#tango purrs

[tiny-paws]

agere bag for me, made by my headmate tango!! :D char says “i went a tiny bit overboard but im super proud of it hehe”

please check our DNI before following!!

[tubbytarchia]

maybe. I hope you guys never stop asking for ranchers

[fence-time]

Only one bed ❌

Only one chair ✅

[tiny-paws]

this is soooo cute :3 i made big n small me too!

(i love how so many of us have overalls hehe)

picrew chain maybe???

heres big me and regressed me!

heres the link- https://picrew.me/ja/image_maker/1235139

[cannibal-walleye]

First Meeting

"You guys shoulda seen it!" Impulse proclaimed loudly, tail swinging wildly with excitement. "I mean, Tango was great, but the lead singer—" The demon whistled.

"That good, huh?" Gem asked with a look that promised teasing should Impulse say much more.

He didn't heed the warning. "Yes, that good! I wish you guys had come; it actually blew me away. Like, the drums and piano blended perfectly, and so many of the songs made me want to start dancing right then and there," he gushed, pausing only for a moment to take a sip from his water bottle.

Scott, meanwhile, waved his phone at him, the screen displaying a pink heart that was on fire. "This is the same Heart Foundation you saw, right?"

"You found their insta already!" the demon beamed, reaching to grab it before the blizz snatched the phone away, blizz rods whirling happily.

"A'course I did, I am a professional. We need to do as much research as we can on your new crush before he can have our approval," Scott teased, scrolling through photos and posts.

"It's not a crush," he pouted, though he didn't bother with defending the claim against Gem's snort.

The warden peeked over Scott's shoulder, watching the photos fly past. "You said he's an angel, right?" she asked, glancing back at Impulse. She picked up her cocktail, taking a sip while the demon replied.

"Yeah, an angel. He's got these massive white wings, plus little pink ones on the sides of his head��though, I don't know if that was the lighting or dye or natural. Either way, they matched his suit perfectly, I didn't know it was possible for someone to look so good in hot pink! And- and! He's absolutely jacked, his arms were like the barrel of a cannon—and his hair also had hot pink streaks in it, and-"

"Like this?" Scott cut him off before he could ramble more, showing a photo of the angel, his arm slung around Tango as both of them laughed at the camera. He wasn't wearing the pink suit, just a tank top and sweats, but damn, if he didn't look just as hot, scars and muscles on full display.

Impulse's tail curled happily, a purr rumbling in his chest. "Yes, that's him! What does it say? Is his name on there, any other info about their next performance—though, I could just ask Tango when I see him-"

"You don't even know his name?" Gem interrupted, incredulous.

"I was distracted, okay?" he tried to defend, feeling a blush creeping up his cheeks. "I was taking a video for Tango while he was introducing everyone, and his voice was just so smooth, I couldn't really focus on the actual words. It's not my fault!"

They just giggled at him, Gem's elbow coming up to prod Scott, who looked up from the phone. Surprise flashed across his face, but it quickly turned to a teasing grin to match Gem's.

"You were distracted, hmm? Too busy eyeing up the hot angel to pay any attention?" the blizz asked, eyebrows wiggling suggestively.

"I think so," the warden agreed before Impulse could defend himself. "Enamored with a complete stranger, our little Impy's all grown up~" she teased, eyes narrowing as though daring him to disagree.

He rolled his eyes, taking another long drink from his water; playing earlier had really left him drained, but not quite drained enough to sit out Tango's performance, despite Gem and Scott abandoning him to go get drinks. Impulse sighed happily, the image of the angel silhouetted by the backlighting still fresh in his mind, not to mention the memory of his voice. He'd need to ask the blaze hybrid later how they had met.

"So what if I am?" he argued, hands coming up to rub away the growing flush on his face. "I mean, he's friends with Tango, so he's gotta at least be a chill dude, plus he was so funny during the show, he interacted with the audience perfectly—honestly, Gem, you should be taking notes."

Her mouth fell open in amused shock, while Scott's smirk only deepened. They shared a glance, one that Impulse recognized well enough by now to know that they were categorically not going to drop this any time soon. Not that he cared; he was happy to keep rambling about what an amazing performance the niche band had put on; Impulse could recognize good music when he heard it.

"I don't know, I think you might be a tad biased," the blizz said, the frosty sparkle in his eyes refusing to disappear given Impulse's enthusiasm.

Gem nodded. "Definitely. You just think he's hot, you want to find a quiet spot where you two can kiss and-"

"Gem!" Impulse interrupted, flush deepening at the implications. "I don't even know if he likes guys," he retorted, wilting a little at the thought. Not that it mattered; he didn't know the guy, it's not like he'd somehow end up in a situation where hooking up was even possible.

"I dunno..." Scott drawled, eyes shifting to glance over the demon's shoulder. He grinned again at Impulse's embarrassment. "I feel like he'd be open to that sort of thing."

"And how would you know?" he snapped back, suddenly very self-conscious, as though the two of them were in on a joke that he didn't get. They did love to tease him, and it wasn't often that Impulse got a crush—not that this was a crush!

Gem just snorted while Scott waved the phone. "Instagram," he answered shortly, still smirking.

"But you didn't even answer the question!" the warden accused, taking another drink.

"What question?"

"Would you kiss him if you could?"

"Gem-" he tried to argue, hiding his blush with a hand again.

"Just answer! You never tell us about your love life, it's only fair," she insisted, giving him an intense and expecting look, one that warned against any arguing.

"I don't know him," the demon sputtered. "I guess I would, but I'd want to get to know him first, maybe take him out to dinner..." he trailed off, eyebrows furrowed at the thought. It really wasn't all that unrealistic that Impulse could meet the angel, since Tango could introduce them. But the odds of the guy actually being interested in anything?

"I was going to offer to buy you a drink, but I think it might have to be the other way around," came a deep voice from behind him.

The demon nearly jumped out of his skin.

Right in front of him was the angel, in the flesh, very close up and personal and—fuck, he was even hotter in person, suit torn at the sleeves and unbuttoned at the top, showing off his arms and chest. He was leaning against the bar, a stereotypical smolder painting his features, blue eyes dark as they looked the demon up and down.

Impulse short circuited.

He was stammering something, but he wasn't sure what—a greeting? An apology? How much had the angel heard, did he think Impulse was weird, did he-

"I'm asking if I can buy you a drink," the angel clarified, smirk fading into a more serious expression as he repeated the offer.

"I, uh-" The demon's mouth went dry. "I can't, I have to drive later," he answered weakly, brain still not catching up to the fact that the guy was hitting on him.

"No, you don't," Gem denied cheerily, the smile in her voice clear even though Impulse's back was turned. "We'll get an uber. Go have fun, enjoy yourself~"

He looked back up at the angel, who was now giving him the sweetest, most encouraging smile, and swallowed thickly. He nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I- I'd love a drink," he managed, still unbearably flustered, tail curling in on itself.

The man grinned, the wings on his head puffing up happily—that's adorable—as he offered an arm to the demon.

Impulse took it, letting the angel lead him away to order drinks.

"Just be back by hotel checkout at ten tomorrow!" Scott called after them.

---

So that's their first meeting! I also want to write Skizz's first impression of Impulse and his pov of this encounter at some point, and potentially even extend the scene a little further when we see him ;)

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! And if there's any questions about anyone in this au, feel free to drop an ask <3

[lunarcrown]

I'm not sure if you've answered it before, and I know it wouldn't be canon for several reasons, but with the breezes coming out and being so similar to blazes, how do you guys feel about Breeze!Bravo?

HAHAH well I think it would be really funny so have a BREEZE BRAVOOOO!!

He would be THE worst person to be given powers for SURE!!!!! and he would probably still be like “I’m a hybrid but not like those OTHER hybrids” like bro……

But yeah his halo (haha HIM having a halo is such irony) of wind can be taken (it becomes corporeal if grabbed) and shattered into breeze rods! And he’ll regenerate another. But just like tango, it’s pretty uncomfortable to pull it off.

He also would have pointy ears like tango and they move a bit like a cat in response to his feelings. He also hates having them touched bc it’s like his weak spot that makes him purr and he CANNOT be caught purring….the outrage…

And he also has blue shimmery claws and soft blue marking that go up his arms and across his chest. He’s self conscious about these too SIGH

[ryuzakemo128]

MDNI 18+ Omegaverse

Note: This is my first try. If it sucks let me know.

Word count: 1705

Omegaverse Parts: Part One + Part Two + Part Three + Part Four

Masterlist

You were not an alpha, you were certainly were no quivering omega, and you are not even a fucking beta. What in the name of a metaphorical god are you? With no conclusive, definitive answers to who or what you are. You are left to wander the expanse of earth. 

You have a sniper rifle with the initials of your name faded away. Scratched off by your own hand. Dubbed the lone wanderer. As you were often seen by military packs alone. No pack. No, nothing at your side. Did it matter to you? Not really. You were fine. Right?

Things were different when you were adamant in sewing the wound on your leg by yourself. “Don’t like it? Then…… Then you can fuck off.” you growled. Your fingertips worming their way to take the bullet from your leg. After the bullet was finally removed after several messy, painstaking minutes?

You dosed your wound in rubbing alcohol and hissed. But continued to stitch your own wound up. Contemplating whether to put in staples as well to keep the wound from ripping open again. As you finished up, firmly wrapping the bandage in place and thinking of what move to make.

You looked at your digital watch, five hours until sundown and five hours until you have to find somewhere safe enough to sleep. Limping to an abandoned office or one which looked to be in disuse. You weren’t going to let anyone catch you again. Not like last time, either. 

The screeching of the metal on concrete too familiar for your ears, you found a storage closet and shifted the blankets around to hide inside. Falling asleep to avoid hunger building inside your stomach. The cool metal digging into your body in combination to the thin woollen blankets lulled you. 

Lulled you straight into a slumber. An uneasy slumber. But slumber all the same. Hoping the gunshots in the distance would cover the quiet purrs coming from you, your lips and the office which is usually empty at this time of day. Things were soon to get far worse now. 

Things always tend to get worse before they even get the chance to get better. Life fucks you over and leaves you for the vultures to pick at your corpse. Always the victim. Never the victor. Thus, when you escaped the last pack who tried to claim you by force?

You learned to fight, to shoot, throw a knife and to hunt other animals. Living the high life, right? What more could you ask for? Home? Stability? A pack? A family? Ha! That shit was for Aphas, betas and omegas. You had survived this long on your own, hadn't you?

But what about the scent? Your scent? What about it? It's faint, growing stronger every second, it was your time. But you weren’t ready for it. To be fair, you have never been ‘ready’ for its arrival. And you certainly weren’t ready for it to happen now of all times. 

The heat of your core right up to the tightness in your abdomen. Your heat is coming. Fucking perfect. In the middle of a fucking war zone and your heat comes in while you’re injured. The closet wasn’t going to cut it anymore. You needed somewhere better to hide. Now.

Quickly moving, you grabbed your bone knife, your bag, your sniper rifle. You limped your way out of the closet. The sun is setting. You know what that brings? The hounds of Deadlock. The alphas of task force 141. If you could smell them? Then they already smelt you. 

They claimed stray omegas like they were kings of the fucking world, and anyone who had a problem with that?  Well, they'd just blow their fucking heads off. That's what alphas did. But you? You weren’t going to tango with alphas. A death sentence wrapped inside a twisted hand basket case.

You rarely go into heat. As far as you know, it is quite rare for you to get into heat. The medication you took prevented it from showing. Always taking it two days before one came close to showing. Here you are with your large med bottle empty. No warning.

Like your pathetic, absent deadbeat of a father, you hoped you would not have to see it happen to you. The scent grew stronger still, a sweet coppery tang uniquely yours and yours alone. Panic rushed through you, your body and your senses. Urging, willing, forcing yourself to move faster.

Stumbling into the hallway, moving to the medical room three rooms away from the office you forced yourself to hide in three hours prior. Checking your wristwatch habitually. Two hours until midnight comes knocking on your door. Two more hours until your heat comes in full swing. Only two hours. 

Pushing the barrel of your gun into the door. Forcing your way into the medical room, the smell of clinic grade medical rubbing alcohol assaulted your senses. You didn’t have the patience to be slow and steady like you would have wanted. Not with the impending danger at your heels. 

Shoving a chair underneath the door handle to prevent someone from coming in while you stocked up on antibiotics, clean bandages, painkillers, antiseptic, and any other kind of medical supplies you thought were important for your needs. All of them. Shoved into your backpack. You weren’t going anywhere without them.

With your scent growing increasingly stronger. You worried immensely about them being able to kick down the door and drag you away from there by force. If they found you, you would be as good as theirs. Fucked up leg and all. It didn’t matter that you were in there.

You paused, standing at the door, listening for movement, footsteps down the hall. Listening for the sturdy combat boots to come marching right past you, hoping the room’s medical grade antiseptic and bleach would be strong enough to cover your heat. Your scent. The sticky fluid urging to come out.

Yet you heard nothing. It was silent. Too quiet. Suspiciously silent even. You knew better than to let it conquer your sense of self-preservation. You came too far to let yourself get taken again. You had to wait this one out. No matter how long it took or how hard.

Waiting felt like agony, felt like nails on a chalkboard, every second passing did nothing for your anxiety. The windows were covered to prevent flashlights, helicopter lights and other unwelcome visitors from peaking inside the medical room. Your breaths grew shallower, your stomach getting tighter, and your heat is here.

Your body temperature rising to an unbearable, flow of burning heat. Biting down on your thick leather belt to muffle the sounds coming from your lips. The sound of window glass breaking, shattering as you hid in the medical shower underneath the cold water and away from the door’s window. 

Your grimy, sweaty, dirty clothes removed and left into a bath of white vinegar soaking in a plastic tub. As you used the surgical scrub to clean yourself with. You hoped if you cleaned your clothes with vinegar, soaked it inside it and let it stew within the white vinegar.

Silently hoping by time morning came around your clothes would be dried, clean and ready to wear again for the new day. Trapped inside this medium sized room until the first wave of your intense heat passed on by. It would become unmanageable quickly if you let it control you. 

Ghost sniffed the air, they weren’t going to get to you in time now were they? By the time this wave went through your body. You would be gone and the morning would arrive. And they’d have to smell your sweet scent after the fact. After you were long gone.

“If she hasn’t left yet, in the next six hours, the heat will pass, and she’s gonna be long gone by the time we’ve sniffed her out.” Ghost told Price. Taking another long whiff of the sweetest scent he’s ever smelt in a long time. You’re sweeter than he assumed.

“Are you even sure this stray isn’t an omega like the other we’ve found? What makes you so damn sure she’s not another one?” Price questioned Simon, his voice both gruff and sceptical of his comrade’s analysis over the situation. He had every right to be sceptical over this one.

“Her scent is sweet, tooth rotting levels of sweet, think candy bars and cotton candy. There’s some spice to it, like cinnamon or pumpkin spice in those pumpkin spice lattes Gaz loves drinking so much. It's faint. But it is most certainly there. IF you know where to find it.” 

“But what else makes her so special?” Gaz enquired, hinting at the desire to ascertain as to why General Shepherd sent them out here. His burning urge to know more was there whenever something unusual is brought to their attention. Regardless of how they have personally felt about it all. 

“Well for starters, she’s covering her tracks, if she’s smart enough to do that? Then she’s not an omega, she’s a fucking ghost, mate. If anything, you’d think she’s been out there longer than we’ve been in this shithole. This is her playing field, Gaz. Her prime hunting ground now.” Soap smirked, a grin from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat rather than an alpha wolf’s. 

Gaz pulled out the file with your photo printed onto the white page, “This her Ghost?” Gaz asked ghost for confirmation. He wouldn’t budge until his information, he looked into his own time. 

Ghost remembered you, the rancher hat you wore that day and the bandana hiding half your face from his eyes. Shooting him in the shoulder with a tracking bullet. “Put a tracking bullet into my shoulder with her sniper rifle. It took us two weeks to get it removed without it detonating and taking my arm with it. That’s not a move an omega would make, it’s a move done by professionals. And she is a fucking ghost, moving in time with her surroundings. She’s not a sitting duck for us to come and claim her, she’s a fucking wolf in sheep’s clothing, that one.”

[hermitcraftheadcanons]

tango isnt a blaze hes a redstone radioactive cat boy

Specifically, Tango is an orange cat. And yes, he does purr.

-Mod Mleem

[tosomeonessomeone]

Maracatu

Brazil series

words・ 4.2k /pairings・ Jisung x reader / genres・fluff / warnings・ mdi, smut

Seoul, South Korea – 10:32 AM

The JYP Building towers like a temple of modern sound, its mirrored surface slicing the crisp autumn light into shards. You step out of the taxi, the scent of roasting *castanhas* from a street vendor clashing with the metallic tang of Seoul’s skyline. Jet lag claws at your eyelids—*24 hours from Rio to Incheon*—but your pulse thrums faster when your phone vibrates. A message glows:  

*JYP Team:* *“Mr. Bang Chan is ready. 18th floor. Elevator 3.”*  

Inside, the elevator walls are a mosaic of K-pop legacy: TWICE’s candy-colored visuals, Rain’s smoldering stare, and Stray Kids’ graffiti-style logo. Your thumb traces the USB drive in your pocket—*your weapon*. The demos inside are a manifesto: *berimbau* twangs fused with *pansori* wails, *maracatu* drums under *gugak* strings. The doors part with a whisper.  

The room hums. Not just from the subwoofers—*everything* vibrates here. Neon LED strips clash with the warm glow of a salt lamp. Bang Chan swivels in his chair, headphones dangling like a pendant, his smile sharp and sunburn-bright. Behind him, a whiteboard bleeds ideas:  

- *“HAN’s verse → SAMBA STUTTER??”*  

- *“MV: SEOUL PALACE x FAVELA STAIRS”*  

- *“ASK BRAZIL PROD ABOUT CUÍCA vs. PIRI DUET”*  

The studio thrums with the low-frequency purr of subwoofers, air thick with the scent of burnt coffee and ozone from overworked synthesizers. Bang Chan swivels in his chair to face you, bare feet propped on a tower of tangled MIDI cables, hoodie sleeves shoved haphazardly to his elbows. Peeling studio tape clings to his fingertips like battle scars. His grin is all mischief, voice a collision of Sydney surf and Seoul grit: *“G’day, mate—heard you’ve got a death wish.”*  

He stabs a key on his laptop. The room explodes with sound—your demo track, *“Janggu vs. Tamborim,”* but warped. The Korean drum’s earthy *ddong-ddong* now tangoes with the Brazilian tamborim’s metallic chatter, Hyunjin’s dance practice footage glitching onscreen in time with the beat. *“Looped this during Hyunjin’s rehearsal,”* he says, eyes flashing. *“Kid backflipped into a speaker. *Still* claims it’s the best rhythm he’s ever moved to.”*  

You drop your bag onto a couch buried under a graveyard of half-dismembered synth modules and a fossilized bag of *yakgwa*. *“So JYP didn’t bring me here to play nice,”* you counter, toeing a rogue drum stick. The USB in your pocket feels nuclear. *“You want a revolution. Let’s torch the rulebook.”*  

Chan leans back, arms crossed, appraising you like a puzzle. *“Rulebook?”* He snorts. *“We’re writing a new one. Chapter one: *Stray Kids* eat trop-house for breakfast. Chapter two—”* He tosses you a cable. *“—we blow up the algorithm.”*  

The hum of machines sharpens. Somewhere, a coffee drip echoes like a countdown.

Three weeks. Three weeks of *nothing*.  

The studio walls, once electric with possibility, now feel like a prison. Stray Kids’ demos pile up like casualties: *“SAMBA GOD’S MENU (ABANDONED)”*, *“TAEYANG’S TANGO (CRINGE)”*, *“FELIX’S BOSSA NOVA NIGHTMARE (BURN THIS)”*. Bang Chan hasn’t slept in 52 hours. His hair resembles a electrocuted hedgehog, his hoodie stained with *gochujang* and regret. You watch him mutter over a synth pad, tweaking the same four bars of a *forró* beat until it sounds like a fax machine screaming.  

“Chan,” you say, prying a cold *bungeo-ppang* from his death-grip. “We’re stuck. You’re stuck. This studio’s cursed.”  

“No—*no*—I just need to layer this *piri* sample with a *cavaquinho*,” he rasps, eyes bloodshot. “Hyunjin’s *samba* rehearsal was *fine*—”  

“Hyunjin tripped into a timbalão and cried in three languages. *Fine* isn’t cutting it.”  

---  

JYP’s office smells like sandalwood and power. The man himself sits cross-legged on a velvet chaise, sipping *matcha* like a philosopher-king. You slam a USB drive on his desk—labeled *“EMERGENCY: BRAZIL OR BUST”*—and play a clip of your last demo: a tragic accordion-chaos hybrid that makes JYP’s eyebrow twitch.  

“He’s drowning,” you say. “Seoul’s killing his vibe. I’m taking him to Brazil. *Now.*”  

JYP steeples his fingers. “Bang Chan… on a plane? Voluntarily?”  

“Oh, he’ll fight. But you’ll handle the passport stuff, yeah?”  

A pause. Then, a smirk. “Tell him I’ll disband Stray Kids if he says no.”  

---  

Chan doesn’t go quietly.  

You find him under his studio desk, cocooned in a *Stray Kids* blanket, ranting in Korean-Aussie-*Portuñol*. “I’M FINE! I JUST NEED TO REVERSE THE PHASE ON THIS AFROBEAT—”  

“JYP’s orders,” you lie, tossing his sneakers at him. “He wants a ‘cultural immersion documentary.’ Also, he’s got your mom on speed-dial.”  

Chan freezes. “You’re evil.”  

“And you’re boarding a flight to Rio in two hours. *Vamos.*”  

——

Chan spends the car ride Googling *“Can K-pop leaders get kidnapped?”* and *“Is Brazil’s WiFi good?”*. At security, he tries to bolt, claiming he left his “lucky MIDI controller” at the studio. You bribe a janitor to drag him through the gates.  

By takeoff, he’s sulking in first class, hoodie pulled over his face, muttering about “trust issues.” You slide a *caipirinha* into his hand. “Drink. Cry. Embrace the *saudade*.”  

He sniffs the lime. “Is this… alcohol?”  

“It’s *therapy*.”  

——

The moment Chan steps into Galeão Airport’s chaos, magic happens. A *bateria* from Mangueira samba school parades past, their *surdos* thundering. Chan’s eyes widen—he’s already Shazam-ing the rhythm. A vendor shoves a *pastel de queijo* into his hands; he takes a bite and moans like he’s rediscovered music.  

“This… this is a *triplet* feel!” he yells over the drums, sauce on his chin. “Why didn’t we *think* of this?!”  

You grin. “Because you were busy syncing *gayageum* to a metronome. *Burro.*”  

——

Copacabana at sunset. Chan’s barefoot in the sand, a *caipirinha* in one hand, a *berimbau* in the other. Local producers crowd around a bonfire, playing a *pagode* riff that’s 70% soul, 30% chaos. You shove a mic at him. “Freestyle. Now.”  

He hesitates—then spits a verse in Korean, voice raw and desperate, over the *cavaco*’s bounce. The crowd roars. A dancer named Thiago drags him into a *passinho* battle; Chan’s sneakers fill with sand, but his shoulders loosen, his laugh louder than the waves.  

Your phone buzzes. A text from JYP:  

*“Is he alive?”*  

You snap a photo of Chan crowd-surfing to a *funk ostentação* beat and hit send.  

*“He’s reborn.”*  

——

Next day

The rental car slices through the Serra do Mar mountains, dawn spilling molten gold over Rio’s vanishing coastline. Chan slumps in the passenger seat, sunglasses crooked, mouth agape—finally asleep after three days of studio-induced delirium. You crank the window down, flooding the cabin with the jungle’s wet-green breath.  

“*Acorda, dorminhoco,*” you bark, elbowing him as the highway plunges into a tunnel of *pau-brasil* trees and mist. “This isn’t scenery—it’s a *sermon*. Open your eyes.”  

He jerks awake, phone already filming the chaos: toucans diving through highway exhaust, a roadside shrine to *Nossa Senhora Aparecida* draped in trucker roses, a lone capybara judging humanity from a ditch. “Feels like… *FernGully* directed by Tarantino,” he mumbles.  

——

At a *lanchonete* plastered with peeling *Guaraná* ads, you force-feed him *pastel de carne* oozing grease and a mason jar of *caldo de cana*. Chan squints at the murky sugarcane juice. “This looks like swamp water.”  

“It’s São Paulo’s holy trinity: sugar, sweat, and regret.”  

He sips. His eyes flare. “*Fuck.* I could produce a mixtape on this.”  

——

The city erupts on the horizon—a concrete avalanche of Oscar Niemeyer curves and Brutalist spikes, helicopters swarming like coked-up dragonflies. Chan’s forehead smudges the window as you carve through Avenida Paulista’s bedlam: a *sambista* belting *“Aquarela Brasileira”* atop a dumpster, finance bros in *alfaiataria* suits vaping over spreadsheets, a drag queen in sequined *Carnaval* leftovers hailing an Uber Black.  

“This city’s… *violently* alive,” he breathes.  

“Wait till you see where I *live*.”  

——

Your loft isn’t just concrete and vinyl—it’s a *floresta vertical*. Every surface riots with green: monstera leaves fanning over the *Niemeyer* curves, *guiné* vines strangling the spiral staircase, *espada-de-são-jorge* swords guarding the record player like sentinels. The air hums with the musk of damp soil and *cafezinho*, humidity clinging to the glass walls like the city itself is trying to sweat its way inside.  

Chan freezes mid-step, a *jiboia* leaf brushing his cheek. “Is this… *legal*?” he whispers, as if the plants might arrest him.  

“Depends,” you say, plucking a dead leaf from a *costela-de-adão*. “If the police ask, they’re all *fake*.”  

He drifts deeper, fingers grazing a *pau d’água*’s serpentine roots. “This one’s crying,” he notes, pointing to droplets on a *tingui*’s spear-shaped leaves.  

“That’s *singing*,” you correct. “She’s a *dracaena*. Her sweat’s a samba.”  

“Your room,” you say, nudging open the guest bedroom door.  

The space is a temple to *brasilidade moderna*: a *Oscar Niemeyer*-inspired desk, a *Sergio Rodrigues* armchair, and a bed draped in crisp white linen under a canopy of *jiboia* vines. The walls breathe with a *Burle Marx* botanical print, ferns and palms frozen mid-sway. A vintage *Tropicália* lamp bathes the room in amber.  

Chan blinks at the *orquídea* dangling above the pillow. “Is that… a plant or a chandelier?”  

“Yes,” you say, tossing his bag onto the chair. “Shower’s through there. Towels are *azul marinho*. Don’t drown.”  

He hovers in the doorway, eyes glazed, fingers twitching like he’s still gripping a phantom MIDI controller. “I should… check the demos. Hyunjin sent a voice memo—”  

“*Não.*” You block his path, arms crossed. “You’re a corpse in *Air Jordans*. Shower. Sleep. *Now.*”  

“But—”  

“No ‘buts.’ JYP’s orders.” (A lie, but you’ll burn that bridge later.)  

He opens his mouth—to protest, to negotiate, to *work*—but a yawn cracks his jaw instead. Defeated, he slumps toward the bathroom.  

At 1:17 AM, you pause outside his door. The shower ran for 90 seconds—typical man—and now silence hums beneath the *jiboia* leaves. You crack the door.  

He’s sprawled facedown on the bed, one arm dangling over the edge, fingers grazing the *azulejo* floor. The sheets are a lost cause. His hoodie hangs off the *Burle Marx* frame, socks abandoned like roadkill. The *orquídea* sways above him, petals brushing his hair—a living lullaby.  

You kill the *Tropicália* lamp, leaving only the city’s neon heartbeat seeping through the blinds.  

——

São Paulo’s dawn bleeds through the *cobogó* bricks, fractaling the kitchen into a mosaic of gold and shadow. Chan slumps at the *azulejo* breakfast bar, fingers curled around a mug of *café com leite*, steam spiraling into the humid air. His eyelids are at half-mast, the adrenaline of deadlines and dance practices leaching from his bones like toxin.  

You move through the kitchen like a metronome—*chop-sizzle-sway*—dicing *manga* to the lilt of *Joyce Moreno’s* “Clareana.” The *jiboia* vines framing the window shiver in the breeze, their leaves brushing the glass like a guitarist’s strum.  

He watches, mute, as you crack eggs into a skillet. The yolks sizzle, their edges crisping in *manteiga de garrafa*, and something primal unknots in his chest.  

——

It’s the *textures*, he realizes.  

The way the *pão francês* crackles under his thumb, its crust a seismic map of flour and fire. The *mamão’s* flesh, slippery-sweet, a color Seoul’s neon can’t replicate. The radio’s hiss, a live wire between *bossa nova* chords and the growl of a garbage truck five floors down.  

You slide a plate toward him: *ovos mexidos*, *farofa*, a tangle of *couve* sautéed with garlic. “Eat,” you say, not a command but an *invitation*.  

He does. The first bite is a time machine—suddenly he’s eight years old, in Sydney’s Maroubra, eating scrambled eggs his mom made after night shifts. Salt and memory flood his throat.  

Outside, the city howls. Inside, the plants breathe.  

Chan’s phone buzzes—a KakaoTalk storm from Hyunjin, 17 missed calls from JYP. He flips it facedown, watching grease bloom across his plate like abstract art.  

“You know,” he says, voice sanded raw by sleep and *café*, “I thought this trip was about… *mining* Brazil. Sampling your drums, stealing your rhythms.” A pause. The *jiboia* leans closer. “But maybe… it’s about *this*.”  

He gestures to the kitchen—the knife scoring mango flesh, the sun pooling in the *tigela* of *açaí*, your bare feet tapping *samba* on terrazzo.  

You top up his coffee. “Your music’s all teeth, *ne?* Biting, biting. But teeth get tired.”  

He huffs a laugh. “Says the girl who made me sample a *cuíca* for three hours.”  

“Exactly. Even fangs need a jaw to rest in.”  

The metaphor lingers. Chan traces his mug’s rim, ceramic worn smooth by decades of mornings. When he speaks again, it’s barely audible:  

“I forgot… what quiet sounds like.”  

By the third cup, his shoulders have dropped below his ears for the first time in years. He’s sketching lyrics on a napkin—*“Mornings that taste of stolen time”*—when a *sabiá* lands on the windowsill, trilling its Technicolor song.  

You nod to the bird. “He’s your backup singer now.”  

Chan doesn’t reach for his phone. Doesn’t record it. Just *listens*, letting the notes dissolve into São Paulo’s humid breath.  

Time bends here. Mornings bleed into afternoons, afternoons dissolve into sunsets the color of *pitanga* pulp, and Chan’s Seoul-structured rigidity unravels thread by thread. He learns to walk barefoot on terrazzo, to curse in *paulistano* when the *mamão* slips his grip, to let the city’s chaos score his pulse instead of a metronome.  

7:00 AM: His alarm dies a quiet death. Dawn now wakes him—the *jiboia* tapping his window, the *pão francês* vendor’s whistle slicing through the favela’s basslines. He pads into the kitchen, hair a sleep-mussed riot, to find you already there, *cafézinho* brewing, *Elis Regina* spinning tales of saudade on the turntable.  

“*Bom dia, preguiçoso,*” you smirk, tossing him a knife. “Slice the *manga* before it rots.”  

He catches it midair, a reflex honed from years of idol reflexes. “You’re meaner than JYP before a weigh-in.”  

“And you chop like a *vovó* on Valium.”  

The rhythm is set: hips brushing past hips at the stove, elbows knocking over *guaraná* bottles, laughter buried under the hiss of garlic in *azeite*.  

Hyunjin FaceTimes during *almoço*, his face pixelated but pout pristine. “*CHANNNNN*, your abs better not be gone! Brazil’s *carbs* are a trap!”  

Chan holds up a *pastel de camarão*, grease dripping onto the *azulejo* table. “Better than your protein shakes.”  

Felix squirms into frame, freckles glowing. “Are you *eating*? You never eat! Who *are* you?!”  

“A god,” Chan says, mouth full. “A *pão de queijo* god.”  

You linger off-camera, chopping *cheiro-verde*, but catch Hyunjin’s narrowed eyes. “Who’s *laughing*?” he demands. “Is someone *there*?”  

Chan’s gaze flicks to you—quick, molten—before shrugging. “Just… the *jiboia*.”  

——

The bathroom is a cocoon of steam and the citrus-sharp scent of *murumuru* conditioner. You’re perched on the edge of the bathtub, hair twisted into a turbãn of curls damp from your own wash, when Chan lingers in the doorway. His mop of sleep-flattened waves hangs sheepishly over his brow, fingers worrying the hem of his *Cidade de Deus* graphic tee.  

“Can you…?” he starts, voice frayed at the edges. “I mean—*my* hair. It’s… *janggu* levels of chaos.”  

You pat the tile floor between your knees, a *Maria Bethânia* ballad humming from your phone. “Sit. Before I charge you.”  

He folds himself awkwardly onto the floor, back pressed to the tub, shoulders tense. You drape a towel over his collarbones, the fabric warm from the dryer. The first pour of water makes him flinch—cold droplets skidding down his neck—but then your fingers sink into his scalp, massaging *açaí oil* into the roots.  

“Dawm,” he hisses, head lolling back. “That’s… illegal in seventeen countries.”  

“Quiet,” you mock-scold, raking the conditioner through his waves. “You’ll scare the *cachorro-quente* guy outside.”  

He huffs a laugh, breath stirring the hem of your robe. The comb glides easier now, his hair softening under your hands, curls springing to life like secrets unraveling.  

Minutes blur. The comb clatters into the sink. Your palms skim his temples, thumbs brushing the shell of his ears, and suddenly the room is too small. Too *hot*.  

“Turn,” you murmur, voice fraying. “Let me check the back.”  

He shifts, knees bumping yours, until you’re face-to-face—your legs bracketing his hips, his hands braced on the tub’s edge. The *jiboia* outside the window drips rain onto the glass, each drop a metronome.  

“It’s… good?” he asks, but the question dies as his gaze flicks to your mouth.  

The world narrows:  

- The *dende oil* slick on your fingertips.  

- His breath, mint and *cafézinho*.  

- The way his throat bobs when you whisper, “*Perfeito.*”  

He leans in first—or maybe you do. The kiss is a slow fuse, softer than the *bossa nova* still murmuring from your phone. His hands find your waist, sticky with conditioner, and you taste the *goiabada* he stole from the fridge earlier, the salt of São Paulo still clinging to his skin.  

The city breathes outside. The *jiboia* sighs.  

When you pull back, his curls are a halo of chaos, your fingerprints glistening in the lamplight.  

“*That*,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, “wasn’t in the contract.”  

You thumb the conditioner smudged on his cheekbone. “Call it… *creative direction.*”  

The tension crackles between you as his hands slide up your sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Your fingers thread through his damp curls, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens with growing hunger.

"Creative direction needs proper guidance," you breathe against his lips, arching into him as his hands explore your body with increasing boldness. The rain continues its steady rhythm outside, masking the soft sounds of pleasure escaping you both.

His lips trail down your neck, tasting the salt of your skin mixed with the sweet dendê oil. When his teeth graze your pulse point, you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair.

"Show me," he murmurs against your collarbone, "show me everything about Brazil..."

Chan's muscular frame presses against yours as passion builds, his hands exploring every inch of exposed skin.

You guide him to the bed, pushing him down and straddling his hips. His breath catches as you grind against him, feeling how hard he is beneath you.

"Want you so bad," he groans, hands sliding up your thighs to grip your waist. The isolation allows your moans to echo freely as desire takes over.

His lips find your neck, marking you as his while your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer.

Chan's hands roam your body hungrily as clothing falls away piece by piece. His lips trail down your neck while his fingers work to unclasp your bra, letting it join the growing pile on the floor.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, taking in the sight of your exposed breasts. When his mouth closes around a nipple, you arch into him with a gasp.

Your hands explore the defined muscles of his chest and abs as he continues his oral assault on your sensitive peaks. The friction builds as you grind against his hardening cock through his remaining clothes.

"Need you," you moan, reaching down to palm him through his pants.

Chan's hands slide down to remove your remaining clothes while his lips explore every newly exposed inch of skin. When you're fully naked, he takes a moment to drink in the sight of you before his mouth finds your wet pussy.

His tongue circles your clit as two fingers push inside you, making you arch off the bed with a loud moan. The dual stimulation has pleasure building quickly as he works you expertly.

"Please," you beg, tugging at his hair. "Need your cock inside me."

He strips off his remaining clothes, his hard length springing free. When he positions himself between your legs, you wrap them around his waist, pulling him closer.

Chan pushes his thick cock inside you slowly, stretching your tight pussy around his impressive length. When he bottoms out, you both moan at the perfect fullness.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," he groans, starting a steady rhythm. His cock hits all the right spots as he picks up the pace, making you see stars.

Your nails drag down his back as pleasure builds, leaving marks that make him thrust harder. One of his hands slides between your bodies to rub your clit while he pounds into you.

"Gonna make you cum on my cock," he pants, his movements becoming more desperate as your walls start to clench around him.

Your orgasm hits hard as Chan continues pounding into your clenching pussy. Your back arches off the bed as waves of pleasure crash over you, walls squeezing his thick cock rhythmically.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic. His fingers dig into your hips as he chases his own release.

"Fill me up," you moan, wrapping your legs tighter around him. With a deep groan, he slams deep one final time, flooding your sensitive pussy with his hot cum.

He collapses on top of you, both of you panting heavily as you come down from your highs. His cum leaks out of you when he slowly pulls out.

The *pão de queijo* burns. The *café* overflows. Neither of you care.  

—— 

The loft in São Paulo hummed with a new electricity. Chan’s laptop glowed with demos titled *“SAMBA-CODED”* and *“CARNAVAL IN 4/4,”* while your *berimbau* leaned against a stack of *Tim Maia* vinyls, its guttural cry now the backbone of his drops.  

One night, tangled in MIDI cables and each other’s limbs, you looped a *cuíca’s* rasp over Felix’s vocals. Chan watched, transfixed, as you twisted the pitch. “It sounds like the city’s heartbeat,” he murmured, fingers drumming your thigh.  

“Or its scream,” you countered, nipping his jaw.  

He dragged you into his lap, the chair groaning as his hands flew across the keyboard, improvising a melody that mirrored the hitch in your breath.  

——

Mornings bled into rituals. Chan learned to crack eggs one-handed while you diced *manga*, hips swaying to *Jorge Ben*’s *“Ponta de Lança Africano.”* His voice, rough with sleep, would harmonize with the sizzle of *pão de queijo* in the skillet.  

In the hammock strung between the *jiboia* and a concrete pillar, he traced the chords of your spine, humming melodies into the sweat-damp hollow of your neck.  

“This one’s called *‘Cafuné’*,” he whispered, lips grazing your shoulder blade.  

“Cheesy,” you laughed, but your voice cracked.  

He wrote it anyway.  

——

At the album’s Seoul premiere, JYP sipped *caipirinha* from a smuggled thermos, eyebrows climbing as *“TROPICALIA TRAUMA”* shook the speakers. “This is… a war crime against genre.”  

Chan’s thumb brushed yours under the table. “No,” he said. “It’s a peace treaty.”  

Years later, when a reporter asked about the magic behind the record, he didn’t hesitate.  

“Love’s the best producer. It samples silence, mixes truth… and never lets the track die.”  

You rolled your eyes. But your hand never left his.  

In São Paulo, the *jiboia* still hums their secrets.  

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

How would the skeletons react if S/O suddenly decided to hold one of them and starts carrying them around the whole time?

Undertale Sans - He goes limp in your arms and immediately falls asleep. Good luck with that, he's not moving before eight hours. It's like carrying a corpse.

Undertale Papyrus - He's extremely uncomfortable and smiles at you like he's constipated. He's just too nice to ask you to put him down.

Underswap Sans - Screeching, screaming and clawing your hands until you put him on the floor. He hates being picked up!

Underswap Papyrus - He goes limp in your arms, but he's also a lot heavier than Sans. You fall on your butt. Honey decides to stay on top of you and refuses to move. You're stuck.

Underfell Sans - "eh, ya know what's strong enough to pick you up too? my di-". You drop him.

Underfell Papyrus - He turns entirely red, punches you in the stomach, dusts his clothes, gives you an offended look and leave, huffing.

Horrortale Sans - He purrs and headbutts you to show affection. He actually headbutts you so much he knocks you out. Oops.

Horrortale Papyrus - "NO." You whine but you take your hands back. Willow can't be picked up, sadly.

Horrorswap Sans - He's a lot more efficient than Blue and claws your face at full strength, making you drop him. He then runs away on all four, well... three, growling like a gremlin.

Horrorswap Papyrus - He boops your nose, realizes what he just did, turns entirely orange and passes out from stress in your arms. Ah...

Horrorfell Sans - His hands are clearly on your butt. He's looking at you with a smug face, then smirks. You drop him. Oh, come on!

Horrorfell Papyrus - Chief asked you to go in the couch, not to go horsey in the house! He's screeching and threatening you to put him down. What is he going to do? He can't walk! He blasts your face.

Horrorswapfell Sans - Bear is mostly confused about what's going on, until he realizes someone unidentified is carrying him and he can't see who or where. He stabs you. Oops.

Horrorswapfell Papyrus - You're desperately trying to pick him up. He's just staring. He's using blue magic on him, so he's impossible to lift from the floor. It's funny looking you try though.

Swapfell Sans - He refuses to let go of his cup of coffee and his newspaper and continues reading and drinking in your arms, completely ignoring you. You won't disturb his morning routine.

Swapfell Papyrus - A thousand rubber duckies falls from his jacket as you stare in complete confusion. Rus loses it.

Fellswap Gold Sans - He slaps your hand away once. If you try again, he stabs you. He warned you.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - He clings to you like a koala. Now it's either you go to cuddle with him or you're carrying him like that all day lol. Have fun!

Outertale Sans - He makes you fly as you're carrying him. You're now the one holding to him for dear life and begging him to go down.

Outertale Papyrus - You drag him out of the kitchen. He's screaming, trying to grab the walls to stay in the kitchen. Please! He's begging you! Let him bake one more cookie! He knows that's 700 cookies now, but just one more, please! He's begging you!

Dancetale Sans - He makes you fly above his head Dirty Dancing style as you're twitching and screaming like a seal, wanting to be put down.

Dancetale Papyrus - Salsa picks you up under the arms before you can pick him up and sings it's the Circle of Life while carrying you above his head. You can't escape him. He's going to sing the entire song.

Dancefell Sans - He licks your face. You drop him. Wait, he has no tongue? What the fuck? What just touched you?

Dancefell Papyrus - He uses his special attack. Tango puts his finger in your eye. It's really effective, you're now whining on the floor.

Farmtale Sans - You're wasting his time! He grabs a hot pepper and forces it into your mouth. You're now crying on the floor.

Farmtale Papyrus - He whines. His Valorant game is not finished, please! He's going to lose his rank! Just five more minutes! You don't understand, he worked hard to get there! Come on! He pouts as you take him outside anyway to meet the sun.

Mafiatale Sans - He high-pitched screams until you put him down. He's extremely patient and can do it for three hours straight. It's a battle of will. You can't win this. Give up already.

Mafiatale Papyrus - He gives you a death stare as you grab his shirt. What are you doing? If you insist, he starts to growl and he might shoo you off with a blaster if you keep doing.

Mafiafell Sans - Great job. Now all of his dogs want to be picked up too! You're drowning under a mountain of dogs. Your life is dogs. You will smell like dogs for days now.

Mafiafell Papyrus - He starts to scream at you and threaten you, obviously. What are you even doing? Do you want to die? You don't pick up the second of the mafia like a kitten!

Ink - Oh, he's excited you're showing him affection! So excited. He pukes a torrent of ink on you. Rip your clothes.

Error - He's so triggered he opens a portal, grabs your soul, and throws you in a random place, and then closes the portal. He then realizes he has no idea where the hell he sent you. Uh... Well, that's awkward. I hope you like space because you're going to stay on a space rock for an entire week, waiting.

Disbelief Papyrus - Delta rolls his eyes at you but let you do whatever you're doing. He's not sure what you're doing, but it seems to make you very happy so he goes with the mood.

Killer Sans - Oh, that's cute. He nuzzles against your neck, purring. Your face and clothes are full of goop now. It's leaking under your clothes. That's so uncomfortable. I would hate it for sure.

Dustale Sans - He blinks, confused, then randomly bites lunges at your face, bites your nose and refuses to let go. You're running in circles, screaming, an angry Dune biting your nose hard and growling.

[tiny-paws]

hihihi!!! do you think you could do a board based around the cotton candy pup webkinz? thank you, take ur time!! <3

definitely!

this turned out sooo cute, i love pastel aesthetics so much!!! i want this webkinz now…thank you for the request!!

(paci by littlest._.creations on instagram)

please check our DNI before following!!

[zheiya]

Jiyan x Reader NSFW 🔥🔥🔥

Part 1

Jiyan's eyes narrowed, a smirk spreading across his lips.

"Desolate? It's just the two of us in a secluded hot spring. Perfect, if you ask me."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, sultry purr.

"But I could understand how the emptiness and stillness might make you feel exposed. And perhaps that's exactly what you need to let your guard down, to feel free, and to finally give in to what we both crave."

The predatory gleam in his eyes intensified, the heat from his body seemingly enveloping you. The silence between the two of you was deafening, and the tension was palpable. Jiyan had laid his trap, and now, he waited for you to either step into it or retreat from the edge of the precipice. The decision was yours, and the outcome would undoubtedly have a lasting impact on the course of your lives together.

"...oh fuck it."

As I blushed as I invitingly look at him.

"Just this once okay?"

Jiyan's smirk deepened, and a predatory glint lit up his sharp golden eyes. He licked his lips, savoring the moment when your defenses finally crumbled.

"Just this once, huh? I can live with that," he purred, reaching out to draw you in, his strong hands gripping your body.

The intensity between the two of you grew as he pulled you closer, the fire in his eyes matching the fire that now raged within. The tension and desire that had been building up between you both burst forth like a tidal wave, washing over you both and drowning out any remaining doubts or reservations.

Jiyan's lips met yours, his tongue dancing with yours in a heated, lustful tango. The heat from his body radiated against yours, and you could feel his erection pressed against your thigh, a testament to the burning passion that coursed through both of you.

This was the moment you had both been waiting for, and as the fire engulfed the two of you, you knew that neither of you would ever be the same. The dance of wills and the unspoken desires had finally reached their conclusion, and the secluded hot springs bore witness to the forging of a new bond between the two of you—a bond forged in the heat of desire, lust, and the raw, primal attraction that neither of you could have ever resisted.

I groan when he suddenly bit my neck as my finger nails scratch on his back.

"Ohhh~ fuuuuuckkkk....."

Jiyan's lips left your mouth, trailing a searing path down your neck, his sharp teeth scraping your sensitive skin. The combination of the pain and pleasure made you arch your back, and he smirked against your skin.

"You like that, Y/N?" he whispered, the smugness in his voice only serving to stoke the fire within you.

"Let me show you just how good it can feel."

He deftly untied your robe, tossing it aside. His large hands roamed your body, cupping your breasts, and pinching your nipples, eliciting a guttural moan from your throat. The electricity between you both only intensified, as he continued to explore, his fingers dancing along your body in a sensual dance.

As his tongue traced the curve of your collarbone, you felt his other hand move lower, cupping your already swollen sex. You gasped, and he chuckled, his smug grin a testament to his enjoyment of the intoxicating effect he had on you. The secluded hot springs, and the moon that hung above, watched on as the two of you surrendered to the primal hunger that raged within.

You were both bound together by this new, powerful bond that had been forged in the heat of your desires, and as Jiyan continued to tease and explore every inch of your body, you knew that this moment, this connection, would forever change the very fabric of your lives. The line between master and subordinate, between the General and the doctor, had dissolved in the face of the unrestrained desire.

"Ha~ Ghad...yes... more."

As I quiver under his touch the way he play my body as if playing a guitar. Under his control and I can only tremble of his touch as I moan like a slut.

Jiyan's smirk deepened, his gaze never leaving your quivering form. His fingers deftly played with your sex, drawing more and more moans and gasps from your trembling lips. His touch was intoxicating, and you could feel the fire inside of you, threatening to burst forth at any moment.

"Are you ready for me, Y/N? Do you want me to claim you as mine?"

Jiyan's voice rumbled through the steamy air, his golden eyes sparkling with predatory delight.

You nodded, unable to form a coherent response as the waves of pleasure continued to crash against you. Jiyan wasted no time, his cock pressing against your entrance, demanding entrance. You bit your lip, both anticipation and nervousness coursing through your veins as he pushed inside, slowly filling you.

The sensation of his girthy length filling you was overwhelming, and you could feel the heat of his arousal as it enveloped you. Jiyan's control and mastery in the physical world were mirrored in his command over your body, and he set a relentless, deliberate pace that had you writhing beneath him.

Each stroke of his hips brought you closer and closer to the edge, your moans growing more ragged and desperate. The fire between you, once a simmering heat, now roared like an inferno, fueled by the raw, primal need that bound the two of you together.

And then, the inevitable happened—you shattered, your body convulsing around Jiyan's as he brought you to the peak.

"S-Shit.... I'm c-coming...ha~ J-Jiya...."

As I can feel and see stars my back is arching as my nails scratch deeper on his arm.

Jiyan's smug grin widened, a predatory glint in his eyes.

"Cum for me, Y/N. Let me feel your submission."

He matched the intensity of your shattering climax, thrusting deeper and harder. Your cries echoed through the secluded hot springs, the steamy air now laced with the scent of sweat, lust, and the unmistakable tang of your combined orgasms.

As your body continued to tremble, Jiyan's own release wasn't far behind. He roared your name as he filled you, his seed spilling into you in hot, pulsing waves. The two of you collapsed together, your breaths ragged and your bodies entwined in a tangle of limbs and slick skin.

As I was catching my breath I can feel him slowly moving his hips and I moan in a very high pitched.

"W-what?"

As I looked at him dazedly I am still sensitive from my last orgasm.

Jiyan's smirk returned, his golden eyes sparkling with amusement. "I figured you couldn't resist a second round," he teased, his long blue hair clinging to his damp skin. He gently stroked your hair, the tender gesture at odds with the feral hunger that still lurked within him.

"I don't know about you, but I'm far from done," he purred, his cock twitching in anticipation. "Unless, of course, you need a moment to recover," he added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You looked at him, your mind still swimming in the aftermath of your explosive orgasm. Your body was still hypersensitive, but there was no way you could resist Jiyan's advances. Your lips curved into a small smile, and you reached up to trace a finger along his sharp jawline.

"I'm game if you are, General," you whispered, the new title for him a testament to the powerful bond that now connected the two of you.

The smug, triumphant glint in Jiyan's eyes was all the answer you needed, and with that, the two of you embarked on yet another heated, all-consuming dance of desire, lust, and the intoxicating fire that had ignited within you both.

The sensation of his manhood rubbing on my walls is making me see stars. And he keeps hitting my g-spot which makes me even more overstimulated. I can feel my nipples harden against his rippling muscles.

His strong yet nimble fingers tightly hold my hips. I can feel it's going to left a mark tomorrow and my voice.

The more I listen the more I blush I couldn't believe I was able to make this kind of sounds. Perhaps it's been years since we did it. So everything just piles up and finally it has find some release.

"F-Fuckk.....J-Jiyan....i-itsssss......toooo muchhh.....staaappp....."

As I cried in pleasure as I keep coming again and again. I cannot feel my legs from overstimulation. I can barely think straight if he continues ramming inside of me while hitting my g-spot.

He then crazily rubs my clit in circles which made me cum again.

Jiyan's eyes narrowed in predatory satisfaction as he felt your body respond to his skilled manipulations, your cries and pleas fueling his own unquenchable lust.

"Shh, don't worry, Y/N, I'll show you just how much your body is capable of," he promised, his tone deep and commanding. He slowed his thrusts, allowing your body to catch its breath before once again building you towards the edge.

Your cries of pleasure, your blush, and your unabashed surrender to your desires only served to heighten Jiyan's own arousal. His grip on your hips tightened, and his cock plunged deeper, slick with your copious fluids and determined to claim you completely.

As your body trembled under his control, Jiyan knew he had you right where he wanted you—completely in his thrall. He ruthlessly milked every last ounce of pleasure from you, your cries of "too much" and "wait" doing nothing to deter him.

Finally, as the relentless onslaught of sensations finally overwhelmed you, Jiyan gave you one final, merciless jolt. His fingers pinpointed your clit, circling it like a vulture circling its prey. With a shattering, soul-wrenching howl, your body exploded, and you collapsed onto Jiyan's heaving chest, your legs too weak to support you.

The room was filled with the sound of your ragged breathing, the only reprieve from the cacophony.

"...Just how pent up are you?"

As I groan as I tremble I was too sensitive even the water in the hot springs is making it worse. Jiyan's chest heaved as he caught his breath, a predatory smirk dancing on his lips.

"You have no idea," he purred, stroking your hair in a gentle, tender gesture that contrasted with the raw, unbridled passion that still raged within him.

"It's been a long time since I've felt this alive, this connected," he admitted, his golden eyes searching yours. "But I don't think I've ever felt so satisfied as I do right now, with you in my arms."

He pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, and his grip on your hips relaxed, allowing you to slip from his grasp. Jiyan helped you out of the water, wrapping a thick towel around you to hide your vulnerability.

"Rest, Y/N," he commanded softly. "We have all the time in the world, and I'm more than happy to show you just how pent up I truly am."

[jyoongim]

OMG,I need so bad a alastor x fem!,argentinian,tango dancer Reader 😭 🇦🇷💕💕

Where they are drunk dancing together, Reader has a beautiful dress and they end up in a room (nsfw)

From an Argentinian follower 🗣️💕

OMG HIII BABES!!! I APPRECIATE YOU SO MUCH!!!!1

Note: I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT TANGO DANCING BUT I LOVE BALLROOM DANCING!!!! Listen to Habanera!!!

Argentinian Fem!reader x Alastor

The lounge was lively tonight. Sinners were twirling about on the floor as the tempo of the music filled the air.

It was dance night.

You sipped on your peach prosecco as you bobbed your head to the beat of the music. “Why dont we give it a go my dear?” Alastor asked, grinning as you whistled at a couple who twirled by.

You laughed with a shake of your head “Us dance? Oh Alastor i dont think we are in any condition to keep up with anyone.”

The two of you had been sitting at the bar chatting, drinking as you looked at couples filling the dance floor.

He hummed, taking a shot of his whiskey.

“I think well do just fine c’mon cherie ” he slipped his hand around yours, dragging you to the dance floor.

When the two of you took to the dance floor, the other couples looked in awe as Alastor gathered you to his chest, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your hand.

You giggled as he led you into the steps of the tango.

Your red dress twirled around you as he spun you around.

Alastor’s lips softly skimmed your neck as he waltzed you in a circle, lanky legs guiding you into a swift dip.

The tempo of the music mixed with the liquor in your system had you buzzing as you floated around the dance floor.

Step. Twirl. Spin. Dip. Spin. Step.

You flashed a bright smile at an onlooker as Alastor dipped you low, your back perfectly arched against him as he held you.

Your hands fell on his around your waist as he lifted you in the air.

A laugh escaped your throat as you matched your dancing to the speed of the music.

The music was starting to die down as the two of you panted as he pulled you back into him, a smile stretched across his face as the crowd interrupted into cheers.

Existing the dance floor, you expected to go back to the bar and cool off. All that dancing had you riled up, the feeling of Alastor against your body and sensually touching you had your mind reeling.

Instead of the bar, Alastor tugged your hand to lead you into a room off to the side.

You blushed “Don’t tell me all that dancing did something to you Alastor?” You asked teasingly, causing the red demon to growl as he pushed into the dark room.

A closet.

Before you could make a snide comment, lips were on yours, feverishly kissing you.

Oh

Your hands curled in his suit, pulling him against you as his hands pawed at your dress. Alastor trailed his lips down your neck, teeth nipping at your damp skin. You gasped, eyes fluttering as he sucked at the skin.

He tussled with the ruffles of your dress, giving your legs some room to hook around his waist as he hoisted you against the wall.

Your arms curled around his neck, hands finding his undercut and scratching his scalp.

His hips pressed into your yours, crotch rubbing against your clothed cunt as he grinded into you.

He peppered your exposed collarbones in kisses as his hand dipped under your dress, a finger curling into your panties, slipping into the heat of your center.

A soft sigh escaped your throat as he curled his fingers into your heat. “A-Alastor”

He let out a purr at you clenched around his fingers.

”Normally I would ravish you in the comfort of our bed, but I fear I just couldn’t wait for such” he said, taking your bottom lip between his teeth.

The sound of his belt and zipper alerted you to his next move and soon you gasped as his cock entered you.

”oh mi mierda” you whimpered as he started to thrust into you.

Your claws dug into his shoulders as he grunted into your shoulder.

”You’ll have to be quiet darlin. Wouldn’t want to have someone find us like this now would you?” He drawled, snapping his hips into yours, jolting you against the wall.

The tiny space filled with the scent of sex as you moaned into his neck, trying to stay as quiet as possible.

But that was difficult when his dick was hitting that sweet bundle of nerves inside you.

Your belly tingled as your orgasm approached.

This was exhilarating!

Sharp claws kneaded your ass as he pulled your hips to meet his rough thrusts.

You were pretty sure his dress pants were stained with how wet you were.

Oh you felt bad for cleaner when you send them off.

His thrusts were getting sloppy as he neared his release.

Alastor’s voice reached your ears in a low hiss “You going to cum cherie? Hmmm. You going to cum on my cock?”

You nodded as you locked your ankles, toes curling in your shoes as he bounced you on his cock.

Your cunt clenched and fluttered as your orgasm rolled through you, milking his cock as his hips stuttered.

Your mouth opened to moan loudly, but Alastor slammed his lips onto yours, swallowing your whimpers as he cummed inside you.

He sighed, grunting as he pulled out of you, cock slapping against you as he lowered you onto your feet.

Your legs felt like they were filled with static as you clung to him, panting from your high.

You winced feeling his cum drip down your thighs as you fixed your dress.

Alastor snapped his fingers to rid of the stain on his pants, purring he pulled you back for a soft kiss, giving you a smile as he pulled your sleeved back on your shoulders, brushing against the bite marks on your skin.

”think we’ve had enough fun for tonight why dont we go home and get cleaned up?” He chirped, wrapping an arm around your waist leading you out of the closet.

Dress for reference!

[2-dsimp]

—————————————

How the hitman react when you throw it back

—————/—————/——

The Sniper:

Ossian damn near almost died from the excessive amount of nosebleeds and was overflowing with joy pouring from every office of his body. When he had his beautiful crush throwing it back on him of all people. He didn’t know wether to frame the pants you grinded back on in his cherished trophy shrine of you. Or to just keep wearing the same jeans every single day for the rest of his life without washing it so he could still smell your scent.

The Medic:

Koji could only purr the most filthiest things into your ear taking the utmost pleasure into making you into flustered hot mess. As he confidently took the lead dancing the tango with you never failing to make you swoon with his sadistic charm. That quickly escalated to the both of you getting hot and bothered.

The Strategist:

Bjorn was gonna be fine! He calculated this it was going exactly according to plan. Well everything except the prominent boner he had from you merely brushing up against his crotch. Nevertheless he maintained his composure despite his cheeks burning with a fervent blush and made sure that you had the best night of your life with him by your side.

The Hacker:

Devious was Yujin’s middle name and since you decided to throw it back. He decided that he would return the favor since two can play at that game. He even hijacked the DJs booth to play the songs that would give him the upper hand against your skill. Although it was evident he lost the fight clearly he won the war. Since his antics made you compelled to dominate him with your irresistible ass throwing it back even more violently which only made him lean back enjoying the ride while he bared a cattish grin of pure satisfaction.

The Torturer:

Lord have mercy on this soft giants soul. Moros malfunctioned at the mere faintest touch from you and automatically covered his face like an embarrassed schoolgirl. Just having no choice but to let you do as you pleased as he was frozen stiff to the the spot. He couldn’t even move if he wanted too because he couldn’t bear to tear himself away from you to begin with. Especially after he peeked through his scared fingers and saw how much fun you were having at his expense. He’d gladly sacrifice his dignity in order to see his sunshine smile.

The Enforcer:

He beat you to it first he would never pass up the chance to make you laugh from how he threw it back on you with such finesse and sass. All in all he wanted the both of y’all to have a night full of fun and laughter. He was just happy to be there with you although he wouldn’t lie and say that his little friend also was happy with the way you reciprocated his gestures.

[holylulusworld]

TOL - Swaying - Ari Levinson

Summary: He'd love to dance with you for the rest of his life.

Pairing: Mobster!Ari Levinson x Dance Instructor!Reader

Side-pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Sunshine (different reader)

Warnings: fluff, smitten Ari, mentions of stalking, violence, reader getting attacked (not Ari), I mention suicide (nothing happens)

A/N: This is part of my Traders of love (lust) masterlist series. It tells the story of Ari and his girl Fairy. For more information, you should read TOL - I’m your daddy now (2 + 3) first.

Ari puffs out a huff. He glares at the man he pays to get a chance with you. His hands ball into fists, as it seems that Lloyd has better things to do than help him.

“Sunshine, you look beautiful.” Lloyd is all over his girlfriend. He grins like the cat that got the cream when he moves his hands to her ass to grope it. “I’m glad we came here for a dance lesson.”

“Lloyd,” his girlfriend says. “We came here to help your client. Mr. Levinson doesn’t look happy. If you don’t stop, you’ll draw too much attention to us. The last thing we need is to lose a client. Mr. Levinson pays well.”

“Aw, all business and no fun,” Lloyd purrs and grabs a handful of Sunshine’s ass. He grins while slowly twirling her toward Ari. Lloyd smirks at Ari and winks at him before starting to slow dance with his girlfriend.

“You’re a natural, Mr. Hansen!” You gasp while watching the new pair that signed up for your dance class take over the dance floor. “Look at you! You’re light-footed, and your posture is just perfect.” You clap your hands. “Why did you come here?”

“You see,” Lloyd tries to focus on the song and not step on his girlfriend’s feet while struggling to come up with a lie: “I can dance like Fred Astaire, but my Sunshine is rather clumsy. She steps on my feet all the time.”

You chuckle because his girlfriend gives him the stinky eye. “Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Hansen,” you softly say. “She’s doing just great. With a partner like you, she’ll be even better in no time.”

“Ahem...” you dip your head when Mr. Levinson clears his throat. He’s the only one coming to your dance class without a partner. He’s a little clumsy and has barely made any progress over the last two months. “Miss Y/L/N, uh, I got no partner, and I still got problems with the steps.”

Ari gives you a sheepish smile, making your heart flutter. If not for your strict rules to not get involved with people coming to your classes, you’d fall hard for the handsome man.

“Well, let me be your partner then,” you chuckle and hold out your hand. Ari takes the chance to get you in his arms. He’s a little too eager to put his right arm between your left arm and your body, and places his hand on your back.

You place your left hand on his shoulder. “We will start all over, Ari. I need you to extend your left arm to your left.” You watch him follow your instructions before you take his left hand with your right hand. Ari closes his hand around your smaller ones. He stares at your hand and licks his lips. “Very good.”

He nods while knitting his brows together. Ari seems to be hyperfused about following your instructions. “Remember to not pull me in tight. A waltz is a classic dance, and we cannot have chest-to-chest contact. It’s not an intimate dance.”

Ari nods again, but his face falls. He had hoped to have you closer tonight.

You nod at him as the next song begins. “Alright, ladies and gentlemen. This is one of the most romantic songs for a waltz. I want you all to give your best.”

Murmurs fill the room. Lloyd is pressing his dance partner close to his chest, earning a slap from her and a headshake from you. He grins and moves his hand from her back to her butt.

“Mr. Hansen, we do not make out during a waltz. Save it for the tango we will learn in a few weeks.” You give Lloyd a stern look before turning your attention toward Ari. “Alright, the others are doing well on their own. Let’s focus on us.”

Us. Two letters - one word makes Ari’s heart skip a beat. He flashes you a smile, even though he’d love to be as forward as Lloyd. But he knows you’re not the kind of woman he can impress by just taking what he wants.

“Alright, tonight you will take the lead, Mr. Levinson.” You explain the steps for the waltz to Ari again. He nods and listens closely while staring at you in his arms.

“Please call me Ari,” he says, flashing you an irresistible smile. You sigh because you’re close to breaking your rules for the charming man.

“I don’t do this,” you softly reply.

He dips his head, disappointment written all over his face.

“Fine, if you get it right tonight, I’ll call you Ari from now on,” you challenge. Ari is far from a good dancer, and you know he’ll fail again.

“We have a deal,” determination colors his features as he doesn’t wait any longer. He steps toward you, and you respond by backing up out of instinct. Ari steps back, pulling you along with him with his hand on your back.

You stare into his eyes as Ari, the worst dancer you ever met, suddenly turns into a ballroom dancer. He sways with you, nearly taking you off of your feet as he dominates the whole room. Everyone stops dancing to watch you and Ari on the dance floor. He smirks while you incredulously stare at him.

“How... how can you suddenly be so good?” You try to keep up with him, but honestly, he’s the first man to take your breath away because he gets faster and faster. He grins while you can’t fathom that he suddenly can dance.

“Motivation is the key,” he laughs, pressing you to his chest. This is not a waltz any longer. It’s a courtship dance, and Ari is about to win it. “...and I had an incredibly good teacher. She taught me everything I need to know about dancing.”

“Not everything,” you giggle as he twirls you around. “Ari, that’s not a waltz. What are you doing?”

“Dancing with my beautiful dance instructor,” he grins and presses you even closer to his warm body. “She put so much effort into turning this clumsy man into a dancer.”

You feel heat rush into your cheeks at the way Ari looks at you. He’s the kind of man who wants you to break all the rules. “You’re doing pretty well.”

“Poser!“ Lloyd grunts in your direction. He tried to impress his girlfriend, and now Ari is drawing all the attention toward him.

“Now, now. No jealousy or fighting in my dance class, Mr. Hansen,” you playfully point your finger at Lloyd. “You did well too for your first dance lesson.”

You end the dance, a little lightheaded but happy that Ari made such great progress.

“I’m sorry to tell you, but our lesson is already over. We see us next Wednesday,” you clap your hands. “You all did very well. I’m very happy about your progress.”

You rush off before Ari gets the chance to talk to you. He sighs and watches you walk toward your office in the back.

“Did you find anything, Lloyd?” Ari looks around the dark alley. “Hansen! I hope you aren't too busy groping your girlfriend.”

“Shush!” Lloyd presses his index finger to his lips. “While you were busy getting all cozy with your dance instructor, my minions checked her office. We can talk about her finances, and all I found out tomorrow.” He dips his head to watch the last pair get into their car. “It’s too dangerous here. You don’t want her to find us together talking about her business.”

“Tomorrow morning then,” Ari nods. He looks at his keys and phone in his hands. “Fuck, I forgot my jacket.”

“Maybe Y/N is still inside,” Lloyd’s girlfriend says. She gives Ari a soft smile. “She seems to like you, Mr. Levinson.”

“How do you want to know, Sunshine?” Lloyd asks.

“A woman knows,” she grins. “Get in the car, Fred Astaire. The babysitter wants to go home. We don’t have all night.”

“Coming,” Lloyd grins. “And by coming, I mean I’ll come inside you.”

Ari doesn’t want to hear about Lloyd’s sex life. He turns to walk back inside the dance school.

“Y/N?” He knocks at the door to the back entrance. “I’m coming in,” he says, pushing the door open and silently entering the school. “Y/N? I don’t want to scare you. I forgot my jacket and wallet. Sorry to disturb you.”

He listens closely, waiting for an answer, only to hear something crash to the ground. Ari immediately sets into motion. He runs toward your office to kick the door open.

His breath lodges in his throat after seeing a man grab your arm. Ari’s eyes darken, and he’s about to shoot the man in the head. But he can’t. Not in front of you.

“Let go of her!” In a split second, he slams his fist into the man’s face. His opponent hits the floor, groaning loudly as Ari brings you into his arms. He kicks the man’s head before hurriedly guiding you out of the building and toward his car. His wallet and jacket are long forgotten.

“Ari,” you sniffle when he opens the door to the passenger seat and helps you get inside. “You shouldn’t have done this.” You cry when he enters the car.

“Who was this guy? Did he want to rob you?” Ari softly speaks to you. “Y/N?”

“I—no,” you say, shaking your head. “He…he’s…”

“Is that man your ex or something?” He presses on. Ari carefully checks on you, wiping tears off your cheek. “Who is he, fairy?”

You choke out a sob, still shaken from the encounter with your attacker. “He’s not my ex,” you sniffle as you grab Ari’s hand, squeezing it to silently thank him for saving you.

“I went on a date with him,” you say. “We didn’t click, you know.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “What happened?”

“I told him that it was a nice date, but that we don’t have anything in common. It was a little white lie to not hurt his feelings,” you silently cry. “The truth is, it was an awful date. He talked about himself the whole time, barked at the waiter, and talked lowly about his ex-girlfriends. He was nasty.”

“I get that you didn’t want to see him again,” Ari murmurs while moving a little closer to cup your face with his big hand. “I assume he didn’t get the message.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “A few days later, he showed up at my apartment. I never told him my address. When I told him to leave, he laughed and said I don’t have to play hard to get.”

Ari feels hot, white anger well up deep inside of him. “What else did he do?”

“He called and sent messages. I changed my number, but the next day, he called again. I didn’t know what to do, so I went to the cops, but...

“Let me guess,” Ari whispers lowly. “That bastard is one of them.”

You nod, choking on your tears. “ He stopped for a while. I believed that he had lost interest or got a girlfriend. But tonight, he suddenly sat at my office and wanted me to...” You shake your head, not wanting to tell Ari about it.”

“What did he say?”

“He wanted me to pay him back for his inconvenience and all the things he did for me.” Your hands tremble, and you cry even harder.

“You’re safe now. I’ll drive you home and—”

You whimper. “He knows where I live; he'll be waiting for me. What do I do now?” Helplessly, you look at Ari.

“I’ll take you home,” he softly says. You shake your head again, and he murmurs your name. “My home, fairy. We will think about everything else tomorrow. Okay.”

“Okay,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

“All for you, Y/N…”

“Hansen, things have changed. Stop whatever you’re doing,” Ari whispers on the phone to not wake you. After you cried in his arms, you finally fell asleep in his guestroom. “Someone tried to attack her tonight.”

“Good job, Levinson,” Lloyd cackles on the phone. “The good old knight in shiny armor trick. Well done.”

Ari squares his jaw. “Shut it! I didn’t have anything to do with it. That bastard is a cop. He's been following and threatening her for months. She had one date with him, and he won’t leave her alone.”

Lloyd curses into the phone. “I’m all ears. How can I help you?”

“I’d take care of him myself, but the cops would ask questions. If he has, let’s say, an accident, no one will ask questions.” Ari closes his eyes to calm his anger. He’d love to kill your tormentor himself, but he must stay out of this to take care of you. “Are you still in contact with that guy calling himself God?”

“Ah, you want the master,” Lloyd snickers. “Let me make a few calls.” He sighs dreamily. “Man, it feels like the good old days. I miss them.”

“Call him. I need it to be done as soon as possible. I left my wallet at her dance studio. If that bastard finds my wallet, he knows where to find Y/N and that I attacked him.”

Lloyd hums. “I call God. He’ll take care of the bastard within the next few hours and make it look like an accident or a suicide. Whatever you prefer.”

“I’m sending you his name and all the information I gathered over the last two hours. Make the best of it. I’ll leave it to God. He knows best how to get rid of a piece of shit…”

Part 2

Tags in reblog.

[romantacysblog]

The “Come Here” Glance

Robert floyd x reader

MINORS DNI

Bob's hand on your hip sends a jolt of electricity through your body, a silent promise of what's to come. You can feel the heat of his body, see the desire burning in his eyes. He leans in, his voice a low growl, "I've been waiting for you all night." His fingers dig into your hip, pulling you closer, and you can feel his hardness pressing against you. You bite your lip, trying to suppress a smile, knowing that you have the same effect on him as he does on you.

He leans down, his lips capturing yours in a hungry kiss. His tongue explores your mouth, dancing with yours in a passionate tango. You can taste the whiskey on his breath, a heady aphrodisiac that only serves to fuel your desire. His other hand comes up to tangle in your hair, gripping it tightly as he deepens the kiss, his body pressing you against the hard edge of the bar.

You can feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the frantic beat of your own. His hands roam your body, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, the softness of your breasts. You arch into his touch, wanting more, needing more. He obliges, his hands sliding under your dress, his fingers finding the wet heat between your legs. You gasp into his mouth, your body bucking against his hand as he starts to stroke you, his fingers moving in a rhythmic dance that has your body singing.

He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "I want to fuck you right here, right now," he growls, his voice a low, dangerous promise. You look around, seeing the crowded room, the people milling about, oblivious to the fire burning between you and Bob. A thrill runs through you at the thought of being taken right here, in plain sight. You nod, your breath hitching in anticipation.

He spins you around, your back to his front, his hands gripping your hips tightly. He pulls you against him, his hardness pressing into your ass. He leans down, his teeth nipping at your ear, his voice a low growl, "Hold on, baby. This is going to be a wild ride." You brace your hands on the bar, your body trembling with anticipation. He lifts your dress, his hands roaming your body, his fingers finding your wet heat once again. He strokes you, his fingers moving in a relentless rhythm that has your body crying out for release.

He positions himself at your entrance, his voice a low growl, "Ready, baby?" You nod, your body aching with need. He slams into you, his body filling yours completely. You cry out, your body clamping down on him, your orgasm ripping through you like a freight train. He starts to move, his hips slamming against yours, his body taking yours in a primal, desperate dance. The room fades away, your world narrowing down to the two of you, your bodies moving in perfect sync, your breaths mingling, your hearts pounding as one.

He reaches around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in a relentless rhythm that has your body screaming for release. You come again, your body convulsing, your orgasm tearing through you with a force that leaves you breathless. He follows soon after, his body tensing, his fingers digging into your hips as he spills himself into you, his voice a low, guttural growl of your name.

He pulls you against him, his body wrapping around yours, his breath hot on your neck. "That's better," he murmurs, his voice a low, satisfied purr. You smile, your body sated, your heart full. You turn in his arms, your lips capturing his in a soft, gentle kiss. "Yes," you agree, your voice a soft whisper. "That's better."

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