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#clari gets mail
inkykeiji · 1 day
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Vox and electrical play I'm losing my mind
I KNOW he'd zap you when you get too close to cumming, a silent signal for you to stop nnnnnnnhhhjjhhhhh
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OKAY YES YES YES holy shit anon this is an absolutely delicious idea and my brain totally short-circuited (lol) when i read it ooooh my gosh
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, electrical play, edging, implied mindbreak, overstimulation words: 428
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he likes to use the electricity conducted in his claws—finds it more personal, more intimate that way—and will absolutely use it to edge you. he knows your body so well, has analyzed all of your mannerisms and micro-expressions right down to every twitch and quiver and whine, so he knows how to pull you apart and painstakingly put you back together. he knows that the trembling of your thighs means you’re teetering on the edge of ecstasy; that the scratching of your nails at his wrists, his shoulders, his chest means more, more, more, fuck me harder, faster, rougher; that the rolling of your eyes, whites framed by fluttering lashes, means your brain’s turned to a pleasant buzz of incoherent static.
as such, he knows exactly when to strike.
it’s so sweet to see the way you jolt with each zap—he swears it’s one of his favourite sights, the way your flesh ripples so prettily as the current surges through your veins. he swears he can almost see it, that bolt of teal electricity racing your blood, leaving sizzling sweat beading on your skin. 
it’s so precious, how a little too much will leave you stunned and stupid, body gone rigid for a few seconds before it mollifies beneath his touch again, shimmering cords of drool oozing from your mouth and crystalline tears embellishing your eyes, glittering as they catch on the jagged strikes of cyan lightning cracking around his form.
it’s so cute when you ask him for more even after his relentless assault, your body malleable and aching, fresh burns in the shape of his claws singed into your hips and thighs, your pleads heavy with pleasure and tangled in threads of spit. it makes him feel fucking incredible, invincible, how desperate you are for him, how devoted you are to him, even as he sears your mind to nothing but pretty blue cinders. it’s beautiful; you’re beautiful with him coursing through your body—his electricity crackling in your muscles, his love fizzing in your heart, his cock stuffing your cunt to the brim. 
but what he doesn’t expect is when his warning tases evoke the opposite of the intended effect—instead of halting your orgasm, it accelerates it, the sparks zipping through your veins coalescing in the pit of your tummy and forming one dense, pulsing ball of heat, furling tighter and tighter in on itself until it explodes, your cunt convulsing around him in the cutest spasms, gushing all over his cock. 
and, oh, he just learned some very valuable information. 
author’s note: alsooo i absolutely think vox has the ability to ‘store’ energy in his claws to save it up for more intense shocks, and i think he’s obsessive and methodical with the whole process, even as he’s fucking the life out of you, analyzing which type of shock he wants to use next; something big and stinging? something that’s just going to send tiny zaps of electricity shooting through your veins? which is best for the present situation? it’s all part of the fun to him ♡
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inkyclive · 8 months
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no but wait let me add. can you imagine being cid’s spoiled little brat at the hideout. like after he saved you, he always took a particular liking to you and it went to your stupid little head. he made you feel like his little princess, always showering you with attention and molding you into this devoted little thing to the point where you’re always ready to greet him on your knees in his office when he returns from a mission, head empty and eyes wide and bright for everything little command that falls from his lips.
and it’s almost funny bc like everyone else is so sick of you calling yourself his little wife. and maybe while you don’t explicitly say it you imply it so loud with your actions. especially when cid is away. it’s the way you put yourself in charge of maintaining his study and keeping his belonging fresh for his arrival. you’re always making sure everyone stays in line or else ‘cid won’t be happy when he gets back’. you 💯 call him daddy in some occasions and tarja is ready to strangle you. it doesn’t help that gav is just as delulu and follows you around like a little puppy.
and oh when cid here’s about this he just gets this smug little look. tells everyone he’ll deal with you before bringing you to his study. there he picks you apart, teasing you by calling you his little brat, his little wife who can’t keep his name out of your mouth. so he spends all night making you say it until your voice is hoarse 🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃
clari you are single handling fueling my unhinged behavior for this ff series ( once again sorry for the spam pls tell me if it’s too much ~)
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omg anon what a fucking DREAM
warnings: female reader, daddy kink, size kink, rough sex, extremely bratty reader, morally ambiguous cid, a lil bit of degradation words: 1.2k
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okayokayokay so the thing(s) i’m writing for him (one is completely focused on him and pure filth like i mentioned, the other he’s a main character but he isn’t the focus) kiiiinda touches a similar idea because i just think cid would LOVE being with a brat. a playful brat; someone who provides a bit of a challenge without it feeling like any sort of tedious work, someone who keeps him on his toes and is FUN without truly acting out (those genuine tantrums seldom but fierce, only occurring when you don’t get something you desperately wanted, and that’s when he gets to go really Daddy on you, all strict and stern and steely eyes; but he can’t quite quell the self-satisfied little smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, threatening to shatter his entire act to bits).  
i just feel like if you were his girl, you’d be spoiled fucking rotten, no matter how hard he tries not to. he just can’t say no to your pretty pout and your puppy dog eyes, and he LOVES the way you giggle and squeal his name or his title whenever he gives you something you want—it’s so goddamn precious and it makes him go all melty and starry-eyed for you <3 he’d treat you like such a little princess 97% of the time and i can totally see some people at the hideaway being a lil sour about it because you get special privileges, you don’t pull your weight, you’re protected by the boss and if anyone dares to say anything they will be respectfully but sternly told to cut it out. cid always has the perfect excuses, expertly crafted and readily on hand or in his back pocket, whipped out the moment anyone even attempts to criticize you for your lack of contribution and work. 
if anything, gav loves you so much that he’s even worse, snapping at anyone who dares to say a single bad thing in your name, effectively earning him the title of your lovesick guard dog; so even when Daddy’s gone, and you get to play queen of the castle, they can’t say—or do—anything at all. it’s rare that you’ll leave your cid’s chambers alone when he isn’t around, gav glued to your side, ever-protective and watchful, ready to bark and bite at anyone who even looks at you wrong.
you really are cid’s precious little princess, they spit between themselves in hushed tones, with screwed up faces and soured tongues, making the word sound like an insult. 
there are definitely moments where cid absolutely has to tell gav to tone it down or reign it in, because in gav’s eyes you can truly do no wrong, an angel among mere mortals, ready to bend over backwards, snap his fucking spine, to your every wish and whim and will. 
and it isn’t like cid doesn’t understand the other inhabitants frustrations, doesn’t listen to their complaints and criticisms—it’s just that he really, honestly, genuinely can’t help but give you every single thing your sugary sweet heart desires. that doesn’t mean he won’t scold you for your behaviour, of course, when you’re bent over his desk and sobbing into the wood, when he’s balls fucking deep inside of you, head pressed snugly to your cervix, his voice a peculiar mix of fond condescension. his reprimands almost come out as coos, almost come out as praises, as if he’s proud, as if he finds it all so fucking cute, because as much as he wishes he didn’t, he enjoys this sick little game just as much as you do. 
he calls you his spoiled little brat, his snobby little slut, his bratty little bitch as he pounds into you, thrusts so hard they send his heavy desk skidding across the floorboards, each ram of his hips shoving it another inch or so forward, wood scraping against wood.
he spits curses about how you’re so fucking pampered, how Daddy gives you too fucking much, is too fucking lenient with you, and now, what? you think you’re the boss all of a sudden? and oh, Daddy guesses he’ll just have to put you back in your place, remind you of who’s truly in charge, even though he knows his bad little girl will have slipped from her ‘proper place’ by morning time—an inevitable outcome, just like you always do, just like he always lets you, just like he always looks forward to. 
and he’s so big, his cock is so big, it routinely rips you apart no matter how much you’ve been prepped, and he just loves watching you take it, either down your throat or in your cunt, stuffing your orifices fucking full of him, until you’re bulging and gorging on him, and then he fucks himself into you some more <3 by the end you’re oozing with him—his cum and his sweat and his spit, a whole mess of Daddy, a masterpiece. 
and even though he knows he shouldn’t play favourites, knows it’s wrong and unfair and essentially goes against everything the hideaway is supposed to be, he just can’t help but get this rush of arrogant pride anytime you dote on him, just can’t help but mollify under your requests and demands, always dripping like syrup from the prettiest pout, smooth and sweet and slathered all over him. but everything you do is harmless anyway—it isn’t like you’re hurting anyone by being a brat, so what’s the big deal?  
so what if you prance around in those silly, slutty lil milkmaid dresses he buys for you—the ones that are an inch or two too short to be considered decent, the edges of your fluffy petticoat just barely visible from beneath layers of linen, the lacy trim of the pretty panties he always gives you (after he ruins yet another pair) teasingly peeking out from under the fluffy frills when you bend over?
so what if you get a little bossy in the name of your Daddy, voice ringing with the slightest implicit threats—a saccharine lil warning sewn into your words, ghosts of my Daddy will...! haunting each sentence—when the other bearers don’t do what you want? 
so what if you don’t exactly do anything, your job nothing more than to sit there and look pretty, Daddy’s perfect little trophy wife, ready to serve him whenever he needs it, wherever he wants it, however he wants it?
so what if your room sits empty and abandoned, reduced to nothing more than storage for the outrageous amount of dresses your Daddy gifts you, while you live it up and lounge around in his quarters? 
what’s it all matter? it’s just a bit of innocuous fun, isn’t it?
any sparks of guilt are immediately snuffed out as he sinks into your cunt or rams down your throat at the end of each day, silenced by your gentle lips pressing soft kisses to his slit, or your cute tongue wrapping around his shaft, or your precious little gags and sobs and coughs as he spurts load after load of thick, hot cum down your throat. 
because the way you look up at him, the way you admire him so much, makes him feel like king of the fucking world, your love and adoration rushing through his veins like a potent drug, endlessly reinvigorating him—and that, well, that makes it all worth it, sin and culpability and remorse instantly erased from his mind. 
and oh, god help them all when he puts a fucking baby in you. 
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inkyajax · 1 year
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Do thoma and reader ever get naughty without lord ayato knowing? 👀 What would he do if he found out??
yes, they do!!! ayato has given thoma clearance to fool around with reader whenever he or they want to—ayato is gone for such long hours every day, and he knows his poor baby has necessities that must be met, being as clingy and needy as they are (his poor, precious, pathetic little thing <3), and who better to provide those necessities than thoma?
ayato is a jealous and possessive person when it comes to his sweet lil baby, but these emotions do not apply to thoma; not when he places such extensive and extreme trust in thoma, not when he knows thoma’s loyalty to him has no bounds, thoma being more of an extension of ayato at this point than his own separate entity; consolidated, controlled. ayato would prefer that thoma at least give him a heads up when his two favourite people are about to get naughty—or, even better, call him so he can listen, or record it so he can watch later; when he returns home from work and would prefer his baby get their full rest, or when he has a moment or two of solitude to himself between meetings (/murders) and assessments and shippings—but asking for permission isn’t exactly a requirement. ayato knows that these things just happen sometimes, sudden and spontaneous; a spark that transpires before either of them can even comprehend the situation, so stark and severe and suasive that neither has a second to think about anything at all, bodies moving on pure, urgent instinct.
but it’s okay. thoma always gives his boss the rundown of the event in excruciating detail, and ayato is quite adept at using his imagination when the situation calls for it <3
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inkykeiji · 3 months
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Sukuna def calls you princess if he decides you belong to him. <3
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oh absolutely, and it’s a term he uses both condescendingly and lovingly. he is the king of curses, after all. it’s only natural you’re his princess.
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, master kink, rough sex, marking, toxic relationship, mention of spanking, fem!reader words: 738
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you’re his stupid little princess when you do or say something so adorably dumb, gazing up at him with absolute idiocy smeared across your face, contorting your features—mouth open and downturned, brow scrunched and heavy—as you whimper out but Daddy, why?, head quirked cutely to the side and confusion reflected in your eyes. because i said so, he usually responds with a condescending little pat to your head. oh, you don’t have to worry your pretty little brain about any of that, princess, he promises you. Daddy will take care of it all, Daddy will do all of that pesky thinking and contemplating and deciding; you don’t have to think about a goddamn thing. 
you’re his pathetic little princess when you’re sobbing after being split open by his cock and spanked raw by his hand, face buried in folded arms as salt stains your cheeks and claws pierce your hips, holding you high, holding you still. is your Master’s cock too big for you, princess?  he’s murmuring in your ear, the words hot and breathy as they curl around the shell, his question infused with a smirk. does Daddy’s cock hurt you, princess? he’s cooing out, sick and sadistic and sardonic, against the back of your neck, forehead pressed flush to the base of your skull as his hips pound, cockhead ramming against your sensitive cervix. can you take it for me, princess? he’s laughing as he nuzzles his nose against the hinge of your jaw, placing a chaste kiss to the bone. he wants you to show him how well you can take it for him; he wants to watch the way your sweet lil cunt struggles and stretches and swallows his girth. 
you’re his pouty little princess when you don’t get what you want, when he doesn’t give you what you want, eyes glittering with a thick coat of tears and lip jutted out in a trembling scowl, so deep it crinkles your forehead and puckers your chin. aw, is the poor little princess going to cry? he coos out through his own over-exaggerated pout, brow warped with false worry. is she going to stomp her feet and throw a fit because she isn’t getting her way? he kind of hopes you do, you can tell, can see it glimmering bright and sharp in his eyes, a sort of exhilarated anticipation that begs you to take on his challenge; go on, give him a reason to punish, make his fucking day, baby.
you’re his precious little princess when you stare up at him with adoring eyes, awestruck and shimmering with stars, and murmur out about how much you love him, delicate little fingers tracing his markings in clumsy caresses. the words are melty with affection, gooey and thick with spit as they dribble from your lips after he’s fucked you past the point of lucidity, mind turned to pleasant pink mush under immense pleasure and immaculate pain, body gone pliable and painted in strokes of him—ragged lines of red, blooming blotches of blue, purplish indents carved so deeply into your flesh that they’ll never fully heal, the tiny craters overflowing with sticky crimson. i love you too, princess, he tells you, the words quivering with quiet sincerity even as a sour sickness twists behind his sternum, true and real even as they are unfamiliar and unnatural.
you’re his pretty little princess when you giggle and twirl and strut for him after every single shopping trip, putting on a little fashion show and modelling all of the luxurious lingerie he bought you, lace clinging daintily to supple flesh, silk straps curling lovingly around all of your curves and edges, pieces encrusted with jewels and sparkles that catch on the light as you twist and turn for him. unblinking eyes watch you with a sort of conscientiousness, pupils blown huge and gaping, pitch black and ready to swallow you whole in a single glance. a smirk smears across his face, lopsided, leaning to the left and steadily spreading, as he relaxes back into his favourite armchair, thighs spread wide and a crystal glass of sweating amber dangling from his fingertips. c’mere, pretty princess, he demands gently when he can hardly take it anymore, when you’ve tried on several sets, when his smirk has grown into a grin and his cock is starting to ache, a large palm patting thick muscles. come give me a kiss.
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inkykeiji · 3 months
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sukuna is the walking definition of a complete terror to everyone but a touch softer for his baby. like he can deny it all he wants but he would do anything for his weak pretty princess
no truly he would, but he’d always be able to frame it in a way where he’s doing YOU a favour, acting as if he’s doing everything wholly and solely for your sake and not because his heart feels like it’s being wound with a fucking noose at the mere thought of you being unhappy, unwell, unsafe. he pretends as if it doesn’t send thorns of unfamiliar, unsettling anxiety tearing through his veins, as if it doesn’t overwhelm his mind and override his receptors and make every nerve in his body feel overexposed, hypersensitive to the slight change in the air as your aura shifts. it’s as though your mood saturates the atmosphere and he can see it, sense it, smell it—and he can’t fucking stand it. 
the room becomes heavy with your sadness, weighing down on his chest with such force he’s sure it’ll splinter his ribs, send jagged cracks like lightning through the bones and snap them into sharp shards. the room becomes scorching with your fury, flames that lick at his skin and fill his lungs with a seething rage, bubbling as it eats away at his oxygen and pours out his mouth in roars. the room becomes stifling with your disappointment, something that wraps delicate hands around his neck and crushes his windpipe beneath it’s deceptively dainty grasp, choking his sentiments. 
they’re all horrifically irritating feelings—he hates experiencing them and, what’s more, he hates you experiencing them—and so he must eradicate it immediately; destroy the source, devour the seed, dig it out by its roots with his bare hands and pull it apart vein by vein, tendon by tendon, with his claws until it’s dead and can no longer bother you (meaning it can no longer bother him, either). 
in other words, sukuna lives for hedonism, meaning he really doesn’t like feeling bad, so he wants to get rid of those bitter, aching, caustic emotions as soon as physically possible. what he fails to realize in his primal thinking is that he feels all these icky, awful feelings because he loves you, he can’t handle them because he can hardly bear the thought of you being even the tiniest bit upset, at anything, for any reason, he wants to eradicate them not only to make himself feel better, but to make you feel better, too—though it’s all subconscious.
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inkykeiji · 4 months
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sukuna defo has a corruption/innocence kink!!!
he just really loves ruining pretty things. he loves smashing them beyond ‘repair’, smearing them with him and soiling them beyond recognition. he loves staining them with his teeth and his claws and his palms, leaving behind everlasting claims of ownership—things that can’t be scratched or scrubbed off, things that won’t heal, don’t heal, permanently mangled by his fingers or his fangs. 
because bruises are pleasing, yes—splashes of blood pooling beneath thin skin in the primitive shapes of his fingerprints or his hands; and scabs are gorgeous, sure—glittering little rubies that encrust your skin, more beautiful than any piece of jewellery; but they’re all much too temporary. he needs things that are forever. he needs scars, raised and puckered and dimpled; he needs his teeth eternally etched into your inner thighs—thirty-two little indents, four deep gouges from the fangs. he needs his claws carved into your chest—a crude heart engraved into your left breast, his name singed across your neck, a permeant collar burnt into your flesh by red-hot talons. 
any pretty, delicate thing will do, but the innocents are his favourite. the innocents are his favourite, because they’re so pliable, they’re so pure, they’re so desperate to please. it makes them easy—easy to mold into whatever he wants them to be, easy to morph them into something that is his and his alone; his to create, his to destroy, his to resurrect. 
his. 
the innocents are naive and trusting, the innocents are willing; willing to submit, willing to comply, eager to be taught, to be good, to obey and earn their place. 
it’s an art, almost, he thinks, the utter corruption—destruction—of innocents. he likes the challenge, because each person is different; each person requires something else to shatter them to the prettiest shards of themselves in his palms. it’s like a reverse puzzle to him; instead of painstakingly putting something together, he is painstakingly deciphering how best to pull it apart.
and, oh, he’ll put you back together, of course, but he’ll put you back together his way. he’ll put you back together in a way only he knows how to, he’ll put you back together in a way no one else ever could. he’ll put you back together in a way that forces you to need him, dousing you in himself so when he does finally piece you back into a whole, it’s with him as the glue, ensuring that it is he who holds you intact, it is he who is irrevocably a part of you, forever, embedded deep in your soul.
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inkykeiji · 24 days
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Gosh, i just know sir Morningstar would be such a good gentle daddy, he would spoil you rotten, his sweet princess, and would make sure to make you cum sooo much with his fingers and tongue, he'd get drunk on it!!!!! Can't stop thinking about him
you are literally so right, anon!!! Daddy lucifer would be an incredible Daddy! he’s surprisingly attentive, constantly anticipating your needs, ready to meet, fulfill, and exceed them the very moment they arise. he prides himself on being as prepared as possible—because, really, all he wants to do is keep his little baby happy, healthy, and humble—and he uses significant mental energy and effort to actually pay attention to your needs and desires. being a service dom at his core, he derives validation and satisfaction from tending to you, caring for you, and pleasing you, so it’s imperative that he take note of your necessities and wants. often, this does veer into him spoiling you rotten—with the prettiest clothes, with the finest food, with the best mind-blowing orgasms—because he just wants to give you the entire fucking universe, but make no mistake; this doesn’t mean Daddy is a pushover.
because although Daddy lucifer is sweet and doting and desperate to please you, he will not tolerate disrespect. he will not entertain bratty behaviour. he will not dismiss disobedience, especially if it’s stemming from a superficial or selfish root. one warning—that’s all you ever get. one warning to cease such despicable behaviour before Daddy ceases it for you. 
Daddy lucifer has limits, and he isn’t afraid to say no to you if he deems it appropriate—if he thinks whatever you’re asking for is unhealthy or unsafe. test him any further beyond his Daddy’s decision is final, sweetheart, even if it’s just a sweet little but Daddy!, and you’ll find your ass stained with his hand or his cane. ultimately, what Daddy says goes, end of discussion. because that’s what a good Daddy does, right? 
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inkykeiji · 4 months
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Do you think daddykuna is the type who would spank you in public bc he likes humiliating you? Or would he think your cute ass is for his eyes only so he only does so behind closed doors?
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oh my gosh a delicious question!!!
character: sukuna x fem!reader warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, public spanking, humiliation, dacryphilia, daddy kink, general toxicity words: 809
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okay so i think sukuna is like, heavily into humiliating you, so i 100% think he’d spank you right then and there, in stark fucking daylight, no matter where you are. little girls who act like brats must be treated like brats, must be punished like brats, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. and that’s what he tells you, in that infuriatingly blasé lilt, the beginnings of a smirk toying with the left corner of his mouth. 
but daddy! you’re whining, a thick shield of tears already glazing your eyes, rolled into drops by your rapid blinking and catching in your lashes, glittering so delicately as they anxiously flutter. not here! not now!
yes, here. yes, now.
you can hear the amusement and pride staining his voice; just faint notes of it infused in his words, but evident nonetheless as he takes you over his knee in the middle of a busy park on a sunday afternoon, your thrashing and wriggling not hindering him in the slightest.
he’s irritatingly unperturbed as he flips your dress up and yanks your panties halfway down your thighs, the motion simultaneously smooth and sharp, entirely unaffected by your pathetic little whimpers and choked out apologies, nails piercing his skin as your fingers curl and tangle and tug at his shirt.
it’s your own fault; you know it is, he’s saying as one large hand kneads one of your asscheeks, priming the area, collecting curious glances. you shouldn’t have misbehaved, prancing around in a manner that ensured the skirt of your dress fanned out wide and rippled, just enough to gift him with teasing glimpses of the dainty lace molded to your skin. 
you shouldn’t have acted like such a stubborn fucking brat when he had warned you, calm and cautious, not to play with daddy, if you hadn’t wanted everyone to see your sweet little ass, he’s telling you over your half-stifled sobs of humiliation, chest stuttering against his strong thighs, muscles flexing beneath you as he plants his feet, readjusts his hips, places a heavy hand on the small of your back and presses down hard, pinning you in place. that must’ve been what you were aiming for, right? you wouldn’t have behaved in such a way if it weren’t, right?
you should’ve known better than to mess around with daddy, especially in public. you should’ve known that he’d take it seriously, instantly—no matter where you are, no matter who can see, no matter what may follow.
each slap is harder than the last, harsher than the last, echoing louder and louder with every collision of his palm against your skin. every impact shoves another pitiful little sound from your chest, lodging in your throat, clawing at the back of your teeth, and aw, don’t smother them, baby; we want to hear you. 
it’s excruciatingly embarrassing, the eyes of bystanders and onlookers slicing into your bare, exposed skin, gazes and glares and gaping depositing trails of scorching pins they glide over your body, slow and scrutinizing.
it’s inescapable, the absolute agony their attention bestows upon you, your puffy, salt-stricken face nuzzling awkwardly into your daddy’s ribs, desperate for some semblance of protection.
please, daddy, please, daddy, please, daddy, you’re weeping out, pleads strung together in a steady stream of drool. stop, daddy, stop, daddy, stop, daddy!
you know he won’t, you know he’d never, not one to go back on his word once he’s solidified it, but you just can’t help it, entreaties pouring from your lips instinctively, uncontrollably, as natural as the snot oozing from your nose and tears blurring your vision. 
you can feel his cock, hot and hard and throbbing against your tummy, but you know your sobs and whines and yelps are only half the exhilaration.
because sukuna loves showing off, sukuna gets a serious kick out of displaying what’s his; what he owns, what others can’t have, can’t touch. those looks of disgust and disbelief, of envy and enrapture, send a sick thrill surging through his veins, because there’s one thing they all have in common.
awe. 
it’s the most divine feeling, makes his flesh tingle in the most delightful way as everyone admires him, admires his strength, admires his terror, admires his things—how powerful he is as every smack! rings out among the space, how pretty you are as your cries chase after the resounding sting. 
it’s grotesque. it’s gorgeous. they can’t tear their gazes away from it.
possessiveness emanates off his body in dense waves, their domineering presence polluting the atmosphere and leaving it stifling—you can look, but don’t even think about touching. 
their murmurs only amplify their stares, the gasps and whispers and grumbles, saturated in incredulity and audacity, in outrange and offence, only feeding his insatiable ego, bloating it with an intoxicating arrogance, ever-growing hubris gorging on their attention.
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inkykeiji · 11 months
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What sex positions do you think would work best/would they enjoy more in a trio between dazai-chuuya-reader??
ANONNN oh my gosh ahaha well!!! i think they’d enjoy spit-roasting the most (aka where one is in front, fucking your mouth (probably chuuya more often than not), and the other is behind you, fucking your hole (probably dazai more often than not), and you are on your hands and knees in between them)!
they love that they can both see your whole body beneath them, being stuffed full from either end—cunt gorging on dazai’s cock, cute little hole stretched so wide that it’s fluttering; gentle little pulses that have dazai chuckling, such a tender motion contradicted by the way he’s fucking you raw, producing a sweet symphony of squelching and slapping, cock shimmering with your slick; throat choking on chuuya’s, lips straining around his thick shaft, the prettiest jewels of drool collecting in the corners of your mouth, more and more and more until it’s too much, and then they’re rolling down your chin in fat, glistening streams to drip off your jaw, stringy and sticky, or be caught by the pads of chuuya’s thumbs and smeared across your skin.
their pumping hips take turns shoving you back and forth in perfect rhythm, like a pretty, precious, mindless little doll; chuuya’s cock rammed down your throat, dazai’s cock slamming against your cervix <3
such a position also enables them to see each other, too, allowing them to use their eyes and expressions to communicate with one another—those infuriatingly simple yet mysterious looks that say so much with so little—and coordinate accordingly. a quirk of chuuya’s head has dazai’s fingers finding your clit, grinding fast and hard ovals into the swollen lil nub; the raising of dazai’s eyebrows has chuuya tangling slim fingers in the hair at the crown of your head and yanking, so far back that dazai can see your pretty, pained expression, too.
it’s a sort of hellish heaven, being stuck between the two of them, and your body is wrecked and ruined—utterly used—by the end of it, skin a stained canvas of their names, their claims, signed and splattered in blotches of violet and navy across your hips and jaw and ass, but you wouldn’t have it any other way <3
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inkykeiji · 1 year
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DAZAI AKU AND READER DYNAMIC AGAIN 😧 not a request but i’m wondering how dazai would punish aku and if reader would be involved like forcing aku to watch as he touches them or only allowing aku to eat the come from readers 🐱 after he nuts in it. 🥱
anonnnn thank u so much for this i have SO much to say oh my gosh
tw: mentions of caning + physical assault, daddy kink, overstimulation, noncon, cuckholding kinda???, orgasm denial, dacryphilia, toxic relationships, cum eating, honestly Daddy dazai is just brutal. 
words: 1.1k
SO! the punishment that i had in mind at the end of that piece specifically was actually purely physical—it was caning! really fucking brutal caning that borders on physical assault. i’m not gonna talk about it much tho because HEHE between u and i, i am currently writing a lil piece that deals with like,,, the aftermath??? and the punishment itself is kinda gotten into in that oneshot so c: 
BUT I LOVE BOTH OF THESE IDEAS SOOOOO MUCH and i could totally see Daddy dazai definitely using either of these as punishment so let’s get into that because i have many Thoughts!!! 
okay first of all forcing akutagawa to eat reader out only after dazai has cum in her/you is so sick and sadistic i love it SO much oh my goddd especially since you know he’d be more than eager to do it, to please Daddy, to receive that precious praise dazai is so goddamn stingy with giving him. so he’d be so fucking enthusiastic as he sucks and slurps Daddy’s thick cream from your cunt, making a real mess of his face, cheeks and chin glistening oh-so-prettily with your and Daddy’s combined essence, tongue unfurling from his mouth to clumsily lick at his own stained skin, anywhere and everywhere he can possibly reach, slick muscle flexing as he stretches it as far as he can, desperate not to waste a single drop. 
and he’s holding your thighs open with such force that his fingertips are sinking into your flesh, nails carving deep crescents in their place, bruises blossoming beneath his grip, sowed deep in the tissues. your muscles ache from how unbelievably wide he’s stretched them, but he won’t let you close them, won’t even allow you a moment of rest at all, a man on a mission—your comfort doesn’t fucking matter, not when Daddy has a demand that needs to be fulfilled.
he eats you out until you’re fucking spotless, not a single ounce of Daddy’s cum anywhere, not even splattered on your inner thighs, because akutagawa, good boy that he is, sopped that up with his tongue, too. he’s almost obsessive with it, eating you until you cum again, until he’s sure your juices have flushed every last bit of Daddy from your body and into akutagawa’s tummy, safe and sound and where it should be. he’ll get in trouble for that, too, of course—you were never supposed to cum, he was never supposed to make that happen, and it’ll be his fault for allowing it, for procuring it, no matter how he tries to spin it. he knows better to argue with Daddy once Daddy’s made up his mind, but he just can’t seem to help it when it comes to situations involving you, whiny complaints spilling from his lips before his brain can even sift through them, voice stringy and thin as he cries about how it isn’t fair! and she should’ve stopped it herself! and it isn’t his fault she can’t control herself! 
at the end of it all, though, he’s proud of himself irregardless, proud of the stellar job he did eating you clean. and even though he scolds him callously, Daddy’s proud of him, too <3
ON THE OTHER HAND, i also really love the idea of Daddy dazai fucking reader over and over and over again and not only making akutagawa watch but also instructing akutagawa to not touch himself at all, in any way (and yes, this includes not shifting and twitching his hips up, rolling them into the air in tiny, pathetic little motions so the head of his cock grinds against the tight denim of his jeans). i love it, because it’s a double whammy in so many ways: in addition to the obvious, he also has to watch as his Daddy fucks the favourite, he has to watch as his Daddy plays with his toy, feeling left out and neglected and lonely. he has to watch as Daddy pushes his toy well past the point of pleasure and into a whole ton of pain, easily reminding akutagawa in that infuriatingly charming, slightly breathless voice that your pain is his fault (v touya-nii of him LMAO).
at first, he acts as if he doesn’t care, and he tells Daddy so, the words spit from his lips with such derision it sours his face, features screwed up tightly. it doesn’t matter to him, he says. he doesn’t give a fuck if she’s in pain, he swears. 
except by the third orgasm you’re sobbing out his name, dainty fingers grappling for him in cute little claws that scratch at the mattress in their haste and leave little divots in their wake, sheets ripping audibly, and ryuu! ryuu, ryuu, it hurts, make Daddy stop! 
but this, this pure emotional torment, is a part of his punishment, too, he realizes. 
because then Daddy’s shushing you, gentle and sweet and all of the things he never is with akutagawa, large palms cushioning your sweaty cheeks as he murmurs to you, voice silk and syrup. 
you can do it for Daddy, can’t you, sweetheart? you can cum one more for me, right? you want to be good for me, don’t you? 
and that hurts, too. watching Daddy be so fucking nice to you, watching daddy dole out praise to you the way he doles out punishment to akutagawa. it isn’t until dazai’s sure he’s fully broken akutagawa in every conceivable way that he finally stops, takes the shivering, snivelling man into his arms and onto his lap, akutagawa’s chest shuddering beneath the force of the sobs he keeps trying so desperately to shove down, long lashes scraggly and weighted with fat tears.
you did good, baby, he’s whispering as slim fingers pop the button of akutagawa’s jeans, hand wiggling beneath the material to pull his cock free a moment later. Daddy’s good baby boy, so precious, so fucking pathetic, aren’t you?
yes, yes, yes, he’s sobbing into dazai’s neck as Daddy strokes his aching cock, hard and fast right at the top, thumb grinding little circles into the slit. his words are nothing more than tangles of spit oozing all over Daddy’s skin as they leak, uncontrollably so, from his lips, but that’s alright, Daddy doesn’t mind the mess today, humming out condescending coos into inky strands as he encourages akutagawa to cum all over Daddy’s fist.
and, oh, he’s so fucking hopeless for his Daddy, cumming after a mere three pulls of his cock, thick and sticky and so much, it’s so much for such a skinny boy, almost embarrassingly, disgustingly so, don’t you think ryuu-kun? 
of course. of course it is; he’s disgusting and deplorable and so fucking desperate, but he did it; he’s Daddy’s good boy, and that’s all that matters <3 
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inkykeiji · 4 months
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omgomg clari about that ask of sukuna phisically hurting reader how do you think is aftercare after putting her through all that pain? if there’s any haha
ooooh anon this is SUCH a good question!! well first, i think if sukuna ‘fell in love’ with you (aka became extremely possessive and obsessive with you, utterly infatuated with you, completely addicted to you, the closest he can come to ‘true’ love) he would be unbelievably thorough with you. yes, he loves hurting you, loves the way your facial features wring up into the cutest little wince, loves the way his name splinters into the sweetest little yelps in your throat, loves the way you sob and sniffle and stutter when he screws his face into mock concern, lips jutted out in an exaggerated pout and forehead wrinkled with false worry as he coos out aw, sweetheart, did that hurt? but at the end of the day, you’re still his. you’re still his to take care of, his to fix, his to make better. and despite how sadistic and malicious he is, right down to the very marrow of his bones, right down to the gaping black pit where his soul should be, he still takes meticulously good care of his things. 
as such, he always mends those of his things that he breaks, and he does so with a rigorous sort of fastidiousness. he’s damn near methodical with it, and it would feel cold and sterile if not for his quiet murmurs as shockingly gentle fingers, claws retracted, piece you back together, patch you up, put you in the right order again. so good, baby, you’re doing so good for me, he praises, words void of their usual, characteristic tinge of patronization as he snaps those tiny, tiny bones back into place, sets them straight and secures them in a splint.  
and you, you’re so sweet, so soft, so stupidly naive, consistently lulled into some sort of inexplicable sense of safety and security and solace every single time, that it makes it that much more fun to shatter you to absolute bits again, to have you shuddering in his arms or his lap as you wail into his neck and cling to the demon that desecrates you, that destroys you, over and over and over. but it’s all okay, because you know as much as he loves to ruin you so beautifully, to smear your face with spit and sweat and tears, to leave your body mangled and stained and scarred with him—thick gouges from claws down your back and over your ass, imprints of his fangs engraved in your neck, stamps of four handprints encircling your arms and wrists and thighs—Daddy would never break you beyond repair, Daddy will always make it right again, no matter what. 
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inkykeiji · 5 months
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oh, to be yakuza mikey’s sex slave…he’ll never let you let him…or his house
why on earth would you ever want to leave his mammoth, monstrous mansion in the middle of nowhere? it has everything you could ever need, and then some, he’s absolutely sure of it—tennis courts and skating rinks and indoor pools and bowling alleys and state of the art appliances + electronics and a multi-acre garden complete with a greenhouse—what more could you possibly ask for, honestly? and all for the low, low price of allowing him to use you whenever he pleases, however he pleases, and wherever he pleases, no questions asked? all for the downright menial cost of belonging to him, solely and completely; of being owned by him—which is to say, of being taken care of by him, all of your needs met and all of your decisions made for you, none of that pesky thinking required? that’s not too high a price to pay, is it? that’s not a bad trade off at all, right? he certainly doesn’t think so.
nevertheless, yakuza mikey understands that you’re ‘bored’ all alone here—he does work such long, taxing hours, and there are some times where he doesn’t get to see you for a full forty-eight hours or so (those instances are always the worst, in his opinion)—so he agrees to let you out every once in a while, provided that you agree to some slight ‘modifications’ on your cell phone. it’s nothing major, nothing huge, he promises you. they’re so inconsequential, he claims you won’t even notice anything has changed at all.
his adjustments to your device are security related, safety related, or so he tells you, sternly insisting that you don’t need to know any information beyond that, for your own good, he says. that’s because they aren’t for you, they’re for him; tracking devices that alert him of your every minor movement and full access to your camera and microphone, so he can keep you monitored wholly and completely, in all ways, at all times.
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inkykeiji · 11 months
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okay but you can't tell me daddy dazai isn't GREAT at aftercare. he can take you apart and put you back together again and he loves to spoil and coddle you too. <3
with you, yes, absolutely 100%!!!! he would be the fucking sweetest and he’d already have multiple potential care plans in place before you even begin the scene, each tailored to a specific outcome—the ways he thinks you’re most likely to react by the time the scene is over, with a few of them branching out into sub-plans based on what turns the scene may take as it develops. each aftercare plan is attuned to what he knows your specific set of needs will be by the end of him fucking you into the prettiest shattered shards of yourself. if the session ends up being purely psychological torture then you can bet your ass he’s got a whole novels-worth of words of affirmation written on the walls of his skull, just waiting to be spoken to you. if the session is more physical in nature then he’s prepared with your favourite nutritious snack + a bottle of water + first aid materials. if it’s any combination of both he’s prepared with whatever percentage of each he believes must be met; various aftercare blends each customized to that particular result.
afterwards, after he’s sure your initial, instinctive and most immediate needs have been throughly dealt with and resolved, it’s whatever you further need—your favourite comfort film, or cozy cuddles beneath fluffy blankets with him and your most cherished stuffy, or tender kisses scattered across your marred skin and mangled limbs, gentle lips so healing, so loving as they skim across your body, each stamp of them against your flesh leaving a soft, small blossom of warmth in its wake; whatever it is, whatever you want, he is more than ready and willing to give it.
i genuinely believe that like, 97% of the time this man is fucking brutal and sincerely, severely sadistic in the bedroom; loves teasing you to the point of tears and then far beyond that, staining his name into your skin through deep indents beneath all 32 of his teeth and splats of broken blood vessels beneath his fingertips, can be downright fucking cruel when he wants to be, when the mood strikes him (and takes genuine delight and pleasure in it all)—and as such, being a god at aftercare is a must, when it concerns you, anyway.
with akutagawa tho?????? eeeeeee probably not
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inkykeiji · 1 year
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tomura’s the type to buy his princess a squishmellow but still get jealous over a stuffed animal lmao i love him
LITERALLYYYYY LMAO no he so is tho like 100%. he’d be like, begrudgingly excited about it at first; your favourite holiday is coming up, which means that the company just released their newest line of limited edition squishes, and you’re practically vibrating with desperation to own one.
the department store is busy, and you’re unbelievably indecisive, humming and hushing as you bounce from one stuffie, to the next, to the next, then back again, dragging him along with you.
with a furrowed brow and a steady stream of breathy grumbles, he’s trying to act so annoyed and so exasperated and so grumpy but you are just so fucking cute—eyes glittering and smile dazzling with one of your hands wrapped tightly around his wrist as the other reaches, fingers curling and vying in a little grabby hand that grasps at all of the different plushies, each procuring a sweet little gasp or giggle—that he just can’t quell the love tugging at the corners of his mouth or the adoration melting his glare or the fondness smoothing out his crunched forehead.
it‘s a treat to see you like this, innocent and authentic with buzzing excitement that thrums through your veins and radiates off your skin in delicate little droves, infectious as it seeps into his own and snuggles into his soul, warming his core. teeth sunk into your bottom lip, hesitancies are gnawed out in a self-conscious murmur, and tomura frowns, giving a little yank on your arm and scanning the toys warily. 
“i don’t understand what the problem is.”
“i just—i can’t decide! i want to get the best one, my favourite one, but i just—” turning towards him, your eyes are wide with worry, forehead creasing under the concern of making the wrong choice. “i want them all!” 
tomura sighs, rolls his eyes like you’re so silly, so stupid, but that fondness is back again, tender and warm and doting as it spreads unruly across his cheeks, ruby gaze syrupy with affection. 
“then i will get them all for you,” he says, simple and final.
and so, he does.
you’re still cute afterward, of course, when you’re cuddling one of the stupid things to your chest, palm rhythmically petting it’s tummy, or when you’re giggling and whispering to yourself as you hug it tighter to your sweet lil heart, lips spilling secrets and hopes and dreams into silky plush. but no matter how cute you are, tomura is unable to soothe the twinge in his chest as envy drags it’s claws slowly, steadily, almost gently down the inside of his ribcage. it’s never long before the sting becomes unbearable, before the sting has him ripping the dumb squishmallow from your hands and replacing it with himself, arms wrapped firmly around your form, your body pressed hard against his chest, lips grumbling low and rough into your hair about how he feels left out and he missed you and isn’t he a much better cuddle buddy than that foolish little stuffed animal?
of course, you’re telling him as soft palms stroke his forearms and sweet lips scatter precious kisses across his collarbone. of course he is; he always is, he always will be. 
and yet, despite all of it, he repeats this process every single time a new limited edition line-up is released that he’s sure you just have to own. because even though he dreads the bitter jealousy he knows will inevitably begin corroding his lungs the moment the two of you arrive home, it is nothing compared to the sunshine that pours from your smile when you gaze upon these silly little puffs of plush, or the bubbles of warmth that froth in your throat and out your mouth when you coddle one in your arms, or the look you give him when he gifts you another one, eyes overflowing with pure, unadulterated love, so much so it scalds his skin and singes his envy, snuffs out all of those acrid feelings and replaces them with a tender heat that glows pleasantly in your presence. 
and that, well, that will always be worth it. 
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inkykeiji · 9 months
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idk if ur still accepting requests for the june prompts, but if so can u do #10 dark hair w bmb dabi?
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prompt: dark hair series: break my bones warnings: just angst! words: 475
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“White roots?” 
“Hmm?” he looks over, tipping his head back against the couch as his head lolls towards you, sharp jaw and Adams apple on perfect display. 
“Your hair…I just—I thought you had naturally dark hair.” 
“Oh,” he leans forward, subconsciously raking a hand through the inky strands, fingers curling at the roots and giving a short tug. “Uh, yeah.” 
Why do you dye it? You want to ask him, curiosity gnawing a hole through your tummy as the words crawl up your throat, but he’s staring at you with this look; an expression you haven’t quite seen before, eyes almost pleading with you in desperation not to ask. 
Something sinks in your chest, thick and leaden—he looks so melancholic, gazing at you with sparkling sapphire eyes, forehead wrinkled just a little in concern; or maybe it’s fear, afraid that you’re going to ask the question he’s so clearly dreading, lips twitching downwards into a tiny frown.
“Cool,” you say with a shrug, aiming to keep your tone light and indifferent. 
Tense shoulders relax as he exhales a soft breath, slow and steady, through his nostrils, and you watch as his jaw flexes twice with a heavy swallow.  
But later that night, when the whipping winter winds envelop the condominium and quiver the windows beneath their force, when the veil between night and morning is at its very thinnest, he tells you, sudden and unexpected, confession murmured out into the spacious living room, twining with the mumbling undertones leaking from the flickering television.
“My mother had white hair.” 
And even though it’s said quietly, barely more than a singular breath exhaled from his tongue, the gentle revelation makes you jump, serendipitously yanking you from sleeps hazy embrace.
You nod, nuzzling your cheek into his thigh, a silent confirmation that you heard, a soothing encouragement to continue, the moment pregnant with suspense, as if there’s something else clinging to his teeth, fighting to leave his mouth.
“My eyes are from my father,” he grits out. “I wish I could say that’s the only trait we share, but…” he trails off, and you don’t push, instead tracing soft nonsensical patterns on his leg, allowing him the space to think, to mull, to continue if he wants to, or to cut it short. 
But that’s all he says, just a shard of his life, sharp and gleaming in your palms, pulled deep from where it was lodged between his ribs. 
And you think you’re alright with that. You think, maybe, that you can collect fragments of him—an immaculate jigsaw, gifted and won bit by razored bit—and piece them back together with slow, careful, tender hands, mindful not to shatter them further, not to snap any between your fingers as you return them to their rightful place, gradually revealing the masterpiece that is Dabi.  
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inkykeiji · 3 months
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yeah someone having the audacity to call reader but imagine reader having the damn audacity to tell touya-nii "dont answer it!!"
jeeeez anon do u have a death wish!? he’s gonna fuck you all the way into next year if you attempt to insist on such a thing! first of all, he’s growling in your ear, words so caustic his breath burns your skin, you’re in no position to be making demands of him. secondly, who the fuck do you think you are, trying to tell him what to do!? he’s the boss here, never forget that! 
such an order, entirely uncalled for and beyond disrespectful, makes his vision bleed crimson with fury. not only is he pissed off at you for trying to control him, but he’s also extremely upset over the fact that you don’t want him to answer it. it sends his entire mind into overdrive, even as he’s buried balls deep in you—why would you ever not want him to answer and tell whoever’s on the other line to fuck off? who is it? what are you hiding from him? are you embarrassed by him? endless threads of questions tangle into an incomprehensible ball in his mind, his ears ringing with terror and confusion, and oh, he's going to make sure whoever this fucker you don’t want him speaking to knows exactly what you’re doing, and exactly who’s doing it to you.
hips pausing for a moment and pressed flush to your ass, he uses one large palm to keep your face buried in the mattress, hand cupping the crown of your head, fingers splayed out and digging into the sides of your scalp, while his other hand answers the phone. but he doesn’t say anything, merely placing the device right next to your mouth, his motions so swift and smooth your fucked-out mind can barely comprehend what’s happening before he’s ramming into you again, rough and ruthless, quite literally pounding the most vulgar sounds from your chest. they pour from your mouth, thick and sticky with spit, slathered across your phone screen.
and don’t you dare try to snatch your phone up to end the call—he’s got lithe fingers curling around your wrists in an instant, shackling them together in one hand, squeezing them so tight your bones grind and your veins tingle, starved of blood, and pulling your arms taut behind your back, using them as leverage to pull you toward his plunging hips. he’s going to force you to moan and sob and mewl for whoever it is on the other line that you ‘didn’t want him to answer’, and then he’s going to have you return their call, unexpected and unassuming and entirely abruptly sometime in the near future, and force them to listen to you get fucked raw and dumb again. in fact, he might even call them back several times with the same little stunt, just to drive the message home and make sure you truly understand. and then, maybe you’ll think twice about trying to tell him what to do, and they’ll think twice about trying to call you (or answering your returning calls at all).
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