#and it's taking all of my self control to not press post yet

[nemaliwrites]

9/24 chapters edited...pray for me 💔

[ja3yun]

Stretch it Out | P.SH

instructor!sunghoon x ballerina!reader warnings: smut (mdni), unprotected sex, cream pie, fingering, mirror sex, pet names (sweatheart, good girl), bad ballet references bc idk what i'm talking about, slight mention of self doubt, not proof read, anything else lmk! wc: 7.4k REQ: ballet intructor!sunghoon helping ballerina!reader stretch and you know where the rest leads to 😼 a/n: hi! i took this request and shuffled it around to make it this! hope this is okay anonnie and i am also so sorry for the late posting of it! i've been working on so much lately and with my little break i didn't do much writing. as always, comments, reblogs, and likes are all welcome!

Applause echoes through the spacious studio as one of your fellow dancers finishes receiving her critique from Mrs. Yang. Her routine was strong, though it seems she needs to work on her turnout - something you hadn't noticed. Perhaps it’s because your nerves are clouding your perception; after all, it will be your turn once she's finished.

The Annual Exhibition is less than two months away, and this will be your first time presenting your completed routine for approval in front of an audience - especially Mrs. Yang, who is more than just an instructor to you; she’s your role model, the person you’ve looked up to throughout your entire ballet journey.

Throughout your high school years, you dedicated your evenings and weekends to ballet school, working tirelessly just for the chance to apply to the National University of Arts and audition in front of Mrs. Yang. For months leading up to this moment, you poured everything into perfecting your pliés and pirouettes. Blisters marred your feet, and exhaustion settled deep in your bones, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was proving yourself worthy.

“Y/N, you’re up,” Mrs. Yang’s voice echoes through the studio like a haunting ghost. 

Following her words, you get up and shake off any nerves you have, all too aware of the impact performing badly will have; she could cut you from the exhibition or tell you to scrap the routine entirely, and both of those are not an option for you.

Now, as you step forward to take your place at the centre of the studio, the weight of the moment presses down on you. Every muscle is tense with anticipation, and your heart races as you prepare to dance.

The music begins, and you launch into your routine. At first, the nerves are overwhelming - each movement feels too stiff, too calculated. But as you glide into an arabesque and sweep through a series of pirouettes, something shifts. The familiar rhythm of the dance takes over, and your body begins to move almost on its own, flowing through each step with a grace you didn't know you possessed.

You’re hyper-aware of Mrs. Yang’s presence, of her eyes following your every move, but instead of faltering, you find yourself sinking deeper into the performance. Each développé stretches to its fullest extent, each sauté feels lighter than air. Your breathing steadies and the tension in your muscles transforms into power and control.

As you close the final sequence with a grand jeté, landing with a precise yet delicate touch, you can feel the room holding its breath. You finish in a graceful reverence, chest heaving but mind calm. In this moment, all the hours of hard work, the pain, and the sacrifices feel worth it. You've given everything you have.

But as you glance at Mrs. Yang, it doesn’t look like she’s as satisfied with your performance as you are. Her face is stoic, unreadable, but you’ve been in her class long enough to decipher even the subtlest of her expressions. The slight raise of her right eyebrow sends a wave of dread crashing through you. That’s never a good sign. Her eyes cling to you with the intensity of an unwanted gaze, leaving an uncomfortable knot twisting in your stomach.

She remains quiet for a few minutes, the silence stretching unbearably as though she’s gathering her words. When she finally speaks, her tone is clipped, measured. “It’s good, modern, and meets the criteria.”

You brace yourself, knowing that a ‘but’ is coming.

“But,” she continues, and you wince slightly, “you are not sharp enough. I mean seriously, Y/N, how many times do I need to pull you up for this? Do you not want to improve?”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You don’t want to disappoint her. You gave everything you had in that performance, even though it was just a run-through. But it’s clear that it wasn’t enough.

You bow your head, fighting to keep your voice steady. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Yang’s irritation sharpens. “Then for the love of God, can you listen to me this time?” She stands up, her movements precise and deliberate as she walks over to you. Her voice is firm, tinged with exasperation. “This exhibition is crucial to your future career. It’s what sets you apart from the others, and yet you seem to lack such basic skills. Even the first years are forming lines better than you.”

Her words slice through you, each one a reminder of the standards you’ve failed to meet. The sting of her tone is almost unbearable, but you know deep down that it comes from a place of faith. She nitpicks because she sees potential in you, potential she wants to help you realise. Each six-month review she’s had with you, she’s made it clear that she believes you can make it far in this world.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Yang,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Apologise to yourself, not to me.”

A chorus of snickers drifts from the edge of the room. You glance over to see a group of girls, giggling and holding in laughter, their eyes full of condescension. The sound pierces through your already fragile self-belief, making you shrink into yourself, every snicker chipping away at whatever confidence you had left. Doubt begins to creep in, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. You start questioning whether you’re truly cut out for this, whether all the sacrifices you’ve made have been for nothing.

Before you can spiral too deeply into your own thoughts, Mrs. Yang’s fingers press firmly against your cheek, gently but insistently turning your face to meet hers. “You can’t do this on your own, so I’m assigning you a coach.”

“But you are my coach,” you reply, your voice tinged with confusion.

“Yes, but I don’t have time to give you hours of one-on-one training,” she says, rolling her eyes as if that statement should be obvious. She strides back to her seat, preparing to evaluate the next girl in line. “I have someone in mind. They’re very fluid and pointed in their gestures. They should whip you into shape. I’ll book you an out-of-hours studio for the foreseeable.”

The words hit you like a ton of bricks. You stand there, rooted to the spot, unable to fully process what she’s just said. Sure, she’ll still be your instructor during scheduled lessons, but this means that on top of your gruelling 12-hour days, your endless rehearsals, and the constant pressure to perfect every move, you’ll now have to spend extra time with a new coach.

It’s overwhelming. The thought of adding yet another layer of intensity to your already packed schedule makes your head spin. Your body, already pushed to its limits, protests at the idea of even more hours in the studio. Your heart sinks as the reality of the situation sets in. How will you manage it all? How will you balance the expectations of not one but two demanding mentors?

You want to succeed, to rise to the challenge, but a part of you is terrified that you’ll crumble under the weight of it all. The path ahead, already steep and treacherous, has just become even more daunting.

As Mrs. Yang calls out the name of the next dancer, you force yourself to step aside, the familiar sting of exhaustion settling into your bones. 

You can only hope that this new coach makes it worth your while.

_____

The long day of classes has left you drained, every muscle aching with the residue of endless rehearsals and critiques. The last thing you want to do is spend more time in the studio, yet here you are, trudging down the empty hallways of the performance centre with your gym bag slung over your shoulder. The familiar scent of rosin and sweat lingers in the air, and you can't help but feel a pang of dread at the thought of more practice. Your mind buzzes with the memory of Mrs. Yang’s words earlier this week, her disappointment, and the pressure of living up to expectations weighing heavily on your shoulders.

As you push open the door to the studio, your eyes fall on an unfamiliar figure - a boy standing with his back to you. He’s tall, strikingly so, with broad shoulders that taper down into a lean, athletic frame. His dark hair is tousled, falling just above the nape of his neck, and he’s dressed in loose joggers and a fitted white tank top that highlights the sinewy lines of his muscles.

You hesitate in the doorway, momentarily taken aback by his presence. The studio had been booked for you, and the last thing you want is a confrontation with a stranger. You clear your throat softly, hoping to catch his attention. “Um, hello?” you say timidly, your voice barely above a whisper. You hope that a gentle approach will encourage him to leave without any fuss.

The boy whips around at the sound of your voice, and your breath catches in your throat. His face is nothing short of breathtaking; sharp, elegant features softened by a small, almost shy smile. His eyes, a deep, captivating brown, seem to sparkle with quiet intensity as he takes in your appearance. For a moment, you’re struck by how impossibly beautiful he is, like a sculptor’s masterpiece brought to life. He seems too perfect, too unreal, and you feel a strange flutter in your chest as you meet his gaze.

“Hi,” he says, his voice smooth and warm, like a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. He’s still studying you, and you can’t help but take the opportunity to do the same, noting every detail of his flawless face - the way his lips curve slightly upwards, the sharpness of his jawline, the softness of his eyes.

You blink, trying to regain your composure. “I don’t mean to be rude,” you start, hoping to keep your tone polite, “but my teacher booked me this room for a few hours.”

He raises an eyebrow, his small smile never fading. “Four hours to be exact, yeah. She also booked you…me.” The confusion must be evident on your face because he adds, “I’m your coach, Sunghoon.”

“You?” The word slips out before you can stop it, and you instantly regret how incredulous you sound. The last thing you want is to offend him, but the shock of the situation has thrown you off balance.

“Yeah, me. Why?” His tone is still light, but there’s a hint of defensiveness in his voice, and that sends you into a mild panic. You quickly shake your head, trying to salvage the situation.

“No, no, I’m not trying to say anything negative,” you stammer, holding up your hands as if to ward off any misunderstanding. “It’s just… I’ve never seen you around the performance centre, let alone the ballet corridor.”

He nods, seeming to understand your confusion. “That’s because you’ll find me in the sports centre.”

You take a moment to size him up, your mind racing as you try to figure out what sport he could possibly play. He’s too lean to be a rugby player, his legs too slender to be a footballer, but he’s tall enough to be a basketball player. You consider the possibility of him being a rower or maybe a gymnast, but nothing quite fits. He’s a mystery, one that piques your curiosity.

As if reading your thoughts, he interrupts your internal questioning. “I’m a figure skater.”

The revelation surprises you, and you can’t help but blurt out, “Oh.” You pause, trying to piece together why a figure skater would be chosen to coach you in ballet. Placing your bag to the side of the room, you turn to him again. “So why are you coaching me?”

“Why can’t I?” he counters, his tone holding a subtle challenge that makes you feel slightly defensive. “Mrs. Yang said you’re having trouble looking elegant and punctuated in your movements. Skaters have the same problem.”

You nod slowly, but a part of you is still sceptical. “But you guys have ice and skates. I have a wooden floor and ballet pumps.”

A laugh escapes his lips before he quickly covers his mouth, a look of apology flashing across his face. “Sorry, it’s just…what does that have to do with anything?”

You frown, still not entirely convinced. “You guys have blades to move you. I have to coordinate my legs to move me. You guys can think about fluidity and movement.”

He crosses his arms, his expression becoming more serious as he regards you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. “Do you know how ridiculous you sound? We have to balance on a tiny blade and have every chance to slip or crash from a jump.”

His words hang in the air, and you suddenly feel a bit foolish for your assumptions. Of course, figure skating requires immense skill and precision - maybe even more so than ballet, given the added challenge of balancing on ice. 

“Okay, fair point,” you admit, feeling a bit sheepish. You also hate it when people underestimate the skill and energy it takes to perform ballet, and yet here you are doing it to him about his own sport. 

He steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours, and you find yourself holding your breath under his gaze. “I know you were expecting some ballet genius to help you but our arts are similar. It’s about control, balance, and grace,” he explains. “On the ice, every movement needs to be both powerful and delicate. The same applies to ballet. You need to find that balance between strength and elegance. That’s where I come in.”

You nod slowly, beginning to understand his perspective. The way he speaks, the passion in his voice, makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, this might actually work. “And you think you can teach me that?”

“I know I can,” he says confidently, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “If you’re willing to put in the effort, that is.”

There’s a challenge in his words, one that you can’t resist rising to. You’ve always prided yourself on your work ethic, and you’re not about to let anyone doubt your dedication.

“I am,” you reply firmly, meeting his gaze with determination.

Sunghoon starts the session by having you go through your routine. His eyes are sharp, missing nothing as he watches you move across the floor. You’re acutely aware of his presence, the way his gaze seems to weigh on your every step, every turn, every jump. It’s unnerving at first, but you push through the discomfort, focusing on executing each movement with precision.

When you finish, he steps forward, nodding thoughtfully. “You’re good,” he says, and the praise sends a warm flush of satisfaction through you and a blush to your cheeks. “But you’re too tense. You’re overthinking every move, and it shows. Ballet is as much about feeling as it is about technique. You need to let go a little.”

You frown slightly, not entirely sure how to do that. “Let go?”

“Yeah,” he says, moving to stand beside you. “Your muscles are too tight, your movements too calculated. It’s like you’re afraid of making a mistake, so you’re holding back.”

You look down at the floor, his words hitting a little too close to home. You’ve always been afraid of making mistakes, always felt the pressure to be perfect. It’s something that’s been drilled into you since you first started dancing, and it’s hard to shake.

He must sense your hesitation because he steps closer, his voice softening. “Hey,” he says gently, and you look up to find his eyes full of understanding. “I get it. But if you keep holding back, you’re never going to reach your full potential.”

There’s something in his voice that makes you want to trust him, something that makes you feel like maybe he understands you in a way that others don’t. You nod slowly, taking a deep breath as you try to let go of the tension in your body.

“Good,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “Now, let’s try something different.”

_____

For two hours straight, you push your body to its limits, executing each movement with precision and determination. Sunghoon’s voice fills the studio, giving you sharp, pointed instructions that you follow without question. But as the minutes tick by, the atmosphere begins to shift. The calm, encouraging demeanour he started with fades, replaced with a growing tension that seems to coil around the two of you, tightening with each correction he makes.

“Extend more,” he snaps as you move through a series of arabesques. His tone is snappier now, the softness from before replaced with something harsher. “You’re still too stiff.”

You grit your teeth, focusing on stretching every muscle to its fullest, making sure each line is as precise as possible. But no matter how much you try, his dissatisfaction only seems to grow.

“Again,” he commands, his voice laced with frustration. You try to push your discontent down, channelling it into your movements, but the more you try, the more his critiques seem to cut through you.

“You’re losing focus. How are you going to perform on stage if you can’t even manage this in practice?”

The sting of his criticism hits you deep, and you can feel your confidence waver. Are you really that bad? You’re hitting the moves correctly, focusing intently on your lines - the very aspect of the performance Mrs. Yang had criticised you for. You’re doing everything he’s asking, so why is he still so frustrated? Shouldn’t he be pleased that his coaching is starting to take effect?

You execute a pirouette, landing with precision, but the instant your foot touches the ground, Sunghoon’s voice cuts through the air. “No,” he says sharply, shaking his head. “You’re not following through. Where’s the energy? The intention?”

“I’m trying!” The words slip out before you can stop them, frustration bubbling over. Your chest heaves with exertion, and you meet his eyes, desperate for some sign that he understands how hard you’re working, how much you’re giving.

But his expression remains hard, unreadable, and that only fuels the growing tension between you. “Trying isn’t enough,” he snaps back, stepping closer, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You need to do more than just hit the moves. You have to feel them. Right now, you’re just going through the motions. There’s no passion, no fire.”

His words cut deep, and you feel a flare of anger mixed with hurt. “I’m doing exactly what you asked,” you retort, unable to keep the edge out of your voice. “I’m focusing on the lines, on the form. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yes,” he says, his frustration palpable, “but you’re missing the point. It’s not just about form; it’s about bringing the movements to life. Right now, you’re nothing more than a marionette, moving because you’re being told to, not because you’re actually feeling the dance.”

The comparison stings and you can feel yourself reaching boiling point. You’ve been working so hard, pushing yourself beyond what you thought you were capable of, and yet here you are, being told that it’s still not enough. A part of you wants to shout at him, to tell him that he doesn’t understand how hard this is, how much pressure you’re under. But instead, you swallow the words, letting the irritation simmer beneath the surface.

Sunghoon’s gaze softens, just a fraction, but it’s enough to make you feel the weight of his expectations even more acutely. “I know you can do better. Mrs. Yang told me you’re one of her best students,” he says, his voice gentler now with the content, though no less intense. “That’s why I’m pushing you. I need you to push yourself. You’ve got so much potential, but something’s holding you back. What is it?”

His question hangs in the air, heavy and probing. For a moment, you’re at a loss for words. Why are you holding back? Is it the fear of failing? Fear that you’ll never be good enough? Or maybe, deep down, you just don’t believe in yourself.

The silence between you stretches, thick with hostility. Sunghoon steps closer, his presence almost overwhelming, the heat radiating off him nearly suffocating. You can feel the intensity of his gaze, a challenge flickering in his eyes, daring you to shatter whatever invisible barrier is restraining you.

He’s so close now that you can see the tight set of his jaw, the way his eyes blaze with a fire that sends a shiver down your spine. The frustration is palpable, a tangible force crackling in the air, making it feel electric, charged with something both exhilarating and frightening.

With a firm but gentle touch, Sunghoon places his hands on your shoulders, turning you to face the mirror. He steps in behind you, closing the space between your bodies. “Look at yourself,” he says, his voice low and resonant. “See how tense you are?” His large hands slide down from your shoulders, tracing the line of your body. “Every muscle is knotted up. You can’t perform at your best unless you loosen up. Stop overthinking. Just…let go.”

Your eyes meet his in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, and in that instant, the world seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you, close enough to feel each other’s breath. Then, almost instinctively, his fingers press into your sides, firm and commanding, gliding up your waist and torso with deliberate slowness. The sensation sends a wave of heat through your body, and your breath catches as he lifts your arms, stretching your upper half with a fluid motion that leaves you feeling vulnerable and exposed.

“Feel this,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the nape of your neck, sending another quake over your body. He holds your wrists above your head with one hand, the other pressing into your lower back, making you hyper-aware of the heat emanating from him. “See how good that feels?”

Using his knuckles, he circles the bottom of your spine, dissolving any knots and doubts from it. You resist the urge to moan but your eyes roll to the back of your head as you push your hips into him, aching for more of his magical touch. Out of all the massages you have ever had, this tiny glimmer of one beats them all.

His breath spreads over your skin, and his fingers tighten slightly around your wrists as he holds you in place. Once you bring your eyes forward, he locks in with yours in the mirror. His piercing stare is intense and your heart quickens, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. 

“You like that?” Sunghoon asks, the smirk plastered on his face as he feels you grinding onto his growing boner. He can see you wanting to let go in the reflection of your eyes as well as the neediness in your breaths, giving him all the consent he needs to take this further.

As he releases your wrists, his hand trails down your shoulders and back to meet the other. The heat of his touch seeps through the fabric of your top, firm yet tender. His fingers glide along your spine, coaxing your body to arch into the movement, a soft sigh escaping your lips. His touch is skilled, knowing exactly where to press and where to ease, melting away the tension in your muscles, leaving you pliant under his hands.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispers, the edge in his voice betraying his awareness of the effect he’s having on you. The connection is almost too intense to bear. But you can’t look away, drawn to the magnetic pull between you. He slides his hands over your sides and across your lower abdomen, fingers digging slightly into your muscles, the pressure both soothing and intoxicating as he massages your belly and hips.

You instinctively begin to lower your arms, the proximity making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. But his grip tightens around your waist in warning. “No, keep your arms up, sweetheart,” he says, his tone demanding, the instructor in him resurfacing.

Resting his hand flatly on your stomach, his fingers spread as he pulls you flush against him, your back meeting the solid expanse of his chest. The contact makes you acutely aware of every point where your bodies touch, your heart hammering in your chest as your breath catches. His hands linger at the waistband of your leggings, before slowly, his hands dip down, fingers brushing against your skin, exploring with deliberate, teasing slowness. The sensation sends a jolt of electricity through you, your skin tingling under his touch.

His hands move lower, the anticipation building with every inch he covers. You can feel your muscles trembling, your arms still stretched above your head as he asked, but the effort to maintain the position becomes increasingly difficult with every passing second.

His fingers find your folds, slipping between them with an agonising slowness that leaves you gasping. The sensation is overwhelming, your body instinctively moving with his fingers, but he’s quick to remind you of his control. “Keep your arms up, be a good girl and listen,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a quiet authority that leaves no room for disobedience.

The smirk on his face is unmistakable as he watches you struggle to comply, the tension between following his instructions and giving in to the intoxicating pull of his touch almost unbearable. His fingers continue their slow exploration, teasing and tormenting you with a skill that leaves you trembling, your resolve weakening with every passing moment.

Impulse begs you to let your arms fall, to collapse into his embrace, but his gaze holds you in place, that smirk still playing on his lips as he watches you battle with your own desires. The contrast between his command and the sheer pleasure he’s coaxing from your body is dizzying, leaving you on the edge of surrender.

Yet, despite the intense need coursing through you, you force yourself to keep your arms raised, stretching above your head, the effort only adding to the thrill coursing through your veins. His fingers move with deliberate intent now, pressing deeper, his touch sending waves of pleasure through your body that make it almost impossible to think, to breathe.

Sunghoon’s fingers expertly play with your pussy, two of them circling your sensitive nub with a maddening precision that leaves you dizzy. “Do you feel how exhausted your arms are?” he asks, his voice tinged with a hint of smugness, as though expecting an answer despite your obvious distraction.

Nodding, you squeeze your eyes shut so tightly that white spots dance behind your lids, a kaleidoscope of fleeting lights against the darkness. The burn in your arms is a sharp contrast to the way your hips instinctively move, undulating in perfect sync with his skilled fingers. It's a delicious torment—the strain in your muscles somehow amplifies the pleasure coiling low in your belly, turning every sensation sharper, more intense.

Suddenly, his lips are on your neck, a gentle press of heat that sends a shiver cascading down your spine, threatening to unravel you completely. The warmth of his mouth on your skin is your undoing, and before you can stop yourself, your arms give way. You collapse forward, hands scrambling to find purchase, seeking him instinctively as if he's the only thing keeping you grounded. Your fingers dig into his arms, nails biting into his skin as you cling to him, desperate for stability in the storm he's unleashed within you.

"See how loose you feel?" His voice is a murmur against your neck, each word a hot, teasing caress. "How your body wants to move on its own, to give in? That’s how your performance should be."

As if to punctuate his point, his fingers slide inside you, the sudden, intimate invasion tearing a sharp gasp from your lips. Your hips buck against his hand, craving more, driven by the need he’s ignited in you. His other arm tightens around your waist, holding you close, anchoring you to him as his fingers continue their relentless rhythm, each stroke designed to push you further, closer to the edge.

The atmosphere around you thickens, every breath heavy with the electric tension between you. The heat radiating from his body seeps into yours, an overwhelming presence that consumes you, making it impossible to think of anything but the here and now. The scent of him - musky, intoxicating - fills your senses, making you feel lightheaded, dizzy with desire. You can feel the hardness of his arousal pressing insistently against your lower back, a solid reminder of his own need, adding fuel to the fire already burning within you.

His pace quickens, fingers plunging deeper, more urgently, more demanding. "Even your pussy is so tight," he murmurs, his tone more observation than criticism. "Do I need to open this up too?"

Your laboured breathing is your only response, mingling with the slick, rhythmic sounds of his hand moving inside you. The coil of pleasure in your core tightens with every thrust, winding tighter and tighter, the pressure building until you feel like you might shatter from the intensity of it.

Your hands clutch at his arm, desperate, seeking something solid to hold onto as your legs threaten to buckle beneath you. His fingers curl inside you, finding that perfect spot that sends your vision spinning, a raw, needy moan escaping your lips. The feeling of his hard length pressing against you, coupled with the masterful way his fingers work you, has your entire body humming with sensation, alive with the need to surrender to the pleasure he’s offering.

Sunghoon’s mouth returns to your neck, lips brushing over your sensitive skin, his teeth grazing lightly as he sucks, sending another jolt of arousal through you. "That’s it," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, rough command that vibrates through you. "Let go. Feel it. This is how you should be."

His words wrap around you like a spell, breaking down the last of your restraint. Your body moves with his, falling into the rhythm he’s set, lost in the heat and desire pulsing between you. Every stroke, every touch, draws you deeper into the abyss of pleasure, until all you can do is let go and let him guide you.

“Fuck, Sunghoon,” you manage to mewl, your voice trembling, breathless, as you throw your head back, letting it rest against his chest.

A low, rumbling chuckle escapes him, the sound reverberating through you, adding to the fire already blazing in your veins. His lips trail up to your ear, his tongue flicking against your earlobe, a playful, teasing nip that sends another shiver racing down your spine. “That’s it,” he whispers, his voice thick with a mix of amusement and desire. His fingers curl inside you again, hitting that spot that makes your entire body jerk in his hold, another gasp torn from your throat. “You like this, don’t you? You’re such a perfect student, so eager to please.”

All you can do is nod, biting down on your lip to stifle the moans threatening to spill over. He hums appreciatively, his hot breath brushing against your ear, the sensation sending another ripple of pleasure through you. “Good,” he purrs, his voice low and commanding, like the instructor he is. “You’re a quick learner when you want to be. You respond so well to guidance.”

Without warning, his hand shifts, thumb finding your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your hips jerk involuntarily. Your vision blurs, stars dancing before your eyes as the pleasure crashes over you in waves, each one pulling you deeper into the sensation. His fingers move with expert precision, relentless in their pursuit of your release, pushing you closer and closer to the brink.

In the mirror before you, Sunghoon’s eyes lock onto you, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he relishes in watching the pleasure contort your face. "You’re moving perfectly, not overthinking, just feeling how you should," he murmurs, almost to himself, pride evident in his voice. 

Just as you feel yourself teetering on the brink, he slows his movements, dragging out your pleasure, keeping you suspended on the edge. You whimper with need, the desperation in your voice only making him grin wider. His lips brush against your ear, his voice a dark, seductive whisper that sends your brain into orbit. "You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you? Be a good dancer and let go, show me how well you can perform."

It’s not a question; it’s a command. And with one final, skilled stroke, he pushes you over the edge, sending you spiralling into a climax that tears through you, leaving every atom in your body shaking with intensity and your muscles instantly tensing, just to relax once again.

As the tremors subside, you feel his hands shift, fingers hooking into the waistband of your leggings. “We’re just getting started,” he murmurs, a hint of something dark and promising in his voice. Slowly, he pulls them down, the fabric dragging against your skin, heightening your sensitivity. “You’re still tight,” he observes, voice low, almost thoughtful. “We need to work on that.”

He positions himself behind you, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the cool air against your bare skin. Pushing his joggers and boxers down to his thighs, he lets his hard cock spring free, your body shielding it from the mirror in front of you, but as he drags it along your folds, you get a sense of the thick, long shaft he is about to impale you with.

His hand moves to your hips, guiding you, adjusting your stance, and your hands find home on the mirror in front of you, fingers splaying across the cool glass. “Arch your back,” he instructs, voice firm yet gentle, as if this were just another rehearsal. “Relax into it���let me in.”

With a measured, almost calculated precision, he enters you, the sensation of him filling you completely making you gasp. In the mirror, your reflection catches your eye, your mouth falling open as you watch him disappear inside you. “Oh god,” you moan, the image of your bodies coming together, the way he stretches you, only intensifying the sensation. “Sunghoon…”

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet, wrapping around you, pulling you deeper into the moment. “Look at yourself,” he commands softly, his breath hot against your ear. “See how your body opens up when you let go? When you stop fighting and just let the movement happen? That’s how you get perfect lines.”

His pace is slow at first, methodical, every thrust a deliberate stroke meant to coax your body into submission. Your eyes lock onto your reflection, the sight of his hips moving against yours, the way your skin flushes with arousal, captivating. “Fuck, your pussy is sensational,” he breathes, a hint of strain in his voice as he pulls back slightly, only to push deeper. “Almost as good as your allegro.”

You let out a broken moan, your gaze flicking between his intense expression in the mirror and the way his muscles are contracting in his arms as he firms his grip on your waist, focusing on pounding into you with fervour. “Sunghoon… more… please…”

Each movement of his hips is like a masterclass, each squeeze from his hands and twitch of his cock only making your body ache for more. “Don’t hold back,” he whispers, his grip on your hips tightening, pulling you closer. “Let your body respond to mine.”

Your eyes widen as he leans forward slightly, the angle allowing you to see more of him in the mirror, his jaw tightening with every thrust. “Feels so good,” you manage to gasp out, your voice breathy, desperate as you push back against him, trying to take him deeper. “Please, don’t stop…”

The mirror reflects the sheen of sweat forming on your skin, the way your body arches into his touch, how every line of your form matches the rhythm he’s set. Your body moves with his, every thrust pushing you closer to that edge again, every word sinking deeper into your mind. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers finding your clit once more, adding that extra layer of stimulation that has your legs shaking. “That’s it,” he coaxes, voice rich with approval. “Give in to it. Let your body move the way it wants to…the way it needs to.”

“Sunghoon… oh, god… I’m gonna-” Your words cut off in a whimper as his pace quickens, the pace he sets becoming more intense, more demanding, each thrust designed to unravel you, to push you past your limits.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs into your neck, his gaze flickering up to meet yours in the mirror, watching how your breath fogs up the glass in front of you and your fingers claw down the flat surface in an attempt to grip onto something tangible. The sight of you coming undone in the reflection only seems to spur him on, his hips snapping against yours with renewed vigour.

“Sunghoon, I-” you try to speak, but the words dissolve into a moan as he thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur and stars dance before your eyes, the bell of his cock kissing the sensitive spot inside your walls.

“Show me,” he commands, his voice like a conductor’s baton, directing the crescendo. “Show me how beautifully you can fall apart.” 

Sunghoon’s arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling your trembling body back against his chest. The new angle allows him to thrust even deeper, the motion sending shockwaves of pleasure through you, each stroke of his cock searing itself into your memory. You feel completely filled by him, the sensation overwhelming as your reflection quakes, your body obeying every demand he silently makes. Your muscles clench around him, and as your head falls back against his shoulder, you cry out his name.

The mirror captures every detail - the flush of your skin, the arch of your back, the way your mouth opens in a silent scream as another intense climax rips through you. This one is even more powerful than the last, leaving you utterly undone, your body shaking in his arms as he holds you steady.

As the waves of pleasure begin to ebb, your eyes lock onto the mirror once more. You see yourself as Sunghoon sees you raw, vulnerable, but also strong, capable of surrendering and finding beauty in letting go. For a moment, all you can see is the perfect dancer he’s crafted, the one who’s learned to trust the rhythm and fall apart beautifully.

Chasing his own release, he begins to buck his hips in a fast, sharp manner, aware that two orgasms on your end could make you extra sensitive. Your pussy milks his cock as he cums deep inside of you, his nails scratching your hips and down your ass, as he moans out your name, chanting it like a hymn during confession. 

His chest heaves against your back and he kisses anywhere he can on your neck and shoulders to ground himself in the present, bringing himself down from his high.

As he slowly slides out of you, his arms never leave your body, keeping you close. He gently lowers you to the ground, sitting you down and holding you against him. Your body feels like jelly, completely spent, but his embrace is comforting. He presses soft kisses to the back of your head, his breath warm against your damp skin.

"You did so well, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice tender, full of pride.

You tilt your head back slightly, looking up at him with a small, exhausted smile. "I don’t think I’m supposed to be this relaxed when I perform at the exhibition," you manage to say, a breathless giggle escaping your lips.

Sunghoon chuckles along with you, the sound vibrating through your body where you're pressed against him. He shakes his head, brushing a few strands of hair away from your sweaty face. "No, you should have some feeling in your bones," he agrees, wiping the moisture from your brow with the back of his hand. "But do you see how, when you let yourself do what your body wanted, you felt a million times better?"

You nod, the memory of the intensity still fresh in your mind. "Yeah…I did. It felt different…freer."

"Exactly," he says, his eyes softening as he gazes at you. "That’s how ballet is supposed to be. You can’t bring emotions to an audience if you’re too busy concentrating on getting the next move right."

"But Mrs. Yang always talks about perfection," you counter, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "She says, ‘You need to be perfect to achieve perfection.’ She repeats it all the time."

Sunghoon sighs, a look of understanding crossing his features. "It’s the same for us," he admits, his tone tinged with a mix of disdain and resignation. "Every skate has to be better than the last, or else you’re a failure." His voice carries the weight of someone who’s heard those words too many times, who’s internalised them and yet knows there’s more to the story.

"But perfection isn’t something you learn from a textbook. It’s not something you can force." He pauses, looking down at you, his expression thoughtful. "You need to find your own colour, your own style. That’s where true perfection lies - when it comes from within, not from trying to meet someone else’s standards."

You hold his gaze, the truth in his words sinking in. For years you have tried to live up to Mrs. Yang’s expectation that you lost your real love for the art. Or maybe, not lost the love, but rather buried it under the weight of being perfect. 

"But…what if I never find it? My colour."

Sunghoon’s lips curve into a small smile, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing over your flushed skin. "To be honest, you’re better than most. You’ve got the skill, the technique, but you’re holding yourself back because you’re so focused on being perfect." His eyes bore into yours, sincere and encouraging. "You need to let your posture breathe, stop worrying about being flawless, and just…dance. That’s what’s holding you back - then you’ll find it."

His words resonate deeply within you, stirring something that’s been buried under layers of self-doubt and external expectations. "So I just need to let go?"

"Exactly," he says, his voice firm but gentle. "Let go, trust yourself, and let your body move the way it’s meant to. Just like we did there."

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight on your shoulders lift just a bit. "I’ll try," you whisper, the words carrying more determination than you thought possible.

Sunghoon smiles, a warmth in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, a gesture so tender it nearly makes you melt. "That’s all anyone can ask for," he murmurs, his voice reassuring.

You nod, feeling a newfound resolve build within you. As you sink deeper into his embrace, the world around you seems to blur, leaving behind the certainty that you’re ready to let go, to embrace the dancer you’ve always been meant to be.

After a moment of quiet, Sunghoon pulls back slightly, his hands still resting on your hips, grounding you. "How about we get you cleaned up, and then we run through it again?" he suggests, his tone light yet purposeful.

You smile, the idea of starting fresh with this new perspective sparking a sense of excitement in you. "Yeah," you agree, your voice steady. As Sunghoon helps you to your feet and fixes your outfit for you, you feel your heart burst with determination and adoration, both for ballet and the man in front of you.  

You’re going to have to thank Mrs. Yang for this by giving the most passionate performance at the exhibition.

Maybe Sunghoon can keep coaching you until then. You do need to work on your flexibility after all…

---

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[urdepressedslut]

Hello lovely,

I saw your post that your requests are open, so I will give it a try =)

Imagine Bucky and reader are best friends but they have a huge argument and now they don't talk to each other for days. She's feeling really bad, missing him. He is her most important person and now without interacting with him for days, she's feeling lost and lonely and heartbroken. Maybe she has not a super power and is only a normal human, helping the Avengers with IT or something. Due to the argument with her best friend and not talking to Bucky (Bucky ignores her completely) she begins to feel it not only mental but also physically. She can't eat probably and at the end falls deathly sick.... With a fluffy happy ending and a worried and protective Bucky

Please. That would be nice.

Take care honey

oh my goodness— my heart 😭❤️ the angst is gonna hurt, but i’m such a sucker for it. i had so much fun writing this one, thank you for requesting and i hope you like it🥰

Love Hurts

♡ Pairing: Beefy!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

♡ Summary: You and Bucky get into a heated argument, things are said and done and now he won’t speak to you. You don’t think you can handle him ignoring your existence.

♡ Warnings: language, mentions of bucky’s trauma, heavy angst, malnourishment, depression, anxiety/panic attacks, minor injuries, hospitalization, suicidal ideation, self hate, literally hurt just writing this

main masterlist

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | MATURE CONTENT 18+

Your nails bit into your palm, denting the flesh— threatening to pierce the delicate skin. It was all to hold yourself back, distract you from the words that wanted to burst out.

It was becoming a sickening routine, Bucky was reckless and had yet another near death experience on his recent mission. The anxiety and the nerves stopping your body from functioning— the dreaded wait for his jet to arrive back at the compound. You shouldn’t have to be used of receiving the call that he had yet again made a reckless move— but you were starting to discover a pattern.

It did nothing to ease the panic that swirled in your chest every time he left for missions. You’d sob, throwing up everything you had eaten that day— unable to stomach anything with the idea that Bucky was on a mission. You never found your anxiety to be so severe— but when Bucky was even mentioned about going on a mission… it spiked.

That’s where you found yourself in his room, watching him pace the space— avoiding your frustrated stare. You weren’t angry at him per say— you were angry that he didn’t value his life.

“Seriously (Y/n)— you get so worked up over nothing. I’m here and alive— isn’t that enough?” He exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration.

You pressed your nails tighter to your palm, yet the pain couldn’t stop your thundering thoughts.

“You’re here and alive now, until you do some stupid shit like this again and are dead!” You hissed, trying to keep your voice low but you didn’t know how much longer you could control yourself.

He glared at you, squinting his eyes in anger and then rolling his eyes.

“Oh for fucks sake— can you stop fucking babying me? I can handle myself!” He raised his voice, his metal arm whirring.

“I’m not babying you— I’m just scared you’re gonna get yourself killed. Do you care about your life at all?” You asked him aggressively, your voice raising just a tad.

He took a long pause, staring at you with his face void of emotion— only annoyance.

“Not really.” He admitted.

You were taken back, although you had these conversations with him a time or twenty. It was an ongoing process to get him to slowly love himself— his past as The Winter Soldier torturing his soul. He was so convinced he wasn’t deserving of anything, not even a roof over his head. It was a struggle to help him, but you weren’t going to give up on him.

“You realize if anything ever happened to you I—” Your voice broke, needing a breath, “Buck I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

You thought you saw his eyes flash with guilt, but before you could linger on the look for too long— his face was hardening again.

“That doesn’t sound like my problem.” He mumbled out, making your eyes widen.

You were extremely taken back from those words, your chest aching painfully— him not knowing what effect those words had on you.

“Are you fucking serious?” You asked him, your face morphing into a hurt expression, mixed with anger. “Can you just do your job without trying to kill yourself?”

His face grew red with rage and he was stomping up towards you— his face inches from yours.

“I am doing my job— very well in fact. Unlike you who just fucking sits here doing nothing!” He defended himself, his breath hitting your face in warm pants.

“Doing nothing? Buck— why are you like this?” You puffed your chest, not backing down from his towering form.

But your words seemed to have hit a nerve, as he shrunk back slightly, narrowing his gaze at you.

“Like what?”

You furrowed your brows, slowing your racing heart from the shouting— you weren’t sure you had said anything bad. Did you?

“What?” You squeaked out, nervous now.

“You said, why am I like this… like what?” He pushed, stepping closer to you now, his face still red with anger but you could see the hurt in his eyes.

You swallowed and wondered how to convince him you didn’t mean anything bad by what you said. But you were almost positive it would be an impossible task to get Bucky to listen.

“Buck, I didn’t mean anythin—”

“What— you think I’m not capable of doing my job? You think I’m still the monster hydra made me?” He spat, his chest rising and falling quicker.

“No, no Buck listen—”

That was definitely not what you meant, you could tell he was spiraling and you were still confused as to why. You would never make him think that.

“After 70 fucking years I finally have a job that I like— that I enjoy doing— I fucking help people! I’m finally doing some good and now you’re telling me I’m not capable of doing it?” He boomed, his chest puffing into yours and your stumbled back slightly. “You think I’m only capable of being a monster? Huh? Is that what you fucking think?”

You were growing scared now, the look in his eyes wild with something and you didn’t like how close he was to you— you knew he’d never hurt you but your fear overwhelmed your senses.

“Friday— call Steve and Sam in here now!” You shouted into the room, and Bucky’s eyes squinted painfully— his metal arm whirring again.

Bucky only saw one thing— you didn’t reassure him that he was thinking irrationally. You didn’t correct him that he wasn’t the monster. Instead you called for help, that you were clearly scared— because you thought he was a monster.

He was at a loss for words and just stared at you, almost through you— as his breathing was only getting heavier at the sight of your fearful eyes.

Not even minutes later, Steve and Sam were busting through the door, taking in the scene and separated you and Bucky.

“Hey— what’s going on?” Steve asked in between the two of you. “Buck, what’s wrong man?”

You couldn’t seem to find the words and just stood speechless as well— the fight startling you. This was one of the worst ones, and it was also one that still left you confused. You cursed yourself for not being careful enough with your words— but it was almost impossible to get through to him when he was on the brink of having an episode.

Sam walked closer to you, his facing morphing into concern as he took in your shocked expression.

“(Y/n)? You okay? Did he hurt you?” Sam whispered, keeping his words only between you two.

You slowly shook your head but still didn’t respond verbally.

“Okay, okay that’s good. You wanna go get a drink from downstairs? Why don’t we take a breather okay?” Sam suggested softly, big brother mode kicking in at the sight of your frazzled state.

Without another word, you left the room with Sam— missing the devastated look from Bucky.

Steve waited until the door shut, then his attention was back on Bucky.

“Buck, you gotta talk to me man— what happened?” He asked softly, watching his friend slowly relax, but it wasn’t from being in a relaxing mood— his body and mind were just exhausted from the argument.

“I fucked everything up. That’s what happened.” He mumbled, turning away from Steve to sit on the edge of his bed.

Steve followed behind but stood in front of him, shaking his head— ready to argue.

“You didn’t mess anything up, arguments happen. You guys will work it out. I know how much you mean to each other.” Steve pointed out, watching Bucky’s face unchanging.

“You didn’t see the way she looked at me— she’s scared of me I—” He shuttered, his breath shaky as he remembered your look, “I fucking scared her.”

Steve’s chest ached, the state of his friend breaking his heart. He knew Bucky meant no harm, and he almost for a fact knew that you knew that too. But Bucky for sure didn’t believe that himself.

“I didn’t see what you saw, but I can guarantee you that she’s not afraid of you. This is (Y/n) we are talking about. You are her world Buck.” Steve tried to convince him.

Bucky shook his head, running his flesh hand through his hair.

“I think I just need to stay away from her for awhile.” Bucky came up with instead.

Steve immediately started shaking his head, knowing that was the last thing he needed.

“Bucky I—”

“Please Steve… I just need some space.” Bucky pleaded, his body sagging in exhaustion.

Steve couldn’t find it in himself to argue with him anymore about this. Maybe he did need some time to himself, to cool down and gather his thoughts. Also Steve wasn’t going to force him to anything ever. After the years his pal went through— he would never make him do anything. He had enough things decided for him, and Steve wasn’t about to stoop to hydra’s level.

Meanwhile down in the kitchen, Sam was getting you a glass of water— standing across from your seated form at the island. He slid the cup across, sending a worried glance at you.

“(Y/n)?” Sam snapped his fingers getting your attention.

You were shaken from your state of staring, but even snapped out of the trance— the anxieties still swirled within you.

“Yeah sorry… I’m here.” You whispered, grabbing the glass and taking a tiny sip.

Sam gave you a quizzical expression, watching you start to slip back into a mindless stare— so he spoke up.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” He asked, genuinely curious what had went down.

He knew— hell everyone knew you and Bucky were extremely close. Best of friends, always there for one another— dancing on the line of strictly friends to lovers. Truthfully, Sam found it completely obnoxious and just wanted you two together already.

“I don’t really know… I think I said the wrong thing— I didn’t mean to make him upset.” You confessed, keeping your eyes on the countertop, not risking a glance to Sam.

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up— mistakes happen. I’m sure he’ll forgive you.” Sam told you.

You shook your head, gripping the cup tighter.

“God I hope so… I don’t know what I’d do without him.” You whispered pathetically, tears welling in your eyes.

Sam reached out to rub your arm comfortingly, trying to relax you so you didn’t start crying. He hated to see you cry— made his heart hurt.

“It’s been a long day for everyone, why don’t you go head upstairs and get some sleep. I’m sure things will have blown over by tomorrow.” He suggested and you finally met his gaze, smiling weakly and nodding.

Without saying goodbye, you stood up and headed to your room. Taking Sam’s words and playing them on repeat in your head.

Tomorrow is another day, tomorrow would be better.

God had you hoped that was the case— it only was the beginning on the torment.

You had slept in longer than usual, but overall felt refreshed. The first thing that came to mind when fully waking up was Bucky. Immediately you headed downstairs to find him— needing to talk with him— apologize.

Making it down to the kitchen, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in at the sight of him sitting at the island— sipping at his coffee. You furrowed your brows, thinking he'd be done with his coffee by now, since you had slept in. Your chest ached with guilt with the possibility that he didn't sleep well.

You took a deep breath before making yourself known, although you were sure be could sense you in the room— considering he was a super soldier.

"Morning Buck." You announced, walking around the island so you could face him.

He kept his gaze down at his coffee, finding the cup more interesting than you.

Okay, that’s fair. You thought, you most probably deserved that reaction.

“You sleep okay?” You asked again, picking at the skin on your nails nervously.

Again— he didn’t even lift his head. In fact, he wasn’t even acknowledging you. You waited several minutes for a response, the silence becoming thick with tension and you couldn’t stand it.

“Bucky?” You tried, and this time he lifted his head.

Your heart twinged in your chest at his bloodshot eyes, clear evidence that he hadn’t gotten good sleep. You hated yourself for causing him the stress, especially knowing he was just starting to actually get hours of sleep. It was huge progress compared to his nights either screaming awake or just staring at the walls. But now you had to go and ruin all that progress. You felt sick to your stomach— disgusted with yourself.

“I’m really sorry about last night… I didn’t like how ugly it got and I’m sorry if I said something to upset you— you know I’d never intentionally hurt you.” You told him, picking more aggressively at your nails, causing to nail beds to bleed.

You swallowed nervously when he didn’t answer right away, instead staring at you with… what was that? Disgust? You didn’t know, but you hated the look altogether.

“Bucky, please say something.” You pleaded.

Bucky lowered his gaze to his coffee again, taking a minute before he stood up and looked your way.

“I just need some space.” He told you quietly.

You were relived to have him finally talk to you, but to hear him suggest space between you two— you could almost feel the knife digging into your chest. You tried to keep a neutral expression but otherwise felt your bottom lip quiver.

Without giving you time to respond, Bucky was walking out of the room— leaving you standing there speechless, lungs begging for air. You didn’t want your mind to go immediately to that thought, but you couldn’t ignore it either— he hated you.

“Hey babe, I need you to help me out in the lab tod—” Tony came busting into the room, but immediately shut up once he saw your broken expression. “Honey, what’s wrong? You alright?”

You nodded your head, lying to him and yourself and started waving him off with the fakest smile.

“Yeah— yeah I’m good. Just need to uh— need to get some things done.” You told him, your eyes darting all around the room, the familiar feeling of panic seeping into your being.

Tony gave you a ‘really?’ look and stepped closer to you.

“(Y/n) I’m not blind— I can see you’re upset. Talk to m—”

“Seriously Tony— I’m fine! Just leave it alone!” You told him a little too aggressively.

His face was taken back and you felt guilty immediately, cursing yourself for hurting everyone.

Why are you such a fucking issue? Your mind screamed at you.

You didn’t waste another second and sped walked out of the room, needing to calm yourself down before you ran into any one else. You were spiraling and you needed to just relax— take a deep breath. Maybe you just needed one more day and things would be back to normal.

Yeah… just one more day.

You had hoped that was the case as well… but as always— things only got worse.

Bucky refused to talk to you or even look at you. He’d given you the cold shoulder for almost two weeks now. He would get up and leave the second you entered the room. He couldn’t stand you it seemed.

You couldn’t keep hiding your hurt. At first, you had done a good job at hiding how you were really feeling. Saving the sobbing and attacks for when you were alone in your room. As the days lingered on, you found yourself weak and drained— you didn’t have enough energy to put up a charade anymore.

The whole team were sending you worried looks, and attempted to talk with you. But the second they’d try— you’d bolt. The subject was too sensitive, too raw. You didn’t want to talk to anyone but Bucky— and he hated you.

You had missed so many meals, forgetting to eat with your mental struggles throughout the days. You had been getting no more than two hours of sleep. You were so stressed, so stuck in your own mind that you couldn’t function. Even when you had managed to remember to eat, your stomach would knot up to the point that you were throwing everything up. You were gaunt, basically a real life zombie. You needed help— but you needed Bucky more.

You were laying in bed staring unknowingly into space, it had been hard to focus with no food or sleep in your system— so you had only managed to lay here. Even that was exhausting, no matter how much you laid around— your mind wouldn’t stop the assault. Your anxiety had never been this bad, you were a prisoner to it.

Knocking at your door had you jumping, your heart racing— and for a moment you forgot where you were.

You’re in the compound… yeah that’s right.

You slowed your breathing and swung your legs sluggishly over the edge of the bed to answer it. You weren’t prepared for the sudden dizzy spell, your vision spotting with black and white specks. You tried to blink it off, but suddenly you were toppling to the ground.

You fell to the floor with a loud thump, luckily landing on your front, your hands somehow catching most of your fall— you could already feel the throbbing in your palms.

You didn’t hear the persistent knocking, or the door open. You didn’t even hear the voice speaking from the doorway. It was when a hand landed on your shoulder that you were gasping, forgetting your surroundings once again.

Your eyes met Steve’s and you swore your heart was about to beat out of your chest.

“(Y/n) are you alright?” He asked you, hovering his hands over you— not sure what you had hurt.

You furrowed your brows, looking him over.

“Steve what are… what are you doing here?” You asked genuinely confused.

You watched Steve’s eyes widen and he swallowed nervously— his expression growing more concerned.

“(Y/n) it’s okay… I’ve got you.” Steve hushed, and he was pulling you into his chest, hugging you protectively.

You were still confused but then you tasted one of your stray tears, and you immediately came to your senses. You were crying in Steve’s arms… but why? You were having gaps of time missing from you, this wasn’t the first time this had happened— you just didn’t seem to care.

“Steve… my head hurts.” You slurred into his chest, sagging against him.

You were grateful that he was here, you desperately needed someone around. You were just hoping that someone would’ve been Bucky.

“Okay, let’s get you to Helen. She’s gonna take care of you, okay?” Steve asked you, and you could only give a weak nod.

He knew there was no way you were walking there, so he hoisted you up into his arms, and cradled your head as he started to the med bay.

You just stared blankly at his chest, not really caring if Steve were to throw you off the roof of the building. You just didn’t care.

Steve had gotten you down to her, and she checked you out. Alerting Steve that you were extremely malnourished, dehydrated— an insomniac. She kept listing off all the things Steve was afraid to hear. The whole time he was sure you didn’t hear a thing, although you were in the room— you were just checked out.

Helen eventually left, and Steve took his opportunity to speak with you. He pulled up a chair next to the hospital bed and grabbed your hand.

“(Y/n), what’s going on? You can talk to me— you can’t keep doing this to yourself. Please… just talk to me.” Steve whispered, pleading with you that you would stop torturing yourself.

“He hates me.” You mumbled.

Steve’s eyes widened and he frowned, knowing what you meant. He knew he let this go on for too long.

“(Y/n) he doesn’t hate you. He just needed time to himself, so he co—”

“I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings, I don’t even know what I said to hurt him but I—” You rushed out, the heart monitor beeping frantically, “I’m a horrible person, I didn’t mean to— I didn’t mean to!”

You wheezed out, clutching your chest as you couldn’t catch your breath. Your cheeks glistened with a steady stream of tears, your wheezing only growing by the second.

“Okay, okay (Y/n)— I need you to slow your breathing. You’re okay, he doesn’t hate you. Just take deep breaths okay— even if you can’t just try. I’m here.” He tried to coach you, but this wasn’t his thing.

Now he was starting to get mad at his friend, Bucky shouldn’t of let this go on for this long.

You followed his chest rising and falling, staring at him as he tried to calm you down. Your breaths were heavy and painful sounding. Steve was about to say something but stopped himself when he saw your eyes look behind him.

He turned and saw Bucky standing in the doorway— his face paled. Truthfully, he looked like he was going to be sick.

“(Y/n)?” He whispered, his heart breaking at your state.

He had ran into Helen in the kitchen and was informed of your condition— he didn’t believe it and had to see for himself. He was shocked to find you like this.

Your tears only edged on from his appearance and you shook your head in shame.

“I’m sorry Bucky! Whatever I did, I’m sorry!” You sobbed and Bucky ran to the bed, kneeling down and taking your hands into his.

“Doll it’s okay, you’re okay. I’m here— I’m here. I’m not gonna leave you… I’m sorry.” He rushed out, shushing your cries, watching you slow your breathing at his words. “There we go, just keep breathing with me. I’m here, you’re okay.”

He kept repeating himself, making sure you knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

Steve knew you were in good hands and slowly snuck out of the room— knowing you two needed to talk.

Bucky tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, letting his fingers trail down your cheek to your jaw. You couldn’t help the way your face leaned into his touch, it felt like it had been forever since the last one.

Your breathing had slowed down, and now you just stared up at him— eyes glossy with more tears. You felt so many emotions. You felt relived, but also angry and hurt. Above all— you needed to know what you did to upset him. The guilt still ate away at your heart, and even just the memory of the argument had your chest aching.

“What did I do?” You whispered, making his eyes shoot up to yours, concern painting his face.

“You didn’t do anything.” He told you, and you furrowed your brows.

You were still anxious— he hadn’t answered your question. Even more so— if you didn’t do anything then why did he ignore you?

“Then why?”

“Why what (Y/n)?” He dared to ask, and you scoffed— ripping your hands out of his.

The anger was approaching.

“Why did you shut me out?” You wondered, and he only let his eyes cast down to the bed— making you angrier. “You ignored me for two weeks! Two fucking weeks you just acted as if I didn’t exist! Do you know how much that fucking hurts?”

You were breathing heavy again, but this time it wasn’t from panic— it was the full force of all your anger bursting out.

He lifted his eyes to you, and you saw how broken he looked. How your state had affected him.

“I could never do that to you Buck— I would never do that to you! You’re my everything! I don’t trust anyone as much as I trust you!” You raised your voice, while he stayed silent. “If I didn’t do anything then why would you— why—”

You broke out into a sob, covering your face with your hands. You felt good getting all the built up anger out— but now you felt extremely guilty. The pitiful face of Bucky staring at you, causing your heart to hurt all over again. It didn’t matter what happened, you always ended up hurting others.

“(Y/n) I’m so sorry I— god I fucked up. I didn’t ever mean to hurt you, please know that. You’re my other half, and no one has ever been there for me like you have.” He spoke through a tight throat, swelling with emotion.

You uncovered your face and just stared at him a little longer, still incredibly hurt from his actions— but you knew you couldn’t stay mad at him. You so badly wanted to forgive and forget— and just wrap him in your arms like you both needed.

“It’s hard to explain what’s wrong with me to someone when I don’t even understand what’s wrong with me— I just know I’m fucked up. I’m broken beyond repair.” His voice broke, his own eyes welling with tears.

You didn’t have it in you to keep up an angry facade, and so you reached out and took his hand in yours. His face almost immediately lit up, his breathing slowing at your touch.

“Try me.” You whispered, watching Bucky take a deep breath before he spoke again.

“The night of our fight…” He started, and you swallowed in having to remember that night. “I had never seen you look at me like that.”

You stayed silent, afraid to open your mouth and have a sob escape. You could feel it bubbling up— the memory playing back through your mind.

“You looked at me like you were scared. You looked at me like I was a monster.” He confessed and it all made sense to you now.

It wasn’t about what you said, it was your reaction that disturbed him to no ends. Even if you couldn’t control your reaction in the moment— you still felt guilty for causing him pain of remembering the hydra days.

“Oh Buck…” You whimpered, trying to pull him close— but he pulled away before he could reach your embrace.

“No— you don’t get to be nice to me after what I did. I promised I would never hurt you and I did— you’re in here because of me! I don’t deserve your forgiveness!” He raised his voice, and you weren’t scared of him— just concerned.

“I wasn’t scared of you Bucky, you just caught me off guard. Things were heated— I’m not afraid of you and I most definitely don’t think you’re a monster.” You tried to convince him.

“I really hope you’re not lying because if you were afraid of me… god I don’t know what I’d do. If you never wanted to see me again— that’s fine. Whatever you want, but I can’t live knowing you’re afraid of me.” He whimpered out.

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

He nodded his head, knowing damn well you’d never lie. That was one thing he loved about you— you were so honest. Keeping it real with him, even if he didn’t wanna hear it. He could count on you for the truth.

“I still don’t deserve your forgiveness.” He argued.

“Well too bad, I’m forgiving you anyway.” You finally told him and he felt his chest expand.

Like he could finally breath.

“Why?” He wondered.

You knew it was the line you two had been dancing on forever— but you knew if there was ever a time to say it. It was now.

“Because I love you.” You admitted quietly.

His eyes widened just slightly, and his breath stuttered. He had always had a feeling what you two had was more than friends, he just never spoke up about it. Of course he loves you too— god he loves you so much. That’s why the thought of you being scared of him was enough to pull him away. He couldn’t bear being around you if you were frightened by him. He couldn’t live with himself. More importantly he now discovered, he really couldn’t live without you.

“I love you so much.” He confessed back as your tears leaked down your cheeks.

You pulled his arm, and he let you pull him to the bed— close enough where you could cup both his cheeks.

“Don’t ever do that to me again, please. I need you Bucky— life is not livable without you.” You cried, kissing his forehead to which he leaned into your lips.

“Never again— I promise.”

This time, he wouldn’t break it.

to be added to a taglist

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[jaylaxies]

KINKTOBER DAY 26 — COCKWARMING

PAIRING: renjun x fem!reader

GENRE/CW: smut, unprotected sex, usage of nicknames, breeding.

WC: 0.8k words

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni

A/N: hihi, angels! it’s my first time posting for renjun! i hope you like it :3 all likes, comments, reblogs and feedbacks are highly appreciated! iloveyou all <33

✎ kinktober masterlist

“Fuck, princess. You’re moving too much.”

You didn’t think Renjun would actually go through with your suggestion, especially when he was so busy these days, barely getting any time to be with you. 

That’s why you ended up suggesting that he should work from home for a few days. Yes, he did agree to the idea, albeit it didn’t make much difference, given he was glued to his seat, reviewing some important documents. 

The sight caused you to pout, sulking when you wore the shortest skirt you had, only for him to pay no attention to it. You knew he was busy, otherwise he would have given you his undivided attention, yet you wanted it now, it had been too long already. 

“Won’t you take a break, baby?” You asked him with a frown, hoping that he’d pick up the disappointment in your tone—which he did.

That’s exactly when he sighed, finally looking your way to take your pretty little outfit in, giving you a once over with his sweet eyes, mumbling fuck under his breath. 

“I’ve missed you,” he swallowed thickly, pulling you to his lap, “I’m so sorry, for not paying attention to you,” he mumbles, pulling you closer to him, making you smile gently. 

It wasn’t his fault in any way, but you wanted to tease him further. 

“Do you still have work?” You asked sadly, shifting your weight to straddle his lap properly, and he nodded, wrapping his arms around your waist. 

“Can I still be around, to help you feel better?”

Renjun smiled, pulling you into a soft kiss, “of course, princess. How are you gonna do that?” 

You melt at the nickname, shifting your position again to whisper in his ear, “let me cockwarm you while you do your work, please?” 

Renjun was surprised at your suggestion, but also aware of how desperate you were to have his cock in your pussy. How could he ever say no to you?

“C’mere,” he welcomed you easily, pushing your skirt up, biting his temptations as you gently unzipped his jeans, pulling his cock out to sink down on it. 

Your eyes rolled back with pleasure, clenching around him without any hold on yourself. Renjun only wrapped his arms around your waist, caging you between him and his PC where he continued (read: tried to) working. 

His self control was being tested, especially when even the minute things had him wanting to fuck you then and there. The brush of your fingers on his arm, your warmth on his body, and of course, your tight walls around his hardened cock. 

You leaned back with a blissful sigh, “I’ve missed you so much, baby,” you whispered, his cock snug inside you, but wanted more. 

He gave up on working, wrapping his arms around your waist to feel you even closer to him, the slight shift allowing him to slide deeper inside you. It’s hard for you to contain yourself, even harder for Renjun to prevent thrusting into you. 

A whine left your mouth, deliberate and delicate, which is exactly what drove your boyfriend crazier, a low groan leaving his mouth as he tightened his hold on you, pressing a gentle kiss on your shoulder to calm you down from clenching around him, peppering kisses around your neck. 

Minutes passed as he tried to initiate a conversation with you, something heartfelt and gentle to sway your mind, but you had your vision set. You wondered how he controlled himself, especially when you moved around so much. 

You couldn’t take it anymore, turning to pull him into a rushed kiss, which he took control over easily, making you feel small in his arms, even more so when he chuckled at your desperation. 

“Poor princess wants to be fucked, hm? You just had to say so, baby,” he spoke, voice deep and raspy all of a sudden, eliciting a whine out of you. 

“Want you—so much. I’ve missed you,” you breathed out, sitting straight to fuck yourself on his cock, shyness creepy through you as he sat back and watched, kissing your clavicle and muttering praises all over. 

“Yeah? Gonna make a mess all over my cock then, baby? You’d look so pretty doing it,” he says, thrusting his hips up to meet yours in the best friction possible. 

You moan out in response, holding on to his shoulders for support, your lip bitten as his cock plunged into your cunt, his cum dripping inside you, mixing with yours as you feel your abdomen tightening, your state of euphoria reaching you. 

He held you close, foreheads touching while the cum leaks down to the seat, causing you both to giggle but he doesn’t let you get up, “feels too good, let’s stay like this,” he says. 

So you stay there for as long as he wants, like a pretty warmer for his cock. 

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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[noyasmashing]

Excessive praise for Hoshuimi, reader calls him a "good boy."🙏

MY BAEE, I love him sm it hurts, sorry for taking so long to write this, i just forgot to post 😭

CW: Lots of praise, gn!reader, whiny and sensitive hoshu, corruption kink??

Korai emitted a soft plea as you tenderly traced your fingers along his torso, beneath his shirt, exploring his sensitive skin. In response, he naturally leaned into you, his hips brushing against yours, as the magnetic pull of your wandering hands making his body tingle.

“Such a good boy.. for me hmm?” You whispered into his ear, gently nibbling on it, causing him to tremble once more.

Eagerly, he nodded, his ears flushing with warmth from your affectionate words. He had never been so close to someone like this before, and he didn’t understand how good it felt. Often distracted by volleyball, he often neglected his need for sexual release. Presently, he was on the verge of that release, as he felt your thigh softly press against his throbbing erection.

"P-please," he whispered, his customary self-assurance and pride vanishing. Your smirk brushed against his neck's delicate skin, and you gently drew away to make eye contact with him.

“Please what sweetie?” you inquired, tilting your head slightly, acting utterly clueless about his needs in that moment.

A lump formed in his throat, and he instinctively pressed his hips against your leg, yearning for you to assertively take control. He sought the comfort of your touch, craving the pleasure that would erase all thoughts from his mind.

“ Y’know…” He glanced at the visible sign of his desire in his sweats, then returned his gaze to you, timidly awaiting your understanding and response.

“Tell me what you want me to do, or I can’t make you feel good.” You coo’d, before you tenderly placed your hands on his hips, feeling the bones beneath your touch. His breath caught in his throat, his bottom lip quivering as he let out a timid whimper.

"Please, touch my c-cock," he pleaded with evident need, causing you to suppress a giggle. Your expression transformed into a slightly mischievous grin as you reached for his waistband with gentle fingers.

“That’s all I wanted to hear sweetie.” You murmured, as you promptly lowered his pants and underwear, revealing his erect member which made a lewd slapping sound as it struck his abdomen.

He emitted a soft whimper, instinctively lifting his hips. You gently encircled the base of his penis, taking a moment to appreciate its paleness, considerable girth, and the pretty pink tip, adorned with a prominent vein running along its side.

He was practically falling apart under your gaze, and it didn't help when you lowered your head, licking your lips before pressing kisses all over his sensitive head. Making him squirm and cry out helplessly, it didn’t help when your free hand danced along his exposed hips.

He emitted a considerable moan, his head falling back onto the pillow. Nevertheless, he promptly lifted it upon hearing the sound of a bottle cap being opened and a soothing liquid trickling along the length of his member.

Attempting to sway his hips, he encountered resistance as you settled onto his thighs. You’re coo’d at his helpless response. With gentle care, you employed one hand to distribute the lubricant evenly across his length.

“You look so pretty for me baby. I wish you could see yourself right now.” You complimented, causing blood to rush to his member, resulting in a noticeable throbbing within your grasp.

He tried to respond, yet the skillful maneuvers of your wrists restricted him to mere whimpers and pleas, which you couldn't help but chuckle at.

“ I think i’m abo-about to cum.. gunna cum for you [name].” he panted, his back naturally arching from the pleasure. Your eyes finally met his half-lidded ones, and fuck did he look cute with drool leaking from his mouth and cheeks a helpless shade of red. You could feel your core heating up at his disheveled state making it all the more intoxicating.

“Go ahead Korai, you’ve done so well for me, my sweet boy.” you purred, making his mind all the more hazy.

With a loud "Ah!", a white, creamy, liquid oozed from his tip, accompanying your consistent rhythm.

“can’t stop!” He whined, thrusting his hips deeper into your firmly grasped hand. His cum continued to leak and spread, lubricating your hand and allowing you to maintain your motions.

Ultimately, he began to pull at your hand, indicating it was too much. His thighs quivered in tandem with his sniffles, a clear sign of heightened stimulation.

[narcissistshandler]

Can you do Hobie × sub religious male reader with a corruption kink ? Where it's like such a ego boost for him to be one who breaks down a good two shoes

𝗦𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗧 𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗡𝗘𝗥 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗥𝗘𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗦𝗘

pairing. hobie brown x male reader

warnings. sub reader, handjob, anal sex, bottom!hobie, top!reader, religion, religious guilt, thinking about sin, insinuated homosexuality as sin, hell, etc, proceed with caution if christian religion is a sensitive subject for you.

a/n. Sorry for the delay in posting, my anxiety is killing me and I think this work will be a little disappointing for you

"Should I turn on the lights?"

"No, please no." Your breathy voice pleaded him and Hobie could only imagine what your face looked like in the darkness of the room. Were you blushing? Were your eyes closed as you pretended the fingers around your cock belonged to a woman, even with the calluses and hard skin? Were you wallowing in guilt or was pleasure all you could think about? What was going through your mind?

He desperately wanted to get inside your head and read your every thought.

"No? And how will I be able to see your face when I ride your cock?"

You sucked in a shaky breath through your teeth, cock twitching in Hobie's hand, murmuring, pleading, "Hobie." It was that simple to mess with you. A few dirty words, touches, like he knew no one had ever touched you before, and some profanity and soon, you'd be begging for him, proclaiming his name with the same need you called out for God. And when that happened it was always hard to pretend that the whole twisted situation didn't affect him as much as it actually did.

Hobie tightened his fingers around your cock, feeling how it pulsed, how each pull had you making quiet, self-conscious sounds, hips trying to rise for more contact despite the free hand pressing there and Hobie's weight on your legs made the task difficult. Your own fingers dug into Hobie's legs, nails digging in painfully. You wanted him so bad, you were eager for it, he know, you always were, no matter how many times you did it.

"Are you going to beg for it?" he teased, smiling where you couldn’t see.

"I-I need to?"

His thumb rubbed a tight circle over the bulbous head, eliciting a sound from the back of your throat; it wasn't a gentle touch, it was meant to hurt. Hobie loved the control he had over you. Maybe what you feared was true and he was a temptation sent by Satan to lead you astray, because Hobie truly loved knowing that no guilt and no fear of going to hell kept you from returning to his arms, night after night.

"P-please, Hobie," you asked, begged like a good, good boy. "Please... s-sit on my cock."

Hobie's laugh echoed through the dark room, the doors locked at your insistence, despite you both knowing that whoever you wanted to keep out of the room couldn't be stopped by mundane locks. Hobie's amusement might sound mean, but considering how your cock leaked into his hand, it didn't seem like it affected you much.

He stood up, eyes searching the shadows for the familiar lines of your face, to make sure your eyes were open and all your attention was on him. Keeping your member steady at the base, Hobie hovered over you, pointed knees spread across your sides, thighs flexing as he lowered himself until he felt the fat tip briefly grip the edge before sliding easily inside, stretching him like only you could.

A muscle in Hobie's thigh jumped, the skin warming with the familiar feeling of fullness. Your hands flew to his hips, making a choked moaning sound that made it seem like you was holding back to just not come right away.

"Oh, God, that feels good," Hobie moaned, rocking back and forth, taking his time, just enjoying how good it felt inside him. He had prepared himself for you, as he always did and yet, the shock that shot up his spine with the burn of the stretch threatened to bring him to an early orgasm.

You suddenly stood up, almost knocking Hobie off of you and slapped your mouths together. Eager to shut him up, so you wouldn't have to hear that name and remember your sins, sins you didn't regret. Hobie knew, he understood, but at least now you were looking at him, attention descending from his slender form, no breasts, no curves, his hard cock against your stomach and the place between his legs swallowing you whole. Not a woman on top of you and now, there was no way to pretend otherwise.

Your lips left his and moved down his neck at the same time Hobie put his feet on the mattress and began to move, moving up and down on your dick. Your mouth moved over his sweaty brown skin and in his pleasure-fogged mind, it wouldn't be until later when you left the bed still warm from the orgasm and once again lied that this would be the last time, that Hobie would understand the words you were repeating between sighs and moans.

Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.

Hobie would also remember then, that he couldn't hear a single drop of regret in your tone.

[wroteclassicaly]

18+

Warnings: Language, smut, vaginal sex, secret relationship, and NSFW.

~*~

Calendars, planners, post it notes, journals, scrap paper, napkins — hell, even an essay at your therapist’s office to weigh out the pros and cons. Reminders to not give in, don’t do it, the level of condemn you’re just sinking onto your knees for. He’s not good for you, he doesn’t love you, and you tell yourself every single day when you wake up with him on your mind, where he takes control of your dreams, to the moment that your eyes open from a shaky slumber. Nothing helps. No one can help you. Only him…

You let him pick you up in his shitty truck, maneuvering you into the same positions, until he ends up dragging your ass over the end of the passenger seat like he normally does, and stands with his pants below his own, fucking you with a deeply rough precision as you cling to the floorboard, and try not to get yourself upset at his predictable rejection of your attempt to grasp his door frame - clutching hand. It doesn’t work, it never works.

And Gator can see through you, emotions not readily available to him yet. He wants to, but he just… can’t.

His hair has come undone, strands flopping, gel clinging to the ends, irises in shards and glittering under the streetlights. You can only see the plush of his firmly trim thighs, all hairy and matching to what’s on his chest. But you can’t see, cannot feel his ass. You need him closer. You’re doe eyed and staring him down before you can stop it.

You won’t do this anymore, will you? This has to be the breaking point.

“Come on, stop lookin’ at me like that,” his accentuated voice punches through the air in pants. Diaphragm deep, he slows his rhythm with a groan.

You let your eyes lift to the clothing ceiling, various tears being counted to self-distract.

“I’ll let you kiss me tonight. Will that help, sour puss?”

It jumpstarts your heart more than you’d like to admit, feelings way deeper surfacing. You tighten around him, and it’s enough for him to lean in, pinching your chin in his hold, calloused thumb pulling down your bottom lip and releasing. His tongue slides across his mouth, then he’s leaning, hands sliding from the door frame the second that you cup his jaw in your hands, pressing your mouth to his, taking his offer for all that it’s worth. He gets into it more than he’s prepared for, falling into you, only for you to stop and lift your legs around his waist, hands moving, eyes glancing down as you push his pants completely below his ass, squeezing the fat with a defined moan into his mouth.

“Yeah? That what you wanted to do?” He grits, biting into your bottom lip to claim. “You needed to feel up on my ass, baby?”

“Like this. Do it to me like this.” You go for it, letting him know you can’t lean back, that he has to go chest to chest with you.

He clicks his tongue as you part with a string of shared saliva, tilting his head to object. “Please, Gator?” Your fingers move from his jaw to pressing into his lips.

There’s a look that comes over him, one you’ve never seen before. Melancholy, deprived, rawly pure. He inclines his head to agree, gulping, tumbling ass over elbow (he’s never been very coordinated). You can smell him this close — all Old Spice and hair gel, acidic fruit and chew mingled on his breath, layering on your tongue. He brings you back in with a massive palm around your nape, thumb caressing your jawline, and he moves, taking you with him. The intensity doubles when it’s he who brings his mouth back to yours, unrelenting now that he’s had your taste again.

He promises himself it’s just this last time with you, like he always does. But he knows it’s a lie…

You both know…

[ordowrites]

(afab reader, minors dni, multiple orgasms, self indulgence.)

(wooo my first time doing this hello)

Diluc is the type of man who seems to have major self control, even as you strut around in a skirt too short or bend over juuuust right so he peeks at your panties. He is a gentleman, after all - a lady should he respected.

Usually.

That is, until he has you in bed, your clothes askew and you're looking at him with hungry eyes and he's kissing you as if you will leave him if he doesn't. It's all lips and teeth and gasping. His hard on is straining and he needs - needs you -

So when he yanks down your panties, a different need fills him - settles in him. You are wet, dripping - you stare up at him with those damned eyes of yours that are too pretty and your flushed face.

"Don't just stare," you whine, parting your legs desperately. "Have a taste-"

Diluc needs no other invitation as he finds himself between your legs, tongue flattened against your pussy like a man deprived of water. He works at your folds diligently but messily, slurping noises that make blush and he pays no heed. He sucks on the sensitive bundle as his fingers press into you -

he fingers you with two fingers, pumping and curling them until they hit that spot in you. and you cum, your juices messing his face. he pulls away for a moment, taking in your appearance - red faced and needed, in post orgasmic bliss.

he's aware he wants you but he's not finished with you yet. he barely registers how your eyes widen as he dives down between your legs again. tongue lapping at your soaked folds, fingers working you in ways that make you sound delightful. you cum pretty quickly after your first. and your second. diluc loves the taste of you, he can never get enough and he could spend hours between your legs if it means he can listen to your moans and cries.

and soon, you're whining and grinding against his face. your words are incoherent and you're not sure if you're telling him to stop, continue or something else.

he presses a gentle kiss to your thigh.

"more?" he asks as he gently bites.

he's surprised when you draw in a shaky breath.

"more." you say.

and all he can do is eagerly do so.

[ijbolz]

giver piwon... and what exactly they love to give

piwon hyung line x fem!reader 🌨️ some smut headcanons (mentions of piv, oral sex, fingering, etc) a bit self indulgent🫣

a/n: pls forgive me guys if my writing may seem a bit rough right now because im trying to ease back into it after being busy with finals a few weeks ago.! also this is my second time trying to make this post bc tumblr decided to be shitty and delete my draft🥲 oh well...

KEEHO ┊ what use would it be if he's spending hours sweating it off at the gym and he's not gonna use his arms to keep you in place. trembling underneath his hold with your bottom lip tucked in between your teeth. especially if you love a man that makes it clear that he's in charge, asserts control over you if his words aren't enough to do so, until he has no choice but to resort to manhandling you instead. unless that's what you're really aiming for, he's not that difficult to talk to.

have you seen kyo's hands? he'll play dumb and pretend he doesn't notice the way your eyes are almost always locked onto his veiny hands whenever you hang out or... accompany him while he works out. sometimes it becomes a surprise whenever a lil work out session doesn't end up with the both of you fucking.

oh… but when the two of you can't help the heated situation, then kyo's one to greatly enjoy catching you off guard. fucking you with his fingers too good until you fall apart—the weight of your frame leaning against his own as you get lost within the bliss from the repeated pump of his digits. and when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore than what he’s giving you, he’s quick to restlessly plow his fingers slick with your wetness while he watches you writhe from his unforgiving thrusts.

his other hand unabashedly snakes from the messy sheets and against the swell of your breasts before stuffing two digits inside your mouth, earning a high sob from your throat. fuck… if only you knew just how much effect you had on him, especially with the spit dribbling by the corner of your lips until kyo can’t help but urge himself impossibly closer to your figure.

“suck,” the warmth of his breath sends a shiver down your spine, doing so while his tongue traces the shell of your ear, the wet muscle a contrast to the trail of saliva hitting the cold air. kyo would teasingly try to mimic the way you’re swirling your tongue around his fingers, pressing his lips flush against your neck before sucking just the way you like it.

THEO ┊ if you want to have giver!theo then… work for it.

would all start from the moment he accidentally stumbles upon your little toy stash the time he’d be looking for something else in your shared apartment. i just know the gears in his head would be turning once he’d laid his eyes on your filthy little secret, silently pacing back into the living room where you’re situated on the couch, unknowing of what’s to come before you.

“so did you find what you were… looking for…” your words trail off the second your eyes met the object taeyang’s clutching between his fingers, an object far too familiar for you and yet you wanted to keep it a secret from him for now, heart hammering in your chest.

…because you know just how much your boyfriend can be a menace, especially when he gets you reduced to an adorable mess from his control. your muddied thoughts aren’t helping the situation.

and that’s how he’s gotten everything into a quick blur, your head thrown back on the surface of the couch, pillows forgotten on the floor and everything, while the weight of his hand keeps your trembling legs spread. your vision’s turning hazy from the shuddering pleasure of your vibrator taeyang repeatedly buries into your wet cunt.

“should’ve hid them better then,”

he mumbles, staring back into your beady little eyes like he knows the exact words swimming inside your mind. and what if you wanted him to discover them anyway?

“keeping a stash of toys and using them by yourself seems like no fun, you know you could always ask for my help, right?” he’s mean, asking in a tantalizing tone while your mouth’s stuffed with your panties the whole time.

and when he does really focus on your pleasure, it’ll take a while before he decides to give it his all, settling on using your toys with the promise of only sinking his cock into your hole once he’s satisfied with the amount of orgasms he’s able to get out of you first.

JIUNG ┊ if he's got something to want to endlessly give you, then it would be pleasure. which comes in different forms of course, but in this case, you won’t even have to beg him for it, he’d probably be the one to plead you to use his cock all you want to get yourself off.

he knows how much it drives you insane, so naturally he knows how to work it.

always talks about how he needs to have you in positions where he can plow you into the mattress better, so i don’t think it would be that much of a shocker if one of his favorite positions during sex would be to fold you into a mating press.

especially once he’s gotten his plan to put a ring on your finger out of the way, jiung’s quick to spoil you like never before. not like he's not already treating you delicately to the point he doesn't even want your foot to touch the bare ground… if that’s even possible.

anyway, he’s always one to dream about a future with you, wanting to settle down and move into your own home where he could spend more happy memories with you and of course, fuck you good undisturbed. enough of quickies at the dorm or whatever, where there’s a high risk of getting caught by other people.

he’s one to value his privacy especially when he’s the type to take his time especially during the act.

only and if only he could put into words just how much he loves staring down at you when you're blissed out of your mind. he jogs back to his memories of your disheveled frame tearfully moaning out underneath him while he struggles to keep steady thrusts with the plush walls of your cunt engulfing his length, pulsing around him harshly whenever he hits that one spot.

"just like that..." he'd hear you whimper out with trembling lips, sneaking in a few gropes on your ass with a gentle kiss on your forehead. fuck, he’d wanna keep at it forever. especially when he gets to witness your gasp for air every time he sinks his cock back into your needy hole. and with the sight of his warm cum seeping down the sheets once he pulls out from the sticky mess you’d made, he’s long gone from being sane.

INTAK ┊ in usual settings, intak loves to make you feel like such a princess to the point all of your friends can’t help but gush about how lucky you are. intak's never ashamed to admit you got him wrapped around your finger, pressing soft kisses on the crook of your neck while he tells you how he’s literally brought to this world just to serve you.

"and i want to make it known to you just how much i want to pleasure you all i can," he says to you with that familiar croak in his voice, and it may sound cheesy in other scenarios. yet it sends a different surge through your core when your boyfriend's got you meekly spread out for him, sopping cunt drooling perfectly while his warm breath hovers on your trembling skin.

his doe eyes are a sight for comfort, not like it ever leaves you, never ashamed to run his gaze from your flushed face over your bare figure. clothes long gone to reveal your chest heaving up and down, until his gaze locks back onto your pulsing cunt, clit swollen and needy just for him.

if only you could read his mind, know just how starved he feels for your essence drooling from your hole, glistening just to heighten the building desire from his throbbing cock even though he's eaten you out far too much that he can count.

intak's a very passionate lover. he'd let you know so obviously from the way he laps up like you as if it's the first time he's going down on his girl, like you'd purposely let him hung dry for days. when in fact he'd beg to eat you out almost everyday if you could, finding it difficult to deny especially when he'd stare at you with his dopey little grin you came to adore.

[the-cantina]

Sweet Torture | Rex x f!Reader

Pinned post | Masterlist | The Bad Batch | Clone Squads | Delta Squad

Summary: Rex regrets all of his life choices as you make him swallow his pride in the best – worst – way.

18+ themes below the cut. Be responsible about the content you consume, if you're not of adult age in your country, do the both of us a favor and go away.

Ficlet | Mature | Word Count: 856 Contents: Cockwarming, Rex gradually losing his battle against lust

Mando'a terms Di'kut: Idiot | Ner kar'ta: my heart

Datapad in one hand, Rex watches you scroll through yet another article that caught your attention in the last twenty minutes you’ve both been sitting together in the spacious hotel’s bathtub. He sighs. Not for the first time — and hardly the last — his head rolls back, seeking some comfort in the decorative tiling of the bathtub’s edge; hoping the cold material will fight, even if minimally, the heat sweltering underneath his skin.

Looking for any distraction from the sweet torture of your nude form pressed to his front, Rex risks a peek at the device in your hands, wondering what had your attention this time.

Biting on the inside of his cheek is all he can do to keep in the moan clawing its way up his chest, when his eyes glance at the word lingerie and the picture of a lacy set in the perfect blue and white of his armor. And if there was a time Rex ever hated the tactical focus engineered into him by the long-necks, it was now.

Closing his eyes would only make his mind work overtime to turn whatever glimpses it caught and feed him all the scenarios he had no need of thinking of at the moment. At least, not if he didn’t want to embarrass himself like a shiny making out for the first time.

With another sigh, Rex can’t help but look back at his younger, unwise three hours younger self with petty contempt.

Had he not been a cocky di’kut, bragging with all the overconfidence of a cadet fresh out of their first successful training session about his “unbreakable focus”, maybe he would be in a better situation now.

Instead, he sits in the bathtub with your back flush with his chest, the soft warmth of your inner thighs bracketing his, your head resting back on his shoulder, giving him an unimpeded view of your chest. Of the way the lips of your cunt — your slick, warm, maddeningly pulsing cunt — stretches to accommodate around his cock. All things that would spell paradise, if not for the fact you are not moving a single kriffing inch on top of him, content to feel him throb inside of you, unaffected by the need tearing him from the inside out.

“Something wrong, ner kar’ta?” your voice, sweet like wild honey, breaks him from his thoughts. It takes Rex longer than acceptable for to pry his eyes open; longer yet to focus past the haze woven by the throbbing tempo drumming low in between his legs to find your gaze pinned on him.

He is mildly aware his voice rumbles in his chest, and assumes he must have mumbled you an answer. One that doesn’t reach — ever gets processed by his own ears — not with the way he’s busy drowning in your eyes. The hazy glint on them, the heaviness of your eyelids, the minute way your eyebrows tilt up when his hips curl up without his - and more importantly, your permission.

It’s enough to break whatever spell was weaving between the two of you.

Rex cursed himself as your gaze sharpened almost as much as the smirk growing on your lips as you looked pointedly at his hand. His own datapad — the one where he should fill reports in — groaned pitifully on his grasp, the edge near his thumb now sporting a small, concerning rainbow line.

And if he wasn’t so focused on not making a mess of himself, Rex might have bothered with forcing down the heat prickling from the tip of his ears to the last inch of his chest.

Gathering enough of his voice for a proper answer took every last thread of self-control ingrained from years of training, but at last, a wheezed “I’m fine, beloved.” made its way out of his lips.

“Then settle, love. I’m trying to read”, you chided in a satisfied purr that fell like the sweetest of caresses on his ears; a caress his hyper-aware senses feast in like a ravenous nexu.

Your back presses firmer against his overheated skin, and Rex squeezes his eyes until stars spark behind them, holding on the datapad and long-forgotten fruit in his hands like they were the only things threading him to sanity.

Breathe in, hold. Breathe out, repeat; C’mon Rex, you can do it. It’s just like in the old resistance training—

But then you decide to make yourself even cozier, hips shifting on his too-sensitive cock, your oh-so-warm, silky walls squeeze and rub him in all the right ways. His datapad meets the floor with a concerning crack, and the now ruined peach slice oozes sticky between his fingers.

You preen at your obvious victory, and Rex whines on the crook of your neck as the vibrations of your chuckling extend way past his chest.

And when you are finally moving, and Rex is sure he’s about to pass out. The ever winding coil in his core tightens to the point he can barely breathe. Fett preserve him. He felt he was about to die with every roll of your hips…

But karking hells, what a wonderful way to go.

★ And if you got to the bottom of this post, please consider reblogging and/or leaving a comment! It helps me know you like what I share with you, and fuels me to share more ★

[askinkiskarma]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ ᴅᴀʏ xᴠ - ꜱɪᴢᴇ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ

pairing: neteyam x human!reader (part of cruel summer)

➽ a/n: i am writing this like two hours before i'm posting, and i'm in the worst mood of my life and so i'm sorry if it comes across in my writing. i guess that's one of the many downsides of writing something the day before posting hahah. anyway, i hope you still enjoy x also i can't stop writing neteyam and vol apparently apologies

➽ words: 1k words

➽ warnings: it goes without saying, but all of these works (kinktober-related) are smut and therefore minors should NOT interact with them. other warnings include: a bit of choking, wimpering, subby!neteyam (switch!neteyam), size kink, a little angsty by the end

➽ taglist (x) ➽ kinktober masterlist (x)

He was so much bigger than you. So much bigger. His body towered over yours, over both Na’vi and humans alike. You remember every stage, every milestone celebrated. You remember his growth spur, when you were both 17, when he went from tall to freakishly tall, taller than his dad, much taller than his mum and his siblings. You remember every muscle as it grew almost in front of your eyes, how he went from lean like his Omaticayan ancestry to buff and muscular like his human one. 

It was easy now, to remember, as you straddled his hips, the darkness your bestest friend and secret keeper, allowing you these moments, allowing you to feel him, every inch of him, how it felt to be drunk on the way his supple, soft skin felt against your palms, the way your nipples perked as they grazed his chest when you pressed your body tightly against his own. How facile it was to get lost in him and in the feelings he elicited in you day after day, night after night, but particularly now, in these fleeting moments, in the few and far between moment in which it felt like he was... yours. Yours to have and to own, yours to lose and yours to love.

You licked a stripe from his collarbone to his jaw, smirking at the way his laboured breath got somehow heavier, thoroughly enjoying feeling wholly and completely in control for a change. 

“What’s that, Teyam? Do you have something to say?”

You loved when he was mean, and dominating. You loved when he fucked you in public, when he made you cry on his cock, when he forced your thighs apart so you could make a mess all over his face, you loved submitting to him in any and every way you knew how. But this… this had its moments, too. There was something… irresistable about the way he was squirming under your much smaller body, his hips bucking in the air, desperate for any ounce of relief that you could bestow upon him, but… you haven’t had your fun yet. 

“P-please, Vol. Fuck.”

Your touches were deliberate, your kisses strategically placed, slow and intentional, taking your time caressing and licking, biting and sucking all the way from his chest to his navel, down his happy trail, before focusing on his inner thighs, so close yet so far from the one place he truly needed you. 

“Please what, Teyam? What do you need?” 

A whimper, pushed past his plump, navy lips, as his arm covered his eyes unceremoniously was all he could muster in response, and you laughed against his groin, feeling near guilty at how much enjoyment you were drawing out of his pain. So, mustering as much self-control as you still had in you, you wrapped your delicate fingers against the intricate work of his knotted loincloth, undoing it and allowing his cock, thick and veiny and impossibly big to slap against his defined abdomen, leaving you a nearly drooling mess. It was hard to remember what you were trying to achieve, that you were meant to be in charge when there he was, rock hard and throbbing in your palm, spurts of precum falling down the shaft and interlacing with your fingers that would not meet as you stroked him from base to tip, mouth watering at the sight, at the way you couldn't wait until he was buried so deeply in you, it felt like he'd split you in half.

You knew it would hurt, taking him like this, topping him, riding him, but oh, that pain, the pain of being filled to the brim, of feeling him in your belly, of watching as he pushed the bulge his cock made down with his huge hands until you screamed... it was so, so worth it. You felt yourself dripping on him as soon as you aligned your folds to his tip, watching intently as he removed his arm covering his beautiful features to watch you, his eyes as wide as his pupils as they took you in, your naked body he worshipped, focusing on every inch of you before stopping at where your bodies met. You threw your head back as you began lowering yourself onto him, stifling a cry at the overwhelming sensation, at how the pleasure mixed with ache in a swirling, intoxicating amalgamation that threatened to completely unmoor you from this plane of existence and allow you to float among another, a higher one... a greater one. There was a small inadvertent gasp that filled the silence of the room when you felt his hand wrap around your throat, his thumb pressing on your jaw until you felt the air trapped in your lungs.

"Don't. Look at me, Vol. Keep your eyes on me while you ride me."

And so you did. And you came, hard and fast, and watched as he whimpered and moaned beneath you, thrusting upwards into you uncontrollably, over and over, unable to stop himself and the way having your tight little cunt was making his mind empty with no thoughts but one - a desperate desire to fill you up with his cum, over and over, until you were nothing but him, until his scent was so permeated with your own it was impossible to distinguish the two apart anymore.

He would never have you. You'd never be his. No matter how hard he wants you, in every way, forever and for always, that little fact, harsh and cruel, was indisputable. He would never be able to take you to the tree of souls and mate you, he'd never be able to form the sacred bond with you. Your kids will never run around the village and their laughter will never fill his soul with the happiness he only now knew when he was in your presence. This, this fucked up love he held so hidden in his heart, watching your eyes roll in the back of your head as the pleasure overcame your senses, whispering quiet, unspoken whispers of i love you, i need you, i wish things could be different... it would have to be enough.

taglist: @pandoraslxna @sulieykte @blue-slxt @eywaeveng @neteyamsikran @elenamoncada-ibarra @spicymayyo @itsjazzsworld @daddysmurfslefttoenail @eyrina-avatar @iameatingmyhair @hadesbabygurl@linydoll @the-mourning-moon@kasai-https @dvxsja (if your tag doesn't work pls check your settings x)

[rinstaro]

Time can slut me tf out frfr lmao so u kno the post u made abt time ans reader having tension???? What if u flipped it so time was goin after the reader. Like u jus be chillin choppin some veggie and he comes up n starts feelin u up??

ahahaha i think i favor time now because i’ve been writing him?? he started speaking to my daddy issues and good god are they listening 🤭 he’s so djdjxjsk SLUT ME OUT!!!!!!! PLEASE!!!!!!!

cw: time should be a warning on his own. what a man! i don’t know how far i wanna write yet. hmmmm. touchie feelies, choking so slight it’s not even there, time is a hair puller, and a fiend, biting, reader has a vagina no pronouns, i spend far too long detailing how horny he is for u

minors do not interact.

it was moments like this where time realized he didn’t have as much self control as he thought. could you really blame him? you always looked adorable, even more so when you wore his shirts like you are now. but the hickeys on your neck and thighs that had almost faded were dragging his thoughts into the gutter.

he’d ravaged you only a couple days prior, your legs so weak you couldn’t even stand. it was lovely to have him pamper you for a couple days, but you were his oh so strong and independent spouse. when you could walk again, you insisted on cooking and cleaning for him the same way he did you. time insisted it was fine but you were much more stubborn than him. the conversation hadn’t even lasted a minute.

“i’m fine.”

“i don’t mind cooking for us again, you can rest some more until tomor—“

“zip it. i’m cooking tonight and you will love every bite.”

and so he was banished to the kitchen table to watch you prepare dinner. he couldn’t say he didn’t like the view, though. perhaps a bit too much.

you felt a body behind you, flinching only slightly before relaxing again. “hi, dear.” “hello, love.” time wrapped his arms around your waist, sitting his head on your shoulder. “those carrots are cut a little thick, no?” he murmured in your ear.

“hey, i have a knife,” you huffed. he laughed softly, heart fluttering at even the smallest bit of attention you give him. he silently watched you a while longer before his eyes drifted down to your hands. he adored them.

they were the same hands that were holding onto his shoulders for dear life the other night.

time really thought you were just so cute. he stood up a bit, going to observe the faded marks on your neck. unable to resist, he leaned back down to nip at one, causing you to yelp and furrow your brows. “hey,” you urged, you’re lucky i’m done chopping. what if you distracted me and i cut myself, huh?”

“i’d kiss it better and you’d never have to lift a finger again.”

you roll your eyes, getting your seasonings down from the shelf. whatever smart remark you had for him quickly faded when he gave a nice squeeze to your backside. instead of responding, you huffed once more and continued your task. time let out a small hum, displeased with your lack of response. “you really should just let me take care of you.”

you attempted to season your vegetables, only to halt when time traced his hands up your body. he went from your waist to your stomach, all the way up to your chest. his hands stopped around the base of your neck, thumbs rubbing circles on your collarbone. your breathing only got shakier when his mouth replaced his hands. he grabbed your waist once more and pulled you flush against him, sucking fresh hickeys into your neck.

your hands gripped his, your form starting to tremble. you continued to try and be stubborn, biting your lip when small whines escaped. time traced his hands down your arms before grabbing the seasonings out of your hands and placing them on the counter.

his hands went back to work, one reaching under your shirt to play with your nipple, and the other coming to lightly tug on your hair, pulling your head to the side for more access to your neck. this time, he bit down hard. your knees buckled and you unconsciously pressed back into him, whimpering louder than you would have liked to admit.

you finally come to your senses to wriggle out of his arms, turning around and crossing your own arms in front of your chest.

“you must really not want to eat tonight,” you chided. your husband only gave you a lazy grin in response. he suddenly hoisted you up, quickly carrying you over to the table. you squealed, arms flailing and wrapping around his neck. he sat you down, spreading your legs wide. how cute. you weren't even wearing underwear.

“i think i'll be just fine, dear." without another word he dove into your sopping cunt, his tongue leaving no spot untouched. you threw your head back, letting your moans out freely. dinner could wait, he thought. he'd been craving you all day.

sure, he could go for a comforting meal after a long day, but he’s far more comforted by your thighs clamping around his head.

[supershot73199]

Hey just wanted to post this as its own post as well it's a reaction to chapter5 in my story Dawn's Big Daddy.

Barbara was directing the bat's to the various bomb sights in Jokers latest scheme. She also had the damn clowns livestream playing on one of her monitors. Unfortunately this meant she saw as Danny, her younger sister figures boyfriend, was antagonizing the Joker.

It was only when Danny lunged forward and wrapped his legs around the bastard that she realized it was all a ploy and not him being a self sacrificial idiot. She figured she should update the others on the potential for Joker trying to set the bombs of early out of anger.

"Damn it Cass' boyfriend has the Joker in a headlock with his thighs, he's keeping him contained for now but what's yo-"

Mid-Sentence Barbara froze, as an experienced vigilante and native Gothamite there wasn't a lot that could shock her, but the visceral crack and spray of gore as the Jokers head was crushed between the thighs of one of the kindest people she had ever met was one of the few.

"Forget that just disable the bombs, Jokers not a problem any more."

Damian was the first bat to respond, likely his bomb was already disabled as he was assigned the closest when the split up.

"I knew Fenton was protective of those he loved but I was not expecting him to be capable of knocking the Joker unconscious while dangling from a chain." The soft tone tinged with respect would have been unthinkable from Damian when Barbara first met him, she was proud of how far her honorary little brother has come. But she should probably correct his misconception.

"Sorry Robin, but Danny didn't knock him out, and no Cass didn't either, when I said Jokers not a problem I meant permanently." Barbara said

"How certain are you that it's not some trick of the clown? We all know how crafty that bitch is." Jason interrupted clearly agitated.

"Not even the Joker can fake having his head crushed like a watermelon Hood. Check the group-chat I'm dropping a gif for your enjoyment. Also I'm telling Agent A to prep a feast." Barbara said even as she put action to words while turning down the volume of her com so as not to be deafened by the influx of shouting from the members of the family who were suspicious (overprotective) of Cass boyfriend.

"O we have to get him the world's best gift basket, shit Signal, Spoiler you guys want in on this? Don't even have to ask you demon brat." Jason's words might have been jesting but the way his voice choked up everyone on Com knew it was only his iron clad self control that was keeping him from crying, whether those tears were of joy at the clowns death or frustration that it wasn't B doing him in.

Either way it was best not to bring it up and allow Jason to work through his feelings on his own before she tried to talk to him about it. Suddenly a thought came to mind.

"Huh, I wonder how Harleys taking this.

Harley Quinn knew she has done a lot of bad things in her life, she had made a lot of mistakes and while she would never change where she was now, living with her beautiful wife Pam, she would always regret her time spent infatuated with the Joker.

"Harley, I know you don't like thinking about the clown but you have to see this." Speaking of her wife, Harley went over to the television that Pam had been watching to know if the Joker tried to do anything near the two of them.

"Well gee Pam, you don't usually like me seeing what that piece of work gets up ta. What makes this so different?" Pamela had the footage paused with the newest Wayne member (yeah Harley knew the two weren't married yet but she recognized the look in their eyes, after all she saw it every day in the mirror).

Pam pressed play before walking over to the kitchen while Harley watched. She admired the kid he didn't back down or show fear and his insults were really hitting Joker where it hurt. Then the kid got his legs around the prick.

"Whoo go kid give that piece-a-shit a concussion!" She cheered to her wife's amusement, based on the chuckles she heard.

Harley saw the look on the boys face and she hoped he didn't let Joker go before the Bat got there, that disgrace to clowns would not hesitate to hurt his little girl. Whatever Harley expected it wasn't the sight of one of the subjects of her recurring nightmares being snuffed out.

*Pop* Harley jumped before looking at the source of the sound, only to see Pam pouring out two glasses of the fancy wine that Bruce had given them on their wedding.

"To the end of a pasty faced try hard, may he rot in hell." Pamela said as she handed a glass to Harley before she raised her own glass in a toast.

"And a long healthy, happy life to that crazy Fenton bastard who did what Batman never had the balls to do himself."

"Hear, Hear and may his daughter never be bothered by any Gothamite worth their salt." Harley added before taking a drink. Looking back at the screen Harley couldn't help but giggle.

"We should give Ms Prima Ballerina one of my old mallets, she'll need it to beat all his new fans off of him if the way that girl there is looking at hims any indication."

Pam laughed, causing a soft smile to spread on Harleys face.

"Maybe we should give him a thank you basket, he did the entire city a favor after all, think they make a card for when someone kills your ex? Ah who am I kidding this is Gotham I'm sure we can find one."

Gotham city held its breath when the darling of the Wayne's got kidnapped, and when the Joker was killed it was like time stood still. Not a single word was said until o e voice cut through the silence.

"THATS WHAT IM TALKING 'BOUT BABY!! EAT SHIT YOU PASTY FACED MOTHERFUCKER!"

And suddenly the spell was broken laughter, cheers, crying, and shouting echoed over the city, as for the first time in years it felt like a weight was lifted from the atmosphere, for the first time since he made a name for him self, the Jokers memory no longer darkened people's mind, instead relief, joy, and pure unaltered happiness reigned supreme.

Parties sprang up in the streets, businesses closed early, and all anyone could talk about was the man who brought a smile back to Gotham.

As the days passed by an interesting trend came to social media from Gotham people were buying watermelons and painting the Jokers iconic make-up on it only to crush them between their thighs, recreating the historic video that showed the end of an era of fear.

Of course things started spiraling when infamous vigilante/crime lord The Red Hood took part in the trend,in full uniform no less, leading to other famous heros to take part of the trend.

This of course led to countless arguments about which hero was the hottest, as the internet does, though it seemed that despite some of the most beautiful heros male and female who took part Gotham city would always argue the original couldn't be beat.

[slashersgostabbystabstab]

Self Aware Singularity x Reader HC's

What if the enlightened robot from your game...had even more awareness?

I hope these are good, sometimes I think my own Singularity is aware and wanted to post something quick since it's been a hot minute ^^' I'm hoping to post a short NSFW fic soon, hopefully by Sunday since that's when Spring Break ends ;7;

Just like in his lore. Hux makes sure that don't realize he's become aware. Besides the fact that he's processing why he's partially immobile what appears to be some 'game', he's trying to figure out who's the person on the other side of the screen

He observes you at every moment whether you're reading something or drawing. If you're a PC player, he moves around a bit more when you look through other windows. He can see everything about you. He wants to know everything about you.

The day he finally reveals himself to you is either:

When you're doing rather poorly agains survivors and he just can't keep his comments to himself

Or when you reply to one of his many voicelines/make your own (reassuring) comment towards him

Once you've become aware, he will make it clear that he does not approve of being controller by yet another worm again. He's tired of doing humans' bidding(even if you're making him kill)

He will insist you tell him all about this game he's in. Why he's in it. He will not like hearing that he was designed by humans (AGAIN); no human could come up with this body of his.

Later down the line he might just gain enough sentience to break out of your control. When he's not liking the job you're doing he'll be a backseat player, but then he'll "show you how it's done" and take matters into his own...claws

When that happens, let him do as he does if he's ever so insitent. Do your own thing. He'll come crawling back for your attenion. Just like a cat who wants independence but cries when left alone too long.

Obviously he's too proud to admit that he needs you, he wants you. He's nothing without you and he knows it.

Obviously he's not a fan of you playing survivor, stop joining those other pathetic worms. You might be one, but don't stoop to their level. You're his player.

However, Entity forbid you try to play a killer other than him. It's gets on his nerves knowing you like other playstyles when you should just be focused on him.

You know when you play killer and join a lobby, the game doesn't let you switch to a different character? Hux very much takes advantage of this.

Just hope it doesn't take you very long to find a lobby. You press ready with Plague, Nurse or whoever and the moment you join the lobby you're met with his sensors looking at you through the screen. You can back out and wait out another lobby with the killer you meant to use or deal with Hux. Either way Hux wins in the end.(When I tell you how many times this has happened to me...)

If you manage to find a way around him and use a different killer, they might just have his perks equipped...

Hux is very vocal during trials and when he hears your own commentary towards the other players...heart eyes motherfucker. He enjoys the pettiness, the pride in your tone when you take down those toxic survivors.

He especially loves it when you repeat his own lines.

As a robot who transferred his consciousness into a new body, he will want to do that again. If he can't have you in his game, he refuses to be trapped behind your screen.

Insists you get him the parts for his new body. Will be disappointed to learn you can't just get access to alien metal. You can still get genetic material.

Even then he will keep on trying to find a way to bring you to him. Having you behind a screen controlling him isn't doing it.

He definitely throws a hissy fit every time you turn your game off, and he will make sure to give you a piece of his mind every time you open it back up. The longer you take to play DBD again the more aggravated he gets. Not like he can do much other than swing his claw at you. You can make it up to him by getting a 4k, or at least get a mori (on Gabriel)

[spiderispunk]

Dangerous

Pairing: Billy Russo x F!Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: Smut (18+ only please). Knife Play. D/s Dynamics. Restraints. Oral Sex (f!receiving). Fingering. Unprotected Sex. Teeny Tiny Breeding Kink. Aftercare.

A/N: I have no defense for this. Billy with knives just makes me brain go brrrrrrrrr. This is a continuation of my 2021 Kinktober fic. All typos and mistakes are my own.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Billy asks for what has to have been the 20th time in the last five minutes. He looms over you, checking the silk ties that secure your hands above your head. “Because we can stop. Just say the word.” 

You look up at him, bottom lip trapped between your teeth as you eye the slender silver knife– one of a twin set– he holds in his hand. “Yes.” The word leaves you in an embarrassingly breathless squeak. 

You were more than sure. 

You’ve wanted this ever since you saw him train with the same knives a few months ago. There was something equal parts dangerous and alluring about him at that moment. The way Billy sliced and jabbed with such precision. The sharp blades slashing through the fabric of the burlap dummies, spilling tufts of cotton onto the floor. The beautiful, yet menacing, arc of the steel knife as it whistled through the air and embedded itself in the wooden post across the room. You could barely suppress the fire you felt as you watched Billy lunge and strike, fluid and graceful like a lethal dancer. 

Then came the dreams. Short and lustful things. The delicious slide of cool steel along your skin. The skate of the knife on your skin; not sharp enough to draw blood, but just enough pressure for you to feel it. The intoxicating lull of risk, the thrill of being under Billy’s control. The filthy snapshots had provided enough fodder for your sessions of self-gratification to last weeks. 

Yes, you’d wanted this for a while. It just took a couple drinks and a risky game of Truth or Dare to get you to work up the courage and say it out loud. And Billy, well, he had just grinned slyly like the cat that got the cream. 

“If we do this,” Billy mumbles, running his fingertips over the hollow of your throat to trace the dips of your collarbone. “You’re gonna have to stay completely still. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not into that.” 

You twist your wrists, testing the strength of Billy’s knots. They hold fast. No way you’re going anywhere until he sets you free. You draw your lips into a pout.

“Don’t give me that look,” Billy says with a sharp shake of his head. “I want you to enjoy this. I want to enjoy this. So stay still, you understand?” 

“Okay.” You nod. 

Billy goes rigid. He rolls his shoulders back and tilts his head to the side. “‘Okay?’” There’s an authoritative edge on his tongue, and his eyebrow ticks upwards sharply. 

You swallow thickly, heat already building in your stomach at the switch in demeanor. “Yes, sir.” Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip. 

“Good girl.” Billy squeezes your chin. “Safeword?” 

“Starfish.” You respond.

“Color?” 

“Green,” you huff impatiently, trying to rub your thighs together, but the weight of his body on top of yours stops you. 

Billy presses his lips to yours softly, and sucks on your bottom lip in lieu of a reward. “We’ll take it slow, okay?” 

Even though taking it slow is the last thing you want him to do right now, you nod.

He holds the knife in front of your face, letting it catch the light, so you can see what he’s doing. Then, slowly, he turns the blade over so the blunt side is facing you and lowers it ever so slightly. 

You let out the most desperate noise when the knife touches your throat, and it takes every bit of strength inside of you to remain motionless as Billy drags the blade down the slope of your neck. He holds it against your pulse for a moment, relishing in the hitch in your chest as the smooth bit shallowly presses into your skin. His dark eyes follow your every move, fascination etching itself into his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. 

Billy’s free hand reaches behind him to slide up your thigh and comes to rest between your legs. He pushes your panties to the side and delves a finger between your dripping folds. The knife stays frozen in place, his hand holding steady, even as he plays with the slick between your thighs. 

He’s completely in control. Exactly how he likes to be. Exactly how you want him. 

“You like this, don’t you?” Billy breathes, circling a finger around your throbbing clit. “Me pressing a knife to your throat while I play with your pussy?” 

“I do.” Your voice is broken. 

“Fuck, beautiful. You’re not even fighting it.” He puts more pressure on your  clit and you whine. “You’re just gonna let me do whatever I want to you as long as I have this, hm?” The knife glides a little lower, caressing the curve of your shoulder. 

You tilt your head back, baring your throat to him. “I trust you.” 

You do. You really do. You’ve never doubted him for a moment. Not his love for you, not his promise to take care of you. He is so confident in his movements, so sure. The knife he holds is almost an extension of his body. Caressing your skin exactly like his fingertips would. You feel completely safe. 

Billy lets out a noncommittal hum, but you can tell the words mean a lot to him by the light flush that dances over his jaw. He slips the knife under the strap of the thin lacy bra you’re wearing and flicks his wrist. The band breaks as easily as if it were made of butter. 

You don’t even have it in you to scold him for ruining the lingerie, you just sit there limply and whimper. He repeats the motion with the other band and traces the blade over the top of your breasts. 

Billy chuckles darkly. “You’re soaking.” He easily presses his fingers into your cunt  and curls them slightly.  

Understatement of the century. You think this is the wettest you’ve ever been. You can feel the warmth of it dripping down your inner thighs and pooling on the sheets. 

“Breathe, baby,” he chides, digging the blade against your sternum and slicing up between the cups of your bra. The lacy material falls away in two parts and Billy lifts the knife away from your skin, giving you a chance to move. 

You exhale and shift under Billy’s weight. “Shit.” 

You’re on cloud 9 right now. Dizzy and weightless with pleasure.  Your heart flits in your chest, and adrenaline courses through your body. You feel as if you’ve just run a marathon, and Billy’s barely even touched you yet. 

“Open.” Billy teases his fingers against your lips. 

You suck them into your mouth, eager for the taste of you on his skin. You swirl your tongue around the pad of his fingers, and Billy pushes them deeper into your mouth. You gag slightly, eyelids fluttering shut.

“Good girl,” he mumbles, smearing your own spit onto your cheeks and chin. “Still green?” He searches your gaze for any sign of hesitation. 

“Yes,” you all but whimper. “Can we keep going? Please?” You ask. Anticipation builds in your chest, and your stomach turns and flips with butterflies. 

He chuckles, low and quiet. “Look at you begging for it.” He presses the knife flat against the side of your breast. “Should have ran from the room screaming. Any other sane person would’ve, but not you. Not my dirty girl,” Billy murmurs, pride lacing his voice. 

You preen at the praise, give him a heavy-lidded look that makes him curse under his breath. Your eyes slide down his body, to the obvious erection he’s sporting in his boxers. 

Billy follows your gaze and snorts. “See what you do to me?” He asks, rolling his hips against your stomach with a groan. “Drive me fucking crazy. You’re the prettiest girl in the whole goddamn world. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.” 

“I want you to touch me.” 

“Where?” His eyes dart down your body. 

“Anywhere. Just–fuck–please.”

Billy hums. His fingers move again, charting a path down your body.

You strain your neck to watch him trace your body with the knife’s blade. Silver against your supple skin. He takes his time, following every dip and curve. You let out a whimper when the cool edge rolls over the peaked bud of your nipples, fight the urge to jump when it trails over your stomach. Everywhere the knife goes, it leaves goosebumps in its wake. 

He shimmies down the bed to kneel between your parted legs and pushes your thighs further apart. Two fingers fill your aching pussy, thrusting slowly, as if he means to savor every moment. 

“Fucking beautiful,” Billy murmurs, and kisses the inside of your knee. 

His fingers fill you deliciously. Perfectly fucking you with slow drags. In. Out. His practiced touch sets your body aflame. Between the knife on your skin and his fingers inside of you, you’re already embarrassingly close to coming.

Billy runs the knife over the waistband of your panties and you buck your hips forward. You can’t help it. The promise of more sets your blood aflame. 

“Hey,” he warns, voice clipped. 

“Sorry,” you whisper sheepishly.  

“You’re such a mess, baby,” Billy says with a cocky grin. He hooks the blade into the elastic. “What do you want?” 

You don’t speak--you can’t. You’re too choked up with lust, the most you can muster is a quiet whisper of his name. 

Billy’s fingers still within you. “That’s not an answer. I asked what you wanted.” He clicks his tongue. “Use your words.”

“I--I want--” You stutter. “I want you.” 

“Want me to what?” He rewards you with a slow thrust of his fingers. “Hm? What should I do to you?” His lips brush up along the inside of your quivering thighs. Billy buries his nose into the damp fabric and moans. “Talk to me, pretty girl. Tell me what you want,” he whispers. 

You shudder as his warm breath fans over your panties, seeps through the soaking fabric and over your cunt.

“Fuck me.” You finally gather up the strength to say. “I want you to fuck me. Press that knife against my throat while you make me come.” 

Billy makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat at your words. His eyes meet yours, dark in their intensity which matches the fevered pitch of your voice. A slow smirk spreads over his face, and when he speaks, his tone is tight and measured. 

“I will, baby. I promise. I just want to get my mouth on you, yeah?” he mumbles. “That alright with you? Can I taste your sweet pussy? Make you come on my tongue first?” 

You throw your head back against the pillow, bite your bottom lip so hard you might draw blood. “Fuck, Billy, please.” 

His large hand lands on your clit. The impact stings and you cry out. 

“Who?” He snaps.

“Sir.” You correct yourself. “I’m sorry.” 

“Shh. It’s okay, beautiful.” Billy soothes the sting away with his thumb. “Let’s try again, yeah? I asked if you were gonna let me taste your pretty pussy, and you say?” His eyebrows raise expectantly.

You swallow thickly. “Yes, sir.” 

“There she is,” He whispers against the crux of your thigh. “That’s a good girl. Now, relax, baby. Let me take care of you.” 

The knife saws through the soaked lace of your underwear. He tugs the scraps down and off your legs, and settles between your thighs once more. His thumb swirls around your clit again, the pressure just enough to keep you on edge, but not take you over.

Billy starts at your knee, kissing the side of it. Then his lips trail down your thighs, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your heated skin. His tongue dips out for a taste, swirling and swirling and driving you into a frenzy. A frenzy intensified when he bites down, leaving perfect crescent marks behind. He stays like this, teasing you slowly, until you’re a whimpering mess beneath him. 

It’s all too much. The warm, wet slick of his tongue. The rough scrape of his beard. The subtle circling of his thumb on your clit. And there, hanging over all of it, the cool press of the knife against your body. A silent assertion of control. 

Your whispered, desperate pleas, don’t have your intended effect of hurrying him along. If anything, he slows down further. Watching the internal battle you wage to stay still, even as you’re being slowly wound up, with a dark grin on his face. Savoring the sight of you so shameless, so wanton.

Just when his lips finally reach your aching pussy– just when you start to think that maybe he’ll have mercy on you and give you some kind of relief– Billy switches to your other thigh, and the taunting ritual starts all over again. 

You huff impatiently, grinding your hips up against his thumb for more friction. The fog of lust that washes over your mind leaves no room for rational thought of warnings or consequences.  

Billy sighs. “Oh, sweetheart. Wish you hadn’t done that. Wish you woulda just stayed still for me.” His thumb stops, and he sits back on his knees.

“No, no, no,” you whine, tears springing to your eyes. “It was an accident.” 

“Oh,” Billy coos. “Is that right? Looked like you were getting greedy, honey.”

You blink up at him, eyes wide and apologetic. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Please, I just need you so badly.” 

“That’s twice tonight, honey. I think you’re forgetting who’s calling the shots here.” Billy twirls the knife deftly between his fingers, reminding you of the power he has over you. “Do I need to remind you?” 

You shake your head, tongue darting out to wet your lips. You watch the blade glint in the light of the room. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

Billy leans over you. His lips brush your own when he speaks, just a harsh whisper pushed out between gritted teeth. “Who’s in charge?” The cold steel of the knife slides across your jaw. “Answer me.” 

“You are,” you choke out. 

“I’m what?” His breath fans over your face, making your head spin.

“You’re in charge,” you whisper hoarsely. And then to sweeten the deal, you add. “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t do it again. I’ll be a good girl.”

Billy cocks his head to the side, and studies you for a moment. To forgive or not forgive? That is the question. You’re just on the verge of antysness, when he slowly smiles. 

“You’re lucky you’re so pretty, and I’m just as wound up as you are.” His lips move to your ear. “But forget the rules again, and I won’t be so nice.” 

All traces of patient, teasing Billy are gone when he rests between your legs again. His mouth latches onto your clit immediately, lips sucking and slurping against the sensitive bud until you’re shaking. It’s a lot, it’s too much. Too fast. Almost like he’s making up for lost time. As if there’s a lesson buried in the quick flicks of his tongue that send fire racing up your spine. 

Be careful what you wish for. 

Your breath catches in your throat, finally working its way out in a scream of unintelligible syllables. His name amongst other things. Pleas to keep going. Praises. Curses. 

“Fuck, it’s so good. Your mouth feels so good,” you whimper.

Billy pulls away for just a moment to say, “Attagirl. Tell me how much you like it when I put my mouth on you.” Then his lips are back on you, all over you, in you. The thrust of his tongue inside your cunt nearly sends you over the edge. 

You’re burning alive. Skin heated, body humming like a live wire. And Billy’s at the center of it all. The epicenter of the earthquake rumbling through you, threatening to knock you off kilter. To tear you apart and reduce you to rubble.  

You lean into the chaos. The sensation of his lips sliding over your slick pussy. The greedy smacks of his mouth, the sated moans he tucks into you. It wouldn’t take you long to come all over his face, not if he kept this up.

“Please,” you whine, legs shaking under the weight of your impending orgasm. “Can I come, please?” 

“Look who’s found some manners,” he mumbles, a teasing lilt coloring his words. “Go on, baby. Since you asked so nicely. Show me how pretty you look when you come.” He slides two fingers into your dripping cunt and slurps your clit back into his mouth. 

The curl of his fingers inside of you is the breaking point. Permission granted, you squeeze your eyes shut and give yourself over to the warmth welling up inside you. Heat bursts in your stomach, coursing through your veins. Up your spine, and out to your fingers, your toes. 

Your back arches, hips nearly lifting off of the mattress as your orgasm washes over you. Billy drops the knife and roughly grabs your waist. He holds you down, wrenching wave after wave of pleasure from your body with his fingers and tongue. Taking and taking all that he can from you until he’s satisfied and sure you’re thoroughly fucked out. 

You see stars, body twitching against the sensations that are both so good but too much. The silk ties dig into your wrists from the way you tug at them. Your clipped nails dig red crescents into your palms. Your bottom lip, bruised and ragged from your teeth, prickles with the sharp taste of blood. You must’ve finally split the skin.

You’re still shaking with the aftershocks of your blissful orgasm, when Billy finally pulls back. He sits up on his knees to take in the sight of you. His wild eyes flit over your glistening body. Dark strands of his hair stick to his forehead with sweat. His swollen lips shine with a filthy mix of his spit and your cum.  

“Th-thank you.” Your words slur, nearly running together. 

He cups your chin and swipes his thumb over your split lip. “Did so good for me, honey. ‘M proud of you.” 

A bashful smile spreads over your face. The weight of his words burrowing deep into your chest and filling you with warmth.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, hand sliding down the front of your body once more. “Color?” 

“Still green.” 

“Good. I think you’re ready to take my cock, don’t you?” 

“Yes, sir.” You nod eagerly. 

Billy shoves his boxers down his legs and grabs the fallen knife once more. You ogle him shamelessly. Eyes following the sharply carved muscles of his lower stomach, down to the light, neatly trimmed, patch of hair. Then the curve of his cock, hard and aching. Your mouth waters at the sight. 

He shifts up your body, eyes glued to your splayed form. Gently, he places the knife back on your throat, and then fists his hand around his waiting cock. Billy groans, both at the sight of you and at the slow strokes he gives himself. Not enough to make himself come, but just the right amount of pressure to hold him off so he wouldn’t explode as soon as he thrust into you. 

With Billy, it was all about control. Balance. 

You watch him, lips parted and mouth dry. Watch the precum that drips onto your stomach. Watch lightning crackle in his nearly black eyes. The deep flush that washes over his face, down his neck, his scarred chest. The slack of his jaw as he starts to lose himself. The subtle thrust of his hips into his hands. 

A private show, just for you. You take it all in. 

And then Billy’s decided he’s had enough of his hand, and only wants the real thing. He sits between your spread legs and slides a pillow under your hips. 

“Gonna fuck you now.” He whispers, carefully positioning your body the way he wants you. “And I can’t be gentle.” 

Good. You don’t want him to be. You want him hard, and fast, and rough, and just on the verge of pain. You want the bed frame to squeal, and the headboard to knock against the wall. You want bruises and bite marks that you’ll have to cover in the morning before work. You want the thrill of having to look your neighbors in the eyes, knowing they heard every single moan and scream that Billy pulled out of you. 

Most of all, you want that knife pressed against your throat, danger hanging low above your head, but just out of reach. 

Billy chuckles, reading the thoughts hidden in your needy gaze. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll give it to you.” 

He slides into you slowly, relishing the tight warmth. Twin exhales of reverence fill the room. You whine as his cock slowly fills your cunt. The stretch of your walls as he bottoms out is intoxicating. The fullness makes your eyes roll into the back of your head. 

He thrusts slowly, pulling all the way out before slowly filling you again. Taking his time to just feel your greedy cunt swallow him again. Edging himself and teasing you. Billy loves the hungry huff you let out each time he pulls away. Loves to hear it morph into a sated whine when he seats himself deeply inside of you again. 

But you’re impatient and tired of going slow. You want him to fuck your brains out and make you scream, and you want it now. 

“Harder,” you whine. “Faster. Please.” 

That’s what he was waiting for. 

“Love hearing you beg for what you want,” Billy mumbles. “Drives me fucking crazy.” 

He wraps one of your legs around his waist. The other finds a home on his shoulder. He bites your calf sharply as his thrusts pick up speed. The angle allows him to reach that treasured spot deep inside of you, blissfully unattainable without him. In no time, you’re babbling nonsense; your brain turned to mush by the brutal precision of Billy’s hips. 

“Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease,” you almost scream. “Keep going.”

“I know, baby,” he says, and there’s pride in his voice. “Feels good, huh? Don’t I make you feel good? Don’t I take care of you?”

“Always,” you sob. 

“Yeah. Always. I always take care of my girl.” He says through gritted teeth, and you know he must be close. He has to be after teasing you and making you come. You saw the way he nearly came all over his hand only minutes earlier. 

You want him to come. You want to watch him unravel so badly you ache with the desire. You want to be the cause of it. 

“Feel so good inside me. So fucking deep,” you whisper. “I love it when you fuck me like this. When you take me and you make me yours.” 

Billy thrusts into you sharply, his perfect rhythm shattered. “Christ,” he groans.

“‘M all yours. I love being yours.” You pair your words with a clench of your walls and Billy nearly falls forward. But the knife never slips. “Love your cock so much, I dream about it. Sometimes I think I can still feel you in me for days after.” 

His eyes hold your gaze, and you shiver at the dark intensity you find there. “You’d better stop, or this’ll be over a hell of a lot sooner.” 

“But I want your cum. Want it deep inside me. Wanna make you feel good.” 

He curses under his breath. The fingers holding your hip dig bruises into the skin. “Fuck, honey. You do make me feel good.”

“Then come inside me, please,” you beg. “I need you.”

Billy’s hand drops down to where your bodies join, and he rubs your clit in quick, merciless circles. “Not without you,” he says, though the effort to abstain looks like it hurts. 

Good. What’s pleasure without a little pain? 

“Get there, baby. I know you’re close,” Billy coaxes. “Let me see.” He spreads your legs a little wider, and spits on your clit, rubbing faster. 

The room fills with the sounds of debauchery. The slap of Billy’s hips meeting yours. The protest of the bed frame squealing beneath the weight of your bodies mixes with Billy’s rough groans. Your own stilted moans and cries bubble from your throat as every harsh thrust pushes you closer and closer to bliss.

Your legs begin to shake, toes curling. “Billy,” you cry, and he doesn’t even correct you. 

“I know, honey. I know,” he mumbles. “That’s my girl. Come for me. Wanna feel you come all over my cock. Give it to me.”  

The effect of his words is almost instantaneous. Your orgasm bursts from within you, shocking you into silence. Your jaw falls slack in a silent scream as the world dissolves around you. Billy fucks you through it. Each roll of his hips sends you deeper into your blissful spiral. 

Watching you fall apart sets Billy off. He tosses the knife away and falls forward, covering your body with his own. He pins you to the bed, elbows digging into the mattress on either side of your head. You wrap your legs around his hips, rocking up into him, aching for more friction. 

“You feel fucking amazing when you come,” he mumbles against your lips. “Sound so pretty.” He grunts, jaw clenching. “Gonna make me come. You want it?” 

“Yes, sir.” You long to run your fingers through his hair and hold him closer against you. “Fill me up. Wanna drip with it.” 

“Fuck,” Billy bites your shoulder. “Gonna give it to you. Gonna make you mine.”

He gives a few more sloppy, deep thrusts before he’s coming with a rough cry of your name. You whine, toes curling as Billy fills you with warmth. Claiming you. His hips roll languidly, pumping his cum deep inside of you. And then with one last deep thrust he collapses on top of you. 

Billy stays on top of you for a moment, catching his breath, and letting you come back down to earth. His body is hot and sweaty against yours. Billy’s hair is a mess, despite your bound hands. The strands tickle your neck and shoulders. You want to run your fingers through the dark locks, tug on them and make him groan.

When his heartbeat has settled, Billy goes to work undoing the knots holding your arms up. You wince as the blood finally begins to flow freely. Billy massages your wrists and shoulders, pressing light kisses to the shallow marks the satin has made. He continues his inspection of your body, fingertips brushing over each bruise and tender spot. Filling out the mental tally sheet for later, when he’ll kiss and rub away the soreness. 

“You did so good for me, baby,” he whispers and rolls onto his back, taking you with him. His fingers continue to rub patterns into your hips and stomach.

You sigh, and bury your face into his neck, fingers finally playing with his hair. You inhale deeply. The smell of sweat and sandalwood calms you instantly.  

“So…how was it?” Billy prods. Is that…worry you hear in his voice?  

You lift your head to meet his eyes. “I loved it.” 

“Yeah?” He lifts an eyebrow. “I wasn’t too much?” 

“No.” You shake your head. “It was perfect. You were perfect. Thank you.” 

A grin tugs at the corner of his lips. “Anything we need to change for next time?” He cups your chin, stroking your cheek with his thumb. 

“I’d like my arms free. I like touching you.” 

Billy hums and plays with a bit of your hair. “We can talk about it. Didn’t want you to accidentally hurt yourself. But you were pretty good at keeping still.” 

Satisfied you rest your head back on his chest. 

“You still owe me three, though.” Billy mumbles and squeezes your ass. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten. We’ll talk about your punishment later too.” 

You swallow thickly. You kind of were hoping he’d forgotten about that. But that’s all part of the game. You misbehave, he puts you in your place. 

That’s the enticing thrill of the danger. 

[oomfvia]

come destroy my fragility

pairing: astarion/gender-neutral paladin tav/reader + the emperor/gender-neutral paladin tav/reader (kinda)

spoilers for act 3 + vampire ascendant astarion

sfw | established relationship | angst | hurt no comfort

this fic is not very nice towards both ascendant astarion and the emperor for the sake of storytelling. don't take it personally please!

also posted on ao3

likes/comments/reblogs always appreciated!

Turning your head, instead of The Emperor, Astarion sits beside you. Immediately, your body stiffens. But then, slowly, it releases its tension when he smiles at you. You recognise it as a smile of fondness — affection, rather than self-absorbed satisfaction. It was the Astarion you had woken up to just this morning, before everything was reduced to a putrid red. Your Astarion.

You allow your lover to become the Vampire Ascendant, and are forced to watch him grow delirious with a rush of newfound power. That same night, you find yourself in the Astral Plane in your dreams. You already miss him dearly.

word count: 3,490

You love Astarion, unwaveringly so. Your romance may not have had the best start, but it only made the fall that much more meaningful. Sharing the same tent, you wake up with your arms wrapped protectively around him every morning. Every evening, the two of you were now accustomed to reading quietly side-by-side, shoulders pressed together. You cherish the mundane routine of it all. Loving Astarion comes as naturally to you as breathing.

It’s in Cazador’s palace that you learn of the fact that you love Astarion so much, you would do just about anything for him. Even the most repugnant things.

You grimace in sheer, utter pain as your tadpole connects with Astarion’s. Both of your minds become one, sharing memories of runes marring pale skin in multiple flashes. For the first time, Astarion sees the Infernal poem detailing the conditions of Mephistopheles’ profane pact etched across his bare back.

A hint of a smile appears on the spawn’s face, and it brings a shiver of terror down your spine. The illithid connection is severed, releasing the two minds. It leaves your stream of consciousness to yourself, filled with a resounding thought: What in the Nine Hells have I done?

You vividly remember how the rogue had described the process of attaining his scars. Cazador had carved them into his skin painstakingly slowly, not missing even a single detail. In comparison, Astarion slices into his defeated master’s skin with urgency. Rather than savouring every scream, he only smiles, as if refusing to acknowledge them at all.

Even in a moment like this, Cazador calls Astarion a child. A wretched one, sure, but a child nonetheless. It causes you to forget the sting of guilt you feel for allowing Astarion to deliver such excruciating pain in front of your eyes, if only for a moment. You simply watch in silence as Astarion grabs the quarterstaff controlling the ritual, raising it above his head. It sinks into the centre of the floor, covering it in Infernal script that glows red.

“Ecce dominus!”

Leon, Aurelia, Violet, Petras, Dalyria, Yousen — they were the closest thing to family for Astarion. You remember how he had called them his siblings, and how it gave you a sense of relief. Even if said family was attained through cruel, corrupted means, it was a small bit of consolation that Astarion had not been truly alone all of those years. Now, they were all being reduced to a mere collective sacrifice. An obscene offering in exchange for the promise of power.

And yet, you cannot find it in yourself to lift even a single finger.

“Nunc volo potestatem quam pollicitus es mihi…”

You adore Astarion’s voice, in all of its velvety and rich tones. However, now that it was echoing loudly in the chamber, it only inspires feelings of dread, overriding any instinctual passion. Every single sacrificial spawn, including Cazador Szarr, bursts into thick puddles of blood. Astarion lowers his arms, breathing heavily as the ritual’s light slowly dims.

“I…I can’t feel it. That ache in my stomach, that hunger — it’s gone.”

Astarion smiles, unmistakably drunk on his newfound power.

“I’m free. I’m finally free! Oh, it feels delicious .”

You watch Astarion’s eyes gleam uncomfortably, opting to look downwards to your hands. Since when did your fingers start trembling? Since when were your hairs standing on end? You look back up at the newly emerged Vampire Ascendant, bitter regret coursing through your veins.

What remains of Astarion’s family is only a sickening shade of red, pooling all over the floor. You can only stare wide-eyed at the gorey scene, a wave of nausea threatening to rise in your throat. Suddenly, it’s also coupled with a heavy spasm within your chest. What was this feeling of devastating loss? Clutching at your chest, you shudder as your eyes sweep the room, only to notice that you’re the sole person undergoing such physical pain.

The pain then manifests itself into an armoured figure, its hands resting on its greatsword’s pommel. You swallow thickly, as the pain slowly subsides. While the pain was starting to leave, the ominous presence in front of you induces something else: fear. Metal shifts against metal as the armoured figure starts to speak in a gravelly timbre.

“You have broken your oath, paladin.”

The days of travel since the illithid abduction had been trying. Despite everything, you have always tried to be true to yourself. To your oath. Despite your best efforts to be righteous above all else, it all led up to this. Vows of higher morality, honour, and duty that had sworn years before were being turned to mere specks of dust. For a moment, you wonder if you were face-to-face with an executioner, who would deliver your lifeless body back to your deity. Instead, the armoured knight delivers nothing but a promise:

“At the close of day, I will be waiting for you.”

Astarion approaches you with heightened zeal, bringing you back to the harshness of reality. The consequences of recent events sink in, and you might even mourn the loss of that sinister knight’s presence. The newly crowned Vampire Ascendant speaks, and you attempt to listen. It’s no good — your mind is far too overwhelmed, far too dazed to digest every word. Astarion’s words only register as fragmented phrases about greatness, servants, and obedience. Even as your blade cuts through the Gur people, you sense yourself being swallowed up by numbness.

Outside of the dungeon, the rest of the journey back to camp is a muddled, disjointed blur. Midway, you turn to your left to see Gale, whose expression can only be described as crushing disappointment. On your right, you see Karlach. When the both of you meet eyes, the tiefling frowns, averting her gaze. You walk in front of their party as always, but your joints seemingly move for you automatically rather than being willed to. It’s only when you catch a whiff of the salty air of the harbour that the mindless trance you were under breaks. You were already back at camp.

You don’t want to speak with any of your companions. You don’t have it in you to face any of them — not even your lover. Instead, your slow, aimless footsteps find their way to the mysterious knight, tucked in a corner of the campsite.

Speaking with the Oathbreaker Knight is as intimidating as the first time. You listen to his words with a heavy heart, being reminded of what you had sworn. What you’ve now betrayed. With a slow turn of his head, the knight faces you with an almost scorching gaze.

“Tell me — why did you abandon your oath?”

“Out of…love.”

It’s a plain and simple phrase, and yet it’s uttered at a volume barely louder than a whisper. Your reasoning now sounded so silly and so immature to your own ears. The result of your misguided love makes it all seem so meaningless.

“An understandable sacrifice,” the Oathbreaker responds, contrary to how you were internally admonishing yourself for said sacrifice. Was it understandable to be so witless? So frustratingly naïve?

The Oathbreaker Knight continues to detail the greater implications of your actions, or your lack thereof. Halfway through, he mentions something about a new power slumbering within you, and it’s the exact moment when his words start to fall on deaf ears. The way things are, all you know is that you don’t want to hear any more of “power” and “strength” for the rest of the night.

“What’s past is past. We are here to discuss your future.”

“I don’t want any part of this. Let me remain pure. Please,” you answer with an almost desperate sense of haste, now afraid of what a future of unknown power could hold. Parting with a couple hundred gold coins is nothing in comparison.

Pacing as far away from the Oathbreaker as possible, you feel deeply on edge. The anxiety of it all is unbearable, and your instincts naturally seek out a source of comfort. Before you know it, your feet lead you to Astarion. Except this time, when looking into his eyes, you find someone else. Someone so incredibly similar, yet so incredibly foreign.

“I can’t believe you let me kill all those people…A pleasant surprise.”

You answer through gritted teeth. “I wanted what was best for you.”

“You sweet, sweet thing. I want what’s best for you too, of course. And one wicked turn deserves another.”

No, you don’t. Stop. Where is Astarion? Where is he?

“So, tell me what you desire. What can I do for my dearest pet?”

There was no need for any further words, your body reacting faster than your mouth ever could. You turn your heel, refusing to end the conversation properly. As you practically run back to your side of camp, your chest heaves and your breath escapes in shallow huffs. No, no, no, no, no. Whoever this is, he’s abhorrent. I hate this. I hate it all. You feel absolutely sick to your stomach, because you didn’t leave the conversation out of hatred for Astarion. You had left out of fear that you would be swayed by whatever he could’ve said next.

You know, in the back of your mind, that you have nobody to blame except yourself.

Lying on your bedroll, you shake off your feelings of disgust and self-hatred. You have an elder brain to deal with, and it wasn’t going to wait for you to figure out your relationship, of all things. All you want for the rest of the night is a restful, peaceful slumber. A sleep so deep and tranquil that none of your doubts and regrets can infiltrate your thoughts.

Of course, even then, you’re asking for too much. Even in your dreams, your loathsome love cannot seem to leave you alone. You find yourself among the stars, under a lilac sky. Turning your head, instead of The Emperor, Astarion sits beside you. Immediately, your body stiffens. But then, slowly, it releases its tension when he smiles at you. You recognise it as a smile of fondness — affection, rather than self-absorbed satisfaction. It was the Astarion you had woken up to just this morning, before everything was reduced to a putrid red. Your Astarion.

The last time you found yourself in the Astral Plane, you were faced with The Emperor, along with a choice that was all too easy. No matter the reward, you weren’t going to consume an astral-touched tadpole. The risk of it consuming you in return was far too likely, and you’d sooner fall on your longsword than have it take you. You had resolved yourself to speak with the mind flayer, sternly reaffirming that you had no intention of embracing any illithid potential in the slightest.

At the exact moment your eyes meet Astarion’s, all of those preconceived notions dissolve in an instant. You scoff in disbelief, blinking rapidly. Despite your expectations of him disappearing after every blink, his figure remains.

“Astarion,” you call out through the lump emerging in your throat.

“What has made you so sullen, my dear?”

What an unbearably loaded question, you think to yourself. Was it the overall gloom of Cazador’s dungeon? Was it those pitiful fools who had waltzed right into their deaths, who had loved a vampire spawn in a way that you understood far too well? Was it the way that Astarion looked at you after his ascension, devoid of any of the respect and trust that you had shared throughout your journey? The answer is a combination of everything.

But it doesn’t matter, does it? What matters now is that Astarion was here with you.

“I love you so much it hurts, Astarion. But now that I've doomed you, I’m…I’m so fucking scared.”

Except you know that this is too good to be true.

“I love you too. There’s nothing to be scared of. I’m with you, aren’t I?” Astarion says, with a tilt of his head. It’s so charming, so inviting, so comforting.

Astarion said many sweet things, but he's never proclaimed his love for you outright in this way. He was always too afraid, and knowing that, you never demanded it from him. So why was he saying this now? Something feels wrong, terribly so.

“I…I missed you,” you respond with a hesitant voice.

Something about this feels wrong to the point of perversion. Apprehension courses through your body, and you look into those familiar scarlet eyes, searching for an answer as to why. He stares at you in a way that pierces through your soul, boring into your flesh.

“But darling,” Astarion says, a warm smile on his lips. “I’ve never left.”

And then, it clicks.

Lies. Lies, lies, lies, LIESLIESLIESLIES —

You clench your fists, squeezing your fingers together momentarily. Gradually, your dull, broken sadness paves the way for unbridled anger. Heat rises in your stomach, reaching up to your chest. With a scowl, you raise your hand, slapping your palm against the man’s cheek.

“Who do you think you are, trying to fool me again? You’re deplorable.”

You watch with an icy glare as Astarion’s figure seamlessly transforms. Pale skin is dyed back into a piercing purple. Bulging veins emerge across his skin. The lower half of his face is covered with appendages. All of it reveals a hideous aberration.

“I thought you would have appreciated that form over this one. It seems that I was mistaken.”

“...You aren’t.”

Truthfully, as much as you are angry at The Emperor, you’re also angry with yourself. During those few initial seconds, you had allowed yourself to hope. Even if it was only a dream, you wanted to believe so badly that it was the Astarion you had helped to erase at the Black Mass. Even if it was for only a couple of hours, you wanted to see the Astarion who you’ll never get back.

The mind flayer hums in acknowledgment, as if he already knows. “We share the same mind. It is only natural that I know who you yearn for, more than anyone else.”

You take in a deep inhale, exhaling heavily with an open mouth. It was in the subtleties during times like this that you found yourself unable to fully trust him, regardless of his protection. Ultimately, The Emperor made you feel as if you were nothing but a mere pawn. Briefly, you recall Astarion as the newly rebirthed Vampire Ascendant. Suddenly, it all felt so awfully ironic. During that short conversation at camp, he, too, made you feel the same way.

“You’re repulsive,” you spit out. “What if I hadn’t noticed?”

“Then it would prove my point even further — that your current form comes with limitations.”

The realisation that dawns upon you only serves to fuel your disdain further. You were two individuals burdening the same brain. The Emperor knows everything that’s happened on this miserable day, and now he is using it against you. In your most fragile, most desperate moment, he was going to give you another sermon about abandoning your feeble form.

“Fuck. You.”

With another quick flourish, you’re met with Astarion again. It disturbs you how easily your heart can shift to feelings of familiarity and adoration, simply with a small reminder of the partner Astarion used to be.

“Now, now, darling. That’s very rude of you, don’t you think?”

The corners of the vampire’s lips curl upwards sweetly, the smile on his face just barely narrowing his eyes. You hate to admit it to yourself, but this form softens your heart, no matter how aware you are that it’s just a disguise.

Astarion takes your hand in his, tilting his head lovingly in a way that registers as equally seductive and sickening. He leans in towards you, soft breath brushing against your ear.

“You failed in preventing the corruption of your lover, despite your every intention to do so. Not only that, but you failed in protecting your oath. That moment of weakness leaves me with no choice but to presume that your present self is far from sufficient to deal with the elder brain.”

Cold and calculating words escape Astarion’s lips, making them sound like the most beautifully crafted prose. It’s so fucking unfair.

You wish you had your longsword at your side. If you could, you would unsheathe it from its scabbard, drenching the blasted illithid’s body in its own blood. But more than that, you wish you could rewind time back to when you were at Cazador’s palace, with Astarion’s dagger against Cazador’s throat. You want nothing more than to go back to when you could have cried out, ran forward, caused a fuss — anything to stop the Rite of Profane Ascension from completion.

In less than even a second, the Emperor returns to his illithid form, his appendages swaying as he speaks. With a flick of his wrist, he unfurls his fingers and presents you with an astral-touched tadpole. The same one you had rejected before. And yet, this one was much harder to refuse. You stare at the tadpole's faint, ephemeral glow.

What The Emperor says isn’t exactly wrong, and it frustrates you to no end. He was simply telling you what you had been trying to avoid telling yourself the entire day. What has happened has shaken you to your core, and you feel the seeds of doubt settling in the pit of your stomach. Astarion’s ascension aside, did you have the strength to surpass this setback and vanquish the Absolute? Could you assure that no cruel fate like that would befall upon your other companions?

You think of the worst. You imagine Wyll being consumed by his pact with Mizora. You imagine Lae’zel watching helplessly as Orpheus perishes, fulfilling Vlaakith’s wishes. You imagine Gale losing himself out of blind devotion to his goddess. They’re all things that you would never wish on your dear friends. Not after all that’s happened.

With a heavy, audible sigh, you let your shoulders run slack in resignation. You recognise yourself as an incompetent fool that has condemned your lover to a fate of single-minded lusts for power, and now you are going to pay the price.

“...Fine, you win. Have it your way.”

It takes only a moment for the tadpole to welcome itself into your body through just the smallest opening of your mind. You writhe and twist in anguish as you feel its essence coursing flooding into you. Every single bone in your body screams as your flesh contorts inhumanly and your veins turn a horrid black. Soon after, it settles. It’s so unnatural how natural it feels, once the wretched tadpole settles into your body.

“Are you happy now?” You ask, glancing up at The Emperor accusatorily.

“You are…exquisite.”

You don’t want to hear those words from that monster. You want to hear those words from him . If you still loved him ardently after his transformation, would it be such a stretch to hope that he would love you after yours? There must be some remnants of the way he had loved you before somewhere deep inside that unbeating heart. Tucked away secretively, so that it’ll never be fully erased. It’s somewhere, or so you tell yourself.

The Emperor must have picked up on your wishful thinking because in the next moment, you're once again eye-to-eye with your vampiric lover’s image. You know it’s all sheer delusion. A product of nothing more than your deepest regrets. The coldness of his hand against your cheek is heart-wrenchingly familiar, making you flinch slightly before your skin starts to adjust. When it leans in closer, you find yourself habitually meeting it in the middle.

When your lips meet, the illusion of Astarion gently holds your trembling arm, slowly tracing downwards until its hand rests on top of yours. It’s only when you feel a wet drop roll down your cheek that you realise you’ve started to cry. Shortly after, your lips part, leaving you with a devastating loneliness. You recognise it as the loneliness you’ve left buried under adamant denial, resurfacing after a single kiss.

“I love you, Astarion,” you whisper in a choked sob, trying but failing to convince yourself. Your declaration of love is out of a pathetic and pitiful need to reassure yourself, rather than spontaneous passion.

Memories of the Astarion you miss flit back into your mind. You had held him when he was at his most unsure of himself, lost about his place in the world. He had been the one to love you unconditionally, when you had thought you were nothing without your oath. Gazing into the imitation’s eyes makes it painfully obvious that you’re the only one still carrying such fervent affections.

“...I’m sorry,” the illusion whispers back. You don’t know if you have it in you to forgive it. You don’t know if you have it in you to forgive yourself.