#any male character x reader

[slowd1ving]

KILLER ・゜゜MOZE NSFW

"All you are to me is a bleak obsession I am the mark intent on burning the street How many times can I ask you? How many days can I go without you?" Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs, even if the pair in question is a homicidal crow and a brokenhearted cryptologist. art by @ ma_mori74 on x!!! moze can we honestly e date? you’re so beautiful. You always make me laugh, you always make me smile. You literally make me want to become a better person I really enjoy every moment we spend together. My time has no value unless its spent with you. I tell everyone of my irls how awesome you are. Thank you for being you. (joke) (not really) this was kinda rushed so :3 errr consider this like part 3 of tales of a disgruntled corvid pairing: moze + male reader warnings: nsfw, male reader, mentions of blood/death/violence, alcohol consumption, jealousy wc: 4.5k  

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs. 

Fortune. It is a humorous concept for Moze: tasting of a fleeting childhood dream and the dregs of hope. Fortune, as some know it, comes in all forms. From gilt wealth and corruption, to finding a strale dropped on the street and getting to bed on time—everyone, it seems, tastes good fortune somewhere along their paltry lives. 

Moze’s good luck surmounts to meagre things: not getting blood beneath his nails after a mission; evading the prying eyes of the Yaoqing as he slinks into the shadows; working by himself; and most of all, not running into you. Good luck equals a tidy house and leftovers in his fridge. Good luck equals not needing to stock up on the tools of his trade and knives that don’t need sharpening. Good luck equals a fresh steamed bun and a slow day perched on the roof of a building. 

The point must be made. Moze does not experience auspicious encounters often. 

Conversely, those afflicted by confirmation bias might say misfortune comes in threes. Misfortune, for Moze, is significantly easier to quantify—but to stratify it into threes grossly underestimates the cesspit of chance he’s been allotted. 

One: being outside currently at Jiaoqiu’s food stall while rain drizzles down on him. It could be argued it’s only by his own volition that he’s slurping on steaming chilli-infused noodles as petrichor stains the air, yet that stupid fox decided this was the way to go in terms of conveying intelligence from Feixiao. This was the hell crafted by Jiaoqiu’s hands seeped green with pungent herbs. 

Two: getting his apartment lease renewal rejected a week ago over a development project at his block. Though he had been planning on starting afresh—never one to stay in the same area for too long, just like the rest of the Shadow Guards—he quite liked the nondescript studio. It’s a tidy place: plain and unassuming. What a pity. He’s read the message from his landlord over and over: growing a tad bit more incensed each time. 

Three: the sudden absence of suitable apartments in the districts that he sticks to. None of the flats he browsed were innocuous enough, and the ones that were perfect for his schedule and profession were in dismal condition. 

Four: you purchasing a flat a month ago which perfectly fulfilled his conditions. Two-bedroom, in the lower districts of the Yaoqing, with reclusive neighbours and a walking distance of the Seat of Divine Foresight. Had he gotten the notice for his lease rejection earlier, it might’ve been him there. 

Five: upon asking about his dilemma, Feixiao’s eyes gleaming bright. This was the indicator for certain disaster—an omen as ill as he ever saw. And unfortunately, her gaze next fell on the scripts you were working on, before flickering back up to you. Shit. That was the only thought running through his mind, before she pitched her idea to have him simply move in with you. Say no, he pleaded mentally, but alas—

“Sure,” you mutter, red ink spilling from your pen onto the parchment. Bold characters sign the form off and the letter is folded neatly onto a cycrane absent-mindedly; before you finally look up at the assassin who flinches as your eyes land on his. “S’long as he pays rent.”

Six: you agreeing to this stupid deal. Why? Why? It can’t possibly be the deep veneration for the Arbiter General. Surely your adoration of her cannot be deep enough to let this guy room in your house—an assassin, at that. You aren’t a follower of Qlipoth, but where the hell is your sense of preservation?

Seven: him not actually finding any fault in the building. Not in the surroundings, nor the modest room across from yours, nor the lazy grin on your face as you showed him around the apartment—still expecting him to vehemently shake his head. 

He signed the damned contract, and that was that.

“What’s got you sighing?” Jiaoqiu eyes him from where he’s pulling noodles: sleeves rolled back to avoid dusting the salmon hues with flour. Fragrant red wafts from the pot on the stove, and he’s suddenly reminded of the crimson shirt you wore just this morning—rippling around the taut lines of sinew and muscle as you worked diligently on decrypting ancient alchemical texts. “I thought you found yourself a place to stay, so why the long face?”

Moze keeps his silence. Well, tries to—but it’s not like a singular word will make him any less laconic. Tapping his chopsticks against the rim of the blue-toned porcelain, he evades the question and focuses right on the middle of Jiaoqiu’s sentence. “Somehow.” 

“Right! Your dearest partner—” Jiaoqiu drags the word out, characters stretched tight until they wind right against Moze’s eardrums. He glares: visibly annoyed, yet this only makes the man in his peripherals close his own eyes in satisfaction. “—took pity on you, didn’t he?”

“Maybe.” The assassin slams down the rest of the piquant broth: lips dripping with sanguine. His response is a question in itself—because why the hell did you agree to Feixiao’s request?

“Curious?” Of course he’s curious. 

“It’s not much of a surprise, really,” the foxian sighs, twisting the strands into a neat circle and letting it drop into the boiling water. “Poor thing’s probably still in shock from his breakup. I think he would’ve agreed to pretty much anything coming out of Feixiao’s mouth at that point.”

The man can only stare incredulously. Every part of that sentence is laden with a bombshell. 

“Wow, I thought you would’ve known. Guess what’s said at Qiu’er’s stays there too.” Jiaoqiu’s golden eyes gleam slightly at the mention of the downtown bar. No, Moze didn’t know. No, Moze isn’t currently outright staring at the man no longer in his peripherals. No, Moze cannot hear his chopsticks creaking beneath his grasp. “Woah, don’t break those.”

The fox eyes the crow warily. “Seriously. Cool it.”

Eight: you’re still not over your boyfriend cheating on you. In the drizzle beneath the canopy, this is how your new roommate diligently listens to how his work partner and resident cryptologist really can’t catch a break from bad men. 

“That includes you, you know,” Jiaoqiu squints at an unusually contemplative Moze. Flickering amber lights and the buzz of cicadas makes the assassin seem even more shady than usual. “You don’t have a chance, so don’t even try.”

“The hell are you talking about?” For someone like Moze, his piece of good fortune is that his voice remains steady in almost any sort of situation. This means that anyone hearing this man speak right now would naturally presume he’s affronted at Jiaoqiu’s response out of its complete implausibility. But on the flip side, those who’ve known Moze longer have learnt to watch for other irritated tells of his rather than a wavering voice. The subconscious flex of long fingers. Minute shifts in the elbows propped up on the bar. Biting the inside of his lip, just enough that it’s unnoticeable. But these aren’t things the assassin really takes stock of. 

For a brief moment, Jiaoqiu’s friendly smile drops and he peers at the man askance. Is he brain dead? “...Okay.”

And that is how the tall man—hunched over in the downpour to not let his noodles get too cold—first learns of matters of a more personal note of yours. In the rare grey skies that cast over the Yaoqing, it’s a chance to digest this information he’s learnt. 

But he doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t. 

・゜゜

A painful month passes for Moze. 

There’s nothing else to describe it—psychological torment is the only fitting description of your behaviour. Outwardly, nothing changes. He still hates you, and you still hate him—two arguing peas in a pod with a mutual dislike being the only thing in common between the two of you. Outwardly, behaviour-wise, nothing changes. Outwardly, appearance-wise, something does. 

He first notices it about three weeks after that waterlogged conversation with Jiaoqiu. There’s a faint aroma of sweet-smelling smoke on you—a long cigarette holder between your fingers as you read a thick book on the couch. He’s never seen the thing before in all your months together. Sure, the Yaoqing tobacco scent fades quickly away to not linger  in the case of a borisin’s especially sharp senses—but he’s never seen that sort of heavy-lidded expression on you before. When you glance at him, it’s usually irritatedly—not like this, where your glance is hazy and your lips are parted to blow plumes from your mouth. 

Shit. He doesn’t quite know why his heart speeds up. 

The second thing he notices is that every week or so, there’s a clinging perfume to your body: never your usual clean scent, one that clearly belongs to a different person. This is the same time he starts noticing you slipping on shirts with longer necks on missions—a darker imprint just about peeking above the material. 

He’s not an idiot. He can put two and two together. 

The third instance of misfortune is your habit of wandering around after a shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around your waist conservatively. Sure, the area from your hips to your knees is covered—but what about the rest? He finds himself growing more irritable during work hours. Marks not caused by injuries still bruise your skin; as you turn your back in the kitchen to make yourself a mug of tea, his eyes rove the dips and valleys of your back. Categorising each wound. Systematically detailing each little infringement on your skin. 

He doesn’t particularly know why. Maybe his obsession with tidiness crosses over to people too. 

・゜゜

It happens like this. Occasionally, a man as ill-fortuned as Moze receives gets a break. 

There’s a tumbler of whiskey on the low coffee table in the living room. Polished chestnut—if you had to describe it—with the light shining through the amber liquid just so, until it reflects onto the varnished surface. A cube of ice sits dainty in the middle, clinking as you tip the glass this way and that. 

“Don’t spill it,” the assassin murmurs. From behind the couch, breath ghosting just past your ear. You don’t shriek (perhaps he hoped you would)—you don’t even glance his way. 

“I feel like that was a redundant warning,” you remark brusquely, taking a swill of the liquor. It’s sweeter than it would’ve been normally: courtesy of the saccharine pipe nestled betwixt your fingers and the smoke still lingering in your mouth. “Were you hoping I’d jump?”

“Yes.” Short. To the point. Laconic. That’s how those outside this home would describe the man currently leaning down, hands splayed on the backrest of the couch. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, and you still haven’t done the dishes.”

“It’s your turn,” he adds, because he likes seeing how this man’s expression wrinkles in exasperation, likes that stupid cant of your head—for it means Moze has won this little encounter. It’s all because he strongly dislikes his roommate, no other reason. 

“You suck.” Syrupy plumes ghost his face as you exhale into his face above—he doesn’t move back, even as the traces of burnt caramel become far more prominent, even as it feels like you’re blowing him a kiss more than anything.

“And you need to clean and go to sleep before you’re late,” he grits out, more annoyed than he was a moment ago. He’d say it was due to your lack of responsibility, but this angle allows the loose robe to expose your bitten collarbone—like some stupid fucking trophy. “Like you always are.”

“I’m never late, A-ze,” you enunciate each word in such a way that makes it clear you’re not drunk—so clearly the nickname is just to piss him off. A last-ditch middle finger; a threat that hasn’t worked for some time, one that makes his stomach churn uncomfortably but not enough to admit defeat. “You’re just up stupid early.”

He goes silent, in the way he does when you’re right. Instead of saying anything, he instead plucks the glass from your hand: downing the smooth alcohol from where you drank it, enjoying how for once your mouth closes just like his. The pipe in your hand tilts this way and that as you take a drag thoughtfully—recovering far too quickly for his liking. 

“A-ze.” Like this, with wisps exiting your mouth and silk draped over you, you look good enough to eat. He freezes at the implication of his thoughts, freezes at the sound of the name blanketed in some gruesome replica of affection. He hates it; hates how his heart squeezes and a faint flush of red dusts his cheekbones. Aeons. 

It is common knowledge to not toss a starving dog a bone before it hungers for more. 

“What, you don’t hate it anymore? Here I was, hoping you’d turn tail and leave,” you sigh, theatrically despondent—much like you normally are. Too damn dramatic for your own good. 

So desperate, drinking your sorrows away as if that’ll possibly work. He scoffs, striding the short distance over so he can tower over from the front. 

“Maybe you just like calling me that,” he breathes. There’s a smile playing on his lips: the rare one he gets when he knows he’s got a point, knows when he’s right. It’s unconscious—he’s far too oblivious to notice it only occurs around you. 

“I do,” you murmur. “Bet it warms your heart though. No one likes you enough to call you that.”

“So you like me?” There’s an odd buzz in his veins tonight. As the orange lights from the street blink into existence, and the room is no longer illuminated by ‘day’, he’s glad for the darkness that conceals the heat in his face. Your clothing rustles as you stand—practically nose to nose with the man in front of you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze,” you mutter, and the heated breath from your lips fans over his sensitive skin—mingling with the tobacco wisps and alcohol vapour. He swallows. “It’s pity.”

“Pity?” he sneers. “Like how you sleep around to get over your boyfriend? That’s not pitiful?”

“Like I said—” your tone becomes frigid as you shift closer: until his chest brushes up against yours, until he can count every lash that glows amber in the incandescent street lamps, until he can practically taste the rolling fury off your tongue. Warm. Scalding heat ebbs from your body and flows right into his own. “—don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze.”

His breath comes in ragged waves. So close. When he stands so near to a human, it typically means he’s feeling life flow from them. Not like this; but he cannot bring himself to get away. 

He’s never been more thankful for his unwavering voice. 

“Don’t give bones to starving dogs,” he murmurs, mellifluous rather than jarringly annoying. “They’ll bite.”

Smoke wafts into his face as you survey his expression: flushed, brows knitted taut, lips still slick with liquor. 

“So you’re a dog, now?” Your fingers graze his chin, canting his head this way and that as he makes no moves to evade your grasp: heart beating miserably in his chest. There’s a strange sort of hunger in your gaze. 

He’s never seen it before. 

“No, it was proverbial—” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “—you know?”

“Just as desperate as one,” you mutter. Trailing your finger down until they graze his collarbones, it’s no wonder he flinches—and you stare at him, unimpressed. “If I tell people about this, your reputation would immediately disintegrate. How many years have you cultivated that stupid mysterious image?”

“Hah—who would believe you?” It’s true, not many people would—but alas, the important ones have already witnessed this man looking at you. 

“Jiaoqiu, but I guess he already knows what a loser you are.” And you miss how when he lowers his head, he looks like a completely different person—flushed visage mired in shadow, like the assassin he truly is. He’s staring right at you, unblinking as he watches the cruel movement of your lips. 

“Don’t talk about him right now.”

And so, you don’t. 

・゜゜

This is the prelude leading up to this particularly humiliating scene. 

Humiliating, because propping himself up on his elbows on your bed isn’t a position he thought he’d ever find himself in. Humiliating, because he never gets drunk, so why the hell is his head spinning? Humiliating, because for once the mellow deep of his voice is pitched a note higher—larynx taut with suppressed groans. Unsteady, in a way his voice has never been. 

You taste like the pipe still tipping in your fingers: candy-sweet and saccharic. But there’s also the heavy aroma of liquor on your breath, mingling bittersweet with the plumes of smoke wafting from your fingers. Beneath that, blood from a scrape on your lip—acrid and metallic. That is what he knows, so your lips moving gently against his feels so utterly foreign: and not just in the way they taste. 

When you pull back for air, his eyes are blown wide in surprise; his mouth has only ever been used to bite, after all. You seem to instinctively know this as you take a long drag from the stick, blowing the curls of vapour into his mouth when you pull back in: to induce a slight tingle into him presumably (but Lan knows he doesn’t need aid to feel that buzz). 

Languorous. That’s how he’d describe it—for it seems you only ever work lazily. There’s no hurry as you lick past the seam of his lips. There’s no hurry as both your scalding mouth and your arid fingertips trail downwards, past the vales of his tense abdomen. There’s no hurry—but Aeons he wishes there was, for your hand slipping under his shirt and against his stiffened nipples are much too damn slow. 

“Do you—do you even know what you’re doing?” he mocks, like he isn’t currently jolting as you roll the pink flesh between searing fingers. You raise a brow: lucid against the otherwise irritated thoughts. 

“Do I?” you copy his broken whine, gripping the fat of his tits coarsely while the rise and fall of his chest becomes ever so slightly more shallow. If only he could see himself right now: jarred at every turn, pupils blown out, and the residual sheen on his lips. Every damn hue of purple littering his neck and collarbone. And if only you could see better in this darkness—spot that obsessive fervour in his gaze, one neither of you are quite aware of. 

“Do you have any experiences to compare it to?” you counter, twisting your hand while he glares at you heatedly. Nothing. Quiet as a corpse when you make an irrefutable point. 

No, that’s right, you grin sardonically as you slip the long cigarette back into its place on your nightstand. Syrup drips from your mouth as you twine your free hand in his hair, tugging until he groans into your lips with his own in that mellifluous cadence. 

You’re harsh as winter. 

No, cruel.

Cruel, as you trail your hand from his chest to his waistband—palming him roughly through his pants. Cruel, as you pinion his hips against your bed to prevent them from bucking into your hand—fingers digging desperately against your sheets as you grind against him. Cruel, as you swallow each whine with your warm mouth: so sweet, so gentle even as you wrench your hand into sinew, flesh and everything beyond. He can taste the arid heartbeat through your mouth, and he’s sure you can feel his own—pulsing hotly as he yields his worries to you, just for a moment. 

Or two. 

He’s inexperienced, but even he knows what the tension in his abdomen signifies. The distinct tremors in his legs, the pain as he digs his nails into your thigh, the tightness coiling his body into rigidity. Puppet-like beneath your machinations: manipulated this way and that way with strings unseen. 

Fucking his hand has never felt like this. 

As he writhes, he greedily swallows you whole. Taking everything, including your bloodied lips, including the faint caramel tracing your tongue, including the strangled gasp as he grasps your nape with burning urgency. Aeons. He’s breathless; judged human lust far too soon. Against your brutal palm, the fabric of his trousers is slick with his release—wet patch a testament to his sin. 

Yet still you rock against him as he rides out the mind-numbing pleasure: limbs infinitely heavier from the tension suddenly all releasing. 

But he forgets how cruel you are. 

One final sweet kiss later—nails raking past his scalp and the other hand warmly pressed against his cheek—and you pull away with a lazy smile. 

“Go to sleep.” The directive jolts him awake, like a bucket of ice-cold water breaking apart a dream. Dissolved like candy, like the damn fluid in Penacony connecting the conscious and unconscious. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, remember?”

Like the cat that got the cream, you smile Cheshire-bright. A fucking riddle on your lips. “And I still have to do the dishes, remember?”

He’s left stupefied: numb lips, a reeling head, and an impercipient body. Once more, the shower he douses himself in is frigid—but nothing could be as cold as what just occurred. 

What the hell? 

He presses his palm to the lower half of his face in shock. 

What the hell?

Seriously, there’s something wrong with you. And as he glances down, he realises with utmost horror that his problem has not yet died down yet. 

What the hell?

Important things must be said thrice. Duplicitous in nature, Moze’s fate both turns for the worse and better simultaneously. 

The bone has been tossed. What will the starving dog do?

・゜゜

All actions have consequences. 

That is a proverb universally recognised by all walks of life: trodden on by kings, revered by alchemists, and vowed by the weak. You reap what you sow. What goes around comes around. Equivalent exchange. 

The natural outcome from that night is mutual silence. You don’t speak of that evening, and neither does he—face flush with implication, yet unwilling to actually divulge his thoughts on the matter. Sure, he finds himself with his hand attempting to recreate your rough friction (teeth clenched around his shirt as he paws at his lean chest)—but it never quite works, and all of his colleagues are privy to his especially curt mood. 

Joint missions with you are now a thing painful. Tense. 

The strings that bind him to you are taut with the feeling. Constricting, tightening, until he can sense their imminent breakage. 

This leads this unusual pair to this scenario. You, fresh out a shower and post the nth mission of this month. It’s only been three weeks since that night, and watching you meander about the kitchen with only a towel slung low on your hips is giving him heart palpitations. Steam curls from your body; each time you shift, he’s excruciatingly aware of how it appears just like that smoke from that night. 

“A-ze. What do you want?” 

That’s the golden question—what snaps him out of the trance—and makes him realise he’s practically pressed up against you from the back. No, scratch practically. His arms are on either side of the counter, pinning you in position as you continue stirring the fragrant drink. Feeling that damned sear of your skin is driving him into the throes of madness. 

He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck and not heeding the rivulets that seep into his clothes. So warm, he wants to murmur—but talking is for those who want to speak, and he does not want to. Not in this moment, where he’s appreciating the soap you used, the lotion spread onto damp skin, the inherent smell of you. 

His teeth graze the vulnerable juncture. You turn, and he can see your eyes waver, feel the rapid thrum of your pulse as you become aware of just how desperate he is. “A-ze.” And your hands roam his waist, tracing the taut muscles betraying his anticipation. 

His lips are heated as he leans into you: a snarling mess. Trembling fingers trace the expanse of your soft body, like you’ll ghost away just like the wisps you smoke. 

“Need you.” It’s not a plea—the rough deep of his voice makes him sound demanding, as arrogant as ever. “Haven’t I behaved?”

He’s so damn desperate as he grasps your body: bruising and fatal. He’s desperate as he kisses you heatedly, desperate while your hands brush past the feverish skin of his stomach, desperate as you push him against the couch—too hasty for the bedroom. Now, he chokes out. Now, now, now. Please. 

Pliant beneath your hands, it’s not exactly the longest time until he’s gasping beneath you. So tight, you may have commented: drunk on the sensation of him fluttering around your probing fingers. Aeons. 

He’s so malleable: arching into you as soon as you line yourself up. It almost makes you feel bad for him: feeling him flinch whenever you brushed past him, watching his face bloom scarlet as he saw the marks on his neck in the hallway mirror. Almost.

It’s because he’s so cute like this: drooling amidst all the broken noises as you slam into him. You’ve never quite seen him this dishevelled, not even during that night. Hungrily, he’s sucking you right in—paying no heed to suppressing the almost-pained moans dribbling past his open lips. 

What a mess. 

Physically, it can only be described as such. White globs decorate his flushed skin messily: pearlescent in the dim lights of the living room. He can’t even begin to count how many times his weeping tip has stiffened, not when you’re so damn insistent that he forgets how to speak properly. It’s not like you’re any better; each time you look down there’s that frothy ring that strings you two together. 

Emotionally, it’s also quite the mayhem. You don’t particularly know where to look when his eyes have that gleam in them—a sort of fervour that one rarely ever sees. Even now—pupils hazed with lust and eyelids lowered heavily—he’s staring right up at you, content as can be whilst you drill mercilessly into him. 

Fuck. 

“Come on, you—ah—can do better than that,” he taunts. As though he doesn’t look completely fucked-out, as though there aren’t tears leaking from his foggy eyes. You’re not sure where he gets his audaciousness from. 

He’s beautiful. 

“This is why no one likes you,” you hiss, sharply tugging his hair back to hear his surprised whines. Supplicantly, he does exactly what you expect. Loser. Aeons, he sucks. 

“Yeah?” he grins. “What does that say about you?”

“That I’m a no one from the Intelligenstia Guild,” you answer against his neck, feeling his throat constrict as he swallows. Though it’s only minutely, his nails dig somewhat deeper into the flesh of your back—marking you up just as much as you’ve marked him. An acknowledgement of your words. 

Well. 

You suppose you’ve always been drawn to the pathetic ones. 

・゜゜

[sharkenedfangs]

— SUFFERING FROM A FEVER, BUT I REALLY NEED TO FUCK A FEMBOY OR TOMBOY . . .

it’s getting bad again , robin . hnnngh . . . fuuck .

Running down bad with a fever, my words make no fuckin’ sense and half of what I’ll write will be incoherent, horny bullshit but I gotta— I gotta fuck a motherfucking femboy or tomboy in the ass. Either will do cuz’ sure I’m suffering like hell here, stuffed nose, annoyingly itchy throat and godawful temperature, though I’m pretty sure cummin’ inside one of those two or even fuckin’ better, both — will do just fine. Seriously, I mean it.

some slut shaming, weird gender roles, y’know.

FEMBOY ROBIN. Really, really gotta. Y’know, there’s nothing more embarrassing than to properly wear such a skimpy skirt in the own, tight confines of his narrow room with your watchful gaze carefully set upon him, but what’s even worse? Same thing in public, comfortably sat atop your thighs as if nothing is amiss because yeah, surely, nothing is. Nothing wrong with two boys casually hanging out which, said boy is humiliatingly dressed up like a girl right now — who no one truthfully knows nor is consciously aware of. Cock pitifully tented against the front of his summer dress, yellowish material darkening in shade from the oozing pre uncontrollably spilling forth.

And, it’s not like you’ll actually try anything with the towns-folks eyes hidden amongst the lurking shadows, right?? You wouldn’t— you’re not truly like them, the fuckin’ perverts. Shamelessly slobbering over every inch of his untouched, pristine skin, skirmish legs and nervous fingers tentatively messing with the hem of his silken skirt as if your firm grip isn’t steadily increasing along his plush thighs. Like, you’re not ‘discreetly’ spreading his legs apart so that an unfortunate passerby may consequently catch a perverted glimpse of his cock all flushed and leaking for you. Quivering tip, hot and red, trickling out more beads of pearly pre-cum to messily stain at the ground below. It’s not that he means to get all hard like that! Shit— this is solely your fault for deftly exposing him to a hefty crowd like this, your little, pretty ‘girlfriend’ you coyly call him as, might as well proudly show her cute, pink cock to the world if she’s gon’ be such a crude, perverted freak ‘bout it. Only deserving of the typical ‘girlfriend’ treatment which merely entails the usual of having his slutty hole stuffed full of cock, his own miserably swaying with every subtle bounce of your hips upwards, flushed against his ass. Whoops, better luck next time! Try not to dress like a little, fuckin’ whore if you don’t wanna get publicly fucked in broad daylight, Robin!

As for TOMBOY ROBIN? Would it have been any different for her case? Treat ‘em equally, they say — fuck, yeah — you definitely will, with your face snugly nestled between the gap of her thighs, wobbly lips and scrunched up features straining from every careful lick of your wet, pink tongue provokingly huffing against her bare cunt. Uh-huh? Pretty girl likes that or maybe, you should openly refer to her as your pretty, innocent boyfriend, arm contentedly slung over her shoulder because ain’t this how friends typically treat each other as? Promise, they do, Robin.

If anything, it’s an actual tradition to help each other out as good buddies habitually do, as per usual. Yeah, that also naturally involves your skillful fingers knuckles deep inside her drooling cunt, sickeningly wet squelch! of your digits fervently being sucked inside by the wet, welcoming heat of her pussy. Like that? Dizzyingly spreading her folds apart, relish in the slick dripping out as if you’re not the byproduct of it to begin with. Precariously squished against the bricked near in an isolated corner within the school yard and, hell— you’re acutely reminded of the possible consequences that may unfortunately come with it, knowing what that shit headmaster does to said students caught misbehaving or plainly fuckin’ on the school’s ground. Does it stop you, however? Fuck no, and neither will Robin’s adorable, feeble whimpers, bouts of ushered protests wistfully sent your way as if you’re not currently, crudely spreading her cheeks apart to display her two, needy holes for your viewing pleasure. Teasingly rubbing along the edges of her slippery cunt to then, promptly fuck her ass raw as a ‘boy’ should take it. What’d ya mean you want your needy, puffy clit rhythmically toyed with while you’re at it?? A real good boy properly takes what he’s given, alright? So, fuckin’ suck it up and keep quiet till then, ‘kay? “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear, do you, Robin?”

[dirtyclwn]

ok hear me out on taking the first time of a nerd who worships you, down to kiss the ground you walk on and how he keeps messing up with the zippers of his pants because he's a blushing mess, babbling something just to try not to embarass himself, the way his half-open eyes has little hearts in them as you go up and down on him

mouth open as they mutter out 'my god' and 'please you feel good please' while whimpering with trembling hands holding your hips or thighs, asking for permission even in their despair because he respects you so much, how you get to fix his glasses back to the place they belong when you are done with him and it melts his heart

[rodolfoparras]

Thinking about all the ways you can comfort Price | 18+, MINORS DNI

Content tags: boot worship, oral fixation, cock warming, Top!Male Reader,

Something goes terribly wrong on a mission leaves Gaz injured, has Soap almost captured- could’ve almost ended with Ghost getting killed in action.

He’s usually good at staying composed- that is his job but not this time around. He crumbles so easily under the weight of everything and prays and hopes you catch him

And of course you do.

You do so when he comes knocking on your office door while you’re writing reports, his eyes glassy and lips wobbly.

You want to say something- anything but you also know what he needs right now so you gesture for him to come over, as you roll back your chair from your desk to make more space for the burly man.

He falls to his knees and eagerly crawls over to where you’re sitting.

There’s still a teary eyed look in his eyes, cheeks just as flushed and lips tilted into a wobbly frown as he kneels in front of you.

But just as your hand curls in his hair, you see a small shift in his face. Wobbly lips parting in expectation and the flush on his cheeks bleeds out into his ears as if feeling flustered about something.

He already knows what’s coming and so do you as you pull him face first onto your crotch. A “thank you sir” escapes his lips before eager hands unbuckle your belt, fingers expertly unzipping your pants, pulling them down along with your boxers before taking your cock down his throat.

His glassy eyes shut close and something akin to a sigh escapes his nose as his wobbly lips suckle on your cock.

He’s in no hurry to get you off- matter of fact you don’t expect to cum at all- not that you mind as you roll back your chair in place making sure not to disturb him too much.

Every once in a while you’ll stroke his hair, praise falling from your lips as you work your way through your reports. He’ll respond with a hum or a nod, or not say anything at all, lost in his own world but at least his mind is silent in this very moment and that’s what he needs the most

He’ll even come to you late at night, and crawl under your sheets while you’re sleeping, expecting even then for you do catch him. The sudden action startles you from your sleep but you don’t panic, body and mind already knowing it’s Price. You can hear his heavy sigh and smell the cigar smoke on his clothes, and as you turn around to face him your suspicions are confirmed.

He’s sporting a wobbly smile, eyes watery and cheeks flushed. You can already taste the familiar words of comfort dangling at the tip of your tongue but you know those are not the ones he wants to hear so instead you sigh before you tell him turn around, palms cupping and spreading his behind.

He’s already prepared himself, all you have to do is slide into him. You roll your hips ever so gently and hold him oh so steadily. The goal isn’t even to finish its to have his body close to yours. He wants to feel your arms around his waist, your breath washing over his neck, wants the weight of your body to anchor him to the world. Once you’re all done he’ll beg you not to pull out, at least not now, says he needs to feel you close, needs to feel you inside. So you do as he says, pulling the sheets over your bodies while staying inside of him, kissing him gently on the cheek and drifting off to sleep.

It’s not just the sex that brings him comfort. It’s the intimacy of it all and that’s something you learned early on in your relationship. He just wants to know that you’ll be there to catch him when he falls- wants to know that you’ll be there to catch him before he’s even got a foot over the ledge. And you will. You always will.

And sometimes catching him means letting him clean your boots.

“Kneel” You say and just as the words leave your lips he falls to his knees, already grabbing the supplies and propping your boot clad foot on his thighs.

There’s no sign of tears as he undoes the lace, no frown on his lips as he grabs ahold of a brush to clean the grim off of the leather. The only exchange of words is the tidbits of praise you’ll give to him, to which he’ll only respond with a hum or a nod, feeling too content to even talk, mind finally silent and focused on something other than his fuck ups. By the end of it, your boot is glistening and he’s ever so gentle as he puts your foot down onto the ground.

Eventually he does speak, the words “thank you” falling from his lips as he buries his head in your stomach or thighs, breathing getting heavier as his hands ball up. For one second you think that you’ll finally feel the wet sensation of tears hitting the fabric of your jeans but when nothing comes you cup his cheeks, and look him in the eyes as you tell

“It’s alright” you know he’s listening but you also know he isn’t registering what you’re saying, head clouded with fear and worry.

“Not your fault” you say to him as you bury your fingers into his hair as if hoping to detangle the fears and worries from his head.

“Did all you could, John “ you say, hand ever so gentle as it caresses his hair.

Eventually his breathing will even out, eyes closing shut and for a moment his worries fizzle out.

At some point those same fears and worries will start bubbling to the surface again but you’ll be there when it happens, you’ll always be there

[roachesbf2]

Peter B Parker x Male reader Headcanons (18+, FtM Peter)

Peter's divorce he became a messy guy, with his home life, social life, and work life. Being a close friend you always offered to help him out with anything but he always felt bad accepting your help. He was a grown ass man and he could get himself back on his own two feet himself. It's not like he tried to push you away purposely but it was so embarrassing to admit when he needed help even when it was obvious to anyone else.

But sometimes being messy isn't a bad thing because good lord does his pussy make a mess on your face that you can't help but blush profusely at his reactions. At first he was very embarrassed and every few minutes on instinct would try to pull himself away because it was such a new feeling. You gotta grab at his love handles because he's so squirmy the first few times.

After a while though he's totally shameless, he loves riding your face or pulling at your hair to encourage you to keep going. He’ll moan and huff out a “Fuck give daddy what he wants,” Whenever he gets close, clutching his thighs righter around your face. By the time you separate, your face is a sloppy mess, a single string of saliva still connecting you before Peters grabbing at your face and initiating a makeout. He moans in between the kiss and his hands are all over your body, as yours are all over his as well. 

He loves the way you trail kisses from his stomach to his aching cunt. You make a mess of marks on his stomach to his happy trail, it’s not his most sensitive part but he still gets shy over the act. Having him groan out loud as you finger his sloppy cunt, pressing kisses and praise on his stomach, all while tears are forming on his eyes from overstimulation. 

Most of these encounters are at your own apartment/house because it’s the only way to get Peter to accept your help. So after you’re done fucking him silly and leave him boneless he’s forced to eat some healthy food you prepared for him before hand, making sure he’s taken a good warm shower, and having some proper sleep in the comfiest pajamas you have to offer him. He knows what you’re doing but right now, he’s not gonna complain about getting the world's best aftercare.

[marbl3z]

You'll be okay.

for anyone who struggles with those late night sad feelings. (Coughs. Me Coughs.), this one for you <3

Romantic || touch starved reader x your favs. || mentions of heartbeat, established relationship, cuddling, just really big comfort drabble ngl.

If you guys like this I'll do more of them! (W/ or w/o specific characters, it doesn't matter ^^)

" I've got you, sweetheart. "

" Stressful day? "

" Don't worry, I'm here. "

--

They'd pull you to their chest, brushing your hair aside, pressing a gentle kiss on top of your head.

"just rest for now..." they'd whisper, ever so softly in your ear. Twirling and stroking your soft hair with their fingers, gently hugging you to their chest. "It's okay."

You shift and turn to be comfortable, yawning softly as you rest your ear against their chest, the soft white noise of the fan in your room drowns out any silence there would've been. You close your eyes sighing gently as you attempt to fall asleep.

You hear the gentle thud and pulse of their heartbeat, your face flushes as you press your ear against their chest more. Your tired eyes open to meet their closed eyes, presumably they fell asleep holding you close.

Your eyes weld with tears, sometimes life just left... absent. But right now? Right now, your lover is holding you close, their gentle pulse, beating calmly and relaxed muscles holding you against them underneath the comfort of your blankets. You don't feel dull, you don't feel disassociated from the world, you feel real, they feel real against your body. You feel Safe.

You close your eyes, the warmth of your tears roll down your cheeks as you listen to the calming rhythm. Their hands held you from your back, you felt every inhale and exhale they made as they slept peacefully. It made you feel comfortable, safe, Real.

your heart calmed to a slow, soft rhythm, your breathing evened out as you slowly relaxed again, letting sleep wash over you. Limbs intertwined with your lover and a soft smile on your face.

--

I know this is short, and probably unexpected lol. I was listening to ASMR and I normally don't like it bc it makes me have anxiety but this specific one helped my heart rate calm down so yeah—

[st4rrth0ughts]

I did not just see a incest + underage aventurine smut fic that probably fetishes his childhood and his slavery days (i was too scared to read, whoever did read it pleae tell me if it was that bad or even worse)

like people have kinks n all but incest isn't a kink its a disgusting fantasy, op is delusional thinking all the criticism is 'hate', doesn't fucking matter if your 21 years old, i hope your hard drive gets checked, get help, genuinely.

if you support or like any of this plz get off my blog, people like you are disgusting, vile people, and i dont want you here, good day (fuck off to those incest supporters) <3

edit: i know i did not just see them say something about how they're in love with their younger brother or smth (i may have seen wrongly but still)

edit 2: oh my fucking god its worse (they do dad cest, gojo and jingyuan were victims of being the abuser oh my god)

edit 3: SHE GLORIFIES IT OH MY GOD who the fuck says 'its fiction so its okay!!!' the people supporting her are sick as well

[theres-a-body-here]

Rival Character, talking about the obsession (playfully): You better be careful😊 I might fight you for them 😉

Yandere!reader, who takes shit too seriously because they are a dumbass: THEY ARE MINE AND MINE ALONE!

[vividc4ndy]

Him putting you in a headlock because you were being a brat.

Him biting at your neck because you won't let him watch his movie in peace.

Him covering you in little purple kisses just because you're so pretty, so handsome.

Him asking you to lay on top of him shirtless, just because he likes how you feel. (Ex; cold, warm, soft, comforting.)

Him in a tired mess, trying to "demand" you come to bed but it just comes out in a whiny beg.

[followmybones]

i saw someone call ghost's eyes dead and cold like a shark's, and it got me thinking about simon's partner telling him that they're his little remora and that just like a remora to a shark, no matter how mean and scary he acts, they're always going to be stuck to his side. and so it becomes a new pet name. they become ghost's little remora, it's not the cutest pet name, but for the two of them, it means more than anyone else could ever know.

[cherie-luvv]

Okay I have no problem with people doing “Character x y/n”. The problem is, I saw a bunch of this with Newt as the character, and y/n is always a girl… well that’s kinda weird..

[vergilthelibrarian]

Every little thing that you have ever told him about you, stuck to his mind like glue.

Your voice would play over and over in his mind similarly to catching an ear worm from a catchy song.

Your slightly calloused hands were always cold while his were warm.

In his eyes, that meant you two complemented each other.

Fire and Ice.

In his eyes, the world was a dark place, but he didn’t see you as his light.

As his savior.

Leon saw the tiredness within your eyes, the dark circles that made you look slightly intimidating.

Oh, how he hated that. He would see glimpses of sparkles that would twinkle within your eyes, glimpses of heavenly light shining down on you whenever you smiled or laugh.

Happiness was such a perfect look on you in his eyes.

Just like you, he too suffered from the cruelty of the world. His eyes no longer shinning as bright and innocently as they use too. No longer filled with the hope and optimism that once made him feel invincible.

Now, he felt nothing but dread.

Dread of the future and dread of the unknown.

He has lost a lot of people close to him… but when his eyes laid upon you, he felt a pull and he couldn’t truly explain until he finally talked to you and once, he did, he realized that you two were kindred spirits and once came to that realization, he concluded that he couldn’t lose you.

He wanted to help you.

To save you.

He didn’t want you to continue to suffer in this world and to question your own existence because of said suffering.

Is this love? Obsession? Or him simply being empathetic? He couldn’t tell as he never put much deep thought about his feelings for you.

But if there was one thing he was positive about, was that you needed him as much as he needed you because in his eyes,

You’re just too important to him to just let die.

And if he must lock you away from this harsh world, then he’ll do it.

Your safety is his number one priority.

[hydrangeyes]

It's hot okay???

So if you don't know, Yes this already existed, my old account was deleted (accident but I can tell I won't be getting it back), and am reposting my old x male reader works!

I don't know if I saved all of them but here is one that was saved to my AO3 account.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

General, can apply to any fandom (I just had aizawa on the mind tho)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

“God your so fucking hot.”

“????? I’m just putting on a watch?????”

“Fuck yeah you are~”

“….n/n. I can see how hard you are. Seriously?”

“Mhh fuck take it off then put it on again.”

“are you serious???????”

[rodolfoparras]

I needed to share this thought/drabble??? about Price I just had. I just need him so much. (If this makes you uncomfortable I am so sorry!! And this is very much not a request!! More so me sharing my very nsfw thoughts about Price!! <33)

But old man Price right, he’s heard of your escapades. What you’re like in bed from soldiers who are a little loose lipped about their times with you. Knows how you like to top, and how you like to make sure your partners get their backs blown out and orgasm at least three times (if not more if they can handle it)

But he’s never bottomed, and is wondering what it feels like. While he’s not inexperienced with the process, he’s just never done it to himself. And he’s so curious and wants you so bad, but it’s not like he can come up to you and just ask! So with a bright red face, he goes online and orders a package.

When the package arrives, he’s all nervous and flustered. But he’s determined to know how it feels, and knows it’ll feel good. So he hops in the shower, cleans himself good, and dries himself off. Then there, on his bed, is his package with a dildo about your rumored size and a big thing of lube.

Then there he is, Old man Price riding it slowly, cheeks flushed and a small look of disbelief over how good it feels. Biting his bottom lip as small whines and whimpers build in his throat. Arms and chest resting against the headboard for balance, and him shuddering as he slowly moves up and down. Still getting used to the feeling RAHHHHHH

Again if this made you uncomfortable I am so sorry!! I apologize ten fold if it did!! Just let me know and I’ll apologize and never do it again!!

🐻‍❄️-

Polar bear anon if I could I would literally give you the world thank you so much for this thought

Bc hear me out sugar

Old man Price who’s only ever been a top because his partners have always preferred his size. He knew he was big, made his partners feel like they were being split open on his dick, and don’t get it wrong he loved making them feel that way but many times he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like taking a cock his size, always found himself carefully gauging his partners reaction wondering about the delicious burn they’d feel, watching the way their holes eagerly sucked him in, many time he wonder if he’d be just as eager if that were him, many times he’d finger himself to the thought of taking a dick the same size as his maybe even bigger, if he were lucky

Old man price having his room next to yours so he can obviously hear when you got someone there for the night, many times he can’t help but touch himself to the noises because at the end of the day he was a sad old man and this is the best he could get,cumming all over his fist and stomach pretending it was you fucking him into the mattress and immediately feeling guilty afterwards because it’s so wrong but he can’t get himself to stop.

Price knew it was fucked up getting a toy that’s rumored to be your size, , and for a while he keeps the toy in his closet unable to stomach the guilt eating at him but one night he hears you and whoever you brought for the night getting it on and he’s just laying there eyes squeezed shut cock hard and leaking between his thighs and he’s just thinking don’t do it John don’t do it John it’s wrong but he quickly finds himself falling back into the same old routine, reaching over his night stand where he keeps the lube bottle, swiftly pouring it onto his fingers before pushing two digits past his puckered rim

However this time around he can’t get himself to cum maybe because he knows that his fingers are nothing compared to your cock or maybe because he knows he’s got the toy bearing your size stashed deep in his closet,

he can’t even find it in himself to care as he walks over to get it, before quickly getting back in bed, pouring lube over the plastic before nudging the tip against his rim

and fuck it hurts, he didn’t even give himself time to prepare himself properly, too eager to just feel the thing inside him, whines and whimpers escaping his lips as he continues to take inch by inch, he doesn’t notice that the sounds from the other room have quieted down

But he cant even focus on anything else except for the fact that he’s starting to feel something, a lick of pleasure, a small jolt coursing through his body, but it’s not enough, nothing like he imagined,the toy is clumsy and barely hits his prostate and he almost sobs in frustration, fat tears trickling down his cheeks, fisting the sheets and wishing you’d been there to fuck him.

[kittenofdoomage]

Satisfaction

Summary: This fic is based on the prompt “You choose I love them all and reader; Commenting that he can’t keep up with you in bed and him proving you wrong”. With the prompt in mind, the character is anyone you like, possibly with the exception of Negan as he doesn’t swear or smirk enough 😂 I’ve avoided any descriptive characteristics… except for his 🍆 (I'm posting here because I can't put it on Ao3 without specific fandom tags)

Pairing: Any male character x female!reader

Word Count: 1455

Warnings: PWP with a dash of fluff

The hotel room had been his idea. After a year of barely being able to make time as a couple, both of you needed a break, so he had proposed the weekend away which you had readily accepted. For the first twelve hours, you’d done nothing but sleep, and after that, you had indulged in other appetites, feeling no need to leave your little sanctuary when you’d brought plenty of snacks and there was room service available. Netflix had been the soundtrack, not that either of you were paying attention to what you had put on, too busy indulging in each other.

Eventually, you needed to shower, and even then, you couldn’t keep your hands off of him. The time apart had made you hungrier for him than you thought imaginable, though his stamina seemed to be lacking as he followed you into the ensuite, as unwilling to part from you as you were from him.

“I never thought you of all people would struggle to keep up with me in bed,” you giggled, reaching to put the conditioner back on the shelf.

“Well,” he muttered, cheek resting against your shoulder, “for one, we’re not in a bed right now.” His hands gripped your hips as he ground his erection into your backside. “And two, I’m perfectly capable of keeping up, I just need to eat something.”

“Room service?”

“Depends if you wanna put clothes on.”

You pouted, turning to face him. “Do you?”

He groaned as your fingers slipped around his cock once more, stroking him until he was twitching in your palm. “Not really,” he breathed, pulling you under the spray and into a passionate kiss. “Fuck, you gotta stop, baby -”

“I don’t wanna,” you whispered back with a smirk.

His breathing got heavier, and you kept working your hand over his length, watching his face twist into a mask of pleasure. “I thought you wanted to get cleaned up?” he stuttered, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“Hmmm, yeah.” You tightened your hand at the base, looking down to watch his cock throb in your fingers. “You’re a wonderful distraction.”

Another low moan left him, and he pulled your hand away, pushing you up against the tiled wall to kiss you again, trapping his erection between your bodies. You whined into his mouth, attempting to grab his shoulders but failing when his hands instantly pinned yours to the wall by the wrist.

“You’re insatiable,” he chuckled, drawing back to look at you. You squirmed in his hold, biting your lip as desire made your core clench. “Look at you, you’re inches from begging.”

“You want me to beg?” you teased.

He shrugged lightly. “Tempting, but not necessary.” Closing the distance between you, he moved your hands so he could pin them both above your head, allowing him to press his free hand between your thighs, making you moan low in your throat. “How ‘bout you scream instead?”

Long fingers spread your folds, opening you up slowly, almost agonizingly. You mewled, still squirming, though you spread your feet a little more, giving him better access. He grinned, sinking a single digit into you, rocking it back and forth as your body reacted with a deep shudder. His name left you in a breathy moan, and he grinned, adding a second finger just to watch you squirm some more.

“I thought it was me that couldn’t keep up,” he admonished playfully. “C’mon, baby, you can cum again for me.”

Your breaths became pants, and you writhed in his hold, hips jerking as you tried to seek out more friction. His thumb pressed against your clit, making your whole body jerk, and you cried out before biting your lip, practically fucking yourself onto his hand.

“That’s it,” he praised, and you forced your eyes open, looking down to see him achingly hard, precum weeping from the tip of his cock as he brought you off. “Na-uh,” he chided. “You’re not getting any more of this until you give me what I want.”

You scowled in frustration, but the emotion quickly slipped away, replaced by ecstasy as his fingers kept working inside you. Hours of lovemaking had left you sensitive, almost overstimulated, and he knew it, though he didn’t stop, dragging you to the edge and holding you there just to watch you crumble as you fell apart in pleasure.

The shower spray grew a touch colder, and he caught you in his arms as your shaking knees gave way, chuckling at your lax expression. “Back to bed?” he asked.

“Mmhmm,” you agreed.

He stopped short of carrying you, helping you out of the shower so you could grab a towel. You didn’t care much for your damp skin as you landed on the bed, rolling onto your side to watch him approach. “What?” he asked, toweling his hair dry. 

With a grin, you pointed at his continued erection. “Need me to take care of that?”

“Insatiable,” he repeated, discarding the towel and crawling onto the bed, apparently as unconcerned with the sheets getting wet as you were. “At some point, we should do something outside this room though. It’s supposed to be a vacation.”

You shrugged, leaning in to kiss him. “Maybe,” you agreed softly, “but right now, I owe you one.” Pushing at his shoulders, you waited until he was on his back before straddling him, rubbing your pussy against his thick shaft. “Or two, I haven’t decided.” His answer was a choked moan as you lifted enough for the tip of his cock to catch on your entrance. It took very little maneuvering for him to penetrate you fully, and you sank down with a whine, straightening your back to feel him pressing deep. “Fuck,” you exhaled, letting your hands rest on his stomach.

“Yeah,” he agreed breathlessly, running his fingers along your thighs until his thumbs were almost framing your sex. His gaze locked on where you were joined, and when you looked at him, his pupils were so blown they almost obliterated the color. “Don’t move,” he ordered, using the pad of his right thumb to coax your clit from under its hood. You arched instinctively, and the point of pressure where he was buried made your eyes fall closed. He grinned, rubbing at the sensitive nub until you were almost quivering on top of him.

“S-stop,” you whimpered, shaking your head. “I can’t -”

“Sure you can,” he dismissed, applying just enough pressure to make you squeak.

You couldn’t stop the slow rock of your hips as he got you close again, and the pressure in your throat matched the pressure in your belly, a burgeoning scream that bubbled out of you with a pitch high enough that the neighboring room would surely have heard. Underneath you, your lover smirked his satisfaction, finally withdrawing his fingers and watching as you swayed on top of him. You could feel the wetness that had accompanied your orgasm, mingling with the remaining water from your shower, drenching his thighs and the sheets below.

With revenge in mind, you fixed a determined glare on him. “You’re gonna pay for that,” you seethed, grabbing for his wrists and pinning them either side of his head. He didn’t fight back, though he laughed at your movements, and you scowled, lifting enough to sink back down, cutting off his amusement with a well-timed clench of your pelvic muscles. His laughter dissolved into a low groan, and you smiled in triumph, shifting to repeat the movement.

The bed creaked as you started to ride him, protesting the vigorous actions, but both of you ignored it, suddenly engrossed in each other. You released his hands and he instantly pulled you down, framing your face with his fingers as he tugged you into a passionate kiss, and your bodies moved in sync, each of you chasing the same high. Every pant and moan increased until you could feel him thickening, and when the first spurt of warmth filled you, you slowed and sank down onto him completely, burying him deep as he came with his face pressed to your shoulder.

It took a few minutes for you to both stop, clinging to each other as your heart rate slowed to a normal level. Now you’d stopped, you could feel the ache in your thighs and lower back, and you laughed under your breath when he groaned at the stiffness in his own muscles.

“Okay,” he breathed quietly, “I think we’ve proved we can keep up with each other.”

“Had enough?” you teased, only to wince as you lifted off of him, landing beside him with a squeak of discomfort.

“Have you?”

“Yeah,” you confessed with a giggle. “Maybe I have.”

Tell me who you were thinking of when reading this 😉

[writeshite]

Teasing Billy butcher by pinning him to a wall, rubbing your crotch on his, whispering in his ear and grabbing his ass