#T-Kernel | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

Text

WHEREVER YOU WANT IT, BABY, I’M TAKING YOU THERE!

↳ being married to gojo satoru means never knowing peace. or underwear.

4.4k words of domestic filth inspired from that one tiktok audio

cw: light degradation, praise kink, mild dacryphilia, food play (whipped cream, batter), dry humping, mild exhibitionism, marking (hickeys, biting), mild overstimulation, explicit language, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : made a version with suguru for my bbg lyra here!

ON THE COUCH.ᐟ

you’re sunk into the couch, legs tucked under the plush throw you’ve had since forever, the one satoru swears smells like your shampoo. the TV’s glow bathes the living room in soft blues, your favorite show’s theme song chiming through the speakers.

you’re halfway through a bowl of popcorn, kernels scattered on your lap, determined to actually watch this episode without your husband derailing you. it’s your comfort rewatch, the one you’ve seen enough times to recite the lines, but it still hits every time. you’re mid-bite when you feel him—satoru, your personal chaos agent, already sprawled across your lap like a cat who’s never heard of personal space.

his head’s nestled against your stomach, white hair a mess from where he’s been nuzzling into you, and you can feel the warmth of his breath through your—his—t-shirt, the one you stole years ago and never gave back. it’s loose, slipping off one shoulder, and his fingers are already sneaking under the hem, tracing lazy circles on your skin.

“baby,” he whines, voice low and syrupy, lips brushing just under your ribs, “you’ve seen this episode a million times. i haven’t been in your mouth once today.��

you don’t look at him, eyes glued to the screen, though you’re barely processing the dialogue. “you said you wanted to cuddle,” you mutter, popping another kernel in your mouth, trying to sound unbothered. your heart’s already picking up, traitorously aware of how his touch sparks heat under your skin.

“i am cuddling,” he insists, shifting so his body presses closer, one muscled thigh sliding between your legs, nudging them apart. you can feel the denim of his jeans through your thin shorts, rough against your inner thighs, and the warmth pooling low in your belly betrays you.

“just, y’know, with benefits.” he adds, his lips curling into a grin you don’t need to see, and he nips at the soft skin above your waistband, making you jolt.

“satoru,” you warn, but it’s weak, half-hearted, and he knows it. his hand slips higher under your shirt, fingers grazing the underside of your breast, thumb brushing just shy of where you want it. you shift, trying to focus on the TV, but he’s relentless, mouthing at your stomach now, slow, wet kisses that leave your skin tingling. “i’m watching.”

“watch, then,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble against your hip. he tugs your shorts down an inch, just enough to expose the lacy edge of your panties, and his lips find the sensitive spot right above. “don’t miss the good part, sweetheart.” his tone’s teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a hunger that makes your breath hitch.

he pulls you forward, guiding you to straddle his thigh, the sudden pressure of his leg against your core making you gasp. your hands grip the couch cushions, popcorn bowl tipping precariously, but he steadies it with a chuckle. “careful, baby. don’t waste snacks.”

his hand’s between your legs now, fingers brushing over your panties, slow and deliberate, feeling how you’re already soaking through. “fuck,” he breathes, almost to himself, eyes glinting up at you, blue and predatory in the TV’S light. “you’re this wet and still pretending you care about your show?”

he presses harder, circling your clit through the fabric, and you bite your lip, trying to stifle a moan. the characters on screen are arguing, but it’s just noise now, drowned out by the thump of your pulse.

“shh,” he whispers, when a soft whimper escapes you, his free hand tugging the throw blanket over your lap. “can’t hear the dialogue.” he’s mocking you, smirking as he slips his fingers under your panties, grazing your slick folds.

you’re grinding against his thigh without meaning to, the friction of denim and his deliberate touches pushing you closer to the edge. every time you get too loud—a gasped “satoru”or a shaky moan—he leans up, kissing you sloppy to muffle the sound, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s claiming it.

“quiet, baby,” he teases, pulling back to nip your bottom lip. “you’re drownin’ out the plot.”

you’re a mess already, shorts bunched around your thighs, panties pushed to the side, and he’s barely touched you. the blanket’s slipping, and he grabs it, draping it over your shoulders with a grin.

“perfect,” he says, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “you love this thing, don’t you? let’s put it to good use.” he shoves it against your mouth, pressing it there as he slides two fingers inside you, curling them deep. your muffled cry vibrates into the fabric, and he laughs, low and filthy. “fits, doesn’t it? you and your cozy shit.”

you’re trembling, thighs shaking as he works you, his thigh still pressed against you, encouraging the desperate roll of your hips. the TV’S forgotten, just a blur of colors and sounds, but he’s not done playing.

“eyes on the screen,” he orders, free hand gripping your chin to turn your head. “this is your favorite part, right? where they confess or whatever?” you can’t answer, too lost in the stretch of his fingers, the way he’s dragging you toward release. your moans are louder now, barely stifled by the blanket, and he pulls it away, tossing it aside. “fuck it,” he growls, “i wanna hear you.”

he’s bored of teasing, you can tell, because he’s moving fast now, yanking your shorts and panties down completely, leaving them tangled around one ankle.

“over the table,” he says, voice rough, and before you can process, he’s got you bent over the coffee table, popcorn bowl knocked to the floor, kernels crunching under his feet. your hands brace against the wood, cool against your flushed skin, and he’s behind you, jeans unzipped, pressing into you in one slow, deep thrust that makes you sob.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, hands gripping your hips so hard you’ll bruise. “you feel so good.” the table creaks with every snap of his hips, the tv still blaring behind you, your favorite character’s voice a mocking backdrop to the way he’s ruining you. he leans forward, chest against your back, and grabs your chin again, forcing you to look at the screen. “don’t tap out now,” he pants, thrusting harder, “this is your comfort episode, right?”

you’re crying now, tears of pleasure and overwhelm streaking your cheeks, your body shaking as he drives you toward the edge. every thrust is deliberate, hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and his voice is a constant stream of filth “love how you take me,” “you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” “gonna make you come so hard you forget this stupid show.”

you’re incoherent, babbling his name, nails scratching at the table as your orgasm hits, a white-hot wave that leaves you trembling, clenching around him.

he’s not far behind, groaning your name as he spills inside you, his thrusts slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last shudder from you. when he finally pulls out, you’re a wreck, collapsing against the table, panties still dangling off one ankle, tears smudging your mascara. he’s laughing, breathless, pulling you back onto the couch and into his lap, the throw blanket draped over you both like nothing happened.

“c’mere,” he murmurs, softer now, kissing your temple as he grabs the remote. he rewinds the episode, smirking as he feeds you a piece of popcorn and you’re too blissed out to do anything else but chew.

“guess we both got our favorites tonight,” he says, voice smug but warm, his arm tight around you. your legs are still shaking, and you nuzzle into his chest, the theme song starting again as you mumble something about hating him. he just laughs, kissing your hair, and you know you’re in for it all over again tomorrow.

IN THE BED.ᐟ

you’re drifting in that hazy space between sleep and waking, the kind where the world feels soft and warm, like you’re cocooned in a dream you don’t want to leave. the sheets are tangled around your legs, your tank top rucked up from tossing in the night, and you’re vaguely aware of the faint morning light slipping through the curtains.

but then you feel it—satoru’s weight shifting behind you, the mattress dipping as he presses closer, his bare chest warm against your back. his breath ghosts over your neck, slow and deliberate, and you know he’s been awake for a while, just waiting for you to stir.

his arm’s already slung over your waist, fingers splaying across your stomach, possessive but gentle, like he’s anchoring you to him. you feel him, hard and insistent, grinding lazily between your thighs, the thin fabric of your panties doing nothing to dull the heat. “mm,” he hums, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice thick with sleep and something hungrier.

“good morning, wife.” his words are soft, but there’s that edge to them, the one that makes your heart stutter even half-asleep.

you groan, burrowing your face into the pillow, the cool cotton a brief escape from his intensity. “satoru, it’s too early,” you mumble, voice muffled, though you’re already shifting back against him, instinctive, your body betraying your weak protest.

he only chuckles low, vibrating against your spine, and he presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, slow and wet, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.

“never too early for you, angel,” he murmurs, his hand sliding under your tank top, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then higher, cupping your breast with a reverence that feels almost too sweet for him. his thumb grazes your nipple, teasing it to a peak, and you suck in a breath, eyes fluttering open despite yourself.

“been dreamin’ about you,” he says, kissing down your shoulder now, each press of his lips a deliberate worship. “couldn’t help myself.”

“you’re so creepy,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it, just a sleepy laugh as you turn your head to peek at him.

he’s already staring, blue eyes soft and molten in the dim light, his white hair a tousled halo against the pillow. he’s grinning, that lovesick, idiot grin that makes your chest ache, and you can’t help but reach back, fingers tangling in his hair. “watching me sleep again?”

“guilty,” he admits, not even pretending to be ashamed. he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can lean over you, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose. “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful. thank you for marryin’ me.” his voice cracks a little, like he means it too much, and you’re torn between rolling your eyes and melting completely.

“sappy idiot,” you whisper, but you’re smiling, pulling him closer until his lips find yours, soft and unhurried, all morning haze and warmth. t

he kiss deepens, his tongue slipping against yours, and you feel his hand slide lower, tugging your panties down just enough to press his fingers between your thighs. you gasp into his mouth, and he swallows it, murmuring, “shh, let me say good morning properly.”

it’s slow at first, all lazy touches and quiet gasps, his fingers circling your clit with a patience that’s rare for him. you’re still half-draped in sleep, your moans muffled against the pillow as he works you open, his lips trailing down your spine, leaving a constellation of hickeys where your neck meets your shoulder.

“mine,” he whispers, over and over, like a prayer, each word punctuated by a kiss, a nip, a mark that says you’re his. you’re soaking now, hips rocking against his hand, and he groans, low and needy, grinding harder against your thigh.

“satoru,” you breathe, voice shaky, and he hums, pleased, flipping you onto your back with a gentleness that makes your heart flip. you blink up at him, and he’s a vision—hair messy, eyes glowing with something too tender, too raw.

“wanna see your face, angel,” he says, grinning as he leans down, kissing your forehead, then your eyelids, then your lips again, like he can’t get enough. his fingers are still moving, slow and deliberate, and you’re trembling, legs spreading wider to give him more.

he pulls back just enough to tug your panties off completely, tossing them somewhere in the sheets, and you’re bare beneath him, tank top pushed up to expose your stomach. he kisses lower, lips grazing your navel, then the soft skin just above your core, his tongue tracing the outline of your ring finger where your wedding band glints in the light.

“fuck, i love this,” he murmurs, sucking gently on the digit, his eyes locked on yours. “love you.”

you’re a mess already, whining when he settles between your thighs, his breath hot against your slick folds. he doesn’t tease for once, just dives in, tongue lapping at you like he’s starving, and you cry out, hands fisting in his hair.

he’s relentless, sucking and licking until you’re bucking against his face, and he’s moaning like he’s the one getting off, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you still.

“taste so good,” he pants, pulling back just to spit on you, watching it drip before diving back in, and you’re sobbing, the pleasure too much, too perfect.

when you’re close, he crawls back up, kissing you sloppy so you taste yourself on his tongue, and you feel him nudge against you, hard and leaking. “ready, baby?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, and you nod, breathless, wrapping your legs around his waist.

he slides in slow, inch by inch, and you both groan, the stretch so good it makes your toes curl. he’s deep, filling you completely, and he stills, just for a moment, letting you adjust, his lips brushing yours.

“love you,” he says again, thrusting slow and deep, his hand finding yours, fingers interlacing. your ring glints between your joined hands, and he kisses it, then you, his eyes never leaving yours. it’s intense, the kind of eye contact that strips you bare, and you’re both pathetic, gasping messes, your nails digging into his back as he moves. “you’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice breaking, “my wife, my everything.”

you’re coming before you realize it, a slow, rolling wave that has you clinging to him, sobbing his name, and he’s right behind you, groaning into your neck as he spills inside, his thrusts stuttering. e

he doesn’t pull out, just stays there, buried deep, his weight grounding you as you both catch your breath.

he nuzzles into your hair, rubbing slow circles on your back, and murmurs, “five more minutes. need to be home a little longer.”

you hum, content, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek. the sheets are a mess, your tank top’s somewhere around your collarbone, and you can feel him softening inside you, but neither of you moves. he’s drawing lazy patterns on your hip, whispering how much he loves being married to you, and you’re grinning, too in love to care about the morning chill or the fact that you’ll need to wash these sheets later.

“you’re such an idiot,” you mumble, kissing his chest, and he laughs, soft and warm, pulling you closer like he’ll never let go.

ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER.ᐟ

you’re in the zone, apron tied loosely around your waist, the kitchen alive with the hum of your favorite pop playlist—satoru’s insistence that it’s “our jam” still makes you laugh. flour dusts your hands, the air sweet with vanilla and sugar as you whisk pancake batter, the morning light streaming through the window.

you’re flipping a pancake, singing off-key to some cheesy chorus, when you feel him—satoru, your walking disaster, sneaking up behind you. his arms snake around your waist, firm chest pressing against your back, and his chin rests on your shoulder, breath hot against your neck.

“baby,” he purrs, voice low and playful, lips grazing your ear, “you’re too sexy in this apron. makes me wanna eat you instead.” his hands slide under the fabric, fingers teasing the hem of your shorts, and you feel him, already hard, grinding subtly against your ass.

you snort, not turning around, focusing on the skillet. “you ate an hour ago,” you say, voice steady despite the heat creeping up your spine. you flip the pancake, the sizzle masking the hitch in your breath as his fingers dip just under your waistband, tracing the skin there.

“not talkin’ about food,” he murmurs, licking a smear of batter off your cheek, slow and deliberate, his tongue warm and teasing.

you swat at him with the spatula, half-laughing, but it’s shaky, your body already betraying you. “satoru, i’m cooking!” you protest, but he’s undeterred, hands slipping lower, tugging your shorts down an inch to expose the lacy edge of your panties.

“and i’m starvin’,” he whines, dramatic as ever, but there’s a growl beneath it, hungry and raw. before you can argue, he’s lifting you onto the counter, effortless, like you weigh nothing. the mixing bowl wobbles, batter sloshing, and you grip his shoulders, flour-covered hands leaving white prints on his black t-shirt.

“satoru, the pancakes—” you start, but he’s already between your legs, spreading them with a nudge of his hips, his grin wicked.

“fuck the pancakes,” he says, grabbing the whipped cream can from the fridge, shaking it with a flourish. “gonna taste-test my favorite dessert.” he sprays a messy heart on your inner thigh, the cold cream making you gasp, and you laugh, shoving at his chest, but it turns into a moan as he leans down, licking it clean, his tongue slow and filthy, eyes locked on yours.

“satoru, you’re wasting it!” you scold, but your voice cracks, your hands tangling in his hair as he nips at the sensitive skin.

“waste?” he scoffs, pulling back to lick a stripe of batter off your finger, sucking it into his mouth with a low groan. “this is art.” he tugs your shorts and panties to the side, not even bothering to pull them off, and dives in, mouth hot and relentless against your core.

you cry out, head tipping back, the counter hard under you as you grip the edge, knocking over a measuring cup. flour scatters across the surface, and he’s moaning into you, like he’s the one getting off, his tongue circling your clit with a precision that makes your thighs shake.

“fuck, you taste better than anything,” he pants, pulling back just to spit on you, watching it drip before diving back in, his fingers joining now, two sliding inside you, curling deep. you’re a mess, gasping his name, your apron bunched around your waist, flour smudged on your thighs where his hands grip you.

he grabs the whipped cream again, spraying a dollop right above your clit, and licks it off with a filthy moan, the cold cream and his warm tongue a dizzying contrast that has you bucking against his face.

you’re close already, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming, but he’s not done playing. he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and grabs a spoonful of batter from the bowl, smearing it across your collarbone. “messy girl,” he teases, leaning in to lick it off, his teeth grazing your skin.

you’re whining, desperate, pulling at his shirt, and he finally gives in, unzipping his jeans and pushing inside you in one swift thrust, the stretch making you sob. the spatula clatters to the floor, and you’re clutching his shoulders, nails digging in as he moves, fast and deep, the counter creaking under you.

“mm, let’s make every mornin’ cream-filled,” he groans, licking more batter off your neck, his thrusts relentless, knocking measuring spoons and a bag of sugar to the floor. you’re incoherent, babbling his name, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drives you higher.

“so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmurs, grabbing your hand, sucking the flour off your fingers as he fucks you, his other hand circling your clit until you’re screaming, the orgasm hitting hard, your body shaking, clenching around him.

he’s right behind you, groaning your name as he spills inside, his thrusts slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last shudder. the oven beeps, shrill and insistent, but neither of you cares, too caught up in the messy, blissful aftermath.

you’re panting, slumped against him, the counter sticky with flour, cream, and batter, your apron a crumpled mess. he’s laughing, breathless, kissing you sloppy, his hands still roaming like he can’t stop touching you.

“fair trade,” he says, eyeing the skillet where the pancakes are charred to a crisp. you smack his chest, breathless, muttering, “you’re cleaning this.” he just grins, licking a stray bit of whipped cream off your neck, and says, “worth it.” you’re both giggling, feeding each other burnt pancake scraps, flour still smudged on his cheek, and you know the kitchen’s a disaster, but your marriage is thriving, sticky and sweet as the mess you’ve made.

ON THE STAIRS.ᐟ

you’re halfway up the stairs, each step creaking under your furious pace, the crumpled receipt in your hand like a smoking gun. “satoru, three hundred dollars on towels?” you snap, whirling around to glare at him, your voice echoing in the narrow stairwell. “towels? we have lights! electricity! a mortgage to pay!”

he’s trailing behind, hands stuffed in his sweatpants pockets, looking infuriatingly unbothered. his white hair catches the dim glow of the hallway light, and that stupid, lopsided grin is already curling his lips.

“they’re plush, baby,” he says, shrugging like he didn’t just blow a small fortune. “like you. thought it’d be romantic.” his blue eyes glint, teasing, and you can tell he’s not taking this seriously, which only makes your blood boil more.

“romantic?” you hiss, gripping the banister so hard your knuckles whiten. “we could’ve bought a new couch! or, i don’t know, groceries for a month?” you wave the receipt in his face, and he has the audacity to lean forward, squinting at it like it’s a museum exhibit. “you’re impossible!”

he steps closer, one stair below you, towering over you despite the height difference. “c’mon, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice dropping low, “you married a brat. you knew what you were gettin’ into.” his hand darts out, grabbing your ankle, and before you can react, he tugs you down a step, making you stumble into him.

“satoru!” you squeal, clutching his shoulders to keep from falling, the receipt fluttering to the floor.

“what?” he says, all mock innocence, but his hands are already sliding up your calves, rough and warm, stopping just under the hem of your shirt. “you’re cute when you’re mad.” he’s grinning now, full-on, and you want to smack him, but his chest is pressed against yours, and you can feel his heartbeat, steady and maddeningly calm.

“come here and spank me about it, then,” he murmurs, leaning in, lips brushing your jaw.

“you’re not gettin’ outta this,” you mutter, but your resolve’s crumbling, his breath hot against your skin as he kisses down your neck, slow and deliberate. your hands betray you, tangling in his hair, and he hums, pleased, nipping at your collarbone. “i’m serious, satoru—”

“so am i,” he growls, and suddenly he’s kissing you, hard and sloppy, backing you up against the railing until it digs into your spine. the stairwell’s narrow, the steps uneven under your feet, but he’s got you pinned, one hand hiking up your shirt, the other tugging your panties down just enough to bare you. “let’s see how mad you really are,” he says, pulling back to smirk, his fingers brushing between your thighs, finding you already wet. “oh, baby, really mad, huh?”

you groan, half in frustration, half in need, and he takes that as permission, lifting your leg to hook it over the next step up, the angle opening you to him. “satoru, we’re on the stairs,” you hiss, but it’s weak, your nails digging into his shoulders as he fumbles with his sweatpants, freeing himself. he’s hard, leaking, and when he presses against you, you both moan, the sound echoing in the tight space.

“fuck, you’re so perfect,” he groans, pushing in deep, one rough thrust that makes you cry out, your head tipping back against the wall.

the railing’s creaking, the stairs shifting under his weight, but he’s relentless, fast and feral, each snap of his hips driving you higher. “say you forgive me,” he growls, biting your neck, his teeth sharp enough to leave a mark. you’re sobbing, swearing at him—“you’re such an idiot”—but your body’s begging for more, hips rocking to meet his.

“never,” you gasp, but it’s a lie, and he knows it, laughing breathlessly as he sucks on your fingers, moaning around them like they’re candy.

“fuck, you’re so wet,” he pants, his pace brutal, the sound of skin on skin loud enough to drown out your protests. you claw at his back, still muttering about the towels, but it’s incoherent now, lost in the haze of him filling you, stretching you, owning you.

when you come, it’s with a scream, your body shaking, clenching around him so tight he curses, his thrusts stuttering as he follows, spilling inside you with a groaned “fuck, baby.”

you’re trembling, barely holding onto the railing, and he’s not done, his fingers slipping between your legs again, circling your oversensitive clit. “still mad?” he murmurs, smirking, and you hiss, “yes,” but your voice breaks, your legs wobbling as he keeps teasing, pushing you toward another edge.

“liar,” he laughs, kissing you soft now, a contrast to the chaos of before. you’re a wreck, panties tangled around one ankle, shirt rucked up, and he’s still grinning, like he’s won the lottery.

you try to step up, legs shaky, but you stumble, and he catches you, scooping you up bridal-style. “told you the towela were worth it,” he says, carrying you toward the bedroom.

you smack his chest, muttering about the mess on the stairs, but he just kisses your forehead, tossing you onto the bed with a, “round two for the towel tax?”

you’re too spent to argue, pulling him down for more, the receipt forgotten on the stairwell floor, your marriage as chaotic and perfect as ever.

4K notes · View notes

gojosconsort · 2 months ago

Note

hi amy!! I’m craving watching a movie with roomate toji and he bets that we can’t get him hard and then us proving him very very wrong 😇

𓂃୨ৎ mdni. teasing, edging, oral (m receiving), fingering, degradation, hair-pulling, spanking, creampie

“bet you can’t make it through this movie without gettin’ bored,” toji says, green eyes flicking to you, his feet propped on the coffee table, smirking at some dumb explosion scene. you’re in a tank top and shorts, legs thrown over his lap when you snort, shoving his shoulder. “me? bet you can’t keep your hands to yourself, perv.” he laughs, low and rough, leaning closer. “oh, darlin’, you think you’re hot enough to get me goin’? i don’t get hard that easy.”

your brows shoot up, pulse kicking. “wanna bet?” you taunt, smirking, already scheming. “i’ll have you beggin’ by the credits, toji.” he scoffs, spreading his arms, all smug. “go for it, sweetheart. you got no shot.”

game on. you start subtle, shifting so your thigh brushes his, bare skin grazing through his sweats. he doesn’t flinch, but his jaw tightens when you lean over for the popcorn, letting your chest brush his arm, tank top dipping just enough. “oops,” you murmur, fake-sweet, popping a kernel in your mouth, tongue flicking slow. his eyes dart to your lips, then away, but you catch the twitch in his pants. gotcha.

“you’re gonna have to try harder,” he drawls, but his voice is rougher now, and you’re not buying his act. you swing your legs off him, scooting closer, pressing your thigh flush against his. “this hard enough?” you whisper, fingers grazing his knee, trailing up slow, stopping just shy of his crotch. he shifts, smirking, but his breathing’s heavier, and the bulge in his sweats ain’t lying.

the movie’s just noise now—gunshots, car chases, whatever. you’re focused on him, sliding your hand higher, nails scraping his thigh through the fabric. “still good, big guy?” you tease, voice dripping honey, and he grunts, eyes locked on the screen like it’s his lifeline. “yep. nothin’ yet.” liar. you can see his cock straining, thick outline begging to be touched.

time to up the ante. you straddle his lap, bold as hell, grinding down just enough to feel him twitch under you. “how ‘bout now?” you purr, hands splaying on his chest, feeling his heartbeat jackhammer. he grips your hips, hard, but doesn’t stop you, eyes dark. “you’re playin’ dirty,” he mutters, voice gravel, and you grin, rocking slow, teasing. “thought you could handle me, toji.”

he’s losing it, hands sliding to your ass, squeezing, but you grab his wrists, pinning them to the couch. “nuh-uh. my rules.” you lean in, lips brushing his ear, whispering, “bet i can make you cum without even touchin’ it.” he laughs, but it’s strained, and you feel him throb beneath you, so you grind harder, circling your hips like you’re fucking him through the clothes.

“shit,” he hisses, head tipping back, and you know you’ve got him. you slide off, kneeling between his legs, tugging his sweats down just enough to free his cock—thick, heavy, leaking already. “fuck, look at you,” you murmur, not touching, just blowing a soft breath over the tip, making him groan. “thought you weren’t easy, huh?”

“keep talkin’, i’ll shut you up,” he growls, but you lean closer, letting your lips hover, teasing without contact. “try me,” you challenge, and he grabs your hair, not gentle, guiding you closer. you resist, smirking, and instead drag a single finger down his shaft, slow, watching him twitch. “fuck, c’mon,” he grunts, hips jerking, and you laugh, pulling back, edging him cruelly.

“not so fast,” you say, snatching a pillow, plush and soft, and straddling it right there between his legs, so close his cock’s practically crying for you. you grind down slow, hips rolling, the fabric dragging against your soaked panties, leaving a wet smear as you move. “you’re gonna lose this bet so fuckin’ bad,” you taunt, voice all breathy, moaning soft, putting on a show just for him.

your tank top’s too tight, too hot, so you peel it off, tossing it aside, baring your tits to the cool air. your hands slide up, cupping them, fingers teasing your nipples, pinching slow as you whine, loud and needy, “shit, toji, want you inside me so bad.”

his cock’s twitching, hard and leaking, alone and desperate, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, but he doesn’t move, fists clenched white-knuckle on the couch. “fuck,” he mutters, eyes feral, locked on the way you grind, pillow dark with your slick, your hips circling like you’re riding him.

and you’re a vision—tits bouncing as you massage them, head tipped back, moaning like a porn star, and it’s killing him, his restraint fraying with every whimper. “you’re such a fuckin’ tease,” he growls, voice cracked, but you just smirk, grinding harder, letting the pillow take what he won’t give. “gimme your cock, toji, c’mon,” you plead, voice dripping want, but he holds firm, even as his hips twitch, cock jerking untouched, driving him so mad he’s practically shaking.

you’re close, so damn close, thighs trembling, moans hitching, about to cum all over the pillow—when he snaps. “fuck the bet,” he snarls, yanking you off the pillow, flipping you onto the couch, face-down, ass up. your shorts are gone in a rip, and he’s spanking you once, hard, making you yelp. “teasin’ me like a fuckin’ brat,” he growls, fingers plunging into you, three at once, stretching you open, curling fast. “you’re gonna scream for this.”

you’re soaked, moaning into the cushions, and he doesn’t let up, fingering you ‘til you’re shaking, right on the edge, then stopping, leaving you whining. “toji, please,” you beg, and he laughs, mean, smacking your ass again. “please? nah, you’re gonna take what i give you.” he leans over, licking a stripe up your spine, filthy, unexpected, making you shudder.

he’s not done teasing—grabs your hips, dragging his cock through your folds, not entering, just sliding, slick and torturous. “look at you, fuckin’ desperate,” he mutters, voice low, and you’re practically sobbing, needing him inside. “bet i could make you cum just like this,” he says, tapping his tip against your clit, light, maddening, ‘til you’re bucking back, pleading.

“fuck me, toji, c’mon,” you gasp, and he finally snaps, slamming into you, deep, brutal, no warning. you scream, pleasure-pain blurring, and he’s relentless, pounding you into the couch, each thrust rocking you forward. “yeah, that’s it, take it like a good little slut,” he growls, hand fisting your hair, pulling hard. “thought you could play me?”

you’re a mess, moaning, clawing the cushions, and he’s still talking, dirty and varied. “gonna fill you up, make you drip for days,” he promises, spanking you again, then reaching around, rubbing your clit fast, pushing you to the edge but pulling back when you clench. “not yet, darlin’. you cum when i’m good and ready.”

he edges you three more times, ruthless, ‘til you’re crying, body screaming, and then he flips you over, face-to-face, slamming back in, eyes locked on yours. “look at me when you cum,” he says, and you do, cumming so hard you see stars, shaking as he follows, spilling hot inside, so much it leaks out, messy, claiming you.

he groans, still thrusting, milking every drop, and you’re both panting, wrecked, movie long forgotten and you wonder why did movie night always end with you fucked senseless and toji grinning like he’d won the lottery?

#—amy writes : toji fushiguro ★#toji fushiguro smut #toji smut #toji fushigro x reader #toji x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x reader smut #toji fushiguro x you #toji x reader #toji x you #divider by cafekitsune

2K notes · View notes

seumyo · 4 months ago

Text

pregnancy cravings with miya atsumu.

Pregnancy cravings never really made sense to Atsumu. Then again, he never got to the part of anatomy and physiology when he was studying physical therapy before he decided to go pro as a volleyball player.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t supportive; no, he prided himself on being a great husband. And now, with you, his wife, pregnant with your first child, he was determined to be the most supportive, loving, and accommodating partner ever.

Nothing was going to stand in his way—not distance, not logic, and certainly not impossible cravings.

It started simple. Like it always did.

You wanted a specific pastry from a bakery on the other side of Japan? Done. He booked the fastest delivery service he could find, and when that wasn’t an option, he flew there himself, picked it up, and brought it back.

Talk about rich.

Homemade food? Good thing Osamu had drilled the basics of cooking into him, though he still got yelled at by his twin when he accidentally burned rice. But hey, effort counted, right?

Then, the cravings started getting weird.

You’re sitting on the couch with a blanket over your lap when you look up at him with serious eyes. “I want Osamu’s cooking.”

Atsumu blinked. “Alright, I can ask him—”

“But I don’t want to eat it. You eat it.”

He frowned, confused.

“Huh? Ya want me to eat ‘Samu’s cookin’?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Atsumu scratched his head, wondering if this was some kind of test. “And that’s gonna make ya feel better?”

“Yes.”

“… Even if ya don’ eat it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Atsumu blinked. “That doesn’t make no sense.”

“Atsumu, please don’t question me.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Osamu. “Oi, ‘Samu, I need ya to cook somethin’—no, not for [Name]—for me.” There was silence on the other end before Osamu sighed heavily and reluctantly agreed.

That night, Atsumu sat at the dining table, stuffing his face with his brother’s food while you sat across from him, smiling in satisfaction as you watched. Osamu just did his part as a supportive brother for his twin.

The next day was even worse.

“A seedless mango,” you murmured, rubbing your belly.

...

“A what?”

“A seedless mango. I want it.”

“… [Name], sweetheart, baby, I love ya, but that don’t exist.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I want it.”

Atsumu groaned. “Where am I gonna get a seedless mango?”

“Figure it out, please?”

He spent hours searching online, calling fruit vendors, and even asking Osamu if his suppliers had some secret black market seedless mango (Osamu asked him if a volleyball that was going 120 km/h hit his head).

No luck.

In the end, Atsumu cut up a normal mango, carefully removed every trace of the seed, and handed it to you with a hopeful grin.

You took one look at it and frowned.

“It’s not the same.”

Atsumu wanted to cry.

“I need you to wear a face mask.”

Atsumu blinked at you from your bed. “Huh? Why?”

You huffed quietly, fidgeting with the sheets. “Because your face is annoying.”

Atsumu gasped, hand clutching his chest. “My face?! The one ya love so much?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya vowed to look at forever in sickness and in health?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya called ‘beautiful’ when I asked ya if I was hotter than ‘Samu?!”

“I love you, but right now, your face is irritating me.”

Atsumu stared, utterly betrayed, before sighing in defeat. He got up, went to the closet, grabbed one of the disposable masks he’d bought during flu season, and put it on.

“There. Happy now?”

You smiled sweetly. “Very.”

Atsumu flopped onto the bed with a groan, pulling the blanket over himself. As he lay there, sulking, you scooted closer and rested your head on his chest.

“I love you, you know that?” you murmured.

He grumbled. “Ya sure? Feels like ya hate me sometimes.”

You chuckled. “No, I love you. My hormones just don’t.”

He sighed. “Yer so lucky I love ya more than life.”

“I know. Pregnancy is so weird.”

And the worst has yet to come.

Atsumu should be asleep by now, but no, he had to be individually popping popcorn. One kernel at a time, as per your request.

He initially told you, “Yer kiddin’.”

You were not.

And that was how Atsumu found himself in the kitchen at three in the morning, painstakingly popping one kernel at a time in a tiny pan. Every time he accidentally popped more than one, you, who were sitting on a stool with your hands on your belly, would click your tongue disapprovingly.

“You put in two, Atsumu.”

“This is torture,” he grumbled, but he kept going.

“I want ice cream,” you said.

Atsumu perked up. “Oh, easy. What flavor?”

“I don’t know.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Uh… okay. I can get a few different kinds?”

“I need to taste them all.”

Atsumu frowned. “Like… all the flavors?”

“Yes.”

“… Babe, there are like fifty flavors at the ice cream shop.”

You nodded. “And I need to taste all of them before I decide which one I want.”

Atsumu let out a long, suffering sigh, but being the devoted husband he was, he marched straight to the ice cream parlor and ordered a ridiculous amount of sample cups. The poor employee stared at him in disbelief.

“You… want every flavor?”

“Yeah.”

“Every single one?”

“Yeah.”

“Sir, that’s—”

“My wife is pregnant, and if I don’t do this, I might not make it to the end of the week.”

The employee, upon hearing this, immediately started getting to work.

When Atsumu got home, you took one spoonful of each, nodded, and, after going through every single cup, announced:

“I don’t want ice cream anymore.”

Atsumu fell to his knees. Defeated.

“I need you to stand in the corner for a while.”

Atsumu looked up from his phone, confused. “Huh?”

“The corner. Stand there.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like you should.”

Atsumu squinted. “Babe, are ya makin’ me into a damn decoration?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Atsumu sighed but did it anyway. He stood in the corner of your living room for a full ten minutes while you sat on the couch, happily watching TV. At some point, Osamu FaceTimed him, took one look at the scene, and hung up.

The next day, you called him while he was at practice, which was rare in itself because you did just leave messages whenever you knew he was practicing.

“Babe,” you said in a tone that made his stomach drop.

“… Yeah?”

“I need you to bring me a cheeseburger.”

He let out a relieved laugh, wiping the sweat off his brow. “That’s easy! I’ll grab ya one on my way ho—“

“But replace the buns with pancakes.”

Atsumu froze. “Come again?”

“You heard me.”

“I dunno if I did, sweetheart.”

“Pancakes. Instead of buns. Oh, and I want honey to go with it.”

Atsumu nearly dropped his phone.

“Yer messin’ with me.”

“I’m really not.”

And you weren’t. That evening, he stood in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with the precision of a professional chef before assembling the most unholy creation he’d ever laid eyes on—a cheeseburger with pancake buns, honey drizzled over the meat.

You took a bite and hummed softly. “Oh my god, this is better than sex.”

Atsumu, who had spent hours perfecting his technique in the bedroom, felt personally offended by that.

“Atsumu,” you murmur. “I need you to switch sides of the bed with me.”

He sighed. “No.”

“Atsumu.”

“[Name], baby, darlin’—I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because my side is closer to the door in case of an intruder.”

You chuckled quietly. “Tsumu, please. I need to sleep on that side.”

Atsumu stared at you, conflicted. He had never—not once—slept on the other side. It was unnatural. Wrong. It went against the very foundations of your marriage.

But you were looking at him with those tired, hormonal, pleading eyes. And he was sure you’d tell him you could barely see your feet now and often experience heartburn, all because of his unborn baby.

With a heavy sigh, Atsumu switched sides with you.

“You’re a good husband,” you whispered, patting his cheek.

Atsumu, lying in the unfamiliar position, staring at the wrong wall, whispered, “I’m a broken man.”

1K notes · View notes

florencemtrash · 1 year ago

Text

Take it Off - Azriel x Reader

Summary: You and Azriel have been friends for centuries... but what happens when he wakes up one day to find that things have changed? And how will he react when you start wearing Cassian's clothes?

Warnings: Angst. Jealous Azriel. Suggestiveness and then some (I don't know what warning to put, but it's spicier than my usual stuff is all I'll say). Cassian is an absolute menace... good for him

Author's note: Did I write this to procrastinate editing SSIB Ch 22 after watching Bridgerton S3?... yes

Is this a fucking game to you?

Cassian grinned over the lip of his cup, raising his brow in a poorly disguised expression of confusion. He’d been playing the innocent fool all throughout breakfast, seemingly oblivious to the daggers Azriel was throwing his direction every time he made you laugh.

Internally, he and Nesta were both cackling. He threw his arm over the back of his mate’s chair, plucking the cream puff she held out for him, and tossing it into his mouth with a shit-eating grin.

I’ve not the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Azriel. Although it hurts me deeply to see you so upset.

Upset was an understatement. Azriel was holding onto his glass of orange juice so tightly cracks were beginning to form beneath his fingertips.

You elbowed Azriel in the ribs, brows furrowed as you pointed your slice of toast towards his hand. “Are you ok?” You whispered low and just for his ears.

The molten anger in his eyes melted away, hazel eyes softening as he took in your concerned expression. You were the first and only one of his family members to watch him so intensely. You could unravel the meaning in every twitch of his jaw, every rhythmic tap of his fingers against his thigh, every flicker of his shadows. You knew when he was upset, when he was happy, and when he wanted to laugh but had trouble expressing it. The only thing you weren’t aware of when it came to Azriel was how unbelievably in love with you he was.

But that was his own fault.

You’d watched him fawn over Mor for centuries, watched as he practically crawled on hand and knees for any kernel of affection she was willing to throw his way. Then, when you thought he’d finally gotten over his feelings for her, he’d chased after Elain’s heels like a dog in heat. You didn’t even want to begin thinking about Gwyn and the way she’d trampled over his hopes with the simple phrase, “I love you as a friend, Azriel. Nothing more.”

No. It was entirely his fault that you’d learned to bury your own feelings for him so deep they’d become background noise — as inconsequential and ever present as the sound of your own breathing.

Still… you couldn’t help but notice the secrets swimming in his eyes, the hurt and longing there that you could only guess the origin of. Who’d hurt him this time? You wondered.

“I’m fine.” Azriel whispered, his hands ghosting over your thighs before deciding against touching you there.

You hummed, clearly unconvinced. You held your toast in between your teeth, tasting the raspberry jam explode on your tongue as you reached over and carefully peeled Azriel’s fingers off his injured glass.

His heart stuttered at the sight of your lips as they closed around your thumb, licking away crumbs and jam from your fingertips. But then his gaze dropped to your chest and his stomach soured.

As Madja’s apprentice, you’d acquired a special interest in botany — an interest that had all but shoved you into Feyre’s studio so you could learn the skills necessary to depict all manner of flora and fauna in your field journal. When you’d complained about finding paint and charcoal stains over your clothes, Cassian had jumped on the opportunity to give you his old shirts to use as painting smocks. He had to congratulate himself for the stroke of genius. After all, he and Nesta had been discussing plans on how to get Azriel to admit his feelings for months now.

Azriel did not respond well to outright suggestions or bullying. If he told Azriel to pull his head out of his ass and ask you on a proper date, the Shadowsinger would only hunker down on his preconceptions that he was unloveable, and that you were far too good for him. If he revealed to Azriel that you’d secretly loved him for decades that would only make him feel even more embarrassment and shame.

No.

Jealousy worked far better when it came to Azriel.

You looked comfortable and happy in Cassian’s clothes — a fact that escaped no one’s notice. You had the sleeves rolled up past your elbows, the rows of buttons at your back haphazardly done without wings to accommodate. You’d worn that particular shirt a half dozen times now and replaced any scent of Cassian with your own.

Still, you were wearing another male’s shirt… and it was starting to drive Azriel insane.

“I was going to get rid of these and thought you might like them for… painting.” Azriel shifted on his feet, holding out the neatly stacked pile of clothes for you.

You were laying on your stomach in bed, colored pencils and textbooks splayed out around you, but quickly righted yourself and sifted through the piles he handed you.

You held one up for a better look.

“Azriel, you were just wearing this last week.” It still smelled like him — the scent of the Illyrian mountains at night woven through the soft, cotton material. “I can’t take this. Or this. Or this!”

“I have more just like them.”

You huffed, fists balanced on your hips.

Azriel was a simple male with ample space in his wardrobe. When he wasn’t in his Illyrian leathers he wore the same three outfits on rotation, all of them nearly identical. If there was anyone who shouldn’t be giving away clothes, it was Azriel.

“I really appreciate it, Az, but I’m ok. I don’t need these. Cassian already gave me enough hand-me-downs to last two decades at least.”

A muscle in Azriel’s jaw jumped out. “Well I’m glad for that.” He was practically seething. You noticed, as you always did, but you couldn’t imagine that you were the cause of his frustrations.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Az? You’ve been acting strangely the past few days.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I doubt that.”

There were various things on his mind, chief among them you. So he took hold of the olive branch you’d extended him and laid down beside you, talking about everything and nothing at all. But one thing he avoided talking about at all costs was how the gentle scraping of your nails through his hair as he rested his head in your lap made him want to lock the door and never come out.

He wanted to bury his face beneath your sundress and then tear it to pieces. He wanted to dive under the covers and leave an assortment of marks on your skin. To hold you so close that you began to smell like one another.

You lay down beside him, leaning your head against his shoulder so he caught whiffs of your elderberry and lemon shampoo.

“You know you can tell me anything, right? That’s what friends are for.”

Right… friends. He was starting to hate that word.

“Yes… I know.”

How long do you think he’ll last?

Nesta felt Cassian’s soft laugh blow over the back of her neck as they crouched just behind the door of Feyre's painting studio.

Azriel had been undeniably irritable the last two weeks, his patience fraying like a linen skirt with the hem torn off. Cassian was still sporting a bruise on his cheek from this morning’s sparring session after one of his teasing remarks had hit a little too close to home.

Not much longer. Look at him, Nes. He’s practically vibrating.

Nesta slapped her hand over her mouth, stifling her laughter.

Azriel was restless, his wings kept opening and closing with agitation and the curve of his ears had long since turned a bright shade of pink. He’d had his shadows knock over a cup of ink earlier, sending its contents splattering over your shirt and staining the fabric beyond repair. But you’d only shrugged and said, “It’s my painting shirt. It’s meant to get dirty,” before going back to your canvas with a soft smile. The moment you’d turned your back to him, he’d silently cursed the ceiling.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He kicked himself, too focused on your continuing conversation to think that his meddling brother and sister-in-law might be watching.

He hadn’t expected his emotions to take over so quickly, least of all with you. You’d been his best friend for over two hundred years. You were a staple in his life, more familiar to him than the childhood blanket he still had tucked away in his drawer. There was no reason why he should suddenly wake up one day and realize with a shock of surprise that he loved you and couldn’t imagine living in a world that didn’t have you in it.

It had been such a silly moment as well. You’d been getting ready for Starfall, your hair done up and a flush of color spread over your cheeks and lips. He’d come to check in on you and lost his breath when he saw you sitting at the vanity, holding up earrings to your neck to see if they matched the satin of your deep blue gown. And then you’d politely asked him to lace up your dress and he’d nearly swallowed his tongue in surprise, forcing his hands to stop shaking as they brushed against your spine. Gods he’d wanted to throw himself off a balcony that night, if only because you’d be the one tasked with healing him.

He wanted to throw himself off the balcony now. Let the ground swallow him whole so he wouldn’t have to make a fool of himself in front of you… again.

I give it another week. Nesta declared.

Cassian smirked. I know my brother. He won’t last another three days.

In the end they were both wrong.

It only took two days for Azriel to finally snap.

“Take it off.”

You swiveled around in your chair, tongue pressing against your cheek as you wondered what gave Azriel the audacity to march into your private lesson with Feyre and make such an out-of-character demand.

“What?” You asked, furrowing your brows.

Azriel stood as still as an obsidian statue in the doorway. His wings loomed over his shoulders, talons reaching towards the ceiling tense and twitching.

“Take. It. Off,” he repeated through gritted teeth. He clutched a neatly folded shirt in his hands, knuckles pale and bloodless from the tight grip. You’d been wearing Cassian’s clothes almost every day this past week and he couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t stand sitting beside you at the dinner table or in the library, the laughter in his throat dying when he caught Cassian’s scent drifting off your skin.

It was maddening the way you didn’t think anything of it.

Yes, Cassian was practically a brother to you, and yes, he was a mated male but… fuck it bothered Azriel so much to think of anyone else laying claim to you. To think that one day you might actually walk around wearing another male’s clothes because you loved them. To think that that male wouldn’t be him.

He’d tried to bring up the topic with you in his own round-about way, but you’d shrugged off all his suggestions of wearing something — anything — else.

“If you want painting clothes, why don’t we go shopping this afternoon? I’m sure Feyre has recommendations. Or we could just walk around the Rainbow until something catches your eye.”

“I’m not a full time artist, and it seems silly to spend money on clothes you intend to ruin.”

“Why don’t you ask Feyre or Mor for hand-me-downs then? They’ll fit you better and the sleeves won’t drag so much.”

“I like it when my clothes are loose.”

Feyre glanced between the two of you, namely the flare of Azriel’s nostrils and the way he ground his teeth so intently you worried he’d crack a tooth.

“I’m… going to leave now.”

“Wait—Feyre!”

The High Lady kissed your cheek, a knowing look in her eyes, before scurrying out the door.

Don’t scowl so much, Az, you’re making her nervous. She chirped to the Shadowsinger before slipping down the hallway and disappearing.

She made it all of ten feet down the hall before crowing, “It’s happening!” to the others.

It’s happening?! Mor leapt out from her bedroom, a robe hastily tied around her waist and soap suds clinging to her hair. “Fey—” she hissed.

Feyre pressed a finger up to her lips, cutting her off. They’re in the art studio now.

I fucking KNEW IT! Mor squealed in delight, stomping her feet soundlessly into the floorboards as she allowed Feyre to grab her wrist and drag her forward.

I won the bet, Nes.

You didn’t win, we both lost!

Semantics.

Why you bas—

Feyre, Rhys, Mor, Cassian, and Nesta streamed into the foyer. There was an air vent here that led directly to the art studio two floors above them and painted over so expertly it may as well have been part of the molding. The sounds traveling through it were muffled by echos and distance, but nothing that fae hearing and magic couldn’t overcome.

“That’s it!” The chair you’d been sitting in skittered back with a squeak. “What is your problem, Azriel? You’ve been agitated for weeks now. You won’t tell me, or any of the others, what’s wrong and every time Cassian so much as glances in your direction you look like you want to tear his throat out!”

Azriel said nothing as you stomped forward and dragged him into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Whiskey eyes flickered down to your hand — the hand you currently had closed around his wrist — and he shuddered.

You didn’t even want to begin to unpack the hidden meaning of that response as you brought him to the center of the room and let go.

He dropped the shirt on the nearby desk, hands lowering to the hem of your painting smock with a grimace.

“I need you to take this off.” He repeated with a frown.

“What kind of person marches into a room and demands that their friend take off their shirt?”

He flinched at that word — friend.

“Az!” Your voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and his anger. “What is going on with you?!”

“It’s nothing.” He growled out, but he tugged at the hem like its very existence was a personal offense.

“Clearly it’s not nothing.”

“Can you just take off your shirt and put this one on?”

You shoved him away. It wasn’t even like he was asking you to get naked, you both knew you were wearing something beneath this, but it was the way he was asking that grated on your nerves — like what he was requesting was perfectly normal and you were the ridiculous one for not listening.

“No.” You folded your arms over your chest with a huff. You were just being stubborn now, but you didn’t care.

His eyes turned tortured and he clasped his hands together in front of you. “Please?” He begged.

“No! Not until you tell me what’s going on and why you’re acting this way!”

“I don’t want to have this discussion while you’re standing there smelling like another male!”

That was… not what you were expecting.

You gaped at him, unsure whether to howl with laughter, or slap him across the face.

“That’s what this is about? You’re upset because I’m wearing Cassian’s clothes?” You gagged at the mere thought of what Azriel was insinuating.

“Well that was a little hurtful.” Cassian mumbled.

Mor slapped the back of his head. “Shhhhh. I’m trying to listen.”

Azriel shifted on his feet, color beginning to spread high on his cheekbones. “It’s not about Cassian… not really…”

You tapped your foot on the ground, waiting for him to continue. Azriel felt naked. Stripped back like one of your insect specimens lit up beneath a microscope. Your eyes raked over his every movement. Even his shadows, usually so attention-seeking, cowered behind their master’s back whispering to one another about how Azriel might dig himself out of his own grave.

“Well?” You snapped.

Azriel shrank back, “I… I like you, Y/n.”

You rolled your eyes, “I know, that’s why we’re friends. I like you too.”

“No. Not… not like that.” Azriel groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh I’m fucking this up so badly it’s not even funny anymore.”

“I don’t even know what it is you’re fucking up. I—”

“I love you, ok?” He said in a burst of energy. “I love you and not in the way that friends are meant to love one another and Cassian’s an idiot and I’m a jealous bastard and I… I…”

You stared back dumbly. “You can’t mean that.”

Azriel’s face fell. “And why not?”

“Because I have been here for decades, centuries,” you jabbed his chest with a finger, “And you never once looked at me that way. Never once considered me as anything more than a friend. You’re upset because I’ve been wearing Cassian’s clothes the last few weeks? Well guess what, Az, I’ve watched you walk in and out of those doors for years with your poorly concealed hickies and that lovesick look on your face, and I never made it your problem or anyone else’s.”

“Well I want you to!” He shouted. It was the first and only time you could remember him raising his voice. “I want you to make it my problem, Y/n. I want you to tell me that you love me and I want you to shout at me for all the stupid decisions I’ve made because I’m yours. I’m yours to shout at. I’m yours to get angry with. I’m yours to love if you’ll still have me and…” Azriel gasped for breath, chest heaving as he came face to face with the fact that he’d just said those words out loud. Those words that he’d kept close to his chest with the rest of his secrets. Those words that proved just how completely at your mercy he was.

Please say you’ll still have me. His eyes begged.

When you didn’t move or say anything, he felt a piece of his heart wither away. He lowered his eyes, suddenly interested in a speckle of red paint that had smeared under his boot, “Forgive me. I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t… I shouldn’t have—”

“You’re a fucking idiot, Azriel.” You muttered breathlessly.

Then you flung yourself into his arms and crashed your lips into his.

Kissing Azriel was better than you could have ever imagined. The fantasies you’d constructed late in the night when you were lonely blew apart like paper houses, crumbling in the face of reality. His mouth fumbled for purchase against your lips before slotting into place with a strangled moan. He lifted you in the air and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, tightening them until you could feel him harden between your legs.

His tongue flitted over your lips tasting like oranges and magic.

But his hands.

His hands.

You couldn’t get enough of them as they slid up and down your back, squeezing and pressing into your skin until he’d memorized the curve of your spine. You wove your fingers in his hair, tilting his head so you could stare into his hazel eyes before diving in for another taste.

He walked you back to the desk, shadows flinging the tins of charcoal and pastel pencils off the furniture so you could perch there instead. Then he surged forward, pressing his hips into the space between your legs so he could feel the heat that gathered there. It sent shivers down his spine.

This… this was everything he’d ever wanted. You were everything he’d ever wanted. Not some unapproachable female he admired from afar but hardly knew, but someone who’d seen every inch of his soul and never flinched. Someone who’d nestled into the hidden corners of his heart and grown there like a willow tree.

You moved your hands over the wide expanse of his back, digging your nails in to feel every twitch of muscle, every shudder, as he latched onto the side of your neck and slid his tongue over the sensitive skin there.

He smelled like mountain rain. Like fresh wind and petrichor and sea salt.

You smelled like lemons and safety. Like maple leaves and lavender and… Cassian.

Because you were still wearing his gods-damned shirt.

Azriel felt his blood boil, and an instinctual rage took over as he growled low in his throat, bunched the fabric of Cassian’s shirt in his hands, and tore it in two.

You pulled away from him at the sound of ripping fabric, but kept your grip on his solid shoulders as air blew across your skin.

Azriel’s pupils were blown wide, his lips pink and raw as he leaned his forehead against yours in a daze. You continued to breathe each other’s air like you were drowning. He seemed just as in disbelief as you, if not more.

“Azriel…” You whispered, chest heaving.

He looked at you with half-lidded eyes full of heat. “... yes, Y/n?” He asked breathlessly.

“I think you ripped through my dress… and my bra as well…”

“Oh…” He fingered the ruined fabric that fell loose around your shoulders and realized that your back was indeed on full display. The straps of your bra slipped down and the mangled buttons of your sundress clung to their loops by weak threads. “Oh…oh gods.”

One hand flew up to your chest to keep the fabric in place while the other slapped over your mouth, suffocating the laughter that threatened to burst forth.

Azriel’s ears and cheeks turned brighter than the sun as he slowly lowered you down to your feet, fumbling over apologies like he hadn’t been shoving his tongue down your throat mere seconds ago.

“I’m so sorry—”

“Azriel, it’s ok.”

“No, I was being an ass and now I’ve ruined your dress and—”

“You can buy me more.”

Azriel’s shoulder dropped. “I can?” “You can.”

He shook his head very seriously. “Yes, yes you’re right, I—” Azriel had always been the beautiful one — the one that drew eyes when he walked into a room. The one that had females and males falling out of their seats for a proper look at his elegant features. But right now he looked so helpless, so flustered and unsure of himself that you finally lost it.

Champagne bubble laughs slipped out of your mouth, light and airy, and sent a shock of warmth through Azriel’s chest. It was infectious the way the skin stretched over your cheeks. The light in your eyes couldn’t be contained no matter how hard you tried.

He couldn’t help himself.

He started laughing too.

What began as one of his reserved chuckles grew into uncontrollable peals of laughter that echoed throughout the studio and had you clutching onto the desk for support.

Azriel doubled over, one hand holding the stitch in his side together as you howled.

“Oh gods. I can’t—” You hiccuped. “I-I-I can’t breathe.”

Soon you were both kneeling on the ground, clutching each other’s arms for some semblance of stability. You gasped for breath, wiping away tears from the corners of your eyes.

Azriel captured one of your hands, weaving his fingers through yours before bringing your wrist to his lips for a soft, reverent kiss. You thought you’d experienced enough emotions for today ranging from frustration to anger to a joy you couldn’t begin to put into words. But you were certain your heart could handle one more shift in the atmosphere.

Wordlessly you tugged off Cassian’s shirt, dropping it to the side where shadows caught hold of the cursed fabric and quickly tossed it into the fireplace. The flames crackled with triumph, eating away at the shirt with a vengeance.

“A little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“We can agree to disagree.” Azriel murmured, his eyes growing dark and heavy. His gaze drifted down to the soft skin now exposed from your tattered dress, the thin straps clinging to your arms, the gentle swell of your breasts as you breathed heavily.

His fingers danced over the straps in silent permission, eyes searching yours for any hint of hesitation. But you were open and wanting and desperate for his touch. You crawled into his lap and a faint nod was all he needed before the pale blue fabric of your dress fell down and bunched about your waist. The bra followed, and then you were sitting there naked from the waist up, feeling the heat grow between your bodies as Azriel looked at you with pure adoration in his eyes.

“Am I dreaming, Y/n?” He whispered, rubbing circles into your hip bones.

You smiled softly, “Have you dreamed of me before?”

“Yes. Many times.” He kissed your chest, slowly dragging his hands down your ribs as you shivered and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and then his belt buckle. “But we never got this far.”

“Hmmmm, I think we could go a little further.”

“NOT IN MY STUDIO!” Feyre’s voice echoed oddly through the room, sounding muffled and far away.

Azriel’s wings flared out, hiding you from view as you yelped and pressed your chest against his. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment about being found in such a compromising position. But the door was closed! And so were the windows!

His shadows finally found the culprit in the air vent.

“Godsdamnit—HAVE YOU BEEN LISTENING THE ENTIRE TIME?!” Azriel shouted.

A moment passed before Feyre answered, “... No,” in a much softer tone.

“We missed part of the beginning,” Cassian chimed in.

Azriel groaned, dropping his forehead against your shoulder as you were stunned into silence. He muttered something beneath his breath that sounded oddly similar to, “I swear I’m going to kill him one day.”

Azriel helped you to your feet and finally, you put on his shirt.

“Are you happy now?” You teased, arms dropping to your sides.

The corner of his lip twitched upwards. You looked… very good in his clothes with the sleeves rolled up and a sliver of your dress (now skirt) peeking out from beneath.

He looked towards the vent, then wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you close so he could whisper, “I would be happier if I saw my shirt and that dress of yours on the floor of my bedroom.”

His hand slid up your skirt, squeezing the back of your thighs in a way that had you stiffening.

All at once he was second-guessing himself. Maybe he’d taken things too far. Maybe the lust-filled haze had cleared and you didn’t want him anymore.

You swallowed and wrapped your hand around his wrist, gently guiding his fingers to your core. You let him know just how much you wanted this.

A roar of blood sounded in the Shadowsinger’s ears.

“I think that sounds like a very good plan.” You murmured in agreement and his eyes turned black as night.

He stole another long kiss before scooping you into his arms.

“Az, where are we going?” You giggled into the curve of his throat as he flew down the hallway and stairs. “We just passed your bedroom.”

“We’re not going to my bedroom.”

“Well we missed my bedroom too.”

He didn’t respond.

Azriel skidded to a stop at the top of the staircase, already well aware that his family had gathered at the bottom and were waiting to bombard him with questions.

Azriel smirked at you, leaned down, and kissed your cheek. “When I take you to bed properly, it won’t be with our nosey family members in the house.” He ran his tongue across the line of your jaw all the way to your earlobe and whispered, “I want any noises you make to be for me, and me alone.”

“You are certainly a man of poetry, Az.”

He smiled. “Only for you.”

“Well, well, well if it isn’t the two love—” Shadows flew into his mouth, muffling his words. “HEH! Azz! Whazthf—”

“I’ll see you in a week.” He said to no one in particular, his shadows opening the door of the River House.

“Where are you going?” Mor asked, her eyes zeroing in on the bright red mark blossoming on your neck. What the fuck? She mouthed at you, giving you two thumbs up as Azriel crossed the doorway with you in his arms.

“None of your business. I’ll see you in a week.” Then he looked down at you, eyes growing soft. “We’ll see you in a week,” he corrected himself.

Your stomach bottomed out, heat flowing through your body as you heard him make such a declaration in front of... well everyone. You couldn't wait to see where he would take you and where he would take you.

"Ready?" Azriel asked, a sultry smile growing on his face.

"Ready."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in the hollow of his throat as he took off into the air.

#azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #azriel x reader angst

4K notes · View notes

wendichester · 2 months ago

Text

⋆˚࿔ movie night,

summary. just you, dean, popcorn, blankets, and a shitty movie he picked out.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluffy giggling fluff

wordcount. 1040

notes / warnings. steamy makeout incoming ehe

The bunker’s too quiet.

You can hear the hum of the overhead lights, the creak of old pipes, the shuffle of Dean’s socked feet somewhere behind you.

You dump the popcorn into a massive bowl, salty steam rising up to fog your glasses for a second. Dean clinks two beers onto the counter next to you—no words, just the casual kind of comfort you only get after a million battles fought side by side.

You glance at him. He’s grinning like an idiot.

"Pick something good," you say, bumping your hip into his.

He bumps back, harder. "Please. I always pick something good."

You snort. "Your last choice had a three percent on Rotten Tomatoes."

Dean clutches his heart like you shot him. "Blasphemy. Sharknado 3 is a masterpiece."

You roll your eyes and scoop up the popcorn, leading the way into the library where you’ve already piled up a mountain of mismatched blankets and cushions on the couch.

Dean whistles low under his breath. "Damn. You tryna seduce me?"

You toss a kernel at him. "Shut up and sit down."

He laughs—that laugh, warm and lazy and scratchy around the edges—and drops down onto the couch, patting the spot next to him.

You settle in, blanket tucked around your legs, bowl balanced on your knees. Dean grabs the remote, thumbs through the options, and—predictably—lands on something full of explosions and car chases.

"Perfect," he announces, cracking open his beer.

You fake groan but lean in anyway, shoulder brushing his. (you tell yourself it's casual. innocent. totally fine.)

At first, it’s easy. Just popcorn and snarky commentary and Dean cursing at the screen every time someone does something monumentally stupid. His knee knocks against yours every now and then. His arm stretches along the back of the couch, definitely not on purpose.

You sip your beer, half-watching the movie, half-watching him.

God, he’s gorgeous. T-shirt clinging to broad shoulders, scruffy jawline catching the soft light, green eyes flickering between the screen and you like he can’t decide what he wants to watch more.

You shift under the blanket, suddenly too warm.

And then it happens.

Halfway through a chase scene, his hand finds your thigh.

At first, it’s casual. Like maybe he just... forgot there was a boundary there. His fingers brush your jeans, resting lightly just above your knee.

You freeze.

Dean doesn’t look at you. Just sips his beer. Like he didn’t just set your entire nervous system on fire.

Minutes tick by.

His thumb starts to move. Slow, lazy little strokes against your denim-covered skin. Up and down. Barely-there pressure that somehow feels louder than the movie blasting from the speakers.

Your heart’s pounding so loud you’re half-convinced he can hear it.

You dare a glance at him.

Dean's watching the screen, but his jaw’s tight. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and his fingers tighten just slightly against your leg.

The movie might as well be in another language now. You can't focus on anything except the slow, deliberate way Dean’s hand is traveling up, higher and higher, brushing the edge of your hip under the blanket.

You shift—accidentally on purpose—turning to face him more, your leg draped over his.

He catches your eye.

The whole world tilts.

"Come here," he says, voice low, rough.

You barely have time to process before he’s tugging you into his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, the blanket falling around you both like a secret.

Your hands find his shoulders instinctively—solid, warm, real.

He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists.

"You sure?" he asks, voice cracking a little.

You nod. Swallow thickly. "Yeah. I’m sure."

And then Dean’s hands are sliding up your back, tugging you closer, and his mouth is on yours.

It’s messy at first. All clumsy mouths and bumping noses, teeth clashing because you’re both too desperate to slow down.

Dean groans into your mouth, deep and needy, and it shoots straight through you like lightning. His hands are everywhere—your back, your hips, threading into your hair to tilt your head just right.

You fist his t-shirt, dragging him closer, gasping when he nips your bottom lip and soothes it with his tongue.

The movie blares on, but it’s just noise now. The real show’s happening right here, in the cocoon of blankets and popcorn crumbs and Dean.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you panting.

"Been wantin' to do that forever," he admits, voice wrecked.

You smile, dizzy and breathless. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he mutters, and then he’s kissing you again—slower this time. Like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s trying to make it last.

Your hands slide up into his hair, tugging gently, and he groans, deep and broken, like you just short-circuited whatever control he had left.

You grind down into his lap without even thinking about it, and he jerks beneath you, clutching your hips tighter.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he breathes against your mouth. "You’re gonna kill me."

You smile against his lips. "That’d be a hell of a way to go."

He huffs a laugh—wrecked and happy—and kisses you again, deeper, slower, lazily stroking his hands down your sides like he’s savoring you.

You lose track of time.

Kissing and touching and laughing quietly when you bump noses or when Dean mutters something filthy against your skin that makes you whimper.

Eventually, the movie ends.

The credits roll.

The screen goes dark.

But you’re still there, straddling Dean’s lap, tucked against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, breathing him in—beer and soap and leather and Dean—and feel his lips press a soft, sleepy kiss to your temple.

"You’re stayin’ here tonight," he murmurs.

It’s not a question.

It’s a promise.

You hum in agreement, too warm and sated and safe to argue.

Dean shifts just enough to pull the blanket tighter around you both, settling back against the couch with a satisfied sigh.

You fall asleep there, tangled together, with the flickering TV light casting soft shadows over the best damn thing you’ve ever found in the dark.

Home. Right here. Right in his arms.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #supernatural #.docx

714 notes · View notes

rafeys-baby · 1 month ago

Text

𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐅𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 2 ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Dumb!Ditzy!Reader x Rafe Cameron <3

(For @lolabunnyworldss - fyi when I say JJ I mean John B and Sarah named their baby after him he’s not dead in this AU!)

౨ৎ

It started again on a Thursday.

Not a special Thursday. Not a holiday or an anniversary or anything fancy like that. Just a regular, soft, sleepy kind of Thursday. The kind where she wore one of Rafe’s big sweatshirts with nothing underneath and fuzzy pink socks that slipped down her ankles when she walked across the hardwood floor.

She had curled up on the couch with Bemo, her sweet little bunny who smelled like hay and warm laundry, and was watching baby TikToks on mute while absentmindedly eating marshmallows straight from the bag. Not toasted. Not dipped in chocolate. Just the fluffy kind that stuck to her fingers and made her lips glossy.

One video played after another. Chubby-cheeked babies learning to walk. Giggly twins wearing matching overalls. A little girl with a flower crown saying “daddy” for the first time.

Her heart squeezed in her chest like someone had tied a ribbon around it.

“Bemo,” she whispered, holding him closer and pressing her cheek to his tiny head. “I want one. I want a baby so bad.”

Bemo twitched his nose and looked mildly annoyed. He had never been interested in babies, except the time JJ drooled on his ear and he refused to come out from under the couch for two hours afterward.

But she was serious. Her brain might’ve been a little scattered most days, but her heart was big and full and ready. At least that’s what she thought.

So when Rafe came home, all sweaty from the gym with his jaw tight and his t-shirt clinging to his back, she launched herself at him like she had just seen him after a month at sea.

“Rafe,” she said dramatically, clinging to his chest. “I need a baby. I actually might die if I do not get one soon. Like physically die. My body is literally craving one.”

He raised one eyebrow. “You’re back on this again?”

She nodded seriously, curling her fingers into his shirt. “Yes. Like my uterus is crying. I think I’m ovulating. Maybe. Or whatever the thing is when your eggs start screaming.”

He snorted, walked her backward until she flopped onto the bed, then hovered over her with that look he always gave her when she said things that didn’t make sense. Affectionate. Confused. Slightly worried.

“You remember what happened last time you got baby fever?”

She blinked up at him and tilted her head like a puppy.

He stared.

She blinked again.

“…No?”

He exhaled. “Bemo. I got you Bemo.”

She gasped. “Oh my gosh yeah. But that was different! That was starter baby fever. This is like… final boss level. I think I’m nesting. Do you think I’m nesting? I rearranged the snack drawer by color earlier.”

“You put all the pink Starbursts in their own Ziploc bag,” he said flatly. “And called it ‘princess energy.’ That’s not nesting.”

“It could be,” she argued, pouting. “Princesses have babies. Royal ones. I could make us royalty.”

He just looked at her.

She kicked her legs a little. “I just really want one, Rafe. A real baby. A squishy one. That cries and has those little toes that look like tiny corn kernels.”

“I’m not getting you a baby because you’re obsessed with baby toes,” he said slowly.

She rolled over dramatically and buried her face in a pillow. “Fine. You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You think I’d be a bad mom.”

“I think you’d lose your keys in the baby’s crib.”

She gasped. “I only lost my keys three times this week and one of them wasn’t even my fault. I thought the microwave was the fridge.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

She popped her head up. Her hair was tangled. There was a tiny smear of marshmallow on her cheek. Her eyes were wide and wet.

“Please,” she whispered. “Just give me a chance.”

Rafe sighed. A long, deep sigh that said I love you but you’re literally out of your mind.

“All right,” he said finally. “You want a baby that bad?”

She nodded, eyes hopeful and shiny.

“Then prove it. You’re on trial, baby girl.”

She sat up, brightening immediately. “Oh my god like a baby test?”

“Exactly,” he said, voice firm. “Starting tomorrow.”

She squealed. Bemo leapt off the couch in terror.

౨ৎ

Trial Day One:

There was a paper on the fridge.

It had been typed. Printed. Taped down.

She stared at it with a cup of milk in her hand and a slice of cold pizza in the other.

TRIAL RULES. FAIL = NO BABY.

By Rafe “This Is Serious” Cameron

1. Take all your meds every morning. No reminders.

2. No drinking. No smoking. No wine. Not even white.

3. Eat real meals. Breakfast is not marshmallows.

4. Bemo must be clean, fed, and not dressed like a doll.

5. Babysit JJ twice a week. No calling me unless someone’s dying.

6. No crying over nothing.

7. Act like a mom. Not like a bunny princess.

She gasped.

“I am a bunny princess though,” she mumbled, half insulted.

But she took it seriously.

She got up early the next day, set five alarms on her phone labeled “PILL TIME OR NO BABY,” and made a sticker chart shaped like a heart.

She found glittery stickers in her drawer and decorated it with little cut-out bunnies and the words Mommy Mode Activated in sparkly pink marker.

She didn’t drink wine. Even when Kiara offered her a cute fizzy one that tasted like watermelon and was in a cup with a tiny umbrella. She just held her lemonade and sipped dramatically.

“I’m in training,” she said proudly. “My womb is in boot camp.”

Rafe just sipped his beer and stared at her like she was some kind of adorable alien.

౨ৎ

Week Two:

She babysat JJ three times because Sarah was exhausted and John B had accidentally put frozen peas in the coffee maker.

The first time, she panicked a little when he pooped mid-diaper change and she screamed so loud that Bemo ran into the laundry room and hid in a basket.

But she figured it out.

She sang songs. She invented lullabies. She read JJ a picture book about frogs and added dramatic sound effects even though JJ mostly just chewed on the corner.

She wore soft sweaters and fuzzy socks and made sure to wash her hands like fifty times. She googled everything. How to burp a baby. How to tell if a baby is too hot. How to entertain a one-year-old without accidentally teaching them swear words.

Rafe came home once to see her dancing around the living room with JJ in a baby sling while holding Bemo in the other arm like a furry handbag.

“What are you doing?” he asked, blinking.

“We’re bonding,” she said seriously. “It’s called multi-momming.”

And honestly, she looked ridiculous. But also… kind of perfect.

౨ৎ

Week Three:

She didn’t miss a single pill.

She didn’t call Rafe for non-emergencies.

She stopped crying when she accidentally burned her toast.

She started eating real food like oatmeal and grilled cheese and cut-up fruit in little bear-shaped bowls.

One day, she caught herself humming while organizing the diaper bag and paused.

She looked down at herself. Hair up. Big hoodie. Baby on her hip. Sticker chart full of hearts.

She was doing it.

She was actually doing it.

౨ৎ

Final Day:

She stood in the kitchen in a soft baby-blue dress that barely brushed her thighs. She had baked muffins. Real ones. With blueberries and everything.

JJ was asleep in the playpen. Bemo was flopped on his pillow with a leaf of lettuce in his mouth. Her sticker chart was complete. Her pill bottle was empty because she had taken every single one.

She had even packed a mini emergency baby kit. Just in case.

Rafe came in, tie loose around his neck, face unreadable.

“Trial’s over,” he said.

She froze. “Did I… pass?”

He walked over to her, grabbed her hands, and looked her in the eye.

“You passed,” he said. “You proved me wrong.”

She gasped.

“You did everything right,” he continued. “You made real choices. You showed up. You didn’t whine or quit or burn down the house.”

“I only almost burned it down once,” she whispered.

“And you handled it,” he said. “You handled everything.”

“So… we can start trying?” she asked softly, hope blooming in her chest like fireworks.

Rafe smiled.

“After the wedding.”

She blinked. “What wedding?”

Then he dropped to one knee.

She squeaked. Literally squeaked.

He pulled out a tiny velvet box.

“This ring belonged to my mother,” he said, opening it to reveal a delicate gold band with a perfect oval diamond. “She told me to give it to someone strong. Someone who’d raise a strong child. Someone who’d never stop loving.”

Her eyes flooded with tears.

“I didn’t think that would be you,” he admitted. “But you proved me wrong.”

She dropped to the floor, mascara running, and wrapped her arms around him so tightly the ring nearly flew out of his hand.

“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yes yes yes yes yes!”

Bemo thumped approvingly.

JJ yawned in his sleep.

౨ৎ

Twelve Months Later

She was lying on her side in bed, cradling her enormous belly, one hand rubbing slow circles over the bump while the other held a half-eaten cupcake.

Rafe walked in, eyes soft, holding a tiny pink onesie that said Daddy’s Little Chaos in sparkly cursive. “She kicked again,” she said sleepily. “I think she likes cupcakes.” “She gets that from you,” he said, smiling.

They curled up together, her head on his chest, his hand on her belly. And just before she fell asleep, she whispered, “I still wanna name her Marshmallow.”

Rafe groaned. But he would say yes. Because she had earned everything. And he would give her the whole world.

600 notes · View notes

coffee-and-geto · 11 months ago

Text

IS THIS WHAT YOU EXPECTED?

pairing: ryomen sukuna × f!reader

summary: yuji itadori had been your crush for a while now. to try and get closer to him despite your bashful nature — you asked him to a movie night at your place. but nothing goes as planned when sukuna takes possession of him and makes you a deal to help you get closer to your friend…

warnings: +18, smut, nsfw, possessive! sukuna, dirty talk, degradation (slut, brat), dub con, dom! sukuna, sub! reader, fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), yuji is an aged up character, swearing, fanart found on pinterest if you know the artist let me know pls.

wc: 2, 946

“Oops…” murmurs Yuji as you come down the stairs of your house with a small stack of DVDs in hand.

The bowl of popcorn that you filled just five minutes ago for your movie night is now empty, and you blink as you approach the kitchen counter. “Yuji…” You snort and go to fetch another bag of popcorn from one of the cupboards to refill the bowl.

The sound of popcorn kernels clattering fills the room, and Yuji has a slight pout on his lips. He takes a few hesitant steps toward you and seeks your gaze. Still new to the romantic feelings you had for him, his unusual closeness catches you off guard, and you slowly back up to the counter in measured steps. You force a natural smile, and your heart races at the sight of your friend, whose eyes show disappointment.

“It’s nothing, Yuji. I usually have a lot of popcorn,” you try to reassure him. “But you have quite an appetite for such a fit teenager.” You swallow thick.

Yuji lets out a nervous laugh, seemingly more at ease than a few seconds ago, “You think so?”

Your eyes drift down to his body, eyeing his exposed forearms (he had kept his sorcerer uniform on despite your recommendation to get comfortable), and the defined muscles do not escape your notice: for a teenager his age, Yuji Itadori was very fit.

“Yeah... Pretty much…” Your eyes linger for a moment longer before you look back up at the pink-haired boy whose face you dream of covering with kisses.

Dressed in your pajama shorts and a simple t-shirt, it’s hard to stay perfectly calm, especially when your crush is less than two meters away from you.

Yuji steps forward nonchalantly, hands in his pockets, and steals a piece of popcorn which he skillfully tosses into his mouth. “So, what are we going to watch?”

“I was thinking about some thriller movies or something like that. I’m not too fond of horror movies,” you admit with a shy smile.

“Oh yeah? Why? Are you afraid you won’t sleep at night after that?” Yuji teases you. You nod toward the small stack of DVDs, and he takes the liberty of looking through your selection. “Scream’s pretty good,” he comments, picking it up to examine it with a ‘professional’ eye. Yuji’s brown eyes land on you, and you feel an uncomfortable warmth rise in your neck. “The DVD is new. Have you seen it before?” he asks with a surprisingly gentle, almost… concerned and indulgent tone.

You shake your head.

“I won’t spoil it, but I really liked it,” Yuji sets the other DVDs aside and shows you the one for ‘Scream.’ “Is that okay with you?”

You nod faintly, and a slit appears on Yuji’s cheek. It opens, revealing two sharp canines that are easily recognizable from spending so much time with your friend.

“Damn it, you two are really embarrassing to watch.” A voice escapes from the slit — the mouth that acts as an intermediary with Ryomen Sukuna.

“Hey! Go back to sleep!” exclaims Yuji, almost slapping himself, which makes you wince.

A hysterical laugh echoes, and black marks now streak your friend’s face. The laughter and the slit disappear, making way for Ryomen Sukuna. He stretches his arms up, flexing smoothly. “Ahhh!”

You try to back away but have forgotten you’re leaning against the kitchen counter. Now you’re stuck with the King of Curses…

“D-Don’t come any closer…” you whisper in a trembling voice, eyes wide with terror.

Another hysterical laugh escapes Sukuna’s lips. His eyes — so different from those of your lover — examine you from head to toe, and one eyebrow arches. “What was his type again? Tall girls with big asses?”

You blush at his mocking tone and don’t dare say a word. Even your breathing seems to have become labored, as if the oxygen had thickened in just a few seconds.

A sneer never leaves Sukuna’s lips as he approaches you with an overwhelming air of confidence. When he reaches you, he narrows his eyes and looks you up and down a second time. “So this is the kid you want to flirt with?” His voice is dripping with arrogance…

You swallow hard and don’t dare to respond, your throat tight and your wide eyes fixed on the tattoos of the King of Curses.

“Come on, rabbit, cat got your tongue?” Sukuna snickers.

You shake your head, and a rough whisper escapes your dry throat, “N-No…”

“Oh really? Because the atmosphere a minute ago was so cringeworthy! You two looked like a couple of idiots fresh out of their mother’s womb, ugh!” Sukuna leans in provocatively, his hot breath brushing your cheek and stealing your own.

“What do you want from me?” you murmur reluctantly, pulling your head back slowly to find some breathable air.

“Nothing, just to avoid hearing your terribly awkward conversation any longer,” Sukuna replies, shrugging.

“It wasn’t awkward, you made it seem that way. Give Yuji back his body,” you dare to retort. Your heart pounds faster and harder in your chest, loud enough for Sukuna to hear.

“Nah, I don’t feel like it. I don’t want to deal with the stifling aura of a hormonal teenager again.” Sukuna rolls his eyes and tilts his head to the side. “Do you like this brat?”

You squint without answering.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he raises a playful eyebrow. “How about we make a deal?”

“No,” you reply immediately.

“What an ingrate! I grant you my tolerance and you dare refuse a deal I give you?” he retorts with a much less sympathetic aura. His hands leave his pockets to rest on either side of the counter, effectively trapping you with him. “I don’t recall asking you a question.”

And his voice immediately makes you regret your words. Being trapped at home with Ryomen Sukuna was not something you could let slide, much less making a deal with him. “No, actually— I—”

“Hush.”

Sukuna’s hands slide from the counter to your hips, gripping them firmly, making you startle in place. His lips descend to your neck, leaving a line of soft kisses, causing a slight shiver. His eyes notice the goosebumps on your skin and his lips curl. “Is this what you expected?” His whisper reverberates like a shockwave through your entire body.

“I— You— No,” you manage to reply almost in a gasp.

“Here’s my proposition then. I help you get closer to the brat on one condition.” A manic smile lights up Sukuna’s face, and your heart now tries to escape your chest.

“What?” you let out almost in a whimper when he presses his lower body against yours.

“Let me use you.”

Your breath immediately reacts to the panic that overwhelms you. No way. You’ll end up dead in that case.

“No, that’s out of the question—” You try to finally slip out of his embrace, but your strength doesn’t match Sukuna’s. He applies more pressure on your hips and plants a kiss on your trapezius muscle. "Just for tonight. Nothing bad will happen to you…” His insistent tone is like a flirtatious purr.

The sensation of Yuji’s lips and much more on you and the idea of being closer makes the blood rush to your head, so how can you refuse such a tempting offer? But the awareness that he’s using Yuji’s body cools your thoughts.

“No, I can’t— It’s disrespectful to Yu—”

“Are you his owner to know what respect means? Do you think I’m unaware of his adolescent thoughts imagining you with him?” Sukuna’s hands move up to your waist, his nails digging into your back, eliciting a whine from you. “The number of times he’d dreamt of hearing you moan like that?”

If your face could get any redder at this point, the blood might as well explode from your body at any moment.

Your features twist in irritation and anger at what he said next. “If I let myself get fucked by someone like you, I’m sure I won’t come out of it alive!”

A chuckle is your only response. “I’ll try to go easy then. But no promises.” Then he grabs you by the hips to lift you onto the counter and roughly spreads your legs. He slips between them and captures your lips in a rough and hungry kiss. Your breath leaves your lips as he swallows it, not giving you a moment to respond to his taunt. You respond against your will, your lips devouring each other and teeth clashing.

Sukuna sinks his teeth into your lower lip, making you suck in a sharp breath. His wet tongue soothes your aching flesh and moves down your throat to lick a strip of bare skin. The tension and weight of his movement make you shiver, and you hastily take the initiative to remove your shirt, revealing your chest encased in a bra. It rises and falls with your breathing, radiating a heat full of desire.

Sukuna lets out an appreciative whistle that makes you blush. “Do I still need to take control?” he teases with a smirk. “Or is this the behavior of a slut?”

The label makes your heart tremble, and your hands quickly find Sukuna’s neck to bring his addictive lips back to yours. He immediately returns your kiss and plays for a few seconds with the strap of your bra before finding his way to the clasp and undoing it. The bra falls to the floor, and Sukuna’s hands find the curves of your breasts. A whimper escapes your lips, and you close your eyes for a second to savor the new sensation.

A growl is blown from him after breaking away from your lips to snake a path to your collarbone, which he wastes no time in nibbling on. A small jolt shakes your belly, and you tilt your chin up to give him more access to your body. You almost desperately try to remain silent, but it’s difficult when Sukuna’s mouth suckles on a nipple anything but gently. The pressure makes you moan and grimace in pleasure.

“Sukuna—”

“Fuck…” he curses under his breath, moving to your other nipple. He gently nibbles on the hardened, sensitive bud while his other hand keeps the other nipple occupied, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. You hum and place your hands on your thighs to keep them from trembling — in vain. “The kid wasn’t wrong,” Sukuna murmurs. He wraps his arms around your waist and swiftly carries you to the couch. Your back sinks into the soft cushions as Sukuna’s skilled fingers find the hem of your shorts and remove them completely, with no regard for your embarrassment. His legs straddle the armrest of the couch, and he brutally spreads your thighs, remaining still, his eyes fixed on the large wet spot at the center of your panties. “Who was talking about respect for whom, again?” A dark, mocking smile questions you.

A tremor runs through your muscles, and you prepare to close your legs, but Sukuna anticipates the movement. He places his hands on the inside of your plush thighs to keep them wide open. “Is the dirty slut afraid?” He chuckles before sliding a finger along the side of your underwear, teasing and toying with your swollen core. “So wet f’me…” Your eyes take in the sight of Sukuna’s face: dilated pupils, slightly parted mouth, and almost ragged breathing. He’s practically drooling at the sight of your clothed intimate area.

Blood pounds in your temples when he easily removes your panties, leaving you naked beneath him. His forefinger and middle finger hover over your wet, dripping entrance. “Already worked up by a few kisses…” he comments, and you can only look at him pathetically.

“Sukuna, please…” you whimper as the sensation of his two fingers gliding from your sensitive, throbbing bundle of nerves to your wet folds makes you want to moan even more.

“Please what?” he repeats, focused on your entrance that tightens and closes around nothing. “Already begging?” He bursts into a fit of laughter. “I can’t wait to fill you with my dick…”

“Need you,” you whine with a pout and pleading eyes. And God, he wants to take you rough and fast at that moment.

“Again.” He looks up at you. “Beg for it.” His brown eyes burn with desire — a desire so intense, it could destroy if he didn’t play it patiently.

“Please… Sukuna… I—” But you’re cut off by a yelp from your throat as Sukuna’s fingers plunge hard into you, and he hisses to contain himself.

You’re incredibly tight. Your gummy walls cling to his fingers as if afraid they might escape.

“Fuck… You’re so wet…” He growls, moving his fingers in and out, making you tighten even more. Uncontrolled moans escape from you, resonating in the room.

“Sukuna… hgnn— so good…” you moan pathetically, squirming under him like a trapped mouse in his snare. His pace doesn’t change, going in and out of you, reaching that spot deep inside you each time he goes deeper.

“That’s it… Moan my name,” he murmurs, accelerating his pace. You convulse on the couch and grip the edges of the seats as if your life depended on it.

And reaching the depths of your pussy, Sukuna grins and bursts into laughter at your body’s reaction. You almost scream his name, and your walls swallow his fingers. They curl deep inside your womb, and your trembling legs and ragged breath testify to your state approaching the edge of ecstasy. “Sukuna— Please… so close...”

“That’s it… Cum on my fingers… I want to see you fall apart in front of me…” he whispers in a husky voice. The speed of his fingers thrusting into you increases, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl and almost scream his name.

“Cumming…!” you pant as your back arches and your walls spasm around his thick fingers. You squirt and sob his name pitifully.

Sukuna curls his lips into a sadistic smile and gradually slows the pace of his fingers inside you. He eventually withdraws them completely, admiring the shiny slickness coating his forefinger and middle finger.

“Hmm…” he hums, bringing his fingers to his mouth to taste you. He growls in satisfaction and wastes no time removing his pants and underwear, leaving you barely a moment to take in the sight of his throbbing bulge finally being freed.

If you had bet on Yuji’s length size, you could have won much more money than you thought.

It was just like in your dreams, large, thick, aching, and slightly veiny. Your lips part, and you don’t take your eyes off its reddened, sensitive tip. Sukuna grips his length in his hand and brings it to your needy pussy. The tip meets your swollen clit and taps it.

Sukuna’s lenght twitches slightly in his hand, eager to fill you. The aching tip glides along your folds, spreading them to stop and position itself at your entrance.

“Uh… Can we go—” But you’re cut off. You scream in surprise as his thick member fills your hole in one go, reaching the bottom with almost no difficulty — except for your tightness revealing a side of Sukuna you never thought you’d see: him, teeth and jaw clenched, holding back everything except a low growl and dozens of curses to convey how good you feel wrapped around him. His member splits you in a delicious embrace. Eyes closed, he starts a slow in-and-out motion, forcing you to sob his name in pleasure.

But the only downside was that you weren’t quite used to him yet, your body writhing to try to slow the pace. His hips buck against yours more and more quickly. With each thrust, he hits your gummy spot, making you tighten around him and moan his name, the sound of which is like music to his ears.

Another growl escapes Sukuna as he buries his head in the crook of your neck, nibbling your shoulder. “Take it… Take it…” he keeps murmuring between loud breaths.

“F-Fuck… It’s too much…” you gasp, gripping his shoulders with your hands. Your nails dig into the flesh of his shoulders, and every time his slams into you hit your g-spot, it’s like you’re about to cum any moment, fucking both your cunt and your brains out mercilessly.

“Take it, slut,” he growls in your ear, his lenght twitching in you, ready to fill you with every pound he makes. “I’m gonna fill you up… Fill you until you scream you can’t take it anymore…”

His hips relentlessly roll against you, and Sukuna revels in the cries of pleasure you express. A knot forms in the pit of your stomach, on the verge of exploding. One final pound inside you and it bursts as you reach your climax around him, fucking you even through your orgasm. Your chest rises and falls at such a rapid pace it feels like you’re emerging from a near-drowning experience.

Your waning orgasm is quickly followed by Sukuna’s. “Sh-Shit… Fuuuuck…” he growls in your ear, his hands gripping your hips tightly. Without warning, his orgasm take over him and he finishes inside you with his hot, thick load into your tight hole.

Now, only rough groans and sighs are heard in the room. You let your head fall back onto one of the sofa seats and close your eyes, exhausted. Sukuna slowly withdraws from you and lies down by your side, one hand still around your hip in a possessive embrace.

“You know, brat, if you’re not Yuji’s type, at least you’re mine. Just sayin’.”

a/n: this fic wasn’t planned MWAHAHAHA! i’m sorry tho 😭 it’s been 3 weeks or more than i’m promising to post my fashion designer! suguru fic and i didn’t finish it. i’ve got problems to solve and it’s making me more stressful than i thought 🫠 hope you enjoyed anyway (it’s my first smut tbh)

2K notes · View notes

yanderenightmare · 1 year ago

Text

Gojo Satoru x darling

TW: NSFW, noncon, fantasy au

gn reader

Thinking about hunter Gojo and the pretty little nymph that gets themselves snared in one of his traps.

You can’t get your poor leg loose, having twisted your ankle in your fall to the ground – something’s wrong with your wing too, you can feel it – the thin network’s been folded, almost broken – so even if you did manage getting loose, you wouldn’t be able to fly away.

Branches snap around you along the crunch of old leaves – and your heart’s beating out of your chest in fear of it – knowing something large and dangerous is not far behind, that whoever set the trap is not something that wishes you well.

“You’re not a rabbit.” The man says, having crept in close before you’d even heard him approach �� crouching in front of you with a hunter's grace. Hawk-eyes ice-blue and piercing, hair as white as pure snow.

He’s got three daggers sleaved in his belt – a fillet knife, a gutting knife, and a larger one you imagine is meant to slice throats. He doesn’t carry a sword like most men but has a bow and sack of arrows slung on his back. Otherwise, dressed lightly – brown leather boots, brown slacks, and a blue cotton shirt. You could have mistaken him for a woodland elf if it weren’t for the thick stench of man.

“Eating creatures from the holy forest is forbidden.” You snip, despite your wide eyes and the wobble of fear evident on your lip.

He only smiles at the quip, a grin like a predator humored by prey. “You wouldn’t tell a wolf not to hunt.”

He stalks you, leaning in closer, and you try shuffling away – but the movement only makes you wince.

“I’m just another hungry animal…”

Rope gnaws into your fine skin while his breath puffs hot and dewy on your face.

“And tonight… seems lady luck has favored me once again.”

He gags you and ties you further up before redoing his snare for the next unlucky creature – then carries you over his shoulder until he’s dropping you down on a bed of furs.

Your skin flushes with goosebumps at the thought of being skinned the same way – mouthing a little prayer around the cloth he’s split your teeth and lips with. He’s cut trees down as well; you hear their pitiful screams when he lights a fire with their bodies. You mourn them, too.

At his full height, the man must be two heads taller than any male nymph you’ve ever seen and at least three heads taller than you. You hope you’re enough to satisfy him tonight, to spare the forest of further bloodshed.

You shiver and sniffle when he starts prepping you – removing your clothes and groping your tender, fleshy places with a strength you’re not used to – hands large and crass – kneading you like dough – probably to assess the quality of your meat. He has a smile on his face while at it.

Humans make you sick – to think he’s planning on roasting then eating you despite the soul fueling your spirit and the beating heart in your chest. But you’ve long known that all death but their own matters little to them – they don’t feel the same way nymphs do – they don’t regard life with the same respect they’ve donned themselves. It must be a sad and lonely existence, you think. It even makes you feel a little sorry for him.

You yelp when his gritty fingers brush the area between your legs – shimmying when he lowers his mouth down to the same place. Oh God – does he plan on eating you raw? While your body’s still hot and pumping blood?

But the bite never comes – not yet eating but tasting it would seem – licking and slurping and sucking on you.

He takes his shirt off. Probably to avoid spilling on it, you think.

You don’t really understand what’s going on until he’s got his fat manhood pointed toward your kernel-sized hole. Eyes wide as he splits you apart slowly and unabashedly – as though it isn't as deviant as a dog mating a cat – sinking in inch after meaty inch.

You whimper at the stretch – wincing when the plush mushroom-shaped head grinds against that special place inside you.

It doesn’t fit more than halfway, but that doesn’t seem to bother him – rolling his head back with a rusty groan, even with just the tip gaining purchase within you – pounding into you like a beast in his rut.

“What's the matter, pretty nymph? Did you think I was gonna eat you?” He laughs, bearing over you – his hands steadying your hips to meet his sharp thrust – each hit deeper than the last. “I’m the only hunter in this forest; I can eat what I want when I want – but eating you?” He scoffed and snickered. “That would just be a waste.”

The blood on his breath makes you wrinkle your nose – squeezing your eyes shut as his tongue sweeps up the tear streaks on your cheek.

“My stomach’s already full. Time to empty my balls.”

4K notes · View notes

luveline · 3 months ago

Note

hiya there! can I request remus having an autistic gf and her finally being comfortable stimming and unmasking around him? 🙏🏻 thank you

“I love that movie, I love Scooby-Doo.”

Remus hums. “I don’t mind it.”

“With the escape ball and– and when Scooby draws the bunny?” You grin. “It always makes me laugh.”

“I like the frisbee flashback.”

“That’s the first one.”

“Is it?” Remus takes a sip of his coffee, a white chocolate mocha, barely any coffee at all.

“I don’t know.” You laugh. Remus likes how it tumbles from you, unabashed, your hands drifting towards your chest. You’ve slumped with time into the cushions of the coffee shop’s patchwork sofa, a thigh of space between you and Remus filled with your purse, his wallet, and his longing.

You start to squeeze your hand into a fist. You’re still smiling. Remus has to compute the event quickly, lest he ask if you’re okay and make a fool of himself. You’re fine, just excited to be having a laugh, and this is what happens. He resists the urge to clench his own fist as yours rolls in and out of itself like a flower, blooming and un-blooming, taking in the sun, heat of your chest, and closing again. You squeeze again and Remus remembers it’s his turn to talk.

“Did you watch the cartoons?” he asks.

“I did! Yes! The cartoon movies were the best.”

Remus is sure you’d let him kiss you if he asked politely enough, but you’re so busy trying to learn everything about one another that there hasn’t been time. Genuinely. He’s ditching a lecture to be here now, wondering if he can persuade you into calling in sick from work tonight just ‘cos he wants to see you that little bit longer.

“If you skip work, we can watch the Cyber Chase. I have the DVD.”

Your hand squeezes, and when you let it go, you force your fingers straight. Then, gentle, you begin tapping the base of your neck like a feigned pulse. “Really, you do?”

“Buy you a takeaway and everything.”

The noise you make in response is almost silent. Lips pressed together, eyes alight, it’s a happy hum. He’s so happy he caused it that he reaches over the mess on the sofa to hold your resting wrist.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. But if you’re buying food then I’m buying the popcorn before we go. There’s a CostCutters by your flat, right?”

He follows down your wrist to your hand. It’s restless, but not moving into tight balls like the other one. “Yeah. Or we can go to a proper shop and get some kernels, I have a pan with a lid and real butter, we can make it ourselves. I’ll make caramel, too, if you want.”

Remus doesn’t think it’s the popcorn that’s exciting you —though popcorn can be quite interesting on an otherwise mundane Monday night— but instead assumes it to be the same thing that has his heart skipping beats, the diminishing gap between you. The inch of your knee pressing into his.

“It’s the second film, with the frisbee,” you say suddenly. “You’re right, it’s when they have to go to the original clubhouse.”

You squeeze your hand into a fist again, worrying the neck of your t-shirt. Remus rubs the back of your hand with his thumb, weighing the idea of asking you if you’re alright against how that might kill the mood. Eventually, he brings his own hand to his neck and squeezes it shut. “You okay?” he asks softly, just so you know he doesn’t mind.

Your hand relaxes. Voice similarly soft, eyes a sugary shade he has yet to have seen before, “I’m just happy,” you say. “Being with you.”

He plays with your fingers, shyness half-feigned and half embarrassingly real. “I like it, too. It’s exactly why you should come over.”

“I thought I should tell you that, in case I take back my hand or something and it gives you a different impression. I’m just happier when I get to choose what’s happening sometimes.” You smile, and Remus knows he’s trusted. “But I guess you figured that out.”

He strokes your ring finger, his eyes squinting gently as he returns your smile.

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x y/n #marauders era #remus x reader #remus x you #marauders #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin blurb #marauders x reader #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin fanfic #remus lupin fanfiction #the marauders

709 notes · View notes

cheeseborgorbord2 · 3 months ago

Text

Extra Salty

(amab) sub!Caitlyn x (afab) Reader

Warning: smut, dick in a popcorn bucket, cum on popcorn.

Every Friday night was movie night. It was a night when you could both unwind after a stressful week of work in your luxury Piltover apartment.

"Caitlyn, my love, can you get the popcorn ready while I take a quick shower?" You ask from the bedroom, grabbing fresh clothes to change into.

Caitlyn, already in her pajamas, shrugged and said, "Sure, love. Don't take too long, okay?"

You chuckle, playfully rolling your eyes, and walk to the bathroom. Caitlyn gets up from the couch and grabs a popcorn bucket from the kitchen cabinet. She instinctively holds it by her thighs, staring at it for a moment before a dirty idea crosses her mind, a smirk spreading on her face. She picks up a knife and does a messy job of cutting a hole in the bottom of the bucket. She pulled her cock out of her pajama shorts to try on the hole, making adjustments to fit her rather big and girthy size.

The sound of the shower cutting off was Caitlyn's cue to actually start on the popcorn. She threw the bag in the microwave and rushed to the couch. To ensure this would work, she jerked herself off a few times before placing her hard cock through the hole, covering the top with her hands as if she was casually holding the empty bucket.

"Popcorn ready?" you ask, turning the hallway corner naked, taking out the bag and opening it so the popcorn could cool down while you went to put clothes on.

A few minutes later, you sat down next to Caitlyn in nothing but a large t-shirt and a messy bun, handing her the open, cooled-off bag of popcorn for her to pour the popcorn in as you looked for a movie. Pre-cum flowed and coated some popcorn from the sight of how naturally sexy you were.

"You okay, baby? You're staring," your voice snaps Caitlyn out of the trance.

"Y-yeah," Caitlyn stammered. "I'm okay, m-my love."

"Uh huh, if you say so," you replied, a tone of uncertainty in your voice. You knew something was up, but exactly what? You didn't know. Soon enough, you found a movie and let it play, digging into the bucket, popping pieces of the cooked kernels into your mouth. You immediately noticed something different about the popcorn.

"Hey, did you get the right popcorn? This tastes a bit off. Is this the extra salty popcorn?"

Caitlyn's cheeks turned a bright pink. she avoided eye contact as she spoke with you, "No, love, it's, uh...probably something wrong with your tastebuds."

You give her a confused look before shrugging it off.

Midway through the movie, half the popcorn gone, Caitlyn is surprised when a warm grasp around her shaft. A choked gasp escaped her lips as she watched your manicured fingers stroke her.

Your hand quickened its pace on her shaft, most of the popcorn falling out. Caitlyn whimpered with every pull and squeak, biting her lip to suppress her moans.

"Pay attention to the movie, Caitlyn. This is the good part," you gave a firm tug, eliciting a soft gasp from her. Her cock twitched in your grip. She was getting closer to coming. "Eyes on the screen," you instructed.

Caitlyn whined, trying to watch the movie, but failing, closing her eyes in pleasure.

"Don't you dare come," you growl into her ear, earning a loud whimper from Caitlyn.

"I...I can't. I'm coming!" Caitlyn squealed, cum erupting from her sensitive tip, covering your hand and remaining popcorn in her release. You brought your hand up to your mouth, cleaning the thick ropes off your skin, moaning at the taste.

"Mmm, salty, but delicious."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓶𝓪𝓭𝓮 𝓫𝔂 𝓶𝓮.

𝓟𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓮 𝓭𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓬𝓸𝓹𝔂 𝓶𝔂 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓴 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓭𝓲𝓽. 𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭.

🄼🄴🄽 🄰🄽🄳 🄼🄸🄽🄾🅁🅂 🄳🄽🄸

#arcane #caitlyn kirraman x reader #caitlyn x reader #caitlyn arcane #caitlyn kiramman smut #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn smut #league of legends caitlyn

448 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 11 months ago

Note

Hi lovely I wanna start by saying how fricking talented are you, you are truly amazing. I LOVEEEE reading your works, they seem so so real and just so wonderful, I love them🫶🏻. So I went to the cinema tonight with my friend and I wore a pretty low-cut t shirt (is that how you say it? English is not my first language so idk if it the right word) and like the popcorn kept falling out of my hands and into the neckline (?) like between my bOobs (I don’t have big boobs so there is a lot of space down that lol). And idk I thought it would be so funny seeing how the marauders would react ahaha. So something along those lines would be great🫶🏻

Hi gorgeous, thank you for requesting!

cw: pg-13 behavior, the boys are a tad immature but it's silly

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 369 words

“Dove.” Remus’ tone is that idiosyncratic sweet spot between exasperated and entertained. “How do you always make such a mess?”

“I don’t mind,” says James, picking up a piece of popcorn from next to you on the couch. “She eats quick, but at least there’s always plenty left over.”

You lift your thigh, half sheepish when it reveals three more kernels tucked between you and the cushion. “It’s not my fault,” you argue as James swipes them up. “You guys hog the popcorn over there, I have to take big handfuls or I’d be reaching across the whole time.”

Remus gives you a dubious look. “You’d be just as bad if you had your own bowl.”

“Jamie, you’re scavenging in the wrong place,” Sirius says, leaning around Remus to grin at you. “Didn’t you see where it was all going during the film?”

“Oh, I know, I was just saving the best for last.” James reaches into your top, pulling out a few kernels and pecking you on the cheek in thanks. It burns where his lips touched.

“You guys are disgusting,” you say, fighting to keep from smiling.

James tilts his head, crunching. “Why?”

“Those were between my boobs! It’s like eating them off of me.”

Sirius leans around Remus to raise a brow at you. “Um, I’d do that,” he says, “happily. Actually, James, I think you’re still using the wrong technique there. Let me show you.”

Remus sighs as Sirius crawls over both of the other boys, making his way towards you. James steadies him with a hand on his back when he almost slips off the couch. Knowing Sirius, you really should be expecting it, but you still gasp when he hooks a finger in the neckline of your top, pulls it wide, and buries his head in your chest.

Remus chuckles at your expression, and James asks, “Find anything?”

“Yeah,” Sirius says from between your tits. You make a squeaky sound when you feel him lick briefly over your skin, and then he emerges, crunching satisfiedly on a piece of popcorn. “See? Told you.”

You let your head fall back onto the couch cushions in defeat. Remus reaches over to pat the top consolingly.

1K notes · View notes

sakachichi · 3 months ago

Text

Toji!drabble — imagine yall watching a movie, innocently sharing your thoughts and laughing. Your head on his lap, eyes glued on the tv stuffing your mouth with popcorn. His deep laughs rumbling throughout his entire body, feeling the vibration in your head. And then his hand starts caressing your you hair, making you snuggle up deeper into him — rubbing against his tender cock. A low gruffy groan rumbling from the depths of his throat, he ignores the pressure of your movements as he knows you really don’t mean to touch him that way.

But he can’t help but get turned on, he got a little too hard, choking on popcorn kernels immediately catching your attention. “You good?” you softly ask, and he reassures with a smile and nod. You lay back down and that’s when you feel his growing bulge, your eyes widening at the feeling at his hardened dick. You ignore it but it won’t leave your mind, cursing yourself as you yourself start to get aroused.

After a few minutes of trying to suppress your nasty thoughts, you sit up keeping your gaze on his bulge. He’s covering his mouth in embarrassment, avoiding eye contact with his life. “Do you need help?” You sweetly ask placing a tender hand on his covered cock, slightly twitching from the contact, he nods almost instantly — hesitating to even agree. You smile as you start to slowly take his dick out, it’s so swollen dripping in pre cum, his veins almost popping out from the pressure.

“Oh my god, Toji…” you gasp at the sight, it’s standing so tall and proud.

As you start taking of your panties, Toji finally looks over to you, watching as you slip off your soaked panties. His mouth slightly parting as he catches the subtle sheen on your swollen lips, mindlessly his hand begins to reach towards your sopping cunt, dipping his thick fingers into you — feeling your slick essence coat his fingers.

You began to straddle him, stroaking his dick with his pre-cum, lubing him up before slowly sitting down on him. Bottoming him out. The lewd sighs and groans of relief flowing out into the room, rolling your hips as you get used to his girthy length. And omg was he soooo deep in you, the imprint of his dick forming on your stomach was so filthy, it turned him on even more. Placing two big rough hands on your hips before taking the lead and fucking himself up into you, your pretty tits bouncing behind your huge t-shirt — hanging onto one of your shoulders.

You latch onto Toji as he fucks you mindlessly, fingers so desperately gripping onto his hair, lewd moans and whines flowing into his ears. “Fuck girl, you’re so wet” he groans deeply as he throws his head back, his fat balls softly slapping onto your ass with each violent thrust. Your shirt now barely on as you continue to bounce in his dick, tits now out for Toji to suck on, his mouth bullying both of your sensitive nubs — almost as if his desperate for your milk.

The filthy sounds of slurps, squelching, moans, whimpers, whines, and groans filled the room muffling the movie in the background. Yall were so fucking loud as you both came simultaneously, your body trembling as you rode out your high. Two loud smacks landing on your plump ass, both of Toji’s rough hands turning your skin a bright red as he heavily breathes out.

“Let’s go again?” He whispers into your ear and you giggle.

Im in love w Toji rn so bad, I would literally become a house wife for him 😖🤚😵‍💫

#jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu toji #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji x you #toji smut #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #jjk #jjk toji #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji zenin #toji x y/n #chichis mind #anime fanfic #anime

303 notes · View notes

nopanamaman · 1 year ago

Text

How do mutants in the Facility live?

Patreon Loredump. August 2023

One of the most frequent types of questions I get are about life in the Facility. So it seems like a good topic to start my loredumping series with!

Apologies in advance for all the photo examples, I hope they work fine for getting the vibes across.

Overview

The facility dome is visible in the distance.

The facility in general – or, as it’s officially known, the Zh. I. Alferov National Institute of Anomalous Research – is a large structure located on the border of the Zone. Its most notable feature is the massive dome surrounded by an outside wall.

The wall. In real life, the famous building of НИЦЭВТ.

The latter is a building in itself, containing offices, lecture halls, resting and dining quarters for researchers, as well as minor labs. All entrances are supervised, though not totally closed off to the public. Excursions, official meetings, TV reports – all of those happen within the wall.

But you will not find any mutants here. As you may have already guessed, all the major laboratories, anomalous artefacts, and, of course, mutants are housed in the dome. The entrances to the dome are monitored and equipped with anomaly scanners, allowing only authorised personnel and mutants to travel between its sectors.

Mutants cannot traverse the facility unsupervised.

What is the mutant classification system?

Depending on their anomalous characteristics, cooperability and method of containment, mutants are sorted into types and numbered groups. Individual mutant numbers usually look like XT000-000.

Let’s use Dmitry as an example.

Dima’s serial number is DT001-319.

The type constitutes the first part of the mutant’s number. Dima’s mutation is Directional Type, hence the letters DT at the start (for the record, KT stands for Kernel Type).

Next we have the 00X number. Mutants are assigned a 001, 002, 003 or 004 class depending on the potency and containability of their mutation – kinda like SCPs, yeah. Dima has a very powerful mutation he has good control over, plus he is sound of mind, making him suitable for 001 containment.

The last three digits are the overall number of the mutant within their type. So if Dima’s are 319, the facility has had 318 directional-type mutants on record prior to his arrival. This does not mean they were as powerful or had the same level of control over their telekinesis, just that they possessed a similar mutation to some extent.

How do different mutant classes live?

001

001 quarters example. Not too different from a hospital or sanatorium

Subjects ranked as 001 are extremely powerful, have good control over their powers and are, most importantly, docile. Since their mutations are very potent and difficult to forcefully contain, the go-to approach is making them not want to leave.

001s spend most (if not all) of their conscious lives surrounded by doctors. The latter foster a particular mindset in their subjects, where the world outside is presented as a place that is unanimously hostile to mutants. This is done by means of propaganda, reminders about their family’s supposed mistreatment and, in case a mutant has some favourable recollections of their childhood, gaslighting. Additionally, subjects are never left alone with each other.

001s get very luxurious treatment by facility's standards, with much bigger, more comfortable rooms than other mutant types. They're even allowed to have gaming consoles, TVs with VHS and video players, and their own bookshelves. Each mutant has their own separate room, which is kept under constant camera surveillance with the toilet being the only blind spot.

Special folders are issued to 001s before experiments with lower-ranked mutants.

Experiments held on 001s are relatively humane so as not to discourage them from staying at the facility. They do undergo daily checkups mostly designed to monitor their mental state. 001s are also active participants in experimentation on lower-ranked mutants, who they are taught and encouraged to treat as lesser beings.

001s are a high-risk investment, so their numbers are far smaller than those of 002 and 003-class mutants. Additionally, because of the potential danger they present, the institute is quick to dispose of 001 subjects by either termination or reclassification to 004. Though, if a 001 manages to stay cooperative long-term, they can become a very valuable asset for the facility.

002 and 003

002 and 003 quarters example. Though, they’re typically not as well-kept

002 and 003 mutant classes can be grouped together, since their treatment is largely the same. Both of these types’ mutations are easy to forcibly contain. The difference is their danger levels. 003s require close monitoring to not be harmful to others, while 002s are borderline harmless. Both types are characterised by general cooperability.

002s live in wards for 2 to 4 people, while 003s are more commonly placed in single-person wards to prevent accidents. A standard room includes a bed, a desk and a small bathroom (multiple beds and two desks in bigger wards).

KT got to take a dinosaur plushie to her room for good behaviour.

Mutants are allowed to borrow books from the library, as well as get drawing and writing materials. If they behave well, they can get a toy or even be lent a handheld console for a few days.

002s and 003s have breakfasts, lunches and dinners together, and can spend some time in the playroom with other mutants (that’s also where they can play computer games and watch TV) – all under very strict surveillance, of course.

In some ways, their treatment is much less cruel than that of the elite 001 subjects.

KT before the DT experiment.

Though, not when it comes to experiments. 002s and 003s are very common, and are thus treated as disposable material in a scientific sense. The people holding experiments on them are a lot less concerned with minimising the subject’s pain or discomfort. Consequently, it’s not uncommon for mutants of these classes to sustain serious injuries or die as a result of experimentation.

That said, 002s have the highest likelihood of getting released from the facility, given they meet the conditions for it (more on that below).

004

004 quarters example. Basically a prison bunker

004 is a special category reserved for powerful mutants that refuse or physically cannot cooperate. This number can also be issued as a temporary or permanent punishment to misbehaving mutants. The 004 quarters are located underground and have the highest level of security, acting as a sort of bunker for the most dangerous subjects the facility has.

004 rooms are even more barebones than those of 002 and 003s. They have no access to entertainment (unless it is somehow required to contain their mutation) and cannot leave their room under any circumstances. They are more weapons than test subjects.

Do mutants receive education?

All mutants from class 003 and above receive basic education, learning to read, write and count. They additionally get curated history and sociology lessons. Some mutants, namely 001s, attend mandatory classes in certain disciplines to better apply their mutation. For example, Dmitry studied anatomy to know the precise positioning of internal organs.

Mutants are also free to study whatever sciences interest them in their free time by asking for educational materials at the library. Needless to say, most kids aren’t too interested in that, and are very uneducated compared to their outside peers.

Is there censorship in the facility?

All the media mutants are exposed to at the facility is strictly controlled.

6 y.o. Dima and his politically correct PSP.

The only movies, cartoons, comics, books and games allowed are those that either don't feature the Zone or mutants at all, those that show the discrimination mutants face outside, or those that are very obvious anti-mutant propaganda.

In essence, there are no positive depictions of human-to-mutant interaction, aside from ones between mutants and noble scientists. And, of course, nothing that goes against the general government ideology.

Can mutants be released from the facility?

It is generally assumed that mutants that go into the dome do not come out.

While they are largely dehumanised, the facility is still publicly presented as a sort of scientific sanatorium and hospice for those that cannot safely exist in society. Releasing mutants that know the truth behind the institute’s experiments into the wild is simply of no benefit to the government. So the majority are terminated once their scientific potential is exhausted or if they become too expensive to contain. As a result, few mutants live to adulthood.

Though, there are exceptions to the rule. Occasionally, mutants deemed non-hazardous can be released back into society. This is applicable to mutants that have not experienced significant mistreatment from the facility, lack the ability to talk about their experiences and optimally have been brainwashed by an appropriate 001 subject.

Have other mutants before DT and KT ever escaped?

The funny thing is, escapes aren’t a particularly rare occurrence.

Dmitry and Katya’s escape in KT’s Official Guide to Coolness.

Despite getting a lot of funding, the facility itself is very disorganised. Most of the money is blatantly pocketed by the higher-ups, so a lot of its structures and equipment are subpar – this includes its outdated safety systems. To top it all off, the security staff isn’t especially well-paid, so their diligence is highly questionable.

With all that piling up, there are around 3 cases of low-level escapes every year. Because of tight budgets and plenty of work to do as is, these escapes are generally brushed under the rug. The institute still keeps tabs on the escapees in case they happen to show up on the radar, but it rarely organises active searches or alerts the public for that matter.

DT and KT’s escape stood out because it was anything but low-level, and pretty bombastic at that. But even that didn’t warrant a public announcement for fear of panic and reputational damage. So if you’re an 003 mutant looking for an opportunity to sneak out… Hell, man, just go for it.

Wrap-up

That’s about all I can say about mutants’ life in the research centre, scratch some small factoids here and there. I tried to answer the most common questions regarding the topic, so I hope your curiosity was satisfied!

#loredump #deepest lore #parties are for losers #katya #dmitry #dr temnova #comfort zone #kt's official guide to coolness

1K notes · View notes

queenimmadolla · 1 year ago

Text

𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

(eddie munson x pregnant!reader)

Summary: You and Eddie discuss your current pregnancy craving...or, in which you want something not all that common of a craving and ridiculously difficult to get a hold of, and Eddie teases you over it even though you both know he's going to get it for you.

warnings: references to baby making activities.

a/n: those damn tiktoks keep getting to me. lil drabble. more dad!eddie here. masterlist.

Pregnancy was not something Eddie Munson believed he would ever understand. Wasn’t something he thought he’d have to do.

Until—at the very responsible age of twenty─he took to finishing inside of you and one of his swimmers took. Played hide-and-seek for a good five months before either of you knew she was there.

You hadn’t started showing until about two or three weeks after finding out, and now at almost seven months, you had the cutest baby bump Eddie couldn’t keep his hands off, a ravenous hunger for the most peculiar things and absolutely no tolerance for the weirdest fucking things; the sound of kernels popping made you want to throw up, and so did the scent of baked goods and the ‘air on Tuesdays’ (Eddie was still trying to work that one out).

Whatever you wanted, Eddie got you. Albeit, with tons of questions asked. Like, right now.

It was late in the evening, chilly throughout the trailer but warm in the room thanks to the trusty space heater Eddie had had for years. The both of you had traded your day clothes for pajamas, so you were in one of his t-shirts and nothing else while he was only clad in a pair of sweats because his body temperature always ran a little on the hot side, and you were curled right up to him. Your head had been previously nuzzling into the crook of his neck, placing kisses over the tendons there and nosing along his jaw but now it was craned back, batting those pretty eyelashes up at him with pleading eyes and a pout.

“Pleeeaaaaase, Eddie?”

“Branzino.” Eddie repeated your request with amused disbelief.

“It’s low in mercury, so I can eat it.”

“Branzino.”

“It’s what she wants!” You chirped, moving a hand to rest over your growing bump. Baby Munson, your little Penny, had recently learned she had legs and could stretch them out in there. Despite the two of you settling down, she seemed to be filled with energy; you could feel her moving around, targeting certain areas with her kicks. She’d been pretty still for a good hour or two so you thought she might have woken up from a nap.

“Yeah?” Eddie asked, quirking his brows with lidded eyes, so engrossed with how caring you were for his baby already.

Witnessing you go from awkwardly acknowledging her existence with a pat or uncertain conversation to almost always having a hand over your bump, as if to protect her from a threat while talking to her as though she was already cradled in your arms, had Eddie always so tender with emotion.

He was so proud and in love.

You hummed in confirmation and when Eddie’s hand moved your (his) shirt up, you immediately grasped his wrist to place his palm over the area your baby’s foot was currently pressing up against. Eddie grinned as he felt the movement just under the warmth of your skin, firm and held surprisingly long before it retreated and he rubbed over the area as you relaxed further into him.

“She was stretching.” He correctly deduced.

“Mhm, she’s been kicking the heck out of my ribcage, so I think her head is right here.” You placed your free hand over your bump, just under your left breast, “She only got active after we showered, so she just woke up.”

Eddie felt a little guilty about that, it had probably been him railing you against the shower wall that stirred her from her slumber.

“Sorry, sweet pea.” He mumbled, continuing to rub your belly if not somewhat more apologetic, “I’m just so excited that I can’t get your mom pregnant right now, ‘cause we already have you, and she’s just so horn—“

Eddie laughed as you delivered a swift whack to his chest with the back of your hand, fighting a smile as he teased you through an attempt to talk to your baby.

“Excuse me, you were the one trying to feel me up on the couch!”

“No, I did feel you up. And if I recall correctly, which I do, it was my fingers you were cum—“

“Distracting!” You pointed an accusatory finger in his face, booping the tip of his nose with it, “You’re trying to distract me. Branzino.”

“Ugh,” Eddie sagged into the pillows, but the smirk on his face told you you’d be getting exactly what you wanted, like always. He just liked to give you a hard time. Banter with you was like foreplay to him. “Alright, alright. Since you must have your fish dish─”

“I must,” You placed the back of your hand against your forehead as you fell dramatically back into the pillows.

“And since she’s craving it─”

“She wants branzino so badly and I’d get it for her myself but I’m utterly exhausted─no, not because we had sex,” You had immediately clocked the grinch like twist in his smirk at your mentioning of exhaustion, “I’ll have you know I probably made a good chunk of her brain today. That takes energy. Dedication. And she probably sucked the bone marrow out of me to do it, or something.”

Eddie threw his head back and howled with laughter. You giggled along with him but tried to reason, “Okay, I’m not being completely dramatic, though! She really does steal some of my own body to make hers! I could lose my teeth, Eddie. I read it in a book.”

The bed shook with how hard Eddie was laughing and you delighted in being the reason behind it. Once he calmed down, his head lulled to the side, cheeks red from all that amusement and warm brown hues focused on you.

“You read it in a book, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Ask your doctor about it?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“…’Cause I’m scared she’ll say it’s true.”

You sent Eddie into another laughing fit. When he was done with that one, he launched himself out of bed and you snuggled into the spot he’d occupied—so warm and cozy—to watch him grab a shirt and hoodie from the closet, and his jacket from where he’d thrown it on the dresser. A beanie was shoved on his head and as he wrapped the scarf you’d gotten him around his neck, he eyed you with mirth twinkling in his pretty eyes.

“Branzino in the middle of winter.”

“It’s what she wants!”

“It’s what she wants.” He conceded with a fond smile, “I’ll be back after like an hour and a half of driving around to find a Greek place open so you can replenish your bone marrow with it somehow and grow the rest of her brain.”

You hummed in appreciation, beaming at him as he neared you to lean over and get a thorough kiss goodbye.

“Thank you,” You mumbled shyly against his mouth.

“You don’t have to thank me . . . but you’re welcome.” He teased.

Driving around in the cold didn't seem all that terrible with you blowing him kisses from the bed, and his baby growing inside you.

That damn fish was so worth it.

1K notes · View notes