dolilevu

[dolilevu]

Wedding chaos, or how Sukuna's broken nose walked you down the aisle. Part 2!

Sukuna x fem!reader, fluff, wedding, humor

The wedding day began with shouting and utter chaos. Someone’s nerves were clearly fraying.

"Where are my cufflinks?! Who the hell took my damn cufflinks?!"

Sukuna had envisioned the morning going perfectly: a brisk, cool shower, strong coffee, unshakable confidence—and then off he’d go, like a prince on a white steed (or, fine, in a black SUV) to the altar of your dreams. But fate had other plans. His favorite shirt ripped, his tie refused to cooperate, and the cursed cufflinks had vanished. The man of the year, the terror of the entire office—the guy who always had everything under control—was now pacing the room like a toddler mid-tantrum.

"If you don’t calm the hell down right now, I’ll pluck your eyes out and use them as cufflinks," Toji deadpanned, sipping coffee from a novelty mug while skimming through ceremony notes. "Goddamn groom. The bride’s probably already done with her makeup, and you’re still running around like a headless chicken. Did you at least put on matching socks?"

Sukuna muttered something incoherent under his breath and nearly slipped on the floor as he checked his socks for the fifth time.

***

You sat patiently in the chair, wincing slightly as the makeup artist dusted the last shimmer under your eyes. Your dress lay on the bed, freshly steamed and flawless—just as perfect as the day you’d first tried it on. Your mom and Naomi fluttered around, debating flower arrangements, seating charts, who hooked up with whom after the rehearsal dinner, and whether the cake would really be three tiers like promised.

"I hope he doesn’t bolt," Naomi blurted as she carefully pinned a pearl hairpiece into place. "Though if he does, at least it’ll be entertaining. I’m fully prepared to throw champagne in his face and scream, ‘He doesn’t deserve you!’"

"Such touching support from my best friend," you said, rolling your eyes. "But if he runs, I’ll probably be the one throwing things."

"And that’s exactly why he loves you," Naomi winked.

The makeup artist swiped the final stroke of gloss over your lips, and when you looked in the mirror, that strange, aching warmth bloomed in your chest again. You looked different—like a woman who no longer had to fight for her place in the sun because someone was finally there to hold the umbrella when it rained.

"Well? Ready?" Mrs. Yang hovered nearby, holding out your shoes.

As if anyone could ever be ready for this.

"Almost," you nodded, taking a deep, steadying breath.

***

Guests were already gathering in the lavishly decorated garden. The weather couldn’t have been more perfect—clear skies, a soft breeze, golden sunlight warm but not scorching. The floral arch dripped with cream and white blossoms, soft music floated through the air, and waiters expertly balanced trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Somewhere in the crowd, bets were being placed on whether the groom would cry when he saw the bride. Opinions were split.

Meanwhile, the groom himself stood stiff as a board, failing spectacularly at looking relaxed. His tie was slightly crooked, his hair ruffled by the wind, but his eyes were already searching for you in the crowd.

"Smile," Toji hissed through gritted teeth, yanking his sleeve. "You look like you’re about to murder someone."

"I’m getting married," Sukuna said flatly.

"Yeah. Wouldn’t believe it myself if I weren’t standing here."

Then the music shifted—that song, the one that had sent shivers down your spine during rehearsal. The world seemed to freeze as Sukuna turned his head toward you.

You walked toward him slowly, fingertips brushing the sides of your dress to keep from stumbling. The train glided over the grass like smoke, your smile trembling but eyes shining. And there he was—flustered, tense, hopelessly in love—and suddenly, nothing else mattered. Not the guests, not the roses, not the sky. Just him.

Sukuna stood statue-still as you approached, but then something shifted. He blinked, taking you in, exhaled softly, and then—for the first time all day—truly smiled. It was awkward, sharp at the edges, like he’d forgotten how to do it, but it was yours. Familiar and beloved.

You took his hand, finally standing beside him, and the world clicked into place.

"You’re really beautiful," he breathed, his fingers betraying him with a faint tremble against yours.

"And you’re really nervous," you shot back.

"Because I’m marrying a witch," he grumbled, but his grip tightened, anchoring himself to you.

"A witch who saved your life. And don’t forget—I can always break your nose again."

"Noted," he said gruffly, though the corners of his lips twitched.

The ceremony went perfectly. Almost. Toji forgot his lines and spent two minutes cursing under his breath while digging through his pockets for the cheat sheet he’d inevitably lost. Naomi was blinking back tears; your mom had given up entirely and was sobbing openly.

Then came the words: "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Sukuna turned to you immediately, cupping your face like he was afraid you’d vanish—idiot—and kissed you. Not rushed, not performative, but deep and slow, as if he hadn’t seen you in a thousand years. And for once, it wasn’t hunger or lust—just something tender, something he probably thought had died in him long ago.

Guests cheered, someone yelled "Kiss!", and you laughed against your husband’s mouth as he refused to pull away. This kiss, this embrace, this day—everything was as it should be.

"Try leaving me someday," he murmured against your lips, his hands possessive on your waist, already wrinkling the lace. "I’ll find you anywhere. Even in hell."

You smirked, looping your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.

And you knew—this was the start of something new. Something a little wild, a little mad, but yours.

[dolilevu]

He loves your hair w Chigiri Hyoma. 18+

Chigiri × fem! reader, nsfw, fluff.

Chigiri Adores Your Hair

Chigiri worships your hair. He loves its scent—hinted with the sweet fragrance of your shampoo—loves its softness, its length. He loves playing with your curls when he’s nervous or trying to fall asleep. He often strokes the crown of your head, braids your hair into plaits he adores seeing on you. But there are moments when he abandons this tenderness entirely. And those moments always happen when the two of you have sex.

"Fuck, Chigiri—" The whimper slips from your lips when the sharp tug at the back of your scalp becomes impossible to ignore.

But he seems too preoccupied, too busy driving his cock into your tight, dripping cunt, taking everything you give him without restraint. His hand fists your hair, yanking the strands back, forcing your spine into a deeper arch as you lean into him.

"God damn it, princess," he rasps, winding your poor curls tighter around his knuckles—as if he hadn’t been handling them with reverence just an hour before.

His hips keep slamming into yours, the pace unhurried but deep enough that you feel the head of his cock hitting your cervix with every thrust, sending tremors through your body. So intense your knees threaten to buckle.

Just when you think you might collapse, he pulls your hair harder, forcing you to snap back to attention, grip the sheets, stay in place. The contrast—gentle Chigiri turning rough—sends shocks straight under your skin, lighting up every nerve. Hyōma, so soft in everyday life, adores a little brutality in bed.

"I just want your pussy to take all of me," his free hand digs into the plush of your thigh as he groans. "Love how your walls clench around my cock every time I pull your hair just an inch."

To prove his point, his fingers tighten painfully in your strands, making you squeeze around him even tighter, a pitiful whine escaping you. All you can do is cling to the edges of the mattress, trying to steady yourself on trembling legs. And when you sink into the pillows, muffling your moans, Hyōma fixes it immediately—lifting you back up with a sharp, effortless tug.

"Gonna come inside you, princess," his voice cuts through the haze of your arousal, and you feel your head drop forward as the tension in your scalp finally eases, letting you exhale.

His hands grip your hips, his thrusts turning erratic as he chases his release. He leans down, burying his nose in your hair, and you can hear how ragged his breathing is, how he inhales your scent like it’s intoxicating. Less than a minute later, his teeth sink into your bare shoulder, forcing a pained moan from you as your fingers twist into the sheets for support.

He spills deep inside you, filling you with thick, hot cum, his hips still moving in slow, uneven rolls as his long fingers find your clit, rubbing mercilessly in time with each thrust.

"Chigiri… Wait, please—" You try to lift yourself to look at him, but your body betrays you, a wave of pleasure crashing through you, leaving no room to move.

The orgasm is blinding, loud—stars burst behind your eyelids, moans spilling from your lips without restraint. The sensations are too overwhelming to register the soft kisses he presses to your back, the gentle strokes along your thighs.

"Shh, easy now," his voice murmurs near your ear, and your hips jerk at the sudden emptiness. "You did so good."

Hyōma carefully lifts you by the waist, laying you back against the bed before settling beside you, nuzzling your temple and leaving a featherlight kiss there. It takes you another few minutes to fully come back to yourself. Your thighs press together instinctively, feeling his cum leak between them, your eyes fluttering open lazily.

"'M fine," you exhale, meeting his worried gaze with a small smile. "Don’t worry."

He just fucked the soul out of you, yet he’s ready to cover you in apologetic kisses if he was too rough.

Too bad he doesn’t know you loved every second of it just as much as he did.

[dolilevu]

Shower for three w Itoshi’s brothers. 18+

Sae, Rin × fem!reader, nsfw, gym, threesome.

Training with the Itoshi brothers was pure hell.

If they had peak physical conditioning and endurance, you were lagging several levels behind. After two hours of what felt like genuine torture, you collapsed onto the cold gym floor, stretching out your aching legs to massage the overworked muscles. Outside, it was pitch black—nearly midnight. The gym would close soon, and aside from the three of you, the place was empty. Sae was on what seemed like his fifth kilometer on the treadmill, while Rin had just finished his last set on the weight machine. Their fitted athletic wear clung to their bodies so perfectly that you caught yourself unconsciously licking your lips at the sight. Shaking your head, you reminded yourself that you only had about half an hour left before closing—and you still needed to wash off all the sweat.

"I’m hitting the showers," you announced, standing up with a stretch. When they nodded silently, you headed to the locker room.

It was quiet, empty, and oddly peaceful. After an exhausting workout, all you wanted was silence—and maybe a full-body massage to unwind. You tossed your sweaty clothes onto the bench and wrapped yourself in a towel, only to realize—every shower stall was broken.

What the hell?

You needed to rinse off, and dragging yourself home like this was out of the question. An irritated groan escaped you as you pressed your forehead against the tiled wall. Terrible luck.

But… technically, the men’s showers were right next door. If the brothers were the only ones left, maybe you could sneak in without issue.

Yeah. That’s exactly what you’d do.

Feeling like a spy on a mission, you darted past the janitors and into the men’s locker room, shutting the door behind you. Your heart raced, but at least there were no strangers—just the brothers. Except… they weren’t there. Maybe they were still training?

You were wrong.

Every stall was broken—except one. Just as you were about to slip inside, a familiar voice froze you in place.

"You said you were going to shower, but I think you got the wrong room."

Sae’s tone carried a hint of disapproval. Did he really think you were that dumb? You scoffed, turning to face him—and Rin, standing beside him. Both looked displeased. And practically naked, save for the towels loosely hanging from their hips.

"I didn’t get the wrong room," you snapped, crossing your arms. "None of the showers in the women’s locker room work. And I really need to wash up."

Silence. Their stone-faced expressions gave nothing away. But time was running out.

"Sorry, but I’m using this one," you sighed, reaching for the stall door—only for one of them to block it.

"This is the only working stall," Sae said casually, as if suggesting the most normal thing in the world. "Seems fair if we share."

Your cheeks burned.

"Hey, wait—!" You threw your hands up, blocking their advance. "Are you insane? Just give me five minutes!"

"No time," Rin grumbled, grabbing your wrists and pushing them aside. "Quit acting shy. It’s not like we haven’t seen it before."

Your eyes widened. Had he really just said that?

With no other choice, you backed against the wall, clutching the towel tighter—but the brothers didn’t care. They stepped in, crowding the space, their bare bodies way too close.

"You’re both out of your minds!" you hissed, eyes darting down—then immediately squeezing shut at the sight.

A low chuckle was your only warning before Sae turned on the water and yanked your towel away in one smooth motion.

Your first instinct was to cover yourself, but the brothers had other plans. They pinned you between them, their hard bodies pressing against yours. And—oh god—you could feel their arousal against your thighs.

"Let’s just… help each other unwind," Rin whispered against your ear, guiding your hand to his length. Sae did the same.

Now you had two thick, hard cocks in your grip, your fingers trembling slightly. Panic flared, but before you could process it, their lips were on your neck, their hands roaming—cupping your breasts, teasing your clit.

If someone had told you that one day you’d be in a shower with the Itoshi brothers, jerking them off, you would’ve laughed in their face.

But right now? It was unbelievably real.

Your fingers stroked them in rhythm, their touches growing bolder. Soft moans slipped from your lips as Rin bit your neck, marking you, while Sae sucked hard on your nipple, making you whimper.

"She’s got such a perfect fucking breasts," Sae growled, his teeth grazing your skin.

"And these hands—" Rin groaned, thrusting into your grip.

They were competitive even now, each trying to claim more of you. The thought alone sent heat pooling between your legs.

When you felt your climax building, your grip tightened—and that was all it took. They came almost at the same time as you, their release mixing with the water as your legs shook beneath you.

Breathless, you slumped against the wall, their lips leaving lazy kisses along your jaw before they finally pulled away.

"Now," Rin murmured, guiding you under the spray, "let’s get you cleaned up properly."

You didn’t resist.

Their hands wandered again—softer this time—washing away the evidence of what you’d just done.

And as the water ran clear, one thought echoed in your mind:

This was definitely not how you expected the night to go.

[dolilevu]

Wedding chaos, or how Sukuna’s broken nose walked you down the aisle.

Sukuna × fem!reader, fluff, wedding, humor

It all started when you gave Sukuna a small scar on his nose and ruined his favorite shirt with blood. In your defense, it was a complete accident—you hadn’t noticed his figure lurking nearby when you swung the office door open with full force. It was your first day at your new job, and honestly, you thought it might be your last, because the man with the broken nose turned out to be your direct superior. To say he was unhappy would be an understatement.

By the end of that first day—according to your coworkers—you had been "initiated," enduring Mr. Ryoumen’s torrent of curses without shedding a single tear, which was nothing short of heroic. You earned the team’s respect, but from then on, management never took their eyes off you.

And, as luck would have it, all that backfired spectacularly on Sukuna himself. The daily reprimands, nitpicking, light teasing, and meticulous scrutiny of your work slowly melted his heart until he fell for you like a lovestruck schoolboy. At first, he thought it was just irritation—that you were too loud, too stubborn, and somehow always standing too close when arguing. But then he started noticing the way you bit your lip while punching numbers into spreadsheets, or how you once abandoned his coffee mid-delivery to help a colleague carry boxes.

It stopped annoying him. It just... became familiar. Then necessary—which infuriated him, both at himself and, of course, at you, pushing him into the next stage: avoidance.

He ran. Hid. Flinched away like you were fire the moment you entered his line of sight—anything to escape the way his heart hammered against his ribs, threatening to leap straight into your delicate hands. Hands he secretly longed to feel against his rough skin.

And now, those very desires had led you here—standing in a bridal boutique, picking out your wedding dress.

A tray of sparkling champagne and snacks had been brought in first thing in the morning. Within an hour, Naomi—your best friend and coworker—was already tipsy, sprawled across the couch like she owned the place. Your beloved mother was finishing her second glass, passionately lecturing about the spiritual significance of veil length while you bit back laughter at the absurdity of the legend.

"Alright, alright—next one!" You exhaled deeply, catching your breath before grabbing another gorgeous gown and disappearing into the fitting room.

Mrs. Yang and Naomi sat with critical expressions, lips pursed as if judging a Paris fashion show. Comments about dress length, silhouette, or makeup flew past you—today was your day, and you were determined to find the damn dress that would steal your heart at first sight.

Dress #6—a sleek satin sheath. Elegant, but not you.

Dress #10—a voluminous tulle monstrosity that nearly suffocated your best friend when she tried to fluff the skirt.

"Someone’s losing an eye if you walk down the aisle in that," she muttered, sipping her champagne nervously as you listlessly twirled in front of the mirror.

"What about lace?" Your mother tilted her head thoughtfully, as if already picturing the perfect look.

"Lace... could work."

"We have something fresh from a Parisian atelier. Not even tagged yet." The consultant, who looked just as exhausted as everyone else, perked up and vanished into the back, emerging with the dress.

And holy hell.

It was ethereal.

A soft, creamy hue, flowing and weightless, with sheer long sleeves and delicate embroidery on the corset. The skirt shimmered with movement, the neckline elegant without verging on vulgarity. The waist was cinched just right, and the train of airy fabric looked like it was meant to be carried by cherubs.

"Okay, wow." Naomi slowly rose from her chair. "Yeah. This is it. Definitely."

"Oh my God..." Mrs. Yang covered her mouth, eyes glistening as a whisper escaped her. "You look like you stepped out of a painting."

Even the consultants stopped fidgeting from exhaustion and just stared. You turned slowly, watching the train billow like smoke on the floor. The reflection in the mirror wasn’t the tired office worker in a stiff suit—it was a soft, strong woman about to make the best decision of her life.

Sukuna’s jaw would drop, because this was it. And as if confirming your thoughts, Naomi circled you, nodding approvingly.

"Your fiancé’s heart is gonna stop right at the altar."

Your mother, unable to find words, just hugged you tightly, fighting back tears as if you were already walking down the aisle and not just trying on dresses. You couldn’t blame her—even Naomi wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye, trying not to get emotional.

It was too dramatic, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel like a bride right then.

"Let me in! I need to see her!"

Ryoumen’s irritated voice suddenly boomed from behind the door, freezing everyone in panic. The petite consultants wouldn’t be able to hold back a man his size for long, so you grabbed your skirt and rushed to the door, slamming the lock shut with a loud click.

"What the—"

"Sukuna, I swear to God, I’m not letting you in here!"

Your sharp tone was enough to silence the room. Even he went quiet for a second, clearly not expecting that, before slamming his palm against the door—which held firm.

"The hell?! Why can’t I come in?"

"Because seeing the bride in her dress before the wedding is bad luck! And I don’t care if you think that’s bullshit! I’ll break your nose a second time!"

You braced for another shout or a punch to the Italian wood, but instead—dead silence. Except for Naomi’s quiet snickering behind you as she desperately tried not to burst out laughing. The consultants smirked, clearly entertained by how well you were handling the incoming storm.

"Damn it, fine. Hurry up, I’ll wait in the car."

His grumbling footsteps faded, and a warm smile tugged at your lips. Only when the consultants gave the all-clear did Naomi’s laughter finally ring out, your shoulders sagging in relief.

"Maybe you should reconsider marrying him?"

"Naomi, don’t be ridiculous! He’d be lost without her."

He’d be lost without you.

The perfect dress. The perfect fiancé. And that was enough to make you feel like the happiest woman in the universe.

[dolilevu]

Good boy w Bachira Meguru 18+

Bachira Meguru × fem!reader, fluff, nsfw, established relationships.

Meeting your beloved’s parents was an event bound to make anyone nervous. You had been on edge since morning—first helping Bachira tidy up the small apartment you’d recently moved into, then preparing a modest celebratory dinner, after which you had to scrub the kitchen all over again due to the ensuing mess.

Truthfully, you knew Meguru’s mother was a wonderful woman who already liked you, but the anxiety of realizing just how serious your relationship with the soccer player had become kept you from relaxing. On top of that, the guy himself was buzzing around the apartment like a startled wasp. You rarely saw him like this—agitated and jittery—which only made you unconsciously mirror his energy, growing even more nervous.

But the delicious food, pleasant company, and heartfelt conversations with your future—and you had no doubt about this—mother-in-law did their job. You finally relaxed, letting yourself melt into the carefree warmth of family comfort, squeezing Meguru’s hand under the table from time to time. Despite his usual playful demeanor, his fingers traced gentle circles over your knuckles.

"You know, you’re like a daughter to me now. So if this idiot ever hurts you, just tell me!"

The woman’s words made you blush and nod nervously. A soft laugh escaped you when you caught Bachira beside you puffing out his cheeks in mock offense, crossing his arms defensively against this treacherous betrayal.

"Mom! I’m your actual son, you know!"

"Exactly! That’s why I said it!"

Bright laughter filled the small kitchen, and warmth spread through your chest, wrapping you in a sense of safety. You had finally found your home.

More than anything—after hosting guests or just in general—you hated doing dishes. So you slyly foisted the task onto Bachira, who, even after a three-hour dinner, still had energy to spare. No skin off his back, and a win for you. Plus, it was amusing to watch him hum some pop song under his breath, hips swaying carelessly side to side.

"Done!"

His habitually loud voice snapped you out of your thoughts, and before you could blink, he was hastily drying his hands on a towel before settling comfortably against your side.

"Damn, I’m exhausted."

Your lover nuzzled into your neck, tickling your sensitive skin, and you laughed, gently pushing him away.

"Really? Seems like you’ve still got plenty of energy to me."

Bachira grumbled something into your shoulder before reluctantly pulling back, giving you those irresistible puppy-dog eyes you could never resist.

"Oh no. Don’t look at me like that."

"Was I a good boy?"

The unexpected question stunned you for a second, and something low in your belly fluttered in response. He was always like this—so unbearably sweet in moments like these, like an actual puppy. You had the sudden urge to scratch behind his ear. You could’ve sworn you saw his imaginary tail twitching in anticipation.

"Yes, and you’ve earned a reward."

Amber eyes lit up instantly, a sly grin spreading across his pleased face. "Earning a reward" meant he got to lick you silly without touching himself—finishing pathetically in his pants like a desperate mess. He had an unhealthy obsession with your pretty little pussy, and if it were up to him, he’d live between those plush thighs forever.

"Gonna make your girl happy, huh?"

Meguru didn’t need to be told twice. Eagerly, he repositioned himself, kneeling on the cool floor between your spread legs, letting you lean back comfortably on the couch. Waiting for you to lift your hips, he shakily tugged down your jeans and panties, the damp patch of arousal already glistening on the fabric.

He licked his lips, his cock twitching eagerly in his pants as he took in the sight of your glistening folds. His gaze flicked up, silently asking for permission like an obedient pup, and only after your nod did he spread your thighs wider, burying his face between them with a hungry growl.

A long, relieved moan slipped past your lips the moment his tongue dragged along your slit, lips sealing around your aching clit to suck greedily. His hands gripped your trembling thighs, fingers pressing into soft skin hard enough to leave marks. He lapped at you like a starved dog savoring the sweetest treat, smacking his lips in delight, completely ignoring the hard length straining painfully in his pants.

Despite his firm hold, your legs squeezed around his head, trapping him closer, forcing him deeper with a choked groan as he practically suffocated between your thighs.

"Fuck… Good boy, just like that…" Your fingers tangled in his messy hair, massaging his scalp encouragingly. "I’m close. Keep going…"

Bachira whined against your skin, thrusting his tongue deeper, teasing your fluttering walls while his thumb circled your throbbing clit, expertly pushing you over the edge.

"Mgh—Meguru!"

Your stomach clenched, and before you knew it, your thighs locked tighter around his head. He obeyed, not pulling away, happily lapping up every drop of your release smeared across his face. Your grip on his hair tightened painfully before finally easing as the waves of pleasure subsided.

Gently, he pried your limp legs apart, gasping for air as he emerged from your suffocating hold. Grinning, he wiped the remnants of your arousal from his cheeks with his palm, licking it clean without wasting a single drop.

"Fucking delicious dessert."

You couldn’t help but smile tiredly, reaching out to smooth his disheveled hair, murmuring the words that never failed to delight him.

"Good boy. Such a good boy."

And the large, damp stain on his pants was proof enough that he’d enjoyed himself just as much as you had.

© 2025 dolilevu - do not copy, translate, modify or steal without my permission.

[dolilevu]

He's angry. Shidou Ryusei 18+

The match was unbearably intense. Even though it was just a practice game, that didn’t change the fact of how fired up Shidou was, how desperately he craved victory. After all, he played precisely for these emotions. Winning itself didn’t matter to him—what he needed was that rush of adrenaline, that feeling of dominance over others. So when failure came crashing down like an avalanche, Ryusei was furious. Too furious not to smash a couple of nearby cones—or his opponents’ faces. But, whether fortunately or not, after the game ended, you came to meet him… and ended up bearing the brunt of his rage. You only realized it when he dragged you into the locker room, locked the door, and pinned you against the wall.

- What’s going on? – A stupid question, but you could never tell what was going on in this guy’s head.

- I’m fucking pissed, doll. They blew the match. – He practically growled through clenched teeth, his usual temper flaring.

- They?

- Them, goddammit! Running around like headless chickens, just getting in the fucking way. I swear, I would’ve punched their lights out right there if—** A heavy silence fell as he cut himself off.

You knew exactly how to calm the blond down—and the surest way was sex. Because if he didn’t blow off steam, things could end badly for everyone around him. Better to soothe him here and now, even if curious ears overheard too much. The footballer was never opposed to this particular method of relaxation.

His lips crashed into yours in a hungry, demanding kiss, his tongue immediately invading your mouth. Kissing him was always wet and intense, stealing the breath from your lungs. His hands didn’t hold back either—rough grips at your waist and hips, squeezing hard enough to leave possessive marks. If it were up to him, your soft body would be covered in bruises and hickeys. Beautiful—and most importantly, completely his.

Ryusei wasted no time stripping off your clothes, only breaking the kiss for a second before diving back in. Fabric flew onto the nearest bench, leaving you bare, and his hands effortlessly lifted you by the thighs, carrying you into a shower stall. Your back hit the cold tiles, making you wince at the sudden unpleasant chill.

- Shidou, it’s cold.

- You’ll be warm soon, he whispered with a smirk against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. Seconds later, the shower turned on abruptly, warm water soothing your skin.

You gasped in surprise, barely registering the footballer’s hard cock pressing insistently against your ass. He muffled your sounds with his hand, pressing it over your mouth.

- Fuck, doll, keep it down. I might want them to hear you, but they’ll think I’m beating you up. His tone was teasing, and he removed his hand once he was sure you wouldn’t scream.

Water dripped down your soaked hair and slick body, though washing up was never part of the plan. Not that Shidou cared. His grip on your hips tightened as he lined himself up at your needy entrance. His size was overwhelming—taking him without preparation was always a challenge. Your hands dug into his shoulders, trying to stop him.

- It won’t fit like this. You protested firmly, but your lover had other ideas.

- We fucked not too long ago. Your pussy should take me just fine. He smirked, ignoring your resisting grip as he pushed in roughly, stretching you open—not enough to hurt badly, but enough to make you gasp. Fuck, still tight as hell.

Your nails dug into his back, scratching as you clung to him from the sudden, uncomfortable thrust. You bit your lip hard enough to nearly draw blood, your chest rising with rapid breaths. You were used to this by now, though, and had long since found ways to cope. Your head fell back against the wall, eyes squeezing shut as another thrust—deeper this time—ripped a pained moan from your lips.

- Fuck, relax a little, he growled, adjusting his grip on your hips as he moved again.

- Easy for you to say, you snapped back, deliberately clenching around him.

- I’ll fuck you unconscious, bitch. His gaze darkened at your defiance.

He instantly picked up the pace, clearly past the point of thinking rationally—if he ever did in the first place. The shower only slightly drowned out the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin and your drawn-out moans. You could’ve sworn you heard voices outside the locker room, even knocking at the door—but Shidou’s cock was too good at robbing you of reason, leaving no room to think about anything but him. He whispered filthy things in your ear, biting at your neck, collarbones, and chest as your breasts bounced enticingly in front of him.

- Doll, I’m gonna cum. His voice was rough near your shoulder, the words barely reaching your hazy mind.

He came loud and hard. Ryusei never held back his sounds, but during orgasm, he was especially vocal, spilling deep inside your tight heat, wanting to bury himself there as your walls fluttered around him—proof that you’d come right after him.

- You’re gonna kill me one day, you whispered hoarsely, closing your eyes as you tried to catch your breath.

- And it’ll be the sweetest death, he purred in satisfaction before capturing your lips in another kiss.

And neither of you cared about the disgruntled footballers still complaining outside, hoping to get in.

[dolilevu]

NSFW headcanons. Nagi Seishiro. 18+

• Lazy sex is one of Nagi's favorites - and your most frequent indulgence. His rhythm stays deliberately slow and careless, his hands encircling your waist before wandering wherever they please - kneading soft breasts, teasing your swollen clit while his hot breath paints burning trails down your neck. You always come, if only from his sheer size stretching you impossibly full. But when even that proves too much effort, he'll simply nestle inside your warmth, letting you milk his release just by fluttering around him.

• The man who naps through fire alarms becomes relentless between your sheets. That perpetually bored expression shatters when you whisper "want me?" - phone forgotten before it hits the mattress. His usual lethargy transforms into single-minded hunger, hands already pushing up your skirt.

• He revels in service like a hound finally allowed to please its master. Burying his face between your thighs, he laps at you with obscene devotion while rutting against the bedsheets. The wetter you get, the more frantically his hips stutter - as if your moans alone could make him spill.

• Doggy style reduces him to a panting beast, and he loves it. But watching you ride him turns the tables - your nails in his chest, his grip bruising your hips as you use him just how you like. The thought alone makes him throb, begging "don't stop" through gritted teeth.

• During sex, Nagi unspools tender confessions like prayer beads. Each "I love you" spills genuine, because to him, intimacy is sacred. Quickies frustrate him - if he can't worship you properly, why bother?

• His kisses ruin you. Lips moving with practiced ease, tongue tracing your mouth's contours until you forget why you were angry. When words fail, he speaks through touch - a languid kiss saying "not now" or "I need you" clearer than any sentence.

• Your victories arouse him strangely. Losing mobile games to you, catching your fake anger's pout - they spark something primal. Though traditional turn-ons work too: his hoodie swallowing your frame, lace straining against curves, that dress he hates you wearing outdoors.

• Normally "Nagi" suffices, but whisper "Seishiro" and he melts. The name slips past his defenses, leaving him pliant in your hands. During sex, it winds him tighter - a trigger for desperate thrusts.

• Call him "puppy" and watch his composure crumble. He'll nuzzle your inner thigh with a worshipful "yes, mistress," all wide eyes and eager tongue. That begging look undoes you every time - who could deny such devotion?

[dolilevu]

Ex. Kisaki Tetta.

As it turned out, attending your publishing house's New Year's party hadn't been your brightest idea. After that brutal, gut-wrenching breakup, all you'd wanted was distraction—a meaningless fling, anything to ensure you'd never think of him again.

And then there he was.

Tetta Kisaki.

You never expected to see him here, in what was supposed to be your professional sanctuary. You'd convinced yourself your paths would never cross again—certainly not like this, surrounded by colleagues and clinking champagne flutes. Yet there he stood, and when your gazes locked across the crowded hall, your traitorous heart stuttered like a faulty engine.

Kisaki approached with one of the editorial directors in tow, his sharp eyes pinning you in place. You should look away. But you don't.

He stops at a polite distance, the picture of a stranger, but you see right through it. This was calculated. He'd bought his way in, manipulated the right people—you could smell the orchestration.

The bastard was infuriatingly calm, his smirk hidden behind indifference as if you hadn't split his lip the last time you spoke. God, he was always such a performer.

"Colleague, allow me to introduce our newest major sponsor—Tetta Kisaki," the director announced, smug as a cat. "Mr. Kisaki, this is Y/N. One of our most promising writers."

You study him, waiting. Will he play the stranger? Even though he'd once mapped every inch of you with his tongue.

"Pleasure," Kisaki says, ice in his voice. But you know him—that mask will shatter the second you're alone.

"Likewise." You force steadiness into your reply while fantasizing about driving your stiletto into his instep.

He extends a hand. You hesitate a beat before sliding yours into it—and Christ, the contact sends lightning up your arm. His grip is too tight, his skin fever-warm. Familiar. Your heart trembles like a leaf in a storm. This isn't just a handshake. It's coming home after being exiled.

But do you even want to return?

The man before you is your ex. Without him, time had dragged, hollow and meaningless. What you'd shared was incandescent, real—but like all wildfires, it had burned itself to ashes. The breakup had been your doing. Brutal. Necessary. For six months, you'd built walls, sworn you'd never let him back in.

Yet one glance, and the mortar's already crumbling.

Kisaki's gaze drags down your body, lingering on the red silk dress clinging to every curve—your curves. The ones he'd once claimed like conquered territory. His breath hitches, just slightly, as if remembering how your skin shivered under his touch, how your breath caught when his fingers dipped below your waistband. Now, watching you, his fingers twitch with the need to trace your collarbone, grip your hip, rediscover that spot on your back that always made you whimper.

His imagination is relentless—visions of that silk slithering to the floor, revealing what he still knows by heart. And when you finally meet his eyes again, he doesn't bother hiding the hunger in them.

"Well," you rasp, throat suddenly dry, "This was... enlightening. Enjoy the party."

You flee before your body betrays you further.

***

The formal event ended, leaving only the afterparty—a more intimate affair where you'd hoped (foolishly) to avoid him.

Yet as you scan the room, your stomach knots when you don't find his familiar silhouette. Relief wars with something dangerously close to disappointment.

You perch at the bar, swirling your wine, trying to ignore how the music slinks under your skin.

Then—like a live wire down your spine—you feel his stare.

You refuse to turn. Won't give him the satisfaction. But his gaze is a physical pull, and against your will, your eyes find his across the room.

He approaches like a panther, his cologne—that damned cologne—wrapping around you, making your pulse spike.

"Dance with me." His voice is rough velvet, more command than request.

"Bad idea," you say, taking a too-large gulp of wine.

"Wasn't asking." His palm hovers between you, and you stare at the familiar lines of it—the calluses you used to trace with your lips.

You hesitate.

The devil on your shoulder whispers: One dance. One night. What happens after doesn't matter.

You take his hand.

His grip is possessive as he leads you to the floor, his other hand settling at your waist like he owns it. Maybe he does. The heat of him sears through the silk, and your stomach swoops.

God, how long has it been?

You move together, his body deliberately brushing yours. This isn't dancing. It's a taunt. A challenge.

And you're losing.

His lips graze your ear. "Nervous?"

You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze. Something feral flickers in his eyes—memory and hunger tangled together.

"This is in the past," you lie.

"Liar." His hand slides lower, pressing you flush against him.

Silence stretches between you, heavier than the music. You're standing on a cliff's edge.

You let yourself fall.

His mouth crashes onto yours, and nothing else matters.

[dolilevu]

The Black Card.

Sylus hates your ridiculous habit of pinching pennies when it comes to yourself. He understands perfectly well why you only shop at discount stores, hunt for sales, and fuss over things that could easily be delegated to someone else. But what irritates him the most is how stubbornly you ignore his money. His black card sits untouched on the nightstand, gathering dust, while you pointedly pretend not to see it every time you head out for groceries or a girls' night at the bar.

And it’s not just annoying—it wounds his pride. What’s the point of his millions if he can’t even make his woman spend a fraction of it? He’d sign over every last cent to you in a heartbeat if you’d let him.

Shopping together is its own special kind of torture. He practically wars with you, begging you to buy that one bag you glanced at for five seconds too long. It drives him insane—he wants to drown you in luxury, and you keep snatching that chance away. Even with him, you refuse to relax, clinging to your damn independence like a lifeline.

Your birthday is just days away, and by some miracle, Sylus managed to extract a promise from you to actually celebrate this time instead of settling for tea and a slice of cake. He notices every stolen glance you take at extravagant trinkets, lavish jewelry, and those dresses that make your breath hitch. But the second he suggests stepping into a boutique, you shut him down like those price tags with six zeroes might bite you.

But what truly infuriates him is how freely you spend on others. It’s equal parts admirable and maddening because you never seem to think you deserve the same. And today, he’s decided—one way or another, you are getting something obscenely expensive, even if he has to fight you for it.

When you step out of the restroom after a marathon shopping session—which Silas conveniently used to his advantage—your blood runs cold. His staff pours out of five different boutiques, arms loaded with at least ten shopping bags each, hauling them into multiple cars. Thousands. Millions. An unfathomable fortune in one place.

"Sylus, what the actual fuck?" Your pulse hammers in your temples, fingers curling into fists.

He stands there, hands in pockets, wearing that infuriating smirk you want to either kiss or punch off his face. You haven’t decided yet.

"Just collecting what caught my favorite girl’s eye."

"I never picked any of this!" You jab a finger into his chest, brows furrowed in outrage—no, fury—and Sylus can’t help but adore the sight.

To him, you always looked like an angry kitten.

"Maybe not. But your eyes told me otherwise." His large, warm hand engulfs yours, lacing your fingers together before you can pull away.

"You… really pay that much attention?" The admission stuns you, and you freeze, letting his thumb brush over your whitened knuckles. Your expression finally softens.

"You deserve everything. And I’m tired of waiting for you to realize it."

You open your mouth to argue, but his assistant approaches nervously, reporting that the cars are full—but there’s still more to load.

Sylus just lazily waves a hand.

"Order a truck."

"Jesus Christ, Sylus! Did you buy out half the mall?!"

He just laughs, catching your delayed, indignant growl as he yanks you against him, trapping you there.

"I know it’s a lot. But I don’t regret it. I meant what I said."

You stare at him, anger already dissolving, and turn away before he can see your smile.

This time, you let him have his way.

Just this once.

[dolilevu]

Nagi likes your breasts. 18+

Nagi likes your breasts. The mere sight of them makes him lick his lips greedily, already imagining how they’ll close around your sensitive nipple—gently, carefully, in his usual lazy manner—before he starts nibbling and licking the soft flesh. This happens almost every time you’re in his line of sight wearing just a bra or, worse, nothing at all. He never explains his obsession, but you know damn well he could spend all day at your chest, kissing it and covering it in dark marks that look stunning against your skin.

“Nagi, stop.” The words slip out in annoyance when Seishiro’s bold hands slide under your thin T-shirt.

His fingers stubbornly trace the skin of your stomach, refusing to listen or pull away. Normally, Nagi isn’t the persistent type, but hell, when it comes to you and his cravings for your body, it’s a different story. He’s like a kitten desperate for a taste of something sweet.

“Nagi,” you repeat more firmly, but you can already feel goosebumps betraying you, spreading across your skin.

“Why stop?” His voice finally comes from somewhere near your neck, his hot breath scorching your cool skin.

“Because we were supposed to go to the store.” You bite your lower lip at the sudden contrast of temperatures and shiver, trying to push him away.

“And that’s the only reason you’re telling me to stop?” His hands only tighten around your waist, holding you in place, not giving you even a centimeter of space to escape.

“No, there’s also…” Your words trail off into a quiet sigh the moment his teeth graze the delicate skin of your neck.

“Liar.” His hands tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and tossing it aside, finally revealing what he loves most about you.

Nagi’s hands grip your waist and, with one smooth motion, he lifts you onto his lap as he drops onto the bed, holding you firmly so you can’t run.

“Give me what I want. Please,” he murmurs, his free hand reaching for one of your breasts, squeezing it tenderly. “I’m so hungry.”

After those words, his lips descend on your skin—where faint traces of his last "feast" still linger—and he seems determined to renew them. His mouth sucks skillfully at your flesh, his tongue lapping at the reddening marks. Your back arches instinctively into his touch, and your fingers clutch at his broad shoulders like a lifeline the moment his tongue flicks over your hardened nipple.

“I love you like this,” he rasps, nipping at the sensitive skin. “Sweet and pliant. Holding onto me like I’m your last hope.”

Damn it, because he was. And you hate that he’s right. A moan escapes your lips, and tension coils low in your stomach, craving more than just this sweet torture. Because Nagi knew what he was doing. He already knew where to bite harder, where to lick, where to squeeze. He’d memorized your breasts like the back of his hand and knew exactly how to make you melt under him. They just felt too good in his palms, and he could swear he’d hold them forever.

“Nagi, stop,” you whine, your voice embarrassingly weak as he continues his ministrations. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Nagi loved drawn-out foreplay, but your cunt was already soaked, throbbing impatiently, begging for more decisive action. It was getting harder to resist with every second. Your fingers tangle in the soft hair at his nape, tugging sharply when his teeth sink into your skin just right.

You pull lightly, and he reluctantly lifts his head from your chest—now thoroughly marked and glistening with his saliva, like he’d just devoured the best meal of his life.

“Fuck,” Nagi exhales shakily, trying to catch his breath. His tongue swipes over his lips, his gaze locked on the mesmerizing sight before him. “You’re so fucking beautiful, darling.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, gripping the strands to tilt his head up, and lean in to capture his lips in a hungry kiss.

Looks like the trip to the store will have to wait.

[dolilevu]

Hello everyone!

My name is Lily, and I write fanfics for different fandoms. Mostly Blue Lock, but I try to diversify my content. Hope you enjoy it here!

Masterlist (in progress)

Blue lock

Reo Mikage: Phone conversation

Sae Itoshi: Sae loves your hands

Nagi Seishiro: Nagi likes your breasts, NSFW headcanons.

Shidou Ryusei: He's angry.

Bachira Meguru: Good boy.

Itoshi’s brothers: Shower for three.

Chigiri Hyoma: He loves your hair.

Jujutsu Kaisen:

Gojo Satoru: This relationship is not just about sex

Sukuna Ryomen: Wedding chaos.

Love and Deepspace:

Sylus: The Black Card

Tokyo Revengers:

Tetta Kisaki: Ex

Requests allowed | Anon allowed.

© 2025 dolilevu - do not copy, translate, modify or steal without my permission.

[dolilevu]

Sae loves your hands. 18+

Sae loves your hands. From the slope of your shoulder down to the very tips of your fingers. He loves touching them gently, sending shivers rippling across your skin; pressing his lips softly to your knuckles and the sensitive curves, savoring the way you tremble under featherlight caresses. He loves holding your hand, squeezing it tight in his, just to feel them against him. And speaking of that...

"Fuck, you’re gonna kill me with these hands," escapes Itoshi’s lips as he bites down hard on his lower one, his gaze dropping lower—to your thighs.

"Killing you isn’t the plan," you smirk, eager to act on your words, though the boy’s been suffering since the second he allowed this. "But torturing you? Absolutely."

Your fingers knead the hard length straining against his shorts, and you could swear you heard a faint whimper from him. Quiet, but there. Your chest swells with pride because, goddamn, you can make Sae whine without even touching him properly. And when you finally do? He might just come from a single stroke. The ever-grumpy, rough-edged Itoshi is crumbling under your touch, craving affection like a needy kitten.

"This is murder, you know that?" he hisses, hips twitching upward, chasing your touch as his fingers clamp around your wrist, holding you in place. "Just—stop teasing. I don’t know how much longer I can take it."

The plea in his voice and gaze is unmistakable—music to your ears in moments like these. He wants you too badly, so, taking pity, you slowly peel his shorts and boxers down. A shameful wet patch clings to the fabric, his cockhead glistening with precum. Smirking at the sight—and at his flushed cheeks—you drag a finger along the slickness, spreading it down his throbbing length.

Finally, a loud moan tears from him as the footballer’s head falls back, thighs spreading wider.

Nosing at his neck, you lick away a bead of salt from his skin while your fingers begin moving in slow, deliberate strokes, tracing the swollen veins beneath.

"Faster," Sae’s patience is fraying, his breathing uneven. "Please."

He lifts his head just to glare at you—a stormy, desperate look. Pathetically needy, weak under your grasp. How could anyone deny him?

The corner of your mouth quirks up as your hand picks up speed. Your movements are quick but intricate—fingers tracing every ridge, every vein, before circling the head, squeezing just to hear him gasp before returning to the steady rhythm. His ragged moans fill the air, fingers twisting into the sheets, tugging the fabric taut.

"Close already?" you tease, watching his hips jerk impatiently into your touch.

"Just—fucking don’t stop," his eyes flutter shut as another wave of pleasure wracks his body, especially when your thumb presses against that sweet spot.

The fastest way to ruin him? Focus on the head, working him with nothing but slick, relentless strokes. His thighs tremble as his climax builds, cresting like a tidal wave before he spills over with a deep, drawn-out groan, painting his abs and your hand in streaks of white. Even as he catches his breath, you keep stroking him lazily, feeling him soften in your grip.

"God, that was..."

"Amazing?" You can’t help the smug, catlike grin.

He levels you with a dazed look before nodding, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"I could kiss your hands for this," he mutters, grabbing your wrist and pressing a kiss to your knuckles before licking a stripe along your fingers, cleaning off his own mess.

"Pervert," you whisper, cheeks burning.

"Says you," he fires back before yanking you into a hungry kiss.

[dolilevu]

This thing between you—it wasn’t just sex. 18+

"I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk."

Gojo’s words from half an hour ago—words you’d laughed off, not taking them seriously.

And now, the strongest sorcerer smirks as he watches you moan sweetly, your head tilting back until it nearly hits the windshield. His long fingers move insistently inside your slick walls, teasing every inch, while his free hand grips your thigh, thumb brushing over the jut of your hipbone, scattering every thought from your mind.

Not that you had any thoughts left to begin with.

Over the months of your casual encounters, Satoru had learned your body inside and out. He knew exactly where to press, where to stroke, where to tease until you were whimpering beneath him. The car was bathed in near-darkness, lit only by the pale glow of the moon and the flickering streetlights of the abandoned parking lot.

You squeeze your eyes shut as he marks your pale neck with deep, possessive kisses, his teeth grazing your skin. Your chin tilts up, lips parted in loud, breathy moans, a blush spreading across your cheeks like spilled paint. *How did I get so lucky?* Gojo thinks, watching you unravel.

He nips at your reddened earlobe, and you dig your nails into his shoulders to steady yourself. It drives him wild—he wants to sink deeper, to bury himself under your skin, to live in the heat of your veins.

"I can’t take it anymore," he growls, biting down on your hardened nipple through the fabric of your bunched-up shirt.

He releases your thigh, pulling his glistening fingers free just to shove them past your lips, ignoring your disappointed whine.

"C’mon, baby. Taste yourself."

As your tongue swirls around his fingers, lapping up your own arousal, Satoru wastes no time—his free hand fumbles with his belt, shoving down his jeans and boxers just enough to free his aching cock, already dripping with precum. The flushed head twitches, begging for attention.

This thing between you—it wasn’t just sex. But neither of you would say it out loud. Gojo was afraid of losing you. You were afraid to ask.

No one else knew you needed to come multiple times. That you craved cuddles after. That you doubted yourself, needed praise, needed him in ways you couldn’t voice.

"Fuck, I forgot condoms," he mutters, rummaging through the glove compartment—usually stocked, now empty.

"Doesn’t matter," you rasp, his fingers slipping from your mouth as your hand wraps around his length, guiding him toward your soaked, trembling cunt.

The angle is tight, but your body is molten, welcoming, and Gojo groans low in his throat, his hands finding their rightful place—gripping your plush ass. He can’t thrust as deep as he wants, but it’s enough—the closeness, the whimpers, the heat. And for you? More than enough.

Moans mingle—his deep and rough, yours airy and desperate—as skin slaps against skin. It feels different without the barrier, like you’ve entrusted him with something sacred. His thick cock hits every sweet spot, and your walls clench around him, driving him insane.

"Can you come like this?" Satoru murmurs against your ear, his thumb circling your clit with relentless pressure.

"Y-yes—" Your blush deepens, but it only turns you on more.

Dirty talk.

"Come on my cock, baby. I wanna feel it."

And that’s all it takes to push you over the edge. Your nails dig into his shoulders, scratching even through his shirt, but Gojo doesn’t stop—he fucks you harder, faster, until—

"Satoru!" You’re gasping, choking on his name. "Fuck—please! I’m close— Shit, I love you, goddammit—"

The confession spills out unbidden. You moan—high, broken, desperate—and Gojo… isn’t afraid anymore. He gives you exactly what you need, and you shatter with a sob, tears of pleasure streaking your cheeks. He pulls out at the last second, spilling over your soft stomach with a ragged growl.

"Fuck…"He collapses against the seat. The windows are fogged, the car reeks of sex and sweat. "Love you too, baby."

Satoru never planned for you to upend his life. But right now, holding you close, he thanks the universe for this love.

[dolilevu]

Phone conversation. 18+

Distracting Reo during an important phone call wasn’t the best idea. But you always acted around him as if you had nine lives to spare—lives that didn’t run out even after he firmly put an end to your playful antics. He knew exactly how to handle disobedient little kittens like you, always ready to discipline the especially unruly ones.

Mikage’s long fingers claimed their territory deep inside you, curling and pressing against that perfect spot that made your back arch off the bed. He knew your body too well, knew exactly which buttons to push to have you whimpering and crying beneath him—even when his attention was only half on you. Like now, with the phone pressed to his ear, his gaze flickering down to your disheveled form beneath him.

He held the phone between his shoulder and ear, his hands occupied with far more interesting things: one expertly playing with your slick, throbbing cunt, the other muffling every loud moan that threatened to spill from your lips. It felt like you were suspended in blissful agony for an eternity, your body aching, begging for more of his attention. The call seemed unbearably long, though only a few minutes had passed. But your mind was too lost in pleasure to keep track of time—all you wanted was to come.

Reo’s voice was a distant murmur as his hand slid from your flushed face down to your bare, heaving chest, palming it possessively. Like a starved beast, he kneaded the soft flesh, tormenting your swollen nipple with rough strokes of his thumb.

"Shhh, quiet," he whispered, cutting off another loud moan before it could escape, shifting his attention to your other breast, refusing to leave it neglected. "Got it. That’s a tomorrow problem. I’ll handle it, don’t worry."

Reo muttered something else into the phone—something dismissive for his manager, who had long overstayed his welcome—before carelessly tossing it aside. His fingers stilled inside you, then withdrew with a wet sound, leaving you whining at the sudden emptiness.

"God, you came just from my fingers again?" Mikage taunted, reveling in his dominance over you as he reached for the leather belt digging into his hardened cock. "You held out well, kitten. But judging by how loud you were crying, maybe I should buy you a gag."

The mocking words reached your ears, but you had neither the will nor the strength to protest. In moments like these, he pulled at the strings of your soul like a puppeteer, and you were more than happy to surrender—to take whatever he gave you. And right now, you’d do anything to feel him filling you up again.

The metallic clink of his belt buckle and the rasp of his zipper cut through the heavy silence, a warning of what was coming next. You eagerly spread your trembling legs wider, baring yourself to his hungry gaze—one that sent shivers racing across your skin. Damn him for knowing exactly how to make you drip even more.

"My little attention whore," Reo murmured reverently, rubbing the flushed head of his cock against your slick, swollen folds before finally pushing in. "Fuck, still so tight."

You mewled, arching your back as he sheathed himself fully inside you, the tip kissing your cervix. Your walls clenched around him perfectly, wrenching a low, guttural groan from his throat. His hands gripped your soft thighs, fingers digging into milky skin, leaving faint red marks in their wake. His thrusts were sharp, deep, and relentless—focused entirely on his own pleasure while you sobbed beneath him from overstimulation, fists twisting in the tangled sheets.

The sheer selfishness of his movements coiled the tension in your stomach tighter, dragging you toward another orgasm—your second tonight. You couldn’t hold back anymore; your velvety walls spasmed around his cock, drenching him in your release. And that was all it took for him to lose control—his grip on your thighs tightened to the point of pain as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside with a satisfied growl.

He pulled out with a groan, licking his lips as he raked a hand through his sweat-damp hair, admiring the sight of your swollen pussy, dripping with both of you.

"Fucking sexy," Reo smirked, giving your thigh a light slap before pressing a kiss to the corner of your tear-dampened eye. "Happy now, kitten?"

You nodded breathlessly, reaching for him, pulling him into a comforting embrace. He chuckled but didn’t resist, wrapping his arms around your spent body and pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"Next time, I won’t go so easy on you."