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snail-day · 19 days ago

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Kiss The Fish

Based off of this little blurb I did a while back <3

Yandere Siren! Gojo x Blind! Reader

TW: Yandere, Monsterfucking (two of them? tentacle like?), Cream pie, dubcon/noncon, body horror, gore, open ending, drowning, power imbalance, Death, Dead Dove Do Not Eat.

WC: 6k

a/n: thank you @eevwrites for staying up late and yapping about this with me (and for playing minecraft while we yap <33) I hope you get the best sleepies in the world.

The last thing you remember before being swallowed whole by the icy Pacific was a push.

Not a stumble. Not some tragic misstep. A sharp, deliberate shove between your shoulder blades that sent you lurching forward into nothing.

Air was torn from your lungs before you even hit the water.

Your scream—high, broken, instinctual—shattered against the wind as you flailed, hands slicing through space. There was nothing to cling to. No railing. No mercy. Just the flutter of your ridiculous dress, too many ruffles, far too many bows, the weight of the fabric blooming outward like a funeral wreath as gravity dragged you down.

Down, down, down.

The water. It didn’t embrace you. Instead, it devoured you. Freezing and fast, it surged into every crevice—your nose, ears, mouth, anywhere it could reach. Your body convulsed from the shock, muscles seizing as icy tendrils coiled around your limbs, yanking you deeper into the obsidian belly of the ocean. There was no up or down. No light to orient yourself by. Just a cold so sharp it felt like knives against your skin.

You couldn’t see. You never could. But here, in the deep, it was different.

It wasn’t just darkness—it was nothingness.

Blindness on land meant familiarity. The warmth of your room. The soft echo of your breath. The subtle brush of breeze through the window.

But this?

This was a vast, voiceless void. A pressure-cooked silence. A sensory grave. You didn’t know which way was the surface. Which way meant life?

Or which was meant to be death.

You kicked, desperate. Clawed through water too thick to move in. Bubbles streamed from your lips like tiny screams, and still you sank. Panic howled inside your skull, thundering louder than the boat’s fading engine. You tried to remember how drowning worked - wasn’t there a moment where you blacked out? Where the pain stopped?

The cold chewed through your nerves. Your chest ached, lungs locked in an unbearable vice, a scream trapped behind clenched teeth. You thrashed, weightless and leaden all at once, your heartbeat a deafening war drum in your ears.

And then something touched you.

Brushed against your ankle.

Too warm and sentient. It coiled around your leg like a serpent, slick and possessive.

Your mind screamed louder than your body ever could. Adrenaline surged in one final, useless wave: fight or flight. But you couldn’t fight, and you couldn’t flee. All you could do was feel.

Arms wrapped around you — solid, strong, inhuman.

Not cold. Not like the water. No, this was a heat that radiated into your bones, cradling you like a lover, lifting your limp body with agonizing gentleness. Hands - clawed, maybe - pressing you close to a chest that thrummed with something alien and melodic.

You were being carried.

Up. Or down. You couldn’t tell. You could never tell.

Were you still dying? Was this death? Were you hallucinating some mythical savior in your final moments? Something old and godlike from the sea?

You think you felt a tail. It curled and shimmered through the water like silk, bracing you tighter against something solid.

You suddenly felt something rough against your skin, sand, it scraped against your palms as you were laid down — the shore, warm and coarse and real. You coughed violently, bile and salt and sea pouring from your lips in heaves. Your ribs burned. Your lungs clawed for air.

There were sounds now — real ones. Waves. Wind. The ragged sob of your breath. And something else.

Flapping. Not wings. Fins? Something slick and heavy shifting just beside you.

You curled inward instinctively, salt-stiff dress sticking to your legs, the weight of it dragging at your limbs like seaweed. Your hands trembled as they tried to find purchase in the sand. Your mind reeled. Still blind and helpless. Still something’s prey.

But then — a touch.

Wet fingers grazed your cheek again. Long, reverent. A thumb ghosting under your eye, almost like it missed you. As if it had longed for you. A claw caught briefly on your skin — not enough to cut, but enough to remind you. It wasn’t human.

And neither, perhaps, were you anymore.

Warm breath fanned over your mouth. Close. So close. Your lips parted without thinking, tasting salt and something else. Something sweet and sea-born. Something his.

“...Thank you,” you rasped, voice nothing more than salt-burned air.

Silence followed.

And then finally, a hiss. Drawn out. Fragile. Starving. Not angry — at least, not yet. Just yearning.

And then it all shattered.

The thunder of boots on sand. The crackle of dry seaweed under heavy feet. The roar of men cheering. A voice like rusted knives, thick with blood and fish oil and stale wine. Your father.

“The siren,” he breathed, awed. “You caught it.”

Caught?

Slender hands seized you next before you could think more on your father’s words. Delicate only in size, but not in touch. You knew her — one of the housemaids. She smelled like lavender soap and liniments used for scrubbing backs. Her fingers were cold, her grip clinical.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, dearie,” she murmured. Not unkind. But distant. Oblivious.

You were lifted roughly. Boneless in her arms, your soaked dress clinging like dead weight. Hair matted across your face. Lips split and slack. Your limbs swayed with every jarring step she took — legs dangling, knees bumping against her hips.

And from the surf — he screamed.

A sound that did not belong on land. A noise that split open the air like lightning through rotted wood. Not pain or even fury. Something older. Hollow. Ancient.

And then came the metal. The rattle of chains. The dry hiss of nets. The guttural commands of armed men thick with salt and ego. Shouts of strategy turned into panic.

“Harpoons — now!”

“Hold him down, he’s - he’s not —”

“Jesus Christ, what is that thing — ”

The air turned metallic. Heavy. The scent of copper and salt and him filled your nose like smoke before a firestorm.

Ripping.

You heard it. Felt it in your chest. The wet, sickening tear of flesh split apart. The squelch of something soft and vital spilling onto the sand.

The maid’s hands clenched tighter. Her nails dug crescents into your skin. Her breath came faster. She started to run.

Those screams.

Not sharp anymore. But gargled. Choking. Drowning in their own blood.

And above it all, the low, keening hum of something monstrous. A sound no human throat could ever replicate. Beautiful. Terrifying. Your heart pounded like it might crack your ribs. Your breath caught in your throat. Your body knew before your mind could catch up — something beautiful and horrific was behind you. Something not meant to be seen.

The maid hissed, as if realizing you were listening too hard.

“Be thankful you’re blind,” she whispered.

And for the first time in your life.

You were.

Because you didn’t see the way he moved. Didn’t see the way his mouth unhinged. Didn’t see the bones he snapped like a twig or how the blood sprayed across the surf in thick, arterial arcs.

Didn’t see the smile.

But you sure felt it.

Every step the maid took trembled under the weight of it. You felt her flinch when something wet hit her back. You heard a body collapse, still twitching, not far behind.

There, on the blood-soaked beach. He waited. In the aftermath of the slaughter. In the salt-slick cradle of death.

Waiting. Watching. Wanting.

A small part of you had sunk inward long before you sank into the bath.

Now, half-limp in the scalding porcelain tub, you sat in silence while a new maid—young, quiet, smelling faintly of chamomile and starch—worked her fingers gently through your hair. Her hands were steady, but you could feel the tension in them, like she didn’t quite want to touch you.

You didn’t blame her.

The water had long since cooled from soothing to lukewarm, but you hadn’t moved. You let it swallow your body, inch by inch, up to your chin. Your fingertips had gone pruned. Your spine ached. Your throat still burned from salt and screaming.

The scent of blood clung to you, despite the scrubbing.

Despite everything.

Your father had come back.

Not quietly, and surely not clean.

You heard him retching in the next room. Heard the thick splatter of bile against tile, the wheezing gasps of a man whose stomach had turned itself inside out from guilt, grief, or perhaps just the stench of what he’d witnessed.

He didn’t say much when he staggered past the door — just offered a few garbled apologies. Maybe to you. Maybe to some half-forgotten god. Maybe to himself.

But at the end of it all, he lived.

He lived.

When twenty others didn’t. When blood soaked the beach like high tide. When something divine and dreadful rose from the surf and punished every hand that tried to pull you away.

You turned your face slightly toward the door, your voice still too hoarse to speak aloud.

Why him?

Why was he spared?

Out of everyone on that crew—strong, cruel, and desperate men—he was the only one left gasping on the shoreline. Shaking. Pale. Alive.

And you had a feeling. A terrible feeling. It wasn’t mercy. It was scent.

Yours.

His.

You shared blood. Skin. Smell. Something primal. Maybe that was enough to keep your father breathing. Or perhaps, the creature in the water hadn’t spared your father out of grace. Maybe mercy had nothing to do with it.

It took nearly a month for things to return to a version of normal. Not true normal — not the warm, salty kind that clung to your skin after sunbathing, or the familiar creak of dockwood beneath your shoes — but something brittle. Fragile. Like a painting of normalcy stretched too thin over something dark and wet and unspeakable.

The beach was off-limits for weeks. You’d ask quietly, and your requests would be met with stammered refusals, soft curses, and sharp silences.

No walks. No wandering. No tapping your cane along the pier. And certainly not alone.

Your father wouldn’t speak to you as much. Dinners were now quiet. His voice, once booming and sure, had dulled into a rasp. You could hear it catch in his throat like a hook when he thought you were asleep — prayers muttered to gods he hadn’t believed in before, hands shaking with what he claimed was fatigue but smelled like guilt.

When he returned from that cursed night, it was with blood crusted under his nails and a stench that clung to his skin for days. He brought no crew with him. Only the memory of the beach turned battlefield.

The authorities said there wasn’t enough evidence. The accounts were too conflicting. Too surreal.

Only one thing saved him: the maid.

The girl who dragged you off the shore, half-conscious, while the sea behind you boiled with screams. She testified. She lied. Beautifully. It was said that the storm had come in fast. Said the men panicked. That they’d drowned. That your father had saved you.

No one questioned her too deeply. No one wanted to know the truth.

And when the rumors cooled — when curiosity waned and fear became background noise — you were allowed to return.

Daylight only.

Never alone.

But you found a window. A moment. A lull in supervision.

The breeze was soft when you stepped onto the familiar path, cane in hand. The gentle tap-tap of its tip brushing the boardwalk comforted you, even as the stillness pressed in from all sides. The sand was warm beneath your soles. The breeze carried the same scent it always had — brine, distant saltweed, the breath of something old and watchful out beyond the rocks.

But something was missing.

No fishermen calling to one another or the creak of nets drawn tight with the morning’s catch. Not even the hum of boats lapping against the dock, thick with engine oil and fish blood.

Just silence. Thick, expectant silence. They were all out at sea, the rumors said. Hunting. Hoping to capture what your father failed to, or avenge those who never came back.

You found your way to the edge of the dock, your cane dipping once against the final plank before you lowered yourself to sit. Carefully. Cautiously.

Your dress bunched awkwardly at your hips. The hem hung limp, brushing the wooden slats. You let your legs dangle over the edge, the water licking just beneath your shoes.

And there, with the sun high and the shore silent, you felt it.

Not quite a touch or a sound, but the feeling of a presence. A weight that pressed against your back like the heat of a stare. The kind of attention that tightens your breath. That makes your throat dry. The kind that doesn’t feel threatening — not exactly. Just… knowing.

You stiffened. You gripped your cane tighter.

It could’ve been anxiety or even the wind. Perhaps, the memory of blood-soaked sand and the screams you never saw.

But it felt specific. Personal.

And then, without warning, the water beneath your feet shifted. Not violently. Not enough to splash. But enough to ripple. Enough to feel. A current brushed up against the dock post. A shiver licked across your ankle. Barely a whisper. Like a fingertip. Or perhaps a breath.

And in the stillness, in that space between heartbeat and breath.

You knew you weren’t alone.

The creature—your savior, your curse—had never left. Waiting.

You heard it first. A splash. Small. Intentional. Too precise to be the tide. Water stirred beneath your dangling feet, rippling gently, reverently, like the sea itself was exhaling just for you.

A hand, wet and cool, brushed against your ankle. The sensation made your breath catch. You didn’t recoil. You should have. But the contact was cautious, almost hesitant. Curious.

You could feel the texture of it: The webbing between long fingers. The faint resistance of slick skin. The subtle drag of scaled flesh against your calf, the way it clung like velvet soaked in salt.

And then—his voice. A sound so low and sorrowful it nearly unraveled you. “I missed you.” A whine, cracked at the edges. Yearnful. Soft. Like a child left out in the cold. Like something that didn’t know how to be anything other than lonely. His voice draped itself over your shoulders like a blanket of warm fog, soothing, silken, just a little too perfect.

You shivered. Not from cold. From the way his voice pulled at you.

That’s what sirens do, don’t they? Lure. Lull. Captivate.

Or so you’ve read.

Your knowledge was limited to what little information your fingers could find pressed into Braille pages. Most academic papers weren’t keen on accessibility. Myths don’t translate easily. Neither do monsters.

And yet — he did. Every syllable of his voice seemed designed to bypass logic. He didn’t speak so much as sing. A song without melody. A hum beneath his words that resonated somewhere deep in your ribs, like a forgotten chord being struck in your soul.

You opened your mouth, unsure if it was to scream or to respond. But no sound came.

Just the fragile press of breath against your lips. Just him, half in water, half in shadow.

You couldn’t see his face.

But you didn’t need to.

Not when you could feel the devotion in the way he touched you, like a man in prayer, reverent and trembling. His fingertips, half-wet, half-scaled, ghosted over your skin with the care of someone handling something sacred.

And you knew.

He hadn’t just missed you. He had ached.

“...You missed me?” you asked softly, breath catching in your throat.

There was a pause. Then the feeling of hair brushing against your calf, slick, heavy strands brushing against your leg as he leaned in, pressing the curve of his face against your calf like he was trying to memorize the shape of you all over again. A sigh left him content and broken.

Then came the kisses.

A trail of them. Quick, warm, damp down your shin, over your ankle, to the very tips of your toes. Little presses of lips, too eager, too desperate, like he didn’t care how strange or humiliating the act was.

You flinched, instinctively trying to pull back, only to feel a sharp pinch, a claw digging into your skin, just enough to stop you. Not enough to pierce — yet.

He didn’t lift his head.

“Mmm?” he hummed, a low vibration in your bones, amusement curling like smoke through every syllable. “You ask as if you don’t know.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. A wet, sticky joy.

“You torment me,” he whispered. “Bewitched me. How cruel of you… to make something like me weak.”

The last word hit like a bruise. But you wouldn’t use the word weak to describe him.

Never him.

Not when the sea had screamed for him.

Not when twenty men had died on the beach.

Not when your father still woke in the night, gasping your name and whispering his.

He wasn’t weak; instead, he was just starved.

For you.

“You’re confused,” was all you managed, the words small, almost a laugh—bitter at the edges. A weak protest. A failing defense.

“I’ve done nothing of the sort…”

But he didn’t like that.

The claw at your leg sank deeper, just enough to warn. Enough to draw a sharp sting, a gasp. You winced, your breath catching in your throat, and for a moment—just a moment—you wanted to plead. To yield. To give in to whatever he was, whatever spell he had woven in the deep.

But then he hummed. Low. Lulling. Almost sweet.

On the other hand, his free one came up to cradle your face, as gentle as the claw was cruel. Cold, wet skin pressed against your cheek, thumb brushing across your lip like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth by touch alone.

You felt the tremble in his fingers. The ache in his stillness.

And then he muttered, more to himself than to you: “How good would you taste…?”

The words were soft. Almost tender. Almost human. “If I dragged you to the bottom of the ocean, held you there until your lungs collapsed, until your breath stopped struggling in your chest, until my teeth sank into your skin…”

His thumb dipped into the corner of your mouth. Not forceful. Curious. Possessive. “…and tore your throat out.”

You froze. Your blood pulsed behind your eyes. Your lips parted, not in response but in terror. A pause. A sound caught in his throat—not a growl. A whine. Fragile. Desperate.

“I dream of that,” he whispered, voice cracking like driftwood splitting in the tide. “Every night. For you.”

Another breathless pause. The confession was too heavy for even him. “To die at my hands. For your flesh to stain my teeth. For you…”

The claw on your face jerked. You felt it. Sharp. Sudden. A slice blooming just beneath your cheekbone. Warm blood welled. Traced a slow line down your jaw.

And still, he held your face like it was the most precious thing in the world. “For you to love me… as much as I love you.”

His voice shattered on the last word. Not rage. Not a command. Just heartbreak.

The kind of love that doesn’t know how to be gentle. The kind that drowns what it can’t bear to lose.

You slapped his hand away. A sharp, wet smack as your palm struck skin, slippery and cold and too real.

Perhaps it was a stupid mistake, but you didn’t regret it. Not even as silence stretched thin between you.

He didn’t growl or retaliate. Instead, he laughed.

A sound, soft, and breathless. Delighted, amused, like wind catching the edge of a bell. A beautiful sound. Inhuman in its lightness. The kind of laugh that said: You’ve misunderstood everything.

“You don’t know what love is,” you said, barely above a whisper. Your voice is low, firm, trembling at the edges. “You murdered them.”

There was no accusation in your tone—just quiet, weary horror. You heard him shift in the water. Felt the slight pull at your ankle where his claw still curled. A gentle splash as he exhaled through his nose.

And then—a hum. Resonant. Thoughtful. Like he was rolling the word ‘murder’ over in his mouth, tasting it. Considering it like one might consider a foreign language or a flawed metaphor.

“Is it murder?” he mused, tone feather-soft. “They threw you in, did they not?”

You flinched.

The memory hit like cold water again. The push. The fall. The salt clawing at your lungs.

“You were to be my meal that night,” he continued, almost dreamily. “A gift. An offering. Dressed in white, ribboned like a feast. I would’ve eaten you whole.”

Another pause. A breath. His lips ghosted across your knee as he whispered: “I still might.”

He said it with such tenderness that it made your stomach twist. As though devouring you was the most romantic thing he could imagine.

As though that was what love was—possession so complete it leaves nothing behind.

And yet, he let you go. You weren’t sure why.

Perhaps he heard the distant churn of engines—ships cutting across the sea, their steel hulls humming with human voices and guns. Perhaps the scent of strangers carried on the breeze. Perhaps he didn’t want to share you with witnesses.

But he didn’t speak another word.

All you heard was a soft chuckle, low and breathy, and then the strange sensation of his cheek resting against your calf—warm, tender, almost shy.

You flinched when you felt the skin damp—wet. Not from seawater. From blood. Yours. And still, he stayed like that. Nuzzled close. Like he didn’t want to move. Like letting you go took more from him than the killings ever did.

But he did.

And the next morning, you returned. You weren’t sure why. You told yourself it was curiosity. That it was unfinished questions. That it was part of healing. But each day, your feet found their way back to the edge of the dock. Each day, you dipped your toes in and waited. And each day, the sea answered.

Eventually, you gave up the dock entirely.

It was Satoru who had guided you to the rocks, flat and warm beneath your hands, bleached by sun and tide. He would circle you as you sat, humming low, half-submerged, his voice curling around your ankles like ribbons. You never felt him fully. Just fragments. The brush of a hand. The flick of a tail. The soft splash of him surfacing beside you to let his fingers trace your wrist like he was memorizing the weight of your pulse.

You learned his name.

Satoru.

He said it as if it were something unspoken, something soft, something only you were allowed to speak.

Sirens were meant to be lonely — your fingers had told you that much, searching across faded braille in myth-soaked pages. Loneliness made them dangerous. Starved. But some texts spoke of others. Of merfolk. Creatures not quite siren, not quite human. How they have mates.

One day, without thinking, you asked: “Do you have one? A mate?”

The question left your mouth before you could stop it.

You were perched on the smooth spine of a seaside rock, sun warming your back, the sea misting your face. He floated beside you, so close you could hear the water sliding across his skin.

You don’t remember how that started, when you let him bring you here. When you stopped resisting the pull.

A foolish mistake. But not one you remembered making. Not clearly.

There was a pause. A shift in the water. Then a hum, low, laced with amusement.

“I’ll tell you…” A cheeky laugh left his lips, “If you come in.” The words were playful. Lilting. Teasing like a lullaby. And as always, followed by touch—his fingers dragging along your calf, just enough pressure to remind you that you belonged to him, that he'd been patient, so patient.

Your throat tightened. “I can’t swim,” you said quietly.

You expected mockery. Dismissal. But instead, he laughed again. Light, musical, pleased. A sound that would’ve been lovely if it weren’t brushing up against your fear like velvet against raw skin.

“Obviously,” he said, with a grin you could hear. “But I can guide you.”

One hand settled on your thigh. The weight of it was gentle, but beneath the surface, you felt his claws held back, barely restrained. His skin was slick and cool, damp from the tide, and his thumb rubbed small, slow circles against your leg like he was soothing a trembling animal.

You hesitated.

Your fingers curled into the edge of the rock, nails scraping over lichen-slick stone.

This was a bad idea.

Everything about this was a bad idea. Your mind was racing.

This was a bad idea. One that could end horribly. An image appeared in your mind, one you would not like to reflect on.

“Just fully submerged,” he coaxed. His voice dropped to a whisper. “We won’t leave the rock.”

The promise hung in the air between you like a web. Sticky. Shimmering. False.

You could feel the water now, lapping just below your knees. You could feel him, shifting beneath the surface, his tail brushing against the rock like a current, coiling and uncurling like a waiting serpent.

And his voice—soothing, low, beautifully wrong—threaded through your thoughts, warm as blood in your ears.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

You’re not sure if you trust him or if you’re even sure it even matters anymore. Still, gently, cautiously, you slip deeper into the water. Your breath stutters. Your pulse flutters.

You’re an idiot.

His hands are already there to catch you. Guiding you. Fingers curling around your wrists, pressing them to the slick surface of the rock. Anchoring you. Positioning you. His tail wraps around your legs next, slow and deliberate. The cool, scaled muscle coils up your thighs, tighter than it needs to be. You can feel every shimmer, every shift in his body as it glides over your skin. And then, his chest. Bare. Cold. Pressed flush against your back. You shudder. His breath ghosts over your shoulder, over your throat, thick with salt and something sweeter.

This is a mistake. You know it. Like prey entering the predator’s den. Because you can feel teeth. Just barely. Grazing. Waiting.

And yet, he speaks. “I suppose I owe you an answer,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, too calm for how tightly he’s holding you. “It’s… complicated. There’s Suguru…”

Your brows knit. His tone is strange, bitter, breathless, threaded with something almost childishly resentful. As he speaks, one hand slips to your front, tracing the laces of your corset with idle curiosity.

Rrrrip. The fabric tears like paper in his claws. Your breath hitches. You go rigid in his hold. “But Suguru…” he sighs, soft and wistful. Pouting. You hear it in his voice, like a child denied something precious. “Suguru is a male.”

A simple statement, but full of meaning. A declaration. A boundary. A grievance.

Then, his soft lips on your neck. Soft, scattered kisses trailing downward. feather-light, open-mouthed, suckling gently like he’s soothing the places he wants to bite.

“Can’t have babies with a male, you know…” The words make your blood run cold. Your breath stutters.

His hands move again, greedy, unhurried. One cups your breast, his palm cold and slick, thumb brushing over your nipple as though curious how you'd react. The other slides downward, slipping beneath the ruined hem of your dress, fingers trailing heat and water in their wake. You remember hearing a snap earlier, like claws being clipped.

The memory drifted away at the sound of another rip. Your tights. Then your panties. A mutter under his breath, “Useless things.”

He keeps you turned, body flush to the rock, your front pressed to sun-warmed stone, the rest of you buried in his hold. His tail tightens, muscles rippling beneath scaled flesh as he coils more tightly around your legs, locking you in place with a possessive firmness that trembles with restraint.

The water churns around your waist, lapping against your hips like it’s breathing in time with him. His hands move like he’s sculpting you - mapping, claiming, memorizing. You can feel him everywhere. On your throat, your breasts, your thighs. Inside you.

And all you can do is hold on. Tremble as he explores your body, his hands tremble slightly. You guess not in fear, but rather in excitement.

“At first,” he murmurs, mouth dragging along your shoulder, his voice a purr of reverent confusion, “when I saw you, I thought it was mating season. I was a bit worried...”

Your breath hitched, then cracked into a silent scream as his teeth sank into the column of your throat. Sharp. Blunt. Too deep to be teasing. Pain bloomed across your skin, blooming hot and fast before it dissolved into something murky and unbearable.

He groaned—shuddered—like your blood, your taste, was a relief. “I was so confused,” he went on, voice hitching, breaking, as his hand dipped lower.

Between your thighs.

Over your folds.

Inside you.

A moan punched through him, sudden and guttural, and he all but arched against your back, tail jerking with the force of his need.

“Fuck...” his breath trembled, lips trailing up your neck, nibbles against the skin, “you’re so warm, so fucking warm...” His fingers curled inside your core, slow and possessive, drawing wet sounds from your body like music only he was meant to hear.

“Because,” he gasped against your ear, voice raw with bewildered joy, “I’d already gotten rid of my eggs for the season. Guess we have to wait until the next.”

As if that meant something. As if that justified anything. You could feel the way he trembled behind you, his chest heaving, his cock hard and pressed against the small of your back, restrained only by the last thread of reverence still clinging to him.

“And yet—you, this soft little thing in the middle of the ocean—you ruined everything.”

He nuzzled against your cheek, pressing soft, wet kisses to the skin just above where your blood still trickled.

“My instincts told me to ignore you. But my soul—” he moaned again, thrusting his fingers deeper, spreading you open wider—“told me you were mine.”

You couldn’t do anything but moan—soft, broken, trembling—while he lapped at the blood trickling from your throat. Each stroke of his tongue was deliberate. Lingering. Worshipful.

You felt dizzy. Hollowed out. Heat curling in your belly like a fever that couldn’t break.

Then his fingers—still slick and buried deep—curled inside you with intent, spreading, stretching, preparing.

And that’s when you felt it. Something hard pressed against your back—thick, ridged, hot even through the water.

Not one. Two.

Your blood ran cold.

“There’s… two.” You whimpered out in between a moan, a sharp bite on your shoulder, and left your hands gripping the sun-kissed rocks for salvation. The realization made your breath stutter in your chest, panic beginning to flicker beneath the haze.

He felt it. Of course he did. He always felt everything. Immediately, his touch changed. Softer. His hands, once possessive and firm, became coaxing, stroking your face as he guided your chin toward his. A whisper of pressure. A kiss before the fall.

“Shhh,” he breathed, brushing your lips with his own, “It’s alright. You’re doing so good.”

His fingers slipped out of you, and one of his lengths took their place, pressing inside with a force that made your lungs seize.

The thrust was smooth. Deep. Too deep.

Your scream never made it past your mouth—his tongue was already there, swallowing it, muffling your panic with something wet and hot and hungry. His kiss was messy, teeth dragging across your lips, fangs nicking you just enough to remind you what he was.

Your hands scrambled against the stone. Your body fought to stretch, to fit around something it was never meant to take. As his other cock bounced against your clit, making the sensation so much more unbearable.

He groaned—more a laugh than a sound of pleasure—as he sank deeper, letting you feel every inch, every twitch of his body moving inside yours.

“Hah…” he panted, voice thick with delight, “I’m not usually this gentle, you know…”

He gave a shallow thrust, just enough to make your body jerk forward.

“You can ask Suguru when you meet him.” His voice dripped with amusement, cruel in its fondness “He’s always scolding me for being so — fuck — rough.”

You winced as the tip of him pressed up against your cervix, an ache blooming sharp and unforgiving somewhere behind your hips. The pain had teeth, hot and blossoming like fire underwater. And still, he kissed you again, lips wet and unrelenting, fangs dragging across the plush of your bottom lip like he was tasting you from the inside out.

“But with you…” he murmured, voice thick with wonder and ruin, a shudder rolling down his spine, “you’re worth savoring.”

You felt yourself begin to unravel, limp in his arms, breath shallow, nerves frayed like salt-wet lace. The drag of his cock was too much, too deep and consuming. His teeth mapped your skin with feverish precision, each bite sharper than the last, each one punctuating a devotion that veered far past human. The water churned around you, thick with heat and the iron-slick scent of blood.

He trembled behind you, groaning low and guttural as his hips pressed flush to yours, his body locking into place. You felt the full weight of him, the heat, the stretch, the sheer wrongness of it. And then, hot, sticky, release. A surge deep within you.

His moan, if you could call it that, was a high, pitchy, cracked thing. Like something old and lonely, remembering how to pray. Claws skimmed your belly and thighs, possessive, trembling. Holding you close. Ensuring every last drop stayed inside.

Your hands slipped from the rock. You didn’t remember letting go. He caught them easily—captured them—and pressed them flat to his chest, where something beat too fast, too shallow. Like a bird trapped beneath his ribs.

“S–Satoru,” you choked, voice thin and laced with salt, terror curling at the edges.

He pulled out of you, slowly or maybe those things, the lengths of him, were curling back into the shadow of his tail. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. Siren biology wasn’t recorded in braille. No one thought it was worth transcribing. Or maybe you’re the only one who survived to tell the tale.

“Shhh…” he whispered, soft as a lullaby, “just taking you with me.”

He laughed, breathless, light, euphoric. Like you’d given him the greatest gift without ever meaning to. As if dying for him would be enough. His hands slid down your back, down your thighs, holding you tight like a bride.

The rock’s warmth faded behind you. The warmth of the sun was lost to the cool ocean waves. He nuzzled against your throat again, lapped away the drying blood with reverent little swipes of his tongue, then trailed up to kiss your jaw, your lips, soft and slow, as though you weren’t drowning.

Down.

Into the dark. Surrounded by pressure. The water surged past your ears. You tried to breathe. Tried to scream. Tried to do anything, but his mouth was already on yours again, swallowing every desperate sound, every last shudder of protest.

You felt your body go slack. Felt your lungs burn. Your thoughts began to scatter like bubbles rising too slow to reach the surface.

And just before the black took you.

You thought, distantly,

If this is death…

…maybe it’s better to not be awake for it.

#Yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere #yandere satoru gojo #yandere gojo satoru #yandere gojo #yandere x reader #yandere gojo x reader #yandere gojo satoru x reader #yandere satoru gojo x reader #yandere satoru x reader

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pedantic-poison · 2 years ago

Text

Delicious | LN4

pairing: fem sainz!reader x lando norris

genre: SMUTTTTT, 18+ MINORS DNI, p in v, fingering, light choking, use of pet names (darling, baby, sweetheart, good girl, etc), cream pie, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y'all!!!!), language, hold the moan vibes, dirty talk, Lando being a hoe

requested: yes!

word count: 3.9k

author's note: i LOVE me some brother's best friend trope

When your older brother first joined McLaren, you were unbelievably proud of him, so, naturally, you moved heaven and earth to make it to his first race with the team. Meeting Lando, you finally understood why all of Carlos' stories from before the season started were about his new teammate, and how much he made him laugh. He was friendly to you, and kind, and had a knack for making sure you never felt out of place. He also made your chest go a little tight, but you chose to ignore that feeling. Best not to complicate things for your brother.

It's been years since you first met Lando, and you can't quite use that excuse to convince yourself you need to avoid Lando. You still try, certainly, but it doesn't really carry the weight it used to, not with Carlos at Ferrari now. Would it still be messy? Maybe. Would it be a complete shit show? ...Probably not, right?

That little tendril of doubt created just enough space for that weird feeling Lando elicited to bloom. And now, with the Summer break giving Carlos time off, he's invited Lando to your family's home, for an entire week.

"Morning," the sound of Lando's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. As if it wasn't already bad enough that he was staying in your house, now Lando had the audacity to show up in the kitchen, voice gravely from sleep, with a pair of gray sweatpants hanging low enough on his hips to show the V-line of his muscles there. Your eyes trailed up his torso, allowing yourself to indulge in his tan skin and taut muscles for just a moment, before your gaze met his. A knowing look danced across his face, eyes glinting with mischief, as he smirked at you over his mug of coffee.

"Oh, um, good morning," you coughed out, embarrassed at having been caught. "How'd you sleep?" you managed to force out.

Lando took his time, finishing his sip of coffee before answering, "Slept alright. Couldn't fall asleep for a while, for some reason, though." You couldn't quite decipher the look on his face while he said it, but he didn't give you enough time to overthink it. "You?"

Your face heated immediately at the reminder of what exactly you'd been doing last night, instead of sleeping. "F-fine, thanks." It had been four long days where Lando had made himself seemingly unavoidable. Even at night, when you could close your door to the rest of the house, and lock yourself away, your thoughts strayed back to Lando no matter what you did. Last night, the ache in your core had gotten so unbearable that you'd touched yourself to the thought of him. It seemed that even the walls of your room couldn't quite keep Lando out.

"What's got you thinking so hard over there, Sainz?"

You schooled your expression, refusing to let him throw you off balance again. "Wouldn't you like to know, Norris." The coffee mug in your hands hid your face rather well as you lifted it to take a sip, leveling him with a look that you hoped seemed like a challenge.

Pushing off the counter he'd been leaning against, Lando took a step closer to you. "I really, really would, actually."

You allowed yourself to lean in for just a moment, inhaling the smell of him, before pulling back. "Too bad." Chair legs scraping against the floor as you pushed away from the table, standing and taking your mug and book with you.

"Oh, come on! You're really gonna tease me like that?" he whined, shouting at your back as you headed up the stairs.

"Gotta make you work for it, Norris!" you called back, retreating into your room once again, giddier than you'd care to admit, and telling yourself that you'd only left because you had work to do. Certainly not because you weren't sure how much longer you'd be able to hold on with Lando under the same roof.

Just three more days.

The loud splashes and laughter from outside drew your attention away from your book, for what felt like the hundredth time in two minutes. Sighing exasperatedly, you rolled over on your bed, craning your neck up to look out of your window.

Carlos and Lando were in the pool in the backyard below you, squealing like little kids as they hit each other with water balloons. You rolled your eyes at the childish behavior, even as you fought (and failed) to keep a smile off of your lips. You heard your father's voice ring throughout the house, and Carlos and Lando must've heard it too, because they quickly dropped their makeshift weapons at the call that they needed to get cleaned up for dinner. Your parents weren't terribly strict, but even they preferred for everyone at their dinner table to be fully clothed and not dripping everywhere.

Just as you'd made your way out of your room to head downstairs, you froze, finding a sopping wet Lando Norris in the hallway. Even after you (accidentally) ogled him this morning, you couldn't manage to keep your eyes on his as you watched the way the droplets of water fell off the ridges of his chiseled chest and torso. You hadn't quite noticed how close you'd come to running into each other, barely a foot of space between you, that seemed to shrink more and more the longer you stared. And you weren't the only one. The sundress you wore hung off your body in a way that made Lando want to memorize every line and curve of it himself. Looking wasn't enough - he'd always been more of a hands-on learner, anyways. And the way the gentle breeze swirled the skirt of it around your hips and legs made him want to find out if you were wearing anything underneath it. Made him want to rip anything he found there off with his teeth.

"Hermanita! Lando! Dinner in twenty minutes!" Carlos shouted up, from the sound of it in the kitchen, most likely helping your parents like the doting son he was. Helping, unlike you. Standing in the hallway, now only inches from Lando, chest rising and falling erratically as you tried to convince yourself that you should not fuck your brother's friend and former teammate in your parents' house with your entire family downstairs.

"Twenty minutes," Lando breathed, barely above a whisper. He took a final step forward, mouth painfully close to touching yours as his spread into a mischievous grin. "I can work with that."

His lips crashed into yours, hands gripping your face delicately as he did so, moving only after yours landed in his hair. Lando finally, finally, got his hands on those hips that had been torturing him, tempting him, for years, squeezing as he pulled you into him. Your fingers raked through his curls, tugging gently as you pushed him backwards into your room. He went willingly, grinning into the kiss at your enthusiasm as you kicked the door shut behind you, letting you take charge for the time being and falling to the bed when the backs of his knees hit it, hands dragging down your thighs as he went. For a moment, you paused, taking in the way Lando was looking up at you. Adoring. Reverent. Hungry.

His hands on your thighs urged you forward to straddle him, sliding his grip up your back to pull your torso flush with his. "God, these fucking tits," he groaned, squeezing you harder into his chest before sliding his hands around to your front, cupping them harshly. Through lidded eyes, you watched his hands, large, nimble, and veiny, knead your breasts while he hummed appreciatively, unable to look away from your chest for even a moment. "Been waiting to get my hands on you for so long, sweetheart," he heaved, speaking into your skin as his lips trailed over your exposed chest, just under your collarbone, punctuating the statement with a final, firm squeeze of your tits.

Before you could finish the whine building in you at the loss of his hands, Lando had yanked down the flimsy straps of your sundress, allowing your tits to spill out over the neckline. Lando swears he could come from that sight alone. "You're so gorgeous," he muttered, more to himself than to you, before looking back into your eyes, "so fucking gorgeous." His lips found yours again, stealing your breath as one hand reached up to ghost over your nipple, already sensitive and hardening from the cool air in your room, while the other lowered to rest on your waist, gently urging you to rock your hips against him at your own pace. "So," his kisses now landed on your jaw, "so," your neck, "beautiful. I think it might actually kill me," gently nipping at your pulse point before soothing the tender skin with his tongue.

Your breath had grown shallow from the attention he paid to your neck and chest, hitching as he tweaked your nipple just right, almost harsh enough to be painful but light enough to make you crave more. But what caused your breath to quicken was the feeling of Lando under you. Those strong, muscled thighs, bracketed by your own, felt so firm you couldn't stop your mind from wondering how they would feel if you ground yourself against them. The way they tensed as he moved, or restrained himself from moving as he tried to let you set the pace, felt so delicious against your thighs and through layers of fabric, you can't imagine how they would feel flexing against your core. Delicious as those thoughts were, they would have to wait for another time, because nothing was more tempting than the press of his hard cock against you, straining at the material of his swim trunks, the remaining water of the pool dampening your already wet panties.

"Shh, sweetheart, we've got to be careful," Lando startles you, the hand that had been on your tits gently closing over your mouth, and only then did you realize just how much noise you'd been making. Your cheeks heated at the realization, feeling your breath catching in your throat, rapid and uneven, whimpers and whines and a whole host of other, embarrassing sounds trapped beneath the firm press of Lando's large hand. You were so worked up that even that thought, the sheer size of his palm against you, how those thick, nimble fingers would feel between your thighs, made you whine louder, hips speeding up as you sought some kind of friction. Lando's eyes darkened as you ground yourself onto him, harder, faster, hand tightening around your waist and thighs flexing underneath you. He was holding back, you could tell, his restraint hanging by a thread, and every move you made threatened to fray that thread to its breaking point.

You wanted to make him snap.

There would be another time to savor this, to take your time, to memorize every inch of him, later.

You raised one of your hands from his broad shoulders, gripping the hand that covered your mouth and tapping twice. Immediately, Lando removed his hand, eyes filling with concern that he'd done something wrong, but before he could ask you were already whining again.

"Please, Lan," you begged, hips pressing down as harshly as you could manage. "Need you so bad, please, please," your voice was thin and breathy, and if you weren't nearly delirious from finally having this, having him, within your grasp, you might've been embarrassed by it. "Don't tease me, I c - can't take it."

Lando's head fell back with a groan, making no effort to silence himself as he did with you. "Fuck, darling, you want me that much, huh?" You nodded eagerly, hips continuing their grind as you felt Lando's cock twitch beneath you. "Such a desperate little thing, aren't you?" he asked, latching his mouth on the flesh of your breast, sucking a harsh mark into the delicate skin. Low enough that your family wouldn't be able to see, you realized, but dark enough that you'd have a reminder of him on your skin for the next few days. The thought made you flush with heat. The sudden bite of Lando's teeth on your tit shocked you out of your haze. "I asked you a question, sweetheart."

You blinked down at him, bleary eyed, "W-what?"

His grin was wicked as he looked up at you, "Aw, poor baby's already going cock dumb and I haven't even fucked you yet." Your cheeks heated, and he didn't give you the time to gather yourself enough to formulate a comeback. "I asked if you were a desperate little thing for me? You desperate for me to fuck you stupid, darling?"

A whine escaped your lips, unbidden, at his words, and the look in his eyes told you he wouldn't let you deny its cause. "God, yes, Lan, yes I'm so desperate for you, want you to fuck me so bad, I - fuck -"

The sensation of his fingers sliding your thong to the side scrambled your brains again, scattering any thoughts you'd managed to gather. The rough, calloused pad of his thumb brushed over your clit, and your body rocked violently into his hold, chasing the pleasure. "Keep talking to me, sweetheart, tell me what you want. Tell me all the filthy things my pretty little girl wants me to do to her," he whispered into your ear, lips going back to attacking your neck.

"W-want - want you to - ah- fuck me with your fingers, think about those p-perfect hands all the - fuck - t-time, want your thick fingers in me before you fuck me, Lando," you moaned out, pushing through even though your whines threatened to interrupt you.

"Good girl," he purred, sliding his middle finger through your folds, moaning into your neck at the feel of you. "So fucking wet f'me, darling, fuck," his left hand tweaked your nipple, as his right slowly sank a finger into you. The sound he let out was almost animalistic as he felt you clenching around him, reacting to the stretch that even one of his fingers made you feel. "Holy shit, you're so tight, baby," he lifted his head to be level with yours, wanting to watch your face as he touched you. "How am I gonna fit my cock into this tight little pussy of yours if you can barely take one of my fingers?"

The only answer you could give him was a needy moan, one that had his left hand going back up, not to cover your mouth, but to rest on your throat. "Shh, remember, sweetheart, you don't want your parents to hear us, do you?"

You shook your head fiercely, but immediately lost your train of thought again as Lando began to pump his finger in and out of you, slowly to let you adjust. His thumb landed firmly back on your clit, and the way he curled his long, thick fingers had him reaching a spot inside of you you'd never managed to reach before.

"What else do you want me to do, darling? Don't tell me you've already gone brainless? I've barely gotten started with you."

"Want more, Lan, want you to stretch me with your fingers so you can fuck me, want to feel you - oh, god," you barely managed to catch yourself before you screamed at the feeling of Lando pushing another finger into you. Even though he was aided by your wetness, Lando slowed his pace as he let you adjust again, easing into you as gently as possible as he maintained his circles on your clit.

"Want to feel me what, sweetheart?" he encouraged, curling his fingers to that same spot, this time hitting it hit his index and middle fingers and making your brain short circuit.

"Want to - Lan - w-want, I, fuck," you babbled, head falling to the crook of Lando's shoulder as you struggled for words.

"Come on, now, darling, be a good girl and tell me what you want. You do want to be a good girl f'me, don't you?" He chuckled lightly at how quickly you nodded, head staying buried in his neck.

"I- I want t-to feel you in me, feel your cock in me, feel you stretch me out with it, f-feel you fill me up - stuff me full with you, with your cum, leave me dripping with it."

The hand on your throat tightened harshly, briefly, before both of Lando's hands were off you and working on his swim trunks. "Jesus christ, baby, you've got a dirty little mouth on you. Such a perfect fucking girl for me, darling, such a dirty little thing, god you're perfect," he mumbled the praises into your mouth, stopping every so often to kiss you tenderly, hungrily, as his hands made quick work of the tie on his swim trunks, pulling them down enough to let his cock spring free. Your eyes widened involuntarily at the sight of it slapping against his stomach, the hard muscles of his abs and the red, leaking tip of his cock mesmerizing you.

You lifted your hips, allowing Lando to yank you closer to him until you hovered just over his cock, both of your hands bracing against his shoulders as one of his went under your dress to guide his cock through your folds.

"You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?"

"Yes, please Lan, please, ple-"

You had to cover your mouth with your own hand this time, the stretch of his cock making your eyes water, tears springing from them. Lando stared straight into your eyes as he sank you down onto his cock, bottom lip trapped between his teeth in a feeble attempt to silence himself. Both of his hands landed on your hips, gripping harshly as he held himself back from fucking up into you right away.

"God, baby you're so tight, you have such a perfect little cunt," he panted, eyes fixed on yours, not wanting to miss a single expression on your face. Finally, he bottomed out, the slow glide of his cock in you heavenly, fingers flexing against you as he forced himself to be patient.

A weak whimper left you despite the hand over your mouth as you slowly rose up, dropping harshly back onto Lando's cock and digging in your fingers at the sensation.

"Fuuuuuuuck," Lando ground out, hips bucking slightly up into you as you sank back down on him again.

It didn't take long for your legs to begin to shake, pace faltering as you grew tired. "Lando," you breathed out, head nestled in the crook of his neck again.

"Yes, darling?" His voice was thin, reedy, telling you he was just as affected as you were, even if he was better at hiding it.

"Can't - can't," your own gasp interrupted you as the head of Lando's cock hit a particularly sensitive spot inside you. "Too tired, need you to - god."

Lando chuckled, chest rumbling underneath your forehead, "You need me to do it for you, baby? You already too fucked out to move?"

"Please," you whined, unable to muster any embarrassment at the desperation in your voice. He knew he did this to you. Why bother trying to hide it?

Something in your neediness got to him, hands sliding up to your waist and squeezing as he gave himself a better hold on you. "That's a good girl. Don't worry, sweetheart, I've got you."

He lifted you off his cock, before slamming you back down onto him, hips fucking up into you harshly. The feeling of him manhandling you with ease was nearly enough to make you come on its own, but that combined with the way he kept hitting that spot inside of you, over, and over, and over again? You were so close you felt like you were going to explode.

And Lando knew it, too. Could tell from the way your hands scrabbled for purchase on his muscular shoulders, the way your head went limp on his shoulder as you gave him complete control over your body, from the way you clenched around him, and when he dropped one of his hands to graze a thumb over your clit as he fucked up into you, you were helpless to do anything but collapse into his embrace as you rode out your high.

Lando continued to hold you up by your waist, limbs sluggish and heavy, as he chased his own high, spurred on by your whimpers of overstimulation. But what finally pushed him over the edge was the sound of your voice, wrecked and fucked out, whispering weakly in his ear, "Please, Lando, please fill me up."

He came with a groan that he tried to bury in your neck, nipping lightly at the skin as he came down, chest heaving and moving you with it since you still hadn't managed to regain control of your own body just yet. The feeling of him painting your walls made you whimper, unintentionally clenching around him again, which elicited a deep groan from him.

"You keep squeezing me like that, darling, and you're gonna get me hard again."

You giggled, which earned you a playful swat on the ass from Lando, chuckling along with you as he stroked your cheek tenderly, admiring you in your post-orgasm haze.

"Lan-"

"Dinner is ready! Hurry up and get down here, we're starving!" The sound of your brother's voice jolted both of you out of your stupor, matching looks of panic on your faces.

Before you could say anything else, Lando whispers, "We're talking about this later tonight, sweetheart." Placing a kiss on your cheek, Lando lifts you off of him, hissing at the feeling, and setting you on your bed next to him before getting up and running across the hall to his room.

After you managed to muster the strength to move, you quickly fixed your dress, trying to make sure that your face and hair weren't dead giveaways for just having had the best sex of your life. You rushed downstairs, blaming your breathlessness on having run to dispel your mother's concern, and sat down quickly, trying to avoid any questions about what had taken you so long.

A few seconds later, Lando joined you, sitting across from you, eyes burning into you in a way that made you shift in your seat. That turned out to be a huge mistake, because just as your brother passed you the salad, Lando's cum leaked out of you as you realized belatedly that not only had you not cleaned up, but you hadn't even put your panties back on. You froze, quickly shifting back and squeezing your thighs together in an effort to stop him from seeping out of you, and miraculously, none of your family seemed to notice.

But the way your eyes widened told Lando exactly what had happened.

When your parents asked how the dinner was, you stammered out some poor excuse of a response, not really knowing how to speak to your family with Lando's cum dripping out of you.

Lando shot you a wicked grin, winking quickly enough that no one else saw it, and stared right into your eyes as he answered.

"Delicious."

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buckysgrace · 17 days ago

Note

Need me a cake cone

With PB&J/hot honey

And some some whip cream please 😩😩

🍦🍆

Yay yay yay, I hope you enjoy!! <3 Requests from here :)

CW: Breeding kink, unprotected sex

Your back throbbed from the belt buckle digging into your flesh, surely leaving an imprint from your roughly you were pressed down into the seats. The windows were fogged, air humid as the moon pelted the blue Camaro.

The woods were oddly calming tonight, swaying back and forth gently as if they were reaching for one another. It was just enough to hide the two of you away, blissfully hiding your little secret away from everyone else.

Billy’s nose was dragging against the side of your neck, rough pants falling onto your sweaty skin as he guided your body along the curve of his thick cock. He moved you easily, his strong hands digging into your flesh as your cunt squelched along his girth.

His weight was heavy on top of you, chest pressed against yours as he dragged his cock in and out of your weeping walls. Your moans filled the car, louder than the music that he had been playing earlier.

“Fuck,” he grunted, teeth grazing your skin as your nails raked down the length of his back. He groaned harder, snapping his hips deeper into you. His heavy balls smack against your slippery flesh, soaked from your leaking cunt, “such a good little whore for me. Look at you, taking my cock so well.”

Moans rolled off of your tongue as you moved your hips to his same motions, savoring the way your walls stretched along his thick cock. You could feel every curve and ridge against your soaked cunt as he continually huffed, breath hot against your neck.

“Gonna cum inside this pretty pussy.” He spit out roughly, dark eyebrows furrowing together as he looked down at you. His dirty blonde hair was stuck to his sweaty forehead, lips red from where he’d been licking them. His blue eyes were dark, swimming with lust and want as he stared down at you intensely.

“Please, please.” You pleaded with him, insides twisting at the thought of being filled to the brim with his spunk. You rutted your hips up desperately, mind swirling in pleasure as your clit throbbed with anticipation. Your legs were quivering, muscles tightening as you felt your high growing deep inside of you.

“Yeah, that's what you want?” he grunted, voice raspy as he rutted his cock deeper inside of you, “want my cum inside that slutty cunt?” He grumbled, flicking his tongue across his bottom lip as he looked down at where his cock had disappeared inside of your pussy.

You continued to moan, whimpers falling free at the rough way he was dragging your body along the length of his dick. The movement of his hips were intense, rough as he buried himself deeper inside of you. His tip was pressing against your bundle of nerves, spreading an intense spark through your body.

“Yeah, yeah!” you cried out, mouth parted as you looked up at him blissfully. Your nails were so deep into his skin that you were sure you were leaving marks, just like he would surely bruise your hips with how harshly he was gripping you, “wanna feel you cum inside me so badly. Give it to me, please, please.” You pleased, heart hammering roughly inside of your chest.

He laughed lowly as he looked down at you, head tilted and blue eyes filled with admiration. You crooned, tilting your chin up until you met his lips. The pleasure pooled deep inside of you as you crashed your mouth against his, tongue flicking out to scrape against the roof of his mouth. You enjoyed the taste of mint and cigarettes, needed more of it.

His groans vibrated across your skin as he curled his tongue against your own, sliding them together as his cock throbbed inside of your slick walls. You whimpered, fingers twisting into his mullet as the pleasure pulsed inside of you.

“Want me to knock you up? Make you mine?” He groaned roughly, eyes hazy as you dug your heels into his flesh. You nodded your head urgently, crying out as you felt your orgasm building inside of you.

“Cum inside me, Billy,” you pleaded with him, gasping as the sound of his cock sliding into your cunt filled the car, “please, please. Fuck!” You cursed, toes curling as you felt the pleasure inside of you snapping apart.

You cried out as you came, tossing your head back as you rutted your hips against him mindlessly. Your body twitched, clit throbbing as your high pulse through you. You felt like you were floating, only being steadied by his rough hands against your skin.

“Fuck,” he cursed as his movements became slower, his muscles flexing as he bottomed out inside of you. His balls slid against your skin, warm and heavy as his cock twitched inside of your warm cunt, “mhm, just like that. Look at you.” He cooed, cheeks flushed as he came inside of you.

You gasped at the feeling of his spunk coating your walls, filling you to the brim as rough pants left his lips. You sighed blissfully, fingers relaxing through his hair as you looked down at the way your pussy squeezed his cock. You chewed on your bottom lip, savoring that image.

“So pretty,” he teased as he sat up a bit, brushing his calloused hands across your thighs, “maybe it stuck this time.” He smirked, smacking your skin a second later.

#Billy Hargrove #Billy Hargrove smut #Billy Hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove fanfiction #Billy Hargrove fic #Billy Hargrove x reader #Billy Hargrove x reader smut #Billy Hargrove x you #Billy Hargrove x y/n #Billy Hargrove Imagine #Billy Hargrove x fem!reader #Billy Hargrove x female!reader #Billy Hargrove x you smut

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surielstea · 9 months ago

Text

“Just one more, baby.”

Kinktober day 1: Overstim + Praise

Pairing: Rhysand x Fem!Reader

Summary: Rhys is a sex god, that is all your honor

A. Note: First day of kinktober! Enjoy this Rhys fic that is simply 2k words of pure smut 💋♥️

2.3k words.

"C'mon baby, give me one more." My mate's words were distant, barely heard through barriers of hot pleasure.

"Rhys," I whimper, his name the only word I could form on my lips anymore. "Rhys," My brows bunch as sweat beads along my hairline.

My limbs were heavy with exertion, and my core throbbed with sensitivity. It felt too good to say it hurt, but gods was it too much.

"You're doing so well," He coos, leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to my jaw, the featherlight touch like flames licking up my neck, heat encased me as if I was placed in a freshly put out furnace, and every touch like crackling embers on my bare skin.

"S'too much," I manage to get out, my voice raw and weak from pleading and moaning early this morning. I used the small amount of energy I had left to take a glance at the window, spotting the sun high in the sky— since dawn, he's had me beneath him like this since dawn. I lost track of how many times I had found release nearly hours ago.

Rhys had only reached that peak thrice, and when he was building that endurance back up he would use his mouth on me, there wasn't a moment where I wasn't attended to.

"Please," I cry out, "s'too much," I repeat, tears streaming down my cheeks as he delicately kissed them away, such gentleness in contrast to the way he had been pounding into me earlier.

"I know, I know darling," He murmurs, his voice a soft encouragement. "But you begged for this," He reminded. "Until you forget your own name, remember?" He nipped at the soft skin below my ear and I cried out, regretting my own words— but also thanking every god listening for a mate like this.

"Uh huh— I remember," I say breathlessly, nails scraping down his bare back, corded muscles shifting as he rolled his hips onto mine, his cock spearing into me relentlessly.

"Yeah? Tell me your name then," He suggests, moving his hand from my breast down my torso, and before I can answer his thumb finds my clit, rubbing in tight circles across the puffy, reddened bud. I gasped, my head falling back into the pillows.

I writhe, my body deflecting the overstimulation. "Yours," I rasp, my hands flowing into his dark locks. "I'm, I'm yours, Rhys."

"There she is, that's my good girl," He smiles against my neck, licking and nipping at my marked throat before sucking roughly at a highly sensitive area. I mewl at the sensation, every nerve in my body stretching taut as he continued his torturous ministrations around my clit.

"Please, please," I whine, my legs jolting with uncontrolled spasms.

"Please, what darling?" He prods, his husky voice like a velvet glove wrapped around my throat.

"Please, let me come," I beg. He grins viciously.

"Again, already?" He taunts and I whimper, my lower lip quivering as I prepared myself to plead, to grovel for that release I craved so ardently.

"Yes," I say through a breathless exhale. "Rhys I need, need it," I could hardly string together words, every sound I made another lewd moan.

He ignored my pleas and continued his torment to my pulsing core, his unrelenting and near-punishing movements sending me into a headspace one could only describe as full submission.

Rhys didn't let up, his hand working mercilessly between my legs while his cock hit a spot so deep I couldn't remember where I ended and he began. I was trembling beneath him, my entire body oversensitive, but the craving for release burned through every muscle.

"Rhys," I whimpered, the sound broken as my vision blurred with tears. "I can't—"

"You can," He purred, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "And you will." The authority in his voice sent a shiver down my spine. I clung to him as though he were my only lifeline, nails raking down his back. His muscles shifted and flexed under my touch, and he groaned lowly at the pain mixed with pleasure, the primal sound making me pulse around him.

He knew exactly what he was doing—drawing me to the very edge of what I could handle and then pushing me beyond it.

My body was his to command, and the way his name fell from my lips like a desperate prayer proved it.

"You're mine," he whispered into my ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just beneath. "Every part of you, mine."

I sobbed his name again, my back arching off the bed, muscles straining as I tried to escape the overwhelming pleasure. But Rhys' strong hands held me steady, firm, and inescapable as he pressed me deeper into the bed, his weight grounding me as my body shook with the effort of holding on.

"Atta girl," he murmured, and the praise sent a new wave of heat through my already blazing body. "You're doing so well for me. Just a little more, darling."

His thumb circled my clit faster, the friction against my swollen, overstimulated flesh making my vision blur. My hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in as if trying to anchor myself, but Rhys barely reacted to the pain, his focus entirely on me. I could hear his breathing now, ragged and uneven, and the thought that he was just as affected as me made something primal coil in my chest.

Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes, mixing with the sheen of sweat on my flushed skin. I felt raw and undone, and yet the heat in my core refused to subside. Rhys pressed another kiss to my tear-streaked cheek, his lips featherlight against my skin, in direct contrast to the way his hips slammed into mine with a ferocity that made my entire body jolt.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said, his voice filled with a quiet reverence that made my heart stutter in my chest. "Completely mine, isn't that right?"

I could barely nod, the overstimulation making it impossible to form a coherent thought, let alone words. Every inch of my skin felt like it was on fire, too sensitive to bear another touch, but Rhys didn't stop. He wanted me like this—teetering on the edge of too much, completely at his mercy.

"Tell me," he commanded, his voice rough with need. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," I sobbed, my voice shaking as another tremor of pleasure raced up my spine. "I'm—I'm yours, Rhys, yours."

His grip tightened on my thigh, pulling me closer until his cock was buried so deep inside me that it felt like he was part of me, like he was in my blood, in my very bones.

"So perfect," he praised, and the words washed over me like a balm, soothing the ache of pain even as he pushed me dangerously close to that edge I've already gone over a multitude of times. His pace quickened, and the sound of his skin slapping against mine filled the room, mingling with my ragged breaths and desperate moans.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful so fucked out like this, you love this don’t you?” His hot mouth ghosted my jaw. “Love being stretched out and filled up?”

I barely heard him, lost in the blinding pleasure. It coursed through every nerve, and my vision blurred with tears as my body trembled uncontrollably. But Rhys never let go, holding me steady, his hand still working my clit with maddening precision. Even as I tried to pull away from the overwhelming sensations, he kept me grounded, refusing to let me escape the pleasure.

"I—Rhys, please," I gasped, my voice breaking as the overstimulation bordered on unbearable. My legs shook, and I tried to close them, desperate for a reprieve, but my limbs felt boneless, and moving was impossible. His grip on my thigh tightened, sensing my protest and keeping me open and vulnerable beneath him.

"Just a little more, darling," he coerced, his breath hot against my ear. "You can take it, I know you can." His praise wrapped around me like a warm blanket, pulling me deeper into the haze of pleasure. Even as my body screamed for mercy, something in his voice soothed the ache, and made me want to give him everything.

"You're doing so well," he continued, his voice gentle now as if he knew I was teetering on the edge of my limits. "Such a good girl for me. Just one more, darling. I know you can give me one more."

I whimpered, my nails digging into his back as I clung to him, feeling like I might break apart at the seams. Rhys always knew exactly how to push me—just far enough to test my limits, but never so far that I couldn't handle it. And right now, his voice, his praise, was the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.

"Please," I begged, my voice hoarse from crying out his name over and over. "Rhys, I—"

"I know," he soothed, his lips brushing over the tears staining my cheeks. "I know, darling. You can come. Let go f’me."

His thumb circled my clit with devastating precision, and my body betrayed me, a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through my already trembling frame. The orgasm hit me harder than any before, and I felt myself unraveling in Rhys' arms. My entire body tensed, my toes curling as another sob escaped from the back of my throat, my mind going blank as all I could feel was him—everywhere, inside and out.

"Good girl," he praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. "That's it, come for me. Give me everything, darling."

I shattered completely, the pleasure so intense that I couldn't even scream. My body convulsed around him, my nails raking down his back as I clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring me to the earth. And I clamped down, hard. He groaned at the pressure, even pulling out and pushing in was an effort I was so tight around his cock.

His muscled back shifted beneath my nails as his cock twitched against my sensitive walls, and then warmth flooded my fluttering core as he finally found his release, his seed seeping into each of my crevices, implanting inside of me thoroughly for the fourth time that day.

“So, so good. All for me, right?” He said, his voice raw and slightly groggy as he spoke beside my ear.

I nodded weakly, tears streaming down my face as my body sagged into the bed, completely spent. Every muscle felt limp, exhausted from the endless waves of pleasure, and my chest heaved as I struggled to catch my breath. But even as I fell apart, Rhys was there, his strong hands guiding me through every movement, his soothing words wrapping around me like silk.

"So beautiful," he whispered, his voice nurturing as he slowed his movements, finally giving me the mercy I so desperately needed. "You're so beautiful like this, darling. Completely mine."

I whimpered, barely able to respond, but he pressed a soft kiss to my lips, his mouth gentle against mine. "Shh, I've got you," he whispered. "You're safe, darling. You did so well."

His praise was endless, a constant stream of soft murmurs as he continued to press kisses to my flushed cheeks, my forehead, and the corner of my mouth. Each one felt like a reward, and even through the haze of exhaustion, I felt my heart swell at his words.

He held me close, his body still pressed against mine as he finally eased out of me, the loss of his warmth making me whimper. But Rhys was quick to soothe me, guiding my legs together, and allowing me to breathe a long sigh of relief.

"You were perfect," he murmured, sidling into the space beside me and pulling me close to his chest, as if unable to let me go after being connected all day. His fingers stroked through my hair as my breathing slowly steadied. "You always are."

I sighed, pressing my face into the crook of his neck, the warmth of his body and the soft praise in his voice lulling me into a comfortable haze. I felt safe, cherished, and completely undone in the best way possible.

I look into his dilated, violet eyes. Seeing only worry and admiration in that familiar gaze, none of the dark lust from earlier remained.

"Too much?" he asked, a hint of playful concern in his voice as his fingers traced lazy circles on my skin, over my hip, along my spine.

I managed a weak smile, eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Maybe just a little," I say, voice scratchy from screaming his name.

Rhys chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my very heart. "I'll keep that in mind for next time." He murmured, pressing a loving kiss to my forehead.

I groaned lightly at the promise in his voice, but couldn't find the energy to do much more. He shifted, pulling a blanket over our naked bodies before shifting me more comfortably against him.

For a long while, neither of us spoke, content to simply bask in the aftermath of the moment. My eyes fluttered closed, but before I could drift off completely, I felt Rhys's fingers tangle in my hair, his voice a soft murmur against the quiet.

"I love you," he said, his tone serious now, reverent.

My heart stuttered in my chest at the tender emotion in his voice, my eyes blinking open to find him staring down at me with that deep, endless devotion.

"I love you too," I whispered, barely able to find my voice.

He smiled then, the kind of smile that melted the world away, making me feel like nothing else mattered but this moment, the two of us wrapped up in each other. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my lips—gentle this time, doting. And at that moment, with my heart still racing from the pleasure and the love swirling between us, I knew there was nowhere else I’d rather be.

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applejusue · 24 days ago

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violet kiramman ─── marine encounters #004

You head down to the beach for your shift, only to find a very familiar looking naked woman on wobbly legs that's certainly attracting attention from beachgoers

◟`# cw: orca!vi, killer whale, size difference, comfort, fluff, awkward scenarios, nudity, drabble.

── requested by anon

taglst '# @marvelwomenarehot0, @cherry-coffees, @sider3us, @sevikas-whore, @kittymrtnezz69, @mxya-dreams

marine encounters | arcane masterlist . . .

Your shift started around noon, hyperactive kids covered in ice cream tumbling past, nearly planting forward into the sand. It was hot out, the sticky kind that got irritating after a few minutes. Sweat had already began to pool around your lower back purely from the walk down alone, your tanned legs and arms prepped to high heaven with sunscreen.

It was relatively mild for the first hour or two, you kept an eye on your section while a coworker manned further down the beach. You'd had to plaster a few scrapes and stop a kid from burying his little brother under the sand, the usual stuff. You surveyed the area from beneath your visor, chin resting against your palm as you sat on the tall picket chair. The whistle blew from the other section, and you cocked your head curiously.

Your soul near split from your body. Stumbling around like a sardine on concrete was Vi, pushing her way across the hot sand. Everybody was staring, hell you were staring dumbfounded at your love who was currently very human, and very naked. You scattered down the lifeguard chair so fast you nearly tripped over the last step, jogging across the sloaping grain with your whistle between your lips, trying to clear a path through.

Mothers scoffed in disgust, shielding their kids eyes with a pudgy palm while others ogled, unable to even pretend like they weren't looking. It was impossible not to look, especially considering she was over six foot of wet muscle, ink stains dripping down her legs and a frown of confusion on her lips. You all but crashed toward her, and immediately a crooked grin was growing on those pointed teeth.

"Hey.. ..baby.."

Vi's voice was slow, bashful, like she still wasn't entirely sure what words she was saying. She'd been begging Jinx to teach her some human phrases so that she could impress you, and if she still had a tail it would be thumping like a damn puppy at the way your eyes widened in mild affection. You were quick to snap out of it, ushering her away from floral wearing tourists, palms pressed against the expanse of her wet lower back as you tried to get her to the lifeguard tent.

When you eventually managed to sit her down on the small beach bed, Vi didn't seem to have a clue in the world what was going on, simply happy to be near you on land. You rinsed down the sand that covered her with a small water bottle, rummaging through old lifeguard lockers and managing to get her an XL pair of red shorts that just about managed to get over her hips. You then tossed her an old white tank from your gym bag, though it looked more like a crop top on her broad torso. She sat curiously, watching you brisk and blabber about how this happened.

Vi's eyes followed your pacing, like a cat waiting for the right time to pounce onto a bird. Once you passed close enough, she grabbed you by the arm, pulling you tight to her body. Your head only landed just below her breasts, but she cooed all the same as she leaned down to muss your hair with her face. Damn orca.

"Vi.. this is serious, you can't just show up like this and not expect-.."

Your grumbling fell on deaf ears, Vi simply cuddling you close like you were a small pillow. You knew you should be figuring this out to avoid her nakedly stumbling around a beach full of people again in the near future, but she was warmer on land and it would probably wear off eventually. What was the harm in enjoying it?

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honeyscara · 1 month ago

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Chapter 2

Sieun’s tutor masterlist | whc masterlist

《 Prev chapter next chapter》

“Why’d you want to study here?” Sieun asked, his voice low but clear as he flipped through your notebook, eyes scanning each page with his usual sharp focus.

You took a slow sip of your matcha latte, the warmth soaking into your hands through the cup. “Change of environment,” you murmured, eyes drifting to the café window where the late afternoon sunlight spilled across the wooden floor like melted gold.

It had been your idea to switch things up. The back-and-forth of studying at your house or his was getting repetitive—boring. You thought the café might bring a spark of something new, mayhe you could get to know him better. But judging by the slight crease between Sieun’s brows, he wasn’t entirely sold.

“It’s noisy here,” he said without looking up, his tone bordering on complaint.

You didn’t skip a beat. “Yet you’re here.”

That made him glance up. And there it was again—that look. Cold, unreadable, and frustratingly intense. Like he was trying to see right through you. You blinked, resisting the urge to look away first. Damn him and those stupid sharp eyes.

To cut the tension, you reached for the small plate of dessert between you and held out a spoonful. “Try this cheesecake.”

He stared at the spoon like it was a weapon. “I don’t like cheesecake.”

You frowned. “Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

“That’s not a reason,” you said, withdrawing the spoon and popping it into your mouth with a sigh. “Man, you’re really missing out. It’s so tasty.”

You licked a bit of cream from the corner of your lip, eyes fluttering shut for a second as the rich sweetness melted on your tongue. “Cheesecake and tiramisu are like… heaven. I could eat them all day.”

You didn’t notice right away how Sieun had stopped flipping pages.

When you finally looked at him, he was watching you—not with annoyance, not with boredom, but something gentler. His usual expressionless mask hadn’t quite shifted, but there was a softness there. As if your delight over something so small tugged at a memory he hadn’t visited in a long time.

He blinked slowly, then said in a flat tone, “Stop talking while eating.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, geez.”

But you didn’t stop. You shoveled another bite into your mouth, eyes scanning your textbook. Crumbs clung to your lips. You licked them off without thinking.

Sieun sighed. That familiar, long-suffering sigh of his—but this time, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. Barely. Like even he didn’t notice he was smiling.

There was something strangely captivating about the way you were—excited over a simple dessert, your brows furrowed in serious concentration as you tried to decode a math problem. Your foot tapped the leg of the table unconsciously, pencil twirling between your fingers like muscle memory, mouth curled into a thoughtful pout.

Sieun watched all of it in silence.

He didn’t understand why he was still here, sitting in a noisy café filled with coffee machines hissing and indie music playing too loud. But somehow, the your presence beside him made the world feel a little less loud.

Just as you were finishing another spoonful of cheesecake, the bell above the café door jingled.

You barely glanced up—just another customer—until you heard the sudden scrape of a chair and a loud voice call out, “No way. That’s Sieun, right?”

You paused mid-bite, glancing over the rim of your cup.

Two boys had just walked in, dressed in dark school uniforms you didn’t recognize. One of them had messy dark brown hair and a mischievous grin stretched across his face. The other, taller and broader, had a calmer look in his eyes but still gave off the same cocky energy.

They made a beeline for your table, completely uninvited.

“You’re really out in public with a person?” a rather loud one teased, pulling up a chair next to you like he owned the place. The other following too.

Sieun didn’t respond. He just slowly looked up at them like he’d been dreading this exact moment.

“I’m Baku,” the loud one said, offering you a wink. “And that’s Gotak.”

You stared. “Uh… hi?”

They weren’t exactly rude, but their presence was a little jarring—like walking into a quiet library and someone suddenly blasting music.

Gotak nodded politely. “Sorry for barging in. We just… don’t usually see him out in the wild like this.”

You raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused. “Wait—you guys know Sieun?”

Baku blinked, then laughed. “Know him? We go to school together. Dude never talks about us?”

You turned to Sieun with a mock gasp. “You have friends?”

That earned you a flat look from him, but you caught the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t peg you for the social type,” you added, grinning now. “I thought your only hobbies were judging people and aggressively studying.”

Baku let out a loud laugh. “Oh, I like her. You’ve been holding out on us, Sieun.”

“Please leave,” Sieun said without looking at them.

Gotak smirked. “You gonna make us?”

“No,” he replied coolly. “I’m just gonna ignore you until you get bored.”

The two boys exchanged looks, clearly used to this version of Sieun. But they also looked... surprised? You couldn’t quite place it, but there was something about how their teasing slowed down just a little as they watched him push the cheesecake plate closer to you.

“Cheesecake?” Gotak asked, raising a brow. “You?”

Sieun didn’t answer.

“He doesn’t like it,” you said instead, taking another spoonful, “which just proves he has no taste.”

Sieun gave you a long, unreadable stare—but this time, there was something softer lingering behind it. Like he wasn’t even annoyed.

Baku cleared his throat dramatically. “We’re interrupting something, aren’t we?”

You blushed slightly but rolled your eyes. “It’s just studying.”

“Studying with cheesecake and long, brooding eye contact,” Gotak added, stepping back. “Right, let’s leave them to it before this turns into a drama scene.”

As they walked away, you could hear Baku muttering something like, “When did Sieun learn how to flirt?” followed by a laugh.

Once the door shut behind them, silence returned to your table.

You took another sip of your matcha and tilted your head at him. “You never mentioned them.”

“I don’t mention a lot of things,” he said simply, flipping back open to the problem set you were on before.

You watched him quietly. His face was calm again, all emotion tucked neatly beneath the surface, but you couldn’t help noticing that he hadn’t pulled the cheesecake plate back. It still sat between you, and your spoon was the only one in it.

Something had shifted. Just slightly.

You poked your pencil at the edge of your notebook. “So… how many secrets do you have, Sieun?”

He didn’t look up. “Too many for you.”

You smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

The café had dimmed a little by the time you both finally packed up—empty teacups, pencil marks smudged across your notes, and only a sliver of cheesecake left behind.

The sky outside had turned golden, tinged with hints of violet as the sun dipped low. You stepped out into the cool air, tugging your hoodie tighter.

“Damn, it’s chilly,” you muttered, glancing up. “Didn’t expect it to get this cold.”

Sieun didn’t say anything, just adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder as he fell into step beside you.

The walk was quiet for a bit—just the soft rhythm of your shoes against the pavement and the faint rustle of early evening wind. Streetlamps buzzed to life one by one, casting long shadows.

“You always walk home alone?” you asked, partly just to fill the silence, partly… curious.

“Usually,” he replied, not looking at you.

“Huh. So what, you’re just this lone wolf, mysterious brooding genius, cold on the outside, secretly soft on the inside?”

He glanced sideways at you, one brow raised. “That’s a long list of assumptions.”

You smiled. “You didn’t deny the ‘secretly soft’ part.”

That earned a very faint scoff, but you caught the way his hand shifted slightly—like he was about to brush his hair back but stopped himself.

“You really don’t talk about yourself much, do you?” you said softly. “Even with friends like Baku and Gotak.”

“They talk enough for all of us,” he muttered, making you laugh.

A car passed by, its headlights washing over both of you for a moment. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was... thoughtful. Weightless, almost.

You kicked a small pebble ahead of you and watched it skip down the sidewalk.When you reached the corner near your neighborhood, you slowed.

“I turn here,” you said, nodding toward your street.

Sieun stopped beside you. The amber light above flickered once, casting odd shadows across his face. His eyes met yours—still unreadable, but not cold.

“Get home safe,” he said quietly.

“You too,” you replied, shifting your bag higher. “Don’t get kidnapped. You look like the quiet type villains love.”

That made him exhale through his nose. Maybe a laugh. Maybe just disbelief. Either way, it made your heart do something weird.

You took a step back, then hesitated. “Hey, Sieun?”

He looked at you.

“thanks for today and um..I still think you should try cheesecake again. Maybe you just haven’t had the right one.”

He didn’t say anything. Just watched you for a second. Then, without a word, he turned and started walking away.But just before he disappeared around the corner, you heard him say, barely loud enough to catch:

“Maybe. Next time.”

Taglist: @eijizwrld @night-fall-moon @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @jihooneyluv @hnch33rios @stxr-lilac @mizxuqii

#honeyscara works #whc2 #whc2 spoilers #whc #weak hero #weak hero class season 2 #weak hero class #weak hero class 2 #whc sieun #sieun weak hero class #yeon sieun x reader #yeon sieun #weak hero fic #yeon sieun fanfic

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clairewritesfanfics · 1 month ago

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Villain Creation System Chapter 5

Pairing/s: Invincible x Reader x Invincible Variants

Author's note: It feels forever since the last time I published a chapter. Anyway, I apologize in advance for any grammar mistakes or missing words or other editing mistakes. I'm posting this at four in the morning and I'm groggy as heck. I'll fix any mistakes when I wake up again in... I dunno, six hours? edit: Geez I really was groggy when I wrote this, look at that many "mistakes" 😭

CHAPTER 4: Just Cut Their Red Thread of Fate Series Masterlist <<read the synopsis and trigger warnings first>>

The digital sprout on your phone has grown into a digital tree in the past twenty-four minutes and fifty-eight seconds. You watched the timer hit zero–it played two short rings, signaling that it was time for a break.

Amber groaned as she stretched her arms over the table, laying her cheek on the handouts you insisted that she print. “God, finally.“

“Refill?” Your lips pursed towards the empty coffee mug she pushed towards the window.

“Nah, if I drink anymore I won’t be able to sleep later.”

You nodded and picked up your frappe, all pink and sparkly. According to the barista, it was tradition to have a unique beverage for every quarterly exam week. This princess glitter concoction was this week’s special. You planned on trying everything The Mug could offer. It was fun.

“I can’t believe someone actually ordered that thing, does it even taste good?”

You pried off the plastic cover and used your straw to scrape off the remaining whipped cream. “No, it tastes exactly like it looks like.” It was like sipping on a cotton candy. Just pure sugar.

“Then stop slurping it.”

“It would be a waste not to finish it, and besides, the carbs help me think. Makes studying easier.” You were going to regret having this much sugar when you crash out eventually, but that is future you’s problem.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about this but ever since we first met, I think I’ve only ever seen you take notes on your notebook or typing in your laptop. You’re like a study addict,” she teased. “What’s your secret to getting into the groove?”

You shrugged. “I just like how simple it is.”

“Simple?” She gawked.

“I work hard and I get rewarded.”

Amber observed you for a moment. You wondered if she thought you were lonely, because if she did then you’d be offended. No one forced you into your bubble, you genuinely enjoyed school. Life was predictable in the world of academics. If you study for a test, you get a high score. There was beauty in its simplicity. Comfort, even.

“You know,” Amber said, “My sorority sisters and I’ve been planning a party for after the exams, you should come.”

“A party?” You’ve been to parties in your past life. The delightful ones were with close friends, but the rest? Mandatory crap. You smiled so much your risorius muscle must’ve hypertrophied in your old body.

[Host, this may be a good reconnaissance opportunity.]

I know that, you hissed back inside your mind. You and Amber weren’t exactly buddies, and despite your repeated interactions, you could never bring yourself to inquire about Eve or Mark. This college party was the window of opportunity you have been waiting for.

With a heavy heart, you grinned at Amber. “Sure, I’d love to go.”

Your phone sent out two short rings. Break’s over.

Amber threw her head back, a disappointed sound left her throat. You smiled for real this time.

***

“22 out of 30.” A deep line formed between Amber’s eyebrows when you finished checking her mock test.

“That’s… not good,” she whispered.

You put away your red pen. “You got 73% of the questions right, that is a major improvement from your past scores.” Originally, she could barely get past 50%.

However, instead of feeling relief, Amber continued to stare at the red x’s all over.

You knew that look.

You tried to find the correct words. Amber was a hard worker, and she was a star student in her high school, but college is different.

You drew awkward circles on the table as you spoke, “Listen, the minimum passing level for the biochemistry exam is 65%, you got this.”

But your statement just made her brows knit closer together.

Before you could say another word, a familiar clean scent wafted into your nose.

“Room for one more?” Mark asked, holding his usual order of black coffee and eggdesal.

You and Amber regarded him with surprise, followed by mild annoyance.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He added, gesturing around him; the place was packed full of zombified young adults. “You know what exam week does to coffee shops.”

Amber crossed her arms. “Seriously, when did you start hanging around coffee shops?” She glanced at you and briefly explained, “Mark hates dining at cafés.”

“What? You’re joking.”

“It’s true.”

You turned to Mark, who simply shrugged.

“What can I say?” He smiled at you. “Something about this place is different from the others.”

Amber’s eyes darted between the two of you, the gears in her head rapidly turning.

She put her hands on the table and stood. “Mark, can I talk to you for a second? Alone?”

“We can just chat here.”

“I–”

Her phone vibrated, interrupting her. She checked the sender.

“That Kyle?” That was the name of Amber’s boyfriend. “He’s got perfect timing.”

She shot Mark a glare and began packing her things. “This isn’t over,” she warned.

“Sure, sure.”

Amber sent you an apologetic look. “He’s already a few minutes away, I–”

“It’s fine. We’re already done, anyway.”

She nodded, glared at Mark again, and hurried out of her seat.

You waited for Amber to disappear through the wooden door before looking at Mark, who wasted no time filling the empty chair.

He wore a black long-sleeved top and a pair of ripped jeans. His hair looked darker tonight, it was damp, like he went straight to here after a fresh shower.

You spoke with the system and demanded to know why it didn’t warn you that he was in the area.

The system, who got bored listening to you drone on about the pentose phosphate pathway and decided to read the Kama Sutra (“for research” it claims), had only realized what was happening when Mark Grayson started hitting on you. It could only avert its gaze and whistle in response.

So much for having a nigh-omniscient divine artificial intelligence as an assistant.

Irritated, you turned your attention to the grinning Mark in front of you.

“Why don’t you like eating at cafés?”

“Amber was exaggerating.”

“I see. Well, you can have the whole table. See ya.” It was your turn to start packing.

“Hey, hey, wait, I just got here.”

“So?”

“Ow. At least have dinner first?”

“Mark,” you said, cocking an eyebrow at him, “it’s already twelve in the morning.”

He checked his watch. “Oh.” He looked at you. “Don’t you have, I dunno, notes to digitize or something?”

“No.” You were already on your feet. “Tonight was reserved for tuto–” you caught yourself, “–for studying with Amber. With her gone, all that’s left to do is go home and get some rest.”

His shoulders fell.

Your heart tinged with something akin to guilt. Building a relationship with him is important, but you were expecting a sugar crash any minute now, one that will definitely make you lose affinity points.

However…

A sad pretty boy was hard to ignore.

The system started eating popcorn. Its older colleagues claimed that popcorn tasted best when witnessing drama. Watching its Host struggle with emotions brought it inexplicable bliss.

It played a melancholic violin and used its holographic ability to project dog ears onto Mark’s head.

[What are you going to do now, Host? Are you planning on turning your back on such a handsome, crying face?]

Clicking your tongue, you sat back down, prompting Mark to look up.

You crossed your arms and asked, “Is the yogurt parfait here any good?”

He tilted his head.

“Yeah,” he replied, confused.

You refused to meet his gaze.

His peach lips then parted into a bright smile. “One parfait coming up.”

[Ding. Affection: 29%. Darkening: 6%.]

The system spat out its popcorn and rolled around laughing with its hypothetical body.

Mark was not beating the masochist allegations in your mind.

[Technically, Host, I think it would be more appropriate to call him a submissive.]

Who cares?!

You exhaled.

Hey…

[Yes, Host?]

Does he look sad to you tonight?

[His facial expressions and body language haven’t changed much so to me he is the same as usual. What would make you think otherwise?]

Just a feeling, you thought, watching his back as he leaned closer to the cashier, likely flirting again.

[Is the Host jealous?]

You scoffed.

Why would I be jealous? He flirts with everyone.

[If you say so.]

You could feel the little brat smirking. If it had a physical body you would very much like to chuck it to the nearest garbage can, or maybe an open fire.

While you were in the middle of conjuring the best way to execute your system, Mark returned with a large yogurt parfait.

“Your midnight snack, madam.”

“Ew.” The hair on your neck stood at the title. “Never call me that again.” You would rather he call you–

“Whatever you say, princess.”

Tsk.

[Pft.]

Mark swiped several tissue papers from the dispenser on the table and wiped the parfait spoon before handing it over.

When you reached to take it, your fingers grazed his. It was brief, barely a feather’s touch, but it sent warmth up your arm and to your chest.

[Affection: 30%.]

You decided to focus on eating your parfait.

Mark had a similar idea, preferring to eat his egg sandwich without making a peep.

The silence between you was filled by the faint cacophony of students typing on their laptops and scribbling on their tablets, the clinking of metal and ceramic and glass, and an instrumental rendition of Blues in the Night.

Barring the circumstances that brought you here, this was nice. If you ever found someone before you had died, would you have spent your free time with him in a coffee place like this one?

In life, the closest you’ve ever been to romance were books and dating sims, and those things have irreversibly warped your standards.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Mark broke the silence, dipping the rest of the bread in his coffee.

You wanted to snap and tell him that you were too exhausted to think, that he should’ve just taken his order to-go or eat alone like a grownup, but you don’t.

You snuck a glimpse of him. Dark circles haunted his . He seemed paler, too.

“I was just thinking about what constitutes an ideal date.”

His face brightened. “Are you finally going to let me peek into that brilliant brain of yours?”

“I’m not brilliant.”

“Amber would beg to differ, and so would Professor Harper.”

“Amber?” You understood Professor Harper, but why Amber?

“Yeah, she talks about you a lot, says you’re really smart.”

“You talk about me?”

“Sometimes.”

“With Amber?”

His grin turned wicked. “Jealous?”

You could hear the system restraining its amusement.

You ignored the ticking in your eye and took a big scoop of parfait. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He reclined on his seat. “Got any questions for me? Besides Amber, I mean.” Great, now he was laughing at you. Excellent.

“I have nothing to say to you.” You had a lot, actually. You wanted to know about his mom, his missing dad, whether or not he has met Eve. You wanted to be done with this mission world. You wanted to be done with all of this.

“Are you sure?”

You paused. “Actually, I do have a question. Did you finish reading that book?”

Brown widened with surprise, then they twinkled. “‘That book’? Sweetheart, what do you take me for? I finished Professor Harper’s entire reading list.”

Your jaw slacked. “That… is impressive.” Although maybe the reading was to compensate considering how he’s been missing class the past week.

He made a hair flipping motion. “I know. Brains, beauty–is there anything I can’t do?”

“Eat alone in a coffee shop, apparently.”

He chuckled dryly.

[Ding. Affection: 27%. Darkening: 6.3%.]

You inhaled too fast and the slender spoon got sucked inside your throat. Both hands flew over your neck as you squawked out for help.

[Host!!]

Mark vanished from across the table and was instantly by your side. He bent you forward and struck you between the shoulder blades once, twice–

The spoon shot out of you and bounced three times on the table.

Mark’s voice came out softly, “You okay?”

Before you could answer, the whole floor applauded.

Blood rushed to your cheeks and you became hyper-aware of the protective palm on your back.

You looked up and saw his eyes overflowing with concern.

“Princess?”

You felt like throwing up.

***

Good news: You didn’t throw up. You apologized to the staff and promptly left.

Bad news: Mark followed you out.

“I’m walking you home.” There was no room for negotiation in his tone as he took your bag from you. You reluctantly let him because you had a feeling that any protesting wouldn’t have stopped him from trailing after you.

It’s not like you didn’t appreciate the offer. After all, it doesn’t matter how prestigious a university is, there is always a chance of getting attacked on campus property. But after your little scene, you truly wanted to be alone, as in, may the ground crack open and swallow me whole alone.

But now he was with you, and he hasn’t spoken a word since you two left The Mug. Silence was nothing new between you and Mark, in fact, what you liked about him besides his uncontested physical appearance was the fact that he also enjoyed quiet moments when they were there.

That being said, you weren’t sure whether you preferred this… this soundless noise over his endless teasing.

When two people get into an argument and one of them leaves to cool off and then gets hit by a car, that’s an accident. The two people are innocent, they shouldn’t feel shame–but the one who didn’t leave the house to cool off is still going to somehow blame themselves.

Logically, you understood that there was nothing wrong with what happened. It was an accident. But reason alone cannot stop emotion.

“Mark,” you said, still looking forward as you walked.

“Yeah?”

Your mouth opened and closed, and opened and closed. You regretted saying his name. It hung in the air and now the silence grew louder.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His lips were twitching.

Son of a–

You planted your feet on the ground, prompting him to stop walking too. “You’re laughing? You’re actually laughing?”

To his credit, Mark actually tried to keep his poker face for a little longer. His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek until he couldn’t contain himself.

“Pft–”

[Pfft–]

Two very different beings from two very different planes of existence united together in a chorus of wild belly laughter.

You missed the quiet already.

“It’s not that funny,” you mumbled, feeling hot.

“I’m sorry–I–I’m sorry but it is.”

[He’s right, Host, it was quite the sight. If he didn’t save you in time your death might have been nominated for an award.]

The system nodded to itself, pleased. It knew its Host had potential! Unintentional death by spoon would have been one for the books.

You waited for Mark to calm down into mere huffing. “Are you done?”

He wiped a tear and stood up straight. “There’s never a dull moment when you’re around, princess.”

“Wow. Thanks. That almost sounds like a compliment.”

“It is one. I’ll keep giving you compliments until you can tell immediately.”

“That won’t be necessary.” You continued walking. “Let’s go.”

You didn’t have to look to know that his gaze was on you. You had a hunch he was smirking too.

It was annoying how fixated he could get with you, but you tolerated it better now. Dare you say, you even enjoyed the attention, though you would sooner stab your own hand than admit that to him or anybody else.

The system, who realized its Host is not immune to human romantic feelings: (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

Not. A. Word.

[Whatever you say, Host.]

You yearned for the sweet embrace of your bed, so upon reaching your building, you grabbed the straps of your backpack and swiped it away from Mark. “Thanks for walking me.”

“You know, I’d be happier to hear that if you didn’t sound like a robot.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’ll store that information for future assessment. This robot will not keep you any longer–”

His fingers wrapped around your wrist weakly.

You were about to give him what for when he stated, “I play bass in a band.”

Oh, yeah. “Indigo Muse, right?”

His next sentences came in rapid succession. “We got a gig this Saturday, at a club called Wisteria, and I know you hate concerts but I’d really like it if you came and watched us.”

Brown eyes pleading, his smirk was nowhere to be found. This was unlike the confident man you’ve come to know.

He was desperate, bordering on pathetic.

It was…heh…cute.

The system froze.

Mark watched your reaction, but your face was unreadable.

“It’s an open invite, you don’t have to–”

“I’ll go.” You squeezed his hand. “Just email me the details.”

Recovering from surprise, he also recovered his smirk. “Who uses email?”

“It’s easier for us robots to keep track of information with email than text message.”

You let go before he did, fingers sliding past each other, unwilling to part.

“Good night, Mark.”

You turned on your heels. “Don’t forget that email. I’m not going anywhere unless I’m sure about the dress code.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You didn’t have any energy left to correct him.

[Ding. Affection: 32%. Darkening: 6.3%.]

It wasn’t until you managed to trudge back to your unit and fell on the mattress did the system speak up.

[Host, I would like to apologize.]

For what?

[It would seem my putting dog ears on a sad Mark Grayson has awakened something in you.]

taglist: @weponxwrites @ratkidcalledallie @qxuanii @lilacoaks @gluttonousriceflour @phisen

Disclaimer: The images used in this post do not belong to writerclaire. They were lifted from the following sources:

Invincible flying

Alternate Invincibles

CHAPTER 6: Square Root of a^2+b^2 Series Masterlist

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MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

#mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #imagines #y/n #mark grayson #invincible #reader #invincible x y/n #angst #fluff #humor #vcs #villain creation system #fem reader #qt #quick transmigration #isekai #system

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valentine-cafe · 3 months ago

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˖⁺. ﹙ literature professor x fem reader. ﹚ .𖹭 ݁

. . . repeat after me !! 🍒 : literature professor character﹙ dilf au talisen. ﹚

your private tutor lesson has quite the turn | cw: age gap, professor/uni student, smut, rough sex, creampie

"So?" Your professor clicks his tongue quietly. His glasses pushed up to the bridge of his nose. Cock pulsing inside of your warm cunt. As he looks down at the homework you'd come to recieve some help for. He couldn't deny helping you after all. The sweet literature major student from his class he privately tutored because noone else was able to take up the position.

Or, that's what he'd told you at the least—

"T-the s-sttudy of p-postc-oh f-fuck, p-professor zh-zhào," the tip that kisses your cervix and leaks with cum sends shivers up your spine, interrupting what you'd initially planned to say. It felt so good. Your chest pressed against his kitchen desk while half drunkenly trying to get to studying. . . It was hard not to buck your hips back into him. Alas, the punishment for it would be a pain in your ass, to say the least.

"Keep reading precious." He hums into your ear. Warm hands gliding up your bare stomach to cup at the dips in your waist to give you a few pumps of his hips. Pulling another moan out of you. "Or do I have to give you lowest grade tomorrow?"

"N— no!" You whine, nails scraping across the marble surface of the table, trying your hardest to read through the words on the gods forsaken book below you. He knows what he's doing.

Whether he wants you to read the page or not, you're not so sure anymore. The tummy loops his little groans throw around in your ears is enough to make you leak with so much arousal a base of cream has already started to form around his thick cock.

"Then—" A heavy breath fans against your neck, his arm pushing away the wine glasses to grab his arm over the counter and pin you a bit more. Fucking harder into you. "—Start, fucking, reading." He's making you delirious like it's nothing, isn't he?

"P-postcolonial or international e-englis-hnhhh professor!" It's hopeless. You can't be normal when he's got you against him like this. His front flush against your back. Bullying your poor, swollen cunt with his large dick to help it milk the cum he has to give you.

"Such a pretty girl," he whispers against your shoulder. Pace growing a little faster than last. The soft plapping of his balls against your wet cunt sends you into a blurred state of heaven you can't describe. "Should make you my wife instead, have you here take care of our son." He mumbles and bites at your shoulder.

"Wouldn't have to give him away to his dad," the breathless whispers against your flushed skin goes unheard. You're too busy feeling the rush of emotions that crash into your heart and stomach. The big muscle within your chest fluttering, is akin to that of the pretty pussy he's got wrapped around him.

"P-professo-or!" Your tits jiggle and slap against the counter so beautifully, he could get addicted to the feel of you, the mere presence of you. He's sure that he already is.

Each part of you is the most poetic sonnet he has ever read. The taste of you, the love that you have to give, all of you. Maybe his drunk mind was messing with him, he really hoped that you loved him back as much as he loves you.

"F- mghn. . . Feel good baby?" He moans softly. Face flushed from the small responses you give him throughout the messy fuck. "G-god. . . Shouldn't fuck you here."

Pants come quick from his lungs, long and extended. As his hands lift you up and he pulls out of you much to your dismay. Yet the giddy feel tickles away at your brain when you feel your back hit the soft cushions of the couch, your leg flung into the air while he's half on the couch half not, dick thrusting itself back into you to continue giving you the pleasure you deserve after the hard week.

Kisses move up and down your neck, down to your collarbone to pull the swirling feeling in your head into further spiral. Just like his index and middle find your throbbing clit, swirling and rubbing away at it to pull those delicous sounds out of you.

"C'mon— hah. . ." Small encouragements begin to fill your ears. It's not hard to tell that pleasure is coiled up in your tummy, creating a knot that begs to be released.

"T-Talisen," oh those pathetic sobs. You feel almost ashamed of them, yet he all but laughs a little, head thrown back as he shallows his thrusts and builds the pace a bit more to help you on your way. "You can do it baobei. You can do it,"

Your vision spots with black and white as you feel yourself let go, the knot recoiling and whipping itself everywhere in your lower abdomen as your orgasm washes over you and you leak out onto him, messing the couch below you slightly.

That's going to be he favourite spot on it now. . . He thinks to himself. Before letting out a small gasp as your warm cunt squeezes down against him so hard, his own orgasm crashes down on him. One that sends shivers down his spine.

"I love you-" He whines out, the drunk words barely passing through your ears. Though you're too drunk yourself to fully process them.

The poor man can only hope neither of you remember them spoken in the morning. Though knowing your sharp mind. . . He'll have to face the sentence when the time comes.

#﹙ cupcake rush. ﹚: talisen dilf au 𖹭 ݁#x fem reader #reader insert #x reader #smut #fem reader #professor x reader #dilf x reader #oc x reader #original character x reader #think i need someone older : dilf au #asterism

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austinbutlerslovers · 21 days ago

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Broken Pieces

Label Mature 18+

Summary When Hanks world comes crashing down, you’re the one he runs to and puts him back together.

💝Romantic Smut 💝 Hank hurt• angst• emotional comfort • protective behavior • character trauma •domestic intimacy • Hank vulnerable • “I’ll take care of you” • kiss it better • Hank sub • cock worship •size kink• emotional p in v • sex while injured • sex as comfort • oral sex male rec • orgasms • swallowing • cream pie •soft aftercare 🔗 Masterlist 🧢 Hank Masterlist

💡 Plot Consultant @aust-een ✨ Inspo the beautiful Hank crying pic 💘

Broken Pieces

The apartment is warm with the scent of simmering pasta sauce, the table long cleaned up after you’d tried, unsuccessfully, to carve out a moment of peace for you and Hank.

You made dinner. Set everything just right and waited.

But he didn’t show.

You spent the night pacing in your silk robe, nerves sharp, every passing minute tightening the knot in your stomach.

No call. No message. Just silence.

So when you hear a loud banging on your door, your heart skips hard in your chest. You know it’s him. But when you unlatch the door open and see Hank… your heart plummets.

His sandy brown hair, usually tousled and charming, is matted with sweat, clinging to the nape of his neck. His pretty blue eyes, normally so bright, are shadowed… one swollen subtly with a black eye.

His full lips, split and bloodied, are set in a tight, pissed-off line. Bruises mottle his cheek, and he moves stiffly, favoring his left side, his broad frame hunched like he’s trying to shrink himself.

His knuckles are raw, scraped to hell, and his shirt is torn at his neck, revealing a dark bruise blooming beneath his collarbone.

In his arms he’s clutching Bud the cat like a talisman, and as he lets him down gently, he struggles to stand back up, catching the doorframe for balance.

“Hank!” you gasp, your voice cracking. Your hands flutter, desperate to touch him but terrified of hurting him more. He’s so much bigger than you, towering and muscled, his presence usually a shield, but now he looks like a wounded giant, fragile and fraying.

“Hank, what the hell happened?” you ask, your chest tight with panic.

He waves you off, limping to the table and slowly pulling out a chair, sitting onto it with a pained grunt.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, his voice low and clipped, but the way he winces as he shifts betrays him. “Just… leave it, alright?” His blue eyes flick to you, then away, like he can’t stand to bear your gaze.

Your stomach twists. Hank is never like this, so sharp, so closed off. He’s taken hits before, stumbled into chaos more times than you can count, but this… this is different.

You stand frozen, your eyes tracing every mark on him: the swelling around his eye, the blood crusted on his lip, the way he holds his ribs like they might crack.

“Hank, you’re scaring me,” you say, your voice small but firm. “You’re hurt, and you’re… you’re mad. Please, just tell me you’re okay.”

He sighs, a harsh, frustrated sound, and runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard enough to make you flinch.

“I… didn’t know where else to go,” he finally admits, and the crack in his voice giving everything away. He looks at you then, really looks — and the anger in his eyes softens, replaced by something raw… shame… regret.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to…” He trails off, rubbing his face carefully to avoid the bruises. “I… I fucked up so bad.”

You move closer, kneeling beside his chair, your hands covering over his thighs. “Tell me,” you plead, your voice thick with tears. “Hank, you’re beat to hell. I need to know what happened. Please.”

He leans back, his broad chest rising with a shaky breath. “Got in over my head….some guys came looking for Russ… they didn’t take kindly to my attitude. Ambushed me right outside my apartment. Two angry fuckers. I fought back—landed a few good ones—but they fucked me up good.” He gestures to his face, his ribs, a bitter laugh escaping that turns into a wince.

“I’m a damn idiot, and now you’re stuck lookin’ at this mess.”

Your heart shatters. Hank, your Hank, so strong, so larger-than-life, beaten down, caught in the fallout of whatever mess Russ left behind.

Tears spill over, and you surge up, cupping his face with trembling hands, careful to avoid the worst of his bruises. His skin is warm against your palms, a stark contrast to the cold fear gripping you.

“Oh, Hank,” you choke out. “You didn’t deserve this. God, I’m so scared seeing you like this.”

His hands, large and calloused, settle on your hips, pulling you closer, his touch gentler than his mood. “Don’t cry, baby,” he pleads, his voice softening, though his eyes stay stormy, haunted.

You can’t stop yourself…you lean in and kiss him, desperate and feverish, needing to erase the pain, the anger, the shame. His lips are tender, swollen, tasting of blood and salt, but he kisses you back fiercely , his hands tightening around you like you’re his lifeline.

You climb into his lap, straddling his thighs, your smaller frame overtaken by his and he groans under you, but you don’t care. You kiss him harder, your fingers weaving through his hair, tugging gently.

His hands roam your back, big and warm, pulling you flush against him. His bruises, his pain, only make you want him more, to love him until he forgets the world that hurt him.

“Baby,” he rasps against your mouth, his blue eyes locking onto yours, intense and unguarded.

You pull his torn shirt up, careful of his ribs, kissing every bruise, every scrape, your lips worshipping his battered skin. He groans again, a low, needy sound, his hands guiding you as you fumble with his zipper.

He breathes sharply through his nose as he lifts his hips for you, his body surging with adrenaline.

You ease down the band of his boxers, and his cock slides up aching and tender already twitching against his stomach even with everything he’s endured. It’s almost too much, the way he looks up at you, wrecked and wanting, pain shadowing every breath with his need still pulsing through him.

You don’t even bother to disrobe, instead you pull your panties aside desperate, breathless. You sink down on him and he stretches you deep, the sudden fullness making your breath hitch.

His size is overwhelming as you settle on him and he whimpers a raw, broken sound that makes your heart ache. His eyes never leave yours, wide and glassy, brimming with tears.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “Don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

His hands grip your hips, steadying you as you start to move, slow at first, mindful of his injuries but then his groans become louder, his head tipping back as he surrenders.

“Shh,” you murmur, kissing him again, your hands framing his face, thumbs brushing his jaw. “I’ve got you, Hank. Just breathe.”

You move faster, and the pain seems to spur him on, his hips thrusting up, his cock pulsing with every roll of your hips. He whimpers again, pleasure and pain blurring, his bruises forgotten in the heat of you.

“You feel…so good,” he gasps, his voice reverent, eyes burning into yours. “You’re making it….all go away.” He breathes his voice trailing off in pleasure.

You clutch him, nails biting into his shoulders, your breaths fast as you ride him. You kiss him hard, hands sliding up to cup the back of his neck, fingers grasping into the curls at his nape. He moans into your mouth, helpless, wrecked, and the sound goes straight through you. He feels too good, too deep, and soon you’re moaning with him, your voices blending together in desperate harmony.

You start to come with a sob, your body trembling in his arms, and he follows—a guttural groan tearing from his lips as his release fills you deep inside.

His eyes stay locked on yours, even as he shudders, his feelings for you fierce and unwavering.

You rest against him, forehead to forehead, fingers tracing his lips, his curls, his bruised cheek. His arms tighten around you, still strong, despite everything holding you like he’s afraid to let go.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper fiercely through your tears. “No matter what, Hank. You’re mine, and I’m not letting go.”

He exhales, a shaky, grateful sound, his blue eyes glistening. “I believe you,” he whispers, his voice raw and resilient. “With you, I’m safe.” he whispers, his words heavy with conviction.

You press a kiss to his lips, then one more between his brows where his forehead is tense. “You are Hank” you promise, your voice steady despite the ache in your heart.

Carefully you slide off of him, your hands gentle as you tuck his softening cock back into his gray boxers. You try and help him up, your hands steady even though you feel like falling apart.

As he stands, you ease off his torn shirt revealing his body covered in bruises of deep purples and reds blooming down his sides, your fingers hovering, wanting to heal what you can’t.

You crouch to untie his shoes, pulling them off one at a time, then peel down his jeans with quiet tenderness, leaving him in just his gray boxers.

You guide him gently to the orange lounger and he sinks down with hiss of pain, his jaw tight, eyes fluttering closed.

“I’m gonna fix you up, don’t you move,” you oder him, heading to the medicine cabinet and grabbing your first aid kit as you return.

He’s a pathetic mess struggling to stay upright in the chair —his thighs spread wide, his broad chest slick with sweat, his head hanging low.

You kneel between his legs and begin to clean him up, your hands steady, your touch careful and light. You finish wiping the blood from his nose, then the split at the corner of his lip, brushing your thumb there like it might soothe the sting.

His eyes fill slowly, glassing over, and it’s not just from the pain, but from the way you’re looking at him, touching him, like he’s something worth saving.

“Oh, Hank,” you whisper, shushing him as warm tears spill down his cheeks. He’s so beautiful when he cries, his face flushing a deep shade of pink from anguish, his blue eyes shimmering like glass with his full lips trembling.

You cup his jaw and press a kiss to his temple and his large hand clings to your wrist, keeping you close trying to hide the tears dripping down his face hot and fast.

His sob hitches as you gently wipe them away with your thumb, your lips pressing a soft kiss on his forehead to comfort him.

“Where does it hurt Hank,“ you ask, your voice heavy with concern, but he doesn’t answer right away instead his breathing grows heavier, as his eyes glaze over, lost somewhere else, reliving the ordeal all over again.

“They ambushed me… it was fast,” he stammers, his voice rough, hesitant. “I was at my front door… had a bagel… they slapped it right outta my hand. Russian fucker socked me dead in the face… I didn’t expect it…it was all a blur after… had to keep Bud safe… had to run here…”

His brows knit, his voice shaking, and you see the confusion in his eyes, the way he’s reliving it, blow by blow.

Too many hits to his body..too much fear in his mind.

You quickly grab the bottle of pain pills from your kit pouring two in your palm. “Here baby,” you say, feeding them into his mouth. You planned to get him water but he swallows them dry, desperate, his throat working hard, Adams’s apple bobbing.

You climb back onto his lap, knees tucking in on either side of his waist, and your fingers slide through his sandy brown hair pulling him gently against your chest, cradling him close.

His warmth seeps into you, grounding you as you hold him, and his eyes flutter shut in your care, his breaths ragged but slowing.

You trail your fingers through his soft hair pulling gently to lift his face, urging him to look at you. His blue eyes, glassy and haunted, lock onto yours, and your heart aches seeing the vulnerability there.

“Hank, what are you gonna do?” you whisper, voice shaky but firm, stroking his face, your fingers tracing the unbruised patches of his jaw, careful to avoid the swollen, purpled skin.

“I… I don’t know,” he mumbles, his voice heavy, slurred.

And thats what’s worries you …Hank, is always tangled in messes he can’t get out of and it fills your heart with dread.

His blue eyes gaze up into yours, seeing the stress written all over your face.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispers, his bruised knuckles grazing your cheek as his large hand cups it.

Your heart aches at his tenderness, and he kisses you, slow and deep, igniting something senseless, something demanding.

You want to know that he can handle this, that he’s not just running again, but as his kisses pull you under he drowns all your doubts.

You give in, craving him just as fiercely as he craves you, your mouths moving together passionately, his full lips soft despite the split, stealing every thought from your mind.

“The pain pills are working,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice slow and deep, a faint smile forming.

You smile back, relieved, and then you feel it, the press of his cock against you, hard and insistent. You sigh into his mouth, your hand drifting down his abs, fingers grazing the taut muscle as he kisses the curve of your neck, his breaths hot and uneven knowing exactly what he needs.

“Don’t move,” you whisper, kissing down his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat on his bruised chest.

“Baby…..”he breathes, his emotions a wreck as you pull his cock out for the second time like it’s the golden ticket to solve all his problems.

You sink to your knees, your hands steadying his thighs, and you take him into your mouth, slow and purposeful.

His eyes ache for you, wide and shimmering, brows knitted as he watches.“Fuck, I’m so lucky,” he gasps, his voice pathetic, breaking as you move faster, your lips tight, tongue swirling.

He’s gorgeous, full lips parted, as he softly groans, hips twitching upward in gentle thrusts as he fights to stay focused. “You’re so good… so fuckin’ good,” he praises, his hand fisting your hair, careful not to push.

You know it feels incredible to him, the way he’s gliding in and out of your mouth, his breathing ragged, body trembling.

When he starts to come, it’s with a soft, desperate cry, his hips bucking, release spilling hot and fast down your throat. You stay with him, hands soothing his thighs as he shudders, spent, his eyes still locked on yours, brimming with gratitude.

His breaths are sharp as you slide your mouth from him, his face wrecked, flushed pink. You tuck his cock back into his gray boxers, hands grasping onto his, trying to pull him up, but he’s a mountain compared to you.

“Come on, Hank,” you urge, and as he stands, he doesn’t wince, the meds actually dulling his pain …for now.

You help him to the bed, easing down his battered body carefully, and he sprawls out with a shuddering breath. You lay beside him, fingers smoothing back the soft strands of hair from his forehead. “Just rest, okay?” you soothe him, your voice tender.

He nods, barely, his voice cracking. “Okay…” he breathes, his eyes heavy.

“You’re safe Hank. I’m here.” You whisper as his eyes flutter shut, and you stay close, watching over him as he sleeps—battered, bruised, but not broken.

Not while you’re by his side.

Morning light spills through the sheer curtains, and Hank’s already up, tugging a dark gray shirt over his head with a wince of soreness, his movements carrying a rushed energy, like his intentions are set.

You slowly sit up, sleepiness still clinging to your voice.“You running again?” You ask, laced with concern.

He pauses, turning to you, his blue eyes softening. “Just gotta deal with a few things, baby’,” he says, his voice low, trying to soothe you, but you’re not convinced.

You stretch, yawning, and slide out of bed, following him to the kitchen, Bud hungry and tangling through your feet until you pick him up. “If you run from what you’re afraid of, it owns you,” you say, offhandedly, the words sharp despite your efforts as you place Bud on the couch.

He stops at the kitchen counter, his broad shoulders tensing under his dark gray shirt.

“Can you… watch Bud for me?” he asks, his voice low, edged with stress, the words heavy with unspoken weight.

The question hits like a jolt, startling you, and you pause, eyes narrowing as the depth of what he's asking sinks in. Bud the cat, the one thing tying him to Russ, to all the trouble he's running from.

"What the fuck is going on, Hank?" you demand, your voice sharp, fed up with the evasiveness

He flinches, barely, but you see it. His jaw tightens, a flicker of pain behind his eyes, like he knows he's doing something he shouldn't.

You step closer, chin lifted. "I need to know you're a guy who can take care of his shit," you say, your voice resolute, frustration pleading through.

Hank crosses the space between you, his large hands framing your jaw, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. He kisses you fiercely, a vow in every press of his lips, all conviction and fire before he pulls back locking eyes with yours.

"I can handle it," he says, voice low and sure, his blue eyes burning into yours. "I swear, baby. I'll fix this."

Then he turns as you watch him leave, the door clicking shut behind him, your breath catching in your throat.

Hope and fear knot in your chest, clinging to his promise, praying that for once Hank will come back to you in one piece, his battles fought and won, his heart finally yours.

To Be Continued 🧢

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 8 months ago

Text

Troubleshooting

Nathan Bateman x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2024 Masterlist • Kinktober 2023 Masterlist • Day 23: Begging

Summary: Nathan can't say no to a challenge.

A/N: This was meant to be for kinktober 2023 (I'm so sorry).

Warnings: reader who has trouble orgasming by just penetration alone, p in v sex, cream pie, pet names, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 765

“Nathan please,” you gasp, grabbing hold of the edge of his desk desperately as he pounds into you from behind.

“It’s okay baby, it’s okay, I got you.” He mutters, his voice gravely with the strain of holding back. He grasps your waist, keeping you still as he thrusts inside.

You whine, tears in your eyes from being on the edge for so long. Part of you wishes you hadn’t told Nathan that you couldn’t come by penetration alone, but you didn’t realise quite how much of a personal challenge he would take it as. More fool you.

It feels so good, which is most of the problem. It makes pleasure spike and burn, but it never quite crests, never lets you get completely there.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking wet, you know that?” He growls, spreading his feet wider apart to change the angle.

If you were a little more coherent you’d throw a sarcastic comment back at him, but the time for frontal lobe thinking was long past.

“Please!” The sob breaks in your voice. It was bordering on painful how much you needed it, how desperate you were to come.

Your slick dripped down your thighs, the slap of skin echoing loudly with every thrust.

“You can do it, baby,” he moans deep in his throat, “I know you can, I know you can come.”

“I can’t,” you tense, your muscles aching from tightrope walking you along the precipice.

“You can, you can,” he groans, the sound vibrating through you. “I believe in you.”

It would almost be sweet if you didn’t want to cry. Pleasure twisted along your nerves, pulling them tight but refusing to snap. Sweat dripped down your back, as he moved, trying a different angle, different speed. He’d been trying for what felt like forever. Unable to stop troubleshooting until the problem was fixed.

You gasp, as he thrusts shallowly, tensing, your blood buzzing as he hits the same spot in quick, rapid succession.

“Nathan!”

“There you are, there you are,” he mutters, part of you wants to hit the smug grin off his face that you just know is plastered to it. “Little more.”

It’s good, mind-numbingly good, but it’s just not going to get you there. Your clit throbs, yearning for the smallest touch to send you over the edge.

You sob, your arms weakening. Your left gives out for a second, buckling and you yelp before Nathan grabs you, keeping you from falling and smacking your head on the corner of his desk.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he pulls you close to his chest, kissing your neck greedily as he grinds his hips, keeping his cock deep inside.

His beard scrapes along your skin and you moan, gasping for air. You couldn’t do this, this was too much, you needed to tap out, to-

He squeezes your left breast in his hand while his other runs down your stomach, his fingers rubbing your clit once and then you scream.

Your orgasm hits you so hard, tensing every muscle as you convulse and cry out. Pleasure spikes up your spine, cutting under your skin and making your eyes roll back. You gasp out his name, practically vibrating and pulsing along him as your body finally collapses into pure bliss.

Nathan groans, growling as your walls squeeze and milk him harder than he can ever remember. He shutters, barely managing to thrust one more before he comes deep inside, filling you to the brim.

He holds you close, slumping back into his desk chair and taking you with him.

You let out a little huff of air as you land.

Nathan nuzzles your neck, sucking lightly and whispering sweet words.

“So much for, ‘you can get anyone to come on your cock alone.’” You mumble, but there’s no heat in your words, too blissed out.

He chuckles. “Guess you’re a problem I’m going to keep having to try to solve.” He holds you tight, rubbing your arms soothingly. “You okay?”

You nod.

He kisses your cheek. “Sorry I couldn’t keep going,” he mutters, “you just sound and feel too good for me to not indulge you.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, pulling a face. “Indulge me?”

He grins, “oh yeah,” and slips his hand down between your legs, he brushes his fingers over your clit and you jump, wriggling and moaning softly. “I don’t think I showed here enough attention, did I?”

“Nathan,” you try to say warningly, but it comes out wanton.

His grin widens, “I know you got one more in you.”

Thank you for reading!

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darksigns-exe · 6 months ago

Text

sudden desire - noah sebastian x reader

warnings: handjob (m receiving), subby noah, a little angsty moment near the end

word count: 1.7k

note: a little birthday treat for my dear @deathblacksmoke <3

masterlist | taglist sign-up

You know he’s had a long day as soon as he walks into your apartment. He’s quiet, more so than usually, his shoulders are tense and there’s a persistent frown on his face.

You usher Noah under the shower, telling him to take his time, but that you’ll fix him something to eat in the meantime.

You’ve been friends for a few years now, and you like to think that you’re somewhat close. Noah frequently uses your place as an escape from band related things. When things get a little too much for him at home, he shows up at your place, and you gladly take him in. You know that you can rely on him just as much. No matter what time of day it is — if he’s in town, he’s coming to your rescue. Even if the dilemma is just a late night ice cream craving.

While Noah showers, you fix him a plate of left over lasagna. He tells you about the songs they’re more or less working on. Progress has been slow recently. Apparently, he and Jolly have butted heads over where to take the song, and you can tell that it’s getting to him.

Noah settles against you, while you catch up with the reality show that you’ve started a while ago. Over the course of the episode, he slowly slips further down, until he eventually ends up with his head in your lap. You know that he’d never outright ask for this. And still, he ends up in that spot.

As always, your fingers card through his hair and with every pass Noah seems to relax more and more. You let your fingers scrape against his scalp just enough and, to your surprise, he lets out a breathy little noise. You try to keep your movements steady, hoping that it’ll relax him further.

Noah shifts against you.

You glance down at him. His eyes are fixed on the television, but something tells you that he’s not paying attention to it.

So far, your friendship has never moved past the conventional rules of friendship, but something about the energy tonight makes you feel as if you might be able to push those rules a little.

Your free hand finds its way to his side, fingers tracing across the sliver of skin revealed by his ridden up t-shirt.

Noah draws in a sharp breath when your fingers make contact with his skin.

You feel him tense up under your hand, and you pause immediately, unsure if you’ve gone too far.

He looks up at you then, eyes blown so wide. There’s an unspoken question between you, but you can bring yourself to ask it out loud.

Instead, you carefully resume your touch and slowly let your fingers explore more of his skin.

Noah’s eyes flutter shut as he lets out a sigh.

“Is this okay?” You finally ask.

He drags his eyes open again.

Noah draws in a shaky breath as he gives you a barely there nod.

“Need a little help relaxing, huh?” You ask quietly.

The sound he lets out then shakes you to the core. In all the time that you’ve known Noah, you’ve never seen him like this.

“Please?”

You can’t possibly say no to him then, even if this is entirely uncharted territory. You trust that Noah will tell you when something is off.

Your hand continues to wander along his body. Noah eases back against you, his body becoming lax as you continue to play with his hair.

After a few more minutes of that, you dare to let your hand drift lower. Your fingers skim across his tummy, and you feel the muscles jump and twitch under your touch.

“Can you —” the words catch in his throat, as his breath hitches, “Would it be okay if you — I know we’ve never done this but — could get me off?”

You’ve never heard him sound so hesitant and — shy. You know that this could change things between you, but how are you supposed to say no to him? Noah doesn’t ask for affection, sometimes he just takes it, drapes himself over his friends like a fully grown Bernese mountain dog who still hasn’t realised that he’s not a puppy any more. But you can count the occasions on which he has asked for affection on one hand. And you won’t even need all five fingers.

You need a moment to gather yourself, before you finally give him a reply.

“I can do that.” His eyes light up a little at that, “What do you need?”

“Just your hand is okay.” His voice is so uncharacteristically quiet.

Seeing him so meek is entirely new to you. Not that Noah is usually loud and brash. But today his whole demeanour seems changed, and you really cannot explain what could have brought this on.

As slowly as you can manage, you work your hand behind the waistband of his sweats. He shifts when your fingers brush against the imprint of his cock on his underwear. You almost miss the little sound he makes. As your hand drifts across his length, you discover that he's quite a bit bigger than you thought he’d be. Not that you’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how big your best friend's dick is.

You pull his underwear down just enough to let his cock slip free. The breathless little sound he makes worms its way into your brain.

To make things easier for yourself, you ease down his sweatpants too.

Noah shivers when your hand curls around him.

You set a slow rhythm, returning your attention to the show playing on the TV. You keep your movements steady. Between your hand in his hair and the one on his cock, you feel him relax against you quite quickly.

Noah’s staggered breaths fill your ears.

You glance down at him, finding him with his eyes wrought shut so tightly. His lips are pressed together, keeping himself silent. You’re determined to pull those pretty sounds from him, though.

Noah gasps when you start to stroke him with more intention. You can’t help but smile. Seeing him like this, entirely at your mercy, only makes you want to see how much further you can push him.

You shift your attention towards the head of his cock. Your teasing touch makes him shift and move against you. He looks so pretty writhing under your attention. His hips shift forward, trying to meet your touch.

You halt your movements, but his hips won’t stop. For a few moments, he continues thrusting into your hand. And when he finally notices that you aren’t moving any more, Noah lets out a quiet whine.

His eyes flicker upwards, finding your face.

“Why did you stop?” he asks, eyes so wide.

You drag your hand out of his hair and trace it across his cheek.

“You seemed to be so happy to get yourself off with my hand. Didn’t want to disrupt you.”

His cheeks tinge bright pink then.

“Do you want me to keep going?”

Noah gives a near desperate nod, “Yes. Please.”

You start moving your hand along his length again. This time, his eyes stay fixed on yours. Your movements remain slow and teasing.

The little crease in his brow appears soon after that, but he’s still holding back. Your hand tightens on him, hoping that it’ll draw a proper sound out of him. You think that you’ve almost got him where you want him, but once again Noah’s lips clamp shut.

“You don’t have to be quiet, Noah.” you say, struggling to hide your amusement.

You slowly drag your hand back up along his cock.

He lets out a breathy whine when you tease the head with your thumb. His hips follow thee motion of your hand once again, but this time you don’t stop touching him.

Whatever had stopped Noah from letting you hear him before, seemed to be out of the way now. His pretty whines and moans fill your ears.

You decide to push your luck even further.

“Does that feel good, hm?”

Noah gives a frantic nod in return.

“Be good. Let me hear you.”

“So good.” the words are followed by another gasp.

By now, he’s reduced to pretty whines. Occasionally, you hear a mumbled please from him. You think that he has to be so very close to his climax now. Noah looks so beautifully blissed out.

“Please don’t stop.” Noah whines, looking up at you with tear stained eyes, “Please, I’m so close.”

The way he whines and begs for you truly messes with your head. You’ve never been in a position like this, and really you’ve never imagined yourself here either. But now that you’re here, watching him fall apart at your hands, you feel so very comfortable.

Noah spills his release across your hand a few short moments later. His body stiffens, growing taut as he rides out his high.

When Noah’s sounds eventually quiets down again, you remove your hand from his cock. You reach for the box of tissues on the side table to wipe his release from your skin. And when you look back down at him, you find Noah already looking at you.

He looks so soft and tired, exhausted in the best way possible.

You tuck him back into his underwear and sweats, before you trace a hand across his cheek.

“Feeling better?” you ask softly.

Noah gives a nod, “Thank you. I’m sorry that I kinda sprung this on you.”

“I said yes, didn’t I?” your fingers trail along his jaw, “I could have said no.”

You both fall quiet for a while after that.

Noah eventually breaks the silence again, asking if you’d mind if he stayed here tonight. Naturally, you say yes and a little while later, you’re both trying to get comfortable in your bed. You watch as Noah tosses and turns for a little while, before you decide that you’ve had enough. You shuffle closer to him and wrap your arm around his middle, keeping him close against your chest.

“Try to get some sleep.” you mumble, as he slowly eases into your embrace.

He’s still curled up in front of you when you wake up, and you can’t deny that it fills your heart with an odd kind of warmth. He trusts you so wholeheartedly. Your feelings towards Noah have always been friendly, but suddenly, you’re not so sure of that any more. For the sake of your friendship, you decide to push any of that towards the back of your mind.

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rahuratna · 8 months ago

Text

Blue Moon

Summary: A series of occasions when the JJK sorcerers required your comforting embrace ...

(x Reader)

Featuring: Gojo, Kusakabe, Nanami and Ijichi.

Genre: Fluff, romance, humour.

CW: Suggestive language.

Gojo

"On a scale of 10 to 11, how blue do my eyes look this morning?"

"Satoru, what do you want?"

One arm raised, elbow crooked in nonchalant allure against the doorframe, Satoru blinks in feigned innocence. He shifts such that the torso-hugging shirt he has on slides against each defined line of his pectorals.

"I just wanna know. It's nice to hear how handsome I am, from time to time."

"Seriously?"

He cradles his chin between thumb and forefinger.

"I mean, my jawline alone can cut diamonds - "

"Come here."

He grins, having conveyed his message clearly, if a tad ham-handedly. Elbow dropping from the doorframe, he steps into the bedroom, his tall frame stooping until his nose is level with yours.

If you intended to initiate anything at all, you can shelve that idea. Satoru's arms are already sliding around your waist, drawing you impossibly close. His face drops to your shoulder, blowing a playful puff of air against you before he presses into the crook of your neck.

He feels solid in your arms, present. A cloud of pale hair, silky and fragrant, drifts across your vision. The scent of him is warm, vital, alive. You trace gently across the contours of his back before your embrace finally encloses him, feeling his exhale blow heatedly against your skin.

These are the rare occasions when he seeks you out for reassurance under the guise of mischievous ribbing, when he grounds himself in the staid, reliable nature of your presence, when he needs you.

Slowly parting from him, you glance up at the slightly muted brilliance of his glance, the softness that hovers at the edges of that almost ethereal countenance.

"Ready for work?"

"I am now."

You pat him solidly in the middle of his chest, resting your palm there for a minute before pushing him towards the door. The residual humidity of his breath lingers on your throat.

"Now hurry up and go, before I get sliced with that lethal jawline."

Kusakabe

"And then I said, why the heck can't we just take the safe route, not track through the fucking woods in pitch darkness, with a hurricane lamp that could attract every goddamn curse in the region - "

Atsuya cuts off, the scrape of the blade through the lather on his chin punctuating each point he deemed significant.

" - but of course, they didn't wanna hear it. "That's what sorcerers do, they take the dark path." Ha. They can take that poetic allegory shit and shove it."

You complete the task of drying yourself, fingers tracing lightly over the muscled wall of his back as you pass him, reaching for the hairdryer plugged into the wall just outside.

"Were there any injuries?"

"Miwa got a few scratches, but nothing serious."

He rinses off the blade, white foam circling around the drain of the sink before raising his arm again, skin appearing through the curtain of white on the sharp edges of his cheek.

"I told those kids before, you can't rely on anyone else. In a sticky situation, you gotta analyse the environment, know your opponent, observe their abilities, think and act at the same time - "

The noise of the hairdryer temporarily drowns out his voice, and he turns slightly as he sees your smile. You reach for him with your free arm, hair blowing across your face, and he grunts in amusement.

"I've still got shaving cream all over - "

"And when has that ever stopped you?"

No further convincing is needed because Atsuya's bare chest is now against your back, his arms coming up and around your middle, strong fingers linking securely over your abdomen. The coarse scattering of hair across his torso tickles between your shoulder blades. The heat of him is intoxicating, as always.

You squirm slightly in his grasp as the cool shaving cream smears across your shoulder, where he rests his chin, the dim light of the bathroom temporarily shading the green of his eyes to a subtle olive. Prickles of stubble, tender as the new growth of shoots in spring, sink into your still-damp skin.

You turn off the hairdryer, for now. You can't help yourself when your Atsuya is this close, the clean, warm scent of him wrapping around you, infinitely soft. You press your lips in a trail across his cheek, watching as his eyes close, as the rigidity of his powerful shoulders ease under your ministrations.

Drawing away, you see his eyes flick sideways at you, and you can feel the laugh that reverberates like low thunder through his chest. Your face is smeared with white.

"If you wanted to shave too, you should have just said so."

"What if I said I borrowed one of your shaving blades for my legs?"

"No wonder they're so silky smooth."

"Not as smooth as that tongue of yours."

"And you're the first person who's ever thought so."

Nanami

Kento had been pristine, as always, when he'd left home. You'd seen his clothes prepared the previous day, the suit and shirt hung neatly against the closet, socks laid aside, shoes polished to high shine.

You'd watched him comb back his hair that morning, your fingers gently caressing his undercut as you'd made your way to the kitchen to deal with breakfast. You'd watched the small smile curve the corner of his mouth as he'd fastened his watch in place.

Orderly and somewhat fastidious, was your Kento, punctual to a fault, even in the way he kissed you at exactly 8 am at the door, the Jujutsu Tech vehicle waiting outside to swallow him into its cool, dim interior.

His lips had lingered softly on yours, as always, stealing moments from the impatient clock on the wall behind you. You'd straightened his tie, one palm smoothing the slightly hollowed cheek (which had filled out a little recently with your cooking) and then you'd stepped back and treasured the softening of his eyes before the glasses were placed firmly on the bridge of his nose.

So, it was with a sense of growing concern that you watched the same clock that had governed your separation that morning. He was three hours late, and counting. He'd managed to send a brief message earlier that day, that things were gearing up to be a little troublesome. Still, you worried.

You always had.

At 10 pm, the sound of the key slotting into the latch heralds his return. Kento pushes the door open, a heavy sigh reaching your ears as you approach.

He is no longer pristine.

His hair hangs down to his eyes, greasy and disshevelled, the tie nowhere to be seen. His shirt is stained and crusted with darker patches under the arms and across his chest and back. His pants are ripped and you see the bandages beneath where he must have received treatment already. His tired eyes meet yours, and you hold out your arms to him. A soft laugh sounds against the noise of the pot bubbling on the stove.

"I'm filthy. And covered in - "

"Do you see me complaining? No more questions, love."

He grumbles good naturedly, but you know that he not-so-secretly loves it when you take charge at home.

In one stride, he is within the welcoming bracket of your arms, head drooping tiredly against the softness of your chest. He is tall enough that the position is slightly awkward, but he has anchored himself to you for support, and you brace your knees as you take his weight.

He smells of sweat, dirt and something damp and unpleasant that reminds you distinctly of a sewer. You smile and bury your nose into his hair, the unique, masculine scent of him, of Kento, now cutting through the other distractions.

You hold him like this, cradling his head close, whispering soft endearments meant only for his ears, until the stretch in his spine wears him out. He rouses from your embrace, eyes puffy and a trifle unfocused. Long lashes brush slowly together and he yawns.

"Had a good rest there?"

His voice rumbles delightfully through your frame where you are still pressed together, mellow and slightly slurred within the familiarity of these walls.

"A most peaceful one."

You tap the area where his head had been a few moments ago.

"Would you like to rent this space out, sir? It's available, every evening after five."

There it is, that quiet, mischievous smile, the one that spreads tender crow's feet at the corners of his eyes.

"Only after I've inspected it thoroughly, ma'am."

Ijichi

You pause in the doorway. Kiyotaka is pacing the courtyard outside, phone balanced between shoulder and ear. He flips aggravatedly through the folder in his hands.

"Yes, yes, I understand - No - I will - Listen, please. Yes, company cars are expensive, I know better than anyone. However, forcing a trainee to shoulder the full burden of compensation just because he - "

He notices you, out of the corner of his eye. You wave to him and gesture to the files in your hand. He gives a harried nod before a frown marrs his brow.

"No, no, I don't think the fact that he saw a spirit and screamed like a little girl, as you put it, affects his level of accountability in any way. Our policy states that - "

In two quick paces, you reach him, snatching the phone out of his hand. Barking sharply at the person on the other end, you complete his statement.

"Our policy clearly indicates that trainees are exempt from damages incurred during any coursework. And that includes driving. Goodbye."

Ending the call, you huff out an annoyed breath before handing the phone gently back to him. He sighs and you see his glance hover sideways, alighting on the files you're holding. You dismiss his concerns with a wave of your hand.

"Oh, these can wait. Don't worry. How about we go in and have some coffee?"

"Actually ..."

"Yes?"

"I'dratherhaveahug."

"Pardon?"

"I'd ... rather have a hug."

"Oh!"

Your eyes widen slightly as you drop the files haphazardly on a nearby bench. Ijichi eyes them worriedly.

"Wait, what if the wind - "

"Then we'll say Fushiguro's dogs ate them."

"Eh?"

You laugh at his bewildered expression before tugging lightly on his tie, drawing him close. A flush steals over his cheeks, as you lean in and brush your nose against his, fingers slipping from the tie to the surprisingly strong line of his shoulders.

"Here's the hug you ordered."

"W - Well, yes, but let's be - "

He cuts off as you wrap your arms tightly around his neck, one hand sliding stealthily under his coat to caress his back. You feel his Adam's apple bob as he returns the gesture, relaxing slightly into the embrace as his breathing evens out, stirring your hair slightly.

You both stay this way for some time, as the wind whistles in the corners between the statues all around you, mercifully leaving the files intact. You lean back and are about to release him when his hand clasps firmly on the small of your back, and he dips you, smiling as your delighted laugh echoes within the enclosed yard.

As he draws you back up into a brief kiss, you marvel at his sudden bravery. But then again, this is what you love most about Kiyotaka. As shy, anxious, stressed and fatigued as he is (mostly), there was a side to him that always warmed you pleasantly when your thoughts drifted to him.

He was the man who brought you regional treats from wherever his job happened to take him, who made sure that you were safe at all hours of the day, who would pursue you with an umbrella when you'd forgotten yours, who ensured that you'd eaten on time, even when he was swamped with work.

As you separate, you see that in spite of his daring, debeonair action, his ears have turned a startling shade of scarlet. You pinch one of them lightly and smirk.

"Looks like you've been eating spicy food again."

He clears his throat.

"The only spicy thing I've consumed is ... you."

Slapping a hand against your chest in feigned shock, you gasp theatrically.

"Why, Kiyotaka! How positively scandalous!"

A rare grin crosses his tired features.

"If you really want to see scandalous, you should have a look at Yaga's internet search history."

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hanasnx · 1 year ago

Text

nose-riding.

MINORS DNI 18+

"Don't get shy on me now," HAN SOLO chides, those big hands clamped on your thighs to make sure you stay pinned where you belong. Your hesitance is demonstrated through the tremble in your legs, wrestling with the instinct to hover over his mouth while his strength overpowers you, muscling you into your seat. “the fuck are you going?”

“Han, give me a second.” you plea through a whimper, but he yanks you down, his lips kissing the ones between your legs as the roughness of his shaved face scrape your soft tissue.

“Mm-mm,” he denies, muffled by your flesh as he mouths your folds, enveloping them in wet warmth that makes your eyes flutter. Thick arms lock around your thighs, cords of muscle swollen atop your lap, taking advantage of your position to jostle you gently over him. A rhythm is set, one your body adapts to within seconds, obeying his silent command to grind. The new sensation that comes with wetting his entire face with your slick tightens your grip on the headboard, releasing a burst of air in a gasp as you chase that growing feeling in the pit of your stomach. Encouraging groans sound underneath you, seemingly enjoying this just as much as you, heightening in volume as your enthusiasm becomes clearer.

Juices drip down his chin and the sides of his face as you ride it, listening to the sounds of sex fill the room as he continues to liven your efforts with his flexing biceps, rocking you on him with fervor that you meet with eager cooperation. He ducks his head, straining his neck from the weight of a body on it, but he ignores the pain, reaching his tongue to circle your hole, shoving it in. A sharp keen is drawn from you, one so vulnerable it rips you out of the trance. Another wave of heat is swift to bloom on your cheeks, and briefly you slow to cover your mouth in embarrassment. It's reprimanded as quickly as it occurred, Han's massive hand swatting the fat of your ass to imprint the colored shape of his scold. You yelp, jumping forward that brushes your clit against the tip of his nose.

The feeling introduced to you shoots electricity up your spine, and you follow it. You aim your hips just as he angles his head, reading your mind. He nuzzles your bud, puffy from stimulation, as his tongue traces the outline of your sex. One of those powerful and low moans of his, vibrating you, is enough to corral you to the edge. Your hips quicken, grinding down, desiring more and more pressure as your swirl your clit around his nose. You can feel him surge as he tugs you down—it's a wonder how he's not suffocating yet—desperate lips latching onto your delicate tissues, swiping side to side on your sex, painting himself with your new layer of cream. One hand releases the headboard to fist his hair to which he groans obscenely about. Your fist tightens, digging him into your hungry sex, letting him devour you as you direct him.

Since you're going at it on your own, he unlocks you, those callused hands running up your body, molding your pretty flesh in his grasp as he wanders your torso and chest. He gives your tits a hearty squeeze, pinching your nips between his thick fingers, before running down your back so he can get at your ass, groping you.

"Just like that, Han, almost there, just like that," you whisper, winded from effort, riding his face without a shred of inhibition. Your clit swipes across the bridge of his nose, hitting the bone, and your cry out as the coil snaps. Sweet juices flood, pouring out of you, drowning Han just like he wanted. Arms wrap around your hips, keeping you moving while your orgasm takes you over, squeezing your eyes shut as your body locks up like its got a mind of its own. He's not gonna let you chicken out, forcing you to keep grinding, overstimulating your abused clit. Even your fist banging haphazardly against the headboard, nails of your other hand digging into his scalp doesn't deter him. Choked noises of pain and pleasure release from deep within your gut, and the violent spurts of your pussy gradually slow to a stop. Your hole flutters, and carefully he lifts your leg for you, pushing you to lean to one side so he can extract himself. He envelopes you in his arms, tucking you into his chest as you breathe hard.

#indy: drabbles #ch: han #han solo drabble #han solo smut #han solo x reader #han solo x fem reader #han solo x you #han solo x y/n #han solo imagine #han solo fic #han solo fanfic #han solo fanfiction #han smut #han x reader #han x you #reader insert

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kittenintheden · 1 year ago

Text

music to my ears

just a little rainy day eargasm, as one does.

Rating: E Word Count: >1k Content: 18+, elf ears are erogenous zones, touchless orgasm, ear kissing, ASMR, cream dem jeans

---

Rain patters gently on the roof of the tent, the sound a soothing end to an arduous day. Astarion and Tav lounge together purely for the physical affection of it, her arms encircling his shoulders from behind as he sits between her legs, his back pressed up against her.

He still can't quite believe she's agreed to this. No sex? He's never lived in a world like that. But she not only seems willing, she seems eager to discover a dozen new kinds of intimacy.

As if she senses his train of thought, she puts her lips right up to his ear and says, “This okay?”

He hums and arches, feeling a pleasant tingle spread across his scalp and down the back of his neck.

“Is what okay?”

“Are ears okay?” she whispers.

Another wave of tingles passes over him and he grins lazily. “They’re above the waist, aren’t they?” he responds, leaning to the side to give her better access because hells, it really does feel good.

He can feel her mouth move as she hugs him tighter. “Remember you can always ask me to stop if it gets to be too much.”

He chuckles. “What could you possibly do that could be too-”

But then he’s arching again with a gasp as she runs the tip of her tongue up his antihelix all the way to the tip. The wet warmth sends a wash of pleasure straight through him, filling his chest like bath steam and continuing southward to pool behind his navel. His eyes go half-lidded and he swallows.

“Still okay?” she whispers.

Immediately he nods and says, “Yes. I like that. I like that very much.”

“Good.”

He feels her tongue draw over him again, this time behind his ear from base to tip. Then she uses the blunt edges of her teeth to softly scrape back down the outer ridge and he only barely holds back his whine. It’s soothing and erotic in the same moment, contentment and arousal rising in him like the tide.

Inside his trousers, he feels himself growing hard, and it’s not unwelcome. His feet dig into the ground beneath them as he pushes himself back into her, seeking more contact, pressing his back firmly into her chest, and he feels her grin as she places an open kiss to his ear lobe. Brings it into her mouth, gives it a gentle suck.

“Ah,” he breathes, squirming against her as his cock goes fully hard under her attention.

From her position, her own eyes go lustful and glazed as she looks down the length of his body and sees the ridge of him swell and strain against his clothes. Gently, she brings up one hand to play with his hair as she continues to tease his ear with tooth and tongue.

“Pretty,” she whispers in between. “How pretty you are, going weak under me. Who knew your ears were so sensitive.”

He grips her legs tight to either side of him and bites his lip, trying to clear his head enough to respond. “You’re half-elven,” he gasps. “You know exactly… hah… what you’re doing.”

“I do,” she laughs softly. “And you know I know.”

The stimulation continues to coax the flame in his gut, the tension coiling deliciously, making him shudder to the core. She flicks her tongue over his tragus and swirls it into the triangular dip near the pointed tip and he’s panting, panting, nearly writhing against her, using his heels for leverage to push back. His cock twitches, sensitive and untouched, but he feels a crest building nonetheless.

“Would you like to come, dearest?” she whispers right into the center of his mind and he squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers.

He nods, the movement jerky.

“Then come,” she breathes, giving him a hard nip and then a final soothing, firm lick.

His mouth falls open and he all but collapses against her as his hips arch up off the ground and he creams himself, his spend spilling from him in staccato bursts that feel like a brush on the underside of heaven with every pulse. When he’s done, his muscles go slack and he blinks, bleary-eyed, only mildly annoyed somewhere deep in the back of his brain that he needs to get down to the river in short order to wash the trousers he just soiled.

She squeezes him tightly from behind. “Still okay?” she says softly.

“Hnnnnngggggyeah,” he responds.

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion smut #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #astarion x f!tav #astarion x female tav #kitten writes

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creepinonmen · 3 months ago

Text

A Dark Night in Cody's Indiana Home

Cody Moseley, a 29-year-old straight, married cowboy and top Chevrolet car salesman in Elkhart, Indiana, pushed open the heavy oak door to his two-story home, the hinges groaning softly under the weight. The October air outside was sharp and biting, carrying the damp, earthy scent of fallen maple leaves, their fiery reds and oranges crunching under his boots as he stepped inside. The faint, comforting aroma of Emily’s lavender candles greeted him, mingling with the musty undertone of the old wool rug in the entryway, its fibers worn thin from years of footsteps. The house was a hollow shell of silence—his wife, Emily, and their daughters, 5-year-old Clara and 3-year-old Hannah, were in Fort Wayne for the weekend, visiting Emily’s parents. Cody stood tall in his signature outfit: a cream-colored button-up shirt with thin brown vertical stripes that clung to his broad shoulders, the cotton slightly damp with sweat from a long day; fitted Wrangler jeans faded at the thighs, the denim rough against his skin; tan cowboy boots with scuffed toes and worn heels that clicked softly on the hardwood; a wide leather belt with a tarnished silver buckle engraved with a longhorn steer, the metal cool against his waist; and a black Stetson hat that cast a shadow over his weathered, sun-kissed face, the felt brim slightly curled from years of wear. A simple gold wedding band glinted on his left hand, warm from his skin, and a Timex watch with a cracked leather strap ticked softly on his wrist, the faint sound a steady rhythm in the stillness.

His loyal English Setter, Rusty, lay sprawled across the beige couch in the living room, his russet fur warm and slightly musky, the faint scent of wet dog lingering from a morning romp in the dewy grass. Rusty’s amber eyes flicked toward Cody, his tail thumping lazily against the couch cushions, a plush bunny toy with one ear chewed to a frayed stump lying on the cream-colored carpet nearby, its synthetic fur matted with drool. Cody had just finished a grueling 12-hour shift at the dealership, where he’d closed a deal on a 2025 Chevy Silverado for a local farmer, the man’s calloused handshake rough against Cody’s palm, the faint smell of tractor oil clinging to his flannel shirt. Cody’s muscles ached, his lower back stiff from standing on the showroom floor, the faint tang of his own sweat mixing with the lingering scent of the dealership’s pine air freshener on his clothes. A quiet pride warmed his chest as he imagined telling Emily about the commission, her soft laugh echoing in his mind. He tossed his keys onto the oak entry table, the jingle sharp and metallic, reverberating in the stillness, and headed toward the kitchen, his boots thudding softly on the hardwood floor, the sound muffled by the rug. He craved a cold Bud Light from the fridge, picturing the icy condensation dripping down the bottle, the bitter fizz on his tongue as he settled in to watch the Colts game on the DVR, the leather couch creaking under his weight.

He didn’t make it past the living room. A faint creak—like the groan of an old floorboard under a stealthy step—echoed from the hallway leading to the bedrooms, the sound sharp and jarring, like a knife scraping against bone. Cody froze, his breath catching in his throat, the air suddenly thick with the metallic taste of fear. Rusty’s ears perked up, his amber eyes darting toward the sound, the faint whine in his throat barely audible, his warm fur bristling slightly. Cody’s hand instinctively reached for the .45 pistol he usually kept in a holster at his hip, but his fingers brushed only the rough denim of his jeans, the fabric cool against his clammy skin—he’d left the gun locked in the safe in the garage, the cold steel of the safe door flashing in his memory, a decision that now felt like a death sentence. Before he could call out, two figures emerged from the shadows of the hallway, their black ski masks and dark clothing stark against the soft blue walls of the living room, which Emily had painted last spring, the faint chemical scent of the paint still lingering in the corners. One of them gripped a snub-nosed revolver, its matte black barrel pointed directly at Cody’s chest, the metal glinting faintly in the light of the entryway chandelier, its crystals casting fractured rainbows on the walls. The other clutched a black duffel bag, its zipper half-open, revealing the dull sheen of a crowbar and a pair of wire cutters nestled inside, the faint smell of rust and oil wafting from the bag.

"Hands up, cowboy!" the gunman barked, his voice low and muffled through the mask, carrying the faint rasp of a smoker, the stale scent of cigarettes clinging to his clothes, mixing with the sharp tang of cheap cologne. Cody’s hands shot into the air, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached, a storm of fear and fury swirling in his chest, his heart pounding like a war drum, the pulse thundering in his ears. His mouth went dry, the taste of bile rising in his throat as his mind raced—Emily’s heirloom jewelry, the small safe in their bedroom closet with their emergency cash, the girls’ piggy banks shaped like cartoon pigs, stuffed with quarters and crumpled dollar bills, the faint jingle of coins echoing in his memory as he pictured Clara’s tiny hands dropping them in, her tongue poking out in concentration.

The second thief, taller and broader, his shoulders straining against his black hoodie, gestured toward the hallway with a gloved hand, the leather creaking softly, the faint scent of it sharp and bitter. "Move. Master bedroom. Now." The cold steel of the revolver pressed into Cody’s lower back, the barrel digging into the base of his spine, the metal icy through the thin cotton of his shirt, bruising his skin with every step. He stumbled slightly, his boots scuffing against the hardwood, the sound a harsh scrape as he passed the girls’ bedroom. Through the cracked door, Clara’s unicorn nightlight cast a faint pink glow, illuminating a pile of stuffed animals on her bed—a fluffy panda with matted fur, a one-eyed teddy bear with a missing button eye, and a glittery dragon Hannah always dragged around by the tail, its scales shimmering faintly, the faint scent of baby shampoo clinging to the fabric. The sight twisted Cody’s heart, the ache in his chest sharp and raw, fueling his rage as he was marched toward the master bedroom at the end of the hall, the air growing heavier with every step, the faint hum of the furnace in the background a low, ominous drone.

The bedroom door stood ajar, revealing the neatly made bed with a patchwork quilt Emily’s grandmother had sewn, its faded squares of blue and yellow soft under the lamplight, the stitching rough and uneven, a testament to years of love. The pillows were fluffed, the corners of the quilt tucked with military precision—Emily’s handiwork—the faint scent of her rosewater perfume lingering on the fabric. A small vase of dried wildflowers sat on the nightstand, their brittle petals trembling as Cody was shoved inside, the faint rustle of the flowers like whispers in the dark. "Get on the bed, face down, head toward the foot," the gunman ordered, his voice sharp as a blade, cutting through the silence. Cody hesitated, his hazel eyes narrowing as he glared at the intruders, his chest heaving with shallow breaths, the air hot and thick in his lungs. The gun pressed harder into his spine, the metal bruising his skin, the pain a sharp jolt that made him wince, leaving him no choice. He climbed onto the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight, the springs groaning softly, and lay on his stomach, his boots hanging off the edge near the footboard carved with ivy patterns, the wood smooth and cool against his shins. His hands were pulled behind his back, the position forcing his shoulders to strain, his fingers brushing the rough denim of his jeans, the fabric damp with sweat.

The gunman knelt on the floor in front of Cody, his masked face inches away, the faint smell of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne stronger now, mixing with the sour tang of his breath, the heat of it brushing Cody’s face. His eyes, visible through the mask’s slits, were a cold, pale blue, glinting with malice, the whites bloodshot and veined. With a mocking smirk, he snatched the Stetson off Cody’s head, the felt brim brushing Cody’s forehead, revealing his short, sandy-blond hair matted with sweat, a few strands sticking to his skin, the salt of his sweat stinging his eyes. "Nice hat," the gunman sneered, tossing it onto the bed beside Cody, where it landed brim-up next to the quilted pillow, the black felt stark against the soft fabric, the faint scent of leather and hay clinging to it. Meanwhile, the second thief dropped the duffel bag onto the floor with a dull thud, the sound muffled by the thick cream carpet, the fibers soft and slightly gritty underfoot. He pulled out a thick coil of coarse, white nylon rope, its fibers frayed and stained with dark, unidentifiable spots, the texture rough and splintery as it brushed against Cody’s skin. He began tying Cody’s wrists behind his back, looping the rope tightly, the knots digging into his skin like tiny teeth, the coarse fibers scraping his wrists raw, leaving red welts that throbbed with every heartbeat. He moved to Cody’s ankles, yanking the rope with brutal force, the sound of the fibers creaking under tension sharp in the quiet room, pulling his limbs together until his back arched painfully in an extreme hog-tie. The ropes bit deep, cutting off circulation, the numbness creeping into his fingers and toes, his shoulders burning as if they might pop from their sockets, his chest pressed into the mattress, the quilt’s stitching imprinting into his cheek, the faint scent of laundry detergent and Emily’s perfume a cruel reminder of home.

Cody’s face contorted, his teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached, the pressure sending a sharp pain through his temples, beads of sweat rolling down his temple and dripping onto the quilt, the fabric soaking up the salty droplets. Through the pain, he growled, "I’m gonna kill you both when I find out who you are. You’re dead men walking—I swear it on my girls’ lives." His voice trembled, the fear beneath his bravado seeping through, his hazel eyes blazing with defiance even as tears of frustration stung their corners, the salt burning his skin, his throat raw from the effort. The thieves just laughed, their voices cold and hollow, echoing off the bedroom walls like the cackle of hyenas, the sound grating against Cody’s ears, making his skin crawl.

The second thief, finishing the last knot with a hard yank that made Cody wince, the rope creaking as it tightened, slapped Cody’s ass hard through the tight Wrangler jeans, the sound a sharp crack in the quiet room, the sting radiating through his skin, the denim doing little to cushion the blow. His gloved hand lingered, squeezing the denim, the pressure bruising Cody’s skin beneath, the leather of the glove cold and slick against the fabric. In a deep, baritone voice that rumbled like distant thunder, he chuckled, "Hey, man, we got time for a little fun before we go, don’t we?" The implication hit Cody like a sledgehammer, his blood turning to ice in his veins, a cold sweat breaking out across his body, the chill of it making him shiver despite the heat of his fear. He understood exactly what the thief meant, and the thought of being violated in his own home, on the bed where he and Emily had made love, the mattress still bearing the faint imprint of their bodies, where they’d whispered dreams of their future while the girls slept down the hall, filled him with a primal, gut-wrenching terror, his stomach churning, the taste of bile sharp on his tongue.

Cody thrashed against the ropes, his body contorting in the hog-tie, his wrists and ankles burning where the coarse fibers scraped his skin raw, the welts now oozing tiny droplets of blood, the coppery scent mixing with the sweat on his skin. His back screamed in agony, the arch so severe he felt his spine might snap, the muscles in his shoulders and thighs trembling with the strain, his boots scraping against the footboard, the wood slick with his sweat, leaving faint streaks on the polished surface. "Please, don’t do this," he begged, his voice cracking, raw with desperation, the words muffled against the quilt, the fabric damp against his lips. "Don’t rape me—I’ve got a wife, kids—Clara and Hannah—they need me. Take anything you want, just leave me alone!" Tears spilled down his cheeks, hot and bitter, soaking into the quilt, the salt stinging his skin, his chest heaving with sobs, the air hot and thick in his lungs, the faint taste of lavender from the quilt a cruel mockery of safety.

The gunman slapped his gloved hand over Cody’s mouth, the leather cold and rough against his lips, smelling faintly of motor oil and gunpowder, the texture gritty against his skin. "Relax, cowboy," he said, his tone dripping with malice, his pale blue eyes glinting with sadistic glee, the whites bloodshot and veined, the heat of his breath brushing Cody’s face through the mask. "We don’t have time for that. But you’re not gonna like the alternative." He reached into the duffel bag, pulling out a clear plastic bag—the kind you’d use for storing winter clothes, its surface scratched and slightly yellowed, the plastic crinkling like dry leaves, the sound sharp and grating. He also grabbed a roll of silver duct tape, the adhesive side gleaming in the lamplight, the faint chemical scent of it sharp in the air, making Cody’s eyes water. Cody’s eyes widened in horror, his muffled screams vibrating against the gunman’s hand, the leather muffling the sound, his chest heaving as panic clawed at his throat, the air hot and stale in his lungs. The thief wrapped the duct tape tightly around Cody’s mouth, the tape pulling at his skin, yanking out a few hairs from his stubble, the sharp sting making him flinch, the adhesive stench overwhelming, the tape sealing his lips shut, the pressure making his jaw ache.

The second thief held the plastic bag open, its edges crinkling, the sound like the rustle of dead leaves, while the gunman slipped it loosely over Cody’s head, the plastic cool and slick against his sweat-slicked skin, the faint static of it clinging to his face. They secured it around his neck with more duct tape, the roll squeaking as they tore off strip after strip, the sound a high-pitched whine, wrapping it tightly until the bag was a suffocating shroud, the tape pulling at the skin of his neck, the adhesive burning where it stuck. The air inside was hot and stale, heavy with the metallic tang of Cody’s own fear, the faint taste of blood on his tongue from where he’d bitten his lip in panic. His breathing quickened, shallow and frantic, the plastic clinging to his face with every desperate inhale, outlining his open mouth in a grotesque mask of terror, the condensation of his breath fogging the inside, the plastic sticking to his nostrils, the lack of oxygen making his head swim, his vision blurring at the edges, the room spinning in a haze of blue and yellow.

The thieves dragged the wooden chair from Emily’s vanity—its white paint chipped from years of use, the faint scent of her rosewater perfume clinging to the wood—to the foot of the bed, the legs scraping against the carpet with a low groan, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. They sat down, their laughter fading into something darker, more perverse, their gloved hands moving as they pleasured themselves to the sight of Cody’s suffering, the faint creak of their leather gloves a sickening rhythm. The plastic crinkled with every gasp, the sound amplified in the otherwise silent room, a sickening counterpoint to Cody’s struggle, the faint hum of the furnace in the background a low, ominous drone. His body convulsed, his wrists and ankles straining against the ropes, the knots unyielding, the coarse fibers cutting deeper, the pain a white-hot fire, his fingers clawing uselessly at the air, the numbness in his hands and feet spreading like ice. The hog-tie kept him immobile, his back arched so tightly his spine creaked, the muscles in his shoulders and thighs trembling, his chest heaving with shallow, oxygen-deprived breaths, the quilt beneath him soaked with sweat, the damp fabric sticking to his skin. The plastic stuck to his face, the condensation fogging his vision, his hazel eyes wide and bloodshot, the whites veined with red, his pupils dilated with terror. His muffled cries grew weaker, his body jerking in futile spasms, the air in the bag growing thinner, his lungs burning, the pain a searing heat in his chest. With one final, shuddering gasp, the plastic sealed against his face like a second skin, the crinkle of it deafening in his ears, and he went still, his body limp on the bed, his head tilted at an unnatural angle, the duct tape around his neck glinting in the lamplight, the faint scent of lavender from the quilt a cruel, lingering ghost.

The thieves stood, zipping up their pants, the sound a harsh rasp, their faces unreadable behind the masks, though their eyes gleamed with a sick satisfaction, the pale blue of the gunman’s eyes cold and unfeeling. They grabbed the duffel bag—now stuffed with Emily’s pearl necklace, the pearls cool and smooth, the gold locket Cody had given her for their fifth anniversary, engraved with their initials, the metal warm from being worn, and the $2,000 in cash from the safe in the closet, the bills still crisp from the bank, the faint scent of ink clinging to them. They also took Cody’s Timex watch, its second hand still ticking, the leather strap warm and slightly damp, and his wedding band, prying it off his lifeless finger with a grunt, the gold warm from his skin, the faint scent of his sweat clinging to it. Without a word, they slipped out of the house, the back door creaking as they disappeared into the Indiana night, the maple leaves rustling in their wake, the air cold and sharp, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke from a neighbor’s chimney. Rusty, sensing the absence of his master’s heartbeat, began to howl mournfully, the sound raw and haunting, echoing through the empty house, the faint scent of Cody’s sweat and fear lingering in the air. Down the hall, Clara’s unicorn nightlight flickered, its pink glow casting long shadows over the stuffed animals on her bed, the faint scent of baby shampoo a silent witness to the horror that had unfolded in the home.

#gay #redneck #country boy #cowboy boots #wrangler jeans #tight wranglers

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