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sinkuna · 2 days ago

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୨୧ — The divorce papers had been signed that afternoon, three years of marriage reduced to legal documents and a splitting of assets… That’s how Nanami found himself at the local bar, liquid amber burning down his throat, tie loosened, the weight of his wedding ring suddenly unbearable…

Then you walked in.

Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. College girl written in the innocent tilt of your yellow sundress, the way it clings to your waist, your breasts, the hem flirtatiously brushing against your thighs.

You look so sweet, he thought. A drink like the ones the men were buying you would surely corrupt your pretty mouth, but you sipped with an ease that spoke of experience, even when you cringe at the taste, making the guys around you laugh.

It made him think about his wife -his ex wife now- the last time they made love, when she bit her lips to hold back a moan, as if afraid someone might hear. He wondered what noises you would make if you were on top of him, his fingers digging into your hips as he thrust up into your tight pussy.

Would you call out his name? Moan like a whore? Would you beg him to go harder? Deeper? Or would you be shy, too embarrassed to ask for what you really wanted, forcing him to take what he wants, making you take it?

He shook his head and knocked back the rest of his whiskey, trying to clear his mind. You were far too young, far too innocent... Nanami looked away... He had no right to feel this way about a female he didn't know, a girl that had her whole life ahead of her.

You ordered something sweet and fruity while he nursed his drink, watching the way you tucked your hair behind your ear. And then, your eyes met his.

He doesn't remember buying you drinks. Doesn't remember the conversation that led to your hand on his thigh, your breath wine-sweet against his ear as you whispered, "I know somewhere quiet."

But he remembers his Lexus. God, he'll never forget the damn Lexus.

"Fuck-" The word tears from his throat as you sink down onto him, your tight cunt splitty open around his cock like you were made for this moment. The leather seats creak beneath you both, divorce papers scattered on the floor like confetti celebrating his rebirth.

You were so goddamn young, so wet, so eager- everything his ex wife hadn't been in years, and my god... You're so fucking tight it hurts, and he's so fucking thick you can barely breathe around the stretch. Your sundress is hiked up around your waist, his hands fisted in the fabric and your hair- his wedding ring catching strands as he holds you against his body.

"You- mph - you're going to ruin me," His hips jerk up involuntarily, "aren't you?" driving deeper, and you cry out like he's hitting some spot inside of you that only a man like him can reach. He's massive- way more massive than you initially thought, thick enough that your eyes water, that your cunt burns trying to stretch around him. The head of his cock forcing your walls apart, claiming every inch as you slowly take him to the base.

Nanami can feel you trying to adjust to his size, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each bounce as you babble incoherently- "S'too-m'fuckfuckfuck-sh'too big!!" tears leaking from your eyes, "don' ev-even know -hah - your n-name!"

His name is Nanami, but that doesn't matter... He felt how your pussy clenched at your words. You were getting off on the wrongness of the situation, just like he was. The depravity of it- this older man using your young body, his wedding ring cool against your skin.

You don't know him, don't care who he is, and that makes this all the more exciting.

His lips crash against yours, swallowing every little noise you make as he ruts up into your heat, the windows fogging up, the car shaking with the force of his thrusts.

"S'doesn't matter," is all he says, his voice low, husky while his one hand guides your hips in a rhythm that makes his vision blur.

The condom stretches tight around him, already straining from how hard he is, how deep he's buried inside your young cunt. He can feel your orgasm building in the tremor of your thighs, the way your breath comes in desperate little gasps.

When you come, you scream. Actually scream, head thrown back like a religious experience, and your pussy clamps down so hard he sees stars. The sensation drags out his own climax, his hips lifting clean off the seat as he empties himself into the latex barrier.

The condom swells inside you, and you whimper at the added pressure, grinding down like you want to milk every last drop from him. Your cunt spasms around the intrusion, wringing another orgasm from your oversensitive nerves.

Afterward, you collapse against his chest, both of you breathing like survivors... His wedding ring still tangled in your hair...

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It happens again a week later. Then again. And again.

Always his car. Always that same desperate hunger, like he’s trying to fuck the loneliness out of himself. You learn to take him easier, your body adapting to his size, but he never gets used to how perfectly you fit around him.

"Missed this," he groans against your neck as he bends you over in the backseat, your sundress -a different one, pink this time- bunched around your waist, pink lace panties ripped and tossed in the front seat, "Thought about you all week."

His cock twitches inside you, and the way his hands grip your waist possessively, you believe him.

You feel his breath hitch when you start to move against him, grinding your hips back against his, feeling him so deep you could choke on it, the head of his cock pressing so hard- nestled against the opening of your womb. You swear if you looked down you’d see a perfect outline of it stretching out your stomach.

With a cock-drunk smile you can't help but imagine him coming inside you, painting the deepest part of you with his seed. "Mmn, missed this, too, Nanami-san~" you gasp sweetly, the confession falling from your lips before you could stop yourself.

He wants to say more, his tongue heavy with words unspoken- "missed you", "you're beautiful", "god, I can't get enough of you"… He always wants to say more.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he fucks you like he owns you, like your young cunt exists solely for his pleasure.

He never gives you his number, never takes you anywhere but his car, and when he pulls out, the condom is always filled to the brim with his cum- stretched obscenely with your arousal coating the outside.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Three weeks later after he's fucked you stupid in his car, he asks you, "Come home with me tonight." The words are quiet, almost uncertain.

You look up at him from where you’re starting to doze off against his chest, "Your place?"

"My place." His fingers trace patterns on your bare shoulder, "Stay the night."

His apartment is exactly what you’d expected- minimalist, expensive, cold. But his bed is warm, and he fucks you properly there, taking his time to explore your body, to discover the things that made those pretty lashes flutter, those gorgeous lips moan his name., "K-Kento~♡!"

He’s so gentle, so slow, making you come so many times that by the time you finally pass out, the sheets were soaked, his cock still buried deep inside with a condom so full of cum, it nearly split at the seams.

That night Nanami watches you sleep, the way your hair fans out around your face, the little snores escaping your parted lips. He brushes a lock of hair from your cheek, a sudden ache in his chest as he sighs, "What am I doing?" This was wrong, "I'm too old for you," he mumbles, pressing his forehead against yours while gathering you in his arms, "This can't be a long-term thing…"

His voice trails off, the warmth of your body against his pulling him under.

"This can't be a long-term thing," he repeats the words in his dreams, and it sounds like a lie.

In the morning, he makes coffee and breakfast… Actual pancakes, not the instant kind from your dorm.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It becomes routine. Your toothbrush joins his, the spare pajamas in his drawer are yours, and his apartment begins to smell like flowers and the perfume you wear. He drops you off at lectures, picks you up after. Pays for textbooks without blinking. Watches you study at his kitchen table while he cooks dinner, domestic in a way that terrifies him.

Nanami even learns your coffee order at Starbucks- extra vanilla syrup, always, because you're still young and believe sweetness won't hurt you. When the barista flirts with you, his jaw tightens, the way his hand tightens around his own cup. You thought at first that it was just anger, irritation at the line, but-

"Jealous?" You ask as the two of you exit the store, sipping your drinks.

"Why would I be jealous?" He responds coolly, even though his heart is hammering. He keeps trying to tell himself that this isn't an exclusive thing, even if he does call you his pretty girl while you bounce on his cock. It isn't exclusive… even though he bought a new bed to accommodate both of you. A king sized bed, the most comfortable one in the store, because his favorite thing is watching you fall apart beneath him, above him, against him… falling asleep with your scent in his lungs, waking up to your sleepy smile…

You're free to date whoever you want… but the thought makes his stomach churn…

"Beeeecause~ the cute barista was totally hitting on me," You grin, "He even gave me his number on the napkin."

"Oh?" His tone is disinterested, but his jaw ticks, and there's something dark in his eyes when he looks at you.

"Yeah, see," You show him the napkin, and sure enough, the guy had wrote his name and phone number, and-

Nanami stops.

The napkin even has a little note scribbled at the bottom, a flirtatious one saying, Call Me Anytime Cutie ;).

And that's when Nanami snaps.

He drags you back to his car, his grip bruising, and when you look up at him with those big eyes, lashes fluttering innocently… the idea that someone else might touch you like this, might hear the noises you make when you're close, might get to see the look on your face when you come undone, and god, the way you say his name…

Fuck.

He doesn't want to share.

He's become possessive.

And that afternoon he proves it. Has you bent over the hood of his car in the parking garage, splitting you open with his cock while he growls about who you belong to. Your pussy gripping him like a vice, your juices running down the car and dripping onto the cement below as he fucks you harder than he ever has- condom threatening to split around his cock with every thrust.

"Y-Yes!!!~♡," you sob, because it's true. Because somewhere between the first time he made you come and now, you became his completely.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

One morning Nanami comes home after his run, a rare day off, and finds you sitting at his table in the kitchen, dressed only in his button-up, the one he wore to work the day before. Yout hair is still sleep mussed, your favorite mug of his in your hand, and its like his breath leaves him, his heart hammering against his ribs, because for the first time in a long time… Nanami Kento is happy.

He loves you…

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck… This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to be here like this- wife like and wearing his shirt. Greeting him each night he comes home late…

Shit…

Nanami Kento was completely and utterly in love with you.

The realization hits him like a truck, and his mouth at that moment goes dry.

As you turn to him, eyes still sleepy, he also realizes he wants to memorize this moment, to preserve it forever- the early morning sun casting a beautiful glow on your skin, the soft curve of your bare shoulder.

"Mornin', Kento," you smile at him, and he can’t take it anymore. He can’t hide this from you any longer.

"Come here,"

"Mm? What's up?"

"Just-" He can’t speak, not properly, so he grabs your wrist in the most gentle way he can manage and tugs you from your seat, pressing you flush against his body, his hand finding your cheek, thumb tracing your lower lip.

"K-Kento, what are y-"

"I love you."

Your eyes widen, lips parting, and for a second he’s terrified. Worried that this will change everything, and then-

"I-I love you, too. I just-" You look away for a moment, the sweetest blush spreading across your face- your smile the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, "I just didn’t know how you would- I didn’t want to scare you away…"

God, you could never scare him away. Never. And a part of him hated himself for ever making you feel that way. That the only reason you didn't tell him is because you thought it would drive him away.

"I love you," he breathes again, his hand moving to cradle the back of your head, his forehead pressing against yours, "So much. You could never scare me away, darling."

The kiss that followed was everything he's ever wanted. Soft, sweet and loving- everything a first kiss should be, and when the two of you part, he whispers your name against your lips, as if trying to reassure himself that this was real.

That night he takes you in his arms, carrying you up to the king size bed so that he can show you just how much he loves you. To show you just how serious he is about you.

"No condom tonight," he whispers in your ear, his arms wrapped around you, your legs wrapped around his waist as he pulls back to look at your face.

"Mn," You nod, "Sounds fun~, but you know I’m-"

"I know… You're not on the pill," he interrupts, the corners of his mouth quirking up, "but we'll just have to deal with the consequences, won't we?"

The consequences…

He’s never sounded so happy about anything.

"I want to feel you," he breathes, rolling his hips, slowly, deeply, tenderly as he nudges against your entrance, "want to fill you up properly… Make you really mine," he kisses your cheek, "Make a family."

"Ahhn~♡," the moan that is drawn from your lips as his cock sinks into was music to his ears. No latex, no barrier between your bodies, just thick, bare cock spreading you open. It was indescribable- the way he filled you up, the heat of his length, every vein and ridge rubbing deliciously along the sensitive walls of your pussy.

"God, you're perfect," he groans, and when his cock kisses your womb, his hips twitch involuntarily. The thought of his seed flooding your deepest parts was far too alluring- painting your walls white, coating the entrance of your womb, the image of your belly round and heavy with his child making his cock throb inside of you.

"Please~♡" gasping as he fills you completely- not just with his cock, but with the promise of something more permanent.

He cums inside you that night, and every night after, marking you as his in the most intimate way possible.

This started with divorce papers and whiskey, but it had become something else entirely. Something that tastes like forever and feels like coming home.

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cumironi · 1 day ago

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CREAM-OF-THE-CROP CUNT, MAMA

feat, gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. what? just because you are six months pregnant your husband is gonna stop worshipping you? nooooo. . . he became worse, and the idea of making sure you are pregnant (despite the bump) makes them go crazy, especially with your little sweet bump.

trigger/warnings. non-sorcerer, everyone trying to be a gentleman (fails), calling reader “mama,” pussy-drunk behavior, pregnant sex, belly worship, size kink, deep penetration, unprotected vaginal sex, leg-folding position, full nelson vibes, praise kink, possessive language, swearing / explicit language, references to breeding kink (implied), overstimulation, internal ejaculation, cum leaking, soft dom / feral energy blend, emotional intensity, aftercare / caretaking (gentle touches, kisses), power imbalance (older man / younger woman), oral fixation (kissing, belly + knee worship)

GOJO SATORU

“—you’re gonna kill me,” gojo groans, forehead pressed against yours, voice ragged like he’s been running for miles, but really, all he’s been doing is holding himself together—barely—as your legs wrap tighter around his waist and you moan his name like it’s a damn prayer and a curse all at once. “no, seriously, baby, i’m—i’m dying. you’re murdering me with this pussy. it’s a crime. i should call the cops. except i am the fucking cops. i’m the fbi. i’m the law. and you’re under arrest. for being—fuck—for being too hot while pregnant.”

you try to say something, maybe something like “shut up” or “just keep going” or maybe just his name again, but you can’t—you’re too full, too stretched, too wrecked already and he hasn’t even really started yet.

“so tight,” he breathes, like the thought has him hypnotized. “how are you tighter while pregnant? is that a thing? can i google it later? because this is—jesus, baby—this is like heaven. like… like heaven wrapped in velvet wrapped in a vice grip wrapped in the greatest porn i’ve ever watched except it’s real and it’s you and it’s mine.”

he kisses your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts that’s grown fuller over the last few weeks—his obsession. he talks to them like they’re separate beings. he’s lost his mind and he’s made peace with it.

“gonna feed our baby with these,” he mutters, latching onto one nipple like it’s instinct, groaning like the taste of your skin alone could make him cum. “gonna wake up at 3am to help you, promise, swear to god. but only if i get to do this first. every night. every fucking night, sweetheart.”

you whimper, and it makes his whole body stutter, hips rocking deeper, harder, like your sound gives him permission to lose rhythm entirely.

“there it is,” he grins, breathless and boyish, completely wrecked and stupid and so very in love. “that’s the sound. the one that says i’m the best dick you’ve ever had. right? right, baby? tell me. tell me i’m better than anyone you’ve ever let near this sweet pussy.”

you moan, back arching. he whines, literally whines, like your approval is the only thing keeping him alive.

“please—please just say it. tell me i’m your favorite. tell me this cock is your favorite. tell me i ruined you for other men. tell me you forgot what it feels like to walk straight.”

you grab his face and pull him down to kiss you, hard, messy, open-mouthed and wet, your teeth knocking a little and your breath catching when he grinds into that exact spot inside you that makes you cry out his name again, and he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“fuck, fuck, yes. that’s it, baby. say it again—no, scream it, moan it, tattoo it into my brain. god, i’m so fucking obsessed with you. you don’t even know. you don’t. i think about you 24/7. i check your pregnancy tracker app more than you do. i’m unwell. i’m feral.”

his hips move faster, deeper now, but not rough—he still holds your body like it’s made of glass, one hand bracing under your lower back to tilt your hips just right, the other rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit like he’s trying to make you finish before him and prove a point.

“wanna cum in you again,” he growls against your throat, “wanna fill you up more even though you’re already pregnant, like my dumb caveman brain doesn’t understand we already did it. it just wants to do it again, because it likes you like this. likes you glowing, round, leaking—fuck, baby, you’re leaking, i’m gonna go insane—”

“satoru,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulder as your thighs start to tremble, “satoru, i—i’m gonna—”

“yes,” he hisses, pace erratic now, “do it, do it, cum on this cock, make it tight, milk me, baby, do it so good i forget my own damn name—”

you shatter under him with a cry that hits the ceiling, your body pulsing around him so hard he lets out a strangled noise, like he’s not sure if it’s a moan or a sob or both.

he falls apart seconds later, buried deep, coming with a broken gasp of your name and a string of barely intelligible worship like “so good, so pretty, made for me, mine, mine, mine” until he finally collapses onto your chest, heart racing, sweat-slick, and completely, utterly gone.

a long beat of silence passes.

“…you good?” you murmur, stroking his hair.

he doesn’t move. just groans into your neck like he might cry.

“i think i left my soul in your pussy.”

you laugh.

“i’m serious,” he says, lifting his head with that wild, disheveled, utterly sexed-out look he wears so well. “if you don’t name our baby after this pussy i’m gonna be personally offended.”

“you want me to name our child… pussy satoru gojo?”

“well, i mean—middle name at least. or like a secret codename. for the groupchat.”

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

he grins like you’ve just married him.

“love you, baby. love you so much. let’s do it again in like fifteen minutes. or five. i’m stupid. i make bad decisions.”

“clearly.”

“i would literally die if you asked.”

“…fine.”

“i’m naming the second one ‘round two.’”

GETO SUGURU

“you know what you do to me?” geto growls into your mouth, lips slick from kissing, voice thick like smoke and syrup as he thrusts into you again—deep, slow, brutal. “you fuckin’ know what this pussy’s done to me, baby?”

you gasp—louder than you mean to, thighs trembling where they’re wrapped around his hips, nails clawing down his shoulders because there’s no logic in your body right now, just raw sensation. he laughs—a dark, low, chest-rumbling sound—and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, not hard, just enough to keep you right there.

“oh, don’t go dumb on me now,” he coos, filthy and fond and absolutely feral. “we’re just gettin’ started, sweet thing. gotta give me that voice, yeah? lemme hear what my good girl sounds like when she’s pregnant and cockdrunk.”

you whimper, and he moans, like your breath is enough to push him right over the edge.

“that’s it,” he hisses, licking the corner of your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “fuck. fuck, you’re so good like this. all fucked out, all round and soft and warm for me—jesus, this body? i could live inside you. no house. no job. just this pussy, twenty-four-seven. put me on your goddamn lease.”

his hips snap forward hard, and the sound your body makes when he hits bottom is wet, obscene, absolutely unholy.

“listen to that,” he pants, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder, splitting you open wider. “god, you’re so fucking wet, baby—like you like when i fuck you like this. like you want me to ruin you. knock you up again, even though you’re already full.”

he palms your belly—his belly, really—with one big, gentle hand, cupping the firm swell like it’s the most sacred thing in the world. his thumb moves in lazy circles as he rocks into you, slower now, deeper, pressing against every spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

“you’re everything,” he says, softer now, reverent in the worst way, like he’s praying to the altar of your body while rearranging your insides. “everything. this body—fuck. your tits are bigger. hips too. got this glow, baby, you know that? like you were made to carry me. to take me. to breed for me.”

you clench around him so hard he stutters, eyes going wide, mouth falling open.

“oh fuck—fuck,” he moans, suddenly undone. “you like that? yeah? you like when i talk about putting a ring on this pussy? you like hearing how ruined i am for you?”

you nod, frantic and breathless, and he kisses you hard—sloppy and hungry—before dragging his lips down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“gonna cum inside,” he growls against your skin. “gonna stuff you full and hold it in with my cock. keep it there. make sure every drop stays in, yeah?”

“suguru—” you cry, already close, voice breaking on his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore.

he fucking shudders.

“say it again,” he gasps. “say my name while i fill you up. say it like you want it.”

“suguru, suguru, i—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“yeah, baby,” he moans, gripping your hips, thrusts rougher now, faster. “cum on it. cum on this dick, show me how good i fucked you, lemme feel this pussy milk me dry—”

you tighten, legs locking around him, and then you're gone—clenching, shaking, falling apart under him while he watches you unravel with this fucking look on his face like you’re a miracle and a sin and the only thing that matters.

he cums right after, hips jerking as he empties into you with a loud, broken sound, like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

you nod, dazed. “you’re insane.”

for a long moment, all you hear is your heart racing and his breath—harsh, warm, uneven—ghosting across your skin. then, soft, “you okay?” he whispers, stroking your thigh, still inside you, not even thinking about moving yet.

“mhm,” he grins, kissing your temple. “insane for you. and for that pussy.”

you slap his chest halfheartedly.

he just laughs, still deep in you, still hardening again.

“round two?” he murmurs, voice all wicked sweetness. “or you want me to eat you ‘til you cry first?”

NANAMI KENTO

“i can be patient,” nanami grits out from behind you, voice low and sharp like he’s holding himself together with string and sheer willpower. “i can be—gentle.”

you’re on your side, belly cradled by soft pillows, one leg bent forward over his thigh as he moves behind you, slowly rocking into you like he’s afraid you’ll break if he goes too hard—like he doesn’t already know how filthy you get for him when he’s trying to behave.

and he’s trying. god, he is. his hand’s on your hip, warm and steady. the other one cups under your belly, like he’s shielding you even as he’s pushing deep, deep into you from behind.

“you’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent, brushing kisses to your shoulder. “i don’t want to hurt you. i want to take care of you. i want to make you feel good, not—”

you moan.

just a little. just a soft, breathy “kento—” as your fingers grip the sheets and your hips push back into him.

and that’s it.

the last thread of his control snaps.

he groans—growls, almost—and suddenly he’s pressing forward harder, deeper, his breath catching as he ruts into you like he’s been holding back for weeks.

“fuck,” he grits, forehead pressed to your back. “you’re so goddamn warm. too soft. too tight. i can’t—I’m trying to—shit—”

his grip on your hip tightens, dragging you back against him with every thrust now, and his hand slides from under your belly to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can push in even deeper.

“you feel that?” he groans into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “feel how deep i am, sweetheart? god—i can’t be gentle when you sound like that. when you feel like this.”

you whimper, back arching, and he moans again—louder this time, raw and low and completely undone.

“you’re perfect,” he pants, hips snapping faster. “everything about you. this body—this sweet, wet little cunt—fuck, it’s made for me. even pregnant, you take me so well. better than anyone ever has.”

you choke on a moan and he presses his palm to your belly again, as if the feel of it grounds him.

“i think about you all day,” he confesses, fucking into you now with slow, brutal depth. “about this. about how you sound. about how you feel when i’m inside you, tight and hot and fluttering like you’re made to be full.”

he kisses your shoulder, your neck, his other hand sliding between your legs to find your clit—slow, careful, precise.

“come for me,” he whispers, mouth right against your ear, filthy and tender all at once. “come around me while i’m deep inside you. show me how good i make you feel.”

and you do—shaking, moaning, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you know, and he follows with a desperate groan, spilling into you so deep you feel the warmth spread through your belly, his body trembling against yours.

after, he doesn’t move. just stays inside you, one hand over your womb, the other tangled with yours in the sheets.

“…i was trying to be gentle,” he says quietly, embarrassed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

you hum, sated. “you tried.”

he sighs. “i’ll try again tomorrow.”

pause.

“after round two.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“slow,” toji murmurs, his big hands gripping your hips just barely, letting you grind down on him with shaky control, his cock sheathed inside you and twitching like it’s barely surviving this torture. “take your time, baby. i’m good. i’m—fuck—i’m fine.”

he is not fine.

he’s seated on the couch, thighs spread wide, muscles tense as hell under your legs, back arched ever so slightly, jaw tight. you’re four months pregnant, round and glowing and gorgeous, your belly pressing against his abs as you roll your hips slow and sweet—just like he asked for. like he said he wanted.

and he’s dying.

“look at you,” he groans, eyes glued to the way you take him. “ridin’ me so good. so pretty. so fuckin’ wet. you were always tight, but now? now you’re perfect.”

your hands are on his shoulders, clinging. your breath catches every time your body takes him deeper, and he feels it—feels how warm you are, how your walls squeeze around him like you don’t want him to leave. it’s driving him insane.

“you said slow,” you remind him, voice breaking with a whimper as your rhythm falters.

and that’s his breaking point.

because your voice? shaking, breathless, wanting?

it wrecks him.

“fuck that,” toji snarls suddenly, surging forward, arms wrapping around your back and pulling you flush to his chest. “nah. no. fuck slow. i can’t. you sound like that, and expect me to wait? you’re outta your mind.”

he lifts his hips, thrusting up into you so hard your mouth drops open in a silent moan, hands scrambling for his chest as he sets a brutal pace from underneath.

“you wanted gentle?” he growls against your throat, licking and biting at your skin while he pistons into you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “you’re riding me, baby. i’m not gonna sit here like some saint while this tight fuckin’ pussy squeezes the life outta me.”

you cry out, and he grins, savage and wild and in love with the way your face goes all slack and overwhelmed.

“that’s it,” he pants, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding between your bodies to rub tight, fast circles over your clit. “gimme that look. gimme those sounds. lemme hear how good i’m fucking my pregnant girl.”

you whine his name, and he loses it.

“say it again,” he groans. “fuckin’ say it, baby. tell me who put this baby in you.”

“you,” you cry, clinging to him, “you did—”

“damn right i did,” he growls, pounding up into you, your belly bouncing slightly between your bodies with each thrust, “and i’ll do it again. and again. keep you pregnant. keep you full. keep you so cockdrunk you forget how to fucking walk.”

your orgasm hits you like a lightning bolt, your whole body spasming in his lap, and he catches you with a moan of pure worship, holding you tight as you milk every drop of his release from him.

“shit, baby,” he pants, hips twitching. “you were made for this. made to take me. made to carry me.”

he collapses back against the couch, pulling you with him, still inside you, cradling your body in his massive arms.

a beat of silence.

“that was you being gentle?” you ask, breathless.

he shrugs, smug. “i didn’t bend you over. that counts.”

you groan.

he kisses your shoulder and mutters, “round two, though? i’m not holdin’ back.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“slow,” he grits out, jaw clenched, breath shaking as he presses his hips flush to your ass, thick cock buried deep and throbbing inside your soaking heat. “we’re going slow, sweetheart. we’re taking our time. i’m not gonna break you.”

he says that, but his hands are already digging into your thighs, thumbs pressed to the crease between your cheeks and your legs like he’s trying to brand you with his grip. you’re four months pregnant, hips rounder, belly starting to show—and you’re on all fours, arms trembling, moaning into the pillow with every slow, too-deep roll of his hips.

“you good?” he mutters, pretending to breathe through it like he’s not the one seconds from blacking out. “you okay, baby?”

you nod, gasping, “yes—yes, ‘kuna—feels so good—”

and that breaks him.

“fuckin’—shit,” he growls, slamming into you with a sharp, wet slap, and you cry out, head dropping, body jolting forward from the force. “don’t say my name like that. don’t moan for me like that and expect me to stay sane.”

he grips your hips hard, pulling you back into every brutal thrust now, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“you were made for this,” he snarls, staring down at the way your body takes him, slick and tight and fluttering around him like you like being used. “look at this greedy little cunt. fuckin’ dripping. goddamn soaking me. you like getting fucked with my baby in you, huh?”

you sob out a moan, and his grin turns feral.

“you want me gentle?” he pants, fucking into you so hard your thighs shake. “or you want me to fuck you like i own you?”

you can’t even answer. you’re too wrecked already, too full, too overwhelmed by the pressure and heat and the way he hits that deep spot inside you like he knows exactly what it does.

“that’s what i thought,” he hisses. “fuckin’ moaning like you need it rough. like you need me to snap. you want it, don’t you? want to be fucked so hard you forget where you are. want to feel me dripping outta you all day like a good little cumdump.”

his hand snakes around your waist, palm spreading over your bump, possessive and so wrong and reverent all at once.

“this?” he mutters, low and filthy in your ear as he leans over your back, “this is mine. you’re mine. and this pussy? fuck, this pussy’s the tightest shit i’ve ever had. i could stay buried in you for hours. days.”

your legs buckle as your orgasm builds, loud and fast and impossible to stop. he feels it.

“there it is,” he growls, fucking into you harder, faster, punishing. “you’re close, huh? gonna cream around me like the perfect little thing you are? let me feel it. let me feel you lose it.”

you shatter—screaming, shaking, convulsing around his cock—and sukuna doesn’t slow down. he snarls, slams into you one last time, and groans as he cums deep, spilling inside you with a raw, broken moan like he’s being torn apart.

he stays there—buried, panting, shaking, his chest pressed to your back, both hands cradling your belly now like he’s apologizing with touch.

then:

“…i was trying to behave,” he mutters, voice raspy, and you wheeze out a laugh.

“you said ‘slow’ and then folded in thirty seconds.”

“yeah, well,” he grins, cock still twitching inside you, “you were moaning. that’s cheating.”

he kisses your shoulder, pulls out with a groan, and watches his cum spill from you with the most self-satisfied, absolutely feral look you’ve ever seen.

“round two’s gonna be worse,” he promises.

“worse how?”

“i’m not gonna pretend to be nice next time.”

SHIU KONG

“you feel that, mama?” shiu murmurs low, breath thick with smoke as he exhales slowly, cock buried deep inside you from behind, dragging it out slow just to watch your legs shake. “feel how this pussy keeps suckin’ me back in? like she misses me every time i pull out.”

your cheek’s pressed to the desk, fingers curled around the edge, thighs trembling. you try to say something—but he thrusts back in, sharp and deep, and your words turn into a soft, broken moan.

“fuck, yeah,” he grins, watching the way your back arches. “that’s my good girl. takin’ it like a champ even with my baby in your belly. still greedy. still so tight. you got no shame, huh? gettin’ fucked over my desk like this?”

you whimper, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, his tone dropping deeper.

“god, look at you. four months pregnant and still so fuckin’ sexy. makin’ me obsessed. makin’ me stupid. you know what it does to me when you walk around like this, belly all round, tits all full, smellin’ like sweat and sweetness and mine?”

he grinds his hips forward again, harder now, making your body jolt. you moan his name, voice wrecked, and he smirks around his cigarette.

“there we go,” he breathes. “that’s it, mama. keep callin’ me like that. makes me wanna knock you up all over again, see how many times i can stretch this body before you break.”

he pulls out halfway and slams back in, deep and deliberate, the desk creaking beneath you. you gasp, and his hand slides down your spine, warm and heavy, keeping you flat against the desk.

“y’know,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he fucks you in slow, ruthless strokes, “i tell myself every time i’ll go easy on you. that i’ll be nice, treat my baby mama with respect.”

he laughs, low and wrecked.

“and then you bend over like this, ass up, pussy drippin’ down your thighs, beggin’ for it—an’ suddenly i’m back to being a filthy fuck who can’t stop.”

you cry out as his hips slam into you again, and he moans—loud and shameless.

“you feel that, mama?” he pants. “that’s my cock hitting the back of your fuckin’ throat from the wrong direction. you’re so full right now—goddamn, i can feel you pulse.”

his hand slips down, two fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle.

“c’mon, baby,” he urges, voice hoarse and wrecked, “give it to me. let this cock ruin you. let daddy hear how good he’s fuckin’ his perfect little mama.”

you cum with a cry, clenching around him so hard he curses, nearly drops the cigarette, and loses rhythm entirely as he groans, slamming into you once, twice, again—before burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a rough, filthy moan of your name.

he stays there, panting, one hand on your belly, the other sliding up your back to your neck, grounding you both.

then—

“...we’re doin’ this again after you nap,” he mutters, pulling his cigarette back between his lips, grinning like a devil. “mama needs to be real full tonight.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

“that’s it, mama,” higuruma groans, voice low and rough as he presses deep into you, eyes locked on the curve of your stomach where your bodies meet, “just like that. let me in. let me make you feel good.”

your thighs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, and he tightens his grip around your ankles, palms warm and broad, grounding you as he starts to move—slow at first, like he’s savoring every inch of you, every slick drag of your walls squeezing him in.

“fuck,” he breathes, watching your face contort as you gasp, “you’re so tight. how are you still this tight, mama? this pussy was made to milk me.”

you whimper, one hand cradling your belly, the other tangled in the sheets as he rocks into you with long, deep strokes. your bump rises slightly with every thrust, your body pliant and flushed and already soaked from the way he touched you before this even started.

and he adores it.

he adores you.

“look at you,” he mutters, pace growing faster without meaning to, “legs up, belly out, takin’ my cock like a good mama. my perfect mama.”

you moan his name—ragged and helpless—and his eyes darken, hips snapping harder.

“that’s it,” he growls, leaning in until your knees are almost beside your head, his cock reaching so deep now. “say it again. let me hear how good i fuck my mama.”

“hiromi,” you gasp, back arching, “feels so good—too deep—”

he groans—loud, wrecked—and fucks into you harder.

“you can take it,” he hisses, lips grazing your ear, “you’re so strong, baby. carrying our child, takin’ this dick like it’s yours—‘cause it is. this cock belongs to you. every part of me does.”

your eyes roll back as he slams into that perfect spot inside you, over and over, his pace no longer controlled—he’s feral, now, panting and moaning, eyes flicking down to where you’re stretched open around him, cum-slick and pulsing.

“gonna fill you up again,” he whispers, reverent and wild all at once. “stuff you full, even though you’re already carrying mine. fuck, mama—this pussy needs it. she’s beggin’ for it.”

you’re trembling, legs shaking against his shoulders, and he grabs under your knees, folding you further, giving you nowhere to go—just take it, every inch, every praise-dripping thrust.

“cum for me,” he commands, rough and soft all at once. “cum with me inside. let me feel you. let me feel how good this pussy knows her man.”

you cry out as your orgasm hits, tightening around him like a vice, and his whole body shudders.

he groans your name, hips jerking, and spills inside you with a low, desperate moan.

“fuck, mama—fuck. you’re everything.”

he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, watching your body twitch beneath him—flushed, used, loved—and then lowers your legs gently, kissing your knees, your belly, your lips.

“did so well,” he whispers. “my mama’s so good for me.”

you hum sleepily, still dazed. “you went crazy.”

he smiles, brushing your hair back from your face.

“i am crazy,” he says, kissing your forehead, “for you.”

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t6ji · 3 days ago

Text

filthy 1am thoughts (04)

just your boyfriend(s)— aka jjk men being pussy drunk for their girlfriend. mdni! cw: pussydrunk!jjk men, filthy bull

your man’s shoulders spread your thighs like he has been deprived of getting his hand on you, cheek pressed into your inner thigh just to feel how hard you throb when he spits on your pussy like it’s nothing.

doesn’t even bother warming you up with fingers. doesn’t bother being nice. you’re already soaked—he made sure of that twenty minutes ago when he talked about what he was gonna do.

the way he leaned down and said it slow, in that low murmur like you weren’t gonna start dripping through your underwear just from hearing it: “gonna get my whole fuckin’ face in it. right here,” he said, thumb dragging through your folds like he was clearing a path.

sure it turned you on but you’re still shy with him being so bare for you and when you tried to make an excuse, your man hit you with: “you think i care how messy it gets? c’mon, y’know want it messy.” he breathes on your hot skin. “wanna ruin you with my mouth.”

and now here he is. kneeling like it is the only will he came here to fulfill. holding your cunt open with both thumbs, just watching— no, observing you naked. for a second you think he’s teasing you but your wrong thought is cut short when his tongue is dragging up the mess like it’s syrup off a spoon. slow, heavy, filthy.

then he goes mean.

mouth clamping down like he’s starving. lips sucking your clit in tight while his tongue swirls rough circles around it—sloppy and deep like he’s fucking it with the tip of his tongue. and then both thumbs dig in. spreading you further, holding your pussy taut and pretty and open like he’s putting it on display just for himself.

“you hear how wet you are?” he says right into your cunt, lips brushing your clit when he talks. “you did this. just from me putting my mouth on you, you nasty fuckin’ thing.”

you moan—loud. too loud. that kind of noise you don’t even mean to make. it’s just what comes out when he does that flutter thing with his tongue and your thighs lock up, toes curling like your whole body’s trying to grab onto something. anything.

he doesn’t let up. not even when you’re trembling. not even when your hips start to buck.

“baby, stay still.” he pinches your thigh softly. “let me eat.” he spits a globe of spit again. lets it dribble right down the middle and then licks it back up like a pervert. like he’s obsessed which he definitely is. jaw tight, lips shiny, nose pressed in while his tongue drags every single moan out of you. he wants you dripping down his chin, messy, sobbing, twitching from how good it is.

“gonna suck on this tight cunt ‘till you cry,” he groans into it. “then i’m gonna fuck your hole so deep you won’t remember your name, get it?” you’re almost wasted.

his tongue slows—not out of mercy, just to watch you squirm.

he leans back slightly, lips shiny from your juice, chin slick with spit and arousal and everything he’s worked out of you already. breath heavy. hungry eyes fixed on your twitching cunt like it just pissed him off.

“part your lips,” he demands, voice low but fierce like it’s a fucking order. “spread it open for me. i wanna see it.”

your shaky fingers move on instinct, reaching down to obey. you hook your fingers under your folds, pulling yourself wide, and he groans low in his chest like it hurts to see you like this. so wet. so raw. clit swollen and twitching from the attention he’s given it—and now, exposed like this, it’s almost too much. it should be too much.

but then he leans in again, and your whole spine arches like it’s bracing for impact. he doesn’t start with his tongue this time.

no. he starts with his nose.

just brushes it up the slit slow, deliberately letting it nudge your clit—bump, bump, bump—like he’s testing your reaction. like he’s marking time with the softest part of him while your legs flinch and your stomach pulls tight from the overstimulation.

“look at this greedy little thing,” he murmurs, voice warm and dark against your cunt. “swollen like she’s beggin’ me to hurt her.”

then he flicks his tongue out—sideways, not up. not gentle. your thighs clamp down again.

“don’t fuckin’ close up now,” he growls, annoyed slap getting delivered to the inside of your thigh hard enough to sting. “i said open.”

you do. because you have to and this shit feels so good.

your boyfriend sucks your clit back into his mouth again, lips plush and tight around it, and just holds it there. tongue flicking back and forth underneath like a motor, side to side, building that high-pitched pressure that makes your whole lower body feel electric. and just as you’re about to go—

he slides one finger in, “fuuuuck.” he mouths, watching you stretch then adds another.

then—fuck—a third.

all in one go. deep. curling them inside you like a ‘c’mere’ sign. he knows exactly where to press and he does. his fingers are thick, deliberate, merciless. your walls clamp down, a slippery squeeze that makes his groan vibrate through your clit.

“tight as fuck,” he growls into you, barely able to talk through the wet suction of his mouth. “look at you. all stretched open and still tryna suck me in like you’re starving.”

his wrist moves faster. three fingers fucking in and out of you with obscene speed, knuckles wet, palm slapping against your cunt. he’s feeding your pussy the sound of it—squelch, squelch, squelch—and every time he presses up into that spot, every time he sucks on your clit at the same time, you swear your vision whites out.

“you feel that?” he pants. “that’s me fucking you with my hand. stuffing you like you’re made to take it. this hole’s so good i’m about to lose my fucking mind.”

you moan something incoherent—can’t even tell if it’s his name or just sound—and your hips try to run from it, but he just growls low and hooks one arm under your thigh, dragging you right back down to the base of his wrist.

“don’t fuckin’ run,” he says, licking a wide stripe up your pussy like a punishment. “take it.”

and like a good girlfriend, you will. you have to.

your legs are shaking.

trembling like you’re being exorcised, like something holy and terrifying is ripping through your core and trying to claw its way out. you’re babbling—words, moans, curses, all mangled into one long, wrecked sound while his mouth stays latched onto your clit like he’s feeding from it.

and his fingers— god, his fingers.

three thick digits fucking into you like he’s digging for something deeper, pumping in and curling like they’re sculpting you from the inside out. it’s fast. rough. deliberate. every drag of his palm over your soaked entrance sends another wave of heat crashing up your spine.

“you’re close,” he says into your cunt, voice tight and wet and vibrating directly into your clit. “tightening on me and shit, so proud of you.”

your thighs are twitching.

your belly’s clenching.

your whole body’s bucking off the bed like you’re being shocked. and he just laughs, this low, mean sound that makes your stomach drop—because he knows. knows what’s coming. knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“yeah, baby, that’s it,” he groans, sucking your clit hard while his fingers slam into you. “give it to me. i want it.”

your vision goes white.

your hips lift off the bed.

and then it happens.

your cunt grip down like a vice—and your whole body seizes up, thighs locking around his head as you squirt all over his face. gushes. hot and fast, soaking him down to the jaw, running in messy rivulets down his neck and chin.

he doesn’t flinch.

doesn’t pull away.

doesn’t even slow down.

“fuck, there it is,” he grunts, filthy and proud, lapping it up like he’s dying of thirst. “so sweet when you let go like that. look at this mess you made on my face. you fuckin’ animal.” you would’ve playfully slapped him if you were in the right state of mind.

“so good for me.” your thighs are still twitching when he finally looks up at you, lips slick, eyes dark and hooded—but soft. not hungry anymore, just… proud. reverent.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice all low and ruined. “still shaking.”

you try to speak, but nothing really comes out. your lips part, but all you can do is breathe, jaw slack, chest rising too fast.

he leans in anyway. kisses the inside of your knee. then your hip. then drags his hands up your sides, slow and grounding, like he’s trying to put you back together.

“you okay?” he asks, pressing his forehead to your stomach. “talk to me.”

you nod, but he doesn’t move just yet. just holds you, skin to skin, letting your body calm in his hands. his fingers trace lazy circles over your ribs, over your waist, like he’s memorizing every inch all over again.

“you were perfect,” he whispers. “every fuckin’ second.”

and even when your breath steadies, he stays right there. quiet. close. just making sure you’re still here with him.

t6ji | 2025 prod — do not copy, reuse, or translate anything written on this blog. — like and reblog if you enjoyed!! lmk your thoughts 💕

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satoblue · 21 hours ago

Text

you know those safety precautions women take just to feel a little less vulnerable in their own homes? house alarms or extra locks — even a pair of men’s shoes by the front door?

well, yours are sneakers. slightly scuffed and huge — just enough to pass as believable. like there is a man of the house. and honestly, you’ve never thought twice about it.

that is — until satoru visits your home for the first time.

like always, he’s halfway through teasing you. this time, it is about your adorable entryway rug. the sorcerer is passing through the doorframe, ducking his head slightly due to his towering height when he suddenly halts in his tracks.

the words stutter to a stop on his tongue. the very tip of his right dress shoe hovers in the air above the floor where he stands frozen — paralyzed.

you can sense the shift in the air. it is not hard to miss. after all, satoru never goes quiet just like that. not unless something shakes the man.

and consider him shaken by the sight in front of him.

he spots a pair of men’s sneakers in the corner of his eye. nothing flashy yet glaring. one is upright, the other on its side. as if they had been haphazardly kicked off just recently.

there’s an eerie silence. a pause. a throbbing in his chest.

to be honest, you didn’t think he’d notice. but that’s the thing about him — you always underestimate what he notices. what he sees.

because in a millisecond, those six eyes are scanning for a thousand possibilities — racing with infinite thoughts you can’t read. but you can feel it — the way his whole body has gone absolutely still on reflex.

“what are those?” he questions lowly.

there is no humor. no teasing grin. just a raw, shaky edge in his voice. and for once, he doesn’t even bother with the usual sarcasm to hide the hurt that’s bubbling up in his chest.

it’s not that he doesn’t trust you — it’s that he wasn’t ready to feel this much about the idea of you letting someone else in. of having another man in your life. the very notion makes him sick to his stomach.

you blink, a bit caught off guard by his bothered demeanor and you hurry to explain.

“satoru, it’s not what you think— those aren’t anyone’s. they’re mine… for safety. you know, to make it look like a man lives here.”

soon enough, you watch your words land. you see the way his shoulders shift, the tension breaking only slightly with relief. but then — something darker shifts in his expression. angrier.

but not at you.

at the world.

at the fact that you even have to think that way. that pretending to belong to a man is the easiest shield society gives you.

satoru doesn’t say much after that. he just looks at you for a long, long moment before pretending as though it never even happened.

but the next time he comes over, he comes with a bag. and when you glance by your front door — the old pair is gone.

now, they’re replaced with a pair of his own — some obviously beat up sneakers from his school days. the kind he only kept around for nostalgia.

you lean against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed as you watch him shuffle through your pantry.

“so…” you start carefully, “are you gonna tell me what happened to my shoes, or should i guess?”

“it’s more convincing if they’re worn,” he huffs back quickly like he rehearsed in the mirror, trying to act nonchalant. but you see the way his eyes dart to the shoes in the front — his shoes now. as if making sure they don’t walk off on their own.

“they weren’t even really yours anyway…” satoru grumbles, acting like an unbothered cat marking its territory as he searches for his favorite chips you always keep stocked up for him.

“seriously didn’t expect to walk in and see another guy’s shoes by the door — off brand by the way.” he notes, continuing to mumble to himself before taking a little peek at you. “kind of a jarring welcome, don’t you think?”

you roll your eyes at his behavior. it’s clear as day — he was jealous. not that he’d admit it. not yet anyway. he’s too proud to admit he had gotten jealous over nothing.

when he finally finds his snack of choice, he shuts the cabinet and closes the distance between you in two lazy steps, arms slipping around your waist like it’s second nature and pulling you in close. your heart skips a beat.

“besides,” he adds, mouth close to your ear, voice dropping low. “you could’ve just told me you needed protection.”

and with that, satoru releases you before plopping onto your couch, big sock clad feet propping up on the coffee table like he owns the place — like he’s the man of the house now.

“my savior…” you mumble sarcastically, watching him open the loud bag of chips before popping one in his mouth and flashing you a charming grin as he chews happily.

but you know him. you know that there is something fierce beneath the casual tone — an unspoken promise.

he’s offering — no — he is telling you that he’ll be your home security system. unlimited plan. premium package. comes with a hot boyfriend as a plus.

because there is no world where he’d ever let anything happen to you. as if anyone could even dare to try.

#᠙𑣱 — aomi writes #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo fluff #gojo drabbles #gojo headcanons #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff #jjk drabbles #jjk headcanons #gojo satoru x you #gojo x you #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you

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snapscube · 3 days ago

Note

would you say, at this point, in your own opinion, that Deltarune is better than/surpasses Undertale? both narrative wise and gameplay wise

i think this is the kind of thing where i would really be jumping the gun to say so definitively either way. deltarune is the hype right now and we’re still right in the middle of the most intense rising action of its story, entering the era where it is going to be the most exciting that it will ever be as we barrel towards the final chapters. that’s a crazy high note, but it won’t portray the full scope of deltarunes accomplishments when compared to its intent. that’s the kind of thing we need to wait on, and that’s the kind of thing we absolutely have for undertale. undertale has such clear intent and such insanely clever, concise, and poignant delivery of its intent. let it never be forgotten how much of a fucking masterpiece undertale is IMO, it’s one of my favorite games.

i do think, however, there is a lot to be said about how deltarune could fare in that comparison based on what i’ve seen so far, and in summary: it was hard to understand at first because of how revolutionary undertale felt, but i’m finally beginning to see how this was the game toby really wanted to make for a much, much longer time. if there was ever a game with the potential to make fucking UNDERTALE of all games feel like a prologue for something bigger, it might be deltarune. but that’s a lot of pressure i don’t want to put on it so im just enjoying the ride for now and enjoying how compelled i am in spite of the act it’s trying to follow.

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cameronsbabydoll · 1 day ago

Text

BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER TWO

WARNINGS — power imbalance, suggestive comments, physical touch (shoulder, hair, guiding), age gap tension, gaslighting-style manipulation, rafe being icky/possessive, grooming-adjacent behavior, internalized guilt

You weren’t supposed to be alone.

Your dad gave you rules. More than rules, really—an entire itinerary. You were supposed to read for your summer classes, organize his files, avoid the barracks, and “keep to the other officer’s kids if you need friends.”

Except the other officer’s kids are twenty-somethings with active duty assignments or civilian lives far from here. They don’t sit at mess. They don’t linger by the soda machine. They don’t stop and say hi.

But Rafe does.

You don’t know his name yet. Not officially.

You just know the way his eyes linger. How his shoulders stretch his t-shirt. How his dog tags swing low when he jogs past you in the mornings—shirtless, dripping with sweat, smirking when he catches you staring.

You hadn’t meant to stare.

But it’s hard not to.

He’s… tall. And mean-looking. He has a buzzcut that makes him look even meaner. You’re not really into tattoos, but he’s got one on his arm you keep thinking about. A snake winding around a dagger.

You’d only noticed because he caught you looking. Again.

And then he winked.

It’s been three days now since you arrived on base. Your dad is swamped. The heat is unrelenting. You’ve reread the same chapter of your textbook six times and still don’t understand what Plato’s Allegory of the Cave is even about.

So you get up early.

You walk the perimeter road.

You grab a Coca-Cola from the machine outside the barracks. Sit on the shaded curb. Watch the soldiers run drills in the distance, far enough away that you don’t feel weird about it.

That’s where he finds you.

“Didn’t peg you for the early morning type.”

His voice startles you.

You twist around fast, can already feel the pink rising in your cheeks. It’s him. The man from the jogs. The tattoos. The stare. He’s not in uniform this time. He’s in a white shirt and gray sweats, both clinging like they’ve earned the right to his body. You hate how that thought even forms.

“I—uh. I didn’t know anyone else came here this early,” you manage, gripping your drink tighter.

He smirks.

“And here I thought this base was crawling with rules.”

There’s a beat. “But I guess that only applies to the rest of us.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He crouches a little, elbows resting on his knees. Close, but not too close. His eyes flick to your soda.

“You know there’s coffee inside, right?”

You shrug. “I don’t really like coffee.”

“Right.” He squints like he’s just realized something. “Sugar rush, not caffeine.”

He says it like he knows something about you that you don’t.

Then: “Makes sense. You’re a sunshine type of girl.”

“A what?”

“You know,” he grins. “The kind that wakes up humming. Writes in a pink notebook. Says stuff like ‘golly.’”

He leans closer. “Am I wrong, sugar?”

You feel like your brain short circuits. You try to laugh, but it comes out awkward. “I don’t say ‘golly.’”

“Yet.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

He just keeps looking at you. His gaze feels heavier than it should. You shift in place. His eyes follow the movement, pausing too long at your knees before flicking back up to your face.

“I’m Rafe,” he says finally. “Staff Sergeant. Been here too long.”

You nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“You got a name, princess?”

You tell him.

He repeats it. Quietly. Like he’s tasting it.

It shouldn’t make your stomach flutter.

After that, he starts showing up more.

He always has a reason. Always casual. Always calculated.

You’ll be carrying a box of your dad’s reports—he takes it from your arms without asking.

You’ll be at the vending machine—he guides your hand to press the right button.

You’ll be reading alone—he sits just close enough that you can smell him: sweat, cologne, something like cedar and anger.

Every time he calls you princess or sugar, you go still.

He’s so much older. More experienced. Bigger. His voice is always low, like he knows you’ll lean in to hear it better. And you do. Every time.

One afternoon, he catches you by the printer in the admin hall, struggling to staple a stack of papers. Your dad asked you to file them, but the staple keeps jamming.

You hiss softly, shaking the thing out. That’s when a broad hand appears behind yours.

“Move,” he says. You do, startled.

He fixes it in seconds.

Then he looks down. You hadn’t realized how close he’s standing. You’re basically against the wall. His hand is still on your shoulder, firm.

“You gotta be careful with these,” he says, low. “They bite.”

“Yeah.. I-I noticed,” you whisper.

He leans in, his mouth next to your ear.

“You ever been bit before?”

You don’t answer.

Your cheeks are burning. Your eyes drop to the floor. You know he’s watching them water.

When he finally pulls back, he taps your chin once with his finger.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

You try to avoid him the next day.

But it doesn’t work.

You’re walking back from the mess hall, still chewing a bite of banana bread, when a shadow falls across the path in front of you.

It’s him.

You stop. So does your breath.

He raises an eyebrow.

“No ‘hi’ today?”

You look down. “I didn’t see you.”

He hums. “That’s a lie.”

He steps forward. You step back.

But it’s just one step. Then he sighs and hooks his fingers into your bag strap.

“Relax, sweetheart. I just wanna walk with you.”

You’re not sure why you let him.

But you do.

He walks slow. Leisurely. His hand brushing yours every few seconds, like he’s testing to see what you’ll do. You don’t pull away.

When you reach the main building, he tugs your strap again—just a little.

“I ever make you uncomfortable, you tell me.”

You blink. Look up at him.

“No,” you say. “You haven’t.”

That smile again.

The one that makes your chest feel weird.

“Good girl.”

You can’t stop thinking about that for the rest of the day.

Not the words. But the way he said them.

Low. Rough. Possessive. Like it meant something.

Like you meant something.

498 notes · View notes

athenalvss · 3 days ago

Note

hi hello may I request Jason Todd with a breeding kink pleeeeease 🥺 especially if he runs his mouth and gets a little carried away with it

FULL OF ME ( Jason Todd! )

summary: Jason has a fixed idea in his mind of how good you would look with his baby in your belly, and he can't help but try to put a baby in you every time he fucks you.

tw: sex (p in v), unprotected (dont do thaaat), breeding kink, dirty talk

pairing: Jason todd x fem!reader

open request - Jason todd masterlist

Your legs are still shaking when Jason pushes you hard against the mattress. The room is dim, lit only by the streetlight streaming through the window. His gaze is completely dark, lost in the pleasure and desire to feel your pussy squeezing him.

It was the fourth time this week he'd fucked you, and the second time in that night he was close to cumming inside your soaked pussy, ready to fill you again, without hesitation, as if it were the only thing he knew how to do with you. Each thrust sank deeper, more desperate, as if that were even possible.

"So fucking perfect..." he murmurs, between gasps. He kisses your neck, your jaw, your ear, as if he needs to mark every inch of your skin. "You know what you do to me, don't you? You look so good like this, taking all of me."

His voice trembles a little as he speeds up, and his words become dirtier, needier. He was completely blinded by desire, by watching your face twist in pleasure every time he entered you and touched your needy clit, constantly bringing you to the edge, making you squirm of pleasure against his hard body.

"You don't know how much I think about this, about you filled with me. You cumming for me, you asking for more..." He laughs softly, but there's something dark in that sound. "It makes me want to do it nonstop until you can't take it anymore. Until you're trembling, with my name between your lips and my seed deep inside you."

Your arched back, your moans, everything incites him. And he doesn't stop talking. He holds you tighter as he wraps one of his large, rough hands around your neck. "are you going to let me put a baby inside you?"

That whisper in your ear makes you tremble, without much chance to respond you could only nod with difficulty, while you tried to keep your eyes open to be able to look at him, giving him a more than hot image of you totally stimulated and with that silly face that made you look so pretty, your pussy inevitably clenches at his dirty words, and of course he notices it.

"Yeah, you like that, don't you? You love it when I tell you I'm going to fill this greedy cunt with my cum, completely, all the way. Fill you up until your needy cunt spits out all my cum."

He moves slower, deeper, emphasizing every word, enjoying how foolish you look because of his cock, your eyes barely open.

“Imagine how beautiful you’d be with my baby... and me looking at you, knowing I did that to you. That I filled you so much you couldn’t help yourself.” He pants against your neck, his lips grazing your skin as his pace becomes more erratic, desperate. “Glossy skin, bigger breasts, I’m going to eat those fat tits full of milk out of you every day, I swear, fucking perfection.”

One of his hands moves down to your belly, caressing it as if he could already feel something there, as if the mere thought drove him crazy.

"I want to see you like this. I want everyone to know that I did that to you. That I fucked you so good and filled you up so much that you couldn't help yourself."

And when he cums inside you, he doesn't do it quietly. He says your name with a tremor that mixes love, lust, and need, as if finishing inside you would bring him a great sense of relief.

The silence was filled with the sound of your ragged breathing and the heat still burning between your legs. You felt his excess slowly begin to spill out, hot and thick, sliding down your thighs with obscene slowness. The cum made a glistening path on your skin, mingling with your own desire, while Jason remained inside, panting, looking at you as if the sight made him even more addicted.

"Look at that..." he murmured with a dark smile, his fingers moving down to touch where their bodies were still joined. "There's no way you don't have my baby."

#dc masterlist #imagine jason todd #dc x reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd smut #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd x fem!reader #smut #jason todd x fem reader #jason todd masterlist

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violetrainbow412-blog · 2 days ago

Text

Golden [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds (Sentry) x fem!reader

wc: 3k

summary: Bob loves you, but he'd never dare say it. Unfortunately, all these repressed feelings fuel Sentry, who decides to do something once and for all.

masterlist part 2 part 3

The house was silent, broken only by the soft murmur of music coming from the cell phone by the sink. A slow, nostalgic piano floated between the shelves as if trying not to disturb anyone. You were barefoot, already in your pajamas—a faded thigh-length T-shirt and athletic shorts—with your hair tied haphazardly and a wooden spoon in your hand. You were making yourself something simple for dinner, not really hungry, as if it were a requirement your body had to fulfill.

Outside, the night hung heavy on the windows, thick and starless. Even though it was cold, your thick socks helped you bear it.

After a while, you had company in the kitchen. You didn't see the person, of course, but you could strangely feel their presence as if the entire room had been impregnated with that essence. The music continued to play, but it no longer filled the space; now it seemed like a distant echo, unable to compete with the sudden density of the air.

Then you felt it: the faint creak of wood under their weight as they rested an arm on the bar, right next to you. They didn't say anything at first; they just stood there, too close, so motionless that for a second you thought you'd imagined it. The warmth emanating from their body contrasted with the cold outside, and the scent—clean, almost electric—confirmed that you weren't alone.

“Hey,” you heard close to your ear, barely above a whisper.

Their voice made you turn your head immediately. You recognized him instantly, of course you did. It was Bob. His body, his silhouette… but not his posture. He was more upright, as if he weighed less. More relaxed. And he was looking at you. Not shyly, not as if he were waiting for your permission, but as if he already knew he was welcome.

What disconcerted you most was the color of his eyes. They shone a liquid gold, soft but impossible to ignore, as if something very ancient and powerful had peeked out from beneath his skin. The proximity made you notice them immediately.

“Bob...” you said softly, unsure whether to ask or affirm. You still held the spoon tightly. The aroma of dinner still wafted through the air, but everything else had stopped. “What are you doing here?”

“I went out to get a glass of water and found you here. That's all.”

“Your… your hair,” you stammered, barely reaching out to stroke a strand of hair, “what did you do to it?”

It was blonde, but not that horrible fake yellow shade Valentina had dyed it a few months ago. This time, his hair looked like it had been kissed by the sun, a color so golden it resembled one of those cherubs portrayed in old paintings. You could also swear it looked a few inches longer than you remembered.

“Don’t you like it?” he exclaimed. The question didn’t sound uncertain, as it should have, but rather amused. “I think it suits me.”

“Yes, you look… you look great, but why did you do it?”

He didn't respond immediately. His attention shifted to what you were cooking, with an almost unusual interest. He leaned a little closer over the counter, just enough to better observe the contents of the pot without invading your space too much... although you felt the warmth of his proximity extending like an invisible line between the two of you.

“What are you doing?” he asked softly, as if the question were more intimate than it should be.

“Nothing, just… something quick for dinner,” you replied, not quite looking at him. You tried hard to sound casual, even though you knew your cheeks had heated a little without permission.

He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on your hands as you rummaged. He didn't talk like Bob. He didn't move like Bob. And yet, there he was, standing next to you, wearing those wrinkled plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt you'd seen on him before at the back of his closet; the cover of Radiohead's single, Creep, printed on black. Everything was recognizable, but not familiar.

Suddenly, his hand slowly reached out to take a pinch of what you'd left on the cutting board and brought it to his mouth, still looking at you. He did so with disconcerting ease, as if you always shared these kinds of moments.

“Smells good,” he murmured, and for a second, the way he said it didn’t seem to refer to food.

You looked at him, still trying to understand what part of him that was. Because if that was Bob… why did he make you feel like you were a fixed point in his orbit?

“Does your head hurt?” you asked, still unsure. Your voice sounded different, as if it didn't quite come from you.

"No"

"Are you okay?"

A giggle escaped his lips.

“I am,” he assured you. Prompted by your inquisitive eyes, he added, “Don’t worry. You know me, you’ve seen me before.”

The way he spoke to you made you believe he wasn't your friend you were chatting with. He knew you, yes, but he was behaving very differently than usual. The realization hit you suddenly.

“Sentry?”

The name left your lips like a crack in the air. And although he didn't flinch or look away, you saw that faint flicker of acceptance in his eyes. As if you'd finally said what he'd been waiting for since he'd entered the room.

“I was hoping you’d notice sooner,” he said calmly, though not reproachfully.

He didn't sound proud. He didn't sound embarrassed. Just… confident. A confidence that Bob didn't know existed, but was natural to him.

“You weren’t supposed to come out,” you murmured, barely audible, as if naming the abnormality could reverse it. “Bob still doesn’t know how to control you.”

He shrugged with an almost elegant fluidity.

“I don’t need him to control me,” she replied immediately. “I’m not dangerous. In fact, it turns out I'm everything he wants to be."

You remained silent for a second, watching him intently. You didn't know if it was wise to call someone else, walk away, or try to figure out what had brought him to light.

“Don’t fear me,” he continued, as if he had read the doubt in your eyes. “I would never hurt you.”

“Why are you here?” you mumbled. Your back was to the counter, and he was standing in front of you, watching you. “Is Bob okay?”

“Of course,” he smiled at you. His gaze made you feel nervous. “It’s just… he was daydreaming about you. So I thought I’d intervene.”

You froze. When you finally managed to stammer out a response, you asked him to explain what he was talking about.

“I just want to see you up close. He’s watching you the whole time like he’s afraid of breaking you.”

The phrase—and the way he said it—confused you. Why would he have had to show up to get a close look at you? What did that even mean?

Why did it have to be him and not Bob?

“You’re his constant thought, did you know that?” he murmured calmly. “For better or for worse.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He always worries about you. He wants to be good for you, to improve, to leave behind those weaknesses that torment him. But everything he keeps quiet when he sees you walk by, when you laugh near him, when you touch him… he throws it all at me.”

His voice didn't rise in pitch. It wasn't demanding. It didn't crack. But there was an undercurrent, a weariness so deep it reached your chest.

“And honestly, I feel like it kills me a little more every day.

“I can’t understand you,” you faltered. “Do you mean that he-you are… in love with me?”

A stifled laugh was heard in his throat.

“Obsessed, that's the term I'd give it. But yes, let's say so.”

Sentry didn't look at you like someone expecting a reaction. He didn't seem to be looking for shock value. He was just... saying it. As if saying it out loud would take a weight off his shoulders.

You feared you were delirious. The moment was so sudden and unexpected that it was the only explanation that made sense to you.

“I just thought it was time to let you know,” Sentry continued. “Because he won’t. At least not anytime soon.”

He took a step closer, slow, careful, but not hesitant. His movements were confident, as if he wasn't afraid of rejection, but of breaking something delicate.

His fingers brushed the edge of the bar, right where you'd placed the spoon seconds before. He didn't pick it up. He just rested his fingertips there, as if he needed to anchor himself to something real.

Then he reached out with his other hand toward you, very slowly, and with the backs of his fingers, he barely caressed your cheek. It wasn't an invasive caress. It was… careful. Too careful, as if he feared that you, too, were part of the same fracture he was carrying.

His touch was warm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice lower. More intimate. “You’re sweet. Attentive. I understand why he’s going crazy for you.”

And you wanted to say something, anything. But his presence weighed more than your thoughts. You didn't know if it was the tone or the content of his words, but something inside you tensed.

You didn't back down. You didn't touch him either. But your gaze dropped to his hand, still suspended in the air, as if you'd suddenly realized the moment had crossed an invisible line.

He noticed it. Of course he noticed it.

“But you’re not ready,” he said, without annoyance.

He didn't sound disappointed, or impatient. He said it as a logical conclusion. An observation. He slowly withdrew his hand, but didn't move away. He just looked down, as if the gesture of touching you had been more for him than for you.

You were in shock, trying to understand what was happening and waiting for his next move.

“I’m not asking you for anything,” he added after a moment. “I didn’t even come looking for anything. I just needed you to see me. To know that I exist beyond fear.”

Your throat closed a little, and your voice barely held as you replied:

“I… don’t know what to tell you.”

Sentry nodded, once, without drama. His golden eyes softened slightly, though the glow remained, pulsing, like a subtle warning that this form of him wasn't human. Not quite.

“You don’t need to say anything. Not now.” For a second, he was silent. “Sometimes Bob stares at the door for hours, wondering if you’ll ever show up.”

The phrase disarmed you more than you expected. You knew him. Not in words, but in actions. In the way Bob avoided eye contact when you greeted him. In the way he seemed to go silent when you sat down near him. In the way he always had something in his hands to pretend he was busy.

Sentry still watched you, patient. Almost serene.

“And all this stuff you’re saying… Does he feel it? Don’t you?”

“Both,” he explained softly. “But if you’re wondering who wants you more, then it would be me.”

You swallowed, looking at him with some surprise. You hadn't asked that, but he'd thought it prudent to mention it. He could have told you he cared or sought your closeness, but no. He said he wanted you.

“Is that why you came looking for me?”

Your voice was a whisper, gently caressing his ears. You no longer seemed scared, but curious, and that stirred something else in the God who watched you intently.

Sentry didn't answer immediately. He lowered his gaze for a moment, as if your question was too intimate even for him. And when he came back from his thoughts, his eyes had not lost their golden glow, but his expression had softened.

“I only came because… I couldn’t stay without doing it.”

His fingers closed in a slight gesture, as if he had wanted to touch you again and held back at the last second.

“Do you know what it feels like to carry something inside that doesn’t quite belong to you?” he asked, not looking at you directly. “A memory. A longing. An image repeated over and over again. And you didn’t create it, you didn’t dream it, but you feel it. It pulls you in. It transforms you.”

You looked at him silently, recognizing in his words not only the intensity of his existence, but the fragility behind it. As if he couldn't sustain himself for long away from Bob's shadow.

“You’re in him,” he continued. “In all his days. In every damn attempt to ignore you. In every night he forces himself not to knock on your room. In all those moments when he has to hold back as if your gaze doesn’t completely disarm him.”

The intensity of his voice didn't rise, but it became thicker. More tangible.

“I don't have their filters,” he admitted, “nor their fears. And if I'm here, it's because Bob wanted it so badly… that I didn't know how to stay silent anymore.”

It wasn't a confession, not quite. It was more like an inevitable outburst. And he was still there, so close, it was hard to think.

“I don’t know if this is real… or if I’m just feeling what you need me to feel.”

“It's very real”

His silence wasn't empty. It was the suppressed sound of something that wanted to explode but didn't dare. The gold in his eyes flickered like a flame about to go out... or burn out completely.

You felt it. Not for what he did, but for what he didn't do.

The way his eyes dropped to your mouth a second longer than necessary. The slight tremble in his breath as he stared at you without blinking. The way his body tilted, barely perceptible, as if the space between you was an obstacle eating him away from the inside.

He didn't touch you. He didn't say anything. But the desire was there, suspended between you both, as clear as the heat between two bodies that aren't touching.

And you, for the first time, didn't back down.

Your lips parted, not in invitation, but in surprise. There was something reverent about him. As if he were approaching you not as a man, not even as a god, but as an echo. Like someone who had been sensing you for too long in another skin, in another mind, in another contained love.

He knew it then. What he saw in your eyes. Not fear, not rejection. Just the certainty that if he did it, something would change forever. In you. In Bob.

Sentry didn't move anymore.

His lips curved into a small, sad smile. One of those that doesn't seek comfort, but acceptance.

“Now that you know… Will you wait for him? Until he’s ready?”

You nodded, out of inertia. The proximity made you feel dizzy, as if his energy were consuming you entirely, and the only thing left in you was that desire for him to finish what he started.

His beauty was nothing like Bob's. He was shy, discreet, cautious in his gestures. Sentry forced you to look at him. Not by imposition, but by nature. Because you couldn't help it. There was something about him that overwhelmed your senses, something that seemed made of light and gravity, and all of it pushed you to the edge of something you couldn't name.

There was no touch. No unnecessary words. Just that suspended instant in which your whole body understood that he could have touched you, and you would have allowed it. Not because he demanded it, but because there was something in you that had already given in without you realizing it.

You didn't know if it was the way he looked at you or how he seemed to be contained within himself, as if the universe were splitting open in his chest, but for a moment you stopped thinking.

You contemplated him as one contemplates something sacred. Not as one desires, but as one recognizes.

And that's where you truly felt it: divinity in its purest form. Not that of miracles or light, but that of the abyss. Of contained fire.

“I’ll go,” he exhaled. He allowed himself to caress your face one last time. “I don’t want Bob to lose his temper. I just… wanted you to know how much you mean. To both of us.”

He took a step back, and you instantly missed his warmth. You found a certain acceptance in his eyes, as if he knew his time had come to an end. It felt as if that version of himself couldn't last much longer in your presence without fading away.

“Can I ask you something?”

"Yeah?"

“Don’t hate him if he doesn’t remember tomorrow,” he said softly. You knew he was referring to Bob. “It’s not that he doesn’t want to do it. It’s that he can’t handle it.”

And with that last truth, he left.

There were no lights, no sounds. Only the faint emptiness left behind by an intense presence as it retreats. And you, standing in the kitchen, dinner cooling on the stove and your heart beating too close to your throat, realized that something inside you had just changed, too.

You didn't know if everything would be back to normal the next day.

But you knew, with absolute certainty, that you hadn't imagined it.

Although a part of you—the most rational, the most scared—would like to believe that it had all been a dream, a delusion, a fantasy brought on by tiredness or your own badly buried feelings.

Because in the end… was it Sentry who came to you?

Or Bob, in a form that even he doesn't understand?

You didn't know. And you probably never would. But the echo of his voice, the warmth of his presence, the weight of that gaze... that was real.

You couldn't tell anyone. Not because they wouldn't believe you, but because there was no way to explain it without breaking them, without exposing them to criticism. And because, at the same time, you were afraid it might break you a little too.

It had to become a secret. There was no other alternative.

taglist: @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan

#bob reynolds #sentry #the void #bob reynolds x reader #sentry x reader #bob reynolds fanfic #thunderbolts fanfic #bob reynolds x you #thunderbolts #the new avengers #the new avengerz #lewis pullman #thunderbolts fluff #bob reynolds fluff #sentry fluff #robert reynolds #robert “bob” reynolds

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lexiputellas · 1 day ago

Text

The Real Victory

You’re horny. Like, dangerously horny.

Alexia is on the pitch, locked into the Champions League match against Manchester City. She lost the last game, and you know how badly she wants this one. You should be focused too. Supportive. Cheering.

But you're six months pregnant and your entire body is buzzing.

And all you can think about is her.

Not the game. Not the score.

Just her

The way her thighs flex when she sprints, thick and powerful. The way her brow furrows when she’s concentrating, that sharp little frown. The way her hands settle on her hips when something doesn’t go her way, fuck.That posture alone sends a direct electric shock to your clit, like a livewire.

It’s unbearable.

You can’t hear the crowd. You barely notice the plays. It’s just her, her, her.

“Oh, that ref is shit. He should’ve called that a foul,” Alba mutters beside you, snapping you out of your haze.

“What?” you blink.

“The ref,” she says, nodding at the pitch.

“Oh. Right. Yeah,” you say, pretending to care. She’s already turned back to the game.

But you? You’re dying.

This feeling is consuming you, melting you from the inside out. You feel like you’re going to burst. Your hands are clenched in your lap, trying to behave, but your legs keep pressing together. You're sweating under your dress, soaked through your underwear, every shift in your seat making you want to whimper.

You can't take it anymore.

You grab your phone and open Alexia’s contact, fingers trembling as you type:

— if after 30 minutes of the game you don’t fuck me and give me at least 2 orgasms i will expose you to the internet. i’m not joking. i’m feral.

You hit send.

She won’t read it now, obviously. But when she gets back to the locker room, when she finally checks her phone, you want her to know what she did to you.

You type again:

— i’m a mess. i’m so wet it’s probably running through my dress and dripping onto the fucking seats. this is 100% your fault.

You stare at the screen, your heart pounding harder than the crowd’s chants.

Final whistle.

Barça wins.

The stadium erupts. People are screaming, waving flags. Fireworks. Hugs. Applause.

You don't care.

Finale. They’re going to the goddamn finale.

And all you want is her.

All you want is home

All you want is to be touched.

You turn to Alba. “Let’s go.”

She glances at you, a little surprised. “Already?”

“Help me up.”

She does, and you wobble a bit, pregnant belly leading the way. You make your way to the VIP lounge and ask for a bottle of water. Your heart is racing like you played 90 minutes.

“You having dinner with us?” you ask Alba casually, your brain screaming please say no please say no please say no—

“I don’t think so, actually. I promised Julia I’d have dinner with her tonight. Been a while.”

YES.

“Oh, okay,” you say, masking the desperate joy clawing at your throat. “I just thought—”

“I’m sorry!” she smiles. “We can have dinner later this week.”

You nod, but your mind is elsewhere. All you can think is: Where the fuck is Alexia?

Why is she not here yet? Is she still giving interviews? Talking to people? Laughing with teammates while you’re over here throbbing?

Then, finally, she walks through the doors.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your entire body clenches. She looks so fucking good. Post-game glow, loose ponytail, jersey stuck to her skin, thighs still tense from running. She’s flushed. Confident. Unreal.

You bite your lip. Hard. Press your thighs together again.

You love her. You hate her. You want to murder her and climb her at the same time.

“Oi, bebé,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek, arms wrapping around you.

You give her a dry peck back, but your eyes are blazing. She hugs Alba next.

“Hey, you coming to dinner?”

“Oh, can’t. Was just waiting for you to show up. I’ve got plans.”

“Okay,” Alexia nods. Alba leaves.

“Dinner out or do you want to order in?” she asks, turning to you with that too-casual tone.

“Order,” you narrow your eyes. She was really about to take you to a restaurant like she didn’t just read those texts? Is she insane?

Then again, she is insane. She's mean. She's hot. She’s yours. So so yours.

“Okay, let’s go,” she says, grabbing your purse and holding out her hand.

You walk with her, past a few teammates. She says her goodbyes. Opens the car door for you. Puts her gear in the trunk. Starts the engine.

She’s humming along to the song on the radio. Calm. Collected.

You look at her. Really look.

What kind of monster leaves their pregnant, needy, drenched wife like this?

The way her fingers grip the wheel. The muscles in her forearms. The little furrow of concentration on her brow.

It’s criminal.

“What?” she says suddenly, catching your stare.

“You’re so mean,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

“What? How am I mean?”

“You read the messages. And you chose to ignore me. You ignored your pregnant, unholy, unsatisfied wife”

“I didn’t ignore you,” she smirks. “I just wanted to see when you’d break.”

“When I’d— WHAT KIND OF MONSTER SAYS THAT? I hate you!” you yell, dramatic and breathless.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes I do! I hate you so much!”

She looks at you sideways, eyes dark and smug, and then slowly lets one hand slide off the wheel, straight to your thigh.

You gasp.

Her fingers press into your skin, spreading a little warmth, a little promise.

“You don’t hate me,” she says, low and certain.

And god help you, she’s right.

Her hand stays there hot, firm, steady on your thigh. Not moving. Just existing. Like a warning. Like a fucking claim.

And you're trembling.

“You don't hate me,” she says again, softer this time, almost teasing, like she already knows you're seconds from falling apart. “You’re just mad I made you wait.”

You twist toward her in your seat, glaring. “I wasn’t mad. I was dying. There’s a difference. You left me like that for ninety minutes. In public.”

“In a stadium,” she corrects, her thumb now rubbing slow, maddening circles over your skin. “While my team fought for the Champions League.”

“I fought for my life. ”

She laughs, actually laughs, and you nearly claw at her. “You think this is funny?”

“I think it’s adorable.”

“Adorable?” you nearly shriek. “I threatened you. I explicitly said two orgasms and you acted like I said two cappuccinos,”

“I saw that,” she says, grinning wider. “And the one after. The part about your dress. And the seats.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“And?” you snap, voice shaky.

She hums, dragging the tip of her fingernail up and down your thigh now. You shiver. “And I guess we’ll see if you were exaggerating.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I hope not.”

You make a noise that’s somewhere between a groan and a growl. Your hands are fisted in your lap again, trying not to beg her in traffic.

The city blurs outside the window, but all you see is her profile, focused, gorgeous, unfazed. Your whole body is throbbing and she’s just…driving. Calmly. Like you’re not about to crawl into her lap.

You glance down at her hand on your leg. Her thumb is drifting closer to the inside of your thigh now. Dangerous territory. Too close. You spread your legs slightly without thinking.

She doesn’t say anything. Just flicks her eyes toward you with a slow smirk.

You clench your fists tighter.

“You’re a menace,” you mutter.

“You married me.”

“I was tricked.”

She chuckles again, completely in control, and your pulse is in your ears. She's wearing that smug, satisfied post-match look, jersey still sticking to her skin, and all you can think about is how much you need her on you, in you, now now now.

“Alexia,” you whisper, desperate.

She exhales through her nose, leans forward to turn down the music, then returns her hand to your thighs, this time higher, much higher.

“Shhh, bebé. Almost home.”

Your hips twitch toward her.

“No, not shhh. I’m going to die,” you say breathlessly. “You’re going to have to explain to the paramedics that you edged your pregnant wife into a cardiac event.”

She grins. “I’ll just say it was hormones.”

You whimper. Actually whimper.

“You’re evil.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she says, but her voice is lower now, quieter, slipping into that tone you know means trouble.

Then she turns onto your street.

Your breathing stutters.

You’re seconds away from sobbing, from tearing the fabric of your dress apart, from climbing her while the engine’s still on. She parks the car and the moment it clicks into place, you undo your seatbelt and twist to her.

She hasn’t even opened her door yet.

You lean toward her, breath warm, hands shaking.

“I swear to God,” you whisper, “if you make me wait one more second,”

But she’s already moving. Turning to you. Hand slipping behind your neck and pulling you in for a deep, hot kiss. It hits you like fireneedy, claiming, hungry. Her tongue sweeps over yours and her fingers dig into your skin and just like that, you’re gone.

Your moan gets swallowed in her mouth.

She reaches down, pulls the lever, and shoves the driver’s seat all the way back.

Your breath catches.

“Come here,” she says, low.

“What?”

“You heard me. Come here.”

You scramble over the center console, breathless, messy, belly in the way, everything awkward and unhinged. But she helps you, strong arms around you, guiding you to straddle her lap. Her hands slide under your thighs, lifting you so you’re not too heavy, easing you down until you're sitting right against her.

The moment you're seated, your soaked center pressed against the firm muscle of her thigh, your arms around her neck, she kisses you.

Hard.

Messy.

Open-mouthed and fucking relentless.

You moan into her, rocking instinctively, already rolling your hips against her. Her hands slip up under your dress, grabbing the back of your thighs, your ass, your hips, tugging you closer until you're gasping into her mouth.

“Ale, fuck, I’m gonna explode”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, lips wet, eyes glassy.

Her hand slides between your legs. Straight under your underwear.

And when she feels how wet you are?

Her jaw clenches.

“You’re soaked.”

“I told you,” you gasp.

“Sit up,” she orders, and you barely register what she’s doing before she slides her fingers inside: slow, deep, no warning.

Your whole body jerks.

“FUCK”

Her other hand grips your hip, grounding you, holding you in place.

“You gonna ride me like you threatened to?” she breathes into your neck. “Or do I have to make you beg for it?”

You’re already moving. Hips grinding down, your belly tight against her chest, your thighs trembling with the effort.

“God, yes, yes, please, Alexia”

“You’re so desperate,” she whispers. “So messy. You wanted to come in my car so bad? Do it.”

Her fingers are already soaked, dripping, knuckles buried in your cunt as you grind against her like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. She’s letting you do the work, just watching, controlling the rhythm with the slow flex of her hand.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” she mutters, voice low, forehead pressed to yours. “Dripping all over me. Can you feel how wet you are?“

Your jaw drops. You moan, raw, desperate and she doesn't give you space to recover.

Her fingers curl inside you, deep and mean, rubbing against that swollen, electric spot that sends sparks flying up your spine. Her palm drags hard over your clit. Again and again and again.

You fall apart.

Your back arches, your belly tight and shaking, and then your cunt clenches down so hard on her fingers it hurts. You don’t just moan, you wail, the sound tearing from your throat like a sob. Your head tips back, body locking, thighs trembling uncontrollably.

She’s right there, whispering filth into your skin.

“That's it. Give it to me, bebé. Let me feel it. Let me feel all of it.”

You try to breathe, but your lungs won’t work. Your whole body is twitching, seized by the orgasm, soaking her wrist, her palm, the fucking seat. You’re gushing, crying, shaking in her lap like your body’s been possessed.

She holds you there through it gripping your ass with one hand, still inside you with the other, riding it out until you're limp and clinging to her.

When you finally collapse forward, she’s panting against your ear, voice rough with praise.

“Good girl,” she whispers. “You came so hard for me. Fuck.”

Your whole body buzzes. You’re not sure if you’re still crying or just breathless, but her jersey is wet with sweat, and your thighs are shaking.

“That’s one,” she says, slowly pulling her fingers out, wet, slick, obscene. She lifts them to her mouth and licks them clean while you just stare, wrecked and speechless.

Then, with a grin that’s all teeth:

“You still owe me another.”

“And I haven’t even ripped your fucking dress yet.”

#barcelona x reader #woso x reader #x reader #alexia putellas x reader

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yan-randomfandom · 2 days ago

Note

umm hi! wanted to ask if is ok yandere rumi with gn!reader or yandere rumi and yandere jinu if it's ok

Yandere!Rumi x GN!Reader

a/n; HOORAY YANDERE!! #iloverumi thank u anon😙 | warning; dependency

— 💜

You found out about her patterns by accident.

And at the time, instead of feeling fear and panic as she should be, all Rumi could feel was relief. Relief that it wasn't one of the girls. Relief that it was a complete stranger. Relief that someone else knew about it.

When you asked, Rumi explained it was tattoos in frantic desperation. But you knew.

"Those are demon patterns," you say with confidence. You meet the singer's eyes warily, being careful in your expression.

Something crazed lights up in Rumi's face. "How did you—"

"I learn about myths and legends in my free time. But..." you pause, glancing over her patterns again, "I've never heard of a human-demon before. Unless, you aren't human...?"

Rumi breaths. The kind of breathing that made you believe she's relieving through something. "I— I am."

— 🪻

It's become a habit for you and her to meet up every now and then. She'd ask you what you know about the demons, the Honmoon, Gwi-Ma, and she'd tell you her experience about being a hunter. (You asked for anything fan-related things too, of course. Picture, autograph — it's awesome!)

How curious that demons truly do exist.

You didn't expect her to want to meet you so often. First of all, she's a famous idol. You're a casual fan of Huntrix, but you already know how hard they work for their art. Second, she's a hunter! The legendary three-part harmony protectors of the Honmoon!

A sigh escapes you. You can't imagine bearing all that responsibility — let alone being a demon herself.

Rumi likes to text you a lot, always planning the next hangout. You'd think that she would have to keep changing schedules, but on the contrary, it seems like it's you who always has conflicting schedules.

— 🎶

"The Saja Boys are demons," she says one day, suddenly, her face falling heavy. "Avoid them, okay? The girls and I will fix it as soon as we can."

You stare at her in awe, your eyes narrowing in curiosity. "Demon boy band? Of course..."

She places her hand on your shoulder. You give her a smile, gently brushing your hand against her patterns.

"Don't worry, Rumi," you nod. "I'll help too, in my own way. Thanks for telling me."

"Thank you," Rumi parrots, meeting your eyes. "But you don't have to do anything. Let me handle all of it. Just stay safe."

— ❤️‍🔥

"Don't leave. Don't leave!"

Just like that.

Rumi's patterns were revealed to the whole world. Her own friends raised their weapons against her. Jinu yelled at her, brushed her off, denying everything she believed in him. Celine, to this day, this disaster—

She will never be accepted, will she? Everyone turned against her—confused on who she is, disgusted on what she is, afraid of her.

"Rumi!"

You call, tears blurring your vision as you firmly grip her shoulders. "Please. Your patterns don't make you who you are. I—"

Rumi watches as you let go of your hold on her, turning instead to clutch your aching head. She watches you tremble, watches you cry as the voices take over your mind.

She watches.

"Rumi," you gasp, trying so hard to ignore his voice. "Rumi. Help. Stop, stop it, stop it, stop it! Rumi!"

Rumi watches with quiet satisfaction. You need her. You're not pushing her away—you call her name—despite everything, you tried to comfort her—

A few moments of silence from her, a few moments of sobbing from you. Eventually, she kneels beside you, leveling with your glassy eyes, and offers a weak smile.

"Thank you," she mutters, gently pulling your forehead to her lips. "I'll make it right. I will."

With those final words, Rumi watches as you finally give in to Gwi-Ma's voice and stand to follow him.

She watches as you walk to the stadium.

She trails behind, everything and anything raging through her mind.

— 🔥

"That whole thing felt like a nightmare," you mutter, holding one side of your head.

You look up, seeing Rumi stare at you with a smile. Ever since that doomsday of an event, she's being acting different, somehow. Extra clingy, extra paranoid, extra... happy?

At least she's happy now.

She hasn't been wearing long sleeves, free enough to be wandering with her scars.

You unconsciously place a hand on her cheek, feeling the texture of her skin. She melts instantly into your touch, leaning to chase it closer.

"I'm proud of you," you smile. "Thank you for protecting us."

Rumi blinks her tears away. It's not everyday someone thanks them for doing their duty.

"I'm never abandoning you," she smiles back. "As long as you don't... abandon, me."

— #iloverumi

#yandere kpop demon hunters #yandere kpop demon hunters x reader #yandere kpdh #yandere kpdh x reader #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #yandere rumi x reader #rumi x reader #iloverumi #kpdh x reader #huntrix x reader

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crazziforazzi · 2 days ago

Text

Red Jersey

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

One shot

Warning: MDNI, Possessive!P, Mild dom/sub dynamics

A/N: This started out as a cute little post-game one-shot I drafted after the match… then I went to work, came back, and rewrote it into whatever this is now. I will now be closing my laptop and pretending this never happened, okay? We don’t talk about it.

But in my defense, I did promise to deliver something if P dropped 20. Next time I’m betting on 25+

Word Count: 4k words

Azzi Fudd was in big fucking trouble.

Not the catastrophic, relationship-on-the-line kind of trouble. More the you knew what you were doing and now you’re dealing with the consequences kind. The kind of trouble where your girlfriend doesn’t raise her voice, doesn’t throw a fit, she just misses three open layups in the first half of a game she should be dominating and avoids eye contact the whole time.

That kind of trouble stung, because it meant Paige was actually upset. And Azzi couldn’t even say she hadn’t earned it.

It had started with the post. Their hard launch, yesterday. Paige had known it was coming, they’d even laughed about the case together when it arrived in the mail. She’d said Azzi could post it whenever she felt ready. Azzi had felt ready. Paige, apparently, had felt… too busy to react.

Sure, they had agreed Azzi would be the one to go public first, to slowly place the signs for their fans. But she hadn’t expected complete silence from her girlfriend. No like, no repost, not even their pink heart emoji. Just…nothing.

And that silence? It annoyed the hell out of her.

And she knew it was stupid. She knew Paige was barely online these days. She knew that one like didn’t matter when her girlfriend made sure she woke up to a good morning text every single day, and treated her like a princess whenever they were together. But still, Azzi liked to be claimed. In every way possible.

So yeah, maybe Azzi was feeling a little petty when she showed up to the Wings-Mystics game today.

Her hair was still perfect from the event she’d been at the day before. Her natural makeup hit just right. She even pulled on the jeans Paige loved and decided on a cropped white UConn shirt that left just enough abs and her piercing peeking out. She looked good. Hot, even. First official WAG game and she was showing up for it.

But when she was greeted by Georgia Amoore instead of her own girlfriend first, with a cheeky grin and a "You want this?" Azzi caught the jersey, smiled, and pulled it on right over her tank top without missing a beat.

Okay, maybe she paused for a second. But only because she knew Paige would be annoyed. Her girlfriend was way too possessive for this kind of shit.

Which made her do it anyway.

She’d barely been sitting for a few minutes, casually chatting with the girl next to her, when she saw them. Or more accurately, felt it first. The stare.

When she looked up, Paige and Arike were jogging toward the sideline for warmups. Paige wasn’t even trying to hide the glare. Azzi met her eyes across the court and raised her brows, all faux innocence, like what? Someone else gave it to me.

She didn’t expect Paige to actually come over to her side of the court. But she did.

With Arike flanking her, both of them bouncing the balls casually as they strolled toward Azzi’s section like they had no other place to be. Paige didn’t say anything right away. She just gave her that look. The one that said

You think you are funny, huh?

"Interesting jersey choice," Arike said with a sly grin, clearly enjoying the drama way too much.

"Georgia said she didn’t want it getting wrinkled on the bench," Azzi shot back smoothly. "I’m just doing her a favor."

"Mhm," Paige murmured, eyes flicking up and down slowly. "Bet she appreciated that."

Azzi tilted her head, playful. "Bet you noticed."

That earned her a look. Paige didn’t respond though,—just turned back to warm up again with Arike, glancing over at Azzi every once in a while before shaking her head. Each time, Azzi just smiled back sweetly, all charm and no remorse.

Now it was halftime, and Azzi sat very still in her seat, Georgia’s red jersey still on, and maybe regretting everything, just a little.

Paige had gone 1-for-6 in the second quarter alone. She’d gotten beat on defense twice, once by Citron, and passed up an open three just to dish to Smith, who wasn’t even ready for it. It was a turnover.

It was bad, like noticeably bad. The kind of bad that made sports Twitter start asking if something was wrong.

Azzi chewed the inside of her cheek, eyes fixed on the Wings bench. Paige was pacing in front of the seats, towel draped over her shoulders, head down. She wasn’t even pretending to be composed anymore. Nalyssa tried to say something to her. Paige just nodded and looked up, directly at Azzi. And Azzi… flinched.

Shit.

This wasn’t what she meant to do. This was supposed to be fun.

Azzi thought she’d fire Paige up. That it’d get her locked in. She thought Paige would come out swinging, torch the Mystics for daring to even flirt with the idea of taking what was hers. She thought Paige would have the kind of game where she dropped 25 just to spite the Mystics, the kind of night that ended with her backing Azzi against the door as soon as they got to the hotel room and saying mine in every possible way.

That was what Azzi had expected. A little fuel. A little bite.

Not throwing off her game. Not making her doubt everything.

Azzi tugged at the collar of the jersey, suddenly very aware of how obvious it was. Bright red. Amoore #8.

Cute… if you weren’t Paige Bueckers watching your girlfriend flaunt someone else’s name across her chest less than 24 hours after hard launching your relationship.

She chewed her lip as the players made their way into the tunnel. Paige didn’t look up once. Not toward the bench. Not toward the crowd. Certainly not toward Azzi.

Azzi had wanted a reaction. Just… not this one.

This wasn’t the fun kind of jealousy. This wasn’t Paige rising to the moment and proving a point. This was Paige shutting down, overthinking, spiraling, playing like she was stuck in her own head.

And Azzi, still stubborn, still too proud to admit it out loud, was starting to realize that maybe she’d misjudged the line between teasing and testing.

She slouched lower in her seat, elbow on the armrest, chin buried in her palm.

She decided to open the group chat. UConn Huskies 💙💍.

It had been buzzing with activity all game, mostly with playful jabs and updates. A few GIFs. Some exaggerated "OOPS" messages after Paige’s third turnover. Classic KK.

Azzi didn’t even want to scroll down to see the vote percentages. She knew what option was winning. Judging by Jana’s flame emojis and Sarah’s unhelpful "👀👀👀," her teammates were thriving off this chaos.

And then there it was:

KK: "New poll: What should Azzi do to fix being a dick and wearing the enemy’s jersey?"

Option 1: Beg for forgiveness after the game.

Option 2: Buy new shoes for lil Paigey.

Option 3: Put on that lingerie she packed and wait in the hotel room for Big Daddy Bueckers.

She exhaled, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Do I defend myself?

The silence lasted maybe thirty seconds. Then the floodgates opened.

Finally, she typed:

Azzi: Okay but… do you guys actually think she’s mad at me?

The words hit her like a slap. And suddenly, all the teasing and jersey-stunting didn’t feel worth it. Not if Paige was hurt. Not if she was second-guessing herself. Not if Azzi did that.

Sarh: Girl.

Morgan: She is mad.

KK: I’d be mad. I am mad. You look like you are repping Georgia like y’all go way back 😭

Caroline: Azzi, you literally hard launched yesterday and then pulled the most passive aggressive side chick stunt of all time 💀

Sarah: Also. She missed a layup which she almost never does. What do you think?"

She stared at her phone, jaw tight. No more playing it cool. She had to fix this.

She opened Paige’s contact, stared at the empty message window, hen finally typed:

Babe, are you ok?

Read, almost Immediately.

But nothing else. No bubble. Just that quiet little confirmation that Paige saw it, and still wasn’t ready to say anything back.

Azzi’s chest tightened. She glanced to make sure her dad wasn’t watching, took a breath, and typed the kind of message that might break through. The kind that usually worked when normal words weren’t enough. The kind that brought Possessive Paige out of hiding.

It was her asking for a second chance in Paige’s language.

Can you please come out and show them why, even if I wear someone else’s name on my back right now, I only ever moan yours when we get home?

Remind me who I belong to. I’ll be good for you when you do. Promise.

She hit send and was ready to see the effect.

Azzi sat on edge the entire second half—barely blinking, barely breathing—silently praying Paige would settle in. The arena was loud, tense, alive with every possession, but all Azzi could hear was her pulse hammering in her ears. Her hands were clenched in her lap, fingers curled tight in the hem of Georgia’s jersey. She hadn’t sent another message after that last one—but she didn’t need to.

Because Paige had read it. And now Paige was responding.

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t pretty. She was getting double-teamed off the inbound, blitzed every time she touched the ball, and still not getting much help. But she was fighting. Hard. Every floater came with a shoulder dipped through contact. Every pass was threaded like a dare. Every drive ended with her hitting the floor and popping back up like it just fueled her.

Azzi didn’t move. She just watched.

By the final stretch, Paige had clawed her way to 13 points. And then, with just seconds left in regulation, she pulled off a screen and hit a cold-blooded three to tie the game and send it to overtime.

Azzi shot up before the ball even dropped through the net, hands in the air, mouth wide, screaming without thinking. Pride surged through her like a flood. She was full of relief and awe and love. This was her girl.

And then Paige turned. She didn’t look at her teammates. She didn’t even glance at the bench. She looked straight at Azzi.

Their eyes locked across the chaos, and Azzi’s whole body went still. Paige didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. She just stared, held her there, then lifted her hand and pointed. One deliberate motion, right at her chest. Right at the red jersey.

You are mine.

Azzi’s heart stuttered so violently it nearly made her dizzy. Paige’s eyes burned into her with a promise so sharp it almost hurt. It said, You wanted a reaction? You got it. Now get ready for what’s coming.

Azzi looked down and suddenly couldn’t stand the feel of the jersey she was wearing. The red. The number 8. The smug little game she thought she’d been playing. It felt like wearing someone else’s skin.

Her fingers flew to the hem and yanked it over her head, not caring who saw, not thinking about the cameras or Georgia or anyone else. She folded it once, maybe out of guilt, maybe just habit, and set it down behind her on the seat like it was something she no longer had permission to wear.

Azzi froze in place, heart stuttering. She didn’t even realize she was still wearing the red jersey until she looked down and suddenly hated it all over again. Her fingers yanked at the hem and she pulled it over her head like it was on fire, not caring if the arena cameras caught it or if Georgia saw. She couldn’t keep it on anymore.

When she looked up again, Paige was mid-huddle, sweat slick on her skin, hair damp, jaw tight but her eyes were still on Azzi. She’d seen the jersey come off. Of course she had. She was waiting for it.

And now she looked at Azzi like she was taking inventory. Her eyes dragged over Azzi’s now-bare shoulders, her fitted white UConn crop top, the deep rise and fall of her chest as she tried to catch her breath. And then, so subtle it almost didn’t register, Paige nodded.

It wasn’t a "thank-you" or a "you’re off the hook" nod.

No.

It was more of a a good girl nod. A that’s more like it nod. A you’re-in-so-much-trouble-later-and-I-hope-you-know-it nod.

Azzi sank back into her seat, suddenly hyper aware of every part of her body. Her pulse raced, her throat dry, her skin flushed with heat that had nothing to do with the arena lights. It was anticipation, pure want. The dizzy, sweet ache of having poked the wrong version of the bear and realizing, too late, that the bear liked being poked.

She tried to steady her breathing, tried to look composed, but she already knew.

She was in trouble. The kind of trouble that would show up in slow drips of sweat down the back of her thighs later, with Paige hovering over her until Azzi was begging for release.

And god, she deserved every second of it.

Overtime didn’t go how Azzi had hoped.

It started well enough. Paige hit a tough two right off the jump, then James came up with a steal and fed her for another clean finish at the rim. The Wings had momentum, briefly. But as always, without structure, without support, it crumbled fast. Missed switches, bad spacing, no real plan. And even Paige, locked in and pushing through, couldn’t hold the whole team together on her own.

Still, she fought. She always did. And she still finished with 20 points. Came damn close to a triple-double through sheer willpower alone. She didn’t quit. She just ran out of hands.

The crowd emptied quickly after the final buzzer. People were already halfway to the parking lot by the time Azzi stood from her seat. Paige stayed behind, as always. She signed every poster, took every selfie with the kids pressed against the railing, even as her body sagged a little under the weight of the loss. Her smile was tired, but it was still there. Her shoulders tense, but still straight. That was Paige. Win or lose, she showed up.

Azzi watched all of it from courtside, the red jersey balled up in her hand now. It didn’t feel like a statement anymore, just a mistake she was ready to be rid of.

She made her way across the court toward Georgia, who was still near the bench, smirking like she’d just watched a live drama unfold and maybe enjoyed it a little too much.

"Thanks for the loan," Azzi said lightly, holding it out.

Georgia accepted it with a grin and a quick once-over that lingered a beat too long. "Anytime," she said, flicking her gaze over Azzi’s shoulder, straight toward Paige, who was still watching. Still tracking. "Though I gotta say... it looked better on you than it ever did on me."

Azzi didn’t dignify that with anything more than a tight smile, already turning away.

She lingered by the baseline with Lili and Amari, pretending to laugh, letting the noise of the court fade around her. She didn’t check her phone. She didn’t need to. She knew Paige would come to her.

And she did.

Azzi felt it before she saw it and then an arm wrapped around her from behind, firm and familiar, dragging her a step off balance.

Azzi didn’t resist. Her body fell into Paige’s without hesitation, like it had been waiting for permission. Her shoulder pressed under Paige’s jaw, her back tucked tight against her chest, and for a second, she just stood there. Breathing, absorbing.

Paige smelled like heat and sweat and the same damn perfume Azzi had been sleeping in when she missed her too much. She hadn’t realized how much she missed this, Paige’s weight on her, the sense of being held intentionally, not just lovingly but fully possessed.

And Paige? She didn’t say hello. She didn’t ask. She just held her there, one hand gripping her waist, the other resting low on her hip, fingers splayed like a warning sign to anyone watching.

Mine.

Then Paige looked down at her with that maddeningly smug smile. "You really think you can wear someone else’s name on your back and not answer for it?"

Azzi blinked up at her, breath stuttering. "I thought it would get you fired up," she admitted. "That you’d…y’know, prove a point. On the court."

"Oh, I did," Paige murmured, eyes unblinking. "And now I’m going to prove the rest of it. Not here. Not in front of all these people. But you are going to pay for it."

Azzi swallowed. Her entire body responded to that tone, it was low and clipped. The kind of tone that promised she’d be lucky to walk straight tomorrow.

"I mean," she tried to deflect, voice lighter, "you’ve definitely made your point already…"

Paige didn’t even blink. "No. That was the warm-up."

Before Azzi could say another word, a voice behind them groaned dramatically.

"Oh my god. You two still lookl disgustingly obsessed with each other. Nothing’s changed."

Paige didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look away.

"Disgusting and exclusive," she said coolly, her voice dropping to a murmur as she leaned down, close enough that only Azzi could hear the rest. "And territorial as hell. Keep that in mind when I have you face-down tonight."

Azzi’s breath caught. Her heart forgot how to beat. Paige straightened like nothing had happened, throwing a casual wave toward a passing staffer.

Azzi just stood there, blinking like she'd been hit by a truck. One that smelled like sweat and victory and consequences.

She’d pushed. Paige had pulled.

And now she was in so much trouble. And she loved every second of it.

By the time they finally started heading out, the arena was almost entirely empty besides the staff cleaning up. Azzi had Paige’s gym bag slung over one shoulder, ignoring the way Paige kept glancing down at it with an expression that practically screamed give it to me. But Azzi just shook her head.

"No," Azzi said firmly, swatting her hand away. "Absolutely not. You carried the team tonight. You played forty minutes and got a bruised knee. The least I can do is carry your bag."

Paige narrowed her eyes. "Azzi—"

"Babe," Azzi cut in sweetly. "Let me be a good girlfriend and carry your stuff for once. You always carry mine."

Still, she muttered under her breath the entire walk to the parking lot, and Azzi caught enough of it to know that "good girlfriend" was going to be revisited. Thoroughly. Later.

When they reached the car, Azzi popped the trunk and turned to grab the keys from her back pocket, but Paige was already standing there, palm extended. Silent and Expectant.

Azzi met her eyes and couldn’t help the grin that tugged at her lips. She dropped the keys into Paige’s hand like she was surrendering something more than just a fob.

"I may carry your stuff," she said, saccharine sweet, "but I’m not giving up passenger princess treatment."

Paige cocked her head, that sharp smile slowly spreading. "You are really pushing your luck and my limits tonight, princess."

"Pushing," Azzi echoed, already sliding into the passenger seat. "Not over it."

"Yet," Paige murmured.

They shut the doors almost in sync, the cabin falling into soft darkness. The air shifted, quiet and charged. No noise, no lights, no crowd. Just them. Paige’s hands on the wheel. Azzi practically vibrating beside her.

And Possessive Paige finally alone with her girl.

Paige turned toward her without a word, eyes sharp in the shadows, and reached out slowly, like she’d been holding back for too long and was finally ready to take. Her fingers found Azzi’s jaw, curling under it, her thumb brushing up the line of her cheekbone, firm and unhurried. She guided her in like gravity, lips brushing once, soft and purposeful, then again, deeper, hungrier, heat blooming between them.

"I missed you, baby," Paige murmured against her mouth, voice low and possessive, the baby nearly swallowed by how close they were.

Azzi let out a whimper, high and helpless, her fingers already clawing at the back of Paige’s neck, tangling into the damp curls stuck to her nape. She pulled her in again, harder this time—mouths crashing, breath catching, her legs shifting to pull Paige closer over the console. Their kisses turned messy fast. All tongue, teeth, gasps. Azzi made a small, broken sound every time Paige tugged at her bottom lip.

It had only been two days, but with the month before that hollowed out by travel and tension and late-night missed calls, it felt like she was kissing life back into her lungs.

Paige leaned in harder, pinning Azzi into the seat. Azzi folded under her without resistance, knees parting, one thigh pressing up against the console. Paige's hand slid from her jaw down to her throat, thumb pressing right beneath her jawline. Azzi’s breath stuttered, eyes fluttering shut. Her whole body pulsed under Paige’s touch.

She was already shaking.

Paige didn’t stop kissing her until she felt it, felt how gone Azzi was. Then she pulled back just slightly, hovering above her, lips swollen, eyes black with promise. Her hand never left Azzi’s throat. She didn’t squeeze. She didn’t have to. The weight of it was enough.

Her smirk was slow, calculated, absolutely devastating.

"I haven’t forgotten about your little stunt," she said, voice low and deliciously cruel. "You think just because you handed the jersey back, you’re off the hook that you are a good girl again?"

Azzi’s pupils blew wide. Her breath hitched so sharp it was almost a gasp. She swallowed, her whole body taut with anticipation, thighs squeezing together without permission.

Paige leaned in closer, lips grazing her jawline, her voice dropping into something even darker. She was all breath and threat, velvet and warning.

"You’re not getting off easy tonight. You want to play games in public? You want to wear someone else’s name on your back and act like you don’t know who you belong to?"

Azzi whimpered, hips twitching upward like she could grind against the air. She was panting now, eyes dazed, hands tightening into Paige’s hoodie like an anchor.

"You’re mine," Paige growled against her ear. "And you’re gonna remember that for days."

Azzi couldn’t speak. She just nodded, desperate and shaking.

Paige kissed her once more, harsh and claiming, then pulled back, just far enough to look her in the eye.

"First I’m going to hold you down and make you scream my name over and over again until it’s the only one left in your head. And then I’m going to make sure your thighs are too sore to pull another stunt like that for a long time."

Azzi made a sound that was half-moan, half-plea. Her head fell back against the headrest, lips parted, eyes dazed.

"I’m serious," Paige said, softer now, but no less threatening. "I’m not going to rush it. You’re going to feel every second of it. And you’re going to thank me when it’s over."

Azzi’s voice finally broke through, wrecked and trembling. "Yes. Please."

Paige smiled, dark, satisfied, cruel in the way only someone who loved you could be before pulling away and starting the car.

Azzi Fudd was in big fucking trouble. She was about to pay for every second she spent in that red jersey. And god, she couldn’t wait.

#pazzi fics

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noirscript · 3 days ago

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Inked Possession | part one

pairing: yandere artist x erotic book writer!reader description: Eleazar wasn’t meant to find your draft—but now that he has, he’ll make sure you never imagine another man again, not even on the page. warning/s: Yandere behavior, possessiveness, dubcon undertones, explicit sexual content, bondage (restraints), jealousy, emotional manipulation, rough sex, obsession, degradation, implied coercion. note: this is gonna sound really funny but i've been writing this series while working in a space that's VERY sfw. i don't think i'll do it again hahahahahahahaha it's too risky. by the way the pre-order for Callixto's ebook will end next week (Monday) so make sure to reserve a copy of the ebook PLUS the exclusive freebies that comes with it! The freebies will only be available during the pre-order period. ← Masterlist | Next →

Masterlist | Dark Roast | Sovereign's Reign Pre-Order | Commission | Tip Jar

You didn’t expect him to find the draft.

The document was nestled deep in a folder you were sure you’d renamed months ago. It wasn’t even meant to see the light of day—not yet. Just a concept. A fleeting thought that bled too easily into your fingertips after too many sleepless nights. You didn’t even give the male lead a name—just him, faceless and safe in your mind. Or so you thought.

You come home to the smell of turpentine and oil paints. It clings to the air like sweat and fury. The lights are off, save for the faint glow of his studio down the hall.

Your pulse stutters. There’s a silence in the apartment that shouldn’t be there. No hum of music. No clinking of his brush jars. Just the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner and your own breath, catching in your throat.

“Lee?” you call softly.

There’s no answer, but you feel it—his presence. Like a panther in the dark, crouched and ready.

You slip out of your heels and step onto the cool hardwood floors. The hairs on the back of your neck rise. Something isn’t right.

The studio door is ajar.

Inside, Lee sits with one leg over the other, your laptop balanced on his thigh. The screen glows white against his pale skin, casting stark shadows on his angular face. His dark hair is a mess—longer than usual, curling behind his ears in disarray. He’s still in his paint-streaked black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, veins visible as his hand clenches the edge of the desk.

You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat when you see what’s open on the screen.

Your draft.

Your smutty, half-polished, dirty draft.

The one with another man pressing your fictional self against the wall, whispering sweet nothings into her ear before dragging his mouth down her neck.

“You’ve been busy,” Lee says, voice cold and syrupy, like poisoned honey. His obsidian eyes flick up to you, and for a moment, all you see is calm. Too calm. “Tell me, darling… who is he?”

“I—he’s not real,” you stammer, stepping back. “It’s fiction. It’s just for the plot—”

“Plot,” he interrupts with a sneer, rising to his full height. “Yes, of course. Because stories require you to imagine some stranger touching you in ways you’ve never asked me to. Some man who isn’t your husband fucking you so hard you’re crying for more, isn’t that right?”

Your face flushes with humiliation. You look away, but his steps are slow and purposeful, his boots echoing against the wood. A predator circling. You try to retreat, but he grabs your wrist—gentle at first. Just enough to hold.

“Lee, it’s not what you think—”

His grip tightens. “Then tell me what it is. Because to me, it reads like a fucking fantasy. Not the kind you write for others. No. This was personal. Intimate. Not even the male lead in your books ever got this much attention.”

“I didn’t mean—”

He yanks you forward, and your body slams against his chest. You feel the thrum of his pulse, erratic, thunderous. His other hand slides up your back, gripping the nape of your neck.

“Let me be perfectly clear, my sweet wife,” he hisses into your ear. “I will not allow you to imagine yourself with anyone else. Not in ink, not in dreams, not in your goddamn drafts.”

You whimper as he bites down on your earlobe—not enough to draw blood, but enough to bruise.

“Writing smut about another man… does that excite you?” he growls. “Does it make your fingers itch to feel someone else's hands on your skin?”

“No—”

“Liar.”

In one swift motion, he drags you toward the bedroom. The door slams behind you, and you’re thrown onto the bed. The force isn’t violent—yet—but it's enough to shake the mattress, enough to scatter the pillows like prey.

“Take it off,” Lee orders.

You blink, wide-eyed. “What?”

“Your clothes. Strip. Now.”

You hesitate, but the look he gives you—possessive, deranged, feral—makes you obey. You pull off your blouse with trembling fingers, then unfasten your skirt. Every inch of skin you expose feels like a confession. You’re down to your underwear when he growls, “All of it.”

You do.

He watches you like an artist studies his canvas. His gaze is obsessive. Not just hungry, but starving. The moment the last scrap of fabric hits the floor, he pounces.

He pushes you down, wrists pinned to the sheets with one hand while the other cups your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“Let me remind you,” Lee whispers, kissing the underside of your jaw. “Exactly who you belong to.”

His mouth trails down your throat, harsh and claiming, teeth scraping as he bruises your skin—painting marks only he is allowed to leave.

You arch beneath him, breath catching when he hooks your thighs open with a knee, then binds your wrists together with the silk belt from your robe. He pulls it tight—too tight—but doesn’t stop. Your fingers twitch in protest, but his voice soothes, “If you can write about being tied, you can take it.”

You gasp as he spreads you apart with calloused hands, thumbs pressing into your inner thighs. His tongue slides across your skin, tracing every inch, slow and deliberate. You expect softness—he gives you fire.

“This mouth,” he snarls, biting the inside of your thigh, “will never say another man’s name again.”

Your breath stutters. “I never said—”

He cuts you off by sucking hard on your clit, dragging a broken moan out of you. Your hips jerk, but he holds you down. Devours you.

When he rises, his mouth is slick, chin glistening. “No more stories about faceless strangers,” he growls, unbuckling his belt. “You want to write filth? Fine. Let it be about me.”

You don’t even have time to respond.

He thrusts into you in one brutal stroke, knocking the air from your lungs.

The stretch burns, and you cry out. But he doesn’t pause. His hands grip your bound wrists, pressing them above your head as he drives into you, fast, hard, claiming.

“I’ve let you wander too long in that pretty little head of yours,” Lee snarls. “From now on, you write what I give you. You think about me when your fingers type. Only me.”

“Lee—ah—”

“You asked for this, didn’t you?” he pants against your neck. “Your filthy little book was practically begging for punishment.”

Tears slip from your eyes from the overstimulation, the tight grip of his hand around your wrists, the merciless rhythm. But your body betrays you—slick, needy, clenching around him.

He feels it.

“God, look at you,” he groans. “So fucking wet. You love being corrected.”

You hate that he's right. That your mind is hazy, spinning with every possessive word he spits.

He pulls out without warning, and you whine.

“No,” he murmurs, flipping you over like you're weightless. He yanks your hips up, presses your face into the sheets. “You're not done yet.”

You scream into the pillow as he thrusts back in, rougher, deeper. His hands leave bruises on your hips, fingers digging as if he could mold you into obedience.

“I’ll paint you in bruises if I have to,” he growls. “So no one forgets who owns you.”

You don’t recognize your own voice when you beg—broken and raw. “Please…”

“Please what?” he snarls, leaning over your back. “Please stop? Please more? Or please fuck the other man in your book?”

“N-no—I want you,” you cry.

“Say it again.”

“I want you!”

“Louder.”

“I want you, Lee!”

He growls like a beast. And in that moment, you don’t know where the man ends and the monster begins—but you welcome both.

He finishes inside you with a groan so guttural it shakes your bones. You collapse, trembling, sweat pooling beneath you.

Silence.

Then he pulls you into his arms, still fully sheathed inside you, cradling your trembling form. His touch is gentle now. Worshipping.

“I’m the only man who will ever touch you like this,” he whispers into your hair. “Write it. Carve it into your pages. Ink it on your skin. You’re mine, Mrs. Vittorio.”

You’re too wrecked to argue. Or deny the possessive warmth spreading through your limbs. Or the terrifying comfort of his embrace.

The next morning, he kisses your bruises with reverence… and sets up a new document for your next book.

The title?

“Eleazar”

Just that.

And you don’t dare write about anyone else again.

TBC.

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans @ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

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#yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere #yandere male #yandere imagines #male yandere #yandere fic #yandere x y/n #yandere male x reader #yandere artist #yandere artist x reader #yandere smut #yandere artist x darling #yandere x you #male yandere x reader #yandere x darling #tw.smut #tw.noncon #tw.dubcon

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refuse-to-be-an-allegory · 3 days ago

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to be quite frank, you should not even be speaking on this topic as you completely lack any related experience, but in my honest opinion: the reason why you are facing so much backlash is because you are making blanket statements. it is impossible to have a constructive conversation about this without extreme nuance.

yes, all men structurally benefit from a misogynist society, but in a country with an inherently racist (and sexist) foundation (talking from the perspective of an american), some men benefit more, e.g. passing trans white men and cis white men, than others. i specifically note "passing" because gnc people are frequently shunned as well.

in specifics, black trans men and black trans women both face transphobia in addition to racism, but the way such is experienced often differs. masculinity in the black community is a heavy topic as most black cis men are taught to be Tough and Hard, and because of this black transmascs often feel immense pressure to pass or be called "zesty" or a "dyke" or anything of that manner and have their masculinity stripped from them. if they do pass, they face the stereotypes placed upon black men, which are incredibly similar to how trans women regardless of race are treated (predatory, inherently a threat, etc. etc.). either way for either side there is risk for harm and/or death because although for different reasons, they are both portrayed as predatory and violent. this is why unity and lifting unheard voices is so important.

there are thousands of nuances within a conversation of this nature and of course i cannot touch on all of them but i believe i have said enough to try and have you understand that there are intersections between these things. acting as if trans women are The Ultimate Minority does nothing but silence others and it is incredibly upsetting to see my white transfem peers fall into this line of thinking because it feels like a victim mindset to me. yes, you are affected by transphobia, but you may lack community in any intersecting topics. you have to take concepts like race, disability, economic class, and more into consideration to properly identify how something is harming someone and why, and simply saying All Men Benefit completely sweeps those other facets of society under the rug.

we can't even get a basic "all men structurally benefit from a misogynist society" to pass on this website without a bunch of queer men shooting themselves into a panic cause they get too uncomfortable about the idea of being culpable to self reflect. "feminist" website

#angelic aberration

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hansrkive · 3 days ago

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NO I LOVE YOUs? (SVT)

You did the “not saying i love you” prank.

౨ৎ PAIRING: bf!seventeen x gf!reader

౨ৎ GENRE: fluff and just pure old romance.

౨ৎ TAGS: seventeen as your boyfriend and one-shot.

౨ৎ NOTES: no thoughts tbh i was bored and i saw a prompt on twitter :/

౨ৎ HYPERLINKS: pinned post, ko-fi and seventeen’s master-list.

CHOI SEUNGCHEOL:

His eyes almost popped out of their sockets. Normally, you would say ‘I love you’ and kiss him goodbye, but as you decided to prank him, the normal things you do before he leaves for work were nowhere to be found. “I love you,” he repeated, quickly striding over to you, his hands immediately touching yours. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked, his tone laced with worry.

"Nope?" you laughed. "Go and work out, Cheol."

"But you haven't said it yet," he groaned like a five-year-old kid.

"Fine, I love you," you said in defeat. You immediately knew that your prank would backfire, knowing Seungcheol would use his handsome face to lure you back in.

YOON JEONGHAN:

It was probably the worst prank ever. The prank lasted the whole day, and Jeonghan was not having it. For the first few hours, he tried clinging to you like a child. But as he felt that you weren't budging, the room fell into a deafening silence for the next few hours.

"Hey, I'm going grocery shopping. You wanna come?" you asked, entering your bedroom. You waited for an answer, or even a nod. But to your surprise, he just hugged you tightly.

"Whatever prank this is, it's not funny," he mumbled, making you laugh out loud.

"I'm sorry," you chuckled. "I love you."

HONG JISOO:

Pranking Jisoo was not easy. You were scared that he may take it seriously. “Did you learn that prank from your friends?” he asked, his face screaming ‘you’re busted.’

“What do you mean?” you asked, playing dumb.

“You haven’t said ‘I love you’ whenever I say it,” he laughed, scooting over to you. He then planted a kiss on your forehead. “Nice try, babe.”

"Okay, then. I love you," you smiled as your lips touched.

WEN JUNHUI:

"Okay, babe. I'll be back by dinner. I love you!" Junhui said. He was currently at work, and you didn't know how you would do the prank with him miles away from you.

"Have a good day!" you said, quickly ending the call, not giving him a chance to talk. Thinking that he wouldn't call back, you placed your phone on the granite countertop and went back to stirring the soup you were cooking for lunch.

Ring, Ring. Ring. "Hello?" you said.

"I said 'I love you,' babe." It was Junhui, his voice laced with worry. "Is there something wrong?"

"What do you mean, babe?" you laugh. "Go work! Goodbye!" you tried saying fast, but Junhui cut you off.

"Say 'I love you' back, babe!" he moaned out of frustration.

"God, you're like a baby!" you laughed so hard. "I love you."

KWON SOONYOUNG:

To say that Soonyoung was dramatic was an understatement. He was more than dramatic. Once he didn't hear the three words that made his heart flutter, he started groaning, moaning, and crying. "Babe, please!" he sobbed, clutching his heart as if he were having a heart attack.

"You should be an actor, Kwon Soonyoung," you chuckled, pinching his cheeks.

"Before I take my last breath, please, just say it," he gasped, his hands on his throat.

"You are so dramatic." you rolled your eyes. "I love you."

JEON WONWOO:

You thought he couldn't hear you not say 'I love you' since he was busy playing games with his friends — but you thought wrong. "I can't play another game," he said, removing his headset and coming to bed to lie beside you. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his face resting on your shoulder.

"What do you mean?" you asked, setting your book down on your lap.

"Are you mad? I won't play anymore," he mumbled, kissing your shoulder softly.

"Oh, Wonwoo. It was a prank I saw on TikTok," you uttered. "I love you, baby. I'm not mad.

LEE JIHOON:

Jihoon was probably the 'chillest' person you know. When you did the prank, you thought he just didn't care. "Where did you learn that prank?" he asked as he joined you in bed. "You really thought I wouldn't know?" he laughed, spooning you tightly, his body heat radiating onto you.

"I saw it on TikTok," you admitted, feeling embarrassed that he knew all along."

"Don't do that again, please?" he pleaded. "If I hadn't known, I would've pulled what Soonyoung did."

"What did he do?"

"He cried all day." you both laughed.

LEE SEOKMIN:

He thought you were mad at him. You didn't talk to him the whole day because let's face it, you would've laughed at the first chance you get. So, as you and Seokmin were doing your nighttime skincare routine, Seokmin reached for your hand and looked at you with puppy eyes — with a sheet mask covering his face. "Why aren't you saying 'I love you' and why aren't you talking all day?" he groaned.

"Nothing's wrong, babe," you laughed.

"This isn't funny," he sulked.

"Oh, god. I'm sorry," you laughed out loud. "It was a prank. I love you."

"I love you, too," he finally smiled, giving you a kiss.

KIM MINGYU:

Not even ten minutes into the prank, and you couldn't resist Mingyu's charms. "Come on, say it, love!" he laughed, knowing that you were just pranking him.

"I don't know what you want me to say!" you chuckled as he hugged you tightly.

"Say it, love," he mumbled.

"Ugh, fine. I love you." you rolled your eyes. "I can't even prank you."

XU MINGHAO:

You were trying to make breakfast, but for some reason, Minghao couldn't keep his hands away from you. "I love you," he whispered.

"Thank you," you chuckled, starting right away.

"Thank you?" he asked, confusion plastered on his face.

"What's wrong with that?" you questioned.

Instead of questioning you, he started tickling you instead. "Is this a prank or what?"

"Fine, fine! I love you," you said as the two of you were now on the floor, giggling.

BOO SEUNGKWAN:

Even in texting, Seungkwan was the most expressive person you know. So, when you decided you'll do the prank on him, you knew that he would give you a great reaction.

mr. boo seungkwan: ok i'll talk to u la8er. i love you!

you: okay, bye!

mr. boo seungkwan: huh?

As you were about to type, you suddenly got a call from Seungkwan. "Hey, what do you mean?" Seungkwan groaned. "I said, I love you."

"You are so hard to prank, Seungkwan," you said, giving up in just a matter of minutes. "I love you, too."

CHWE HANSOL:

"I love you, I love you, I love you." Hansol yapped in your ear as you tried to ignore him. You have been doing the prank for almost five hours now, and Hansol has reached his tipping point. "I'm not gonna stop, babe. I have all the time in the world."

"Are you not tired?" you laughed as you folded your clean clothes.

"Like I said, babe, I can wait for days," he laughed.

"You're so insufferable," you chuckled. "I love you, too."

LEE CHAN:

You tried to do the prank, you really did. You ignored him all morning, yet it all backfired. "I love you!" you yelled as you were about to leave for work. "No!" you groaned.

"What's wrong?" Chan asked, getting worried as you slumped on the floor.

"I tried doing the 'not saying I love you' prank on you," you fake-sobbed.

"Oh, babe, you're so cute."

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mononijikayu · 1 day ago

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thinking about how ryomen sukuna husband, marin the dog's dad, national athelete, pro-volleyball player is now stuck in this conundrum of a situation.

if he was being honest, he didn't even know how the national japanese team social media manager got him to do this. maybe it was because they bribed him with his favorite protein shake. maybe it was because they promised to stop bugging him.

but if he admit that they were the things that got him, it would be a lie. no, it was all the hd pictures of you from all the previous games these past season.

he didn't know they had existed since now. but because they had them, he had to get it. he had to get those really pretty pictures of you and keep it for only him.

ryomen sukuna was already regretting saying yes to the lie detector segment. he’d done interviews before for everything and not once has he ever been nervous.

after games, in locker rooms, on buses that smelled like sweat and glory. even when he was exhausted and ragged in the bones and just wanted to go home and sleep hugging you, he'd do it. even if it was a hassle.

but this situation was different. he was terrified. why shouldn't he be terrified? this was a whole different thing and people just knew it. everything about this was not something he was used to.

this was wires, blinking lights, a host who smiled like he knew too much, and a chair that felt suspiciously like it belonged in an interrogation room.

still, he looked good and cool.

sleeves rolled just enough.

the usual cocky slouch.

he had to fake it till he made it.

“all set?” the the social media manager asked, grinning.

sukuna shrugged. “unless this thing shocks me when i lie, yeah.”

they started easy. and he liked that. is your hair naturally pink? no. (duh.) do you think you’re the best player on the national team? yes. (double duh.)

each answer got a soft, obedient beep. truth. he was cruising. smooth. untouchable. until the host pulled a new card. this one looked different. evil, even. ryomen sukuna could sense it. he could feel it in his bones.

“sukuna-san, here's your next question.” the social media manager said slowly, way too pleased with himself, “is it true that when you were newly eighteen, you and your now-wife, [name]-san, had a pregnancy scare… and her dad almost murdered you for it?”

sukuna blinked. once. twice. “…i’m sorry. what?”

someone behind the camera snorted. sukuna’s eyes narrowed. and then, he heard it. he could feel his eye twitch all the sudden. your laugh. soft, familiar, and 100% guilty.

his jaw dropped. “oh my god. you’re here.”

you didn’t even try to deny it at all. i mean, this was the first time in a long while you'd gotten to be ridiculous. especially now that you've come back to work and had your hectic schedule again.

you always took the opportunity when it was offered. so, you sat somewhere off to the side and let yourself be silly. you laughed once again when you heard him curse.

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “you really sent that in? seriously?”

the host was trying very hard not to lose it.

“answer the question, sukuna-san!"

he sighed. long-suffering. dramatic.

“…fine. yeah. it’s true.”

beep. truth.

and just like that, the flashback hit him like a football to the face. it happend when you were teenagers, last year of high school. nothing even happened back then. it was just hanging out most of the time.

well, there was the occassional making out. but even when it went somewhere, you both stopped. and even when you wanted to, sukuna was the one to stop it all.

after all, he didn't want to ruin your future. you wanted to be an astrophysicist. you had a dream and he wanted you to focus on that. as much as he focused on volleyball.

so that day, it was all too different. and he could feel it in the air. you were on his massive bed, staring at your phone like it owed you an explanation.

sukuna walked in, unwrapping a sandwich, and you just… said it. “my love, i’m ten days late.”

he dropped the sandwich. “what do you mean, ten days late?”

“i mean what i said, my love. i'm late.” you said calmly, yawning in between. “ten. days. late. no period. no signs. my uterus is a cryptid.”

sukuna looked like he aged ten years on the spot. "w-what do you mean? w-we.... we didn't do anything just yet—"

"well i'm not sure!" you whispered to him. "i mean, when on my birthday, we both went and drank together quite a bit and—"

"yeah but i don't remember anything happening!" he says, choking as his red turned flushed. he stops and then his eyes go wide. "wait....i blacked out right?"

"yeah and maybe......" you hide your face in your hands, feeling like you were going to cry.

“okay. okay. don’t panic.” he said, immediately panicking. “we’ll go to a clinic. or a pharmacy. or maybe time travel. can we still time travel?”

you were surprisingly calm, at least from the standards usually had on pregnancy reactions. ryomen sukuna, on the other hand, looked like he was about to faint at the mere thought of diapers and daycare. but the worst part wasn’t the scare.

it was doing the impossible. it was telling your dad about everything. your ex-military, early-rising,suspicious-of-every-boy-on-earth dad, without him getting mad.

you told him while your poor unfortunate boyfriend was in the house. well, he thought that it was appropriate. even if he was shitting himself.

he was sitting politely in the living room with a mug of tea when you broke the news. your dad turned and just stared at sukuna. no yelling. no questions.

just pure, soul-piercing silence. for five whole minutes. ryomen sukuna sat frozen, gripping the mug like it was a grenade. it might be one of the worst days of his life.

you tried to ease the tension. “it’s probably just stress! we’re being responsible! we’re not even sure—”

your dad stood up. slowly. like an ancient god rising to smite. sukuna stood too. immediately. like his legs were possessed. your boyfriend, the former troublemaker and fist slammer, looked scared for the first time in his life.

“s-sir, respectfully, we're not....we're not even sure.” he blurted, voice cracking, “but i can swear to you that i respect your daughter. i-i swear....i'm going to take responsibility."

you covered your face all througout. ryomen sukuna, like years before, started mumbling about how from the very beginning, he's willing to stand up for you and be a father if you were pregnant. it was quite a thing.

in the end, you had nothing to worry about. after you took multiple tests, you were not pregnant. and a few days later, sukuna remembered what happened (likely out of fear of your father) and told you that you did not in fact make love.

back in the studio, ryomen sukuna shook his head like he was still recovering. he sighed as he looked at you. you were smiling at him giving him a thumbs up.

“i had nightmares about that stare for months!” he said. “every time her dad looked at me when i came by the house, i thought he was imagining my funeral arrangements.”

you laughed again off-camera, totally unapologetic. you were really lucky you were cute. he really couldn't get mad. not at you. not even once. he purses his lips.

“and the kicker?” sukuna said, leaning forward with a dry laugh. “she wasn’t even pregnant! just exam week stress. i almost died for nothing.”

he pointed toward where you were standing. “you’re evil.”

beep. truth.

a little while later, ryomen sukuna did get the hd pictures of you in a real big envelope. later, it was added to the pictures of you in his office. and all of that made him sigh, more fondly than ever before. life was good.

"i wonder what it would look like...." he mused to himself. "when we have kids too....."

"my love, dinner's ready!"

he smiles. "i'm coming!"

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