#one has wetting one has noncon...
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I have yet to see Kpop demon hunters today but I am craving for Jinu smut, But also I don’t like noncon/dubcon in the slightest but if this feels like it so be it lol, So may I request Jinu x huntrix member fem reader? When reader decides to investigate the saja boys by herself, The rest of the girls are obviously worried about her safety but she tells them that she’ll be okay, Cut to a couple hours later with Jinu absolutely pounding reader from behind and making her cum nonstop just as he wanted to ever since he layed eyes on her.
I can do dub-con. I don't think people realize it's a very common kink.
Pairing: Jinu x Fem!Reader
Tags: nsfw, smut, dub-con, rough sex, creampie, body betrayal, enemies who fuck, possessive sex, biting, hate sex
Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions
A/N: This movie now lives rent free in my head.
You should have listened to your friends, you should have never went after Jinu all by yourself, you should have brought backup. Now you're bent over his bed, getting your pussy pounded raw and hard from behind. "Either you and yours are getting sloppy or you're really stupid for thinking you could defeat us on your own. Or even just defeat me. Or, hah, maybe, you came here hoping this would happen."
As soon as you heard him suggest such a thing you turned your head to glare at him. Jinu grinned, his smile as demonic as it always was, no longer hidden behind that pretty facade. With your arms pinned and held behind your back you could barely move, and whenever you did you just took his cock, over and over. It was driving you insane.
"Go fuck yourself, you goddamn bastard." You gritted through your teeth, biting back your moans as his thrusts kept getting faster and faster, deeper, almost like he was trying to punish you for acting foolish. "I would never stoop so low... to want someone like you." A high pitched moan escaped from your lips when you felt the sting of his hand on your ass.
"You say that, demon hunter, but your cunt is drooling for me, so tight and wet. Hear that, how sloppy and slutty you pussy gets with demon cock in it?" He slammed his cock into you, in and out, making your legs tremble and your vision blurry. "Be honest, it'll feel so much better."
You shook your head as you felt yourself blushing. You hated it, how good Jinu's cock felt inside of you, how good this felt and yet it was so wrong. You hated him, you should hate this too so why was your body working against you in this moment? Why couldn't you tell him to go to hell like you so many times before?
"Better, that's a good girl. No more fighting me. Don't worry, this can be our little secret, no one has to know how you whore yourself out for me." His body pressed fully against your, his demonic fangs nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck and shoulder. "I won't tell if you won't, demon hunter. You got my word." The glare you gave him was challenging, you hoped threatening but that was impossible with the filthy sounds of skin slapping against skin and your pussy taking his hard cock while you moaned.
"Your word... means nothing to me." You hissed, putting as much venom and hatred in your voice as you could have. He didn't seem pleased with that, he bared his long teeth at you and you hated how your pussy clenched around him when you saw them.
"Really? Fine, makes no difference to me. But see how your team feels when you come back to them, with your cunt freshly fucked and filled with demon cum." You watched him transform from his human form into his demon form, and god, his cock felt even better like this. "I don't care if you believe me or not but I'm gonna make sure you never forget this moment. The moment when you came from being fucked by me, because of my cock, because I made you feel so good!"
With one final thrust he pushed both your bodies over the edge, and you stopped yourself just in time to not scream his name. You didn't want to feed his ego any more than you already have. Jinu laughed maniacally as he fucked his seed deep into your pussy, the wet, messy noises only adding to his feral, wild nature.
"Fuck, yes, oh, wanted this... ever since I first saw you. Wanted to carve the shape of my cock into your cunt. Make you mine." He ended with a long kiss on your shoulder, still holding you while your body trembled and your vision swam. "Mine, only mine from now on." You expected him to be rough as he pulled out but he wasn't, he was slow, stopping as he heard you hiss and whimper. "Now that's a pretty little sight."
You heard a flash of a camera and turned to see Jinu smirking with his phone in his hand, his cock still out, dripping with the combination of your release. "You...! Gross! You have no shame!"
Jinu stuck his tongue out at you, "A little keepsake for me. To tide me over until our next time."
An unpleasant, or maybe pleasant, shiver went through you at the suggestion of a next time with him. "That won't happen. I'm going to bring you to your knees before then!"
"Oh? If you wanted me on my knees all you had to do was ask. I'm very good with my tongue. I can show you next time." His words and lewd gestures made your stomach tie into knots, and an uncomfortable heat form. "I could do it now. Seems like you might need some cleaning up."
Furious you stood up on your wobbly legs and slapped him. It was pathetic, that this was the best you could muster in this moment, but it also felt good to catch him off guard. "You're dead next time I see you."
Despite the slap he grinned at you, licking his lips, "Looking forward to it, my demon hunter." He winked at before he snapped his fingers next to your ear. For a moment you didn't understand what he did, then your vision started blurring. You tried to hit him again but ended up collapsing against him. "Let's get you somewhere where the others will find you." Barely coherent you thought you felt his lips press against your forehead before you fully passed out.
#jinu x reader#jinu imagine#jinu headcanons#jinu smut#jinu x you#jinu x female reader#jinu#jinu kpdh#jinu kdh#jinu kpop demon hunters#smut drabble#smut blurb#x female reader
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18+ | noncon. implied kidnapping.
In retrospect, camping all by yourself in a national park teaming with bears was probably high on the list of "dumbest things you've ever done in your life." But in your (shaky) defence—it really wasn't the wildlife you had to worry about anyway, but rather man.
In particular, a man.
That surly, gruff park ranger who happened to look just like a grizzly at first glance. The same one who found you all alone in your pitiful little tent, flashlight clutched in your trembling hands as you stared at him through the crack in the opening, visibly relieved that the thing you heard stomping around outside wasn't a bear, and quickly decided that pampered city princesses ought to be taught a lesson on what survival out here really means.
But he's merciful, he claims, and gives you a headstart to try and escape him (and the thick, unmistakable bulge in his pants, the dangerous look in his eye; naked hunger—that same, dead-eyed thing you'd seen in a big grizzly as he charged an elk earlier in the day) before he takes his prize.
And so, you run.
Except making good decisions doesn't really seem to be your strongest point.
In an instant, something is slamming against your back before you even make it halfway up the hill, pushing you to the ground on your belly. A warm, thick body following down after you. Crushing you into the soil.
You're too dazed by the impact to struggle when your hips are lifted. Pants, panties shoved down. Warm, rough hands cupping between your thighs, groaning at what he finds (all wet for me, mm, sweetheart?), and when you do, finally, begin to struggle you're met with an immovable wall. The strength of a man with more power in the single hand he keeps anchored against the back of your neck than you seem to have in your whole body—
"Don't know a thing, do you, sweetheart?" He growls, pushing your cheek deeper into the softened soil. "Not supposed to run from a bear, love."
Oh. Right.
Before you can squeak out an okay or sorry or please let me go, your knees are shoved wider apart by his thick, hairy thighs as he slots himself between your legs. Mounting his spoiled little prize on the cold, damp ground like a beast.
"Dangerous animals out here," is all he rasps before he's shoving inside of you, groaning about finally claiming the sweet little prey he's been diligently stalking through the park since he first laid eyes on you in the visitors centre. "You don't have a lick of sense in you, do you, sweetheart? No. Didn't even notice me followin' you. You need somethin'—someone—to protect you from dangerous predators, mm. And a firm hand to teach you a lesson."
He pries you open on his fat cock before you can spit out the dirt in your mouth to refute that claim, rutting into you like an animal on the cold ground in the middle of a national park as he makes good on his promise to show you what happens when you try and run from predators. A lesson that tastes like geosmin. Peat. And salty, tobacco-stained fingers. And aches like a broken bone after he set a maddening pace behind you, jerking your body against the upturned soil. Small rocks, and twigs digging into your skin.
When he's finally done, pulling out of you with a bullish grunt and landing a heavy, satisfied slap against the stinging cheek of your ass, he gathers your limp, sore body up into his arms, and brings you back to the lookout tower he calls home (temporarily).
A stop along the way, he assures you before setting out to teach his spoiled city princess more "survival skills"—like how to swallow his cock the way he likes, and how to take him as deeply, and as often, as he wants to give it to you.
(and often really is the foregone conclusion; it's mating season, after all.)
And as he pulls you down to lay against his furry, damp chest, cock softening inside of you (a thing you'll just have to get used to, sweetheart because he has no intentions of pulling out until he's ready to), and starts purring about mates and cubs and how lucky you were that he found you first before anything else had a chance to sniff you out, you think maybe you should have just gone to New York instead.
#very obsessed with the idea of being hunted by park ranger John Price in a national park#captain john price#captain john price x reader#john price x reader#price x reader#pricedrabbles
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♡ TW: nsfw, noncon, piercings, sex-trafficking, reader has big breasts...
♡ FEM reader
Thinking about being a sociopathic billionaires sex-trafficked dungeon whore…
You’re his cheap slut—his dirty little secret he keeps down in his filthy basement under lock and key. He might go on boring dates with boring gold-digging prudes to maintain appearances, but even as he fucks them, he’ll roll his eyes at their fake moans, trying to block it out and imagine you—and how he knows you’re waiting for him at home, like a pet.
He’s got intense fetishes—pierced your tits, belly button, tongue, nose, clit, and labia on the first day of your imprisonment. Your nose hook is a ring big enough to fit his cock through when he fucks your throat. Your tongue has a whole of five silver bells and a sixth ring at the very tip, which he often hooks up to a chain so he can lead you around like a panting bitch in heat instead of using a boring old collar.
No, he likes keeping your neck free so he can grip it himself, hard enough to leave his mark on the skin—fresh bruises every new day. He keeps your nipples on a shared leash anyway, so he has plenty of things to yank if he wants to, which he does.
Instead of keeping you chained by your ankle, he keeps you chained by your clit. The chain is skinny and could probably be broken if ripped hard enough, but you wouldn’t dare—any harsh movement feels as though your poor pearl is being pulled off. And with your arms in a harness behind your back, there’s not much left to do but lie there on the sweaty, sex-drenched mattress and wait for your captor to return.
And he does—every day—without fault.
When he comes downstairs, you greet him with your tongue out, nuzzling your face against his crotch just like a puppy, licking him through the fabric of his italian suit until it’s bulbous and fat and dripping with your drool. You never talk unless spoken to, but you always keep your mouth open—it’s the law—if his cock isn’t down your throat, then your tongue should be hanging out and begging for it.
He has a lot of laws. You’re only allowed to walk around on all fours. You never go upstairs. And your cunt is never empty—if it isn’t hosting his fat erection, it’s cumming and crying around the thrums of a thick egg instead, always keeping you slick and sensitive for his return.
He's a fan of plugging all your holes, especially after a rough day of work. He’ll lay you on your belly against the cool concrete floor, tied up all snug, only able to wiggle as he stuffs your cunt with the fattest dildo in the collection, your other hole with another, before straping the longest one down your throat, just to have you struggle.
Listening to your whimper is how he winds down. Meanwhile, he goes and does something else, such as playing a round of pool between himself and a glass of scotch while laying bets on whatever sport’s showing on the TV—not for the sake of winning, it’s all small millions, just for a bit of fun.
Your pussy is the absolute best. It even has his name on it—tattooed upon the mound in pretty cursive letters like you were custom-designed for him. You basically were—he spent hours browsing through pictures and samples before stopping at you, his perfect little cock-toy.
“Do you wanna be bred or fed, little whore?” he rasps against your ear, fucking your tight wet cunt hard enough for it to squelch with slick, all but streaming down your thighs along with sweat.
You think you’re a very slim step away from comatose—it’s already been a long game of passing in and out. You haven’t been able to stand for a while, but he keeps you upright between himself and the wall, letting you rest with your cheek smushed up against the cool concrete as the only thing keeping you stable, except from his ruthless manhandling, keeping you on your feet even as your knees shake and buckle.
You’re so light-headed—he doesn’t feed you nearly enough to sustain the activity he puts you through. Actually, he doesn’t feed you enough to sustain any amount of activity at all. But you suppose that’s part of the fun—keeping you dull and weak and pliant, desperate to please in the hopes he’ll have mercy. Anything will do, anything at all—scraps, crumbs, cum.
“Fed,” you pant weakly in answer, to which he chuckles breathlessly.
Simpering at your ear with a toothy grin. “Of course, you do—” He gropes both breasts in his ringed hands, kneading them up like dough as he steadily ruts against you—balls smacking hard and heavily against your clit. “Gotta keep these fat tits plump and juicy for me, right?”
Everything is numb and sore—even breathing is consuming too much energy. You can only rejoice that it’s all going to be over soon, agreeing to his vile words all too sweetly, “Yes, master—”
He coos at you—why would he want any pearl-necked blouse-wearing preppy cunt over you, his perfectly house-trained slut.
“C’mere and say ah, slut—and I’ll give you a nice warm mouthful.” He pulls you down to the ground, on your knees with your back against the wall, his fist in your hair holding your head back while you roll out your tongue.
Groaning when he starts spurting, “That’s it, my needy little cum-junkie—swallow it all.”
There’s always a hint of psychotic glee to his rambles, something just short of frantic.
“Waste a drop, and you’ll lick it up off the floor.” Oh, you know. And so you make sure to wait until all of it’s out before swallowing.
Your tongue is no stranger to his body or its tastes. Whether it be the sweat off his ballsack or the dried piss off his cockhead—you lick him clean—suck his toes as you massage his sore feet, lip his armpits, but most importantly this—drinking his cum and cherishing every drop of it. Your sole food source…
“Good bitch.”
This is what being rich is all about—warding his very own dungeon where he trains his very own little sex slave.
He washes you every day. Making thorough work of it. Fingering all your holes as deep as he can reach with soap and oil, even your mouth. Treating you just as if you were a real plastic blow-up doll.
It’s the most intimate relationship he’ll ever have.
♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Naoya, Geto, Gojo, ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Kuro, Sakusa, Atsumu ♡ BLLK – Reo, Sae
♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist
#x reader#yandere x reader#yandere#yandere x you#yandere imagines#yandere smut#yancore#smut#yandere my hero academia#yandere boku no hero academia#boku no hero academia smut#mha smut#yandere mha#yandere bnha#my hero smut#my hero academia smut#bnha smut#yandere jujutsu kaisen#yandere jjk#jujutsu kaisen smut#jjk smut#yandere male
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DOMESTICATION

MR. GHOSTFACE x F!READER 🔪 1.8K WORDS SUMMARY: He has his way with you while you're stuck. WARNINGS: 18+ Noncon, unsafe PIV, knife/blood, collar. Darkness level poll.
Inspired by this scene and ask 🔪 Divider 🔪 MY FICS
Down on all fours like the prey you were, you tore the cloudy, plastic flap off its hinges and began to squeeze through the little door. You thought to scream but choked on the air you drew in. With your head through the hole, you coughed and glanced around. No one in sight. Fallen leaves tumbled and scraped across the driveway over the muffled sounds of the party.
No one was coming to save you.
You managed to wriggle halfway out, but no further. In the process of trying, your skirt got all bunched up. The cool air of the garage was hitting your ass, and your lace panties with their heart shaped cutout were doing nothing to help.
He had to be enjoying this. Probably admiring his knife with a smug tilt of his mask. Why was he so quiet?
You stopped struggling, taking a moment to catch your breath and think. He should've caught you by now. Was there any chance he left the garage? Any chance he wouldn't kill you?
He didn't have a habit of leaving them alive.
When you began to struggle again, a weak motor droned awake, making your stomach drop. The garage door began to lift, and the bottom edge of it dug into your stomach. Your heart sank with dread. Within seconds you’d likely be dead or mangled. Seconds, IF you were lucky. The thought of him dragging out your demise was even worse. You had seen his crime scenes.
Your knees lifted off the ground as the door made its ascent.
“Please,” you begged, shoes sliding against the floor.
The garage door creaked as it came to a halt. Your feet pedaled in futility, searching for the floor. You lifted your chest, trying to wriggle backwards. The only way out of this cursed little door-–if there even was a way out-–led right to his knife.
“Please, please, I won't run. I'll be good,” you begged through tears.
Silence. Unlike him.
“I'll be good,” you repeated quieter. "Please, Mr. Ghostface."
The motor started again, and you winced. But the door began to lower, allowing you a moment of relief as your bare knees met the cool, smooth floor.
His footsteps got louder and clearer as he crossed the space. Despite being unable to see him, you knew his presence loomed behind you-–you could feel it in your bones.
Sure enough, two gloved hands gripped your thighs, lifting your lower body for a moment and spreading your legs before setting your knees down further apart.
He made a place for himself between your knees, spreading them even wider. The smooth fabric of his robe pooled over your legs with him between them. He ran his gloved hands up your torso from your hips to your waist, pushing your skirt up further so it was up around your navel. Then, two satin thumbs lightly brushed your skin, tracing the heart-shaped cutout of your underwear.
After a moment of rustling behind you, a gloved finger slotted between your panties and ass. He pulled the garment out from your body, then the elastic tension released with a slice of his knife.
More rustling. His movement made the robe graze your butt. You weren't sure if you were imagining the sound of his belt coming undone behind you, but the thought of it made your face heat up.
The heavy fabric of his robe lifted off your calves, removing any doubt about what he was about to do. You tried to ignore the way your pussy throbbed.
The smooth head of his cock nudged your entrance, then slid wetly along your slit, forward and back. You hadn't realized just how aroused you were until feeling cock glide so smoothly against your well lubricated cunt. The head lingered at your front, nudging just the right spot. Your hips tilted all on their own, and he paused before sliding back to your wet little hole, resting the curve of his tip just inside.
He gripped your hips and pushed forward, intruding into your tight, warm sleeve with his thick, hard cock. Inch by inch, his stiff manhood pushed its way into you, the pressure of his girth pushing the breath out of your lungs. He slid all the way in without much difficulty and paused after bottoming out.
You took a much needed breath.
The skin of your chest radiated warmth. Your whole upper body was hot, despite the cool air.
Your lower body was warm and stuffed.
Two big, gloved hands wrapped around your thighs, then lifted. Your body lurched forward as far as it could, then he pulled you back on him, bottoming out deeper before he let your weight back down.
You braced your forearms on the driveway and he moved his hands up to hold your hips. He withdrew most of his length then squeezed your hips and pulled you back again as he slammed all the way back in. This wasn't bad… he was slow, almost careful.
Almost as though he could hear your thoughts, he seemed to drop all restraint. He buried his cock in you at a steadily increasing pace. You were shaken by just how good he felt inside you.
You bit your arm to stifle your moans, but it was no use. He'd have to hear your sounds of pleasure, as humiliating as it was. You removed your mouth from your bicep, leaving a string of spit as you took a deep breath.
As you inhaled the night air, it smelled like someone was having a bonfire... Someone, somewhere had come outside. Maybe even the neighbors.
But you didn't cry for help.
It was as though the cock in your cunt had gagged your throat, paralyzing you. It couldn't be that you didn't want him to stop, could it? No, you told yourself.
With every thrust, it felt more like a lie.
The rhythm of his pounding made your breasts jiggle. Your arms and wrists rubbed against the driveway, but you hardly felt it. Any discomfort was drowned out by the pleasant stretch of his girth, and the grip of your pussy clinging to his length as it pushed through you.
You closed your eyes and went somewhere else, giving into the feel-good chemicals coming to boil in your blood. You couldn’t tell how much of it was the rush of survival and how much was his dick, but the combination had you hurtling toward the stratosphere. Full, you were packed full. God, it felt good. Even better, the more you let yourself feel it.
There was something freeing about completely submitting to his will. Letting him use you like a fucktoy. Giving in, letting him win, you could relax and let it all wash over you. With your body held in his hands and wrapped around his cock, you felt weightless. There was no longer pressure to fight back or flee. The only pressure was low in your gut, building toward something unthinkable. Closer with each heavy stroke.
You spasmed with a whimper.
He abruptly sped up to jackhammer pace, pushing you to the brink within seconds. You rode that edge for longer than you thought anyone could keep up that pace. You remembered to breathe, and then you saw stars. The hair on your neck stood up as you clung to the ethereal force that rippled through your loins. Pleasure shot through your core to each limb.
He slowed down as you clenched around him, then bottomed out deeper. It was like he’d created more space in you and packed it with more cock than you ever thought you'd take.
Until the warmth began to spread inside, you didn't realize he was coming. He had given no outward indication of it. You could hardly distinguish your throbbing from his, until yours faded and he was still twitching.
The grip of his hands eased up as he finished. He held you with your ass flush against his wiry hair, anchoring you. Plugging you.
After a minute, it started to feel colder outside. You felt more exposed, vulnerable, but still dared to imagine he might leave you alive.
One hand let go of you, and his robe shifted, brushing the back of your thigh. He pulled back your ruined underwear again. This time, he cut through the side and took it all the way off. Then, the surprisingly warm flat of his blade pressed against the side of your butt cheek. It slid up over the curve of your flesh.
Your heart pounded, reminding you to fear for your life.
The metal left your skin, only for the point of the blade to then prickle the center of your lower back. He held you still, and his cock twitched inside you as he began to draw blood.
You pleaded, “don't," but your insides throbbed.
A sharp, white heat followed the blade, curving upward, out, and down toward your crack. He repeated it on the other side to complete the heart. Your ears burned and pounded with their own pulse. Your inner ears began to ache.
Finally, his cock slid out of you, and after a moment of jostling, he got out from between your legs. Then, facing your side, his robe grazed your back as he hovered over you and grabbed hold of your waist. He tugged gently. You extended your arms in front of you and held them together as he pulled you back into the garage. warm blood trickled into your crack as you sat up. His gloved thumb smeared it upward.
Clear snot was coming out of your nose. You sniffed and he wiped that too, with a knuckle.
Holding his knife, he showed it to you as he stood up. He crossed the garage in just a few strides while you obediently sat back on your knees, adjusting your bra and fixing your hair.
He returned with his hands full.
Your face fell blank when you looked up to see a collar with a leash hanging off it. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He tilted his head, then stooped down to reach around your neck and fasten the it. The arms of his robe created a curtain of darkness as he adjusted the buckle and tested the tightness with two fingers between it and your neck.
He stepped back, holding the leash, and tilted his mask, waiting. There was something else in his other hand. He clicked it, then tossed it aside as the garage door began to rise. He reached down and helped you up. Then, he walked you down the driveway and into the night, with a warm mess trickling down your thighs.
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thank you for reading 🖤
and tysm for your comments and asks 🙏the feedback and encouragement really helps me.
#ghostface smut#ghostface x you#ghostface ☠️#toxicanonymity ☠️#tw noncon#cw noncon#dark fic#darkfic#female reader#ghostface#tw knife#tw blood#ghostface x reader#divider by cafekitsune link in post#scream#x reader#billy loomis x reader
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( ✶ ) JUST THE TIP .. ⎯⎯ 🌳



( ⟢ ) pairings. sunghoon x fem!reader 18+
⎯⎯ warnings. noncon/dubcon?.. unprotected sex oral f. rec. clit stimulation praise maybe even more but i’m lazy..
WORD COUNT ˳ 984
( 🗒️ ) note. don’t like it don’t read it.
sunghoon was slowly losing it.
you guys have been together for 5 months already. ⎯ five. fucking. months. and you’re still avoiding to have sex with him? he’s been trying to hold himself back every time he saw you with just your panties, walking around your little shared apartment and you still expect him to ‘wait’?
he tried to convince you every time but it was always the same answer. “no sunghoon im still not ready..” ⎯ that made his blood boil more and more each single time but he just tries to accept it knowing how you still feel from your last relationship. but he was slowly getting pissed day by day from having to deal with his boner all by himself every fucking time. ⎯ but finally, finally you decided to say yes and he couldn’t feel anything else than excitement.
“sunghoon but only put the tip in i don’t think i’m fully ready you know..” you sigh out, laying down on your shared bed. sunghoon who is currently between your legs just gave you nods knowing damn well hes going to have a hard to holding himself back. yes you’ve been together with sunghoon for 5 months but you never really felt ready. ready to have such an intimate connection with him.
“yeah yeah sure.” he says, rolling his eyes which goes unseen by you. sunghoon removes your pyjama shorts and panties in no time and dives in to give your pussy little kitten licks making you gasp out, his eyes follow each pleasured reaction your face makes and he can’t help but smirk as he makes his way up to your clit giving it kisses before sucking on your little nub, the amazing sensation making your toes curl ⎯ “agh- s-sunghoon..” you whimper grabbing his hair from the pleasurable feeling.
“gotta make this pussy wet and slippery before i get in.” he announces with a smirk again as he removes himself from your clit with a loud squelch. he then goes up to his knees to remove his sweatpants and precum stained underwear in one swift, stroking his cock as he watches arousal drip from your pulsing hole. the sight making him bite his lip as he then comes forward, sliding his tip up and down your slit. “holy fuuuckkk this pussy’s so warm ⎯ shit…” he moans out. if only rubbing his tip on your slit feels this good he doesn’t know how he’ll react when he’s finally going to be in you. ⎯ “p-promise you’ll only put the tip in h-hoon?” you say with a squeak holding your pinky finger up. “s-shit, yeah.” he moans out, still sliding his tip up and down your pussy as he makes the pinky promise with you.
“fuck i can’t wait” he says as he grabs his cock and lines it up to your pulsing hole and slowly pushes just his tip in. ⎯ your walls envelope around him so tightly he has to use all his might to not push it in fully… ⎯ “o-oh my- you’re literally squeezing me so hard baby..” he moans out from the pleasuring feeling of being inside you and pulls out of you just to thrust back in slowly to make sure he only puts ’the tip’ in. ⎯ “a-agh hoon!” you moan out loudly from the extra stretch, making your hand go up to sunghoon’s hands that were currently on your hips.
you just kept feeling better and better he was about to lose it. your tight wet walls just feel so good around him his patience just snapped in one go. ⎯ “s-shit, fuck i can’t anymore i’m sorry __..” is all he said as he tightens his grip on your hips and and just decides to ram in you in one go.
“aaagh- you said y-you would only- fuck, put the tip in!” you scream while tears from both pain and pleasure fall down your eyes, although the pain from the insane stretch overpowered you. you just can’t believe he just broke your promise. as angers takes over you try to push him off of you.
sunghoon just ignores your tears and what you said as he just focuses on his own pleasure. fuck he’s been waiting for this moment since day one and you feel soooo good he’s not just gonna stop. “baby stop crying and relax for me.” he tries to reassure you while he tries to wipe your tears away. “you knew i’ve been wanting to have sex with you agh- please just let me do my thing.” he begs, not even slowing down or anything.
you try to reply back but he just took that as an opportunity to kiss you as his hands make way to your nipples, he lifts your shirt up and breaks the kiss to envelope his mouth on your nipple as he just plays with the other one. ⎯ your pussy immediately clenches much harder on his cock at the delicious sensation and delivers a muffled moan from sunghoons mouth that’s currently on your nipple and the sensation directly earns a moan from you too.
“shit i’m so fucking close you’re doing so good for me __ keep tightening your pussy on me like that.” he says in a out of breath voice as he rubs your clit in fast circles. “mphhh- sunghoon agh- i’m cl-close too!” he takes that as a signal and grabs the back of your legs to make them on your chest so he can fuck his cock deeper in you than before and that was all it took for you both come from you.
sunghoon let go of your legs and just collapse on you for a second as he then goes up again to release himself out of you to watch his cum drip out of your hole. “what an amazing sight fuck __ you’re the best.”
#( ⑩ ) — 𝐡o0n𝑖e𝐡on#i tried a new layout guys!#the ending is whack i know 😭#enhypen hard hours#enhypen hard thoughts#enhypen hyung line#enhypen smut#enhypen x reader#sunghoon hard hours#sunghoon hard thoughts#sunghoon x reader#sunghoon smut
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Soap coaxing his new girlfriend into fooling around on the couch while they have the apartment to themselves (he has a roommate, but "Gaz isnae comin' hame 'til after" he coos, already shoving his hand down the front of your pants and sawing two thick fingers between your folds).
You let him paw at you and peel your clothes off because you've been wound up all day and he's the hottest guy you've ever dated, so why wouldn't you let him feel you up whenever he's horny? (Which is more often than you thought; practically all the time actually.)
(Tw: noncon/dubcon)
Only Gaz walks through the door the second Soap has you spread on your belly on the couch with your ass in the air, fat cock buried to the root. And he doesn't stop when you shriek and Gaz cocks an eyebrow, unfazed by his roommate screwing his girlfriend on the communal couch.
In fact, he wanders over after taking off his coat, greeting Soap in a totally normal voice while you struggle under your boyfriend, trying to cover your bare tits with your arm at the same time until Soap gets irritated by all your fussing and twists both of your arms behind your back.
"Yer back early," Soap grouses, hips pumping into you in shallow plunges, like his roommate coming home early is distracting enough to reign in some of his excitement, but not enough to make him stop.
"Shop closed early today," Gaz shrugs, dropping his bag by the shoe rack, still remarkably unbothered by what's going on in front of him.
You're humiliated, horrified. More upset with yourself than anything (that's a lie - you're way angrier with Soap, but he doesn't even flinch when you scream about covering up and try to buck him off; he just moans and braces a foot on the floor to get a better angle) because you've only gotten wetter since Gaz walked through the front door.
"Fuck, dae that again, sweetie," he pants, cock so deep that you can feel it nudge your cervix with every stroke.
Squirming doesn't help much because all it does is make you tighten around Soap's cock.
"Poor girl," Gaz tuts, standing in front of the two of you now. You think the situation can't get any worse and then he strokes your cheek with the back of his knuckles, looking almost pityingly down at you. The shock at being touched by him leaves you tongue-tied, struck dumb. "Being a bit rough with her, aren't you, mate?"
He smooths a thumb over your cheekbone. You clench up tighter at Gaz's touch, dragging a guttural moan out of your boyfriend. It's awhile before he finds his voice again.
"Christ," Soap hisses through his teeth. "Och, yer fuckin' nasty, bonnie; git aff oan Gaz watchin' ye? She clenched richt up whin ye spoke."
"Can't blame her - miss having someone be nice to you, huh, sweetheart?"
Soap's voice is dismissive and panting when he responds. "Nah, she loves this. Begs fer it rough."
"Aw, that's not true, is it, sweetheart?" Gaz coos down at you, and you swear you're going to say something, swear the next thing out of your mouth won't be a slutty moan.
But a thumb slips into your mouth and presses against your tongue when you part your lips, and you close your lips around it reflexively.
"Yeah; there we go," he says in a low voice, smooth as molasses, unzipping his fly with one hand when you give his thumb a suck. "Nah, Johnny, you got yourself a good girl here. Gotta treat her right."
And that's how you wind up pinned on your belly with your boyfriend's cock deep in your cunt and his roommate's spreading your lips wide, eyes welling up from the stretch. You lose patches of time after that, thoughts fizzling out until you're only aware of being filled at both ends and the slick, wet sounds of the two of them making out over your prone body.
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dirty girl. l.hc

(nsfw + mdni) dubcon/noncon elements
hyuckie, his name mumbled into kisses, pressed up to every inch of him when you’re straddling his lap, making out at some godforsaken hour, his pretty lips slick with your spit, one hand resting on your hip where your shirt has ridden up, perched on top and all over him as he leans back, legs spread comfortably. and fuck, it’s like you’re pretending that his fat bulge isn’t straining against his sweats, your clothed pussy pressed to him through the layer of flimsy fabric. your pretty lips clumsily moving against his, fuck, you couldn’t possibly only want kisses when you’re practically rutting against his hard on.
but your words say otherwise, hyuck, i— i don’t know, your whine pitching in confusion, when his hand cups your clothed pussy, drool smeared across your lips as you pull away, only for his hold on your waist to tighten, locking you in close without an escape, flinching at the feeling on his palm pressing into your panties. and maybe he’s never fucked you before, but you’re lying, your panties soaked in his palm of his hand, fuck, he’s so fucking hard, surely you can tell, humping him like a dog in heat from just kisses?
come on, baby, haechan whispers, licking his bottom lip enticingly, i know you want it, deftly slipping a finger in, cold against your warm, wet folds, as your gasps cry out, only for your cries to be muffled by rough kisses, trapped in his lap as your breath is stolen harshly, your eyes clenched shut at the foreign sensation of his fingers rubbing your folds, pushing in with slick sounds of your arousal, fuck, you feel untouched, the way your pussy clenches and throbs around his fingers, a dripping mess all over his hand. your hands grasping at his shoulders, slipping against his loose t shirt, what cute muffled noises you make, and he’s only at two fingers, your resistance weakening as he curls his fingers deeper in your pussy, lewd squelches of arousal as it coats his hand, heat spreading beneath your skin as an unfamiliar sensation knots in your stomach, clinging to him and panting like a pet as haechan coerces an orgasm out of you, made such an embarrassing mess for a virgin, didn’t you?
his hands dripping with slick, chest heaving for breaths and he’s so unfazed, amused even,, especially when he’s ruined you, clothes rumpled and hair messy, lips swollen and bitten reddish, unable to catch your breath even as his fingers pull out, sticky mess coating his palm, pretty tears welling up in your dazed eyes, his wet hand grasping your chin and forcing you to look at haechan straight in the eyes. who knew you were such a dirty girl?
this one has been in drafts too long lol idk if i feel like making it longer atp
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step brother sukuna forcefully taking his stepsister's virginity <3 (with size difference)
sukuna has got me in the biggest chokehold and this weeks dub has not helped in the least long live ray chase
warnings: 18+ MDNI, fem!reader, noncon, stepcest, creampie, use of 'good girl', virginity loss, vaginal sex, hair pulling, degradation, spanking, noncon photography.
words: 1.3k
“S-Sukuna?” you wake up, eyes fuzzy and the darkness not helping matters as you try and make out the shape of your step-brother in your doorway. He could be anyone, really, but the size of his silhouette gives him away. You roll over to check the time on your phone, grunting with displeasure when you see it’s only 3am.
He comes inside, stealthily, and he reeks of alcohol. You can smell him from your bed. And you feel blinded when he turns on the light, your retinas blown to hell as you try and adjust to the brightness.
You yelp as he sits on the mattress, and you sit up quickly.
“You’re a good girl,” he tells you, voice slurring slightly as he speaks. “Staying home tonight, good… good girl.”
You aren’t sure what to say, though you begin to worry he might vomit on your carpet. You hasten out of bed to grab the bin in the corner of your room, placing it between his legs. And he laughs at that, it’s just so… you.
“Some… whore… I don’t remember her name,” he sniffs, looking down at the bin before his red eyes hone in on you. “She was all over me tonight. But I pushed her away. Y’know why?”
“W-Why…” you ask, cautiously, your inner monologue telling you this is leading somewhere bad. You want to run, but you feel like your legs at being weighed down to your mattress.
“I thought, why fuck her? I don’t care about her. She’s easy. But you,” he continues. He kicks the bin away and he climbs onto your bed, crawling closer to you on all fours like a predator cornering it’s. prey. You try to escape, still weighed down with fear. But you could only get so far anyway. Your back meets with the headboard, and you know you’re trapped. “My sweet little sister. Are you sweet? Maybe you’re a whore like her.”
“Sukuna, p-please, I’ve never… I’ve never—”
“You’re real sweet.” he grins, pulling you against him until your noses touch. “Should have known you were a virgin. I hear you when you touch yourself sometimes, you never last long. You’ll prob’ly cum on my cock the minute I put it in.” he sneers, and in your panic he manages to flip you onto your stomach with ease.
“N-No, please, I don’t— you’re my b-brother!” you object, body freezing and turning limp as you realise you’re powerless to his advances. He doesn’t bother undressing you, he just pins your wrists above your head with one large palm. “S-Sukuna?”
“I’m your big brother, and I should be the first person to feel your cunt wrapped around my cock.” he answers you, unzipping his trousers and freeing his cock just enough to use against you. He moves your pyjama shorts into the crease of your thigh, and he can’t help but ogle your sopping flesh. “You’re wet, little girl. And no panties. You knew I was coming, didn’t you? Did all of this for me… how thoughtful.”
You cry, silently, as you realise there’s nothing you can say to stop this. He drags his thick cockhead up and down your folds before he practically stabs it into your entrance. You scream, but he yanks your hair and forces your face down into the pillows to silence you.
“Shut the fuck up.” he tells you. “You want this, I know you do.” he lies, though you don’t know if it’s for your benefit or his own. Each drag and rut into your heat is torture. It’s slow, tormenting, until he finds a steady rhythm against your resisting walls.
“Ah, ah!” you moan, your voice finally free as he gives you the chance to breathe. He snarls as he hears you, moaning like a slut as he defiles your virgin interior.
“Knew you’d like it, slut.” he laughs, picking up the pace as your needy whining encourages him. He lets your hands go, knowing you’ve given up on fighting him. His hands knead into the flesh of your ass, spanking you on occasion and forcing you to jolt back against him. He pulls your hair until your back is curved into an almost agonising arch.
“S-Sukuna! H-Hurts! Hurts s’much!”
“Is that why you’re moaning like a bitch in heat for me, hah?” he chides, spanking your ass as he continues bullying his cock into you. “Ya getting tighter around me, sister. Naughty girl…” he spanks you again and you can’t help but preen for him. You fucking hate yourself and you hate him for doing this to you.
You just can’t deny how good it feels.
“Y-You’ve always been so good,” he pants, stuttering slightly as he feels himself teetering on the edge of release. He grabs a fistful of your ass again and you can already feel how red and bruised it’s becoming. And you yelp as he inflicts a particular agonising spank onto your rear. “Tell me you love me.” he groans in your ear.
“I- I love you,” you don’t even hesitate, because you do. He’s your big brother, after all. How could you not love him, even in spite of this? “So good t’me, Sukuna, always s-so good.”
His eyes roll over white as he hears your words, it took all of his self-control to not cum in that instant. “Aren’t you p-recious,” he struggles, both of his hands dig into the fat of your hips, now. Your body collapsing forwards as he makes no effort to help you keep upright. It still hurts, but it’s an agony you’re willing to withstand for him. “Gonna be the first person to cum in this virgin cunt,” he grins, he wraps his arms around your waist as if he’s hugging you. Though you come to realise he’s just preventing any escape attempts you might make.
“No! Sukuna, n-no! You can’t.”
“Yeah, I can. ‘n you’re gonna let me because you’re a good girl,” he tells you, whispering directly into your ear as he feels his balls begin to tighten. “Only big brother’s get to cum here, got it? This little pussy was made for my cum.”
“N-N— ah! Hnng, fu-uck! Fuck!“ you moan, and Sukuna has lost any interest in forcing you to keep quiet. The damage is done, now. Even if your parents find out, it’s not like they can undo his handiwork, gifting his little sister with a pretty creampie.
He fucks into you until he blows his load. Your walls fill with white and you shudder from the contrast of your freezing body being stuffed full of his creamy white cum. He fucks it into you, deeply. And you don’t have the energy to object.
When he’s through, he pushes you off his length and you melt into a puddle on the mattress below. You feel your knee being forcibly bent in a bid to spread your legs open. Your pussy lips open deliciously and his sperm drips from your hole and down your little slit.
“Don’t move.” he tells you.
You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
He pulls his phone from his back pocket, taking a series of photos of your lifeless form and drippy cunt. He smirks as he sifts through them all.
He’s sure he’ll find one that will make the perfect screensaver.
© 2023 rinhaler
#💌 — luxe mail#📨 — requests#ryomen sukuna x reader#sukuna x you#sukuna x reader#sukuna smut#sukuna ryomen x reader#jjk x you#jjk x reader#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu#jjk x fem!reader#tw noncon#tw stepcest#tw praise#tw virginity loss#tw hair pulling#tw degradation
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Ok I can't stop thinking about a farmer x a city girl.
Tw: Yandere,smut, forced breeding, noncon.
Masterlist

She who is a city girl who studies in a good university, has a nice car, a nice house and a bright future.
She who goes to the countryside every year because her grandfather lives there and she takes advantage of her vacations to go see her favorite grandfather.
She who during one of those visits and when she is on the porch meets the sexy farmer who helps her grandfather with what he needs, she who stays looking at him longer than necessary, absorbing his firm figure and admiring his muscular forearms visible thanks to the rolled up sleeves of his blue shirt that accentuate his sun-tanned skin, his serious brown eyes with long eyelashes and his sexy jaw covered by a short beard...
She who wakes up from her daydream when he says in a thick and firm voice to get out of the way because she is blocking his way and only then she notices the shopping bags in his big hands so she moves awkwardly letting him enter the house.
She who walks into the house while she can't help but think he's a grumpy, rude jerk, she who walks into the kitchen and sees the man leaving the bags on the counter while he talks to his grandfather who smiles when he sees her and formally introduces them.
She who greets him with a sullen nod still offended by his previous attitude while he greets her back in kind while the grandfather rambles on about his favorite granddaughter and how you're so cute, smart and extraordinary... she who notices him silently scoffing at the words of his grandfather who says he'll happily go get the album with your photos from when you were a baby.
She who when they're alone asks him in an annoyed voice what's so funny only for him to reply in a mocking voice something like "I don't think it's very smart to come to the countryside in heels and those clothes... rather I think it's something extraordinarily stupid."
She who gets annoyed by his mocking tone and his sneering look at her shorts and tank top, and she tells him that this is a free country and he can wear whatever he wants and if he doesn't like it he can tear his eyes out.
She who gets even more annoyed when he laughs as he puts the last of his canned soup away in the cupboard, and puts the plastic bags away in a drawer, then approaches her and says in a mocking voice "Why tear my eyes out when I can do something much better... like tear your clothes off?"
She who doesn't know how she ended up pinned face down on the kitchen counter with her shorts and panties caught around her ankles as his fat cock abuses her wet, rubbery pussy, her walls sucking and sucking his cock as if they wanted to get him deeper while one of his calloused hands covers her mouth tightly preventing her moans from escaping.
She who rolls her eyes when he uses his free hand to tightly grab a handful of her hair tilting her head back and sending waves of pain and pleasure to her swollen pussy as he makes her teary eyes look into his dilated eyes.
She who whimpers sharply into his hand as he thrusts hard into her and gets close to her ear and says things like "Such a good girl, just one good fuck was all it took to get rid of your attitude huh?" or "Let daddy turn you into an honest girl, what are those slutty clothes you wear? No. There won't be any more of that for you."
She feels her body shake and her toes tense as his cock hits that spot inside her over and over again making her see stars and causing her orgasm to wash over her and her pussy to tighten around his cock and he growls at the delicious sensation moving his hips harder chasing her orgasm before giving a few more thrusts and staying still deep inside her flooding her insides with his warm semen while she stays limp on the cold counter so fucked that she can't think about anything not even the fact that she's not taking birth control.
The one who can't help but squeeze you with his weight, his chest on your back while his fingers move a strand of hair stuck to your sweaty forehead and whispers in your ear with a dark voice that shivers "You know it's time to settle down, I'm not getting any younger and I want to have at least 8 children, but don't worry honey we have plenty of time to do it... after all you're not going anywhere."
#yandere x reader#dark fic#yandere#yandere male#yandere farmer#tw noncon#dead dove fic#reader insert#reader#tw breeding kink#female reader#dark!fic#yandere oc#male yandere#yandere male x reader#yandere male x you#yandere smut#smut imagine#dark smut#boyfriend smut#yandere ocs#one shot
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you're just her property
pairing: dark!mobboss!ellabs x fem!reader
summary: after ellie watches you cockwarm abby for hours during a meeting, she wants to fuck you, too.
content: noncon/dubcon, slight daddy kink, cockwarming, public sex, face slapping, pain kink, crying, mention of kidnapping, sexual pictures without consent, voyeurism, overstimulation, begging, embarrassment.
masterlist
Even though it has been a few months since she took you, you don't know much about your kidnapper; only that her name is Abby and she's the boss of a powerful mob in your state.
She doesn't treat you like a human or even a pet. You're one of the prized objects she proudly displays to everyone. At the start, you would always refuse and 'bitch' when Abby wanted to publicly have her way with you; now, you wouldn't dare to disobey her.
So, when she demanded you cockwarm her for the entire meeting, you didn't say no.
Abby has her biggest dildo stuffed inside of you, stretching your aching walls and pressing against your tummy. She has given you stringent orders to not make a sound during the meeting, but that is impossible when you know you're dripping into her lap. It also doesn't help that Ellie, Abby's right-hand man, teases you like there is no tomorrow.
"You're a pathetic little slut, y'know that?"
An uncontrollable whimper leaves your lips and you pout. Abby's hand which is snaked around your torse, pulls you closer; the sudden shift makes you moan. Ellie grins as she watches your face drop in terror.
Abby's fingernails dig into your bare stomach and she hisses, "What'd I fucking tell you?"
"I'm sorry-"
Abby hushes you with a sharp slap to the face. You blink back tears and stifle a cry of pain. You rest your head on Abby's shoulder and watch as Ellie balls her fists and rubs at her eyes mockingly. You poke your tongue out at her.
Ellie leans closer to you, "I can't wait till your daddy lets me fuck that pretty pussy."
"Are you focusing, Ellie, or do I need to punish you, too?" Abby questions, raising her eyebrow.
Ellie opens her mouth several times before muttering "I'm listening. Chillax."
It's a miracle that you stayed quiet for the rest of the meeting. When everyone leaves the room, it's just you, Abby, and Ellie. Ellie looks at you like you're her prey and is ready to pounce at Abby's demand.
Abby looks at her with amusement. "You wanna fuck her, huh?"
"Really?" Ellie excitedly says.
Abby laughs. "I'm asking a question, not giving you permission."
Ellie clears her throat awkwardly. "Yeah, I do. Gotta see what all the hype is about, y'know."
"The hype?" Abby questions with a smile, to which Ellie nods. "Alright, she's all yours."
You whine in protest as you're lifted from Abby and pinned to the wooden table. Ellie stands in between your already soaking thighs and with a grin, wraps her hand around your throat and leans to your ear. "I'm gonna fuck you better than your daddy ever has."
Abby laughs, "Don't get cocky, Williams."
You push at Ellie's chest. You're too overstimulated from cockwarming Abby for hours to take anything else. Neither of the women like that.
"Arms above your head," Abby demands and you hesitate. "I said, arms above your fucking head."
You comply with a whine. Ellie kisses down your neck to the top of your cunt, paying extra attention to your perky nipples. She drags two fingers through your slick and moans. "God, those pictures are trash when compared to actually seeing this,"
You frown and snap your eyes to Abby, "Pictures?"
Abby hums, her eyes locked onto your pussy, "Don't worry about it, baby."
You want to continue interrogating her but all thoughts are washed away when Ellie wraps her lips around your puffy clit and shoves three fingers into your cunt. You cover your mouth to muffle your scream and your back arches. Her tongue moves relentlessly on your clit and her fingers pound inside of you.
"Slow down." You manage to weakly protest.
"Speed up." Abby counters you and Ellie listens.
Loud moans and wet noises are the only things that can be heard. If you had any brain power left, you would cringe at the thought of everyone in the building hearing you. Abby moans loudly and you glance over at her to see her stroking her strap, the base of it pushing against her clit.
Now, it's a race to who can finish first. You're never allowed to cum after Abby unless she specifically allows you to, which after your mess up earlier today, you doubt she'll let you.
You cry as Ellie changes her angle and presses perfectly against your most pleasurable spot. You grab Ellie's hair and tug her closer to your cunt. Your thighs clamp around her head and let out the most guttered moan possible as your blinding orgasm washes over you. Abby follows shortly after you, moaning lowly.
You don't have much strength left. You're barely able to process Abby pulling Ellie by the back of her hair, smashing her lips into hers, and moaning at your taste on her lips.
"Fuck, Abby." Ellie breathes heavily. "You gotta let me do that again."
Abby hums, "Go get that work done and I'll think about her as a reward."
"Hell yeah! I'll get it done ASAP, boss."
You listen as Ellie leaves the room. It's just you and your owner now. She kneels between your thighs, her head adjacent to your cunt. She wraps her hands around your thighs and pulls you closer. She drags her tongue across your quivering, dripping hole.
"Gotta clean you up, princess."
You shake your head, "No, please."
She ignores your cries as her tongue quickly builds you up to your second orgasm. You cum with a silent moan and shake in her hold. Abby stands and pats your thigh.
"Clean yourself up and meet me in my study when you're done."
You sigh and pull yourself to a sitting position. Abby didn't leave you anything to clean yourself with, meaning you had to walk through the entire building naked and dripping until you got to her office.
What a dick.
#abby anderson x reader#abby anderson x y/n#ellie williams x reader#ellie williams x y/n#ellabs x reader#ellabs x you#ellabs smut#ellie williams x you#abby anderson x you#melwrites#ellie williams smut#abby anderson smut
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VIOLATE



pairing: salesman x fem reader.
warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT | RAPE/NONCON. daddy issues. age gap. reader had an abusive dad. physical abuse. degradation. forced blowjob. hitting, slapping, you know the drill. sub!reader. dom!salesman. blood. plot with porn. dont like? dont read. its that easy.
summary: you steal from the wrong man and face the consequences.
continuation to THIEF
MASTERLIST

most girls have some sort of fantasy in their head when it comes to their virginity. a blueprint of sorts— about what kind of man they'd like to lose it to, of how gentle he'd be with them. whether it would be planned and patient or spontaneous after a magical date.
you were one of those girls. so far, you'd managed to stay away from men, not just because none of them fit the standard you created in your head— but also because the idea of being with a man repulsed you. the first man in your life— your father, had broken your heart. so you protected yourself, put a lock on engaging in sexual desires for that special someone you could wholeheartedly give yourself to. you were scared that most men you encounter would be like your father— cold. violent. now, you understand that you were wrong.
the man in front of you was so much worse.
you dont get to wallow in your self pity for long. he hovers over you like a god— his presence alone was suffocating. the fact that his massive hand is currently tugging your head back doesn't help; your scalp stings and fresh tears well in the corner of your eyes. the sight makes him groan. his free hand holds onto his cock— gently stroking back and forth. it's a little darker than the rest of him— tip flushed and some precum gleaming on the top. it's clear all this fighting has been foreplay for him. he's getting off to your misery. his dark eyes flicker over your face, and as you try to pull your head back again, he forces the tip against your mouth; letting the stickiness spread over your lips.
"open up." his voice is breathy, hand tugging your hair back again. you wince. "don't make me ask again."
you shake your head, fresh tears rolling down your cheeks as you glare at him with all the resentment your eyes can muster. your teeth grit together as you clamp your mouth shut. he pauses and settles you with a bored gaze, and before you can realize what's happening, his hand is pulling back and slapping you across the face again.
you fall sideways onto the couch with another sob. you can taste the blood in your mouth, and you cough. he's quick to yank you back up, chuckling slightly when the blood sputters out of your mouth and down your chin. he smears his cock against the dark fluid, before settling you with another warning glare.
"did you act this stubborn with your father too?" he pouts, voice taunting, "no wonder he hit you. you never seem to listen on the first try."
you feel livid, shaking with rage as he mocks you. you open your mouth to answer him, and he takes that opportunity to pry your jaw open with his thumb. he groans as he forces his cock past your mouth, slowly at first before pushing to the hilt, till your nose presses against the light patch of hair at the base. you barely get the time to protest before he's rolling his hips slightly, getting used to the wet cavern of your mouth. the thickness and the intrusion in your throat makes you choke and sputter incoherently around his cock, eyes watering again. your hands hold onto his thighs for support. maybe you can bite his dick right off, maybe—
"and if you bite me," he warns with a little chuckle, as if he read your mind, "i will slit your throat open and fuck it."
you shudder. you know he means it too— you can see the crazed look in his eyes as he cups your head with both hands. you don't want to take any chances. you can barely think when he pulls his hips back and thrusts again, eliciting a choked gargle out of you.
"fuck—" he grunts lowly, using your head as leverage as his thrusts slowly grow faster. your body trembles violently, the lack of oxygen making your head feel faint. "that's it— stay like that."
it's as if he's releasing all his pent up frustration on your little throat— his head thrown back, adams apple bobbing up and down as his thrusts get harder, faster. your choking seems to only spur him on, his hold on you getting tighter as you squirm on the couch, trying to pull back. he's not having it.
he pulls out momentarily and you get only a few seconds to breathe before he's grabbing you by the ear and dragging you off the couch. you shriek throatily and claw at his hand as he pulls you towards the wall and cages you in. your head presses against the concrete as he enters your mouth again, "stop that—" he grunts at your wiggling, pulling your head back and slamming it against the wall. you choke on a sob, feeling lightheaded. "the faster— ah— you make me cum the easier i'll make this for you."
his thrusts are like him— to the point, aggressive and inconsiderate. his hips snap forward almost violently as you claw at his thighs, leaving a few scratches. it makes him moan. your bloodshot eyes glare up at him as you choke around his length, his balls sloppily slapping against your chin. he doesn't make a lot of noise, but when he does it comes from the back of his throat. your head repeatedly slams against the wall as he fucks your face, and between his grunts he lets out another breathless chuckle.
laughing at your suffering.
"i'm getting close," his hand comes up and he pinches your nose between two fingers. you begin to writhe at the sudden cutoff of oxygen, eyes widening, "ah ah- take it like a good slut."
your vision gets blurry, head pounding and throat gurgling as he throws his head back and cums with a loud moan. you're sure you can feel it fill your stomach. it's bitter and you can feel the stickiness of it on the roof of your mouth, on the back of your tongue. his thrusts falter, hips stuttering as his chest heaves, few strands of his well kept hair falling across his forehead. you choke and cough as he pulls out, and stuffs his softening cock back inside his pants like he didn't just violate you.
you gag slightly as you taste the saltiness of his cum mixed with the metallic taste of your blood, and you cough some of it out. you greedily take in as much air as you can, eyes wide and face heated. he tosses you around like a ragdoll. your body is limp as you slump against the wall, shuddering. his foot raises, the tip of his shiny dress shoes pressing against your clothed crotch. his voice is thoughtful, contemplative. like he's talking about the weather. "should i pop your cherry?"
you look up at him, shocked. you can barely see him through your tears. "what?"
with a smirk, he grabs your arm and yanks you forward till your face crashes into his thigh. in your panic stricken haze, you grab onto his leg, clinging to him, desperate for any ounce of sympathy or comfort he can provide.
he has nothing to offer.
his hand comes down to run through your hair, like you're a dog. you lean into the touch, hope that you being responsive would sway any thoughts of him violating you further. he grabs your jaw, making your cheeks squish in his hold. he thinks you look utterly adorable this way. you whimper.
"please don't."
you break down into sobs again. you hate crying. you hate it more so because it makes you appear weak in front of the other person. they never seem to understand that you're crying out of rage, not sadness.
he sighs before shoving you off him. you slouch on the floor and he kneels before you, face indifferent. he gently brushes your hair away from your face, and you slap his hand away.
he's toying with you. playing with your fear. manipulating your emotions as he deems fit and he's revelling in it.
"you—" you pant, choking on another sob, before a crazed chuckle leaves you. full of disbelief, anger, hurt. "you sick fuck—"
"let's not use crude language." he remarks dryly, eyes crinkling as he puts on a smile. the same smile you thought to be charming at first glance. now it just looks empty and manipulative. he pulls out a handkerchief, wipes the sweat glistening on your forehead. "someone really ought to teach you how to talk to your elders."
"you raped me," you snap back, voice cracking as you shoot daggers at him through your glare. you want to lunge at him, to pull out his eyeballs and rip him apart. he grabs your chin, stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes you cower into yourself.
"i taught you a lesson," he shoots back calmly, expression serious. as if he truly believed what he said. "i gave you a glimpse of what could happen if you kept up with your reckless behaviour. surely you don't think you can always get away with stealing from men or talking back to them?"
you snatch your face away and look at the floor again, eyes stony and vacant. you were a fool to think you were made for this life. that you could've lived without a proper roof over your head, the financial security that your abusive father could provide you. but you weren't willing to go back.
not after everything you endured to leave.
your lips wobble. you try to compose yourself, force your face to look cold as you glare at him again.
"i'll go to the police." you take another sharp breath. you try to sound brave, you really do, but the slight waiver of your voice gives you away. "i'll tell them everything. i'll post it on social media. they'll find you and you'll be in jail by—"
you stop talking, merely staring at him as he smiles at you. it's a smile you recognise— one of those smiles that adults like to give to children, as if to say 'aw, you're so silly.' as if you're a naive child who is mindlessly babbling about something you don't know. as if he's the smartest person in the world. you know this smile because your father has aimed it at you multiple times.
"what are you smiling at?!" you snap, voice hoarse. he shakes his head almost fondly, his thumb caressing your bottom lip— spreading the drying blood around your chin.
"it amuses me," he starts, snorting again, "how you still believe in humanity after what i just did to you."
you're frozen as you stare at him, breathing ragged. he stares at your lips, plays with the blood there before pulling his hand back and licking the crimson fluid off his thumb. he tilts his head to the side, eyes coldly boring into yours.
"you want to know how men really are?" he quirks an eyebrow, unimpressed, "they will find out where you live and they'll come have their own fun with you."
"some time will pass and you'll eventually start selling your body to perverted old men on the street." his voice takes that business-like tone again. he stands up, adjusts his suit jacket as he looks around the apartment. "weak little girls like you can't handle that kind of lifestyle."
he bends down and picks up his stolen wallet off the floor. he opens it, pulls out that card you saw before. the one with the weird shapes on it. he holds it out towards you, "here's an opportunity. you can call the number on this and participate in some games that will get you money—" he gestures towards the cash on the floor- your prize from playing ddakji. "— or you can keep living like this and encounter more horrible men like me who won't be as gentle with you as i was."
the last line makes you snort bitterly. right. gentle. his bruises would last for days, the trauma a lifetime. if this is his idea of gentle, you would never want to know what his 'rough' entails. his eye twitches and he smiles back, before dropping the card on your lap.
you stay on the floor, frozen, the reality of what just happened to you settling in. you can keep living like this— pickpocketing men, making ends meet with stolen change, getting raped, and living in this clusterfuck of an apartment just to avoid your father; or you can go wherever all that money came from. his voice sounds faraway when he speaks again.
"i'm trusting you to make the right choice."
he gathers his briefcase, sends one more glance your way before exiting the apartment like he was never there in the first place.
A/N: im not very good with smut, but i tried. i really wanted to write just porn but i physically cant bring myself to do that without adding lots of plot and psychological elements and a backstory. otherwise it feels soulless to me. i hope i didnt bore you. for anyone who read this, thank you. feedback and reblogs are always appreciated. maybe i'll write about inho soon too.
tags for people who commented for a part 2: @rafesbunniebby @screaming-potato @nerdybarbariancupcake @deadddoll
#raven's work#the salesman x you#the salesman x reader#squid game x reader#gong yoo x reader#recruiter x reader#squid game smut#squid game angst#squid game season 2
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SOFTER, SOFTEST !
ft. curly x fem!reader
tags. piv, body worship sort of, rimming, big dick, tit job for like 2 seconds, creampie, size kink, scent kink, balls…
note. hai.. will get back to leon soon and I think mw fandom is lacking noncon and incest fics severely.. so i will get on that with jimmy. don’t know how to characterise him yet so ooc .. just infatuated with his breasts tbh i don’t know anything works in this universe LMFAO like idk just take this with a grain of salt.. please ignore typos !! unedited :3
You miss Curly.
You miss him more than you did yesterday, more than an idiot misses the point, like a dick misses a wet pussy–You just miss him.
It has been four months. Twenty-one weeks. One-hundred and forty days. Three-thousand, five-hundred and twenty hours. Too many minutes, a hell of a lot more seconds, the closer he gets the further he seems to be.
Big numbers make it feel like you’re getting nowhere so you cut those twenty-fours into one day. One day and he’ll be home. One day and you’ll be in bed with his stomach crushed against yours, the warmth of his flesh searing yours, fucking him into next year, until he loses his halo.
Videos aren’t enough, photos don’t do him justice, toys don’t live up to the feel of a real dick. You miss that face he makes when he cums - it’s a block away from his crying face. You miss him face down, ass up, punching holes into his dignity one thrust at a time. God, you miss that dick, how he goes red all over, him in nothing but that stupid fucking smile.
One day, you tell yourself in the mirror that morning. One day, you tell yourself when you take your lunch break. One day, one more microwaved meal for one, one more lonely night.
It used to be a big deal, you think. The whole going to space thing. Curly says it’s no big deal, but you’re pretty sure that in your great-grandpa’s heyday it was impressive. You’ve seen videos of hoards gathering to watch a ship take off, to greet crews when they landed. Today, it’s you and a plump, older woman in her bathrobe waiting in the cold.
You could spot him in any crowd, glowing like a ray of light, mostly because he’s tall, partly because everything fades into abstraction when you notice how tight his uniform is. Good god. Did he get bigger? You’re starting to sweat, it’s hard to focus when your boyfriend is making a long-sleeved jumpsuit look naughty.
Curly’s hair is a little longer, blond curls licking the nape of his neck, falling onto his forehead, his eyes are so bright and his smile is white. He looks like a policeman’s emotional support dog. A really busty support dog. He scans the sad scattering of friends, family and drivers. You’re so taken off guard by the sight of his buttons popping you almost forget to wave at him.
He beams when you spot him, suitcase dragging behind him as he jogs over. Everything is in slow motion. Like that old movie - Baywatch. He’s so excited to see you, taking you into his big arms, shoving your face in his chest like he knows just where you’d like to be. You’re disappointed in your lungs when they beg for air, lifting your head and placing it on his shoulder instead. He smells like sweat, hotel shampoo and something metallic.
“Oh.” You open your eyes and spot Jimmy skulking behind him, an unlit cigarette between his lips. You narrow your eyes at him, and Jimmy does the same. Real shady guy, the type you’d cross the street to avoid. He’s always trailing after Curly like a bad omen. “He can’t come home with us, honey,” you tell him gently, not wanting to sound like a bitch.
Which you are.
You don’t want him smoking in your car, you don’t want Curly to invite him over for takeout because that means it’ll go on for hours and you won’t get your mouth on his big, stupid dick for another day.
“Hm? Why not?” Curly asks, pressing a kiss into your hairline, the tip of his nose bumping yours tenderly.
“I don’t have space in my car for both of you and the luggage, she’s small. What if she tips over? You’re heavy enough as it is.” You smile at him, cheekily, giving his newfound hips a squeeze. They’ve always been there, but now they’re like wow. It’s only been four months, is he on steroids? Did he get pregnant? He is glowing… God knows what’s up there in the atmosphere, some cosmic horror waiting to knock up your poor boyfriend.
Curly shrugs, offering an apologetic smile to his friend. “You heard the lady.”
Jimmy’s permanent scowl seems to deepen, cementing itself in his dermal layer. “Whatever, man.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders slumped as he makes a beeline for the phonebox.
He lifts his suitcase and loads it into your car and you watch his biceps flex. You see through his clothes, you remember every freckle on his back, mapping them out like stars, leading to those dimples low on his back, the perfect resting spot for your thumbs when you grab his ass. His body is so convenient. Like he was made to be fucked every which way.
“I missed you, I thought about you everyday,” he says against your lips, leaning in to kiss you over the gearshift. “I put your picture in the cockpit actually, Jim didn’t like it, but it kept me going.”
Always so earnest. You almost feel bad for missing his body more than him.
“Aww, Curly, honey,” you coo, pinching his cheek and cupping the other, “I missed you even more.” He nuzzles into your hand, eyes closed as you comb your fingers through his messy hair.
As much as you would like to indulge his sentimentality, you have no patience to spare. If you sit here any longer, you’re going to soak through your jeans and onto your leather seat.
You put the car in drive—
“Captain? Open up!” There’s a younger man knocking on the window, leaving his grubby handprints behind. “I wanted you to meet my mom!” His voice is muffled through the glass.
You lock the windows.
“Did you lock the windows?” Curly asks, lips downturned like he’s about to pout.
You unlock the windows.
“Of course not, baby.” You pat his head and grit your teeth.
They talk for fifteen whole minutes.
Thank you for taking care of him, he can be such a handful—Oh no, not at all, he was a joy to have—I’m glad he came back in one piece—He’s a good kid—Oh, I don’t know about that—Mooom—I’d be happy to have him back for our next long haul—Seriously, Captain?—
You squirm in place, shifting from side to side, thighs pressed together as your panties stick to your core. When Curly introduces you to his crew mate, you offer a strained smile and nothing more.
The window whirs shut. You make it home in record breaking time with four tickets and only a few points taken off your license. It doesn’t matter. You’re home, inside with the curtains drawn and Curly still has clothes on.
That’s not right.
“Take it off.”
“Huh?” Curly pushes his luggage into the corner, the top few buttons of his jumpsuit have come undone and you see the tuft of blond hair on his chest.
“Take it off, please?”
“My clothes?”
“No, your wig, baby.”
He laughs, good-natured, mild-mannered, and so fucking hot.
If he won’t do it then you will.
“I haven’t even showered—“ He starts, but you shush him with a kiss, murmuring a ��good’ against his pink mouth.
When you part, spit keeps your lips connected, the string of fate or whatever. You go in for another, hands fisting the fabric of his collar, forcing him down towards you. Curly lets out a keening noise somewhere in the back of his throat like a dog scratching at the bathroom door.
“I know, my baby, I’ll give it to you.” You pout at him, thumbing his kiss-swollen lips and watching his eyes droop. “Oh no…” The buttons on his uniform when you try to open them.
“It’s okay,” he mumbles through a mouthful of his own spit, “cheap stuff.”
“I know, but you looked so good in it.” It’s a shame, but you need to see him bare, sweat as his only accessory.
“You think?” He near bats his lashes at you, stepping out of his uniform, and you swoon.
“God, yeah.” You push him down on the couch, Curly falls back with a soft grunt. It’s not very big, especially for a man of his size, but it’ll do for now.
His cock swells in his boxers, you feel it beneath you as you sit atop him, admiring the view below. The wide expanse of his chest, the sweat pooling in his collarbones, those tits. You don’t know what else they could be.
“Wow.” You take a handful of his chest, plucking his puffy pink nipple. “Look at these, I might have some competition.”
“Shut it,” he huffs out a laugh through his nose, and the tips of ears redden.
“I’m serious, baby, you’re, like, huge.” You can’t tear your eyes away from his soft flesh, moulding beneath your fingertips like dough, you could fuck them if you really wanted. “What happened out there?”
“Had a lot of spare time, I guess.” Curly smiles sheepishly, expression contorting when you bend your neck to suck his nipple into your mouth with a wet pop! His jaw slackens, and his cock jumps like it’s been given quite the fright.
You only have one complaint. His tan lines have faded. Floating through the galaxy for months on end can do that to you. You miss them, but you missed Curly more, so you’ll make do with what you have.
And you have more than enough. More than you can handle really. You can’t even get a grasp on his bicep, he’s stupidly big and your hand is on the smaller side.
You shift backwards, wet cunt dragging over his impossibly big bulge where only his underwear keeps you from him - you kind of admire your pussy for being able to take it. Your mouth moves on, hands still groping as much as you can of his chest as you lick the ridges of his stomach, it’s like he’s forged out of marble.
Softly, Curly rubs the back of your head, trying his very best to keep his eyes on you and not let them fall shut. You feel his stomach muscles rippling under your tongue. They contract when you trace around his navel, placing a sloppy kiss just below it, where a patch of curly hair leads to his wet cock.
His cock is drooling through the white fabric of his boxers, they’re soaked enough to be see-through, you spot the fat, pink head that has been missing your kisses. “You’re so wet, baby, is it all for me?”
With a pitiful noise, he tosses his head back and nods sadly. It’s funny to hear a man of his stature whine, but it suits Curly so well.
Your fingers hook in the waistband, tugging his underwear downwards until his fat cock springs out, it’s so fucking fat it weighs itself down. The leaky head twitches, pre dripping down his thick shaft, leaving a moonlit trail to his heavy balls. So full of seed they might burst.
“Oh… Poor baby.” You give them a gentle squeeze, and Curly’s eyes roll back into his skull, hips jolting upwards.
The urge to take it into your mouth right then and there is tempting, you hold back, you want to take your time with him. Make him feel special. You seat yourself between his thighs, one leg thrown over your shoulder so it’s easier to fit on the sofa. Your thumb runs along his pink slit, dribbling out pearly strands of pre that web between your fingers. Curly whimpers, biting down on his fist.
“These are cute.” You take note of his meaty thighs, how they’ve only gotten bigger, a comfier place to sit. The stretch marks don’t go unnoticed, streaking purple and pink along the milky flesh of his inner thighs like faded brushstrokes.
“Mmmph.” He blinks at you, pouty, lashes wet with impatient tears.
“Yeah, mmmph, I know, baby, be patient.” You’re a big, fat hypocrite.
His scent is stronger down here, clean and soapy, but the tang of sweat prospers, and the underlying smell of him. The smell of his pillow, the smell of his few-days old clothes, the smell of his towel after he works out.
A few more kisses here and there, using the flat of your tongue to lave over strips of his sinewy skin, leaving him spit-slicked and breathless and flushed. You hoist his other leg over your shoulder, he’s heavy, but you’re horny and it’s given you a sudden burst of vitality.
“Fuck,” he gasps out, gripping the top of the couch, one arm over his face as you lick up the seam of his balls, mouth latching to the swollen underside, where they feel heaviest.
Curly’s cock leaks into your hair, the weight brings it down to rest on your face, tip pressed into your hairline, dripping down the bridge of your nose like sweat while you make a mess of his balls. Stuffing them into your mouth one at a time, using your hand to give the lonelier one a squeeze when your lips are kissing up on another.
The kiss to his perineum is enough to make him moan. Curly knows what’s coming. You go lower, nose nestled into his balls, breathing him while your hands spread his ass cheeks apart to get to the spot you love most.
Curly’s hole is darker than the rest of him, not quite pink like his cock, ruddier. He’s tight and he smells good. So good. You’ve never minded the hair, you think it’s pretty cute. Curtains match the drapes.
Affectionately, you kiss his puffy rim, and it throbs.
He lets out a groan that is half mortified and half ready-to-blow-his-load.
“Sure,” Curly says, voice breaking as you circle his hole with the tip of your tongue. He tastes like him, musky and sweet and coppery. Curly is home and your tongue is in his ass where it belongs, wriggling its way past his pulsing rim, hopefully all the way up into his heart.
Your thumb and middle finger stretch to meet around the girth of his cock, stroking him slowly as you work open his asshole, tongue pushing back in when he pushes you out. Once you deem him wet enough, you push a single finger knuckle-deep and he cries out, hips bucking up off the couch.
Much to his dismay, which he shows in the form of a pained whimper, your hand leaves his cock to splay over his stomach and hold him down to the best of your abilities. “You have to stay still, honey.”
You feed a second finger into him, his hole squelching as you curl them inside of him. Curly clenches tight enough to cut off your blood circulation, sucking you back in when you ultimately pull them out with a lewd noise. He opens his mouth on instinct, pupils so blown out his light eyes seem dark, you push your fingers down his throat and he sucks.
“You’re so cute,” you mumble, watching him intently, he’s like a pin-up model of some sort. An X-rated action figure. “Taste good?”
“Not really,” Curly says. He’s so honest it makes you laugh. He shuffles back to rest his head on the arm of the couch, cock bobbing, still leaking like nobody’s business, leaving little droplets of wet in its wake.
It’s ready to burst, but you’re not done with him yet. You haven’t had your fill. When you spend half your time with your head between his thighs, you miss out on all the faces he pulls. So you spit on your tits to get them wet, his cock is slick enough, nothing should chafe when you squeeze his cock between them.
“Christ,” Curly grits out, brows knitting together, the second coming and he hasn’t even had his first.
“You wanna cum like this?” You ask, kneading your tits on either side of his cock, each time the tip pops up past your cleavage, it bumps your chin and leaves it slick.
“No…” He shakes his head, curls bouncing, sticking to his forehead, the hair near his nose is curlier with the added sweat. “Inside.”
“I can do that for you, babe.” You smile at him, acting like that wasn’t your plan in the first place, like you haven’t been dying for a warm creampie since he landed back on earth. You give the fat head of his dick one sloppy kiss, making sure to tongue his slit before you clamber on top of him.
It should be an easy task to get him inside, you’ve been wet for the last twenty-four hours, your pussy is throbbing like it’s got a heartbeat. Slick dries on your inner thighs and your clit is buzzing, a rush of arousal passes over you like a cold wave when you lift your hips to guide his dick into you.
Oh. Wow. That’s a stretch. 
In theory, you know big Curly’s dick is. It’s a fucking horsecock, and you have eyes bigger than your stomach. You always overestimate yourself. You think you’re gonna be just fine, then his fat tip breaches your little hole, no matter how wet, and you lose it, scrambling to grasp his shoulders as your body is racked with shivers.
Curly’s kind enough to steady you, big hands finding purchase on your hips. His needy noises get through to you, and you push on, sliding down and taking him to the hilt. His dick curves upwards into your cervix, rubbing the fleshy opening as you adjust to his dick after four whole months of nothing worthwhile.
He’s so big. You’re so wet, slippery pussy slicking up his cock, and making things easier for the both of you.
“I love you.” Curly shudders, looking right into your eyes like he’s afraid to blink and miss a single thing.
“I love you too,” you tell him, eyes on his tits.
He’s so deep, feet planted on the couch as he fucks into you, unable to help himself. You get it. You’re tight, warm, and wet. Better than his fist. Your pussy is noisy, squelching each time you bottom you, grinding your clit into his pelvis, feeling his cock twitch each time you tighten around him. The plap of his balls hitting your ass when enough momentum is built up.
Curly’s helpful, when he sees you tense up, throwing your head back and rolling your hips over and over, you want him deeper and deeper, he wets his fingers with your slick and rubs figure eights into your clit.
It’s just enough to make your toes curl—Oh, who are you kidding? You near blackout when you cum, moaning so loud you scare yourself. You see black. Like someone’s drawn the curtains in your mind, ending the show. Your nails dig into his skin, but he’s always put up with that like a champ.
“Holy fuck.” Shaking still, you blink to clear your vision, you’ve wet his navel and his tummy and the couch might be ruined. You don’t even remember when he came inside you. What a shame. Feels good though, still warm. Sighing, you lay against his chest, Curly’s soft cock slips out of your hole, resting on his thigh. “Welcome home, Captain.”
#curly mouthwashing smut#curly smut#captain curly x reader#captain curly smut#mouthwashing x reader#mouthwashing x you#mouthwashing smut#curly x reader#mouthwashing curly x reader
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hands like barbed wire
John Price x Reader
18+ | dubcon that flirts heavily with noncon. fingering (in public). manipulation. slight corruption kink. sheltered reader forced into a wife-grooming speed run. lotsssssa good girl/sweet girl/baby abound. implied kidnapping.
You meet him in a bar.
He's sitting alone in the corner, body angled towards all the exits. There's a glass of scotch on the table that drip, drip, drips these big, teardrop-sized droplets of condensation down the glass, kept cradled between a thick, grizzled hand. The scabs on his knuckles remind you of ripe, sour cherries when they flex under the coarse dusting of hair.
There's something about his hands that catches your attention first. Keeps it.
Your daddy used to say there was a lot to learn about a man by the shape of his hands. And his, this magnetic stranger's, are rough. Worn. Dangerous. Blistered and torn up. Caution tape in pale peach. Dirt under his nails. Ash on his forefinger. Stay away, it says. Run.
But the flicker of orange sparking up in the gloom draws you in like a moth to a flame. Stupid girl—
(just like daddy always said)
He doesn’t look up when you step closer. Little moth drawn to that orange light, the shift of those fingers wet with condensation. But you catch the slightest shift of his chin from your periphery. A silent acknowledgement, but it’s all you get. He keeps his eyes glued to the newspaper he has spread out on the table. Disregarding you entirely. Ignoring you.
(and you keep yours fixed on the clench of his hands—)
"Not supposed to smoke in here," you murmur, voice a little slip of a thing when it shudders out of your throat.
You don’t mean to say it. You’re not sure why you do. The words roll to the tip of your tongue and drip down your chin when your mouth shifts on a small, soundless gasp. Beneath the scabs on his fingers, his skin is all scar tissue—
In an almost laughable contrast, he growls, purring like a tiger, a diesel engine, when he speaks.
"m'not supposed to do a lot of things—" When you finally, finally, drag your eyes away from his hands (the flex of his fingers, wondering how they'd even fit inside—), you catch a flat, uneven line buried under untameable brown. But he still doesn’t look at you. "But who is gonna tell me that?"
You don't get it. Sheltered girl—little girl, he adds, all ugly and cruel; cold in his mockery because that's what you are to him: little—growing up buried in the mountains, left to rot on the fecund plains where your daddy sowed seeds and mama pickled the wares for the market. Barely scraping by on a farm doomed to fail. Some poor man's burial ground, the locals say. Cursed. But hindsight—the gold band on his ring finger, one half of a matching set belonging to a woman who isn't you; and the patch on his leather jacket, faded yellow and bold, 141 with a twisted skull—bring you to a neat conclusion:
he's a bad man. Stupid girl, daddy would bark. Ain't you know nothin'? Stay away from them folk. Bad news. Nothin' but trouble.
(Mama would laugh. And oh, honey, did trouble find you—)
Between the heavy thud of your heart, the words slip out. “Well, I just did.”
More gall. Cheek. You don't know where it comes from.
Mama would have washed your mouth with soap. Dragged you to the washroom, spitting about respect as she twisted her gnarled fingers into your lips, and tugged.
You expect the same from him. Maybe worse. Much worse. But he just looks—
His eyes peel away from the article (train robbery down south, it says in bold, ugly letters), finally darting to take you in. There's shock, you think. Stupefied by your audacity. The disrespect. But when he rests his eyes on you—cold blue, like a glinting gem, a lagoon—the slow climb of his brows, drawn up high until three deep lines stretch across his skin, comes to a stop.
He seems to pause for a beat. Just long enough for an exhale of smoke, twin funnels of dragon's breath, to pour out of his nose. They draw together, but it's not in anger. Scorn. It's a rough sort of contemplation. Eyes narrowing into slits as he stares at you.
And the weight of his gaze is a palpable thing. Heavy. You try to fight the urge to fidget as he sizes you up, rolling your eyes down the length of his body above the table to skirt around intense, dizzying blue.
But your avoidance makes him huff, and he leans back, sucking in another breath.
"C'mere," he demands. Doesn't say, doesn't ask. Just growls the words out between the clench of his teeth buried in that cigar you tried to nitpick him about. "Come sit."
And you do. of course, you do (stupid girl).
But when you reach for the chair next to his, he scoffs. "Didn't tell you to sit beside me."
"Then where—"
He's pushing back in his seat before the words are out, thick thighs open wide (impolite mama would say), stretched tight over a pair of jeans. But even with the wide spread, you can't even see the cheap red plastic in the open v of his legs. When you don't move quick enough—head all thick, syrupy—he grunts. Reaches down mockingly and pats his thigh.
"Come sit, little girl—"
It's demeaning. Embarrassing. But there's something about him that seems to negate choice the closer he gets. Renders it into dust between his fingers. Head syrupy. Empty. No thoughts needed when he'll just think for you—
And oh.
Oh. That thought does something to you. Static in your veins. An electric shock. Mind reeling, spinning around that single, wayward idea.
Your head is hot. Feverish. Everything inside is melted, liquified, and drips out of your ears to pool between your thighs.
(Under the white cotton of your modest summer dress, they squeeze together, sliding in the gathering slick—)
When you don't move fast enough for his liking, he grunts. "Ain't gonna tell you again—"
And you listen. Obey. Because that's what you are: a good girl. You do what you're told, don't you?
So you slip onto his lap, letting those big, gnarled hands wrap around your waist. Holding you steady (keeping you trapped) as his thick, warm thigh splits yours apart. Wrenching you open for one of his rough, dirty hands to slide between.
His forearm anchors you to the broad, dizzying spill of his chest, head dipping to nuzzle against the shell of your ear. Shushing you softly as you squirm around the hard, thick press of his thigh against your core—cunt, he bites out, teeth nipping along the skin of your ear; can feel your hot little cunt, sweetheart—and grapple with the strange, dirty-wrong, sensation of sitting in a stranger's lap as he slowly pulls up the dress you wore to church this morning, fingers hot on your inner thigh. Chasing that sticky-slick dampness that makes him groan low in his throat when he first touches it. Softly still, a hoarse good girl—
But this isn't what good girls do.
Mama says no man is allowed to touch this hot, slick little place between your thighs until you're married. A sin, she called it. Wrong. The pastor, too. Only when you're married. Only as a wife.
You don't think he has any intention of marrying you, but he touches you like a man would a wife. Knuckle hard, firm against the thin, worn cotton of your panties. Grazing. Rubbing. All soft and slow. Not even much of a touch—just the whisper, the idea, of one.
The rasp of his smoke-scorched, whiskey-scented voice in your ear, peppering filth, sin, out as he tells you he can feel how wet your little pussy is. Feels it against his finger. And can you feel that, sweetheart? when he pushes a little harder, digging the peak of a bent knuckle into the seam of you. Can you feel him through your pretty little panties?
"Mm," he grunts, pushing harder. Arm tightening around your waist when you squirm, and squirm. "Can you?"
Yes, you think around a long breath. A little stretch. Your legs kick out under the table when he grazes over a spot that blooms a vicious, intense pleasure through your belly. Something that feels so good, that it makes you a little sick. Makes you want to run. Maybe that's why your legs kick and kick, and—
"Be good." It's a snarl. A warning. "Or I'll take you over my knee—"
Be good, he adds again when you whimper, softening the grit in his voice from granite to soot. The same tone Daddy uses when they bring him a broken horse. "Jus' wanna make you feel good, sweet girl, mm. Want that, don't you?"
"We're n-not supposed to do this if we're not—not married."
Shivering it out into the balmy, smoke-dense air of the bar feels almost like a release. Baptismal. Like maybe now you've said it, whatever spell has fallen over the two of you will be broken. He'll blink awake and right the wrong you've committed with a quick, decisive shake of his head. You'll go back to being a good girl, a simple girl from a simple family, and he'll be the stranger in a bar you think about sometimes, like the real man mama loved but her daddy wouldn't let her marry.
(A sweet little fever dream, she'd said fondly. Sadly. And then, scared, tense: don't tell daddy, though, okay?)
He hums around it, but it sounds accommodating. Placid. Like an adult entertaining the whims of a child.
"Want that, mm?" He digs the question in with a slip of his finger over the cheap lace lining the hem of your panties. "Want me to marry you?"
You're not sure. You don't know him, but he's touching you in public. Has you sat—spread—on his lap with his hand under your dress, touching you the way a husband would. There's a ring on his finger already. The suggestion of a wife. A life outside of this hovel where nothing grows, and you're just expected to roll over and grow old with whatever man daddy approves of.
"No," you stammer out because he's married already, and that's what daddy will say. "No—"
"Shame," he grunts, and his nail catches on the edge of coifed lace. Scraping it over slick, damp skin. "Jus' lost mine, you know. Been thinkin' 'bout takin' another."
A good little girl to warm my bed is said as his nail drags your panties over your swollen, slick folds.
It's instinctual to want to snap them shut. Keep him out. But his knee lifts like he's expecting that, keeping you spread. Open. His hand is hot on your skin. Burning. His thumb wedges into the hem of your panties, stretching the fabric to tuck the edges together, exposing your cunt to his wandering, blistering fingers.
There's no quarter. No choice. He doesn't let you think. Doesn't give you a minute to breathe. It's just—
Skin on skin.
His knuckle slides between the seam of your swollen folds, parting them as he touches that slick, hot space cradled inside. Groaning, too, when he does; like he touched fire. Like you burned him. Hurt him even though you know you never could.
The noise balms the panic and clots thick tufts of cotton inside your ears. The low, rolling brass trembles in your belly. A small quake. You feel it in your cunt; a strange, throbbing little hum that makes you clench down twice on nothing but the idea of that sound. The echo.
He tells you he feels it. Feels how desperate you are for him.
Needy little thing, he rasps, and it isn't kind. It isn't nice. There's a reprimand needling in against the grain of his praise. An unspoken good girl said in the tone of a man who thinks you're anything but.
"Been thinkin' about takin' a wife," he says again, dragging the rough, scabbed tip of his knuckle across the powder-soft flesh of your folds. It's ticklish. Weird. Something that makes you want to giggle and cry. Pull your blankets over your head. Lean into it more. Spread your legs wider until he touches that spot that made you shake. "But the mistake I made the last time was not testin' 'er out before I married 'er. Turns out—" the tip digs in between your swollen folds, touching where you're hot and sticky and far too sensitive for such rough hands. "She wasn't as sweet as I thought she was."
And it's electric. The rough, calloused scrape of his finger stroking up and down your split seam (your clit, he mumbles into the hollow space behind your ear, giving it a little swirl that makes your toes curl; to your hole, nice and tight and so fuckin' wet f'him, mm?) is a jolt of that dizzying, too much-not enough pleasure. A shock. Mouth open, toes clenched tight. Legs kicking. Muscles seizing as he works you over with just the tip of a finger. Barely even a touch.
"But you're sweet, aren't you?"
It sounds like he's chiding you all over again, but the cotton puffing up against your eardrums, the pleasure buzzing in your belly, between your thighs, makes everything sound so sweet. Enticing. So you agree. Nod feverishly on a gasp when his finger trails down to where you clench tight around nothing, circling your opening with the tip of his finger, nail skimming over swollen, slick flesh.
You're not sure what this is. Don't even know where to begin to articulate what you want, need, but each pass makes you feel every bit of the needy little thing he called you earlier. An admonishment drenched in fondness. Wrapped up so tight in a soft, velvet cloth of amusement that you could barely feel the pricks of barbed wire nestled inside when it rubbed against your skin.
Sweet enough that it makes you turn your head into his bicep, nuzzling against the fabric of his jacket as he works his fingers between your wet, slick thighs. Thumb against your clit. A brand. Pressing down, down, and then softening when your legs kick out, too much. That dirty, awful kind of pleasure that makes you feel like a balloon being pumped too full, ready to burst. His finger slips inside. Just a tease. As gentle as a kiss. Only up to his cuticle. Barely even a knuckle.
He tells you all of his with his beard scraping against the flushed, damp skin of your cheek. Murmuring the words into the pool of blood throbbing against your cheekbones. Reinforces them with a sharp nip of his teeth when the shame trickles in—when the easy pump of his finger, not even a knuckle, makes a wet, sticky noise as it pushes into that pool of heat inside of you.
And it's all good girl, sweet girl against the sticky-slick shine of your raw cheek when your needy little cunt sucks him in deeper. Beggin' for it, and sweet little pussy wants it so bad, mm, needy girl? and don't worry, baby, m'gonna make you feel so good.
Baby. It catches, loops. Makes it easier to ignore the noise spilling out under the thick spread of his palm, finger digging in deeper (the first knuckle is a soft good girl, the second is a rough a doin' so good, sweetheart; and the third, slipped right up to last is a low, rumbling that's it, baby, takin' it so well, ain't you?), and the clatter around you. A semi-crowded bar.
You forgot, you think, squirming suddenly. Stiffening around him, on him, as the world sharpens into a whistle. Glass on worn wood. Thud, thud. Legs squealing against herringbone as a heavy chair is dragged back. Low murmurs. Laughter. Noise spilling out from the front of the room, calls for more beer. Another shot. Hey, bartender, gimme another Jack on the rocks—
"Shush-shush, baby," he coos, finger dragging out a lewd squelch when slides back inside of you, as deep as it'll go. The slap of his bent index and ring finger hitting your puffy, drenched folds when he thrusts. "They can't see you. Can't hear you. Jus' be good for me, mm? My sweet girl."
Nothin' matters except me, he adds, curling that finger inside of you until it hooks on a spot that makes you whimper into his arm, teeth sinking into leather. I own this bar, he promises, lifting his arm up as you cling to him with your teeth. A block against the world. Nothing but faded, aged leather and stale smoke. Gunpowder. The slick glide of his finger inside of you, the sting of the stretch dissolving into a wet, sticky pleasure.
His own teeth dig into the curve of your neck. A pinch. Sucking in a mouthful of skin as his ring finger extends, drags over your messy cunt until it's pushed up against your stuffed hole, nudging inside. A shallow dip. Lemme in, it says as he bites through blood vessels with the hard suck of his mouth. Lemme in because—
"I own this town. This bar. Jus' like I own this sweet little cunt."
A shove and he's in. All the way. To the last knuckle. Quick and sudden, the sting is an afterthought; the burn is a hazy, ephemeral throb in the back of your head. Balmed by the drag of his thumb over your pebbled clit.
It feels like a seesaw. Up and down. Bending your knees, feet planted into the ground, and then kicking up, up. Weightless. Over and over again. An ebb and flow. Higher and higher until you slowly fall down—
(—into his lap. the cup of his palm.)
You tell him as much. Mewled out into spit-drenched leather as he rumbles against your spine, his voice so deep, so full, you can feel it humming in your chest when he speaks.
(feel it drip down your spine like hot wax where it pools between your thighs—)
"Good girl," he says, and you feel like anything but. Less like the girl who sat in the pew this morning, humming along to hymns in a modest, cotton dress and more like gum spat out onto the pavement. Squished down under his heel. Dragged along beneath his boot. Pretty, dizzy pinked up remora. "Bein' so good, mm? Maybe you deserve a reward."
It comes on the crook of his fingers twisting inside your slicked up cunt; blunt nails pressing against soft walls until it stings like the nip of his teeth over your cheek. You're not even sure if it feels good. It's just—
Pressure. A burning stretch. The foreign sensation of something detached from your body squirming inside of you, touching places you've never been able to reach before. Too deep and too full. His index finger is nearly double the width of your own.
It makes you mewl like a child. Twisting on his lap, trying to pull away from the place that parts for him so easily, opens up with just the crook of his finger. Leaks slick down his palm, drenching his pants. Makin' a mess, he growls, and pulls you back down on his lap. Feel it, sweet girl? Mm? Feel the mess you're makin'.
And you hate that you can. That each thrust of his hand between your thighs sounds wetter and wetter than it did before. That it pulls it out of you until it drips down your inner thighs and pools against the back of your dress. Stains his thighs. The hard thing—his cock, he tells you, dragging your ass over it with a grunt—under you that jerks and throbs and flattens up to a size that makes you want to curl into a ball and weep.
(that makes your knees twitch, wanting to spread wider—)
It's a lot. It's too much. You're not even sure you like it ("ain't nice to tell lies, little girl;") but he doesn't stop. Won't. Not even when tears drip down from the corners of your eyes, and you hide whimpers into the damp, sticky leather of his sleeve. It doesn't really matter because—
"mm, you look so pretty when you cry."
You feel drenched. Liquid. No longer a person but a puddle. Melted, leaking. Dripping down his lap and pooling onto the dirty barroom floor. A slippery little thing held together by the cup of his palm, the hook of his fingers sinking into you over and over again.
"Are you watchin'?" The arm wrapped around your waist shifts until his dry, rough hand is cupped under your wet, sticky chin, curling over your throat. "Look at us."
Between the spread of your thighs, white cotton dress rumpled and rucked up around your hips, the sight of his hand—masculine: dangerous; knuckles bruised and scarred, cherry red; big and rough and hairy—is obscene. Ugly. Wrong.
(a grunt: too tight. his fingers flex, spreading open inside of you, scissoring apart. loosen up, love, before you break 'em, mm.)
So, so wrong.
You feel small with that big, grizzled hand between your legs. Insignificant. A toy to play with. A thing to be used. And that's just what he does.
Shows you how he can play with your body when he peels his fingers out of you nice and slow until just the tips keep you open, skin shiny and wet. Glistening in the flushed, low light of the bar. And then slides them back inside, just as slow. The first knuckle. The second. The third. Wiggles them around. Scissors them apart.
Pulls them out faster now, and thrusts them back inside hard.
This cunt belongs to him, he grunts, words nestled beneath the slick, sticky-wet sound of him taking what he owns. Over and over again. That big, bearish hand works at your messy cunt until your thighs tremble, and your head throbs.
The hand on your throat is firm. Tight. And when it pulls away to slip inside your cotton dress, you realise you've forgotten how to breathe without him controlling every breath.
"Come on," he rasps, fingers working harder. Faster. His thumb catches your clit, rubbing small, tight circles; each pass brings a new, terrible pleasure rippling through you. A crescendo that builds and builds. Higher on the seesaw—up, up—
His hand is scorching as it cups your breast, index and middle finger scissoring over your nipple until it's caught between the two. A pluck. A pinch. It buzzes down your chest, sinks like a stone into the wet, muddled mess between your hips.
And that's all you are. Nothing but a soaked, hot mess of a thing in his lap. Putty. Messy girl. Silly girl. Sweet. Stupid. His.
(his low, growling voice in your ear: mine, mine, mine;) "aren't you, little girl?"
The leather between your teeth tastes like ash. Smells of gunpowder. Fresh hide in the summer's sun. Smoke. Tobacco. Potent. Masculine. Grizzled, like his hand between your thighs. The other cupped around your breast, pinching and pulling and kneading flesh you hadn't realised could feel so good when it was touched like this—
By his hands, palms hot enough to scorch, to brand. To melt you from the outside in until you leak all over his lap where you're cradled like a child. Obedient and docile.
Especially when he makes you come on his fingers. Tells you that's what you'll do before it happens—a grunt, a command, in your ear. Do it, sweetheart. I ain't askin' again—
And you do. Pulsing like a heartbeat around the thick stretch of two fingers digging deep inside of you, stabbing into that spot that makes you pant like an animal. Blooms more heat, more pleasure, that thickens inside your navel—molten. Spilling out from between your hips. Up, up, up on the seesaw—
"Good girl. Good fuckin' girl—"
He doesn't even sound like a man anymore. The rough, feverish grit of his voice pitches low into his throat, hums in his chest. Rattles like bones in the wind. Howls. Sharpens in the pit of your belly, another liquid pulse around his fingers. It sounds animal. Primal. Bearish as he claims you as his, as he curls his fingers around the heart of you, and tugs. Leaving you spun around those thick, grizzled fingers like fresh cotton candy, sticky and sweet. His to keep.
And that's what you are,
"aren't you?"
Good girl, he coos when you nod, sniffling into creased leather that smells of cade and motor oil. Too dizzy to make sense of what he's asking for, too incomplete.
Your neck feels cold without his touch, but you don't know how to ask for something you don't even think you really want. Shouldn't want.
You feel feverish, too, and it's an all-over thing. From the space between each toe, to the backs of your ears—everything is too hot, too cold. You're shivering, but you want to sink down into a pool of ice, a blanket of heat and warmth. Wrap yourself around the hot, oozing insides of a chest—like the hunter who slept inside his beloved horse—and bathe in the waters around the polynya. Icy and dark.
Mostly, though, you just feel raw. Wrong. Scraped out and hollowed. Broken into pieces and put back together with mismatched parts.
And it's worse, you think, when he pulls his fingers out of you, and you're reminded of what it feels like to be empty all over again.
"Shush, baby," he's cooing when you whimper. Chiding. "Let's have a taste, mm? Find out if you're really sweet."
His hand is drenched when he pulls it from between your thighs. Thick, clear strands make a bridge between his fingers when he splits them apart, rumbling low and brassy in his chest at the sight. Spits like a burning log, crackling sap in a dry fire, when he says, look, baby, got me all fuckin' wet—
But you can't. Not when he drags his hand up, up, over your shoulder, above your head, and sinks his fingers into his mouth with a groan that raffles through you, all the way down to your toes. Slurps on his hand, on the slick you left behind, like a man half-starved. Grunting at the taste. Cock throbbing beneath you like a heartbeat. Pulsing and angry. Enough that you cower a bit, flinching back into the broad expanse of his chest as his thick, fat cock twitches under you, eager for something you only really know about as an abstract concept. Knowledge gleaned through rummaging around in cupboards when no one was looking. Playground tales; cupped palms against the side of an ear. Stage whispers.
Husband and wife.
And oh, baby—
"you're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted," he rasps into your cheek, lips shiny and wet. Smearing spit and slick across your raw skin. "Looks like I found my new wife."
It doesn't make sense. Another abstract concept. Fragmented pieces. You want to say we can't get married, but all that comes out is a squeak. A whimper. Some shallow warble in the back of your throat that sounds like daddy, please.
But he's pulling his hand away from your breast, and clasping it tight around your neck before the words can make it through the panic clogging your throat. A firm squeeze snuffs those flames as quickly as they formed, and you swallow down the ash in the back of your throat before it can choke you.
Good girl, he says with a paper soft kiss to the bruised, burning apple of your cheek. Sweet girl, baby girl, and when he smoothes his damp hand across the rumpled fabric of your cotton dress, pulling it back over your thighs, you realise you forgot your own name.
(It doesn't matter, you suppose. You'll have his soon enough.)
When it's back in its proper spot, unblemished and pristine despite the ache between your thighs and the way your panties stick, uncomfortably, to swollen skin, he drags his hand back up your leg until his palm swallows your thigh. The warmth of his skin bleeds through the cotton, and his rough, calloused fingers catch on loose threads when he splays them wide, touch firm, possessive—as if he has the right to hold you like you're his.
But his skin is still wet, and when it catches in the light, you feel a sinking weight in your belly. An echo in the back of your head that says you already are.
His thumb strokes over cotton, and it's almost obscene, really: soft, virginal white against marled, cherry red and scarred peach; from his knuckles to the hem of his leather jacket, he's covered in a dense swath of hair. Veins bulge when he flexes, thick lines running down the back of his hand like little rivers of blue beneath raw peach flesh. He's just so—
Different.
Masculine. Big. Dangerous, you think again, and hear that muffled echo in the back of your head that said run, stay away.
(except now it sounds like stupid girl, you're much too late—)
Trapped like a fawn under his paw. One on your thigh, the other on your throat. The phantom burn, the hollow echo, of his fingers tearing through the too-tight space inside of you, making room for the heavy, fat length under you.
Soon, it seems to say, still as angry as it was when he feasted on your sweet taste.
His hand leaves your thigh, reaching up towards the half-drunk glass on the table beneath a puddle of condensation. It, too, is swallowed up under his bearish hand when he curls his fingers around it, tugging it closer, over your shoulder.
You smell whiskey as he takes the last swig, grunting at the burn, the sting. When he's finished, he leans forward, warm chest glueing to your spine, and places the empty glass back in the puddle.
The hollow thud of glass on wood seems to shake loose the cobwebs that spooled around your head. It feels like blinking to life. Waking up from a deep sleep.
The bar is still buzzing with noise, but you can hear it clearly now. A constant, endless press of voices and low hums, words you can't make sense of. You're too far back in the bar for anyone to have seen you—the bulk of his arm is a wall between you and the world—but you wonder just how much your whimpers carried under the static chatter. The wet, messy squelch—
"You're fine, sweetheart." A squeeze and the panic welling in your throat is choked under his palm. Snuffed out. "No one heard a thing."
You're not sure you believe him, but it keeps the embarrassment from eating you alive, and so you let it go with a slow, sleepy nod. A sniffle. Wet, weepy: I want to go home.
"S'right, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing another brittle kiss to your temple, one that feels the sting of a scraped knee. "We'll get you home."
(Chiding. Look at what you've done to yourself. Pitying. Patronising. Poor thing.)
His home isn't the same as the one cradled in the maw of a mountain, where the land is always barren, and your mother weeps when your father isn't around, but you relent when he tugs, pulling you into his arms. Holding you like a small child as he bites down on his cigar, and moves through the blanket of silence in the once rowdy bar. Hands firm, tight like shackles when they close around you.
Your father used to say you could tell a lot about a man by the look of his hands, and when he slips his fingers between the soft brackets of yours, filling the spaces you hadn't realised were empty, you know one thing:
these are not the sort to ever let go.
(bassbround. apodictic.)
and when he slips his ring on your finger and tells you to wear that little white cotton dress for him, you suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself.
#daddy is not said in reference to price even once in this but honestly it should have been#captain john price x reader#john price x reader#price x reader
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Gojo Satoru
TW: nsfw, noncon, yandere, somnophilia, unconsciousnes due to drinking
fem reader
Thinking about a love-sick but scummy Gojo and his cute kohai—how you don’t usually drink and how he has to carry you to his dorm when you start to hang on the walls of the graduation party. It’s been his last year, and he can’t believe he won’t be able to see your pretty face every day moving forward.
“This is fine, right?” he asks softly, laying you down on his bed. His breath thickens while looking down at you—so cute—all sound asleep.
You really shouldn’t be a sorcerer. Curses and curse users and other sorcerers the like would only take advantage—they’d all want a piece. You’re a little silly, aren’t you? You know that he can’t always be there to look after you, right? Oh, they’d eat you alive without his help, you know that, don’t you?
He’d kill anything, anyone, and everyone if something ever happened to your cute little face.
He straddles you, lifting your skirt carefully—so slow and silently, in reverence—like he’s lifting a wedding veil, uncovering your cute cotton undies. His tall form sags forward at the sight—blushy cheeks dusted with dew, looking down at you with half-mast misty eyes.
So cute, so cute, so cute. He should give you his babies. That would keep you home and out of harm’s way—soft and safe behind lock and key and a thousand seals, both keeping others out and you in. Oh fuck—what a good idea. You’d look so right all round with his kid.
He’s already pealing down your underwear. Bearing your pretty little cunt to his searing blue eyes—gleamingly bright with want.
So so so cute!
His pale and slender fingers can’t help but reach out and touch at once—though carefully—sliding his fingertips through your slit.
“Aw~ you’re so wet~” he awes in endeared glee, already catching your hole and slipping one of his digits in. He all but cries over how snug you are. He knew you were a virgin, but to toy with it in grasp, to feel it wrap around his finger all so tightly, was almost too much for him to handle.
“You were acting so shy earlier—so coy,” he continues. “But my six-eyes saw it anyway, plain as day…” Pumping you on his digit, he watches you curl in your drunken sleep—a pretty little moan leaving you all so softly. It makes him giggle with delight. “You’ve wanted me all along, haven’t you?”
♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist
#yandere jjk#yandere jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu gojo#jujutsu kaisen#gojo smut#satoru gojo smut#gojo satoru smut#gojou satoru x reader#satoru gojo#gojo satoru#gojo x reader#gojo saturo#jjk gojo#yandere gojo x reader#yandere gojo satoru#yandere gojo#yandere satoru gojo#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen headcanons#gojo headcanons
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sunghoon removing the condom mid sex because 1) he honestly couldn't care less 2) he genuinely believes he has rights to do so simply bc he wants to 🤷♀️ 3) you're too dumb on his dick to even notice that.. not until he cums inside ofc but it's not like you can do anything against his strength and big frame even if you wanted to
condom removal is so hot and I would do a lot for sunghoon to cum inside of me without protection 😩 make me creamy goddamn
note: this work contains themes of noncon and should not be replicated, and if this happens outside of the realm of fiction then it is considered sexual assault.
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Sunghoon knows he loves to have sex but he thinks you might like it even more than he does.
Neither of you are committed to one another but somehow, you find yourself in bed with him twice a week and don’t have an issue if he shows up your place unannounced. Sunghoon isn’t pushy and understands if you’re not available when he wants you to be. The respect is probably the reason why you agreed to start hooking up with him regularly on the first place.
And like, your birth control is always there to save you but you like using condoms for that extra layer of safety. Sunghoon always brought condoms with him whenever the two of you would meet up and the one time he didn’t have any was the first time he experiences having sex with you without that protective rubber.
He can’t get enough and dreams of your wet pussy against his bare cock. It makes Sunghoon hard every single time he thinks about seeing how tight you gripped him when he didn’t use condoms. He doesn’t ever want to go back.
Sunghoon has you on your hands and knees with your cheek pressed into the mattress. You’re almost sure you might be drooling and your hair fans across your face as he pounds into you with one knee on the bed. His other foot holds him up for stability as he fucks you like that.
“Tightest pussy in the world,” he moans loudly, too lost in the pleasure of seeing his cock drilling in and out of you, even with the protective sheen preventing him from truly feeling you.
You’re too gone to hear what he’s saying but his dick feels so big and good inside of you. You moan wildly and feel your own voice vibrate in your chest the more Sunghoon pushes and pulls against you.
“You like my cock?”
“I love it,” you choke out.
“Yeah, baby? Like it when my big dick fucks this tight hole?”
“Fuck me harder!”
Sunghoon’s crouches on the bed, using your body for balance ad both of his feet plant onto the mattress. He’s got a grip on your waist and squeezes when he feels you clenching around him. The new angle feels divine because his heavy, warm balls rest right against your pussy. He gives an experimental swing and you curse loudly when his balls smack against your clit.
“Oh, you like that?” Sunghoon pushes into you again. “You look so sexy beneath me. Makes me want to put babies in you.”
“N-No,” you stutter, trying to shake your head.
Sunghoon begins to push into you deeper. “No? You don’t want my cum? You don’t want it to take? But your pussy feels so good, baby.” His words make you moan and clench around him again.
“F-Fuck, Sunghoon!”
The echoing sounds of his balls slapping against your pussy makes Sunghoon’s eyes roll to the back of his head. He looks down to see the shape of your naked body and twitches right inside of you, which makes you squirm beneath him and the arch of your back crumbles in erotic pleasure.
Your pussy squeezes him a little too hard until you push him out but Sunghoon doesn’t mind. He grins at your wet hole and leans back to pull your bottom half into an arch again by pushing your legs together. You feel his tongue rub itself all over your folds and grip the bedsheets below you the more his wet muscle slides over your sensitive areas. Sunghoon flicks your clit a few times and drags it over the surface, making you moan right into his pillows.
He pulls away to give your pussy a smack. “Such a dirty girl, huh? Your pussy looks so cute when I’m using it.”
Sunghoon licks up another stripe before pulling himself upright. You don’t see him but you feel the bed moving underneath you as Sunghoon pulls your legs together again until your thighs are pressed against one another. He cages you in with his knees and you hear him jerking off with one hand while the other grips your ass and pulls each cheek apart to reveal your tight pussy.
“Your ass is phenomenal,” he complements as he twists his wrists while you close your eyes and bite your lip.
Sunghoon stays like that for a minute, admiring your asscheeks as you gush at the sound of his cock against the condom. You want nothing more than for him to stick his cock back in and start to think about the moments just prior when his balls slapped your pussy lips and sent you straight to heaven.
Your thoughts are cut off when you hear the sound of rubber smacking. Your heartbeat picks up at the familiar sound and start to turn around when Sunghoon pushes his tip back and forth over your folds, confirming your suspicions. The condom is gone.
“Suchhhh a nice pussy,” he groans as the wetness splashes onto his bare dick. “Makes me so horny.”
Your mouth hangs open the more Sunghoon pushes his cock inside of you, burying himself inch by inch until he’s so deep that you feel his balls just underneath your ass. He puts both of his palms beside you and pulls himself away from your body just to push back in.
You panic underneath him but moan simultaneously. Your heartbeat races at the sensation of his bare dick as Sunghoon twists his hips to angle himself deeper than he was before while your mouth hangs open, a string of moans pouring from the back of your throat.
“Your body’s gonna make me cum,” Sunghoon grunts. You close your eyes shut and clench around him in bursts when he speaks, making him moan deeply into the open air. He reaches over to his side and places the used condom on your left asscheek as he uses his hands to spread you apart, grunting at the sight of him invading your hole.
Sunghoon doesn’t give you any time to object or react and it feels too good to say something now. He stutters as his hips become faster and rougher before he’s gripping your asscheeks and digging his fingernails into your meaty flesh, his big cock lodged so deep into your pussy that you swear you’re in another dimension. He cums with his eyes focus on your hole and moans the second he sees it bubble out of you.
#enhypen smut#sunghoon smut#enha smut#enhypen x reader#sunghoon x reader#enha hard thoughts#enha hard hours#enhypen hard thoughts#enhypen hard hours#sunghoon#hard thought
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Oh, sweet neighbour. II
Johnny Mactavish x f!reader. He cannot let you move a little finger because no, and well, you need a guard dog.
18+ CW: the military. you're pregnant, that's a warning on its own. takes place in Scotland, AU where Johnny is forcibly retired and finds a new project - you. breaking and entering. food is mentioned. foot fetish. panty-stealing. noncon - he kisses you while you sleep, touches you too. fantasy of somnophilia. hints of dom/sub dynamic.
Have mercy on my grammar, English is not my first language.
PREV. MASTERLIST. NEXT
Days continue to pass by as peacefully as they did before. The bull you had been negotiating to buy is now happily roaming around, in the middle of all the chickens and the goats. An old guy, rather calm for one of his kind, who comes to greet you every morning. He even starts to play with your Bernese Mountain dog, not that you're surprised, Leo can make everybody his friend.
While you sit on your porch, slowly shifting on the rocking chair after a long day of work, you can see them running after one another. You name him Cowboy. The stable starts slowly being renovated, and your ankles are more sensitive than they used to be. But you get one wall done thanks to your nail gun, and you slowly start to get used to the recoil, barely even gasping at the loud sound anymore.
Evidently, it is seeing you perched on your stool that makes Johnny leave the security of his new house and cross the distance. It is barely day six after your meeting, and Johnny is growing restless, watching you from his window. He had been unable to do anything, and there was a mountain of chores waiting for him inside, but nah. Each time he sees you in the morning, a cup of dark coffee dwarfed into his hand, and you take his breath away.
With your laugh when the sun rises, when you go about and around with a skip in your step, a bucket of grains in hand. How you pat that dangerous bull and scratch at his head and trim the ginger hair around his head, uncaring of those giant horns that could impale you. Your yellow raincoat makes his heart ache with tenderness, but god, does he hate seeing you sitting on that stupid stool. Shouldn't be doing this, not by yourself anyway, not as long as he has something to say about it.
And you listen very well.
You’re trying to adjust the gutter, standing there while grumbling about it, a frown curling your eyebrows. It is not raining this morning, which is why you want to clean it and see if it needs changing as well, taking a handful of debris out. You hate the feeling of it, the leaves all wet that stick around your fingers, and the sight of dead insects and other things you don't want to know the name of. Your nose twitches in disgust, and you gaze away for a moment before dropping it down.
Johnny can feel a cold sweat pearling on his skin at the sight of you, sitting so prettily in such a dangerous position. You are wearing an adorable pink jacket today and a green silky scarf around your hair to keep your face free, with a little bow at your nape. It makes him want to nestle into you, cradle your elbow and kiss the soft flesh there. The sight of you is almost too difficult to watch for a man like him.
“Hen, ya’re goin to giv' me a heart attack.”
You jolt at the sudden aggravated voice, so concentrated on your task that you don’t notice the shuffling sound of him approaching your position. Your heart shudders in your chest, the rumble of his voice making your skin flush when you flicker your eyes at him, one hand securely holding onto the edge of the roof.
“God, Johnny!” You whine with the remaining of your fear, shifting so you sit with both feet on the stair, making the man hurriedly walk to you.
“C’mon now, lassie.” He asks of you, standing at the bottom of your high stool with careful eyes. His hair is unruly today, making you want to brush it back, and his black pants are already stained with mud. You can't imagine the state of his sneakers.
“What?”
“Get down. I’ll do it f'r ya.” He says back with no hesitation, already raising his hand for you to take.
The worry on his face is evident as he waits for you, warm eyes flickering along your silhouette, ready to rescue you if you fall. It’s what makes you accept his hand, that and the pain in your shoulders. You’re not certain how he’s going to take care of your gutter with one arm in a cast, but you don’t bother asking him, not as he is readjusting the silky scarf around your head with such a concentrated face.
It brings a shy grin to your face, having such a strong man bending down to you, his thick fingers pushing your scarf back carefully, and curling your hair back around your cheeks. You nibble on your lips, gazing up at him quietly when he wipes something from your cheek, his hair grazing your forehead at the proximity. It's with a gentle word that you give him your thanks as he thumbs at your jaw.
You watch him raise up on the stool easily, bulging arm catching your attention for a moment when he asks you for a tool. You feel your face slightly heat up as you falter toward your box, taken out of your admiration. Your hands push in the mess of it, and Johnny doesn't judge when you first show him what you think he asked with hesitation. He nods, and you grin once more before approaching, one hand on the edge of the stool, before you raise up and give it to him. You don't miss how his broad shoulders shift at each of his movements.
Once again, Johnny starts asking you questions, not that you mind much. It is rather nice to have someone to talk to. And Johnny is good company, always listening to everything you say with attention. His eyes flicker to your mouth occasionally, as if drinking the words you give him straight from the source.
"I decided on Scotland when I saw pictures of the mountains." You recall a little haze in your eyes while you think back on it. It's a happy memory, though it didn't start as one. "I lived in a city and grew up there. I wanted a change, and it called to me."
"Mountains, eh?"
"Yeah! I like the quiet. The nature. When it's spring or summer, I want to hike up there." You confirm, pointing at one mountain there, up west.
Johnny stares at the mountain, one hand busy screwing back the gutter in its rightful place, where it can't fall into your path or, worse, on you. When he gazes back at you, you're still admiring the landscape, with a gentle smile grazing your mouth. He can't really understand, having seen these mountains and nature all his childhood and travelled in dazzling places during his missions.
But if it's what brought you here, safe, to him, then he's pleased.
"And, everyone always told me the people were nice here. And the food." You add, twisting on your feet to lean against the stool, which barely moves under Johnny's weight. You cross your arms on a lower stair, and he huffs a laugh, catching your little smile.
"Food, righ'."
"That, and the houses cost less than in Island. And it's warmer, if you can believe it."
The screw dig into his palm when you say it, Island. Fucking hell, he could have never meet you. Could have awakened to an empty land, alone. Never known the sound of your breathing, or how your nose twitches when you smile.
"Everythin' is warmer than Island." He gruff, giving a good tug on the gutter and watching it stay put.
"True. So I came here."
The more he listens to you, the more certain Johnny is of the good in you. He makes quick work of the gutter as you explain it all to him. You desire for a refuge and have a family of your own to look after and care for. With your precious hand smoothing up and down your tummy and that genuine smile curling your mouth, it feels like redemption. To help you. To make you safe when you walk further in, your fingers curling around his palm, your rain boots sinking into the mud. You don’t care for the mess, he finds out. Not when you settle inside the stable, and tell him the work needed to be done next, with dust floating around you and a piece of spider web on your shoulder.
His knees shake as you settle one of your hands on his elbow, guiding him to where you keep the tools and the rest of the materials you will need for the rehabilitation of the stable. Your fingers tense inside the crook of his elbow, and he feels frustrated with his own state, not able to secure you with both hands. You lead him toward a table there, with the plan you have imagined laid out on paper. The drawing is rather rough, but he understands it easily.
"Five? Plannin' on buyin' horses, bonnie?"
"Mhm. A stallion, two mares. Then, time will tell," You hum, leaning into the table as you nod in confirmation. You had years of dreams, years of imagination, and of planning behind you. You know what you want and how you'll get them, too - there are so many horses that need a home. There are so many strays that need shelter. "I'd like a donkey too, but it'd be noisy for you."
"Dinnea care, bonnie," Johnny says, voice unwavering, completely honest. A donkey or not, it doesn't matter much to him. As long as you're happy. As long as it's not quiet anymore, empty. Anything else, it's fine.
"Then a donkey it is." You grin up at him, leaning closer into his space. He doesn't care much either, not when your shoulder nestles into his side while you go back to your explanation. Little independent girl, already thought of it all. Only need a strong man to help you.
Johnny is good at listening. His lieutenant might say something else, but he's well-behaved now. Better than when he first enrolled, a pent-up kid who only knew demining figures, the weight of negligence, and parents who could hardly remember his name. He's a good soldier now, broken apart and shaped back by an entity bigger than himself - bigger than the whole sky he even thought for a while.
Finding intel, chatting up some guys for distraction, following a plan. Johnny can do that, shit he wants to, feeling useless by himself, without anything to do in the silence. And your plan, it's a damn good one. He can see you don't really know what to do, but you went and looked it up, and did it yourself, sweet girl, finding what tool to use for what, the width each box needs to be, and what's the best wood to buy for a decent price.
He doesn't mind having you guide him. Pointing his target, the next step for this mission and even less when you reward him with a smile, much better than any medal or tight handshake he ever received in return for his service. You look so pretty there, doing your best as you measure the planks and cut them carefully with gloved hands. Even with the protective glasses perched on your nose, you're a sight for sore eyes. And the doc said exercise is good or something like that.
So he listens to you, well. Intently. Never turning his back on you, always adapting to your soft orders and determined wishes with no hesitation, his mind quiet as you soothe him into action. You don't have Kyle's sickening smile, or his Lt's rough hands that dig deliciously into him, nor Cap's approving eyes that make his teeth hungry for more, but god, you are something.
He's desperate for your praise, for that smoothing hand down his back as you come to watch the finished result. It makes his chest puff, makes his hands tingle with anticipation, and he's eager to do more, just for another look from you. You have these soft eyes, a dreamy voice that sounds like a melody, and he feels like a damn pup, a lovesick mutt famished for the warmth of you that makes him drool. Aye, you don't need to be Kyle, or Lt, nor Cap. He'll do anything you ask, do anything you need. He'll be good.
It’s well into the afternoon when you enter the stable again, with a plate filled with a warm teapot, two mugs, and some sandwiches you made for the two of you. It’s no surprise to find that Johnny is very quick with his hands, even with one not in good shape, and you find yourself standing there, by the table, with shining eyes as half of it is already finished.
After a long and grumbling discussion, Johnny had let you work too but not without the threat of making him leave and doing it all by yourself. Though he managed the heavy lifting all on his own, you can't deny that. Your heart stutters, finding him putting on a lock, his large form bent forward and strong shoulders rolling underneath his sweater.
“Johnny?”
“Aye, hen?”
“Let’s take a break, hm?” You propose, watching him gazing at you from over his shoulder.
It’s almost immediate how he puts down the screwdriver and shifts on his feet to face you. Black boots he went and fetched in his house, trudges on the ground, and your eyes flicker to the dark curls around his head, seeing drops of sweat shining on his skin. He does not move away from you anymore when you approach.
Before, there was a moment when Johnny would stiffen, all of his body rigid as he watched you close the distance.
Instead, now, he leans into you as if anticipating your next move, blue eyes blinking as he waits patiently. You pass the clean towel around his face, wiping away the crass and wood dust accumulating on him. The arch of his nose, with a slight bump, the bones of his cheeks that you gently rub clean, even his scarred temples that you do not mention.
Johnny allows you into his personal space gladly, his eyes shining with an energy you can't quite decipher. Your head tilts back when you roll your weight to your toes, raising yourself to slide the towel over his nape with a smile. You have to shuffle closer, enough that your shoes tap his own, your belly pressing into his coat as you slide the towel over his skin. You blink before finding his eyes that never left you.
“You hungry? I made us sandwiches.”
Big blue eyes stare down at you, and you have half the desire to stroke them and feel his long lashes tickle your fingertips before he offers you a nod. Your mouth turns up into that beautiful smile once again – a sight he will never get tired of – before you step backwards. His body sways forward; the magnetic force you affect him with is inevitable. He stays close, towering on your right side, and watches quietly as you fill the two mugs there, and your shoulder brushes his chest when you cut the sandwich in two.
He relishes in everything you grant him with.
From where you both sit, you can see well into your land. The little river there, down the slight hill that leads to Johnny’s house. The trees at the edges of the forest bend and dance beneath the wind. The thyme tea warms you as you listen to Johnny eating with gluttony.
Your lips twitch at the groaning he lets out, and with warm cheeks, you glance his way. His eyes are closed, and he munches about one sandwich already eaten. His legs are spread out as he bites another piece of it, barely breathing between mouthfuls, and you let out a little amused giggle, seeing him nod mindlessly to himself.
“I’m guessing it’s good, then?”
“Bloody amazin’, hen.”
Your face brightens again as you let out a chuckle, finding Johnny endearing. It's a strange thought to have about a man, but one you can't contest. Your hands cradle your cup as you watch him, a smile lingering on your lips when he sighs, finally satiated. It’s the least you can do after today. Your hands twitch then, when he raises his hand to his lips, licking at the tip of it. A pink tongue passes the threshold of his mouth and curls around his thumb, licking the last crumbs.
There is something slightly erotic in it all, seeing how his fingers shine with his own spit as he leans back in his chair, completely satisfied by your cooking. Big, large hands, calloused and scarred, now used to help create your home, knuckles pink under the little dark hair there. Large frame, warmed by the tea you made for him, and the food you nurtured him with.
“What’s next, bonnie?”
“Mhm?” You hum, almost losing yourself in the sight of him.
“After tha’, what do we wan' to do?”
“Oh! My porch needs some repairing.” You answer, shifting in your chair to face him, noticing his use of the ‘we’ with affection. You don’t mind it. Could definitely use the help and the strong arms.
"Mhm. Nothin' inside needs some restoration?" He hums, squinting his eyes at you from his place. It makes you fidget in your seat, lips pinched down before you shrug your shoulders, trying to appear innocent.
"M'eudail." He groans, thick accent twirling around the foreign word at your bad little acting. "Need to think abou' yarself, ya know? Can't let ya be cold oll winter."
"I'm not cold. T's just the bathroom, well, the heater doesn't work. And the sink in the kitchen is having some trouble." You try to dismiss, eyes finding the view of the hill again, only trying to ignore his grumpy frown.
"We'll dae yar house first." He finishes on, and though you sigh, you don't refute his decision. You know better than to lie to him, not that you want to anyway.
You pass the early evening finishing the last touch in the stables – the little chamber there, where you sand the wood carefully. Actually, Johnny uses the sander while you do the finishing touches behind his passage, running your palm over the smooth texture with appreciation. There are five boxes done, and while Johnny rearranges all of your tools, you looks at it, hands on your hips.
This would have taken you ages to do by yourself because, even with all of your good intentions, you do not know what you’re doing most of the time. But there is no hesitation in Johnny’s actions, and with a few sentences, he always reassures you, giving you the options before allowing you to make your decision.
It's easy how he walks you into your home as if you've done it before. Your hand is warm, settled into his elbow as he slows his steps for you. The air is cold tonight, and you figure winter is not far anymore with how soon the sun sets over the green land. Johnny’s hand moves and curls around your fingers, helping you take the first step toward the porch.
Johnny walks you inside, hovering behind you and finds the collar of your coat quickly, without a word. You sigh when your feet finally go into the comfort of your slippers, ankles slightly hurting from today's work. You don't question it when, after wiping your hands, you give him the little towel you always keep there to dry his face and hair.
"I was thinking of making bruschetta for dinner." You reveal to him, turning to watch him pass the towel over his hair, seeing how the usual brown of his hair had turned black from the evening rain. "With cream cheese, some tomatoes."
"Ya intivin' me to dinner, m'eudail?" It's a tease you know, just from the little tingle in his lips when he stares down at you.
"If you want to." You say, watching him putting his khaki raincoat on the wall. You pinch your lips as he wipes his hands on the towel, his blue eyes electrifying in the dim light, making you slightly nervous. It should be a bad idea, literally, inviting a stranger - an acquaintance? - into your home.
But you don't think Johnny could ever hurt you. Not with how delicately he handles you or tries to anyway. He's not used to this life, to people who aren't shaped by the sound of gunshots, and trained to assess everything around them as a potential threat. Not used to the softness of your wrist, of the light in your eyes. His fingers may circle your forearm too strongly, and he may stomp around silently to avoid alerting anyone of his presence and so scare you, but he always tries. He's always careful.
Your weight shifts from foot to foot as you keep looking at each other before you offer him a smile, softly moving to the side in silent invitation.
"Got nothing to thank you for your help. But I can cook."
"Shouldn't stand too much on yar feet, hen. Yer legs are goin' to hurt ya."
'I'll be fine, can handle a bit of pain, Johnny." You answer back after a moment of silence, seeing him squint at your legs as if they're a mathematical problem he can't resolve - or an untamed being who doesn't listen. Which, really, could be.
"I ken. But you shouldn't have ta." He grumbled then, passing the threshold of your house, coming to you easily. And it warms you how serious he is with it, with your health and your comfort. "C'mon then."
You don't say anything, simply accepting his help when he places a hand on your back. Johnny doesn't talk much, you find; he simply stays by your side as you open the old fridge. Your left hand skims over your belly as he looks into a high cabinet, finding there the plates you'll need for dinner.
Every ingredient is placed on the wooden island you also need to repair, and you hear him grumble as he opens and closes one cabinet, making it hiss. You hide your smile as he moves around, quickly finding every little thing that will need reparation or to be changed. It's actually rather amusing, seeing such a grown man mumbling to himself as he cusses and huffs and puffs.
"You know, I didn't invite you here, so you'll swear at my kitchen."
"Bonnie," He says, almost a warning as he gazes back at you, brows curling into a frown when you arch your eyebrows.
"That's a problem for tomorrow, okay? Come sit with me." You invite him, patting the high chair at your right, voice sweet and soft, like honey. It easily softens the exasperated glint in his eyes, and he sighs deeply before closing back the drawer.
You have to bite back a laugh when it squeaks. Johnny stared at it for a while longer, and you burrowed your face into your shoulder with a giggle. With a shake of his head, he finds you, large form settling by your side comically in that badly painted white high chair. It's much too small for him.
"How long?"
"How long what?"
"How long has it been for sale?" He asks again for your attention, watching you cut the tomatoes into four pieces. Your nail polish, a soft red, is slightly breaking on the edge after today's chore, and he pinches your thumb, moving it up and down under the light. You have a blister. That annoys him; you should never be in pain.
"Twelve years, I think. The previous owner was in a care facility for a while. It's in relatively good shape. The beams are still healthy."
"Walls dinnea make a home, hen." He grumbles, large fingers pushing into the side of your hand before he tugs the tomatoes in front of him, swiftly taking the knife out of your hand. "Someone came ta look at it?"
"No, not yet. Needs a bit of cleaning first, and then I need a plan." Your elbow presses into the counter, and your chin nestles into your palm as you watch him. The knife barely makes a sound as it slides into the plate.
You don't say another word for a while, simply enjoying the quiet as you watch Johnny skillfully use the knife on your tomatoes. Even with only one hand, he's doing it better than you are. Then, you turn and quietly slide the book in front of the two of you, abandoning your stubborn act. You don't say anything when you hear his snort and pointly ignore his look, and tap at the page so he can anticipate the rest of the recipe as you go and start taking care of the bruschetta.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You already doin' it." He says back without hesitation, and you push your shoulder into him at his teasing before seeing him nod. "Why do you help me?"
"Dinnea have better to dae."
It's a simple answer. While you believe it might be true, you don't think it's the truth either. Johnny doesn't seem the type of man who busies himself with other people's business, whether they are pregnant or not. From his manners, you don't deny he's polite and would never let you put your groceries away by yourself, but not to the point of restoring some stranger's old stable.
Your fingers reshape the bread, easily going through the motion as you let your eyes on him. Your nose twitches as you ponder it. You are eternally grateful for his help, really. But you know for certain there is something else. Another reason that makes him do it all, from cutting your tomatoes in that tiny high chair, to sanding the door of your dream stable.
For a moment, your eyes linger in front of you, hazy as you wonder. Does he look for a sense of stability? For a purpose? Or simply to occupy his days? Well, it's not any of your business, but you can't help yourself, trying to understand him, to discover every piece that built him. You know you shouldn't, and it's only a hypothesis anyway.
"Well, alright. You make good company so it's fine."
His fingers twitch around his knife, and the blade flutters over the chives at your words. He can feel the tip of his ears heating up at your compliment, and for a moment, he doesn't dare to look at you. Worried about what he will find.
When he does, though, under that little layer of sarcasm he brings out of you, Johnny finds honesty. And a smile - genuine, and pure. He's rooted to the damn chair, watching you, admiring you there, with a little apron tied around your neck.
You're the epitome of domestic life. Of civilian life. With that little thing tied around your waist, the brushing of your hair or whatever it is called, that make them so beautiful and shiny. No worries in your eyes when you turn your back on him, and soft fingers that linger on his arms.
If it's what awaits him, it can't be so bad.
"Even when I yell at yar kitchen?" He dissipates it, the bitter acceptance, pushing away the tension in his chest with what he does best - humour and a crooked grin.
"Yea', even when you yell at my kitchen." You chuckle, the edges of your eyes pinching slightly, and you do it again - that little scrunch of your nose. He thinks you're cute. Definitely too trusting, but rather cute.
The banter is easy with Johnny, keeping you skipping your steps, with a little glow in your face as he grills the bread in an oiled pan. Italians might despise you for this, but it's good, and you thought of bruschetta since you woke up this morning. You knew being pregnant could give you cravings, but not to this point.
With a ginger beer in hand, you walk behind Johnny, who's holding your plate, into the living room, where a very old TV is waiting for you and the most comfortable couch you've ever seen. Leo is there too, lying on the carpet by the fireplace, and you give him a few scratches before settling on the couch. Johnny is already there, lap spreading so hard that your knee bumps into his when you sit.
"So, ya said the bathroom and the kitchen. What else?"
"Mhm, the stairs creak. And I'd like to take out most of the paint on the furniture and varnish the wood. The heaters need a look, and the fireplaces, too." You think about it, lips pinching on the side as you unfold one thick cover before laying it on your legs, sensing Johnny's attention on you.
The television is running a show, and you can't understand half the words in it. The English teachers you had in school definitely didn't concern themselves with the slang or the different accents. But Scottish, surely, could easily make you feel like a fool. But you don't pay much attention, not when you hear Johnny asking you about what you want to do first.
"Well, the heaters and fireplace. I'll find someone tomorrow to come and look at it. Then, I'll have to buy some new furniture. Or a way to restore what's here."
A tingle slides on the bottom of your feet, and you mindlessly pass a piece of your ham to Leo as you push a warm tomato between your lips.
"Need a hand?"
"Mhm. Don't even know where to go."
He nods absentmindedly, curling a finger behind your ear to slick back some dishevelled strands of hair. Your eyes shift to his face, finding him there, relaxing, and his plate already empty. Johnny must have been starving, a big man like him doing work all day. Your lashes flutter when his fingers linger, his thumb passing over the arch of your jaw.
"Can't hav' strange men here when ya're alone, m'eudail."
His voice is similar to the echoes of thunder that swirl around in the mountains. It's a familiar sound in the back of your mind, one that makes this situation comfortable even if you don't know him. Because it's true, you don't know Johnny, hell, you don't even know his last name, but here you are, both of you. On your couch, sitting in front of the telly while he thumbs at your cheek, so close.
You smile, cheeks round as he presses into it with a grin, watching how your eyes light up momentarily.
"Guess I'll have to ask you to leave then."
He snorts, square shoulders shaking before he squeezes your chin in his hold. You swat at his wrist with amusement before he gathers your plate. The couch trembles as he rises up, making your body shift deeper into its comforts, and you snuggle beneath your blanket. Johnny pivots to look at you, and his shadow looms over you when he stands between you and the fireplace.
You're reminded of him, the first time you met. How he took your breath away. With the light coming from behind him, he looks bigger - stronger. Your breath halts for a second before he tilts himself closer, breaking the spell.
"Want sweets, hen?"
"Mhm?" You sigh, momentarily taken aback.
"Desserts." He repeats for you, not even missing a beat. Never making you feel stupid either, the same expression on his face, waiting for your answer with patience.
"Oh." You sigh, chin hitching up to gaze at his face before you offer him a little nod. "Yea', that would be nice. Do you want some tea?"
"I'll dae it, hen. Stay warm, aye?"
Johnny doesn't let you do much the rest of the evening. He said that since you cooked, he can do the rest. Dishes, the tea, and taking care of the fire by adding a few more wood. Don't have ta move bonnie, should stay comfortable. It makes you smile, and while in any other case, you would have put up a fight, he is your guest after all, you can see that Johnny needs it. To move around the place, never sitting down for long.
It almost gives you whiplash, but when you see him trudge around, looking out the windows, you force yourself to settle back. Your fingers curl around the mug, and you take a little mouthful as he closes the curtains, securing every entry point.
"What time tomorrow?"
"What d'ya mean?"
"I'll have to go to the city. Varnish and everythin'. What's the best time for you?"
Your eyes never leave him as he slides another curtain close, his silhouette flirting with the shadows of your house. You know he is looking at you, you can feel it - the weight of his eyes on your curled form. You wonder if he is surprised, or simply accepting what it implies, another day working around your place. If he's content with you, rely on him of your own accord. Making the first step his way.
"Nine-fifteen will do."
"Ok. I'll probably be on the phone with the contractors by then, so you come in, alright?"
"Yar door bett'r be locked, hen."
"I only keep it locked when I sleep." You answer, at peace with your own answer, not reacting when you hear him grumble. You can see him shake his head again, unhappy with your dangerous habits.
"I'll knock." He warns you, and you sigh, unamused, when he takes the teacup out of your hands.
You twist in your spot, throwing an arm on the back of the couch and watch him step into your kitchen. Your chin settles on your forearm as he cleans the place, putting everything back in its spot with perfection. You don't want to ask him about it; you don't want to bring back bad memories. But, you wonder what he was in the army if he had a title of his own, and why did he left and came here of all places.
You stay silent, knowing it isn't your place. If he wants to talk about it or share it with you, he will do it at his own pace.
You make the last step alone on the porch, and you find your hand cold from his absence when he slithers away in the darkness. With a gentle rub at your tummy, your door half open, you turn his way one last time, your eyes finding him with purpose.
"I'll see you tomorrow, yea'?" You ask, hoping, wondering if he would want to. Giving him an out, if he needs it, even if you already asked before.
His hands twitch at his side, the desire to hold you hitching under his skin. You look so peaceful. Your skin is soft and plump, with that little dew under your chin that he loves, and your knitted cardigan pushed closed around your torso. He wants to cradle you, keep you warm and safe in his arms, where he knows no one could ever pain you.
He gives you a nod, not finding the right words to answer you, and it makes the curls around his head sway prettily. You giggle before giving him a sweet wave and entering your home. Johnny takes a breath, keeping watch for a little while, seeing you moving around. Didn't even look back. You'll have to change your curtains soon because he can see you, back arched as you clean up the living room. Will have to add a few bolts to your door, too.
There is no hesitation when Johnny crosses the distance between your homes. His steps are silent, and his strong frame disappears in the shadows in swift motions. The animals, now used to his presence, barely react to him when he passes. He will search for a guard dog for you next week.
His boots press into the wooden planks of your porch. He sees the light in what he guesses is your bedroom. He stands there for a moment, watching your silhouette shift on the other side. Clothes are being taken off, and the sight of you leaves him rocking on his feet, looking more delicious than any delicacy he's ever had. And there is nothing he can truly see, only the curves of your hips and the sway of your flesh as you walk around. His shoulders tremble before his eyes watch the shutter start, and then the light is turned off.
It's with ease that he enters your sweet little home. Barely a few tries and your lock is off before he steps inside. He will reinforce your security, especially now that he knows you barely even lock your house. There is no sound here as he pushes the back door closed. The dog must be with you, good, he thinks. The smell of the fire fills his nose as he walks inside, eyes shifting about, catching sight of your open kitchen needing a good remodel, and then the living room. He settles into the seat there, a recliner, by your couch.
It is only day six of knowing you. And already, he feels himself needing to be here - to guard you. You give him purpose, a sense of self, during the day. Building you a home, the farm that you so dreamily wish to have. But in the darkness of the night, he feels restless, so far away from you. His bed was cold and empty, and he couldn't restrain the urge anymore, not after your adorable little goodbye.
See you tomorrow? Of course you will, hen. Where else will he be, if not by your side? Where else could he crawl to, if not you?
He settles rather quickly, his knife secured by his hip, one gun beneath his armpit, and the other hidden beneath his jeans. And when he closes his eyes, he can imagine you, see you there, resting gently in your bed.
Do you have a bed large enough for two, he wonders. Do you sleep there, your hands between your legs, or are they resting by your pillow? Do you wear one of these long little night dresses to bed? Or these see-through babydolls? Oh, you might rest bare. He has to take a deep breath through gritted teeth at the vision. He hopes the little one doesn't wake you too much during the night. His hands shift and linger down the armchairs as he lets his head fall backwards, pressing into the cushion.
His nostrils flare as he sees it, you, buried into your comforter, your mouth open as you breathe out peacefully. And your belly, oh, he wonders if the little one there would feel it if he cradles you for the night. If it could hear him when he tells a little bedtime story. He sighs. Only day six or seven now. It's past midnight. But now, all he can think of is you, your soft curves, and the softness of your hands that you are sacrificing to build a home for yourself and your baby.
He can't understand how anyone could leave you. You said something about wanting no one to have around, but you never quite pushed him away, either. His eyes shift to the ceiling, and his fingers tap against the armchair as he ponders the numerous possibilities. Abusive parents could create that fight-or-flight reaction you had when you first saw him, though you were leaning more toward flight, almost a foot back on the ground. Grooming could, too, with these controlling behaviours and dismissive tone. A partner who took you for granted, who forced you into a role you didn't want and had a hard time fighting away from. Hell, it could be a guy who wanted you to abort.
None of them are good. None of them could ever happen again under his watch.
His shoulder creaks when he jumps into his feet, unable to stay so far. He knows it's unreasonable, even a crime, really. Breaking and entering, that's what they call it. But it doesn't matter. Not when it's you. His feet briskly climb the stairs, avoiding any sound, his hand running across the wall until he reaches the end. His eyes move in the dark, and he can guess three doors. You've talked about a bathroom, and then your bedroom is on his right. Must be a nursery on his left.
The door is pushed only a few inches wide. A dim light made him press his back against the wall, palm grazing the back of your door as he looked inside meticulously. From where he stands, he has the end of your bed in his peripheral vision. There are no movements, apart from the crossing sound of your dog approaching. The old one doesn't bark when he pushes himself into the corridor; he simply comes to sniff at his shoes before turning back around.
Maybe he'll look for that guard dog tomorrow.
The sole of his shoes hovers over the ground of your bedroom as he takes a look inside. The fireplace is facing your bed. It's instinct, how he assesses your environment, the dresser there, covered in jewellery and a little palette of makeup. An antique chest, a wardrobe, and a few bags lying around.
As if you haven't taken proper time to settle in. He doesn't like that.
Then, his eyes find you. And it's better than his mind could have created. He can only see your face and that little bonnet thing around your hair to keep it soft. Your mouth is open, slightly pushed forward with each exhale you make, and there you are. Resting. One hand around the edge of the blanket over your comforter. Can see the little bump your feet make beneath it, and his heart shatters, seeing you curled in there, searching for warmth.
God, you're a bonnie lass. Temptation resting there, just out of reach, for now.
His fingers push the door closed again without a look, and he approaches one slow step. Johnny has time. You don't react to him. Don't react to Leo jumping by your side. His gloved palm finds your feet, lithering there, up and down before squeezing your little toes. Do you have nail polish there too?
His chin hitches up as his hand disappears beneath your sheets, pushing inside, in your reprieve until he finds them. His eyes blink, hooded, as he shelters one in his hand. Thumb caresses the sole of your foot, up and down, up and down again, and a little grunt leaves his throat when he feels himself twitching. His index stroke over your toes, passing through the crevices and the gristles, before circling your nail. Oh yeah, nail polish.
With one smooth gesture, he pushed your blanket back in place. Palming at your ankle, he times his breathing with yours, pupils dilating as he focuses on your mouth. He could devour you, really. Right now, he could push your cute underwear aside and have a taste - or give you his tip for now. Just a little. Maybe you wouldn't even wake up. The idea makes him chub up against his zipper. Johnny didn't know he'd like that.
His hand trails up your leg, circling your fragile knee before raking along your thigh. Leo wags his tail, his head lying by your shoulder, when Johnny sits down by your waist. Nails digging into the layers of your sheets, he feels it, the fat of your hip and kneads at it, respiration quickening. His boots press harder into your carpet as he leans over, his attention passing over your closed eyes, the arch of your nose and god, that dewy chin.
His lips find it, the little roll covering your jaw. First, a feathery kiss, before his beard scratches your skin. You whine. He's immobile until he feels you melting back into sleep. That's exactly why he needs to guard you, who don't even react when his hand cradles your nape, pushing into your flesh when his mouth opens over your temple. Your sweat is a little bitter, and he can taste your night cream, too. One last kiss, and he has to physically push himself away, hands clawing at his thighs when he raises back.
You'll need your beauty sleep for tomorrow.
His body circles your bed, and he secures your bay window before approaching the chair there, where today's garments rest, folded neatly. Good girl. Your grey little panties are hurriedly hidden in his pocket before your door opens and closes.

@ archive-doll - all rights reserved. reposting or modifying, including translating or use on AI, is not permitted. original characters are not my own, but the stories and writing are.
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