

“Still got that attitude, baby?” he murmured, voice low and slow as his free hand traced a path down your torso, nails grazing just enough to make you twitch. “Or did I fuck it out of you already?”

You opened your mouth, maybe to whine, maybe to say his name, but all that came out was a gasp when his fingers slid between your thighs, two slow strokes over your soaked panties. He smiled like a man who knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“God, look at you. All that attitude earlier and now you’re fucking dripping.”

His hand cupped your sex through the fabric, warm and heavy. His palm pressed down, applying just enough pressure to make you buck into it, and he tisked, shaking his head like you were being difficult again.

“Didn’t I say you don’t get to be in charge tonight?”

His fingers gripped your jaw, turning your face to meet his. The heat in his eyes made your breath catch.

“You know the rules, baby,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “No thinking. That pretty little head of yours belongs to me tonight.”

You whimpered. Nodded. Your voice barely worked, hazy, pliant, floating somewhere between arousal and surrender.

“Mhm… yours.”

And fuck, did that make something snap in him.

He released your wrists only to grab your hips and flip you onto your stomach, not bothering to be gentle. His hands gripped your ass, kneading the soft flesh as he leaned over you, breath hot against your ear.

“That brat from earlier?” he growled, rutting his hips against your ass. “She gone now?”

You nodded frantically into the sheets, muffled moans escaping your lips.

“You sure?” He dragged his cock, hard and leaking, along your soaked slit, just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. “Because if I hear another whine outta that mouth, I’m not gonna let you come. Understand me?”

“Y-yes—” you managed, though it came out as more of a sob. “I’m sorry…”

He chuckled darkly.

“That’s better.”

And then he was inside you — deep — all at once. No warning. No slow stretch.

Just a sharp, claiming thrust that knocked the air from your lungs and left you shaking. You gasped, nails digging into the sheets, tears prickling at your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He stilled for a second, letting you adjust because even mean, he never hurt you, and then he began to move. Hard. Every thrust deliberate, punishing, meant to remind you of exactly who was in control.

“There she is,” he whispered, dark eyes eating you alive. “My sweet, stupid girl.”

He set a brutal rhythm, one hand gripping your thigh while the other held your jaw in place so he could watch your expression crumble.

“Stay dumb for me,” he growled, voice ragged now, hips slamming into yours. “Don’t think. Just take it.”

“This what you wanted?” he hissed between clenched teeth, skin slapping against yours with a filthy rhythm. “Act like a brat so I fuck you stupid?”

You couldn’t answer, your mind was blank, body on fire, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of him. He leaned down, pressing his chest to your back, lips at your ear.

“You’re such a fucking mess for me. So easy to break. Just a few minutes and I’ve already got you drooling on the sheets.”

His hand slid under you, between your thighs again, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles in sync with his thrusts. You choked on a moan, loud, needy, helpless.

“Look at that. Can’t even form words anymore,” he mocked, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “My dumb little doll. All that sass earlier and now you’re too fucked-out to talk.”

Your thighs were trembling violently now, breath coming in shallow pants as the pressure built, your orgasm looming, cruel and inevitable.

Sunghoon knew. Of course he knew. He groaned, low and rough, hips slamming into you deeper.

“You close, baby?”

You sobbed something incoherent.

“Use your words. Come on.”

“Y-yes—yes, I’m—please—!”

He didn’t let up. Not for a second.

“You gonna come all over my cock after being a fucking brat in public? You think you deserve that?”

You shook your head, didn’t trust yourself to speak, but your body betrayed you, tightening around him as the orgasm hit. It crashed into you hard, like lightning through your veins, and you screamed, stars bursting behind your eyes. You didn’t even register him groaning your name, hips jerking as he came inside you moments later.

The room spun. Your limbs felt heavy. Your brain buzzed with static. And yet, even as your body trembled in the aftermath, Sunghoon’s touch softened, his voice dropped.

“Good girl,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your spine. “Took me so well. You did so good, baby.”

His hands rubbed slow, grounding circles into your thighs and lower back.

“You okay?”

You managed a nod, dazed, boneless, but safe.

Because no matter how rough he was, no matter how mean he got when you pushed his buttons, Sunghoon always took care of you after.

“Hoonie?” You whispered, soft voice after a while.

He stroked your arm, kissing softly on your shoulder before looking at you.

“Yes, babygirl?”

“Do you love me?” You batted your fake eyelashes, still perfect on your eyes even after the intense sex session.

He looked at you with shiny eyes, as if he couldn’t believe you were asking him that.

“Of course, baby. I love you.”

“Pinky promise?” You put out your hand, sticking your pinky and he laughed softly before locking it with his.

“Pinky promise.”

#enhypen smut #enhypen hard headcanons #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen hard hours #enhypen x reader #enhypen x female reader #enha smut #enha fics #enha x reader #enha imagines #enha hard hours #enha hard thoughts #park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon smut #park sunghoon #enhypen sunghoon smut #enhypen sunghoon

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spacerangersam · 22 days ago

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gotta say, it is a bit fun to make alterations on dolls, even if it's just a very minor paint job with my limited skills

#(the second one is my alterations)#you can barely tell because of the lighting/colouring difference but i fixed up sone of her eyeliner make her lips a more vibrant red #(to shame the red red rose of course) painted her nails and changed the crown to make it slightly more movie accurate #i do wanna try giving her a few freckles and maybe replace the paint on the crow with some tiny gems but yea #its nigh impossible to find an aurora doll with the blue dress and this was the best i could find. not perfect but it is pretty cute

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anantaru · 2 months ago

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⚝ DAY 13 — BITING/MARKING

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — cyno, diluc, tighnari, alhaitham

— warnings. — fem! reader, biting (mentions of blood), marking you up, oral (fem! receiving), dirty talk

⚝ CYNO

with cyno's facial expression being unreadable as he's towering above you, he sinks his teeth right below your collarbone like he's staking his claim— truly, placing his sharp canines like an executioner's precision or rather a scholar's fascination? and when your back arches at his sinful procedure, when your breath catches like a caught bird in your throat, he exhales like he's satisfied some ancient hunger.

his bites burn like a brand— lingering long after the pain was gone, with a sharpened, bone chilling control, each mark placed not in a frenzy but in precision you only see in battles, a discipline so complete it burned you from within.

his cock slip and slides into you as his teeth sink on your neck mid thrust, right as your nails rake red lines down his shoulder blades to support your shuddering body from the way cyno has been manhandling you all night— yet, the man doesn't even flinch, no, he just groans as if he likes it, coming low from deep inside his chest as though the taste of your skin and the contort of your pussy around his cock was something he must devour in full.

his fingers dig into your hips as he grounds you, holding you in place when he thrusts up again, adding up on rhythm this time— going from slower and more focused on marking you up to brutal, dragging against the walls of your body like he's carving his path into you, the sheer feeling of your drenched pussy convulsing around him like that, over and over milking his cock of all its worth was making his thrusts turn a little sloppy.

"you'll remember this," cyno groans lowly, dragging his tongue over the fresh mark, "no matter where you go, who you see, this mark, this ache, this stretch, it's mine," as the moans bubbling within your throat fail you at last, lost in the depth of your own disarray as your body welcomes to battering sparks in your belly, caught in the brutal grip of his cock splitting you with a suffocating force.

every motion of his rhythm, every shift of his hips, pull something tight inside of you— a yearning and a desperate want, your breathing hitching, unable to get used to his pace as each greedy roll of hips stretch you, devour you slow and consuming, until you were crushed by him entirely.

his cock felt impossibly thick inside you, each thrust a promise written in spit and bruises as the aching bloom of another bite just landed under your jaw, coaxing out tiny, precious whines from your strained throat.

and when cyno licks the blood from his bottom lip, smiling with enjoyment like he's swallowed your soul, you realize he hasn't even cum himself yet— naturally, he's edged himself on for hours since he doesn't plan to give himself any solace, not until your body was dripping with his teeth marks first.

your mind was drifting, lost in the haze of his name, a whisper that clung to you like smoke as his scent wrapped around you, heavy and persistent before pulling you deeper into the fog of him, until you could hardly remember where you end and where he begins.

it's as if every thought was branded by cyno— echoing endlessly in the hollow of your chest.

⚝ DILUC

diluc's teeth scrape against the inside of your thigh first— testing the waters with his touch being blistering, like a tremor on the edge of the abyss and well, the master of the dawn winery wasn't sure if he'll fall for the addictiveness of you— yet little does he realize he's already looking over the edge, licking his lips and enjoying the way you react and taste.

he groans when you flinch against him, or when your legs tremble open and part wider for him the moment his sharp teeth graze at the pulsing flesh, the sound of his grunts accompanying his bites so low it straight up melted into your skin like liquid heat.

diluc's mouth moves up next, his tongue dragging saliva along your flesh before he bites down again, this time slightly harder and searing, so it'll properly sting, "let them see," he breathes, voice all smoke and fire as he sucks a bruise into the softness of your lower area, right above your clit, "let them know you're mine before you can even speak and say it yourself, love."

he holds you close, the heat of his body a constant reminder of the battle raging inside him— a conflict between control and the undeniable hunger that only you could satisfy, in fact, he's a man driven by deep emotions, and every gesture of affection from him reflected that inner fire, tempered by his normally reserved nature.

he presses his tongue into your clit next, thick and burning as he laps at the sensitive pearl, your body opening up to him so hard you sob out and hide your hands within his hair— your fingers clawing at his strands and digging him deeper into your cunt, nails dragging over his scalp like you're trying to ground yourself through the overstimulation and the wetness of his tongue.

your legs crush his head as your skin turns all sticky with sweat and spit and the wet slap of his tongue repeatedly lapping over your pussy as he slides his wet muscle between your folds with that feverish, balmy pace— his hand now searching one of your own to tangle his fingers within it, while the other was gripping at your thigh and pushing you into his mouth, fucking you with his tongue so wet and wild it felt like you might break apart any second.

to your surprise, diluc bites again— not hard, silly, but catching you off guard as he teasingly grazes his teeth over the sensitive skin, shamelessly groaning into your pussy like he's only just begun.

"no one else could made you fall apart like this, right?" diluc breathes, his voice wrecked, trembling at the edges of awe and delirium as the flicks of his tongue showed the opposite, battering you up, "you were built to come undone under me."

⚝ TIGHNARI

tighnari presses his nose into your neck first, his breathing stagnated and hot against your skin as he takes in your scent, whispering sweet nothings you honestly couldn't even decipher— it's something about that low, vibrating choice of tone that barely counted as anything but pure love.

although then, then he bites— utterly fast and sharp without you seeing it coming at all as the pain sinks into the spot between your neck and collarbone, your legs seizing up instantly, twitching violently as your moans break into whines and cries of his name, like something inside you snapped from the sharp press of teeth, from the way you took it.

"you're always so sensitive, crying already," tighnari mocks you a little, licking the aching spot blooming across your skin, "you're so easy to mark up, you're taking it so well," as his kisses remain precise, attempting to decipher the unspoken language of your skin, each press of his lips a careful investigation into your deepest desires.

you were entranced by your boyfriend, you feel it with every snap of his hips— every thick, punishing inch shoving inside you as your body turns soaked, squelching each time he grinds his cock in, the filthy noise becoming even louder when he pushes out as your thighs quiver around his hips.

in all honesty, tighnari wasn't even trying to be gentle with you, he wants to see you clutching at the sheets and demanding more, dizzy from the filth he's putting on you, more so from how full you were as he looks down on where your bodies connected, his tail coiling tightly around your ankle like he cannot stand any distance between you.

his teeth sink in again— just under your ear this time, where it'll definitely hurt and turn you on the most as your vision blurs when your walls clench tight around his length, choking his cock and milking him like your body's gone utterly feral.

tighnari sounds starved for you, yeah, like he's been crawling through a lifetime of thirst just to end up here, fucked so deep inside of you and getting milked by your walls as he cannot tell where he would end up without you as his breath shudders at your ear, hips pressing in like he wanted to disappear inside and never come back.

although, his voice always remains soft, a little aloof too, but there's a certain pressure in it— a quiet insistence, as if he's asking for permission to learn the depths of you a bit more, not simply to possess or claim you, but to understand your pleasure and memorize what you liked the most.

⚝ ALHAITHAM

with the precision of someone calculating the limits of reason, alhaitham's hands move with each touch resembling a quiet experiment whereas you— his willing subject, lets him bite down like he's tasting you— quiet and calculated as his mouth seals over the dip of your breast when you cry out, not just from the pain but from the claim of it, the quiet violence of his precision.

"do you see what you do to me?" alhaitham whispers as he seals your skin with teeth and tongue, dragging the bruise out slowly and watching the inflamed splotch rise like he's planting something unique into your skin, "you whine so easily for me," his presence looms like an unfinished sentence, always on the verge of something deeper, something more, testing your limits without speaking a word.

his cock was heavy inside of you, yet moving slow, stretching your cunt open with every roll of hips, making you slick from the base to your thighs but putting the most attention on your neck.

you're pinned beneath him, legs folded back, belly trembling from how fast he hits your most sensitive parts as he suppresses any noises coming from his throat— instead, he watches, alhaitham watches like a scholar and a sinner both, his eyes dark with need, tracking every flutter of your cunt like it's the only truth he's ever believed in, the blissful expression battered all over your face was a sight to die for.

you feel like you're being studied and destroyed all at once, your back arching in tune with his movements as your eyes roll back into your head, his hips shifting his angle when you scream the moment he changes the grip on your hips, fucking into you hard.

alhaitham slants forward to cage you within his big arms, hugging you, his large hands cupping behind your head in order to prevent you from bumping against the head board as he attacks a tender spot deep inside your warmth, catching every twitch and swallow of your pussy on his cock.

"i could write a thesis on how you fall apart," he admits bluntly with that damned smirk on his face, biting the underside of your jaw now as his tongue slowly drags over the mark afterwards, "but it's so much more satisfying to make you show me instead."

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