#Interlocking Mats

[kinderplayequipment]

Kinder play equipment combined with kids flooring mats in Bangalore creates a safe, vibrant, and engaging play environment for children. The soft, cushioned mats reduce the risk of injuries, while the equipment encourages physical activity and creativity. These installations are ideal for schools, daycares, and play centers across Bangalore.

For more details visit here :- 

[foamfloortiles]

Eva foam interlocking tiles

Shop high-quality foam puzzle floor tiles and interlocking floor mats, perfect for creating safe play areas for kids or home gyms. Our foam mats for kids are soft, durable, and easy to clean, while the interlocking kids mats provide easy assembly.

[sairaverse]

Where I was, what happened, and why I'm back so soon. My most personal manifestation and mistakes that should never be made again. (a success story) My biggest ever insecurity was my hair. I had midlength, frizzy, weird curls that would never define no matter what. It looked like a matted rat almost I hated it. Even after learning the law and manifesting other stuff, my body, face, anything. I just COULDN'T get my hair to change. I was always so aware of it I could always feel it. I could always see it in my silhouette. So the 3D was smacking me in the face again and again. I had been trying to change my hair to better defined curls for a year. Yes, a year. Even me who has helped so many of you with my blog. It took me a year to manifest. What I did and the mistakes I made; I did robotic affirmations just like I manifested everything else. But it still, didn't work. No matter what I did. I was in a spiral, I tested my abilities and I manifested so many other things but I just couldn't change my hair no matter what I did. Until literally 20 hours ago I posted,

Telling you guys that I would be taking a short break from posting and I would come back after manifesting something. I had expected it to take around a week or two for me to lock in, but no. It took only 22 hours. What did I do? I locked in. I read success stories that MY OWN followers sent me. I had kept repeating to myself "ignore and affirm, ignore and affirm," And then I finally identified what was wrong. You know the saying that's like "when you can write down a problem, you already solved it halfway" well that's kind of what it was like for me.

I did psych-k and I asked myself "there are 2 reasons why I don't have my desired hair" I did the pull test and it was correct. I had 2 things I needed to fix. Then it just came to me, I said "one reason is because I just acknowledged I don't have it" did the pull test, it was correct. then, next I said "the next reason is because I would search for an answer" did the pull test, and It was correct. So my mistake, was questioning. Even if it was only in my actions and not my words. And my next mistake was kind of knowing that I didn't have it. I locked in after that. I chose a very simple affirmation "I have jet black long curls" It wasn't that specific but my desire was long wavy/ish defined jet black hair that went down to my butt. And before you say "but pink didn't you already say you manifested long hair?" I did. And I lied. That was an affirmation. I was pretending to "act as if" when I wrote that. That was my wrong-doing, but please be assured I haven't lied about anything else. Anyways- So I affirmed all day and I kept doing the pull test "I have jet black curls, I have jet black long curls" and every-time I pulled my interlocked fingers it assured me "yes, you have it" So then I went to sleep the next day. I didn't wake up with it this morning until I had an epiphany. The law. Is instant. No matter what you see. Your subconscious assumes after ONE affirmation. I told myself "I have assumed my desire" over and over this morning. Until around an hour ago I passed the mirror without looking at it. But in my peripheral vision I saw a long black **thing** flowing around while I was walking. I stopped in my tracks and turned around. Lo and behold I had my desired hair. I was just staring and staring at it. I finally ran my fingers through my long curls, in shock and awe. And the best part is? I REVISED it. My mom asked me why I kept looking at my hair like that, and she was like "It looks extra nice today" not even questioning why or how it grew like 20 inches in a day. My advice and a specific list of what I did.

Do not question where it is. Do not affirm "I have it" and then ask a blogger "where is it?" Do not acknowledge you don't have it. Don't affirm "I have it" and then be like "yeah I don't actually have xyz" How I fixed it and my new perception of the law:

thing 1. Your subconscious can get confused, it can assume but not understand why you just said you don't have it. That's not a punishment, you're just not letting the law work. How to fix this: Affirm and don't contradict. Don't contradict in your actions. Don't ask a blogger where it is, or vent to an open ai (what I did lmao) If you ever feel a thought about it not being in your favor, just tell yourself "it has confirmed already" and try ignoring it for the rest of the day.

Thing 2. The seed gets planted immediately. "I have thing" Your subconicous immediately accepts it and makes space for you to have thing. Then what? Affirm or go about your day. Accept that thing is already yours now. Even if you don't feel like it, just tell yourself "it has confirmed" or "it will confirm"

Thing 3. You do not need to affirm so many times. I know my thing is robotic affirmations and saturation but honestly...Its already done. The reason why I think robotic affirming is so affective is because after you affirm once BOOM your subconicous is like "YES WE HAVE THING! NOW LET ME JUST MAKE SPACE FOR IT" but if you keep affirming again, and again, and again and leave no choice for doubts to arise, your subconicous will literally purge your desires. Its almost like you've overstimulated it.

Don't make my mistakes. Now, How do we manifest literally anything we want? Its not "affirm and persist in affirmation until you see it" for me anymore. Its "affirm a little, remind, and stop asking" What do I mean by that? Affirm once or twice honestly. And then remind yourself "it has confirmed already" And then don't ask where it is anymore. you affirm its not here or if you ask anyone, just don't validate the old story. Don't make my mistakes. This was my biggest manifestation ever. Bigger than my parents becoming millionaires or me being popular among my friends. If you have a manifestation so important to you or you're trying to get rid of an insecurity, just try very hard to trust yourself and trust the law. Because your subconicous has already assumed just let it do its thing in the meantime. Thank you for reading if you've got this far, ciao my loves ✨

[comatosebunny09]

how to stop the rain | sylus q.

— summary: you just wanted to catch bugs. but the rain had other plans, forcing you to wait it out in your home where another tempest brewed inside, spurred by your unlikely company.

— cw: female reader, female anatomy described, animal crossing au (the animals are human-sized & you don’t look like adorable chibis, just regular-degular people), vanilla-ass, penetrative sex, cunnilingus, fingering, creampie, friends to lovers, jealousy, silliness, romantic dribble, profanity, terms of endearment, consent king, praise, sylus is just a chill dude who likes you, like one bestiality joke, mdni

— notes: fueled by this blurb & this one & @alfredosaws & @asirensrage inspiring me with their comments. as always, thank you for reading, turtledoves.

— now playing: stale cupcakes - sleeping phoenix

It’s raining.

You can’t say you didn’t anticipate it; Isabelle forecasted it in her daily announcement. Still, you insisted on foraging for materials and hunting for bugs, dragging an indifferent Sylus alongside you. 

You were about to capture a monarch butterfly, net poised overhead. Sylus watched you with quiet amusement, leaning against a cedar tree when the first clap of thunder shook the sleepy island. The resulting drizzle quickly morphed into a downpour, chasing the island’s other inhabitants inside. 

“Not a word,” you clipped when Sylus snickered beside you, kneeling to help you gather your tools. You weren’t sure what irritated you more—the rain’s uncanny timing, Sylus’ teasing, or the pretty, cyan monarch fluttering just out of reach of your net. You had been hunting that thing for days!

The pair of you fled the forest as rain pelted down, your curses and laughter intermingling with that of your heavy footfalls splashing in errant puddles. Sylus used his coat as a makeshift umbrella, but it didn’t hold for long. You were both drenched, your clothes matted to you like a second skin, by the time you reached your doorstep. 

Swathed in the pale haze of your entryway, you pant as your mirth peters out. And as the silence of your home takes over, you become keenly aware of how close you are to him. How warmth radiates off his skin, scorching you to the bone. And the scent he carries is reminiscent of bonfires and sea spray, an aroma you’ve learned to associate with home. 

Your eyes slide over the contours of his torso, defined by the wet cling of his shirt. He’s a far cry from unsightly—you first noticed how handsome he was when he appeared on your quiet little island some months back, swept in by the idle drag of the tide. 

Your study ends at his face where your gazes interlock, his scarlet eyes creasing with mirth to match the cant of his lips. “Like what you see, sweetheart?”

You quickly look away as heat creeps into your face, evoking a chuckle from the center of your ruminations. 

“Clothes. I’ll get you some clothes,” you utter, feeling along the wall for your light switch. 

The confined space floods with warm light—your saving grace. You maneuver through your home, drip-dropping onto the hardwood floors in pursuit of your bedroom. With a towel draped over your shoulders, you return to the figure standing in your living space, a dark, regal cutout amid your minimalistic decor. 

You clear your throat, more so to cast away the dreamlike fog that had befallen you. Toss a towel at his head, avoiding the inquisitive arch of his brow as you deposit sweatpants and an oversized shirt into his hands.

“Clothes from an old fling?” Sylus pokes, something new coloring his typically flat tone. 

You shrug as you make for the hallway, ignoring how a bit of you sparkles at the prospect of him being jealous. You are merely friends—you showed him the ropes when he was disoriented and irritable, helping him find a place on the island when he finally accepted that it was his new home. 

As time passed, you found it more challenging to deny your attraction to him. Sure, he appeared rough on the outside. But as he settled into the humdrum of your lifestyle, his rigid edges started to smoothen, and you discovered there was more to him than his sharp quips and shady origins.

You retreat into your room once more, your waterlogged clothes puddling around your feet. You settle on a shower. Its soothing spray eases the tight coil of your muscles. Washes the grime from your skin. When you’ve thoroughly scrubbed off the day’s adventures, you pour yourself into something comfortable, towel-drying your hair before emerging in your home’s main lounge. 

It’s serene here. Warm—you lit some logs in the fireplace to chase away the biting cold the rain ushered in. The pop and fizz of the fire merge with the sound of rain patterning your rooftop. The shower in the guest bathroom sputters to life. Sylus must have had the same idea, his clothes folded in a neat pile atop your dryer. Briefly, you tango with the imagery of him in the shower. Skin flushed from the hot spray, water easing over the ridges of his body, lips parted with a relaxed sigh pushing through them, his back muscles—

You chuck his attire into the dryer alongside yours, deciding that a pot of tea would be a lovely distraction. 

Seated at your dining table, you smile as you watch the rain beyond your window, the warmth of your mug bleeding into your palms. With your finger, you draw nonsensical shapes into the condensation collecting on your windowpane, falling into a bout of normalcy.  

You hardly register the guest bathroom door opening, nor do you notice the figure moving through the quiet tranquility of your abode until he startles you with the click of your electric kettle placed back on its base.

You’re met with a defined, warm ivory stretch of skin panning in. With scarlet eyes tuned to you beneath alabaster locks pasted to his forehead, wet from his shower. He towels off his hair as he slides onto the chair across you, legs crossed, and you owlishly blink as he sips your tea from one of your mugs as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

No matter how often you’ve invited him into your home, you'll never get used to this. How massive he is in comparison to your humble kitchen. What audacity he has, making himself comfortable as if it’s his second home. And shirtless, no less. Bloody shirtless and shameless, and your throat grows dry as you force your eyes elsewhere, grip white-knuckled on your cup’s handle. 

“Was the shirt too small?” you ask to assuage your nerves, knocking the ceramic lip of the mug against your teeth. Smooth. Real smooth.

“It was,” he replies with a twitch of a smirk. Perches his elbow on the headrest, and you try vainly to ignore how such a simple movement boasts his bicep. “I don’t necessarily enjoy wearing another man’s clothes, either,” he adds, pensively looking down at his sweats. They’re a snug fit, the hems cinched around his shins. “A small one, at that.”

You sputter into your mug, tea flying every which way. Bite back a smug little smile as you blot your mouth dry with your sleeve. Sylus’ brow quirks. Never mind if the pants don’t quite fit him. He’s jealous, isn’t he?

Who would’ve thought your companion possessed such a trait? And for you, of all people? Perhaps you’re not as friendly as you perceived, and the notion makes you brim with muted glee. 

In all honesty, the clothes are yours. You have a penchant for loose-fitting, oversized things. But you decide to play up this newfound insecurity, feigning nonchalance as you sip from your mug. 

“Who else has been here besides me?” prods Sylus, voice fringed by bitterness. “As far as I've gleaned, we’re the only two humans on this island.”

It’s endearing, really—how up and arms he’s getting, bristling like a wet cat, leaning slightly over the table to interrogate you. Scarlet eyes narrow beneath pinched brows, something of a pout tugging his lips southward. 

You shrug, spurred by his envy. “Who knows? It could’ve been the mailman, Saharah, maybe even—ow!” You flinch, rubbing your forehead. You fix Sylus with a scowl. 

He smirks, leaning back in an easy slouch against your chair after flicking you, arms crossed over a virile chest. “That isn’t what I meant, and you know it, sweetie.” 

The term of endearment rolls so effortlessly off his tongue. You forget how much your forehead smarts, your petty greed for revenge. He’s called you his ‘sweetie,’ or some variation of it, for as long as you can recall, rarely addressing you by your given name. 

You sit up in your seat, clasping the steadily cooling mug between your hands. Drum your fingers against the crisp ceramic as a quiet smile rounds your lips, and you chuckle, fondness blooming like lotus petals in your chest. You decide you quite like this side of him, his usual cockiness traded for something fragile, childlike. 

Just when you’ve decided to forgive him and reveal that those pants he’s wearing are yours, Sylus has to open his big, stupid mouth. And suddenly, you don’t feel so bad for giving him the piss.

“You don’t peg me as one for bestiality, so I doubt you’ve done anything with the animals on this island. Unless—”

The rain. When the fuck was it going to stop raining?

—

You’re not entirely sure what leads to it—your breasts, warm and soft beneath the might of his chest, your breaths intermingling as you study each other on your floor.

Perhaps it began whilst seated on your couch, your thighs occasionally touching as you listened to the rainfall, filling the hushed space with idle quips and chatter. Or maybe it started when Sylus draped an arm about the back of your sofa, unconsciously scooting closer, watching your lips form words so intensely. Could it have started when he grabbed your chin, canting your face towards his under the guise of swiping some lint from your cheek?

Or could it have been something long-forming? Something bubbling like sea foam between you, building over the span of six months spent in each other’s company. Playing this silly game of keep-away, like your feelings for each other weren’t branded into your wrists for all the island to see.

Who knows.

You haven’t much time to dwell on the source because his mouth is panning in. Petal pink and soft, dark lashes bowing over peach-tinged cheeks. And you’re quietly awaiting the union of your mouths. Polite as your eyelids shutter, your palms gently perched on his traps. 

He’s kissing you before you know what’s about. Lips a tender yet insistent pressure against yours, sending your heart soaring into the stratosphere. His soft groan vibrates your lips, furls in your chest, your veins pumping liquid fire. You draw away from each other carefully, and your bleary eyes crack open, ingesting the sight of scarlet irises smoldering like liquid spilled over hot coals. 

He sifts through your gaze, wordlessly asking to kiss you again. You don’t deter him, lifting your head to meet him halfway, guided by your arms slowly snaking about his neck. He kisses you again, full-bodied and assured this time, chest deflating as he presses more into you. His lips part, a sweltering tongue easing out, seeking out the slippery glide of yours. When you return his attention, he groans something bitten-off, the sound of it reminiscent of thunder churning in the horizon.  

You lose yourself to the feel of him, to the pressure of his lips and his hips notching between your splayed-open legs. He’s heavy, mooring you to the floor with half his weight settled on his elbow beside you. You don’t complain, feeling so very safe, your fingers gliding between the warm, silken strands of his hair.

The kiss grows more feverish as the seconds pass. And you’re distracted from the devastatingly possessive slant of his mouth when his fingers creep like spindly spider limbs over your body, pushing up your shirt until the supple skin of your side skates beneath his fingertips.

He breaks away with a sticky click. Lips distended, curving into a smile. Affection colors his countenance, a side of him you’ve rarely witnessed, and the sight of it siphons the air from your lungs. 

“We can stop,” he murmurs, voice gritty like sand caught between your teeth. “We can stop if you’d like to.”

“Never,” you breathe, snatching him into another lip-lock.

He laughs into your greedy little mouth, murmuring between each sticky grind of your lips. “Are you sure—” Kiss. “—your ex-boyfriend—” Kiss. “—won’t mind?”

You fix him with a deadpan look at his callback to your baggy clothes, to which he smiles, fragile and unguarded, and you feel it pulling in your chest. 

Silence stretches between you, pulled taut like a bowstring, whilst you scrutinize each other’s faces. The atmosphere grows heavy with yearning and something more nestled in between. Something like love. For a moment, nothing but the distant rain and the violent pulsing of your heartbeats fill the space. Your lips quiver. His eyes fall to your mouth.

Sylus takes your wordless cue, sneaking his arms beneath your waist to draw you closer, and you’re giggling like an enamored adolescent as he hauls you up with him, your ankles intuitively crossing at the divot of his back. He carries you through your home, toeing your bedroom door open before laying you amongst the crisp, doughy comforter of your bed.  

He leaves you breathless and starstruck as you sit up on your elbows, watching the focal point of your affections sluggishly pull the string of his sweats free. He observes you with a mischievous glaze to his eyes, chin tilted up, bottom lip caught between his teeth as the muted glow of your bedroom outlines the rigid contours of his body.

He moves tortuously slow, tugging the waistband of his—your—pants southward, the neat beginnings of a silver trail catching your sight. He maintains some modicum of modesty, his girth prominent yet concealed by the loose hug of his briefs once he’s divested himself of your sweats. 

Your mouth hangs open, throat dry. Something warm spills into your belly, puddling in the apex of your thighs. Your gaze flits back to his, and he moves like a soundless beast through the haze, pushing you back against your mattress with a kiss, your legs instinctively parting to make room for him.

He’s blistering your neck with kisses now, eliciting the cutest little sounds from your throat. Nipping, licking, claiming his way down, concluding his mouth’s excursion at your collarbones. Your fingers rove over the tight cords of muscle in his back. And you sigh, hot and wanton, shutting your eyes with your head thrown back when he bites down, sure to leave pretty splotches of purple flowering on your skin come morning. A marking, a branding, a claim on the off chance that there really is someone else. 

His desire prods the inner cut of your thigh. You burn hot as your hips conduct a shy rhythm of their own accord, undulating off the bed to grind against him. Sylus hisses something sharp, sticky. Exhales all slow like he’s trying to rein himself in. Palms, broad and possessive, mold around your waist, anchoring you down, halting its tantalizing dance.

You whine petulantly, meeting the molten wash of his gaze. 

“Are you sure this is what you want,” he whispers, open-mouthed against the column of your throat. The fragility of his tone makes your heart pinch. “Are you sure I’m what you want?”

You nod vigorously, biting your lip. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more. You’ve often craved this closeness—this level of intimacy with him. You were too afraid to act on your sentiments in case he didn’t reciprocate them. Would rather waste your days quietly pining for him at his side instead of running him off with your feelings.

“Your words, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “Use them.”

“Yes. Yes, I want this, and you. I want you.” 

The words flee from betwixt your lips without nary a thought. And the muggy air of your bedroom shifts again, something of danger tinging it. His lips crook with a smirk. He sits back on his haunches, heavy hands scrubbing down your quads, over your knees and shins to close around your ankles. 

“In that case, sweetling, we should get you out of these clothes.”

You move so comically fast, tearing your shirt from your shoulders, shimmying out of your bottoms and underwear to kick them off. Sylus can’t help but laugh, and heat branches into your neck. He swoops in to capture a pebbled nipple between his lips, corking whatever words of protest you planned in your throat. 

You bow into him on an exhale, fingers sifting through his hair as a pleasant pressure curdles between your thighs. His gaze never relinquishes yours, and having him watch you so intensely makes you throb. It’s as if he’s already attuned to your body, a devilish hand easing down the ripples of your rib cage, past your navel, to cup the radiant heat of your muff.

He groans when he feels you. Sweltering and slick, dribbling into his palm. Two fingers curl inward, stroking through your folds in search of the pucker of your cunt. When he finds it, he teases its sticky perimeter, the tips of his fingers easing in and out with an obscene schlick. He moves to pay similar homage to your other nipple with his mouth, and the sensation of it on you, coupled with the slow press of his fingers and his thumb meticulously circling your clit, drives you to the brink of insanity.

“Sylus, please, just—fuck.”

“Mm?” he hums, sluggish tongue swirling about your nipple in his mouth. 

You clench around him, trying vainly to trap his digits within the warm clench of your cunt. You whine when he draws his hand back, your slick painting your inner thigh like a gooey, translucent brush stroke. He’s going to make you beg—you just know it. 

Swallowing your pride, your inhibitions, your bashfulness, you grab a fistful of his hair, and he shudders, releasing your nipple with a lew pop, all bleary-eyed and panting. 

“Too much?” he exhales, his countenance awash with sleepy desire.

“More. I need more,” you relent, acutely aware of how tightly you’ve gripped his locks. You quickly release him, feeling bad for pulling to the point of pain. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine, sweetheart,” Sylus soothes, taking your hand and guiding it back to the delicate hairs at his nape. “I quite like this side of you. So beautiful when you beg. When you use me like this. Can’t get enough of it.”

His lashes shutter as he kisses down your stomach, agonizingly slow, mouth hovering dangerously close to where you radiate heat. He kisses each inner wind of your thigh. Noses the bulge of your clit, sending pleasant shockwaves rippling throughout your body. 

“Here?” A kiss where outer labia meets thigh. “You want me here, sweetheart?” Another to the other side, the warm musk of your sex causing his eyes to dip into a mysterious shade of garnet.

You nod drunkenly, your fingers twitching in his hair. 

“Words.” Sylus teases your cunt with a flattened tongue, drawing it back into his mouth when you’ve barely registered the sensation.

“Yes, fuck. Right there. Right there.”

He wastes no time licking you open thereafter, his long fingers splitting your cunt wide in an upside-down V. He groans with each swipe of his tongue as if thanking you for the meal. The gratified rumble of his voice, accompanied by the skilled flit of his tongue, pushes you closer toward that slurry edge. Closer to that blissful void where the world falls away, leaving you tenuous and weightless.

“Come for me, sweetling,” he urges against your cunt, employing his fingers to help get you there. They curl and twist and piston, the coiling sensation brewing in your stomach, slowly unwinding. And with a final nudge to your clit with his tongue, the world opens up and swallows you whole, making way for a blissful white, your tendons shaking, lips quivering around the vowels of his name. 

He strokes you through your orgasm. Kisses and licks until the stimulation borders pain, and you pull on his hair, quietly urging him to stop. He reluctantly draws away from your sex, towering over you, chin shining with your nectar in the gray hue of the light filtering in through your curtains. 

Your chest heaves as you greedily suck in oxygen. He strokes soothingly over your skin, watching you with all the fondness of the world. Pinches one of your nipples, and you wince, the aftershocks of your orgasm dragging over you like waves licking the shore. 

When you’ve fully sunk back into your skin, you’re reminded of how painfully hard he is, his girth pressing against your thigh, a dark patch of pre-spend staining the slit of his briefs. 

You sit up quickly, eager to please. Eager to reciprocate, fingers hooking beneath the elastic band, tugging down, and your mouth waters with the prospect of being wrapped around him. Of ingesting the briny edge of his pre-cum, sucking him sweetly into your mouth. But he stills you with a hand clasped around your wrist, a laugh dredged from his chest as if he’s perused the catalog of your thoughts. 

“Later, sweetheart,” he teases, splaying your fingers over his chest, where his heart beats a wild cadence just for you. He holds your gaze, scarlet irises brimming with tenderness. “For now, I want to ensure you truly desire this.”

He’s fucked you within an inch of your life on his tongue, on his fingers, and still, he seeks reassurance as if your mind will change with a sudden bout of whiplash.  

His mouth hinges open with the effort of breathing as your fingers ghost along the taut stretch of skin between his pectorals. Your hand eases down, wrist still ensnared by his pleasantly warm fingers, yet he doesn’t stop you this time when it dips into the slit of his underwear. He watches you as you tug him free, his turgid length slapping against his abdominals, a pretty, pearlescent strand of pre-spend catching in the low light, oozing from the tip, honey-slow.

Saliva puddles in your mouth at the sight of him. Red, swollen, and pulsing, and you guide your hand to the base of him, evoking a stifled sound and a shiver from his person when your fingers swallow him at the hilt. 

“I want you, Sylus,” you assure with all the conviction of the world. And you stroke him so good, his length hot and sturdy in your palm, twitching with each possessive tug. You’re enamored by the hoarse noises you evoke, each sound seemingly pinched from his lungs as if he fears pleasure. As if he’s never received it. 

Wordlessly, you lean back into your bed, guiding him against your slit. You coat his tip with your slick, sucking your lip between your teeth, watching him with lust-laden eyes as his carefully-constructed composure starts to crumble.

“You feel so good here, Sylus,” you laud, shocked by the low gravel of your own voice. How you mustered the courage to praise him, to tease him like this, your breaths collectively catching when the tip prods your opening. “So, so good. Need you…here.”

“Careful, sweetheart,” he bites off, catching himself on his palms, roosted on either side of your torso. Pressing his hips against you, testing the swollen barrier of your cunt. “If you keep talking to me like that, you might start something you won’t be able to finish.”

Your eyes shine with mirth, contrasting the terribly distracting thing you’re doing with your hand—with your pretty, sticky cunt. “Try me.”

Sylus snorts, swatting your hand away. You watch with bated breath as he tugs his briefs down, kicking them off to join your clothes on the floor. He anchors you to the bed with the welcomed weight of his body, his cock dragging through your folds, saturating the shaft with your slick. “Shall I go shake a tree for a condom before we get started?”

You blanch, whacking him on the chest. And he laughs something hearty, throaty, full-blooded, apologizing with a kiss as he feeds his cock into you, pushing into the tight webbing of your cunt. You share an exhale. Exchange a look with your foreheads pressed together, his eyes searching for any signs of discomfort as he strokes into you, easing his way home. 

You find he’s massive in more than just stature. And you feel so very full. So complete, shaky breaths in, ankles instinctively locking around his waist.

Once he’s fully slid home, hips rucked up against your pubic mound, he stills, mercifully granting you time to adjust. There’s a crease to his brows. A downward twitch to his lips as he scrutinizes you. You lure his mouth to yours to kiss away his concern, clenching around him once you’ve settled, signaling for him to move. 

You swallow each other’s groans as he fucks into you. Steady strokes at first, tempering the pace. Always such a gentleman, putting your needs first, his desires pushed to the back burner. He’s selfless in everything he does. You’ve already had your fill, the tang of your sex still emblazoned on his tongue as he pushes it into your mouth, and your hips surge off the bed, meeting him stroke for delicious stroke. 

He tears away from your mouth, straightening. Looms over you like something beastly, one hand clasped around your ankle, holding you nice and open for him whilst the other eases between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with laser precision. 

His weighted balls knock against the cleft of your ass as he quickens the pace, twitching inside you, panting. Reveling in the love-drunk look on your face, how your mouth hangs open, words left unbidden on your tongue.

“Feels so nice,” he breathes betwixt each knock of his hips. “Never wanna stop. Taking me so well.”

Your hand slides down to press against his stomach, and you crane your neck to watch the union of your bodies. You feel like you’re in a dream, still in disbelief of what’s transpiring. This stranger who had dismantled the barrier you erected around your heart and pilfered it, rocking into you, the headboard cracking against the wall, chorusing with the thunder rolling over the horizon outside. 

That sparkling sensation builds again. Creeping like ivy through a lattice fence. You throw your head back, shutting your eyes. His fingers slip between the interstices of yours, pinning your hands to the bed as he fucks you, driven purely by instinct. By the sensation of you quaking around him, greedily sucking him in, never wanting to let go.

With one final snap of his hips, he comes undone, painting the gummy mesh of your cunt a sticky white, cum oozing down your inner thighs to stain the sheets below. He continues thumbing your clit as he pants, inching you off that plinth with him. 

“Another, sweetheart. Just like that. Give me one more,” he dotes, still buried deep inside you. You clench your teeth, rocking your hips in time with the swipe of his thumb. “Give it to me.” Your walls finally shudder around him, phosphenes dancing behind your lids, the world full of static and floating around you. 

You come undone for the second time that afternoon, this one lazier than the last, but still all-consuming. He falls against you, your bodies coated in a fine sheen of dewy sweat as you laugh. And you squeeze him in an embrace, ignoring how he crushes the air from your lungs with his weight. You could die happy like this, your affections reciprocated, desire sated.

He unsheathes himself from the hot suction of your cunt once your breaths have evened out. You groan from the extraction, feeling so lonely and empty when he disappears from your bedroom. But he returns shortly after, gently cleaning up the remnants of your lovemaking with a towel, chuckling now and again when you tease him with one of your terrible jokes.

The remainder of your day is spent swathed in his embrace, your hips notched up against his groin, until sleep claims him. His steady breaths tickle the sensitive skin behind your ear. With a smile rounding your lips, you watch the rain fall through the gauzy sweep of your curtains, lulled into a sleepy haze by its gentle symphony, by thunder stretching across the skyline, yawning like a sated cat.

You might not have caught the butterfly you’ve been hunting all week. But you’ve captured something much more appealing in its stead, you think, twisting in Sylus’ arms to admire him, gathering his cheeks in your palms, easing your thumbs over the tender swell of his lips. 

You watch his lashes dance with sleep, stroking the divot between his brows away with the pad of your thumb. You pan in to kiss him, something chaste and adoring, and his lips twitch upward against yours. He pulls you tighter against him, murmuring something incoherent before burying his chin into the hollow of your shoulder, a content sigh pushing through his nostrils. 

[hamilton-here]

Hi!

Maybe something based on this pic?

Thank you!

𝒲𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒬𝓊𝒾𝑒𝓉

Authors Note: Hey, lovely! So I was literally planning to write something like this when I stumbled across that Insta story - I swear, I almost fainted seeing it! Lots of love xx

Summary: In the hush of an early morning workout, Lewis Hamilton moves through the rhythm of training with his partner quietly watching with their charged glances and playful teasing giving way to a moment of intimacy that says everything fame never could.

Warnings: mature themes, explicit imagery, swearing

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The soft whir of the ceiling fan cut through the heavy summer air, lazy blades spinning overhead like they had all the time in the world.

Morning sunlight streamed through the long glass windows, softening the edges of the iron and steel inside the gym with its golden glow.

Inside, the space smelled like effort. Like rubber flooring and cold metal, sweat and familiarity.

It was early - too early, but Lewis had always been a morning person. You, not so much. But there was something sacred about these stolen moments before the rest of the world woke up and today was one of them.

You leaned against the gym wall, the cool surface grounding your overheated skin. A half drunk bottle of water hung loosely in your hand, condensation dripping down your fingers. Lingering sweat and something sweeter clung to the air - Lewis’s cologne, maybe, though it was faint and mostly overpowered by the salt of exertion.

And then there was him.

Lewis.

Lewis was in the centre of it all, his back turned to you, head dipped slightly as he adjusted the cable machine. He was shirtless, of course. He always was when he trained at home.

The dark blue cap on his head was tugged down low, hiding most of his expression, but not the thin sheen of sweat trailing along the curve of his temple. The brim of his cap cast a shadow across his brow, but it did nothing to hide the power in his posture or the way he moved.

You leaned against the wall just behind the free weights, cold water bottle in hand, condensation sliding lazily over your fingers. You weren’t training. Not today. Today, you were just watching him and he knew it. Oh, he definitely knew.

The plates clinked against the stack as Lewis pulled the handles down, muscles bunching and shifting under his skin. His tattoos rippled slightly with the movement, intricate inkwork laid over pure function. His form was clinical, perfect, the kind of strength honed through years of fine tuned repetition. But his breathing that was human. That was real.

You dragged your eyes up slowly, from the dip of his waist where his shorts clung to him, lightweight, damp with sweat in all the places your fingers itched to trace - all the way to the square set of his shoulders. His legs, equally carved and confident, flexed with each shift of weight. His calves strained, feet planted firm on the mat.

Your throat felt dry, and it had nothing to do with the summer heat.

He wasn’t just working out. He was performing. And the worst part? He knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Timer?” His voice broke the silence, low and gravelly with effort, but still playful.

You blinked and looked at your phone, cheeks warming. “Thirty seconds left.”

“Mm,” he grunted in acknowledgment, letting the cable handles drop with a satisfying metallic clatter. He rolled his shoulders, slow and deliberate, arms stretching out to their full length before bending again behind his neck. His body crackled with quiet power, veins raised slightly under his skin, chest rising and falling with measured breaths.

The silence returned, thick but not uncomfortable. You liked this quiet. The kind that existed only in private, sacred spaces. The kind that was never lonely.

You tilted your head as he moved, watching him stretch both arms up, hands interlocking behind his neck. The motion pulled his torso taut, skin gleaming under the early sun.

You could make out the thin streams of sweat as they trailed from his hairline, sliding over the curves of his chest and catching in the dip between his abs.

Every part of him looked like it had been made for motion. For speed. And yet here he was, slow and deliberate, grounded.

“Time.” You spoke up.

You reached for the extra bottle on the bench beside you. “Water?” You asked, voice slightly hoarse.

Just that one motion, one look and something inside you caught fire.

His eyes found yours under the brim of his cap and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The kind of smile he gave when he was teasing, but also when he saw something he liked. His gaze dropped briefly to the bottle in your hand, then lifted again.

“Only if you feed it to me,” he teased, his voice a little breathless as he stepped closer.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved despite yourself. “You’re insufferable.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head but held the bottle out anyway.

He didn’t reply, just walked toward you, slow and loose like his muscles weren’t still burning from the last set.

He stopped just in front of you, standing tall, a soft gleam of sweat dusting his collarbones. Up close, the heat from his body was palpable. You could see the tiny droplets clinging to the edge of his jaw, his shoulders, his chest each one a tempting invitation.

He bent slightly, lips brushing the rim as he drank, his eyes never leaving yours. The room suddenly felt a few degrees hotter.

God help you.

You lifted the bottle higher without a word, pressing the top to his mouth. He dipped his head and drank, eyes never leaving yours. The bottle tipped, water spilling a little down the side of his mouth, trailing to his neck. You followed it with your eyes as he swallowed slowly.

“Messy,” you murmured.

He pulled back with a soft sigh, licking a stray drop from the corner of his mouth. “Thanks, baby,” he murmured. “Keeping me alive.”

You smirked. “You mean hydrated.”

“Same thing, innit?” he said with a shrug, flashing you a grin that made your stomach flip.

That was Lewis - equal parts cheek and charm, able to disarm you with a single look or sentence. Beneath all the gold, the trophies, the headlines, was a man who cared deeply. About his people. About his passions. About you.

Sometimes, it overwhelmed you.

You looked away, grounding yourself again in the cool wall behind you. Your pulse was still unreasonably fast.

Your face warmed, but you didn’t back down. “Finish your set, show off.”

He chuckled, backing away with a wink. “Yes, coach.”

You leaned back again, watching as he adjusted the plates on the barbell now. He was switching to deadlifts trap bar. His favorite. You knew the rhythm of his workouts by now. First cables, then compound. A little cardio. Core. He liked structure, repetition, sweat. He liked pushing himself.

“Last set,” you reminded him, raising a brow. “Then you’re mine for the rest of the morning.”

That got a slow, teasing grin out of him. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

You matched his smile. “Both.”

Lewis let out a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled from his chest. And you liked watching him unravel slowly.

He stepped inside the hex bar, feet shoulder width apart and rolled his shoulders again. Then he bent, gripped the handles and pulled.

The movement was clean. Explosive. Controlled.

One rep. Two. You counted silently, watching the way the bar lifted from the floor, the strain in his thighs, the way his jaw tightened. Sweat dripped from his temple now, landing on the mat below him with quiet splashes.

By the sixth rep, he was grunting softly, breath hissing out between clenched teeth. You could see the effort in the tremble of his arms, the flex in his forearms, the tightening of his back. His entire body was a map of tension and release, a study in motion.

When he dropped the bar with a thud, the room seemed to vibrate slightly with the force of it.

You’d been dating for a while now. Quietly. Carefully. Out of the spotlight, because fame was a fire that consumed everything in its path if you weren’t careful. You'd learned quickly how to love each other behind closed doors. Late nights. Early mornings. Whispered jokes across the pillow. Silence that felt safe instead of awkward.

Sometimes, you still woke up wondering if it was all real.

But then there’d be moments like this mundane, intimate, private and it would hit you like a wave - yes, it was real. So real it scared you.

Lewis let out a final, satisfied grunt as he dropped the weight handles. They clattered against the machine like punctuation.

He stepped back, breath heavy, skin glistening and beads of sweat trailing down his neck and chest like tiny pieces of proof. You watched one drop follow the edge of his pec, slip down the line of his torso and disappear beneath the elastic of his shorts.

You could have followed it with your mouth.

And God, did you want to.

Without saying a word, Lewis stepped over the trap bar and dropped to the mat in front of you. His knees hit the floor with a quiet thump and he leaned back on his heels, head tilted slightly to the side as he studied you. His breathing slowed as he wiped his forearm across his brow.

You held out the towel this time. He took it, wiped his face, then neck, then the underside of his arms. His movements were slow, languid now. The tension had shifted no longer between his muscles, but in the air.

“Done?”

“For now,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “What about you?”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “I didn’t know I was part of the workout.”

“Oh, you are. Always.” His voice dropped, teasing, dark. “Might not be lifting weights, but you’ve got me sweating.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed the towel at him, hitting him square in the chest.

“Ridiculous.”

He laughed, tugging the towel off and tossing it aside again. “I’m serious. You’ve been staring since my second set. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

You bit your bottom lip and gave him a look. “Can you blame me?”

That pulled something different from him, a pause. Not hurt. Not ego. Something deeper. The soft falter of a smile turning thoughtful. His gaze lingered on your face a beat longer than before, eyes unreadable and gentle all at once.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your knees met the mat with a soft thud, sliding into place in front of him. The air shifted. The distance between you was gone and yet somehow it still felt like you were falling toward each other.

His hands rose slowly like he was afraid you’d disappear and cradled your face. His touch was warm, fingertips rough from hours of work, of racing, of living too hard and too fast. And yet, with you, he was always gentle. Always careful.

“You know,” he murmured, voice softer now, “I could spend every morning like this. Just you, me, the sound of weights clinking, and you looking at me like you want to climb me like a tree.”

You flushed and laughed, unable to help it. “That obvious?”

He smiled, eyes twinkling. “Only to me. And I like it.”

You didn’t answer at first. Didn’t have to. Instead, you reached up, dragging your hands over his arms - damp and slick and solid then over his shoulders, until they settled at the base of his neck.

“You’re not wrong,” you murmured.

He kissed you.

Slow at first, the kind of kiss that hummed in your bones. His lips were warm, salty, moving with gentle precision. His grip tightened slightly on your waist, guiding you closer until there was no space left between you. His chest was hot against yours, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat thrumming through both your bodies.

You sighed into his mouth, hands slipping to his back, feeling every contour, every inch of earned strength. You loved how he felt grounded and real and impossibly present. Nothing else mattered when he touched you like this.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath fanning across your lips.

“You smell like a gym,” you whispered against his mouth.

He grinned against your lips. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I didn’t say I minded.”

And you didn’t.

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just certain and full of the kind of quiet that only comes with knowing someone inside and out. His other hand moved to the back of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair, pulling you closer like he couldn’t quite get enough.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, his forehead rested against yours, eyes still closed.

“I don’t get many mornings like this,” he murmured. “Normal ones. Where I don’t have to be Lewis Hamilton. I can just be yours.”

The words slipped between you like prayer.

You swallowed hard, blinking past the burn in your eyes. You reached up, thumb brushing a bead of sweat from his temple.

“You’re always mine,” you said softly.

He opened his eyes, and that smile soft, unguarded, real spread across his face like dawn.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the races. Not the cameras. Not the expectations that always hovered at the edge of your lives. Just this. Just him. Just you.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Lewis stayed close. His forehead still rested against yours and for a long moment, the world was quiet.

Outside the gym, the morning had shifted. The light was higher now, turning warmer, honeyed. The shadows on the mat lengthened and softened, casting the two of you in a golden sort of hush. The kind of light that felt like a secret, or maybe a promise.

He kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch. Then he pulled back slightly, eyes roving over your face like he was memorising it.

“Hungry?” he asked, voice rough with post workout gravel, but still laced with fondness.

You nodded. “Starving.”

He grinned. “Pancakes?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in a diet? Are you offering or trying to bribe me into staying longer?”

“Why can’t it be all of them at once minus the diet? I’m off duty for today.”

He stood with a stretch, muscles flexing beneath his skin as he reached for the ceiling, the movement exposing a narrow trail of sweat down his torso. Then he extended a hand to you.

You took it, letting him haul you up easily. His palm was hot against yours, his grip firm but gentle. Your body molded instinctively toward his when you stood, your front brushing against his sweat slicked chest. He didn’t step back.

You didn’t want him to.

Instead, his other arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer. “Five minutes,” he said, mouth brushing your temple. “Then I’ll cook.”

You smiled, arms slipping around his back. “You say that like I’m going to argue.”

“You always argue.”

“I like to keep you on your toes.”

He chuckled against your skin and pressed another kiss to your hair before finally releasing you. As he grabbed a fresh towel and slung it over his shoulder, you turned to grab your water bottle and followed him out of the gym, the glass doors whispering closed behind you.

The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. Lewis moved around the space with an easy rhythm, shirtless still, but now wearing a clean pair of black joggers slung low on his hips. He hummed softly as he flipped pancakes in the pan, the faint sound of a jazz playlist drifting in from the Bluetooth speaker on the counter.

You sat on one of the stools at the island, your legs tucked beneath you, watching him with sleepy contentment.

Lewis glanced over his shoulder and caught you staring again.

“Keep looking at me like that and I’ll burn the pancakes.”

You grinned. “You’re not even using a timer.”

He wiggled the spatula at you. “I’m a professional. At both racing and pancake flipping.”

“And modest, too.”

“Very.”

You both laughed. He plated the stack with a flourish and added fresh berries, then slid a plate toward you before sitting down beside you with his own. For a few minutes, the only sounds were forks scraping against ceramic and the low, steady hum of music.

It was domestic. Quiet. Sweet.

So much of your life together wasn’t like this. It was airports and hotels. Tight schedules. Media obligations. Whispers in elevators. Bodyguards outside of restaurants. But this sitting in the kitchen with him in the morning light, sticky with sweat and still glowing from the high of a workout felt like the part of your life you’d want to last forever.

You reached across the counter and stole a raspberry from his plate.

He didn’t protest. Just watched you chew with an amused twist to his mouth.

“Thought you were full,” he said.

“Pancake stomach is different.”

“Ah. Of course.”

You set your fork down and leaned your elbow on the counter, studying him. “When’s your next flight?”

He paused, chewing thoughtfully. “Tomorrow night. Late.”

Your heart sank a little, but you nodded.

He noticed. Of course he did. Lewis always noticed everything.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his knuckles. “Just for a few days Italy’s next. You would love it. The villa has that ridiculous bath you are obsessed with.”

You hesitated.

“You wouldn’t have to be anywhere. Just be with me.”

That was the thing about Lewis. He made you feel like you were the calm in the storm. The one place where his feet could land without slipping.

And God, you wanted to say yes. You always did. But reality had a way of creeping in. Your job. Your own responsibilities. The need to hold onto some part of your life that wasn’t defined by someone else’s orbit even if that someone was your favorite person in the world.

“I’ll think about it,” you said honestly.

Lewis reached across the counter and laced his fingers through yours. His thumb rubbed soft circles on the back of your hand.

“That’s all I ask.”

The rest of the morning slipped past lazily. You both showered, though not without teasing. Lewis was in and out in record time, towel slung low on his hips, humming under his breath while he brushed his teeth. You lingered in the bathroom after him, letting the hot water wash away the sweat and tension, but not the softness.

When you emerged, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies, he was stretched out on the couch in the living room, flipping through something on his iPad. The sunlight dappled his skin in golden stripes through the slats of the blinds.

You curled up beside him without a word. He didn’t hesitate and just lifted his arm pulling you close, letting you fit yourself against his side like a puzzle piece. His skin was warm. His breathing slow.

“This,” he said after a while, voice quiet, “is my favorite part of the day.”

You turned your head, resting your chin on his chest so you could see him. “The post pancake nap?”

He gave you a look. “No. You.”

Your smile faded into something softer. You reached up and traced your fingers along his jaw, over the edge of his cheekbone, down to the curve of his mouth.

“I love you, Lewis.”

It came out without fanfare. No buildup. Just the truth, slipping into the open like it belonged there.

His eyes didn’t waver. “I love you too.”

You pressed your mouth to his in a kiss that wasn’t heated or hurried, but tender and full of quiet reverence. When you pulled away, he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and whispered, “I know I can’t give you normal. But I’ll always give you real.”

And he had.

Even when the world demanded he be something else, Lewis had always been real with you.

Honest. Present. Yours.

The day stretched out ahead of you like a warm, open hand. There would be things to do. Calls to make. Maybe even packing. But for now, there was only this.

His arm around your waist.

Your head on his chest.

And a slow, steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.

[loveriotss]

DINNER WITH THE TODOROKIS ⸻ shoto todoroki

SYNOPSIS — shoto todoroki invites reader over to a family dinner just to get on endeavor's nerves. REQUEST — "Hi...Could I request a Shoto x reader, where Shoto brings over the reader to family dinner just to piss off Endeavor? <3" INCLUDES — gn! reader, fluff, 1.2k words WARNINGS — minor spoiler (change in hero rankings), like one swear word

main masterlist — mha masterlist ༊*·˚

“would you like to have dinner with me and my family next saturday?”

you look up from your homework, your eyes meeting his two-colored ones as you freeze for a second at his sudden request. you and shoto were curled up in your dorm. textbooks, notes and stationary sprawled all over the small round table in the middle of your room while you two were completing an assignment given by mr. aizawa.

“dinner? are you sure i won’t be intruding?” you asked him, your fingers fiddling with your pen.

“my sister invited me to a family dinner again. she has been trying her best to make our family..work. my old man will be there too." your eyes widen for a split second before you relax again. oh yeah having dinner at the same table as the number one hero wasn’t a big deal at all! you can handle that..right? you've watched countless journalists having interviews with the fiery man and have read even more comments about him and his cold personality. you didn't know what scared you more — the fact that he was the top hero of Japan or that he was the father of shoto.

“oh..are you sure he won't get mad or anything?" you ask nervously. "if he even tries to be rude to you, we can leave. i don't want you to feel uncomfortable. i'm sorry if this seems like a selfish request of mine..i just wish to see his reaction towards you. i understand if you're busy or don't wish to accompany me-" “NO” you interrupted hurriedly, face turning red as shoto looked at you, slightly startled by the sudden interruption. you cleared your throat before speaking again, “i mean, i’m not busy. i'd love to join you all for dinner.”

shoto’s eyes immediately return to his paper at your words, a hint of red on his cheeks. “okay, I’ll let fuyumi know,” he says with a soft smile on his face.

you stood nervously in front of the gate to the todoroki abode. the exterior of the residence looked like any other traditional japanese house with a stone path leading to the front door. the greenery around the house was neat and well maintained. the house seemed to be emitting a soft glow. you fidgeted with your fingers, wishing you’d had a little more time to practice your “not-freaking-out” face.

you didn't realize how tense your body was until shoto slithered his fingers between yours, interlocking them and giving them a soft squeeze. you relaxed into his touch and gave him a smile before ringing the doorbell.

a pretty young lady with white hair that had hints of red mixed with them emerged from the house and excitedly greeted the two of you, she must be shoto's sister.

"shoto! i'm so glad you're here!" she said before turning towards you and grabbing both your hands, a sparkle in her eyes as she spoke, "and you must be y/n! shoto has told me so much about you! it's so nice to meet you!" she exclaimed with a smile.

"hello! nice to meet you too! thank you so much for having me today!" you say, returning her energy.

"thank you for clearing your busy schedules to drop by! and please, call me fuyumi!" she states as she gestures for you two to come in.

you turn your head towards shoto for a moment, mouthing a "she's nice," before following behind fuyumi.

the house wasn't very modern, with tatami mats and sliding doors everywhere. the air was slightly cold but still comfortable enough. there was a delicious aroma in the air; it seemed fuyumi had gone all out. there was the slightest scent of incense sticks wafting down from a hallway but you brushed it off.

fuyumi led you two to a room that consisted of a table surrounded by traditional japanese seats. the dining table was elegantly set, with a feast of rich dishes spread out across the table. however, the air in this room seemed much more tense than it did outside. at the head of the table sat a tall sturdy man who you immediately recognized as endeavor. two seats down to his left sat a young man with white hair.

"hello!" you start, trying to sound as confident as possible, "my name is y/n l/n. thank you for having me!".

"call me natsuo, I am shoto's older brother. it's nice to meet you." says the white-haired man. "it's nice to meet you too natsuo!" you exclaimed happily before turning to endeavor.

"it's nice to meet you, mr. todoroki." you say firmly. endeavor’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he managed a curt nod. “likewise. let’s get on with dinner.”

as you took your seat, you noticed endeavor’s gaze occasionally flicking towards shoto, a mixture of curiosity and irritation in his eyes. meanwhile, shoto ignored his father's eyes and carried on eating his cold soba. you could tell that his relaxed demeanor was deliberately designed to get under endeavor’s skin.

as the dinner flowed, you made small conversations with fuyumi and natsuo while shoto piped in once in a while. the room was filled with soft laughter, the clinking of utensils, and occasional requests to pass dishes.

“so, l/n,” endeavor started gruffly, causing your attention to immediately snap to him, “how did you and shoto meet?” you took a deep breath, choosing your words carefully. “we are in the same class. shoto and i were paired for a project and we gradually became closer because of that.”

endeavor’s eyes sharpened. “and what do you think of my son’s… career aspirations?” you hesitated for a moment, then smiled. “I think shoto is very dedicated to his work. he’s passionate about what he does.”

a flicker of surprise crossed endeavor’s face, but he quickly masked it with a gruff nod. the conversation continued with a noticeable tension, but you were able to keep the mood from becoming too uncomfortable.

as the meal came to a close and dessert was served, endeavor’s demeanor was a mix of frustration and reluctant acceptance.

“well, y/n,” endeavor said as he stood up, “it’s been… interesting having you here. i hope you enjoyed the meal.” “thank you for having me,” you replied sincerely, giving him a warm smile, “i did enjoy it.”

you bid farewell to natsuo and fuyumi, thanking her for the food as you and shoto made your way out. once you two were a few blocks down, you let out a content sigh, "i'm glad that went well. i almost shit my pants while talking to your dad."

shoto let out a little laugh as he interlocked his fingers with yours. "thank you..for doing this." he says, looking down at his feet as you both stroll down the sidewalk. "of course, shoto. this type of rebel behavior is fun sometimes." you reply while giggling.

shoto smiles down at you as he squeezes your hand, giving you a soft kiss on your forehead before pulling you in closer, arms wrapping around your waist as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.

"i love you." he whispers.

you gently tangle your fingers into the back of his hair as you whisper back, "i love you too."

NOTE — first time writing a full length fic lmk how i did 😓🙏 (dont be mean i will cry). i rewatched the scene when shoto brings bakugo and izu to his home for dinner for some inspoo. YK I WAS ORIGINALLY GONNA MAKE THIS ANGSTY but guys i believe in endeavor redemption journey so i just couldn't also i yap so much in these author note things oopsies also i love fuyumi

©loveriotss — all rights reserved to me. please don’t try to copy/steal my work. please do not use any of my ideas/translate my work without my permission.

[honestsycrets]

Stung | [Miguel O'Hara x Reader]

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | after a discus malfunction, you're bitten by an anomaly and refuse medical attention. you're in a state that you refuse to show to miguel-- at all costs.

❛ tags | NSFW, sex pollen, mention of a wound, slight chase, miguel o'hara doesn't like to be ignored, cum eating, creampies, abnormal amount of fluid, venom bite, slapping, some insecurity, spanish is not translated, sexual memories.

❛ sy’s notes | my obligatory ABO-sex pollen fic for ATSV. i usually make a ABO/Sex Pollen piece per fandom I write in, so here's one for Miggy 🐝

“All done!”

You slipped out of HQ’s packed infirmary with a jaunty bounce in your step. Crispy, coppery blood was matted onto your forearm concealed behind a hastily tied bandage. You weren't concerned about it. It would resolve within the hour. Likely less. As would your elevated body temperature. Despite the doctor's prattle about the benefit of further testing, you found their concern to be a non-issue. These things were virtual non-issues, even if the doctor and your man thought otherwise. 

The hallways at HQ were like any other day in your city. Congested with the coming and going of spiders in their daily lives. A glimpse at any group might reveal decadent flirting and haughty laughter. Some were in a rush to their own worlds, but most were completing work assigned by the Spider Society. The one you were looking for reclined against a wall with his arms interlocked one over the other. His displeased rumble prompted you to his presence above all other voices in the crowd. 

“You should have let them run the tests.” His voice was teased with concern but became mild, little more than a drab sigh at your refusal. You blew off his concern with a shake of your hand, gone yellow and bubbly behind a bit of ineffectual gauze. His eye glazed over the wound. You couldn't tell what he was thinking behind his mask, but you didn't need to. You only needed to convince him you were right.

“It’s stopped bleeding, Miggy. It’s just a scratch,” You held up your arm, flicking it with emphasis. His eyebrows raised for a moment, then flattened, staring at you with a dull rictus. “It was just a brief malfunction of the discus.” 

Technically it was more of an impalement, but if Miguel wasn’t going to ask, you weren’t going to invite him to delve deeper. Otherwise, you might spend the next few hours of your life fixing a wound that surely would have closed up by the time results were back. The injury site mildly itched. That was all. Never mind, the slight, honey-colored rash migrating from the puncture site to your elbow. Or the referred pain. Minor things. 

“You’re being stubborn.” 

“You’re the one to talk.” You snapped the discus free from your sash and chucked it toward Miguel.  He caught it with an unsurprising amount of ease, claws clicking in unison against the ineffectual metal.

“¡Qué problema!” he mocked, his voice dry and absent of discernible emotion. 

You closed the distance between your bodies to slide your arms around his broad neck. His other hand came to your lower back. It was warm, the way he touched you, from the bundles of affection that fluttered in your belly to the heat dappling across your chest. You missed this every day. It made fleeing the infirmary all the more worth it.

“I put the anomaly in another discus. One that actually works, no thanks to your programming.”

“That’s what happens when you take things without asking.” He flicked the discus between his thumb and index finger, waggling it for emphasis. It was true that there had been nights that went with banging, clacks, clatters, and the occasional outburst when things weren’t quite going his way. There were a few discuses on his desk. You just so happened to take the one that malfunctioned. “I was working on it. ¿Qué era?” 

“Oh,” you mumbled. “Just some stingy bees. What harm could they do?” 

His eyes roamed your wound. You couldn't help but look down too, both horrified and fascinated by the way the rash had moved in just a brief few minutes. The colour had begun to fade. You glanced up, flattening your mouth into a slight, forced smile.

“Fine. If you're sure.”

To be fair, you secured many anomalies with and without the help of others. They all went into their cozy, temporary forcefield homes until they could be fairly redirected to their appropriate dimensions. In the downtime, you could help or hinder Miguel's progress. Then, your watch would alert you to another disturbance and the cycle would continue. 

Until that morning. 

Your watch blared, and blared, and blared some more. The early morning sun began to rise and cast offensive beams of light into your room. Usually, it didn’t bother you. But this morning, everything offended you from the scratch of silky sheets on your naked body to Lyla illuminating what darkness was left, all golden and cute. You wondered if that was how Miguel felt when you forgot to pull the curtains, strung out on the bed after he finished with you.

“Woah! Oops!” she turned, covering her eyes with her spindly fingers. A growing ache throbbed between your legs. It wasn’t quite the same dull soreness from Miguel’s late-night visit last night, either. “Sorry, sorry. Miguel--”

“He can handle it,” you bit out, snappier than you intended. It wasn't like you. “Or-- Jess. No, Gwen. Gwen can do it, she loves--” 

“He asked for you.” 

Of course, he did. You scrunched a pillow over your head. Your Miguel couldn’t see you this. Absolutely not. You debated getting up, ignoring what you called a negligible ache that was quickly morphing into a terrible pounding. You can't believe how quickly the thought fell apart, pushing yourself to sit up in bed. The ghost of his scent floods your nose, flashing memories of the night before.

Something at work set him off. Something that commanded no intimacy, but the mechanical release of his rage that wouldn't destroy precious resources. He sat on the edge of the bed, driving your mouth onto his cock with the aid of your hair bundled around his fist. You recalled the shakiness of his thighs under your fingers, his firm legs spread wide fucking your mouth with cold abandon. He chased his own orgasm selfishly, needing the release, needing to see your body painted by whips of his cum sprayed across your exposed breasts. He pulled you off in silence, inspecting the drool and cum that spilled down your chin and throat in rivulets. "What--"

Your face tightened, glancing down at the growing tension in your belly. Everything began to annoy you, especially the scratch of the sheets against your skin, your bed empty of his presence. How could you tolerate that uniform plastered to your ass? You buried into the offensive bed. This was fine. This was normal, recalling what you'd done last night. Surely, the burn had to do with the whole being launched through not one, but two crumbling buildings the day before. The dust and rubble. Were you close to your cycle?

“Tell him I’m dead,” and without another word, you resolved the call. Within seconds she popped up again, bent at the waist because this was your life now. Never could you just… take a day off. There was always something. You muffled your screams of protest into the mattress and dug your feet in, kicking off the sheets, the blankets, the pillows, all of it.

“Is this a fit? You’ve never had a fit before,” Lyla noticed. A fit? She thought the burning of your body was a fit? Damn AI. Resolve. 

Resolve. Resolve. Resolve.

It became cathartic after a good while. Or it would have been if not for your senses hyper-fixating on every minor change in your body.  Despite your apprehension, you knew. What was once a dull pain radiating from your forearm morphed into something much worse. Something you couldn’t blame on the rather average experience of being pelted through the average event of windows and concrete. It was more than a tingle. It burned as it coursed through your body. 

You stumbled over the bundle of bedding into the bathroom. It was there that you realized that to your horror, you weren’t just lubricated, now you were soaked. Your fluids coursed down your thighs as you dabbed the region clean with a bundle of tissues. It did little good. Touching the area exasperated the issue. Maybe you needed an orgasm, maybe ten. An hour or so later, you slammed the heel of your palm into the mirror, fracturing it into shards of terrible glass that crumbled onto the countertop. Beads of blood dabbled onto your reflection. 

“If you d--” resolve.

So not a reaction to your average bee sting. Correction. A great, big, fat colony of hissing, buzzing bees. The act of recalling information was like jamming your hand into fluid water to snatch a tiny hair tie. No matter how many times you tried to recall the information, you couldn’t quite grasp it. It was there, floating around your head, but inaccessible. Your mind traveled back to Miguel. How gentle his lips could be, trailing soft kisses along your neck and shoulder when you rode him in reverse. How deep he'd go. 

"Fuck off!" Your watch blared again. Its beeping filled your bathroom, echoing over and over. You reached behind the door to pluck a silky white slip from its hook and dragged it over your head. You were about to resolve the call again when the hot timbre in his warm voice saying your name gave you pause. Your Miguel, popping up in a golden haze. You found yourself gazing at his full lips, full and plump. If only he was here. He could have his lips on your--

“What are you doing?” 

Lost in thought, you failed to realize that Miguel had been calling you by name again. You shook your hazy mind free of the thoughts that formed a swirling cloud over your head. You slumped down the wall and onto the floor.

Help was what you failed to say. As your mouth opened, nothing came out. The words were not wording. The vulnerability of asking for help was palpable. You soothed yourself by shifting your hands underneath your skirt. What would he think if he saw you here-- ripped asunder by your own biology? Whore. Miguel lowered his gaze, his eyes squinting at the sweat dabbling down your neckline as he looked you over. He wouldn't want you anymore.

“Are you listening? ¡Coño! What is wrong with you!?” 

Resolve.

You resolved him. Your Miggy-- resolved. Oh, you swallowed dryly. He wasn’t going to be happy about that. It wasn’t a matter of if Miguel would come for you. It was a matter of when. When he had time to separate himself from trashing-- whatever was the closest object to him in the lab-- to take out his rage on you. You reached for your medicine cabinet. You had more important things to worry about. First on the list? The searing heat.

Your watch was better off tucked away in a chest in the closet.

Night came with no solutions. You crouched on your window sill, chest rising and falling. You sought to stare at anything but the mindless buzz of the tv screen inside. Even with light pollution, some stars winked in the distance. Your body was a bundle of warm heat, buzzing with irritation after a fruitless day of soothing your body. You grew accustomed to your pert nipples against your silky slip, the lubricant coursing down your leg. At first, denial. Now, acceptance. You thought tomorrow might be better.

You felt his presence before you heard, smelled, or saw him. Through the sea of scorched sensations battering your senses, there was one that stood apart. A tickle that niggled at the back of your head. It could have been anyone, but you didn’t have to guess to know who it was. “Lyla." 

“You haven’t called him all day,” Lyla squeaked. 

“Called all-- I answered his call!” Your dress was matted to your body, cloaked in an abhorrent amount of sweat. It was only minutes ago that you retrieved your watch confident that you could bullshit something, anything, for a few days of reprieve. You jammed your shaking finger to resolve the call. 

“Not all of them. Miguel was worried.” 

“Worried! Lyla, that is not worried,” you spat. That was your Miguel, scaling the side of your apartment. His talons cracking the siding of your apartment. The reverberations spiraled up your legs, sending waves of anticipation lapping at your core. After your long day, you weren't sure how you were still somehow upright. With every crack of his talon into the brick siding, you were running out of time to come up with an excuse.

In a bid to escape, you fell into your room. The hard floor knocked the breath out of your dry lips. You stumbled onto your feet and supported yourself with a bookcase of less than half-read books. “Lyla, he can’t see me like this!” 

“Then tell me what’s going on,” she popped back up. “C’mon, you can tell me, it can’t be that bad.”

If her tone was playful in some half-baked attempt to neutralize your fight, the threat was imminent. Your hand connected with the top of the window, applying pressure to close the window. A hair too late. At the same time, Miguel’s clawed hand curled around the bottom of the window sash. You were too slow for the man who excelled with power, speed, and efficiency. You weren't going to win this fight. Not with your body threatening to crack at the very sight of your man's strength.

Though you saw him nearly daily, he always took your breath away. His sinewy body was always a sight, his suit accentuated his thick and fine cut. You moistened your lips, longing to run your fingers through his thick dark brown hair as you did every night. You caught his sharp gaze a second longer than you should have.

 “Open up,” he whispered coolly.

He was a distraction. The wind was not on your side either, blowing wisps of his scent into your overwrought senses. His natural musk mixed with the sweat of a hard day's work. Somewhere in there, bitter blood. You could smell the caramelized scent of the flaky, buttery empanadas and hot coffee you shared the day before. It gave you pause, his intoxicating smell and the sultry trill of his voice. But you couldn’t let him see you, not like this.

“Oop, there he is. Just checking on you,” Lyla chittered. Resolve.

“Miggy, please go away,” you sobbed in frustration, shifting to shoulder the window. “Why are you so stubborn!?” 

“It’s who I am.” 

The window cracked all at once. With mere milliseconds to respond to the sash careening into the upper rail, you whirled past the bedroom door. Miguel broke into a run behind you with long strokes of his legs. He made contact, sending you barreling into your lazy sapphire couch from the impact. You saw stars for a fraction of a second before you lurched on your palms and elbows, scrambling off of the couch and across the floor. His hand caught your ankle and dragged you underneath his body.

“¡Ay!” you bit out. “No, no no no. Miggy!” 

“¡Callate!” 

His hand wrapped tightly around your throat to force complacency, pinning you back to the hardwood floor. Your palms slammed onto his chest, drawing lines down his chest. Bits of pathetic electricity fizzled on his broad, muscular chest, a consequence of your fading focus. That focus was eviscerated when Miguel threw his hips flat against your core. Your frantic fidgeting against Miguel soothed some of the terrible, buzzing pressure rattling between your legs like warm honey on a sore wound. The ache for his relief became more important than the impulse for substantial breaths.

“Don’t move. Why are you--”

“I can’t help it,” you cut him off, straining against his large palm to stare at his crotch. His gaze fell on yours, following the path to his soft cock. His eyes widened with the sudden attention. Tears threatened to spill over from your eyes, pricked with spikes of pain. "It's too much!"

You ate your shame with his body crouched between your legs and his large palm choking the air out of your throat. The influx of air not only brought your scent, but your day-long desperation to fix what you believed was wrong. He could smell it now. He could see it now. He could hear it in your voice. He knew why you failed to answer his calls. The violent jabbing of the resolve button. Throwing your watch into your cramped closet to ignore the calls. The pheromones that soaked your apartment. It was unavoidable.

“You can’t help it,” he repeated. Miguel considered you with razor-sharp eyes, nearly as sharp as the talons that rescinded into his arms. 

"I'll see about that." His hand left your neck to reveal bundles of bumpy shivers that soared across your skin. He raised his finger to wipe away the wet tears that fell from your flushed cheeks. Then dropping lower, Miguel chased the thin straps of your gown with his claw and slid the offending fabric off of your breast. The nub was as hard as it had been hours ago when you twerked the nipple between your fingertips and dreamed of Miguel.

“You’re...” he cupped your breast in your palm and massaged your nipple with one sharp twist of his thumb. The gasp that left your lips wasn’t one you were proud of. Your undulating hips that ground down on his cock weren’t entirely unwarranted. You needed it. "Hot. As if you're in heat."

This couldn’t be happening. From a ball of rage to one of arousal, he released a tiny amused chuckle. You spent much of the day in different parts of the apartment with your hand, toy, ice, and water into your body to soothe this terrible ache. So Miguel wouldn't see you like this. It was this moment you sought to avoid after your long day: The moment of Miguel's disapproval. Now he laughed at you.

“Happy?” you sobbed into the forearm that kept Miguel stable. “Go away, someone else could use your stupid help.”

“Don’t you need me?” Miguel dipped his head down. Strands of his dark hair tickled your hypersensitive skin. With the lightweight fabric of his suit, pressing your cunt back against his clothed bulge felt wonderful. You bit your lower lip and watched his cock jut against its fabric. You lifted your puffy eyes to his gaze and found a wicked gleam there. He knew it wasn’t enough contact for the pressure and painful spasms to abate. Deep down, you knew that Miguel was your only hope for relief. Who else could, or would, you call in this condition? Mostly because Miguel always fixed everything.

"Miggy," you murmured. After this pitiful display, he wasn't rejecting you? Your mind flowed weightless and light. The terror of your day faded under his careful caress. In its place, comfort that he would take care of you.

“Don’t you?” His hand snaked between your folds and found it soaked wet, the low throbbing of your pussy palpable. He retracted his fingers and spread the sticky fluid between his thumb and middle finger. At some point, silence became better than an answer. Miguel brought his hand down on your cunt for a sharp slap. Bundles of nerves cried out under the abuse. It shook free a squeal from your lips, bitten raw by the pressure of the day. Your head bobbed into a mechanical nod as to save yourself from another slap.

“You know how to ask. It’s si Miguel, por favor Miguel.”

You needed the warm sensation of his cum. But making those words proved too difficult. Your canines pierced bloody holes in your lower lip. You clawed up his forearms, trying to leverage and force him closer. Miguel grabbed your shoulders and thrashed them back down onto the floor. You felt bad for the downstairs neighbors. 

“Say it.” 

“Miggy,” you looked into his eyes. They were blown wide, nearly fully black with a thin outline of scarlet, chasing the outline of your exposed breast. For all his talk, you realized he wasn't immune. Even with his face tight, his eyes focused on the same thing you needed. Maybe, all this time, you were baiting Miguel with half-assed answers. They were invitations. Invitations to come to fill this need you had. You would be lying if you said that wasn’t what you wanted this whole time. Finally, you had him where you wanted him. 

Miguel broke eye contact first. He cupped his plush lips around your nipple, suckling the breast taut and wet. You cried out in surprise and arched into Miguel’s mouth, enticed by the fangs that grazed your nipple. As quickly as he came, he was gone.

You lurched up, palming Miguel's dick through his pants. His hips bucked into your palm. He refused to make any sound as he considered your next movements, releasing Miguel’s cock from his suit. Impatience and need coalesced into your brave movements, sliding your palm against him. He was impossibly thick and hard, dribbling at the tip. Miguel huffed a small noise as your palm ran over him. You dared to call it a moan.

Miguel sneered and shoved you back onto the floorboards. “I’ll only tell you one more time. Ask me properly.” 

"You do too, don't you?" You giggled. A noise that grated his ear. With the belief you wouldn’t bolt, Miguel shifted back onto his knees. You wouldn’t. There was nowhere left to run. Not that you even wanted to, fat and hungry off Miguel's growing desperation.

"Come here." He snaked his hands underneath your knees, dragged you close, and pushed them to your chest. Your eyes fluttered shut. Moments later, the sensation of his thick dick sliding against your engorged folds forced them back open. It gave you just enough relief through the pulsing pain to look at him with your hazy eyes. From this angle, you appreciated how large Miguel had gotten. His round cock-head bobbed and crested over your mound as it rubbed against your aching clit. His face was trained, focused. He wasn't going to relent first.

The nagging pressure never abated. You sought something more, something better, the sensation of being filled. With every glide, you squeezed your walls in protest to his absence. Your hips protested the restriction of your movement, shimmying against the firm hold he had that kept you in place. You wanted more than that. You wanted true relief from his teasing. Miguel drew back to inspect the fluid over his fat shaft as held you down. You gave in, whining at him like a brat.

“Por,” you scratched his forearms. “Por favor, Miggy. You don’t know what it's like.” 

“All fours-- face down.” 

The cacophony of desire battered and overcame any other human emotion you could have. You complied, crawling onto your fuzzy indigo rug for what came next. Miguel’s gloved hand skimmed across your ass, middle finger skimming toward the center. He followed up his gentle touch by reeling back his hand and cracking it across your ass, searing the nerves alive. Once, twice, and then a third. Tears pricked your cheeks again, a consequence of your nerves being overwrought and now assailed.

“Miggy!” 

He shushed you with fervor, another thwack beating the jiggling flesh hot and red. Your legs trembled under the weight of his slaps. “Ignore my calls again and you’ll get much worse.”

“I didn’t-- you wouldn't want me,” your lips parted in defense of what you’d done. Miguel dipped down to spread your folds, rolling his index finger along your pulsing walls. Your body drew him in, squeezing and urging him forward. Your swollen walls were impossibly tight, straining to bring him in more and more.

"You know I do."

The need for more devoured any other thought, any threats of what he’d do next time. You rolled your hips to ride his hand. In place of a slap, Miguel slid another finger slid in beside the first to stretch your walls open. He faltered at your next words and slid his fingers free.

“Not like… not like I need you.” 

“Who decides that?” he pressed on your upper back to force it down. You complied. Miguel stumbled forward, finally pressing his thick head to your pulsing entrance. His round head pressed, just barely, into your wet hole. You clenched down, inviting him into your warmth. You weren’t sure he’d actually give it to you. It was so damn close.

“You do, Miggy,” you murmured, pushing back. He watched as his shaft slowly disappeared into your body, your apprehension of retaliation rendered you too slow to finish.

Miguel snatched your waist and forced you to take the rest, a soppy squelch lubricating his shaft. The sound that slipped from your lips was entirely uncouth, punctuated by his unforgiving thrusts. Your walls strained around his cock. No matter how many times you took him, the drag of his cock and slap of balls against your body always felt somehow like the first. It filled that ache-- the consistent burning need to have him here, inside of your greedy body, scratching something that you could not itch all day. It’s what you wanted. 

“That’s right, I do.” Miguel rumbled, short, punctuated thrusts beating your clenching cunt into complacency. The pleasure ruptured through your cunt-- battering his dick in response. He let loose a sharp grunt followed by a string of curses. Your sweet release spilled over his dick and balls, dripping down your thighs. Your legs threatened to shook, but Miguel was unwilling to allow your trembling legs to give out.

"Ah! Miggy!" His fangs punctured your shoulder to force you to stay in position, his pelvis stuttering against yours. His growl punctuated the warm, soothing cum that soothed your walls like warm honey over a wound. Your walls milked him free of his cum, spasming in response to his orgasm. He pieced himself together against your back, pulling his fangs free and settling a soft kiss over the burning wound on your shoulder. As if he hadn't been the one to tear his fangs into the crook of your neck.

“You’re not letting go,” he hummed in annoyance. He turned his attention down to your ass, ghosting his fingers over the healing bruises over your backside. You squealed, jerking forward. He followed you forward, punching a hole in the floor by your side. “Fuck, don’t move!” 

You cast your attention back toward Miguel. He huffed forcefully out of his nostrils. He motioned toward your ass as if it were obvious-- your walls were clamped over his cock, unwilling or otherwise unable to let him go, as if he had any more cum to give in that current moment. You took it all.

“I. I didn't-- I can’t--” 

“Yeah, I know. That Bee venom does that. Mine should neutralize it.”

At some point, you murmured. It sure as hell wasn’t doing it now, keeping him seated into your cunt that bubbled with the mixture of his and your release. “You knew about it? I could have died!” 

Miguel chuckled. 

“You wouldn’t. You’re too stubborn to die,” he sighed, fiddling with his watch. The tests-- that you never had ran. Ones that he suggested. Ones that you refused quite openly. “Why would I deny myself the fun?” 

His cock slipped free. Your hips dropped and fell slack against the floor. You weren’t proud of the cum that oozed out of your ass over your decimated room, nor the fact that your useless neighbors hadn’t called for help once. Not that you needed it-- but still. You palpated your stomach, slightly distended. Miguel bent down and gathered the mixture of your bodily fluids on his fingers, suckling his own fingers dry. You watched his wet tongue swirl around his fingertips. It wasn't fair.

“Fun? What fun!? Do you know how long I-- You’re a mean man, Miguel O’Hara.” 

He lurched over, his breath tickling your lips. He kissed you, salty and sweet. Your nose scrunched up, pouting against his lips. He left the room for the kitchen, fetching a wet cloth to clean his body with. He zipped himself back into his suit shortly after and dropped the sodden cloth by the cum puddling under your ass.

“Never said I wasn’t.” 

[keikikait]

ɴᴇᴛᴛʟᴇꜱ (ʀᴀꜰᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇʀᴏɴ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

pairing: rafe cameron x pogue!f!reader, (not au, both are early to mid 20s)

word count: 3.7k

summary: maybe you're just a caddie after all

warnings: ANGST, SLIGHTLY SMUTTY (18+) , kook!rafe x pogue!reader, not even friends with benefits, just fuck buddy vibes, slight power imbalance, yearning/pining, reader is down bad, rafe lowkey sucks, not proofread

a note: inspired by my most recent situationship (i'm in pain)

please reblog and like, it means a lot! let me know what you think!

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

You didn’t think you were the type of girl to fuck your boss.

But, Rafe Cameron really isn’t your boss, is he? Sure, he owns The Island Club now (fully renovated with a brand-new golf course) but your manager is a different Kook, yet a sleazeball all the same, Bruce. Your pay didn’t come out of Rafe’s pocket, your checks weren’t signed by his hand, yet his presence loomed, and the guilt still ate at you, ripping you apart piece by piece.

It didn’t help that you were his personal caddie now. You were special, in a way.

It was slightly demeaning, almost cruel, but deep down a part of you liked it. You craved it. You always feel a small flicker of pride when he saunters into the bar, biting the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling, ready for him to take the half finished drink out of your hand, excuse you from the presence of your shift lead and lead you through the airy French doors that lead to the golf course. When you’re far away enough, far from prying eyes, your fingers interlock, his hand squeezes yours, and he’s finally yours.

At least for a little bit. Rafe disappears from your grasp the second his game is done, always tipping you way too much before giving you a brief kiss, his golf bag swung over his shoulder as he makes his way back to the parking lot. Cheeks burning and head in the clouds, you return to the bar, trying to drown yourself in the drinks your customers ordered, making Cosmopolitan after Cosmopolitan, but you find your eyes always drifting back towards the main entrance, hoping he’d walk back in just to see you again.

You always wait like a puppy would for its owner, tail wagging outside the closed door, occasionally pawing at the wood, and maybe in some ways Rafe owned you, too.

But he’s yours again when you settle onto your knees in front of him, pressing yourself into the pillow that separates you from the hardwood mansion floor. He’s yours when you’re pulling his hard cock out of his slacks, hair already wound around his fist. He’s yours when he’s pulling you up from your knees and onto his bed, cum splattered on your face and in your mouth, turning you on your side so he can cuddle up behind you, wrap one hand loosely around your neck as he plants soft kisses behind your ear and takes deep inhales of your hair, now matted from his calloused palms.

And when he falls asleep, trapping you against his chest with his arms wrapped around you, you take your time to admire him. Your fingertips gently trail over his features, brushing over his lips as your heart fills with dread, always wondering if this would be the last time you see him. You knew deep down that you weren’t his. You weren’t the only girl Rafe held like this, you weren’t the only girl whose forehead he would kiss mid thrust, watching her eyes roll back with a smirk on his face. You weren’t his only girl, but you were the girl he picked in those moments, and it was enough for you.

You were enough for him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You watch from the golf cart as he sets up his tee on the 3rd hole. It’s taking longer than normal, Rafe having picked today of all days to goof off with his friends Topper and Kelce. You still remember the first time he introduced you to them, keeping it so short and brief that he never even told them your name, treating you as if you were a burden, a poisonous cloud that followed him around the green. It was too damn hot, and the server book in your apron pocket doesn’t make a very good fan. You clear your throat, shifting in the seats, feeling your thighs stick to the leather, trying to avoid the sunlight creeping towards you.

Rafe glances at you as he grabs one of his clubs, finally ready to take the shot. You smile softly, giving him a small nod, wanting to do more but knowing you couldn’t draw too much attention to yourself. Your relationship was a secret, just the way Rafe liked it. You knew it was for his reputation; it was finally starting to sprout and grow, and his investors finding out he’s fucking his Pogue caddie definitely wouldn’t help it flourish.

Rafe clears his throat as well, wiping a thin sheen of sweat off his forehead. The rest of the sun was hot as well, burning brightly against the back of his neck and down his face, almost making his neck ache. He grips his club with a white-knuckled grip, glancing your way again. His jaw is clenched, a vein already popping on the side of his neck and face red from the heat. “Hey,” He calls out, voice slightly raspier. “Pass me those towelettes.”

“You got sweaty hands, Rafe?” Topper taunts him, leaning on his club. “You nervous?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Rafe grumbles, almost ripping the package out of your hands. It startles you, your hand quickly retreating to your side. He pulls two out, tossing the package back onto the seat next to you, wiping his hands with one and his neck with the other. He moves the collar of his polo down, reaching to wipe the back of his neck.

Your eyes travel down his arms, admiring his biceps and the way the Pima cotton clings to his skin. You sit up straight, trying to catch a peek of his back muscles and his traps, eyes following his hand as he wipes his shoulders.

Your eyebrows furrow when you see it. A dark purple bruise bridging the gap between his shoulder and his neck. You lean forward slightly, trying to get a better view, but Rafe’s already pulled his polo back up, adjusting the collar, tossing the used towelettes next to the package next to you.

A bruise. He just got hurt. Maybe he got in a fight again.

You slouch back against the seat, reaching into the cupholder for your water bottle, still fanning yourself with your server book, watching as Rafe goes to take a swing. Rafe rolls his shoulders before bending his knees, lining up his shot. His hands grip the club with a tight grip, tongue running along his dry bottom lip as he stares down the ball. Topper and Kelce watch on with grins on their faces, anticipating a miss. You couldn’t blame them. Rafe’s always had a temper, and the past few games it’s been on a short handle. The club almost snaps in two as he swings it back, almost like a bat in a batter’s hand.

Smack!

The ball goes flying, soaring through the air, landing about 5 feet from the hole. Kelce is more congratulatory, patting him on the back while Topper groans, bumping his club with his feet, trying to think of a way to beat that. You bite back a smile, fingernails digging into your sweaty thighs, trying to seem casual. Normal. Professional, even.

Rafe approaches you with an outstretched hand, looking over his shoulder as Topper steps up next. You understand immediately, handing him his water bottle. You watch, adoration in your eyes, as he uncaps it and takes a swig. You shift in the seat, scooting closer to him. “Congrats. You almost got a hole in one.”

Rafe lowers the bottle when he’s finished, capping it and letting out a heavy breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You’re closer now, thigh pressed right against his, and his eyes are on you. He lets out a slight sigh when you congratulate him, his hand finding your thigh just under the hem of your shorts. His fingers press in, nails digging into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Almost.” He repeats, almost under his breath.

Your mouth dries up, your voice a whisper. “I’m proud of you.”

Rafe lets out a slight laugh, glancing at Topper swinging his club. His grip on your thigh tightens, almost like a vise. You can see his jaw clench again, the vein pulsing on the side of his head. “Proud?” He repeats with a raised brow, turning back to you. “You’re proud of me?”

Your eyes move over to Topper and Kelce, making sure they aren’t watching before meeting his gaze. “Always am.”

Rafe’s grip tightens again on your thigh, this time you feel his nails pressing hard into your skin. He glances over his shoulder briefly, his friends still distracted with their game, before he turns back to you, leaning down. “Are you really getting all sentimental on me now?” He asks you in a low murmur, hand moving higher up your thigh. “Is that why you were being all quiet?”

Your cheeks burn. He could read you like a fucking book. “I thought you didn’t want me to talk a lot around your friends. You know, it was one of your rules, or whatever.”

“You’re smart,” Rafe’s hand slips halfway underneath your shorts to rub over your inner thigh, thumb circling the skin. “So you should know when to and when not to talk.” Kelce lets out a loud curse that turns into an obnoxious laugh, turning to look at the both of you. Rafe removes his hand from you in a flash, sitting up straight. His hands go for the towelette package, looking around casually as he digs another one out. You purse your lips, scooting away from him, trying to give him some space. He was like an old stick of dynamite, sensitive to the touch and unpredictable. You both know that he had too much power over you. He was the most powerful man in all of Kildare, and you were just a measly bartender and caddie, your job held on by a thread that Rafe could easily cut.

You had to be good.

You take a swig of your water, watching him as he wipes down his neck and face. You see the bruise again, dark purple and slightly welted, marring his soft tan skin. The words tumble out of your mouth before you even think. “Did you get in a fight or something?”

Rafe’s hand freezes against his neck at your question. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before dropping the towelette back onto the seat again. He clears his throat, pulling the collar of his polo up to cover the bruise. “Why would you think that?”

“The bruise,” You say, leaning against the seat again. “I’m just wondering, Rafe.”

He clears his throat again, shifting in the seat. He looks at you for a moment before looking back forward, trying to pretend like he’s watching Kelce. “It’s nothing to worry about. Just a stupid fight I got into,” He glances back at you when you don’t respond, seeing you staring at his neck intently. “Stop looking at it,” He grumbles. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

You nod, taking another swig. You bite your lip, looking up at Topper and Kelce. Their backs are turned, and Kelce’s too busy taunting Topper and trying to throw him off his game to pay attention to either of you. Your hand reaches out, wrapping around Rafe’s fingers, his hand flat against the seat.

Rafe’s head darts up when he feels your fingers on his. He glances back at Kelce and Topper, seeing them both distracted with their game, before he looks down at your hand, your fingers now threaded with his. He lets you hold his hand for all of about ten seconds before he’s pulling it away. He crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head faintly. “You’re gonna get us caught if you keep trying to touch me.” He says under his breath.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, your hand falling back into your lap.

Rafe looks at you again, noticing the hurt look in your eyes. He lets out a sigh, running a hand over his face before glancing back at you. His face softens slightly, reaching a hand out to rub the top of your thigh. “Come on. Don’t give me those eyes,” He says, voice much softer. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.” His fingers flex against your skin, almost like an apology, and you accept, smiling softly at him while nodding your head.

You glance at Topper and Kelce again, watching as Topper finally takes his swing. It doesn’t go very far, tumbling down the green into the sand. “Are you coming over tonight?”

You were being bold, but you wanted him. You needed him. You craved him.

Rafe’s fingers dig into your thigh once again, his eyes glued to Topper’s terrible swing as his club gets sucked into the sand. He doesn’t respond to your question, tongue running along the inside of his mouth while he watches Topper’s meltdown. The hand on your thigh tightens, and you can practically hear Rafe’s jaw clench. “Yeah,” He finally breathes out, head snapping back to look at you. “I’ll come over.”

Your chest feels warm, and you bite the inside of your lip to keep yourself from smiling. “Sweet.”

He was yours again.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You practically leap off of the couch when you hear him knock.

You rush over to the door, smoothing out your hair before opening the door, a smile etching across your face when you see him. “Hey, handsome.”

Rafe’s hands immediately go to your waist, stepping inside the front door and kicking it shut behind him. “Hey, pretty girl,” He says, returning your smile. His hands slide down to grab two handfuls of your ass, pulling you against him. His mouth goes straight for your neck, tongue darting out to leave wet stripes on your skin. “Miss me?”

You almost moan, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Mhm. Missed you so much.”

Rafe lets out a low laugh against your neck, leaving more wet kisses against the skin, nipping lightly at the curve of your shoulder. “Yeah?” His hand comes up, fingers tangling in your hair, and he pulls your head back, making you look at him. He watches as you take panting breaths, chest rising and falling against his. “Missed me that much?” He asks with a mocking lilt in his voice.

The noise you make is utterly pathetic. “Mhm.”

Rafe’s smile only grows, fingers still pulling at your hair to keep you there, and he lets out a low chuckle. “You’re all hot and bothered already, huh?” He says, taking in how red your cheeks are. “I haven’t even done anything yet.” He leans forward and connects your mouths, hands releasing your hair and moving to cradle your face instead. He bites your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth.

Your legs feel like jelly as you hold onto him, fingers digging into his biceps. “I can’t help it. I need you.”

Rafe smirks against your mouth, tongue dipping inside to taste you with a low moan. His fingers slide down to grip the hem of your shirt, wasting no time in pulling it off over your head and tossing it onto the ground. His mouth is back on you in an instant; lips, tongue, and teeth assaulting your skin. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down your legs until they’re crumpled at your feet. “Already so wet for me,” He murmurs against your collarbone, squatting to pick you up and place you on your kitchen counter.

Your hands are already tugging at his t-shirt, whining as you try to pull it off, eyes closing momentarily, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Please don’t tease me.”

Rafe lets out another short laugh, hands going up to help you rid him of his shirt. He lets it drop onto the ground, hands going back to rest on your thighs. “I like watching you squirm, baby.” He says, hands sliding up to grip your hips and pull you to the edge of the counter, settling himself in between your legs.

You lift your head, your eyes opening.

Your heart suddenly plummets to your feet.

Rafe’s neck, chest, and shoulders are covered in, what you now realise, in your naïveté, hickies. Dark red bruises cover his perfect tan skin, mixed in with some healing green remnants of nights he never told you about.

Your head spins, your mouth going dry. “Wha-what the fuck?”

Rafe’s smirk falters when he sees the look on your face, hands pausing on your thighs. “Don’t look at me like that,” He says, furrowing his brows when he sees something new behind your eyes, and not the usual ones full of lust and admiration. “Come on. Don’t give me that look,” He tries to pull you against him, but your hands push against his chest. He lets out an exasperated sigh. “What?”

You feel disgusting. Sick. Used. You push on his chest again when he tries to cup your face.

You always knew you weren’t the only girl. You always knew he had options.

So why was it hurting so bad?

“I think you should go.” You finally say, trying to hop off of the counter.

Rafe’s lips part in surprise when you say that, hands instantly going to steady you on the counter. “Woah, woah, woah,” He says when you try to stand up. His grip on your waist and hips tightens, forcing you to stay. “Just stop for a second.” His blue eyes watch your face, and he curses inwardly when he sees your eyes filling with unshed tears.

“No,” Tears fall from your eyes, and you’re pissed, angry about how pathetic you know you look. “No.”

Rafe’s hands tighten on your waist, and he moves so he’s standing right in between your legs again, trapping you against the counter.  “Baby, stop,” He says again, voice firm. “You’re not going anywhere.” He can tell you’re trying to wiggle out of his grip, his hands not budging. His eyes are dark and hard, while yours are teary and pleading. He shakes his head, jaw clenching. “Stop crying, please.” 

His touch feels like stinging nettles against your skin, the hair on the back of your arms standing up. “No. You don’t get to call me that.”

He looks surprised at your response and at how cold your voice sounded. “What? You don’t want me calling you baby anymore?” He asks, furrowing his brows. The grip on your waist tightens even more, almost like he’s trying to keep you there by force now. His gaze darkens again when you start to cry more, letting out a deep sigh and releasing one of your hips. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your neck, trying to force you to look at him. “You’re being ridiculous. You’re not my girlfriend, baby.”

Your stomach lurches. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!” You bang your fists against his chest.

Rafe lets out a short yelp when your hands connect with his chest, his fingers automatically going to grip your wrists tightly. His face softens again when he sees your face twisted up in anger and hurt, bottom lip quivering as you try to get out of his grip. A few moments pass while he looks at you, his grip unwavering. “You’re upset,” He finally begins, eyes darting all over your tear stained face. “But you don’t have any right to be.”

You take a shaky breath, your voice thick. “I-I thought-”

“Yeah, you thought,” He cuts you off, shaking you slightly, his hands still around your wrists. “You thought you change me, is that it?” He leans in closer. “You thought you were special? That even though I told you that I don’t want a relationship, you thought I would change my mind?”

You nod, face burning with shame. Rafe was upfront since day one that you were just casual, but the way he held you and the way he kissed your forehead as you were falling asleep had you thinking he felt something, anything for you.

Rafe’s grip tightens again at your admission, his jaw setting and eyes darkening again. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, mouth opening and closing for a few seconds before he finally responds in a low murmur. “You’re an idiot,” One hand drops your wrist, coming up to tangle in the hair at the back of your neck. He forces you to look at him. “A fucking idiot, baby. A beautiful fucking idiot.”

You swallow hard. “I think you should go.”

Rafe’s grip in your hair tightens when you speak, eyes boring into yours and jaw set. “You don’t really want that, do you, baby?” When you don’t respond right away, he shakes you. “Do you, baby?”

You can’t resist him. You know, deep down, hidden away, that you would do anything to keep him around a little longer.

You don’t want it to end this way.

You shake your head.

He chuckles, loosening his grip on your hair. “That’s what I thought,” He tugs on your hair again, bringing your eyes to meet his. “Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For?” He smirks.

“For thinking I’m special,” You hiccup slightly. “For thinking I could change you.”

Rafe’s gaze softens, just slightly, letting go of your other wrist. He brings his free hand up to brush over your bottom lip, and you instinctively kiss his thumb. “Good girl.”

His mouth slams down on yours in an almost bruising kiss, and he forces his tongue past your lips, hand moving down to grip your chin instead, forcing you to keep your mouth open as he sucks and bites on your bottom lip. You recoil at the metallic taste as he draws blood, pulling back slightly just to have Rafe tug you right back, his hand now joining the other at the back of your neck.

Blood smears across your lips when he finally pulls away, chuckling at the look on your face. He licks his lips, brushing his thumb across the blood on your plush bottom lip before bringing it to his mouth.

Every drop of blood is love you don’t get back.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

ending is actually ass lmao

★taglist: @ietss, @teenwolfbitches28, @gilwm, @momoewn, @drewsphswife, @odairtrqsh, @wearemadeofstardust0, @rafesbabygirlx, @slumnit, @evermorx89, @ivy-34, @ts1mp0ne, @drewstarkeysstuff, @kayreblogs, @rafeycameronsgf, @lulbabes, @xomarryamox, @montanajgbn, @koalalafications, @stylestarkey, @loves0phelia, @lhhlver, @katecokeed, @cwufst, @user381953, @wintergirlysstuff, @emberaurora, @wtfisastiles, @bluejeepgirl11, @artistadistrada2002, @fastlovela, @lucifersie, @marlenee3e, @koibleufish, @ashleyyy323, @rafesdoll, @dasia21, @blairsblg (italics means i couldn't tag you!)

join my obx taglist here!

[peachdues]

rejoice everyone, my sex drive as returned with a vengeance.

MDNI. Explicit sexual content.

Inside your apartment offers little relief from the suffocating heat and humidity.

The air is thick with the scent of sex, musky and heady. Sweat sticks your hair to your forehead, slides down the side of your neck to join the thin sheen coating the rest of your skin. Above you, Sanemi fares no better, the ends of his hair having turned a muted gray from the moisture that’s gathered just above his brow.

The coarse hairs around his base are matted down against his skin, soaked from a combination of your cum and his. Still, the faint stimulation his groin offers against your clit with every feeble turn of his hips makes your thighs twitch and spasm where they lay draped over his.

One last, shallow thrust later and Sanemi stills. You hardly notice the shock of cold left behind as he pulls out and collapses next to you in a sweaty, panting heap. His little finger sneaks across the mussed blankets and interlocks with yours. It’s the only contact either of you can tolerate now; he knows it’s too hot for anything more.

“Jesus,” he pants, his voice hoarse from exertion. “That was fuckin’ incredible.”

Two weeks into your relationship with Sanemi and the novelty of it hasn’t worn off.

Despite the exhaustion sitting heavily in your limbs, you can’t help but smile. It’s what he says every time after you’ve finished, and it’s always with the same, breathless wonder.

Content, you roll to your stomach, kicking the blankets away where they tangled around your shins. You bury your face into the lumpy pillow and sigh, marveling at the gush of fluid from between your thighs that further dampens the sheets below.

You don’t mind; Sanemi will wash your sheets for you, anyway, like always. Besides, it may be hot and stuffy inside your apartment, but the warmth left behind by him is a welcome one; tangible proof of how thoroughly he’d just claimed you.

Sanemi is nothing short of thorough.

Exhausted though you are, you can’t help the flutter in your stomach as you feel his hand smooth up the back of your thigh, his fingers gently massaging your hamstring, and then your ass.

If he were to straddle your backside right now and slide into you from behind, you wouldn’t know how to object; wouldn’t want to, anyway.

He’s only taken you from behind twice in the weeks since you’ve begun sleeping together, but it’s rapidly become your favorite position by far. The first time had been slow; a lesson more than an indulgence, with Sanemi gently bending you over the side of your bed, his hands guiding your hips into place and pressing on your spine to deepen the arch of your back.

The second time had reduced you to tears.

There’d been no manipulation of your body that time. Instead, he’d shoved a pillow under your belly and mounted you, those big, strong hands of his holding you down by the small of your waist as he’d rutted into you, hard and deep. At first, you’d only managed a few, gasping squeaks, too focused on the way Sanemi’s thick tip battered away at that spot deep inside that made your toes curl.

One hand pinned your wrists to the small of your back while the other wound gently through your hair. With a firm tug, he pulled your head back, pausing only to press his lips softly to the crown of your head in quiet reassurance.

Then, came his command. Scream, baby. Show me how good I’m makin’ you feel.

Right on cue, Sanemi slammed his hips forward, pushing right into that painfully wonderful spot that made you see stars. He drew back and hit it again and again, and you couldn’t help but wail for him while your eyes rolled into your head, your throat, burning.

You’d ended up making an embarrassing mess atop your sheets, one that made your legs jerk and twitch so violently that Sanemi had been forced to pin them down by pressing his feet to your calves. Yet, he’d seemed to delight in your ruin, if his rumbling baritone groans had been any metric to go by. Certainly the increased force behind his thrusts as he fucked you harder into the mattress meant he hadn’t minded. Not one bit.

But if Sanemi wants to have you again, now, he doesn’t act on it. Instead, he finishes his appreciative knead against your ass and sits up, running a hand through his hair. From the corner of your eye, you spy him as he pretends to look back at you, half-asleep atop the messy heap of your pillows and blankets.

His quiet exhale of approval gives him away. He’s not admiring your post-sex beauty; his attention is locked squarely on the mess he’s left between your thighs.

He’s admiring his handiwork just as much as you are.

[jymwahuwu]

I keep imagining Jing Yuan and Feixiao fighting over a reader who is trying to play coy, be a little flirty to both without ever committing, getting a rise out of teasing them while never giving them what they really want. I get flustered just imagining the different ways one of them might snap afbshqgvskq

-Honkai-Star-Thirst

Love this, you always provide great thirsty ideas. I'm going to be sandwiched between two generals😽💦💖💖💖

Oh, you are playing with fire, you know? Dare to play with the emotions of the two Xianzhou generals? Pretending to be shy and acting inexperienced in front of them?

cw: yandere, non-con, punishment, forced orgasm, forced kiss

You have a knack for time management - juggling two generals with appointments on the same day. The date with Jing Yuan was in a cat cafe. Together you pet the cute and charming cat and chat happily. Sometimes you two go to an adoption organization and volunteer together. Jing Yuan is really romantic at heart. You two have been dating for half a month… so holding hands is normal, right? He moved closer to you, wanting to interlock with your fingers. You ducked and said you had a sad past (you didn't). You're afraid of contact with men (you're not). You expressed your admiration for him at the same time, your eyes filled with admiration like stars. "If it were you…" You only said the first half of the sentence and stopped without making any promises.

In the afternoon, you have a date with Feixiao. You put on beautiful accessories and changed into another set of clothes. It was a picnic date! Before setting off, you baked some small cakes, brought a box of fruit, and brought sandwiches in a picnic basket. Arriving early is the point (pretend to be considerate and cute). You took the basket and sat on the grass obediently waiting for Feixiao to arrive. So when the general arrived, he saw you placing your legs on the red polka dot patterned picnic mat, waiting for her obediently… It was really heartwarming. She actually wanted to propose to you…but you didn't even agree to confirm the relationship with her. Feixiao shares food with you and shares her new knowledge. You smiled and nodded, occasionally giving some responses. When she wants to kiss you on the cheek, you avoid her and say the seagulls over there are cute.

You wanted to laugh out loud just thinking about how you could tease the feelings of the two Xianzhou generals. They're just too simple…in a romantic relationship, aren't they? It was really a first for them. You almost couldn't help but laugh when Jing Yuan told you that this was his first date in over seven hundred years. But how could it be your first time?

Your plan worked…right?

Ah, but your endless teasing may eventually lead to some emotional outbursts… The one who snaps first may be Jing Yuan. He may look like an angry kitten after you have avoided his advances countless times. And picks you up and kisses you, overstimulating you with his fingers. But none of this is dangerous…

Until the two generals exchanged photos of their "lovers" (as they called themselves, you didn't promise) during a casual chat. They looked at the photo on the screen, which showed the smiling face of the same person. It only took them a few minutes to figure it out - love blinds people, even generals. How dare you tease their love?

There's not even a need to wait, since you've delayed them for so long, punishment is necessary. That night, you agreed to a date with one of them, but rejected the other. With a smug smile, you pushed open the door of the general's mansion.

…Only to find the two of them standing in the living room, chatting leisurely.

A chill ran down your spine, and your lips trembled, but your reason told you that maybe they hadn't noticed yet. You just need better acting skills…

They had no intention of being so gentle with you. The world was spinning, and without even saying anything, you were pushed onto the sheets and your newly bought shorts and underwear were ripped off. The sound of fabric being torn was terrifying. A soft whimper escaped your throat. Fear. "Please- I can explain!! I'm not-" "Shh, don't be afraid." Jing Yuan kissed your lips, and Feixiao's hands grabbed your cheeks, as if she thought about whether to use force. Your cheeks don’t hurt from the tug. "You said it was your first time? Prove it."

A few hours later, you were lying on the bed with your butt lifted up helplessly, tightly closed, but the big, calloused hands parted your buttocks and played with the moist slit inside. That cock is pushed inside you again. Meanly fiddle with the core inside. Your lips were pried open, her tongue was entangled with yours, and her hot breath was sprayed on your face. Her fingers are circling and caressing your areola, occasionally pinching. "Hmm…" The pitiful moans filled your chest, and there was no way to avoid them.

After you're exhausted, they stop. Your screaming apology was caught on tape. The two generals sighed and looked at each other. Why did they suffer from such a heartless person like you?

But, there is no way, they just love you, and the punishment is over. Jing Yuan wiped the bodily fluids off your body, and Feixiao patted your buttocks. One of them is on your left and one on your right. They carefully put their hands on your waist and head and fell asleep with you.

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[cams-cult]

BE RIGHT BACK⭐️

↬softdom!matt x clingy!reader

IN WHICH↬ you’re too clingy with matt, so he fucks you in front of a mirror.

warnings↬ smut, unprotected sex (youre on the pill) humiliation kink, pet names, prob more i’m too lazy to continue

“sweetheart i have to go” matt says as he tries to detach you from his chest. “wan’ go with you” you whine desperately, trying to get him to oblige to take you with him to this thing at nates. you couldn’t get enough of matt recently. you clung to his arm almost everywhere you went. every night you’d snuggle into his chest, never wanting him to leave you. you just took advantage of him because he was yours. only yours.

“baby—baby you know i can’t” his tone turns serious, you were making him late to his hangout. “please matt” you beg as he successfully gets you off of him.

“i’ve told you a million times no.” he says as he crosses his arms “i have to go now, ill be right back later” he says sternly as he kisses your forehead and heads out of the house.

“but mat-“ door closes.

matt loved your clinginess, how you loved him and never left him. but sometimes he just needed to go and you either made him late because you wouldn’t stop asking if you too could accompany him, or because you were whining about him leaving and begging him to stay. that part of the clinginess drove him nuts, but he dealt with it because he loved you.

you huff and cross your arms as you do as your told and wait. you wanted so badly to go with him, but it was a “guy thing” as matt told you.

you thought it was a bunch of bs that he couldn’t take you, but you still waited anyways.

about 3 hours pass of him being gone and you were on his bed waiting for him. you were growing impatient as the minutes went by, but with it being your luck in walked matt.

his eyes met yours as you both smile at one another.

you spring off of his bed and run into his arms excitedly. his arms wrap around your waist and squeeze it. “someone missed me, hm?” he teases as he kisses your cheek.

“you were gone too long” you complain, pouting like a spoiled kid. “poor baby” he coos, cupping your face in his hand.

“my needy girl, always needing and needing, yeah?” he coos as he slides one hand up your shirt, the other still cupping your face. “m’ not needy, just missed you ts’ all” you shrug.

his hand traces your waist, tracing everything really. your skin was soft, it was always soft. that was one of matt’s favorite attributes about you.

“shes lying now, look at her” he smirks as he takes his hand off of your face, grabbing both of your hips. “m’ not lying” you protest earning a smirk from him.

“how was nates?” you quickly change the subject “boring—chris was actin’ a fuckin’ fool, nick was bein’ nick, and then there was just nate who didn’t bother anyone and just did his own thing” he explains as he moves one of his hands off of your waist to play with your hair.

“i missed you” you say as you gaze into his eyes. “i figured as much” he rolls his eyes as he kisses your cheek. “you never take me anywhere with you, always leavin’ me at home by myself—no one to hang on to” you go on about how he supposedly doesn’t care, obviously joking, but mainly saying it to get a rise out of him.

matt’s face was one of annoyance, he had had it with your constant whining and complaining. wanting and needing to do something about it, something to keep your mind occupied.

out of nowhere, he interlocks his fingers with yours, leading you to the bathroom. as the both of you make it to the bathroom, he closes the door and locks it.

he pins you against the bathroom counter and his lips meet yours in a rough kiss. both of your tongues fight for dominance instantaneously as he bites your bottom lip, pulling away.

confused you look at him and raise an eyebrow “what’re we doing in here, matt?” you ask as he flips you in front of the mirror, yanking your sweats down.

“since you want me on you so bad—you’re gonna look at what i do to you” he smirks as he yanks your panties down alongside your sweats. “matt” you blush as you look down. he takes notice to this and reaches in front of you to make you look at your reflection “ah—ah—ah” he says “look at yourself while i fuck you” he smirks.

your eyes grow wide as you turn around and look at him “look at myself while you—what?” you raise an eyebrow, as you feel a wetness in between your thighs.

“ya heard me—now be a good girl and turn around f’me ” he demands as he motions for you to turn around, gripping your hips.

your heartbeat increases rapidly with anticipation, wondering what exactly his next move would be. this whole situation was new. matt had never done anything like this before.

you can hear the unbuckling of his belt as he moves his bulge up against your bare ass earning a soft moan from you. “feel that?” his hot breath hits your ear sending chills down your spine. “answer me” he demands as he bends you over more, your lip hiding under your teeth “f-feel it—” you stammer.

“i bet you’re gonna take me with no hesitation, hm?” he grinds his hard on into your ass. “i bet you’d do it any time i asked ya’ to—my greedy girl” he grunts.

he then pulls down his boxers and thrusts into you no warning. the both of you gasp at the same time as he gives you time to adjust “fuck—matt” you whimper as he begins slowly thrusting his hips in and out of you.

“if you look away from yourself one time, i’ll stop” he growls his thrusts becoming faster. you try your hardest to remain eye contact with yourself as he ruins you, biting your lip.

“matt please—“ you whine as he thrusts into you. not being sure you can do what all he’s telling you to. “take it, you can do it i know ya’ can” he groans. you were intrigued at this new idea of his, it both sparked your interest and embarrassed you.

“i bet you like this, seeing yourself get ruined, hm?” he grunts as he thrusts into you from behind, bending you farther over the counter.

you really did like it, it was the hottest thing matt had ever did with you. of course you’d never tell him that, but you loved it. loved being used, how he degraded you as he did it. it was so hot.

but then there was the part of you who also hated this, hated being in front of the mirror as he takes you like this. how vulnerable it all felt. but that quickly washed away because it was matt after all. he knew what he was doing.

“good girl..” he praises, watching your actions closely while behind you, seeing that you’ve yet to break eye contact with yourself. “y’look so fuckin’ good like this” he grabs your hair, pulling it out of your face so he could see your face better, seeing how good he was making you feel.

he knew this would make or break you, so he analyzed your every movement to make sure you wouldnt break eye contact. he was too invested in his little idea now to stop. he knew how his words affected you.

you manage to hold up, taking his praise and demands, never once looking away. you didn’t want him to stop, he knew that, but he also knew you were bound to look away and that both amused and bummed him.

he continues pounding into you, his thrusts getting deeper, hitting that spot that made you crazy so good. your moans were soft, but the more he hit your g-spot the louder they were getting. but you were starting to get flustered, starting to look down and matt takes notice quick. “don’t you dare fuckin’ look down—keep lookin’ “ he demands as he thrusts into you harder than ever.

matt couldn’t stop, even after he said he would. this idea made him crazy. he loved how you looked like this, how you were listening to him so well, how you were taking him so well. you felt so good wrapped around him. it’s like you were made for him. as much as you drove him crazy, you drove him crazy.

you knew you drove matt crazy, but you knew how much he loved you and how much he wouldn’t break your heart. he wasn’t like that, you knew that. matt knew you like the back of his hand. he knew how to get you going.

you moan loudly, still managing to look at yourself, but still flustered about the whole situation. your mind only became focused on one thing. that one thing being the familiar knot forming in your tummy. you had to keep looking.

“matt—m’ so close” you whine as his thrusts become sloppy. “me too, baby—shit” he grunts as he grips your hips.

“feels sso’ good matt” you bite your lip, your reflection staring back at you. “i know baby—i know” he coos as he continues on, the both of you on edge.

“doin’ so good f’me—lookin’ at yourself get ruined..” he praises. you blush and bite your lip “m’ gonna cum—” you whine. “fuck—me too” he says as his thrusts get sloppy. he shoots his warm load in you, you both finish at the same time and he pulls out, both of your juices mixing together.

“such a good girl” he says as he kisses your forehead, turning you around to face him. “while we’re in here, let’s get ourselves cleaned up, yeah?”

{all rights reserved> ©cams-cult}

taglist: @chrislilcumslvt @sturns-mermaid

[winchester-with-wings]

Training Room Tension (Wolverine x f!Reader, smut)

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!reader

Summary: Training is just another form of foreplay between you and Logan. That's why no one trains with you guys anymore. It's just awkward.

Tags/Warnings: 18+, smut with a hint of sappy love and security at the end, dirty talk, taunting, unprotected sex, biting, spanking, rough sex, Rest In Piece(s) to your undergarments hehe, takes place in the X-Mansion, reader is some type of invulnerable mutant like Logan.

Word count: 2400

Author's Note: First time writing in forever! Praise be to "Deadpool & Wolverine" for bringing back my love and lust for Hugh Jackman. Wolverine in particular is one of my first loves. Shout out to by Bitchachos for reassuring me this obsession was okay. Love you guys! Thanks for reading and thanks to @pagesofivy for the title suggestion! I'm picturing older, thicker Logan from the 70s cuz of that mirror scene iykyk. But also love these XMen gifs. Ah hell I can't pick a favorite. He has aged sooooo well.

Hope people enjoy this and please don't be afraid to let me know! Words of Affirmation is my love language. LOL

I made a wolverine sideblog too because I want to reblog everything Logan and D&W related hehe ----> @feral4wolverine

Mobile Masterlist

The team rarely trains with you and Logan in the same room anymore. For a good reason too. Sure, in short exercises, they can manage you guys. You're both part of the team after all, but the longer training scenarios, they'll make do without. They just know their feral, indestructible teammates will do their part in the real world fights.

Because as much as Logan admires your strength and determination...he also cannot stand it. You're stubborn. You're defiant. You're a tease and he can't take it anymore.

“You’re slowing down, babe, and pulling your punches,” you tease, dodging his swing and sweeping his legs out from under him. He hits the ground with a loud thud. He rolls over, grabbing your ankle before you can get back up. He drags you along the mats as he stands. “Ah, nonono!” you laugh, your arms waving and trying to get a grip on the floor. You get your other foot under you and turn yourself over trying to kick or hook your leg around his neck to take him down.

It doesn’t work this time but at least he lets go of your foot. Back on even ground, you’re swapping blows, punches, and blocks. You curse almost as much as he grunts.

"Run that pretty little mouth one more time," he growls, his arms interlocked with yours as he blocks your attack again.

"Or what, old man?" You push back, breaking his hold, your skin is slick with sweat and it gives you an advantage over Logan…in more ways than one. You’re slippery and fast and his reaction time is slower as his gaze lingers on every inch of exposed, glistening skin.

He pounces and were he not already so close, you would have been able to dodge him. Your feet don't have a chance to gain traction though as you scramble to get away. He swiftly grabs you by the waist, tossing you over his shoulder.

The action is fast enough that it steals your breath away. You're kicking and protesting as he carries you out of the gym. All the tech and weaponry in the Danger Room have borne the brunt of Logan's claws too many times, so the two of you have been banished to the school's gymnasium. Logan takes two stairs at a time as he carries you off in the direction of your shared room. It’s far from the student’s quarters and the walls are soundproof from back when Logan’s nightmares were more frequent. They’re all but gone since you maneuvered yourself into his life.

(It’s technically still his room only, but he was never going to ask you to move in, so you’ve just started sneaking things in and leaving items behind until it was obvious. You know he’s noticed and cleared space for your abandoned items in his dresser, closet, and bathroom. He’s just too stubborn to admit defeat. And you’re happy to spare his ego and let him be the one to finally mention it.)

If anyone in the mansion hears your grumbling and cursing, they tune you out–already accustomed to you and Logan bickering. Your protests die in your throat as you take a sharp intake of air when he smacks your ass, his large hand definitely leaving a stinging mark. If it's not already red, he may spank you one or two more times...especially if you mouth off.

Once in his room, he tosses you onto his bed but you bounce back up and try to shove past him, a half-assed attempt to keep playing cat and mouse, to make him chase you some more. He hooks you around the waist and throws you back on the bed, this time bearing down on top of you. His body is strong, solid, and heavy with adamantium as he pins you down, his chest vibrating with a growl.

"No more talking."

"Oh baby, that's not how I fuck," you moan and hook one of your legs around his waist. One hand grabs his ass, giving you leverage to grind against him.

"Such a filthy mouth," he snarls, his teeth grazing your jaw before he nips at your ear. His facial hair scratches at your skin, raising goosebumps along your flesh. Your nipples tighten and ache, desperate for his mouth.

"You love it."

His chest vibrates with another deep growl just before he claims your mouth, your lips smashing together hard enough that your teeth make contact, and your lips get caught in the crossfire. There's a brief taste of iron but whomever it belongs to heals quickly, the sting relieved as his tongue delves into your mouth.

"Can't...stand it...anymore. Can't take it," he groans as he kisses you. He pulls away just to kiss and bite along your jaw, down the column of your throat.

"Poor thing, powerless to resist me?" you keen, your breath hitching as he bites your neck a little harder, his tongue soothing it a second later. You grind your hips, answering with your own moans, proud of yourself for getting a rise out of him. Your nails dig into his back, definitely tearing at his shirt. He pulls his head back and hisses as the sensation rides the border between pain and pleasure. He reaches for you, his hands shackling your wrists and pinning your arms by your head.

"Be a good girl for once and don't move," he commands you, releasing your hands so that he can take off his shirt and rip off his belt. He yanks your pants down, getting increasingly agitated as he struggles with the fabric. With your shirt, he pulls it up until it bunches around your wrists, effectively shackling you. As for your sports bra and underwear…

"Nonono!"

SNIKT!

"Sonuvabitch!" you curse as he cuts the fabric with one of his claws. He just chuckles. He's slowed down just for a moment to drag a single claw down the middle of your sports bra, along the line of your cleavage. Your breasts spill out as he cuts the straps next. Your breasts are bared to him and he lavishes them with the attention you crave. You no longer keep your hands above your head as you card your fingers through his thick hair, pulling on it as you arch your back and press your breasts further into his hands and mouth. He bites at your supple flesh as his fingers knead your nipples into aching peaks. A mewling whimper escapes your lips as you roll your hips against him some more but his jeans are still on.

"Are you gonna fuck me, or do I need to get myself off?" you challenge him while biting your bottom lip. His answer comes after he slides a hand down your body and rubs your pussy through your soaked underwear.

"Nobody makes you come but me, sweetheart," he says gruffly, his own arousal evident in his voice before he kisses you again, deeply, passionately, possessive. He steals your breath away and when he lets you up for air you gasp, your chest heaving as he's pinned your breasts between you. You love the feeling of his chest hair against your skin.

"Then prove it…Bub," you gasp, surprising yourself and giggling at the use of the nickname. He shakes his head with amusement, only slightly cringing at your joke.

The next thing you know, he's sitting up, unzipping his jeans and ripping your underwear off without the use of his claws. (You don't wear your nicer panties when sparring with Logan is on the schedule.) The sports bra, you'd thought you could save. His dick is straining against his boxer briefs but you hardly get a glimpse of his perfectly thick cock before he's pushing inside you.

Normally, you like it when he fingers you first. When he stretches you out with two or three fingers while he tongues and sucks on your clit. You lament the opportunity for beard burn on your inner thighs but you’ll make up for that some other time. For now you’re just as desperate for him, as he is for you.

"Mmm fuck," he growls as he bottoms out. "So fucking tight. So wet. Love the scent of you on my sheets." He hunches forward, burying his face in the curve of your neck. He bites and sucks a mark into your skin. It'll heal, but at least the two of you will know it was there. You rake your fingers through his hair, pulling on it, your nails scraping his scalp. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles in the small of his back.

"Yes, Logan, yes baby fuck me. Fuck me hard. Make me come," you urge him on, trying to roll your hips to match his rapid rhythm, but you can't keep up. The sensations are intense and overwhelming, until you've lost the strength in your arms and you just let yourself go. You submit to him in every way, allowing yourself to be used for his pleasure just as you know your pleasure is his. "Fuck, Logan, I'm so close…" you moan.

Your body is languid, liquid heat beneath him, your skin scorching hot no matter where he touches you. He drags his big hands down your body, starting at the base of your throat, over your heartbeat, kneading your breasts before sliding them down your stomach and grasping your hips. Changing pace to long, hard strokes, he rubs your clit with his thumb as he raises your hips off the bed. Your hips start bucking like you're trying to get away from the intensity of his thumb on your clit, but he keeps pulling you back to him, thrusting deeper as you two battle for release. You cry out, coming so hard your legs are shaking. You reach out to him and he extends one of his arms. Your fingers dig into his forearm as you hold on, feeling like you could fly off the bed, but Logan has you. He'll never let you go.

"Ohh, fuck," he groans, his mouth hanging open and his lips almost pulling back to bare his teeth like an animal. His eyes roll back as he nearly loses himself to the feeling of your orgasm, the pulsing sensation of your pussy squeezing him tight. You keep rolling your body, pushing and pulling with your grip on his arm,  drawing out your climax. His fingers dig into your hips. He finally bares his teeth, growling, his face twisting into a feral snarl. "Fuck, baby."

He pulls out suddenly and you cry, mourning the loss of being full. But then he flips you over, fast enough to elicit a startled giggle. His smug chuckle is lost as you end up face down on the bed. You're about to get up to your hands and knees when Logan slams back into you, going deeper from this position. You moan into his pillow, noting his own unique smell of leather, cigars, and pine. His hand holds onto your shoulder for leverage as he starts piston his hips at a rapid pace, fucking into you from behind, pressing you into the mattress.

“Don’t stop. Keep going,” you urge him on, knowing that the moment it’s too much for you, if you say stop, he will. “Oh my god, fu--I'm gonna come again," you whimper. He lets out a rugged laugh and spanks your ass...once, twice, and then rubbing your skin to soothe the red marks before he grabs your ass to help you push back and ride his dick.

"Yesss," he hisses, "Yeah sweetheart, let it go, come again. I've got you," he grunts, the words oddly sweet in contrast to the pounding you're getting.

Your next orgasm is matched by his. You can't see him behind you but you know what it looks like when Logan comes. You love the way his nose scrunches up, his head falls back and then rolls to the side like he's about to crack his neck. Then he shakes head like he's clearing his head from the fog of mind-blowing sex. His body shudders, all of his muscles are tense, flexed, rock hard. If you were on your back, you'd be kissing and nipping at his broad chest as you rake your nails down his abs. For now, you can take in the sight of him by straining to look over your shoulder. His thrusts stutter to a complete stop as he fills you up.

"Yes, baby…yes, feels so good," you pant, praising him. The corner of his mouth turns up in a proud smirk. He takes a few deep breaths and slides his hand up and down your spine. You fully sink into the mattress, boneless and spent, and he leans over you, propping most of his weight on his arms beside you.

Your breathing synchronizes as you lay there together. He peppers your shoulders with open mouth kisses and gently nips at the curve of your neck as you expose it.

"You like that, sweetheart?" he murmurs softly in your ear.

"Mmm, yes," you answer, "always." Your eyes are closed as you focus on the remnants of pleasure coursing through your body. You press your ass against him, earning yourself a few more lazy, taunting thrusts from him. He pulls out, his dick still hard and throbbing with a stamina unmatched by your own. You clench your legs shut, determined to keep his seed inside you, as you both love a messy round two. He rolls onto his side, taking you with him until you're on your back and looking up at him.

"You drive me crazy, baby girl," he grumbles…with obvious affection as he nuzzles you and then softly kisses you.

"You love it," you defend yourself playfully.

"Mmmhmm," he growls his agreement before kissing you again, one hand slowly exploring the planes of your body once more. He loves it when you play hard to get. He loves it when you talk back and antagonize him. He loves having a partner who keeps up with him and then still kicks his ass in training. He loves it when you challenge his lone wolf act. He loves it all, because it makes these moments happen--moments where two seemingly invincible people can come together and feel safe enough to love and be loved.

-----

It's been 2 years since I posted any fics... I hope ya'll liked this! Let me know!

p.s. made a wolverine specific sideblog: @feral4wolverine

[elodieunderglass]

Although you might mistake this for trees, this is actually a Giant Land Wobbegong, a large flat fish with natural camouflage that resembles a forest floor. Land Wobbegongs lay flat, partially covered by grit and loose material, to hide from predators and surprise prey. This one is disturbed by an inquisitive dog. Although carnivorous, Land Wobbegongs are harmless to large mammals, preying largely on isopods and dust bunnies - it may look shocking but the dog is in no danger. Still, it’s not advisable to let your dog bother them; these shy giants have slow metabolisms and this one is expending needless energy.

I’m sorry but I’m VERY bothered by this video, and you all have to watch it with me, and then sit around me patiently, with candles burning, while I go like this

😶

🙏

Until I emerge from my trance with the perfect joke, okay

[canadianfangirl-95]

We gotta work this out 

Pedro Pascal x f!reader 

Summary: Pedro looks extra delicious in his workout gear and newly toned muscles. You take up the opportunity to torture him a bit and get some much-needed discipline.  

Or; Pedro fucks you in your home gym because he’s trying to work out and you can’t stop teasing him.  

Warnings; Look up back extensions on ab bench and you’ll understand my thought process. Smut, Minors DNI, 18+, age gap relationship, dirty talk, swearing, fingering, PIV, spanking, multiple orgasms, sex on exercise equipment. No thoughts, just that fucking bicep picture. 

Word count 2600

Pedro has only been back from New York for a few weeks and will be leaving to film in London soon enough. This is the first year your non-profit is going through tax season, so you’ve been chained to your desk and unable to travel with him until later in the Spring. When he is home, he’s busy with meetings, script work and working out. Working out. Ugh, that seems to be the biggest pain in your butt. It’s bad enough you barely have time with your husband right now, but he also has to look so damn good as he’s prepping for Avengers.  

Every day that he saunters into the kitchen, grabs his green juice in his t-shirt, gym shorts, socks hiked far too high up his strong calves and running shoes before patting down the steps into the basement home gym, leaves your mouth watering. Your eyes trailing behind him desperate to take a bite into his bulging bicep. With all the extra energy burning he’s doing in the gym; it leaves him too tired for some extracurricular activities in the evening. It’s not his fault, you think, you knew this may happen when marrying an older man.  

A girl gets desperate at times like this though, and you decide to take matters into your own hands. Once you’re dressed in a tight sports bra that accentuates your breasts, light grey  gym spandex shorts and your running shoes, you bounce down the steps with a sly grin on your face.  

Pushing the door open, you’re immediately greeted with the sound of Purple Rain by Prince blasting through the overhead speakers. The erotic groans coming from the far wall draw your attention immediately and you’re just in time to catch him as he pushes a set of weights across the mat. The sleeves on his black t-shirt are rolled up and his biceps glisten with sweat and use. Your eyes dilate as you take in his fit form and you do your best to settle yourself before skipping over.  

Pedro wipes his damp brow with the back of his hand before noticing you striding towards him. His mouth curls slightly at the sight of you in your workout gear, “Hey baby, what’re you doin’ in here?” He asks, wrapping his hand around your waist and pulling you in with one arm to place a chaste kiss to your temple.  

You place your hands on his sweaty chest as you keen at his embrace. “Oh just, wanted to get a workout in, if you know what I mean.” You say with a wink, drawing a tiny circle on his chest and eyeing him with the sweetest doe eyes you can muster.  

He eyes you for a moment before his eyebrows raise, realizing your proposition. “Baby,” he begins, shaking his head but pulling you closer towards him. “I’m sorry but I gotta finish this session. Jason’s all over about me about making weight before I leave for London.” 

“I know, I know.” You say shyly, “I’m not here to distract you.”  

Pedro looks at you suspiciously, “You’re not?” 

Shaking your head, you bite your bottom lip. “Nope, just here to stretch and get some exercising done. Swear.” You say with a smile, holding your pinky out for him.  

He pulls his mouth into that twisted half smirk that gets you every time, looking down at your pinky dangling in the air. “Good, no reason we can’t share the space.” He raises his hand and interlocks his pinky with yours. “No funny business missy.”  

Raising your hands up in the air in mock surrender, you step back and walk over to the mats on the other side of the room. He watches the way your hips sway as you walk, and he mutters under his breath. “Just here to workout my ass.” Before returning to his weights.  

You sit down on the mat and grab your phone, taking over the overhead speaker and turning on your favourite sexy time playlist. Side to Side by Ariana Grande booms over the speaker and Pedro stills in his spot to glance at you, recognizing the song immediately. You shrug and holler over, “Helps me get my body really fluid, and moving you know.” He shakes his head, and you wink before turning back to your phone.  

He finishes pushing the weights and begins to collect them off the dolly, lifting them effortlessly to place back on the racking system. He spares a glance in your direction; you’re standing with your legs stretched as apart as they can go and leaning forward to stretch. He stares at the way your ass looks in those damn shorts and bites his lip. “Fuck me.” He quickly shakes the obscene thoughts from his head to focus on what he needs to do next so he can quickly finish his session and go for a very cold shower.  

Grabbing his hand weights, he goes to stand in front of one of the walls of mirrors, curling the weights upwards, his biceps bulging with each movement. He takes a deep breath in as he wonders what you’re up to now. He figures a quick glance can’t hurt so he lifts his eyes to spy on you through the mirror. You’re turned facing his back on the mat now. Legs spread open in a butterfly with your eyes closed, deeply breathing and focusing on trying to push your legs further open with your hands. Your chest rises and falls dramatically with each deep breath as you push through the pain.  

The weights in his hands suddenly feel 20 pounds heavier and they dangle as he sucks his teeth. “That girl’s gonna be the death of me.” He says, shaking his head and shifting his weight, picking a random ceiling tile to stare at as he finishes his set and tries to ignore the bulge that is slowly forming in his bright blue shorts.  

Pedro finishes his weightlifting and grabs his green juice before moving to the treadmill to do his run. He gets onto the machine and amps up the speed. Jogging, he hears the undeniable sound of you moaning. He looks over in your direction and sees you at the ab extension bench. You’re leaning over, your legs locked in as you lean over the top of it. Your ass raising higher in the air as your body goes down, an illicit moan escapes your lips as your body comes back up again. His Adams apple bobs as he takes a large gulp, his attention is drawn enough for him to falter and stumble on the treadmill, muttering a curse as he quickly grabs hold of the side rails and stretches his feet onto the landings on either side of the track.  

He takes a deep breath as he stops the machine to give him a moment to settle, before glancing up one more time at your position. You lean forward again and a lump forms in his throat as he spots a damp spot on your shorts, right at the heart of your core. There’s no way you’ve been working out hard enough to develop a sweat with all the teasing you’ve done, so there’s only one thing that could cause a build up of dampness in his favourite spot in the world.  

“Fuck it.” He mutters before jumping off the treadmill and stomping in your direction. He is a man, but not a strong man, not when it comes to you. He’ll take the tongue lashing from Jason if it means he gets a few moments of reprieve with his wife. You’re still in a downwards position when he comes up behind you, you barely catch a glimpse of his lustful look in the mirror as you arch back up before his strong hand finds the middle of your back and pushes you back down. “Ugh, babe!” You let out a huff as you brace yourself facing down on the bench.  

His hand moves smoothly up and down your back as he tsks at you, “Don’t give me any of that. You’ve been teasing me all this time, getting you and myself all worked up. Can’t you feel what you do to me baby.” He says, his voice cool as ice as he presses his growing bulge into your ass. You whimper at the sensation of him being so close to where you want. You peak up at the mirror in front of you and your eyes lock. There’s nothing but darkness in his as he continues to rub up and down your spine.  

“You came down here, wanting me to fuck you isn’t that right.” Pedro hums.  

Taking a deep breath, you nod shakily.  

“Words, admit what you did.” He says, shaking his head.  

“Fuck,” you whisper, “yes. Fuck, I’ve just missed you so much and I missed your cock and fuck, baby I just need you so bad.” You stammer, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as your pussy clenches around nothing, desperate to feel him on you.  

“Sh, sh.” He begins, his hand travelling further down to cup one of your ass cheeks. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” His hands grab the top of your shorts and he swiftly drags them down to rest halfway down your thighs. He smirks as you moan at the sudden feeling of the hot air against your bare core. “Knew it.” Pedro whispers. Bringing his hand up, his fingers gently trace along your wet lips, and you groan. “I know you’re ready for me baby, always are, but I wanna have a little fun. Just keep your head down for me.”  

Before you can question him, one of his thick fingers breaks through your hole and plunges deep. You jolt forward slightly and bite your lip, your pussy clenching around the digit already. He slowly pumps his finger in and out, rubbing your ass and lower back with his other hand. Just as you adjusted to the curl and depth of his finger, he inserts another.  

His fingers are thicker than any other man you’ve ever been with, and the stretch makes your lip quiver every time. “Fuuuuck.” You groan as you tuck your head down against the cool material of the bench. The contact against your forehead gives you a distraction long enough to let you catch your breath, so you don’t drench his fingers so quickly.  

Pedro clicks his tongue, “Don’t hold out on me, I need this as much as you do. Just, let go.” With that, a third finger fills your tiny hole, and you can’t contain yourself any longer as he pumps you senseless with his fingers. You feel the tightness and blissful feeling wash over you as your walls clench around his fingers and gush around his hand. Your head flies up and you open your eyes just enough to see the way to stares at your pussy as he fucks you through your orgasm. He finally pulls out of you with a flick of his fingers, to send one final squirt out of your tense hole and onto his shorts. You let out a breath of relief as your body settles post-orgasm.  

“That’s my girl.” He whispers, taking the top of his shorts and boxers and shoving down to rest below his heavy balls.  

You wait, knowing what’s about to happen. He lines up with your dripping center and in one fell swoop, buries himself inside you to the base. You both moan at the righteous feeling of being together again as man and wife. His size never ceases to amaze you as even the stretch from his three fingers was barely able to prepare you for his cock. Catching each other’s eyes in the mirror again, you nod and bite your lip. He smirks and begins pulling out and slamming back into you. Your body jolts forward bent over on the bench with each deep and aching thrust. His hands grip your hips as he focuses on fucking you as hard and fast as he can.  

“Fuck, you always take me so well baby.” He says, his hand raises up and strikes your right ass cheek swiftly. You let out a whimper at the pain but your pussy clenches around him. “You like that?” He asks (he knows you do), before smacking it again. He reveals in the way your skin bounces with each contact. “I’m not gonna last much longer baby, haven’t cum in days.” He moans as he feels you begin to tighten on his pulsing member.  

A few more thrusts and he presses his full body weight onto you, releasing inside you. The swell of his cock inside your already sensitive and fucked out core throws you into your second orgasm. Holding your breath as you tense up, you look up at the mirror and nearly drool at the fucked-out expression on his face. His dark eyes find yours again and he quickly grabs your ribs and hauls your body up, holding you up with his sweaty chest against your back, his bicep curling around your throat with his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Your hands flail up and grab hold of his bulging arm as he continues to shallowly thrust into you. The sensation is so overwhelming you feel the need to scream, so you quickly lean your face forward and bite down gently on his muscle to calm yourself and stop the squail that is sure to erupt from your throat as you finally come down from your intense high.  

Your jaw releases his skin, leaving a red mark. Your tongue tastes of his sweat and your breathing is as laboured as his as he steady’s you as you try to find your footing again. The unmistakable tell of your dirty actions begins to slide down your leg from your aching core. Pedro coughs quietly into his hand, before stepping to the side and grabbing a sweat towel. He kneels down onto his knee as you brace yourself on the bench in front you. He calmly wipes your legs clean, the cloth travels up your thighs and you shudder as it makes contact with your lips to clean them as well. Once satisfied, he grabs your shorts and pulls them up your clammy thighs back into position.  

Turning to face him, you smile. “Well, that was, needed.” You grin deviously. 

Shaking his head, he places his hands on his hips, “You can say that.” He winks and steps back.  

Biting your lip, you say. “I guess you gotta get back to your session.” A touch of disappointment lacing your words.  

Pedro looks at your eyes and then away momentarily, “Nah.” He starts, your head snaps up in attention. “I was actually thinking of taking a shower.” He eyes you lovingly with that damn smirk, before saying, “Was wondering if my wife could join me. Looks like we both worked up quite a sweat.”  

Your eyes glisten as you take his extended hand and follow him up the stairs, leaving only the rhythmic sound of Father Figure by George Michael to fill the space.