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70 ideias de Narusasu em 2024 | sasunaru, naruto, naruto e sasuke desenho

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Sylus is a gentleman.

So calm and composed, oozing confidence and power. He’s never glanced twice at anybody, nobody has ever caught his attention. Just you. Only you.

You feel honored, he’s a gorgeous and dangerous man after all. To be the object of all his affections? It’s perfect. So perfect you nearly feel unworthy of it. Sylus, however, assures you and reassures you that you very much are.

He prioritizes you, puts all of your needs before his. He’s always checking on you, asking for your consent, asking for it again just to be sure, and then maybe one more time to be safe. He treats you like the finest jewel, the most precious sculpture, something he needs to protect.

So, yes, Sylus is a gentleman. Even in bed.

“Good girl, taking all of it in one go.”

You’re clawing at his biceps, jaw slack as your body writhes underneath him. You’re utterly breathless, trying desperately to adjust to him plunging inside in one go.

“You begged me to do this, kitten. Don’t back out now.” But he’s flushed and panting, as if he can’t reel himself in either. Utterly overwhelmed by the feeling of you. Honestly, he’s lucky he didn’t blow his load in that one movement.

“Just wanna be… close to you.” Your legs are locking around his waist, thighs cushioning his hips as you tug him impossibly closer. Sylus can’t form a coherent thought, never mind a remotely human noise. The sound that does rumble from his throat is nearly animalistic.

“You’re trying to kill me, kitten.” His words are accentuated with the throb of his cock, suctioned between your gummy walls. “You’re trying to kill me too, we’re even.” The nails that had been scraping his biceps now found their way to his shoulders, raking across the tense muscles in a soothing motion.

At least he assumes it’s meant to be soothing, he’s trembling instead. “Just…” his head falls into the crook of your neck, breathing in your sweat and musk. “…following my kitten’s orders. What man would I be if I didn’t?”

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mint… does reader ever let werewolf cowboy in her bed? does she ever give in, even slightly, and let him watch as she pulls apart her swollen, sticky-wet folds to show off her pudgy clit and twitching hole? let him smell her? taste her in the air?

or would that be crossing a line?

She knows she shouldn't. She really knows she shouldn't. He always claims he can't control himself like this, that he never remembers anything in the morning, so it's not moral to take advantage of his desires-

And yet he's roped up in your bedroom, sighing and calling for you. His half wolf form is massive, broad and tall, covered in trails of silver flecked hair... his clawed hands alone are big enough to envelop your torso...

"Darlin'," he sighs, pathetic. "Darlin', I want you, so bad that it's killing me-"

He trails off as you settle to your knees in front of him. It's the closest you've ever braved to be- probably only about a foot away from his splayed legs. You splay your own legs, pulling up your nightgown to reveal his first taste of your unclothed cunt. His body goes rigid as he pulls against his restraints. There's a surprising amount of control still left behind his eyes.

"Darlin'-" he drawls.

"I want you too," you finally admit as you put your hand on your clit, rubbing it in small, controlled circles. His attention hones on that, chest and body heaving with want.

"Spit on it," you demand. He won't remember, you remind yourself, there's no reason to be embarrassed. The hulking figure hunches over and his maw opens, sticky tendrils of saliva dripping down onto your torso and hips. A warm bit lands directly where you need it and you moan at the feeling. The skin wet from him tingles, buzzing with want and whatever cocktail of chemicals exists in his mouth, but he doesn't stop, panting over you like a dog.

"Push it inside-" he urges. "That's it-- should always be me inside you and not that stupid fuckin' ex of yours-"

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18+ only please and thank you

John Price’s darling secretary, whose orgasm is scheduled every week, on Friday afternoon.

Friday afternoon, that’s the deal you've found yourself in somehow, after one terribly drunken and unforgivably honest night, where you found yourself naked and panting into your boss’s—

You know what, maybe it’s best if you don’t get into the details. It doesn’t matter now anyway, because you have your routine, and it works for both of you.

First thing in the morning, you bring your boss his coffee.

He takes one sip, and gives you an absentminded, “Thank you darling, shut the door please.”

Which you of course take care of right away, with your heels clacking cheerfully across the vinyl floor.

Then it’s morning briefing time, where you hover near the end of his desk and fill him in on any changes to his schedule that day, remind him of meetings and things he needs to sign off on, and just generally become more and more flustered because of what he’s doing.

Namely, that’s when he scoots his chair farther back from his desk, spreads his legs a bit, and strokes his beard while he looks at you.

Oh, the way that man looks at you.

You’ve tried to describe it to your friend once, and utterly failed because you started stumbling over your words with sudden embarrassment.

But your mind knows. Your subconscious perfectly understands the meaning of that particular gaze he levels at you.

It’s like you’ve found the most important person in the world, a person whose attention feels like it should be rationed in crumbs, and it's suddenly, fully locked onto you.

Not onto what you’re saying, though he does pay vague attention because that’s part of his professional day-to-day. But more than anything, he’s watching the changes in your face, the small shifts of your legs as you stand in one place in heels. It would be unprofessional to lean against his desk, so you just shift your weight slightly, planner in hand, and rattle off military organizational nonsense while Price’s eyes caress your face, linger on the curl of your fingers around the pen, lazily examine that spot where the skin of your throat disappears under your shirt collar.

“How was your weekend?” he'll ask softly, once he's certain you've got through the boring necessities.

"It was lovely, thank you sir. Saw a film with my friend."

He'll stretch out his hips slightly, forcing you to glue your eyes to his face and not drop them to the expanse of warm lap so close by.

“How are you feeling today?” he always inquires.

Which, of course, you know what it means. The words are cordial enough, but you've had this routine long enough to understand what's unsaid.

‘How’s our little arrangement treating you today? Do you need a break?’

To which you reply something like, “Right as rain, sir.”

And that's it. Business settled, coffee delivered, everything ship shape in that little office on base.

And then you get a different sort of attention, because that's what this is all about in the first place -- the fact that you can't get enough of his attention.

Some days, if there really isn't anything going on that morning, he'll let you suck him off. Those are really nice days, because it means he'll be in a good mood after that, smiling at you and giving you soft, happy eyes.

But mostly there isn't time, so he's forced to tend to you in other ways.

Namely, the Captain makes you come stand between his knees, so he can run his hands over your body. He'll talk to you while he does it, tell you a little bit about his weekend, the fishing he did, the reruns he watched, while he undoes the little buttons on your blouse.

He prefers you in those soft fabric bras without any padding, partly because he can see the imprint of your nipples through your shirt, and partly because it's so easy to tug the top down and let your breasts spill out onto his waiting hands.

Price is a boob man, in case you were wondering.

You keep your hands clasped carefully onto your planner behind your back, and endure each tug on your nipple while he shines those gorgeous eyes up at you, his expression full of playful fondness. That's all this is, after all. A little bit of playing with each other, because you both enjoy it.

"Does that feel good, sweetheart?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you miss me over the weekend?"

"I always do, sir."

Sometimes he finds other ways to play with your body, but you get the general idea. Ten minutes of touching and attention, and you're set for the day. Wet, breathless, and practically stumbling over yourself to please him in whatever ways you can.

Ten minutes, and then he's buttoning you back up, making you proper again, and turning back to his coffee with a casual, "That's all for now. Thank you, darling."

Thank you. As if you're the one doing him the favor. You're half convinced it's his own little joke.

Actual work begins about that time, and it often happens where you don't see much of each other. He's occupied with meetings or trainings or briefings most mornings, and you deal with your usual papers and busywork.

For lunch you often pop off to the mess, or occasionally bring sandwiches to the office mini fridge. Lunch is always overshadowed by your anticipating of the midday meeting. It's the next bit of time you get to spend time with Captain Price.

"How was your lunch?"

"Just fine, sir."

"Close the door please."

Much like his, 'How are you feeling today?' question, you believe the door closing is a signal of sorts. That he's ready and willing, and that nothing has come up that keeps him from the midday meeting, as things occasionally do.

Most days, though, he manages to prioritize it.

You appreciate that greatly, because it's your favorite part of the day. The part where you remove all of your clothes apart from your heels, and he guides you into his lap for wandering hands, and soft, interested whispers.

He never takes off a stitch of his own clothes. It's part of the arrangement, you suppose, to help you feel more vulnerable. The contrast of his rough, reinforced clothing against your bare skin, the occasional scratch of velcro, or the poke of a corner of fabric, only makes it better. The complex excitement and fear of it has your heart thumping like a trapped animal, which is obviously the point. The more trapped you feel, the more wrong it is, the wetter your pussy gets, and you both know it.

You attempt to relax like that, melting back against that broad chest, shivering slightly from the cold air of the room, and aware of every motion of those steady hands exploring your most sensitive areas.

When he gets his fingers in your pussy, when he starts touching it exactly the way you like, that's when he asks you the most difficult questions, in quiet little murmurs against your hair.

They're rhetorical, but you give him a quiet, "Yes, sir," or "No, sir," as you're meant to.

He'll ask you if you've been wet on the weekend while you were away. If you've been a selfish girl and touched yourself at all. If you went on any dates, if you let anyone fuck you. If you told them about how you're not allowed to cum, if you took precautions to make sure it didn't happen. If you were generous and let them use you. If you've been thinking about hooking up with anyone else at work, if having a wet pussy all week is making you more interested in being used by random people.

And he touches you through every question, regardless of how you answer. Until your knees are trembling, and every reply is coming out with a little more of a struggle, a little more whimpery and pitiful.

He doesn't make you edge yourself. He's got a pretty clear idea of where your tipping point is, after a few accidents in the early weeks of this. He'll just decide you've had enough, and his sticky fingers will dry while coasting over the other parts of your skin, sampling the feel of your heated body in his hands while you catch your breath and try to calm yourself.

Price always gives himself time to spend with you like that, gently petting you and letting you feel connected to him, until the soft warmth of that is almost as loud in your brain as your throbbing clit.

And then it's time to get proper again. Get dressed, get back on schedule, back to your office duties, with your underwear now uncomfortably sticky against your aching pussy.

Aching, because he's so fond of you that he gives you all this wonderful attention.

The end of the day tends to be the part that's flexible. Sometimes it's just a friendly pat on your ass and a, "See you tomorrow, good work today."

Occasionally he'll inspect your panties, maybe get rid of them for you since they're so wet and useless at that point. More than a few times you've had to ride the train home with nothing on under your skirt, your inner thighs wet from your own arousal wandering down your legs. It's very difficult to not think about fucking strangers when that's happening.

And sometimes, very rarely, he'll fuck you at the end of the day. Especially if it's been a very good day, or if you've done something particularly smart, you'll get bent over his desk as a goodbye, get your pussy filled while your eyes roll back and little whispered, "Thank you, sir"s roll off your tongue.

Those are the days you really wish he was coming home with you.

But then, the best day is always Friday. That's the day you're always extra nervous, extra good, trying your very hardest to do everything exactly right so that nothing will stand in the way of you and getting the orgasm you earned all week.

Price lets you pick it, because he's a very nice boss. Whether it's eating you out on top of his desk, or getting fingered uncomfortably close to the window, or just riding him until your knees have imprints of his chair, you're guaranteed to finally, finally, get to cum. He often stays late so you can get as many as you want, shuddering and gasping as quietly as you can while your pussy spasms in intense, long-delayed release.

You've never felt anything like it. Many partners, many different kinds of experiences, but your Friday afternoon fuck is something different. Something emotional and vulnerable, when you let your body do what it needs to do, while he watches. Watches, and offers hushed little comforts and praises.

Take what you need, you've earned it. You've been such a busy worker this week. His favorite subordinate, but don't tell anyone. Never met anyone so cute and competent at the same time, what a treasure you are. Doesn't that feel so much better? Let's keep going, you deserve it. You're doing so well, darling. That's my girl.

You're left a sweaty, blissed-out mess by the end, when he tucks you into his chest and strokes your back.

Ahh, Friday. Fridays are the best.

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"I'm not a violent dog, I don't know why I bite."

BUT IT'S SASUKE UCHIHA.

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Sasuke doesn't know how to receive love, sometimes it makes his body cringe. He thinks so much, talks so little, and straight up believe it's easier to fight and leave than it is to let himself be calmed down by Naruto. He keeps imagining, "why does he even keep trying?"

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Listening to radiohead and thinking:

"what the hell happened to this white man?"

He´s so sad, omg

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Every time i see fem!reader × levi Ackerman fanfics in here, i giggle a little cause, ma'am, that's a bottom. That's a twink. That's a gay man who's already taken. wtf are you doing?

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As a brazilian, i refuse to laugh with lol or lmao I WILL SAY KKKKKKK fuck it

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kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk literaly a scene in my fic, omg my naruto brainrot is so back

-♡

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nanami's office is quiet, except for the ticking of the wall clock and the sound of his cock sliding through your fist. his tie’s undone, shirt rumpled, and he’s trying so hard to keep it together, but the way his hips are twitching with every stroke gives him away.

“this is incredibly unprofessional,” he says through gritted teeth, eyes fluttering shut when you twist your wrist just right. you hum, you don’t care, leaning closer. “you’re so fucking uptight,” you whisper, dragging your thumb along the leaking slit. “let me ruin ya' a little.”

his breathing’s sharp now, fingers gripping the edge of the desk hard. he’s close, you can feel it—the way he starts to shake, the little choked noises he’s trying to swallow down.

“oh please—i’m—” he breaks off, groaning low as he spills, thick ropes of cum painting your knuckles, dripping onto his desk. he pants hard, watching you milk every drop out of him. “..i’ll pretend that didn’t happen,” he mutters after a beat, straightening his tie with cum still on his stomach.