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01zfan · 5 months ago

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sweetheart

nerd!anton x nerd!reader | 5.1k words

a request i got and it kinda made me go a little insane.

contains: anton pretends to be an insecure little nerd to plot on the reader, fingering, reader is implied to be a virgin

Anton is a sweetheart. He’s non assuming and soft spoken, so quiet that he has to clear his throat each time he speaks. He’s kind, always extending the same tenderness and patience to people he received as a child. He’s one of the few men in his program that the girls didn’t have trouble approaching if they had a question or trouble with an assignment.

Each time anyone approached him with a question he was helpful, pushing his thick frames up his face before leaning to the paper. With a pencil he’d mark where the mistake was, and explaining it with a gentle voice that had girls leaning in even closer.

After they got a smell of his cologne and the look of his soft skin everything else was easy. The girls would tilt their heads in curiosity about Anton, intrigued at how someone so shy made it this far in life. How someone was so cute from afar but something more once you got close. All he had to do was avoid their eyes and chew his lip a few times before they were sliding their phones over to him.

Just in case I need help with another assignment.

Anton’s eyes would always widen in shock. Not from the surprise of being pursued but just how easy it all was. The girls never found out that Anton was red in the face from the rush and he ducked his head to hide a smile of satisfaction. They would laugh lightly seeing his reaction, observing what they thought was insecurity. Before going on about their day they’d touch his shoulder or pull on him playfully.

Anton is a sweetheart.

But he also has a problem.

He knows he does. His friends compared it to a sweet tooth that bordered addiction, or someone who would walk into a casino with a twenty dollar bill expecting to hit big. They sometimes even called Anton a psychopath when he’d get all giddy telling them about his day.

Anton knew he had a problem, but it was hard to stop when he got the sweet fix or hit the jackpot each time. Nothing could top the feeling of euphoria Anton would get when he’d come to one of those girls after they asked him to come to their place. He’d look at the messages in the comfort of his room and smile, knowing what it meant when they’d preface the study session by saying they were alone. He’s addicted to the game he’d play every time, faking the shy and insecure nerd that pretty girls were going to eat for dinner. Like they were throwing him a bone by inviting him to their apartment or dorm under the guise of doing homework.

They’d answer the door in something easy to take off or something that would cling to them like a second skin. If they were particularly desperate it’d be both, yoga pants that showed everything and a cropped shirt that rode up with every movement. Anton loved shamelessly gawking at the girls behind his glasses, shuffling from foot to foot in front of them before they invited him in. He waited for each direction, eyes darting around their room before he was invited to sit down or told to take out his notebook. He would purposefully be a step behind, showing how lost he was to be in a room that didn’t belong to him or his other intraverted friends.

He loved letting the girls make the first move. On their bed settling in as they really got a look at him in the setting of their room. Something about how clueless he was made the girls all the more strung up. He looked everywhere but at them, shrinking himself on their bed. His timidness made the girls love making the first subtle touch on his flexed arm, or purposefully grabbing his pencil so they could compare hand sizes. Anton loved acting like he was nervous wreck from the longing stares to the side of his face, like he hadn’t done this dance a million times before. He loved messing up his words while trying to act oblivious to the hungry look in their eyes. He loved the pretty smile the girls would get like he was the one falling into their trap.

His absolute favorite part was when they’d turn his head with their soft hands. Anton would falter from the eye contact, letting his lips part in confusion as they focused on him. The notebooks and assignments between them long forgotten as they shuffled closer to him on the bed.

“Have you ever been with a girl before?”

They’d always ask that. Voices light and airy, already having an answer in their mind.

“I have.”

He’d always answer with a stutter. The falter in his voice never made them push any further. They assumed by Anton’s darting eyes that the number was so minuscule asking about it would only embarrass him.

(He stopped being embarrassed of his conquests a long time ago. He also stopped being able to keep track.)

Anton is a sweetheart, with a problem of seeing pretty girls eyes flash when they realize that he is more than capable.

The moment was always the same. The mood in the room would change when Anton would sheepishly take off his oversized hoodie. Each time silence would settle over the room when they saw what he was hiding underneath. His undershirt hugged close to his body, showing the chisel and the hard work he put in at the gym. When he was feeling tired while working out he’d replay the sight of the girls taking in his toned body. They’d reach out to touch his chest as if they were expecting it all to be fake, other times they would just let out a breathless wow.

He always basked in seeing the girls try to maintain their composure. They would become the ones averting their eyes and stumbling over their words. They would be shellshocked on their side of the bed, wondering what else he was hiding. But Anton was still sweet, he always was. He would always wait patiently to see if this was really what the girls wanted. He would pick at the seam of his pants and look down to the forgotten homework to let them know they could go back to what they were doing and pretend this never happened. But the obvious bulge in his pants always made pretty girls reach for the waistband of their pants without a second thought.

Anton was never sure if they gawked at him in an attempt to get his confidence up or if they were truly surprised. As if his build and height were no indicator, each time Anton took off his pants to reveal his dick they were always so shocked. That’s when the resolve would truly fall, when their jaws would drop and they’d blink their eyes from the sheer surprise. Precum would leak from his tip just from the sight of them coming to terms with what was twitching and red and angry in front of them.

“You’re big.”

The infliction in their voice was always different. Some girls would be excited, others would be confused, a few times they almost seemed disgusted. Like there was no way the shy kid in the back of the class was hiding this.

“Am I really?”

Anton wasn’t an idiot. Even if he said it looking down at the bed, he knew that he was endowed and it was pretty. But sometimes he just needed to hear it an extra time, or look up to see a quick head nod when they couldn’t fathom saying it again. He was an insecure nerd after all. The quiet recluse in the back of class that barely had friends. An absolute sweetheart that threw girls around and manipulated their bodies into positions they didn’t even know about.

He loved being a good fuck. For a long time he believed he was put on the Earth to fuck pretty girls and to stop them from judging books by their covers. Anton was killing two birds with one stone by cooing at girls condescendingly while he gave them everything. It was his civic duty to exert his strength and to kiss girls until they were breathless and his glasses fogged. Each time he heard I didn’t know you had that in you an angel gained it’s wings. Whenever they’d tell their girlfriends what the shy nerd did to them in their dorm Anton was making the world a better place. Sometimes he would get called back, sometimes he would run through entire friend groups just to prove he was really committed to the cause.

No matter how many people Anton fucked, no one seemed to believe it. Like it was collective psychosis that the nerd was a good lay, or a big open secret everyone was hush about. Anton was still treated like he was meek, his soft nature made everyone believe he was an open book, so much to the point that they made wrong judgements about his character. He actually hated staying inside and enjoyed exploring the city and trying new things with his friends. He was a sensitive person but he could also advocate for himself and admit when he was wrong. He was quiet, but only because he valued personal, quiet conversations more than anything.

He eventually learned that people’s preconceived notions of him couldn’t be helped. Anton could fuck the entirety of the campus and people would still treat him like he was made of glass. He decided to be an optimist, finding the silver lining in people assuming he was the sweetheart with a cute smile. Their perception of him could’ve been worse, being shy was infinitely better than being loud and obnoxious. So when people would assume things about Anton’s personality he would only react positively. He would let his eyes go wide, acting shocked when someone would tell him about their first impression of him.

“I thought you were an asshole at first.”

You told Anton nonchalantly, as if his whole world didn’t crumble. You didn’t even spare him a second glance as you wrote on your lab report. You were too busy adjusting the calculations and reading over the proper way to dispose the chemicals a million times to make sure it was right while Anton sputtered to himself. He was caught off guard by your honesty and surprisingly quick answer as if it was on the forefront of your mind. You only tilted your head up for a second before you had the answer.

Anton didn’t know what to do about you. Just when he thought he had seen every girl in his major you came along, sitting in the back of class with him. You seemed to be the recluse of a person everyone mistook Anton for. You were in and out of class, not bothering to raise your hand during discussions or to socialize with your peers. You also didn’t seem to latch onto him like other girls of his major did. When they looked for Anton’s face in the lecture hall you walked right past him, not bothering to look up from your notebook or laptop. For the first time in his life Anton felt compelled to make the first move. He thought that you two had built up a good rapport, and that you saw him as your kindhearted and resigned classmate.

But you saw him as anything but that. You said it confidently too, and loud enough for your classmates at the next lab table to look over.

“What do you mean?” Anton said quietly.

You frowned looking up from the pamphlet. You were visibly annoyed, you even motioned to the undisposed chemicals to show him that you two still had class.

“Can we talk about this when our grade isn’t at stake, please?” You asked.

You weren’t commanding for his benefit. You weren’t taking into account that he might be afraid to hear a negative opinion about himself. You weren’t looking at him like girls had before, like you were trying to pick him apart for your own entertainment. You were willing to put validation for Anton on the back burner because you had other things to do. When Anton would have girls gush over him you were benevolent, indifferent to his fake insecurities.

The more you paid attention to your work rather than him, Anton found himself scrambling. He was working hard for your affection. When the teacher announced that class was over and lab reports were due the next morning he leapt at the chance to invite himself over. He was supposed to be shy and insecure, getting nervous over the mere thought of being alone with the opposite sex. His facade went over your head. Instead, Anton watched you do the cost-benefit analysis of inviting him over before you shrugged your shoulders.

“Alright. Just follow me.” You said before setting a ridiculously fast paced speed walk to the other side of campus.

But Anton followed you. He bobbed and weaved through crowds and essentially chased you across the common area while you continued on your pace. Other girls would walk with Anton, trying to pry information out from his clammy hands. You barely spared a second glance over your shoulder like you were trying to lose him. Anton followed you all the way to your dorm, then up the stairs, then waited for you beside your door as you put your backpack on your desk and pulled up a chair next to yours. You didn’t extend an invitation towards Anton to take a seat.

He waits for you to step in. He’s laid the trap by taking off his hoodie even though you kept your room cold, and shuffled his seat closer to yours. He put his elbows on the table next to yours coming closer to the lines you stopped writing on your paper.

He laid the trap. He can see you hesitate, looking from him to the assignment and then back to him. Anton keeps his eyes on the paper, rubbing his fingers over his lips to stop himself from smiling.

“Do you work out?” You asked.

Your voice didn’t have the sultry infliction that girls usually had when they asked him that question. You didn’t reach across and squeeze his toned bicep or shamelessly drag your eyes over his broad shoulders. You asked the question simply, no other intention except for wanting an answer.

“I do. Sometimes.” Anton said.

You only hummed and went back to your paper. Anton scooted closer to you, hoping his Le Labo Lavande 31 and the hand across the back of your chair was invading your space enough for you to really get a good look at him. Anton watched your eyes dart again. You were nervous, eyes wide and Anton felt the rush.

“You smell nice.” You said.

The line was pulled from the trap. You’re caged in and Anton looks to you. He knows about the death grip you have on your pencil, it makes him brave enough to invade your space even more.

“You forgot to write your observations here.” Anton says, trying to make lab reports as sexy as possible.

This assignment would’ve been abandoned a long time ago. If this was anyone else it would’ve never made it out of their backpack. You were adamant about your work, looking at the tips of his pretty fingers where you left a spot blank. He should have his report out too. He should be writing something just like you try to, instead Anton leans closer and he swears the pencil in your hand is going to break from the pressure.

Is this how he should’ve been acting with those girls all that time? This is real nerves rolling off your body. The anxiety almost makes Anton nervous by extension, he shivers when he finally lets his hand on the back of your chair touch your body. You stiffen and he’s amazed. You went from being indifferent to being too aware. He feels you back away slightly, but when his hand tightens on your shoulder you lean in. You’re hot and cold, not knowing what you want. He can feel you tremble, and your eyes dart from his eyes to his lips.

“I’ve never done anything before.”

Anton comes closer. His hand that pointed at a random thing on your paper turns into a fist as he distracts you completely. He brings himself forward until he’s in your line of sight, even when you try so hard to look at anything but him. He smirks when your eyes dart past him, and he fully lets his arm rest across your back. You’re malleable, before you refused to even bend to him but now you move from his slightest touch.

“What do you mean?” He asks. “You’ve never done what before?”

He should go for the nerds more often. The way you already seem sweaty and antsy just from thinking about what is happening makes Anton want to play with you some more. He knows it’s perverse, like a dog playing a smaller animal to death. He wants to see if you’ll twitch, if you’re playing dead just to try and make a run for it.

“I’ve never—I know that—” Anton raises his eyebrows and nods to each one of your broken statements. “It just seems like—”

“Like what?” He smiles and nudges you. His smile is toothy, yours is tightlipped to a straight line. “C’mon. Talk to me.” He continues.

“You smell really good.” You repeat.

You’re the twitching body of a mouse in his jaws. He just smile and nods at your statement, how you go back to saying old things in an attempt to catch your footing. He forces you to sit in the uncomfortable silence. He waits for you to say something knowing you can’t, he waits for you to touch him even if you’re caught like a deer in the headlights.

“I look good too, right?” He starts drawing shapes on your shoulder.

He’s having too much fun. He’s entertained seeing your intelligence fail you. You’re stumped, you drop your pencil to fully clench your fist.

The pencil is rolling back and forth on your lab report, the small sound is the only thing that speaks. You’re still desperately trying to figure out how you got into this situation, how one thing led to another so quickly that his hand is reaching underneath the sleeve of your shirt.

“You look good, Anton.” You agree.

“Thanks.” Anton smiles and you do too, averting your eyes and nodding to yourself to feign indifference. Anton looks down to your shirt, still playing with your skin underneath your sleeve. “You do too.” He says.

Another bout of silence. You let yourself be touched, hands still clenched on top of the table. Anton rests his hand on top of your fist, smoothing over the protruding veins trying to coax them open. This is more fulfilling than playing with popular girls. The game still hasn’t ended for him. He’s on the fifth consecutive jackpot when you finally open your mouth again.

“I don’t.” Your hand opens and Anton clasps over it, smiling to himself when it disappears. “I don’t know what you want me to do.” You stutter.

You’re too cute for your own good. Finally you look at him with big eyes and your eyebrows raised. You give into his touches a little more, finally warming up to all the attention. Still your pupils shake, and Anton brings his hand from your shoulder to your face to keep you from turning away.

“Can I make you feel good?” He asks.

You could barely nod before Anton was guiding you up from your chair and backing you towards your bed. He watched you stumble when the back of your legs hit the edge. You looked up at him, your pretty eyes already looking wet. Maybe he really did have a problem. Because he loved seeing them widen in surprise when he put his hands underneath your arms, lifting you up just enough to set you on the edge of your bed. He loved seeing your jostled expression and the tiny yelp when you landed so perfectly on your sheets.

Anton watched you stay in place, catching your breath from the sudden movement. He watched your chest still as his hands went to the bottom of his tank top. He’s grateful to have such a captive audience. There’s no way he can pretend to be shy after this. You’re astonished as he slowly lifts his shirt, and he watched you shamelessly stare at him before you realized he could see you.

Anton let you eat him alive before he came up to you, until you had to tilt your head upwards to see him. You didn’t dare lift your hands from the bed, like he was going to disappear the moment you touched him. Like he was straight from a dream you only looked up to him, waiting for what he was going to do next. Anton wonders if you thought you’d end up in this position, with him looming over you and his hand creeping to a spot under your chin. He absolutely can’t stop doing this. The view is too pretty, your stillness is addicting. Like you’re too afraid to even breathe too loud in case it’d break the tension. He bends closer to your lips, eyes still open after you screw yours shut. You preemptively grip your mattress for dear life and he can’t help but smile.

He smiles into the kisses, each peck bringing you closer and closer to your mattress. When your back is against the sheets Anton climbs on, refusing the break contact. You look so pretty underneath him, eyes squeezing shut again when another wave of realization hits you. You’ve never been in this position before, with someone like Anton looming over you while still being so sweet. He runs his hand over the apple of your cheek, and fixes your shirt that left your stomach exposed.

“Is this okay?” Anton asks.

He knows it is, because your legs seemed to spread a little bit more and more with each passing second. By the time his hand drifts down to your neck you’re completely open, your soft pants bunching at the place Anton wants to touch you next. The valley of your chest gives him a straight path down, and your bent legs open further.

“Want me to touch you?” He asks.

He knows he’s cruel. You’re metaphorically dead and his face is covered in blood, but still he continues. He’s jumping around your body, reaching out a playful hand like you have the life to play back.

“Please touch me.” You whine pitifully.

Anton presses a chaste kiss to your forehead as his hands work past the elastic band of your pants and underwear. You flinch from his hands, then you preen your hips towards his fingers, then you pull back. He’s mocking when he coos at you, the time pressing a kiss to the side of your head. He almost feels bad. You’re clearly fighting against something, your eyes are shut tight as you press your head into the mattress. Anton tries kissing your eyes open, but it only makes you squeeze them tighter.

With you writhing underneath him, he took the time to look around your room. Your little pegboard above your desk where you had calendar marked with all the important due dates of upcoming assignments. Your neatly placed books and papers, your stuffed animals around your pillows. You didn’t make your bed this morning, instead laying on crumbled sheets and gripping whatever you could get your hands on. Your hand went to Anton’s forearm and clutched it, whimpering something that he couldn’t decipher.

“Does it feel good?” He asks.

You nod, and when Anton tries to pull away he feels your nails dig into his forearm. You seem unaware of what you’re doing, how you’re silently begging him to keep going. You’re just moving underneath him, already beginning to twitch helplessly. Anton purposefully pushes his fingers deeper into your clit until he knows he’s bringing you the smallest amount of pain. He’s pulling the strings, watching your body react to him because you can’t control it. By this point the girls would already be asking him to take his pants off, but you can’t even form a coherent thought. He’s having fun in his jeans, watching you twitch and twist and grip his arm with all your might.

“Anton.”

You flick your hips up and he presses his hand to your hip, pinning you to the bed. You still try to swivel, useless against his strength. He’s intrigued that you aren’t trying to be defiant but you simply can’t help it. All the other girls were pliant immediately, so desperate to please the quiet boy in class they underestimated. You’re defiant because you can’t handle it.

“What’s up?” He asks.

His completely even voice makes you whine. The flush across your cheeks tells him you’re embarrassed, red hot and real unlike his facade.

You don’t answer him. You just dig your nails into his arm and attempt to get his prodding fingers to slide in. He raises his eyebrows at your not-so-subtle attempts to get him to inside of you.

“You want me to finger you?” He asks.

You nod like a good girl and Anton almost feels bad for asking you the question in a mocking tone. He makes up for it by giving you what you want immediately, sucking in a deep breath to match your deep breath. He smiles when he sees you arch off the bed. This is so much more entertaining than anything else. Just two fingers has you making unfiltered noises and gripping the sheets. Anton has to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing, and he has half a mind to ask you if you’re okay in a serious tone. But he just continues driving his fingers into your hole.

He picks up the speed, just to hear the lewd sound you two make. It’s wet, Anton can already feel the mess on the palm of his hand. He pulls your waistband down to your knees, bringing your thighs closer together. He has to fight against your soft thighs clenching around his hand. He’s still able to drive his fingers in and out of your heat. He likes the resistance even though you clearly want more. Anton is surprised when you lift your shirt on your own accord. It’s obvious you’re doing it to relieve some of the heat you feel, but he’s still flattered nonetheless. His hand presses against your stomach, applying force to the lowest part.

“I can’t.” You whimper.

That’s when Anton finally laughs. He chuckles at how panicked you sound and how you turn your head in embarrassment.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks while picking up the speed of his hand.

You nod your head but when Anton tries to pull his hand away you clench your thighs to keep him in place. He chuckles again, situating one legs on the side of your body and the other between your closed legs. He casts a shadow on you below him, and he can see your eyes open the slightest bit from his movements. He drives your legs apart with his knee, and continues pumping that spot deep in you that leaves you shaking your head.

“I can’t.” You whimper.

“You can.” Anton sees your eyes open, wide and staring directly at him as he drives your legs apart further. “You’re so close.” He says.

Your entire body moves from the speed of his fingers. Even your chests jumps underneath your shirt, and he wants to lift it up to reveal the rest of you. He lets you take it at your own pace since you’re giving him so much already. He just pinches and grabs a handful of your stomach, marveling in how soft you are.

“So cute.” Anton coos. “You had no idea, right?” He asks.

You shake your head and you don’t stop shaking it, like you’re trying to will away your impeding orgasm. Anton watches all of it. He’s never had a pretty girl twitch for him so much, or reach a greedy hand up to grip your chest. Something you do when you’re close, something he wants to do for you. His hand superimposes yours, and grips harder too. You’re arching into his palm and preening your hips on his fingers, and then he watches your body go rigid.

“You’re cumming.” Anton teases.

Your whimpering yes rips through the room, and Anton feels wound up himself. He has to set his sights on something else. Pretty confident girls are fun, but seeing your shame manifest in the way you push and pull at him is much more intoxicating. He likes that he knows what you want but you’re too scared to say it, it’s your body that has to act on its own to fulfill your needs. When you continue going, and your strangled moans turn to broken oh my God’s and your legs start shaking, Anton knows he won’t be able to get enough. He keeps pushing you further because he knows you can take it, and you continue whimpering. He doesn’t stop until you sound panicked, and your hand starts pushing his away.

He still looks down at you with a smile on his face. Your head is turned towards your fluffy comforter, exhaling and inhaling so hard you move the fur with your breath. He’s satisfied seeing what he’s done to you, and he’s even more amused when you turn your head to face him.

Your eyes are wide, your lips are swollen and slick from your mindless drooling. Anton feels something in his chest when your eyes move past his body to the prominent bulge in his pants. He’s a step ahead, shaking his head and moving back to rest on his haunches. That comes later, when he plays with you some more and you start voicing how badly you want to please him. When you reach your hand towards his crotch Anton grabs your hand instead, intertwining your fingers.

“I just wanted to make you feel good.” He says.

He’s a sweetheart, after all.

#requestz #01zfan: anton #anton smut #riize smut

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delilahsturniolo · 2 months ago

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YOU WANNA HUG ME?

WHAT RHYMES WITH HUG ME?

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 . . . chris and matt know how to make you fall apart for them.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . smut, threesome but obviously no incest or interaction between matt or chris, oral, (fem!recieving) boob play, dirty talk, pet names, degradation, body worship, fingering, teasing, lemme know if i forgot anythingg.

the air in the dimly lit bedroom throbbed with a raw, electric tension, thick with the musky scent of desire and the faint sweetness of jasmine from a candle flickering on the nightstand. shadows danced wildly across the walls, cast by the dozen candles scattered around, their golden flames reflecting off the deep crimson sheets of the king-sized bed that dominated the space. outside, the muffled roar of city traffic seeped through the cracked window, but it was nothing compared to the pulse pounding in the room, the anticipation so palpable you could taste it on your tongue, metallic and hot.

matt lounged across the chaise with the ease of a predator at rest, his dark brown hair falling in tousled waves over his forehead, framing a face carved from sharp angles and shadowed stubble. his hazel eyes glinted with a wicked, knowing smirk as he watched you, the candlelight catching the silver stud in his ear and the chain at his neck that dipped into the v of his black t-shirt, stretched tight over broad shoulders and a chest that rippled with every lazy breath. his jeans, faded and snug, clung to his muscular thighs, the denim worn soft at the knees, and his bare feet—tanned and calloused—flexed against the velvet of the chaise, toes curling slightly as if testing the air. his lips curling into a grin that was all teeth and trouble. “fuck, look at you,” he drawled, his voice a low growl that rumbled through the room like distant thunder. “been so hard all day just thinking about getting you naked and messy between us. y’ready to let us wreck you, sweetheart?”

chris, perched on the edge of the bed, was a stark contrast—a sleek, polished edge to matt’s rough-hewn charm. his brunette hair was swept back with meticulous care, not a strand out of place, revealing the sharpness of his jaw and the piercing blue of his eyes that burned with a quiet intensity. he wore a crisp white button-up, unbuttoned halfway to show the smooth planes of his chest, the fabric clinging to his frame. he grinned, it was sharp and hungry, a flash of white teeth that promised sin. “oh mama, we’re gonna ruin you tonight,” he murmured, his voice smooth as velvet, each word dripping with heat. he patted the white sheets beside him, fingers brushing the fabric in a slow, tantalizing circle. “come here, baby. let’s see just how much you can take.”

the room seemed to shrink, the space between you crackling with unspoken promises as their gazes locked on you, unrelenting and molten. matt set his glass down with a deliberate clink on the nightstand, the sound sharp in the heavy silence, and leaned forward, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of tanned skin and the dark trail of hair that disappeared into his jeans. “what’s it gonna be, huh?” he rasped, his eyes dark with intent. “you gonna make us beg for it, or you gonna come over here and let us show you how good it can get?”

chris stood in one fluid motion, closing the distance with the grace of a panther, stopping just inches from you. the heat of his body radiated like a furnace, his cologne—a rich blend of spice and cedar—filling your lungs as he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “we’re gonna take our time with you,” he whispered, his voice a seductive promise. “gonna fuck you slow, feel every inch of that tight little pussy clenching around us, then hard—pounding you ‘til you’re screaming our names, begging for more. you want that, don’t you, sweetheart?”

matt was on his feet now, stalking toward you with a lazy, predatory demeanor. he stopped on your other side, caging you between them, his presence overwhelming, all heat and muscle and raw need. his hand hovered near your hip, fingers twitching as if fighting the urge to grab, his breath hot against your neck as he leaned in close. “yeah, that’s right,” he growled, his voice thick with lust. “gonna spread those pretty thighs wide, see that slick little cunt dripping for us. two thick cocks, baby—one after the other, stretching you out ‘til you can’t even think straight. you wanna feel that, don’t you? wanna be our good little slut, taking everything we give you, huh?

their words were filthy, unrelenting, each syllable stoking the fire low in your belly, making your skin prickle with heat. chris’s fingers brushed the hem of your shirt, teasing the bare skin beneath, while matt’s breath grazed your collarbone, his lips so close you could almost feel them. “tell us what you want,” chris purred, his blue eyes locking onto yours, dark with promise. “we’re yours tonight—mama. just say the word, and we’ll make you scream.”

the invitation hung in the air, bold and dripping with sin, their eyes burning into you as they waited, every muscle in their bodies taut with anticipation. the room was a furnace now, the candlelight casting their shadows large and looming, the music a heartbeat beneath the pounding of your own pulse. matt’s smirk widened, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he murmured, “don’t keep us waiting, sweetheart..” matt smiled as you slowly made your way onto the bed.

matt’s hand finally made contact, his calloused fingers grazing your waist, a featherlight touch that sent a jolt straight to your core. “look at you, all flushed and needy,” he growled, his hazel eyes dark with lust as they raked over you. “gonna peel every fucking layer off you, baby. wanna see those tits bounce when we fuck you, hear you scream our names ‘til your voice gives out.” chris’s hand joined the fray, his touch cooler, more deliberate as his fingers skimmed up your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “mm, we’re gonna make you feel so good,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “gonna take turns, mama. matt’s gonna fuck you deep and rough, then I’ll slide in, slow and hard, stretch that tight little cunt ‘til you’re sobbing for mercy. you want that, don’t you? twitter cocks owning you, making you ours.”

their words were a relentless assault, each one dirtier than the last, coiling tight in your gut like a spring ready to snap. matt’s grip tightened on your waist, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh just above your hipbone, while chris’s fingers traced the line of your jaw, tilting your face toward him. “say it.” chris urged, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “tell us you’re ours tonight, baby. tell us you want us to fuck you ‘til you can’t walk straight.” and you obeyed, arching against the bed as you laid on your back, looking up at them as they kneeled between your legs. “please fuck me—can’t take it anymore..” you gasped.

matt chuckled, a low, filthy sound that vibrated through you as he pressed closer, his chest brushing yours, his breath hot and ragged. “shit, I bet she’s soaked through already.” he rasped, his free hand hovering near your thigh, itching to dive lower. “gonna spread those legs wide, sweetheart, see that pussy glistening for us. you gonna take us so good, aren’t you? " chris started speaking. “fuck, look at her.” he said to chris, his voice thick with awe as he knelt between your legs, his jeans straining against the bulge already pressing hard against the denim. his fingers dug into your thighs, spreading them wide, the cool air hitting your skin like a shock as he stared down, eyes wild. “gonna eat this pussy ‘til you’re begging me to stop.”

matt’s hands were on your waistband in an instant, yanking your pants down with a grunt, the fabric dragging rough against your skin before pooling at your ankles. he tossed them aside carelessly, his focus zeroing in on the thin strip of lace clinging to your hips. “holy shit..” he breathed, his thumbs hooking under the edges of your panties, peeling them down slow, savoring every inch revealed. the lace stuck slightly, clinging to the wetness already soaking through, and he groaned, deep and guttural, as he tugged them free. “fuckin’ drenched already. you’re a dirty little slut for us, aren’t you?”

chris’s laugh was soft and wicked as he slid a hand under your shirt, pushing it up to expose the swell of your breasts still trapped in their bra. his fingers deftly unhooked the clasp, letting the fabric fall away, and he hissed in appreciation at the sight. “look at these..” he murmured, his thumb brushing over one nipple, watching it harden under his touch. “gonna suck these pretty tits ‘til you’re grinding on matt’s face, beggin’ for cock.” his mouth descended, hot and wet, latching onto you with a slow, deliberate pull that sent a bolt of heat straight between your legs.

matt’s head dipped lower, his stubble scraping the sensitive skin of your inner thighs as he spread you wider, his breath hot against your core. “fuck, so good,” he muttered, his tongue darting out to trace a slow, teasing line along your slit, tasting the slickness there. “gonna make this pussy mine first—sweetheart.” matt’s lips closed over you, sucking hard, and the room filled with the wet, obscene sound of his mouth working you over, relentless and hungry.

chris pulled back just enough to watch, his hand still kneading your breast as he grinned down at matt. “she’s already moaning—listen to that,” he said, his voice rough with arousal. “keep going, man. I wanna hear her scream before we fuck her senseless.” his mouth returned to your chest, teeth grazing your nipple this time, a sharp edge of pleasure-pain that had you arching off the bed, caught between their twin assaults. the night was going to stretch long, and you knew that. with matt and chris’s dirty words and teasing touches? you were done for. so fuckin’ done for.

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butchizuku · 5 months ago

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Untouched ��᭡; Caleb

ᨳ Synop. Questions swirl around your mind as you reacquaint yourself with Caleb, but the most pressing? What was this feeling he stirred within you?

໋𓈒 Details. 18+ minors dni, gn afab reader, slight lore implications regarding Caleb's arm, kissing, heavy petting, general intimacy, dry humping, run time; 1k ৎ

(՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞) Director's Note. Happy Caleb day lovers <33 Just a lil something inspired by his limited five star card.

The mechanical flex and low hum of Caleb’s new fangled arm is disconcerting. Goosebumps prickle your tender skin as it grows closer, the robotic fingers flexing and outstretched. The ample, overwhelming urge for touch choked you, drowning out the strangeness of the past few days. Blood rushes against your ear drums as you tentatively meet him halfway, your fingers curling over the cool, stiff metal of his hand.

“I can’t feel you,” Caleb murmurs, peering at you through his lashes.

His fingers slip between yours but he doesn’t reach out with his other hand. You stand for a moment in limbo, too timid to make another move when pinned beneath his smouldering gaze. His name sits heavy on your tongue, waiting for your lips to part.

“Caleb, I-” you start, quickly trailing off, shrinking into yourself.

Gliding your other hand up the length of his bare abdomen, you struggle to find the right thing to say. You figure, your actions might speak louder than any number of words could. His skin is warm to the touch and smooth with little blemishes to disturb your path from his stomach to his chest. The rhythmic thrum of his heart grows stronger as you place the palm of your hand flat against him for a moment. Pressing himself closer to you, Caleb cups your hand with his.

“You can still feel this,” you murmur, your bottom lip pressed between your teeth, “And this.”

Stepping between his thighs, you press your chest to his. Caleb’s breath grows laboured, it fans across your skin. You can’t help but shiver, in spite of the heat that covers your body like a heavy blanket. It’s surprising how hard the plains of his body are, against yours. Somewhere in the back of your mind, he’s still the pudgy faced kid you grew alongside, though he hadn’t been that child for sometime. Caleb hardened sometime between then and now but you hadn’t seen it, perhaps in part due to the soft gaze he always reserved for you.

“And, I can feel you, Caleb.”

Your words land somewhere between a gasp and a whisper, whisked quickly into the air.

“I’m right here,” Caleb shudders in your grasp, his jaw slack, “And so are you.”

A sound wretched from the deep recesses of his throat slipped forth, vulnerable and frighteningly familiar– thick with wanton desire. Caleb burrows his face into your chest, his nose nestled against the length of your collarbone. His bottom lips drags against your skin, slick with spit, as he speaks.

“Right here.”

His hands glide over your waist and travel up your spine.

“Please,” he murmurs into you like a prayer, half baked and rushed in desperation.

There’s that ache again, deep in the pit of your stomach, thrumming and yelling within you for a modicum of your attention. It seeks the very thing you’ve continued to deny yourself, the thing you’ve forced yourself to see as repulsive. But, was there anything quite as pure as your first love? Could, it really be shameful to want him.

“Caleb,” you breathe, fighting off the trembling nerves that make your fingers shake.

They still shake as you dig them into the flesh of his shoulders, using all your force to push him down onto the flimsy cot. The legs wobble and creak for a moment as the weight shifts and you throw your thighs on top of his. Hair dangles in your face as you peer down at him, your gaze flickering between his lidded eyes marred with confusion and his gently parted lips. They’re chapped and have begun to crack along the edges.

“Kiss me.”

You can’t bring yourself to lean in any closer, your heartbeat drowning everything else out. Your chest heaves with an anxious breath and you have half a mind to whisper, “please.”

The metal of his hand is cold against your flush skin, but it’s feather light in its touch. Creeping over your spine and lightly curling around the base of your neck, Caleb pulls you closer until your lips are but a ghost over his. Bracing your hands on his bare pecs, his other hand keeps you steadied by pressing itself into the dip of your lower back.

Kissing Caleb is akin to what you imagine dipping yourself into molten lava. Your body melds into his, perfectly. There is no trace of the awkward pretense that plagued you or even the confusion turned anger that tinged your vision when you first set your eyes upon him, the first time in months. His tongue slips between your lips like he’s kissed you a thousand times before, and maybe he has in another lifetime or even a dream, but the ease makes your head spin. There is nothing to vocalize as Caleb swallows each and every little sound you make with his kiss, suckling you down to the bone with just his mouth.

Whatever single, precarious thread of respect and distance that kept the two of you at arms length snaps. His hands slide from the small of your back to grip your hips, his fingers jabbing into your doughy flesh. His bulge brushes against your crotch, eliciting a groan from Caleb. Your body moves on its own accord and you find yourself grinding against him even as the bed squeaks obnoxiously. The seam of your jeans pulled taunt and pressed snugly to your clit forces a moan to stumble off the tip of your tongue.

“Show me how sorry you are,” you pant, pressing your nose to his neck, “And how much you missed me.”

Caleb chuckles, nipping at your bottom lip, “You want me so bad it makes you look stupid pipsqueak,” he murmurs with his lips curled up in a grin.

Your protests and the squealed, shrill call of his name is buried into another kiss and pulled from the forefront of your mind as he bucks his hips into yours. He’s hard, you can feel his cock straining against the confines of his slacks, begging for release.

“I’m kidding, I’ll do whatever you wish, my sweetheart.”

His promise is melded against the shell of your ear as he grazes the lobe between his teeth.

“Just so long as I can have you here in my arms.”

#caleb x reader #caleb x mc #love and deepspace smut #lads x reader #lads smut #caleb smut #love and deepspace x reader #lads caleb #lads x you #caleb x you #᭄᭡⠀written word

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rafessecret · 3 months ago

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What if rafes friends try and sneak into his room to surprise him for his birthday and instead of an uprising him they get surprised by rafe and his step!sister sleeping in his room together only in their underwear?

⋆˚࿔ step¡sister reader && rafe cameron

HAPPY BIRTHDAY—OH!

The room is dim, the heavy scent of sex still lingering in the air, sheets tangled between your legs. Your body is sore, spent, barely covered by the tiny scrap of lace that counts as panties, your bare chest pressed against the warmth of Rafe’s side. His arm is slung low around your waist, possessive even in sleep, his breath deep and steady against your hair.

You’re only half-dreaming, still lost in the haze of last night, of whispered demands and slow, indulgent movements. Of the way he ruined you, completely, all under the guise of a special birthday present. He’d murmured it against your lips, coaxing, manipulating, knowing you’d fold. And you had.

The door bursts open.

Loud voices. Laughter. Stumbling footsteps.

❝Rise and shine, birthday boy! Time to—❞

Then—

Dead fucking silence.

The world sharpens, awareness slamming into you all at once, panic seizing your chest. Rafe stirs against you, groggy, blinking sleep-heavy eyes open just as the horrified, stunned faces of his friends come into focus. Topper, Kelce, and a few others—frozen in the doorway like they’ve just walked into a goddamn crime scene.

❝Jesus fucking Christ.❞ Kelce’s voice is the first to cut through the thick, suffocating tension. ❝No fucking way,❞ Topper breathes, a slow grin spreading across his face, disbelief flickering into something mean, something razor-sharp. ❝Are you actually serious, dude?❞

Heat crawls up your spine, mortification choking you as you scramble to grab the sheet, pressing it against your chest, shrinking into yourself. Rafe’s still slow, still processing, rubbing a lazy hand over his face, his body shifting beside you—and that’s when they see.

He’s fucking naked. Fully bare, the sheet barely draped over his lower half, lazy, unbothered, muscles flexing as he props himself on an elbow. Topper lets out a low whistle. ❝You sick fuck.❞

Your throat tightens, your hands shaking where they clutch the sheets to your chest. You feel sick, horrified, and ashamed.

They know. They all know.

❝What the fuck is this, huh?❞ One of the other guys finally speaks, voice filled with something ugly, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. ❝You couldn’t get a girl like a normal person, Rafe? Had to fuck your own stepsister? ❞ The words twist like a knife, your breath hitching, eyes burning, but Rafe—Rafe just exhales slowly through his nose, his jaw flexing.

❝Get the fuck out,❞ he mutters, voice thick with sleep, but there’s an edge to it, a warning. ❝Nah, bro, this is fucked. You don’t think this is fucked? ❞ Kelce gestures wildly at the two of you, still curled up in bed together, still raw and exposed. ❝You’ve lost your goddamn mind.❞

❝I said, get the fuck out!❞

The explosion comes so fast, so violently, you flinch. Rafe shoves himself up, the sheet slipping, fury rolling off him in waves. His eyes are wild, his chest heaving, his hands curled into fists like he’s seconds from swinging.

The room is too small, too suffocating, the weight of their judgement crushing you. Your heart is pounding, your skin prickling with panic, and you want to disappear, want to rewind time, want to pretend none of this is happening.

But Rafe doesn’t waver. ❝Don’t fucking look at her,❞ he snaps, voice a growl, stepping forward like he might just kill them all. ❝You don’t know shit, alright? So shut the fuck up and get the fuck out before I make you.❞

A beat of tense silence, then a scoff, a muttered ❝psycho,❞ and finally, finally, the door slams shut. The air is thick, suffocating. You can’t move, can’t breathe, your entire body trembling beneath the sheet.

❝Sweetheart—❞

You shake your head, curling in on yourself, pressing your hands over your face. ❝Oh my God. Oh my God, Rafe. They’re going to tell everyone. They’re—they’re going to call the fucking cops.❞

❝No, they’re not.❞

❝You don’t know that!❞ Your voice cracks, panic clawing at your throat. ❝Rafe, this is—this is so bad.❞ He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his messy hair, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. Then, softer, steadier— ❝I’ll handle it.❞

And he does.

Days pass, slow and unbearable, the pit in your stomach growing heavier with every glance, every whisper, every time your mind replays the horror of that morning. Then, one evening, Rafe walks through the front door, his knuckles split, his lip busted, the faintest trace of blood smeared along his jaw.

Your stomach drops. ❝Rafe.❞ He barely reacts, just shrugs off his jacket, his expression unreadable.

❝What happened?❞ You reach for him, fingers grazing his jaw, eyes wide, frantic. ❝Are you okay?❞ He catches your wrist, turning his lips against your palm, pressing the faintest kiss there before murmuring, ❝Handled it.❞

And when you see Topper the next night—his jaw bruised, his lip split in a way that matches Rafe’s knuckles perfectly—you know exactly what that means. It all clicks.

Rafe keeps his promises.

And he always wins.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : Whoever's sending these seems to love the idea of Rafe's friends finding out ( me too, but idk where to take it ).

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

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goldfades · 5 months ago

Note

joe burrow pro bowl weekend sneaking into his hotel room at night

aaaaa yes... pro bowl weekend joe has lived in my rent free and im so glad u requested this. hope you enjoy!

warnings: NSFW, minors pls dni! oral (fem. receiving), overstim if you squint, unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it!!), rushed writing... sorry yall im trying a new style, lmk if yall like it 😌

The hallway is quiet, save for the soft hum of the ice machine down the corridor and the faint click of your heels against the plush hotel carpet. You’ve timed it perfectly—late enough that most of the players are either asleep or too busy nursing overpriced cocktails in dimly lit lounges, and early enough that the night shift staff haven’t started their rounds. The key card burns in your palm, a flimsy piece of plastic holding the weight of your impulsive decisions.

You hesitate for a beat outside his door, heart thumping like it’s trying to escape your chest. The gold numbers gleam under the flickering sconce light, mocking you with their simplicity. It’s just a door. Just Joe. But there’s nothing simple about the way your stomach flips when you think of him, or the way his voice has been echoing in your head all day, low and lazy, threaded with that soft drawl.

The lock clicks with an almost conspiratorial softness as you swipe the card. You slip inside like a shadow, the door snicking shut behind you with a whisper of finality. The room is dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city seeping through the crack in the heavy curtains. You can make out the broad outline of him, sprawled across the bed, one arm flung over his head, the sheets tangled around his waist.

He stirs when you kick off your shoes, the faint rustle drawing his attention. His voice is rough with sleep when he speaks, low and familiar in a way that makes your skin prickle.

“Took you long enough.”

His words are lazy, but there’s an edge to them—a sharpness tucked beneath the warmth. You don’t bother with an excuse. Just step closer, letting the distance between you shrink until it’s nothing at all.

You can feel the heat emanating from his body as you stand over him, the dim light casting shadows that dance across his features. The room is charged with an electric tension, palpable in the air between you. Joe's eyes, half-lidded and sleepy, focus on you with an intensity that feels like a physical touch. He shifts slightly, the muscles in his chest and arms flexing under the thin fabric of his shirt that clings to him from the heat of sleep.

"Couldn't stay away, huh?" His voice is a husky murmur that sends shivers down your spine. Despite the casual tone, there's a question in his gaze, a probing, searching inquiry that seeks your deepest intentions. It's an invitation and a challenge all at once.

You respond not with words but with action, crawling onto the bed with a grace that belies your pounding heart. The mattress dips under your weight, and Joe watches your every move, his gaze tracking the sway of your hips as if mesmerized. You straddle him, feeling the solid strength of his thighs beneath you, and for a moment, you just sit there, drinking in his presence, the reality of him.

His hands come up to rest on your hips, his thumbs tracing small, slow circles through the fabric of your dress. There's a tenderness in his touch that contrasts with the iron strength of his fingers, and it's this duality that fascinates you, draws you in.

"I... needed to see you," you confess, the words tumbling out in a breathy rush. The truth feels like a liberation, freeing something tight and coiled within your chest.

Joe's smile is slow and warm, spreading across his face like dawn breaking. "Well, then," he murmurs, his hands tightening on your hips, "Let's make it worth your while."

He flips you beneath him with a swift, practiced move that leaves you breathless. His body pins yours to the bed, his weight a comforting pressure that envelops you completely. His lips find yours in the darkness, the kiss deep and consuming, tasting of sleep and desire. The world narrows down to the feel of him against you, around you, the sound of your mingled breaths the only music in the silent room.

Joe's relentless pursuit of your pleasure leaves you gasping, teetering on the edge of coherence. His tongue is masterful, delving with precision yet infused with an artistry that makes each touch feel like the first. His fingers grip your thighs, holding you open, exposed to his hungry gaze and insatiable mouth. The dichotomy of tender in his actions drives you insane, sending shockwaves of desire coursing through your veins.

The room is filled with the sound of your heavy breathing and the slick, wet noises of his tongue lavishly exploring, tasting you with a ravenous need that belies his earlier laziness. You're overwhelmed by the intensity the relentless pleasure, your hands tangle in his hair, pressing him closer, silently pleading for more, for that sweet release that hovers just out of reach.

"Joey," you moan, your voice breaking with desperation. "Please."

He responds not with words but with a deep hum that vibrates against your clit, his tongue brushing over the sensitive. It's the final stroke of your arousal, and it sends you spiraling over the edge into blissful oblivion as the knot in your stomach snaps for the second time that night, all from his tongue.

Your body arches off the bed, a silent scream etched across your features as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you shattered in the most exquisite way.

But Joe isn't done.

As you flutter back down to Earth, spent and panting, he rises up, his lips glistening with the evidence of your climax. When you open your eyes, meeting his gaze, he's settled in between your thighs, his hands on your hips.

His eyes burn with an insatiable fire, his own desire palpable as he positions himself at the crux of your thighs. "You taste incredible, baby," he murmurs, voice low and husky, "but I'm nowhere near done with you."

With that, his cock slides into you, filling you in one smooth, deep stroke because of your soaked cunt. The sensation is intense, a delicious stretch that reignites your desire. His movements are deliberate, powerful thrusts that drive you both toward a precipice as Joe's hands move everywhere, his touches igniting flames wherever they land.

Joe's movements become fervent, almost frenzied as he plunges deeper into the warm, welcoming depths of your cunt. His pace is relentless, each thrust deeper than the last, driven by a raw hunger that seems to consume him entirely. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, along with his slurred, lust-laden words.

"God, so good... so perfect for me, baby," he groans, his voice thick with desire as he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear. The words are barely coherent, a string of adoration and pleasure mumbled as he loses himself in the sensation of you enveloping him. His hands roam over your body with wild abandon, tracing the curves of your hips, squeezing your tits.

"Feel so good," Joe murmurs against your ear, his voice a husky drawl that sends a shiver down your spine. "Can't get enough of your pussy... so wet for me." His words are a mantra, spoken between labored breaths and deep thrusts.

His rhythm staggers as he starts to feel his impending orgasm, his thrusts uneven but no less potent. Each movement sends ripples of pleasure through your body, pushing you both closer to the brink again. The mattress creaks under the force of his movements, as Joe's praises continue to spill from his lips.

His fingers find your clit, thumb circling with a rhythm that matches his thrusts. The dual assault on your senses is overwhelming, and you can feel another climax building within you, the coil in your stomach tightening like a spring.

"Fuck, I’m gonna—" Joe's words cut off as his control snaps, his body tensing as he reaches his own climax. He buries himself deep inside you as he comes, his eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with the raw intensity of his release. The sight of him, so utterly undone, so vulnerable and yet so powerful, pulls you over the edge with him.

Your orgasm washes over you in a tidal wave of bliss, crashing through you with such strength that you cling to Joe, your nails digging into his sculpted back, as if anchoring yourself. Together, you ride the waves of pleasure, each pulse and throb of his cock inside you extending your climax, intertwining it with his.

Joe's body shudders above you, each tremor mirroring the aftershocks that ripple through your own form. His breath, hot and ragged, brushes against your neck as he struggles to catch his breath, his chest heaving against yours.

As the final waves of pleasure ebb, Joe collapses beside you, his arm instinctively pulling you close. In the dim light of the hotel room, his face is painted with satisfaction and a touch of awe. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle, a stark contrast to the fervor of moments before.

#joe burrow #joe burrow bengals #joe shiesty #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fic

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invincibledc · 22 days ago

Text

⋆˙⟡#A MAN, A MAN, A- MANNN!⋆˙⟡

⭑.ᐟDEMETRIUS PRINCE(OC) X BATSIB!READER

ᯓ★ SYNOPSIS: the times Demetrius showed he’s a man for you!

ᯓ★GENRE: fluff

ᯓ★INFO: This is a superson OC I’ve written for my own amusement. Demetrius is clearly the son of Diana Prince, and being the older brother of Elizabeth “Lizzie” Prince. Reader is the twin sibling of Damian, Damian being the older sibling. He’s canonically handsome cause he’s the son of Diana Prince. He has those Amazon genes.

ᯓ★WC: 1,265

FIRST TIME.

The first time he proved he was a man for you was when you didn’t like your order. It was straightforward: you decided to venture beyond your usual comfort food preferences. You love meat, especially chicken and eggs, but this was an opportunity for something different.

You were at a quaint restaurant, on what felt like a discreet date—one that Damian would undoubtedly take issue with, considering he’d probably go after this Amazon male for daring to date his twin sibling.

But you appreciated the way he treated you. He opened the door as you entered, pulled out your chair, and pushed it in after you sat down. You suppressed a giggle as you noticed a faint blush on Demetrius’s tanned cheeks. The menu offered several enticing options, and while you found one of your comfort foods, another dish grabbed your attention.

Demetrius studied you intently. “Did you find what you want?” he asked, his tone gentle as he set his menu down.

“Uh.. I think so?” you replied, unsure. As you handed him your menu, he leaned in closer.

“What are you getting?” His anticipation was palpable.

You showed him your choice. “Ah, that’s... unique,” he commented, then confidently ordered for himself and included your choice to the waiter.

When the food arrived, you inhaled the delightful aromas, smiling at how delicious everything smelled. But it was clear that Demetrius's dish looked even more appealing. You tasted yours, giving it a chance based on the enticing smell. That was a mistake; the dish was utterly repulsive. You masked a gag and discreetly spit it into a napkin.

Demetrius ate from his plate, feigning ignorance to your struggle, but a smirk tugged at his lips. “What’s wrong, babe?” he asked, managing to suppress a chuckle as you nervously glanced at him.

“Can... can I have some of your food?” you asked, not wanting to impose, even though you’ve known him long enough in years.

“Sure,” he replied with a chuckle, switching plates with you without hesitation. Your eyes widened in surprise as he took a bite of your distasteful meal.

“Demetri, you didn’t have to do that—”

“I wanted to. I knew you wouldn’t like your food,” he said, leaning back in his chair after wiping his mouth. “That’s why I ordered something I knew you would enjoy.”

He clearly relished the moment, watching your eyes light up with appreciation. You couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Well, thank you, beloved. That was very considerate of you.”

“I know. Now eat up, moró mou.”

That date turned out to be surprisingly romantic.

SECOND TIME.

The second time it happened, Demetrius clearly showcased his protective side. You and he were out for another casual hangout, just the two of you. You confidently held onto his arm, appreciating the way his muscles flexed under his sweatshirt.

On that chilly winter afternoon, you strolled through the city, both of you enjoying your time there. However, Demetrius started to look bored, yawning as you smiled and hummed, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. You noticed someone around your age throwing glances your way, but you didn’t think much of it until you caught them staring at you again.

Feeling a shiver run down your spine, you instinctively leaned closer into Demetrius. The unwanted attention made you want to shrink away, but Demetrius sensed your discomfort immediately. He looked down at you and then shifted his gaze to the person who couldn't stop staring.

His jaw clenched tightly as he positioned his large frame in front of you, effectively blocking the person’s view. With a fierce glare from his deep blue eyes, he silently dared them to try anything. The moment the person felt the heat of Demetrius’s intimidation, they quickly looked away.

From that point on, Demetrius took it upon himself to shield you from anyone's gaze for the rest of the day. He grasped your hand firmly in his, making it clear that he wanted you close by and wouldn’t let you wander off.

THIRD TIME.

The third time, and now the present moment—Demetrius demonstrated that even a touch of makeup doesn’t diminish masculinity. His little sister Lizzie, on the other hand, was clearly bored and insisting that he play dress-up with her.

He insists he’s focused on his future spouse—on you. He reclines his wavy black hair onto your lap, leaning in to kiss your hand as you run your fingers through his hair. In the background, Lizzie pouts and storms off to her room. You can’t help but frown; the girl just wanted someone to play with.

“Come on, beloved, she’s just looking for someone to play with,” you say firmly, withdrawing your hand as he attempts to kiss it again.

Demetrius groans, rising with his eyes cast down. “That brat can entertain herself with her dolls for all I care.”

He was struck sharply in the head, coupled with an intense glare from you. “Demetrius Prince. You will play with your little sister; she clearly looks up to you.” With that, you got up and exited his room, shutting the door behind you—and leaving the frustrated Amazon male to sigh deeply.

Running a hand through his hair, he got up and followed you. He might be a jerk, but you were absolutely right about Lizzie admiring him. He found you in her room, engaged in a lively tea party.

Demetrius leaned against the door frame, a confident smile spreading across his face as he watched his cute lover and sister play together. You exchanged a knowing glance, aware he would follow you into the room.

Without hesitation, he plopped down next to you on the rickety little chair that felt like it could collapse at any moment under his weight.

Lizzie pouted. “No! That spot is for Ms. Gloria!” she declared firmly. Demetrius rolled his eyes. “Guess she’s not coming, then.”

The tension between the siblings was palpable, each giving the other a pointed glare until Lizzie’s face lit up with mischief.

“Then you’re Ms. Gloria!” she announced with a cheeky grin.

“What?!” Demetrius exclaimed, his voice echoing, causing you to stifle a laugh behind your hand.

Although he could have protested, he surrendered to the moment, allowing you and Lizzie to enthusiastically apply makeup on him.

He looked surprisingly good with a touch of red lipstick and blue eyeshadow. There was no denying it—his looks certainly made him a pretty boy.

“You know, most guys would rather die than put on makeup, my beloved.” You said decisively as you reached for some blush. Demetrius huffed, crossing his arms defiantly. “Well, I’m not like most guys, babe.”

You couldn't help but chuckle at his protest. “You’ve got that right.”

As you cupped his face to apply a hint of blush, Demetrius opened his eyes, his breath steady as he locked onto your face and then traced down to your lips.

“…you’re really close,” he murmured, his voice low. You paused, a playful smile crossing your face. “Am I?” you asked, leaning in even closer. The hint of blush on his cheeks morphed into a genuine flush as he placed his hands firmly on your hips.

“Yep…” he said before pulling you in for a soft kiss. Responding felt like pure magic, but it abruptly shattered when Lizzie gagged dramatically at the sight of her older brother kissing you.

“Eww!! Cooties!!” she exclaimed, her tongue sticking out in mock disapproval.

Demetrius broke the kiss, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “Oh, shush it.” But Lizzie couldn't help but giggle afterward, returning to the tea party as if nothing happened.

Demetrius Prince tag: @darkfaethedestroyer @dead-ry-walking @chalkadow @eclecticeaglebluebird @mistake34 @dandelion-delusion

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anantaru · 9 months ago

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・✶ ｡ synopsis — capitano feels way too large on top of you, his presence almost frightening you, but don't you worry because he has a soft spot just for you <3

warnings — size kink/size difference, scary man only sweet for his s/o, fem! reader <3

how come, your bedroom always feels so much more smaller and slightly more searing with capitano in it? archons, look at you, you're halfway done into becoming a mess for him, feeling your difficulties to breathe as his towering frame castes a long lasting shadow on top of your goosebumps ridden body.

oh dear! his presence was simply overwhelming, right? cruelly dominating, and undeniably powerful— his cock, snugly in between your legs and twitching as he carefully slid his length over your wet cunt, unable to tear his eyes away from how nasty you've been drooling and squeezing your pussy for him.

every movement capitano makes made sense, you could even compare it to his battles. as if he thought about it more clearly, like he was attempting to shrink the space between you both while not realizing that it was simply impossible to get any closer.

fuck, you cannot stop yourself from watching him, or his pelvis being slicked up with your liquids as he slowly, with controlled breathing, presses his enormous tip inside your hole.

his broad chest heaves, his muscles flexing and tensing as your legs instantly begin to shake. well, his entire body was a monument to his strength and authority, how in your eyes truly, the first harbinger was the epitome of perfection.

"too much for you again, my love, no?" he utters, voice rough, boring his cock deep into your soul as his flesh teased all over your sloppy walls, making you wince of the constant, yet delicious burn.

your voice trembles with neediness, ecstasy as the sheer size of him was daunting your body and mind.

although you notice how only with you, his grip was firm, yes, but not painful, each movement calculated and precise, as though he's constantly aware of his own strength and would rather die than hurt the love of his life.

your hips can’t help but lean up into him, feeling the solid plane of his cock nudging at your sweet spot, exploring and conquering your pussy with slow but sharp snaps forward— so dense, in fact, that your tits bounce up and down with his powerful movements.

capitano practically molds into you, immediately fills all the space inside your cunt with the overwhelming presence of his cock rocking back and forth made you immediately dizzy— a carnal want erupting for him to pleasure you day and night, day and night.

your strong boyfriend, your pretty boy, he's so solid, so real, gripping at your hips and pressing his thumbs into your flesh— grinding himself deeper and deeper inside, like he wants you to touch yourself because you simply cannot stop thinking about wanting to rub your clit so fucking badly in combination of being so fucking full of him stretching your fluttering hole so damn nicely.

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #capitano x reader #capitano smut #genshin x you #genshin impact x you #capitano x you #genshin drabbles #genshin impact drabbles

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marvelstoriesepic · 1 month ago

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You’re Okay

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Former Widow!Avenger!Reader

Summary: After a mission dredges up ghosts of old wounds, Bucky and you find each other in the quiet.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: PTSD and trauma references; implied violence from past missions; implied past abuse; Hydra; themes of healing and recovery

Author’s Note: Thank you for this peaceful request, my dear!! It has me so satisfied that I can end this celebration event with a fic that focuses on healing and growth together!! I hope you enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The rain falls like forgiveness. It paints the windows of the quinjet with streaks of silver.

You sit cross-legged with your back against the wall of the empty debriefing room, knees pulled to your chest, damp sleeves rolled halfway up your forearms.

The blood has been washed off. The mission is over. But it’s still under your nails. Still in your teeth. Still sitting like rust in the corners of your mind.

You exhale. Long and slow and thorough. As though you are trying to empty yourself out before it leaks on its own.

The floor is cold beneath you. But you stay seated.

The fluorescent lights make a droning sound overhead and it reminds you of the rooms beneath cities, the ones without windows or names.

The door hisses open.

But you don’t look up.

His footsteps are soft, almost weightless. He’s learned how not to be noticed by accident. You have too. You wonder if he was trying not to disturb you, or if it’s just muscle memory.

I thought you might be here. It’s something he would have said on any other mission. He would have asked if you’re okay and he’d want you to talk to him if the answer was no.

But this wasn’t just any other mission. It was Hydra. So he doesn’t say anything. Because this is not just a thing discussed only with words.

And you’re grateful for the silence.

You hear the faintest shift of leather as he sits beside you, not touching, not crowding. Just close enough that your shadows might brush if the light hit just right.

There are oceans between your ribs. Some days, you drown in them. Some days, he pulls you out.

Bucky mirrors your posture on instinct, knees bent, arms draped loosely over them. His hair is still damp from the rain. There is a cut healing along his jaw, already closed over thanks to the serum but still red.

You can taste the weight in the room. The quiet grows but you don’t put in effort to shoo it away. Bucky and you have always shared this kind of understanding. It doesn’t need to be said out loud. Unspoken things are lingering in the air, but they don’t press, they don’t gasp for air.

Because you’ve bleed together. Killed together. Not because you wanted to, but because you had to. Because you were trained to. Because the ghosts in your bones still wear Hydra uniforms.

You tilt your head, just enough to glance at him. He’s staring at the wall ahead as though it might say something if he looks long enough. His vibranium hand flexes once, then stills. You wonder if it’s twitching from leftover adrenaline, or if it’s a ghost, too.

But he’s not the ghost of the Winter Soldier. Not the Red Room’s shadow. He’s the man who remembers your real name even when you forget how it sounds in your own voice. The man who’s learning how to live. The man you learned to trust with your quiet, everyday hopes.

You turn your head away again.

And you sit there together, the old scent of gunpowder and metal and blood memory folded between your bodies. The past is still there, crawling around under your ribs, but it’s quieter now. Less sharp. You’ve sanded down the edges together, little by little, like two broken blades trying to make peace with their shapes.

For a long time, there’s nothing but breath and distance shrinking between your arms.

Your fingers ache. But they aren’t shaking anymore.

Bucky’s knee brushes yours when he adjusts. You glance over. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw slack, eyes tracking something not there.

Your shoulder brushes his. He doesn’t flinch. You don’t move away.

And you’re not sure how long you sit there, shoulder to shoulder.

The quinjet is flying steadily, and the lights dim slowly to a soft gold, stretching long shadows on the steel floor.

Your body feels as though it’s been rung out and hung to dry, nerves vibrating under skin but too tired to flinch anymore. In the air lingers a faint trace of smoke and ozone and antiseptic.

Bucky shifts beside you.

Not much. Just enough that you sense him turn his head to watch you. You don’t look back, but your fingers twitch in your lap.

“You eat yet?” His voice is worn, rough and gravel, but so quiet, it feels intimate.

You shake your head.

He nods slowly, as though he expected it. As though he’s been keeping track even when you haven’t.

“Clint found a stash of those spicy noodles you like.” he comments. “He’s hoarding them, probably. But I could steal one.”

You huff something that could almost be a laugh. Your mouth is dry.

You glance at him now, and he’s already looking away. Not in avoidance. Just giving you space. Letting you come back in your own time.

“I’m not really hungry,” you answer quietly, but there is gratitude in the warmth of your voice.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says gently. “You still need to eat.”

You don’t argue, because you know he’s right. Because this - this version of care, quiet and practical and patient - is how he loves people now. Maybe how he always did, under all the static.

He shifts again, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. Pulls out a small water bottle still halfway full and offers it to you without a word.

You take it. Your fingers brush. His hand is warm.

You take a slow sip. It’s a relief to your sore throat.

You hand it back and let your head fall against the wall behind you. “Thanks.”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just exhales a long breath. You used to think his stillness meant detachment. Now you know it’s the only way he knows how to be soft.

He doesn’t speak again for a while, and neither do you.

Eventually, you let your head tilt against his shoulder, resting your cheek against the fabric of his jacket. He doesn’t move. Just takes a contented breath and leans, ever so slightly, into you.

His voice is quieter when he speaks again.

“You’re okay?” he asks lowly.

Just that.

Not Are you okay?

Not What’s wrong?

Not Talk to me.

You’re. Okay. As if it’s something that could be true. As if he wants it to be true. As if it might help you believe it, too.

You nod. Not too fast. Not lying.

“Yeah,” you speak against his shoulder, your breath meeting his skin. “I will be.”

His head carefully comes down onto yours, and he lets his hand inch closer, lets his knee bump lightly against yours.

And very slowly, without looking at you, he shifts his hand. The flesh one.

His pinky finger brushes yours.

Not by accident. Not quite.

You glance down. His hand rests on the floor between you, knuckles soft, fingertips still. But his pinky is there. Reaching.

You don’t hesitate. You let yours find his, curl just enough to hook.

It’s a small thing. Ridiculous, maybe. Childlike. Delicate.

But it means something.

It means I see you.

It means I’m here.

It means We don’t have to explain ourselves tonight.

You stare down at the two fingers linked between you - his calloused and warm, yours still scraped from the fight - and you feel something ease in your chest. Not vanish. But shift.

And you sit like that, both of you worn thin and bruised quiet, staring out at the lowly flickering lights on the far wall, letting the silence between you settle into something like peace.

Because it’s what you deserve. Both of you.

Together.

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devil-in-hiding · 10 months ago

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On The Run

pt 4

Ghost was silent as you disinfected his hand, watching with interest as you dab the cotton against the wounds. “You really don’t have to do this, I deserved it for being so rough with ya.” He mutters after some time, and you wave him off.

“You did deserve it, but I still don’t want it getting infected and you don’t seem the type to take care of it.” You huff, grabbing the bandage off the bathroom counter.

He watches you, tracking your movements as you gingerly wrap his hand. “There. We can check on that in a day or two.” You announce, patting his cheek and you bite back a smile at the indignant scoff he makes, batting your hand away.

“Oh so you and Price can grab me but I can’t touch?” You roll your eyes, cleaning up the small mess you made as Ghost flexes his hand, looking at the bandage with an unreadable look in his eye.

“Did I wrap it too tight? I’m sorry, let me-“

“It’s fine little bird, thank you.” His voice is soft, his eyes locked on the white wrap. He blinks when you gently slip your palm into his, squeezing gently.

“Why don’t you get some sleep? I can tell you need it.” Your voice is barely a whisper, and you smile when you feel him squeeze your hand ever so slightly in return, but makes no move to stand. His eyes are tired, and there’s a strand of hair sticking out from the eye hole and you pause.

“Would you… would you be more comfortable with that off? I can wash it for you.” You offer, wincing only slightly when his grip tightens.

“Don’t wanna scare ya anymore than I have.” He states bluntly, making you frown. “How is your face going to scare me?” You ask, raising a brow as you cautiously reach for the edge of the ski mask. You anticipate him grabbing your wrist, but not the flicker of panic that flashes in his eyes and you back off, guilt settling low in your stomach.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to, I just thought you’d be more comfortable with it off…” You apologize, lowering your gaze. You go to pull your hand back, clearly having overstepped, but he stops you, pulling your hand back to his lap and he glares at the ground.

“It ain’t pretty.” Is all he offers after a moment, and you tilt your head. “Doesn’t mean you’re gonna scare me Ghost.” You soothe, trying to get him to look at you. A few hours ago you would have laughed seeing this guy acting so small, but now you just want to help them feel… safe. How funny.

As though he’s reading your thoughts, his eyes lift to meet yours, and you can see a million different questions dancing there. “You ever looked into the face of a monster?” He asks, and that takes you back, and he watches the way your eyebrows furrow.

“I don’t-“

“I have done some awful fuckin things little bird. Monsterous things. Things that keep me awake at night, I’m a-“

“That doesn’t make you a monster.” You hiss, and he narrows his eyes, ready to bark back but you cut him off. “Do you view your team as monsters? Do you deem them any less human because of the lives they’ve taken? Is Price a monster?” You snap, and his mouth slams shut, teeth clacking and you see his nostrils flare. Price must be a sensitive nerve.

“He told me. He told me what the four of you have done. He told me all the awful fucking things you four had to witness first hand. The things you did to keep those who needed protecting safe and I want to do that for you!”

His eyes widen behind the mask, and the silence hangs heavy in the air.

You search his eyes for a moment, before slowly reaching back towards the hem of the mask.

“You don’t scare me Ghost. Maybe a few hours ago but not now.”

“How can you be so sure?” He whispers, gripping your wrists but his touch is gentle, hands shaking.

“Do you feel bad about holding that knife to my throat?” You ask, and his eyes flash, and he tugs you closer by your wrists. “More than anything. We… I was just… scared.” His voice is small, eyes shining with unshed tears as you slowly pull the ski mask up and off, and he shrinks back as you look over his features.

He’s waiting for it, waiting for the gasp, the look of disgust.

But you only hum, brushing a strand of hair away from his eyes before gently tracing one of the scars littered along his cheek.

“Now where is that monster you were telling me about, hm?” You tease softly, and his lip trembles as you softly cup his cheek.

“I don’t see any monsters here, just a man who desperately needs some sleep.” He tries to fight back the tears, but his cheeks are hot and sticky and he struggles to suck in a breath.

He freezes when he feels you tug him forward, just for his head to land on your chest, a hand in his hair, grounding.

Comforting.

“You guys are safe here. I promise.” You whisper, the only answer you receive is Ghost fisting the back of your hoodie as he buries his face deeper into your chest to muffle his sobs.

“Absolute fuckin idiot.” He chokes out, and you raise a brow, running a hand through his hair. “Who?”

“Who ever fuckin’ divorces a walkin’ fuckin’ dream.” He spits, yanking at your hoodie like a pouting child, cheeks shining with tears and you can’t help it, you giggle, loud and bright.

“So you’ve said.” You laugh, and he shakes his head. “Should ‘ave his ass kicked.” He mutters, and you have to bite back the sharp reply waiting at the tip of your tongue, instead just tilting his head back so you could meet his gaze.

“You need to rest. Let’s get you to bed.” You order, and he blinks at you, before the hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Inviting me to bed already little bird? Cheeky.” He grins, and it’s a little crooked, and it makes your heart stutter, a shy smile fighting its way to your face.

“The hell the two of you doin’ in here?” Price gripes, and you jump, Ghost tugging you closer instinctively. “Bonding.” He mumbles, resting his cheek against your chest and you glance over your shoulder. Price stares at the two of you, brow raised, but when his eyes settle on the man wrapped around you, you can physically see him soften, an easy smile spreading across his face.

“Gonna stop wearing that damn thing then?” He asks, crossing his arms as he leans against the door frame, and Ghost shrugs. “Thinkin’ about it.” He admits softly, propping his chin on your chest so he can gaze up at you. It’s oddly intimate, and it has your heart racing, giving him one last timid smile before tapping his cheek.

“Bed. Now.”

“Oh she’s a bossy one.” Price chuckles, and you shoo him off. “Both of you, bed!” You laugh, cheeks warm as you step away from Ghost, who you swear whines at the loss of you in his arms.

The three of you shuffle out of the bathroom, and you glance around. “Didn’t have the heart to wake ‘em. Gaz is just about crushing the poor lad but they’re both out like a light.” Price explains, and you nod. “Well, I’ll leave some blanket for them.” You decide, grabbing one of the bigger fur blankets from the closet, and when you stand straight, you’re sandwiched between the two of them, and your breath catches.

“What are you two doing?” You squeak, just to feel two pairs of lips brushing your cheeks.

“Thank you pretty. For everything.” Price mutters, voice low and tired.

“Can’t tell you how much it means to us, really. We’ll repay you anyway we can.” Ghost continues, a rough hand caressing your cheek and you swallow down a whimper, nodding.

“Of course. I’m glad I can help.”

“Don’t deserve it. Don’t deserve you.” Ghost whispers, and your heart slams in your chest. “I-I better get to my room.” You stutter, stepping away from them on shaking legs.

“Goodnight pretty.” Price hums, already tugging Ghost towards the large mattress as you close the door, clutching the blanket to your chest as you dash down the hallway.

Ghost allows himself to lead towards the bed, laughing when Price pushes him back, eyes bright.

“You know I love seein’ you out of that damn mask.” He breathes, crawling over his lover as Ghost gazes up at him, brown eyes tired but brighter than Price has seen them in ages.

“You sure this isn’t about you droolin’ all over our host?” He muses, reaching up to card his fingers through Price’s hair, who catches his wrist, pressing a kiss to his palm.

“Like you weren’t in bloody heaven bein’ buried between those tits.” He chuckles, lowering himself next to Ghost, who curls into his side, resting his head on his shoulder. The mattress sinks under the weight, and it’s not lumpy or stabbing his side with springs as he relaxes, sinking against Price and the fresh blankets surrounding him.

“She’s nice.” He murmurs, eyes fluttering as exhaustion sinks into his bones. Price snorts at that, pressing a kiss to Ghost’s temple as he feels his own fatigue winning its war.

“A god damn angel.” He huffs, dropping his head back as he caresses the skin at Ghost’s hip.

“Get some sleep love.” Price hums, letting his eyes drift shut, listening to the way Ghost’s breathing evens out. It’s been a long time since they’ve been able to sleep like this, wrapped around each other and Price swallows the rising lump in his throat as he settles in, tugging his man as close as he can before finally letting exhaustion take over, drifting into a dreamless sleep, finally.

#on the run #poly 141 x reader #tf 141 x reader #simon riley x john price #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #cod x reader #call of duty #cod modern warfare

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differenteagletragedy · 2 months ago

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Part Two of Cop Simon Riley!

When Simon starts putting on his uniform, he recognizes immediately that something is not quite right. He wears the damn thing enough to know exactly how it fits, but now the collar feels just a little too tight, and the sleeves don't reach his wrists. The pants thankfully seem ok, long enough but perhaps a little snug in the thighs. But it's clear that somehow he managed to shrink it a bit. Not enough to make it unbearable, but enough to make him annoyed.

It's his last clean uniform before a few days off, and it's not like he's a stranger to being in a bad mood at work, so he just acknowledges that he might be a little more of an asshole than normal and hops in his squad car to start his day.

After a while of cruising around, writing tickets and being generally grumpy while he waits for a good call, finally something pops up, something about a bar fight, and he's on it.

He hightails it to the bar, and when he strolls in, he hears yelling. There's a man by the bar with a bloody nose that catches his attention right away, finger pointing and curses flying, and when Simon looks over to find the focus of the man's fury, he can't help but chuckle.

Because it's you.

"—Little fucking bitch," the man seethes, apparently on the tail end of some rant, and you laugh.

Simon scans over you quickly, not seeing any injuries, but he does see that fire in your eyes he saw the first time he met you, wasted and indignant at another bar. He steps forward, making his presence known, and when you see him, you groan.

"I didn't do anything," you tell him quickly. "This asshole —"

"The fuck you didn't do anything!" the man interrupts, taking a step closer. "You probably broke my nose, you fucking cu—“

Simon moves in front of the man, putting a hand on his chest to stop him, muttering, "That's bloody well enough of that."

But he doesn't seem to have any sense of self-preservation, because he presses forward in his anger, trying to get around Simon to you. There's another name, another threat, and with more force than necessary, Simon slams him against the bar, slapping his handcuffs on him.

"What the fuck?" the man asks. "I get assaulted and I'm the one getting handcuffed?"

"Didn't see any assault, but I did hear you making threats," he says. He thinks about pulling the "assaulting a police officer" card again with the way he tried to shove past him to get to you, but he doesn't want you to think he's only got one move.

"I need medical attention," the man insists. "You have to get me medical attention."

Simon smirks, then radios in for backup. On most days he'd have a little more fun with an asshole like this, but he's got a different plan in mind tonight.

While he waits for another officer to arrive, he turns to you, eyes sweeping over you again. You stay put, but your jaw is clenched, obviously still heated. He sees you flex the fingers on your right hand a few times. It’s an in, and when he unloads the guy you hit off on another cop, he takes it.

“There’s the little troublemaker,” he taunts softly. “Let’s have a look at that hand.”

“My hand is fine,” you scoff, but you don’t argue when he takes it and lifts it to inspect.

Your knuckles are swollen, he can tell they’ll bruise. He tuts, then drops your hand and says, “Come on then."

"But I didn't do anything," you say quickly, and he laughs.

"Didn't bloody that poor bastard's nose? You'll have to do a bit better than that."

You roll your eyes, and it's clear than even though you're not as drunk as you were the last time, you're still just as bratty.

"I did," you admit, "but he deserved it."

Simon smiles, a bit warmer now, and says, "I don't doubt that. But I'm not arresting you, pet, just want to get some ice on that hand."

He takes you to his car, letting you sit in the front this time, which you seem suspicious about. It's fair — he’s obviously giving you special attention. But the way you look at him, a little nervous but ready to lunge if needed, like some cagey animal with its teeth bared, it does something to him. So he presses on.

He takes you to his place.

Your hackles are still up when he unlocks the door, holds it open for you to enter first then locks it behind him — a habit, nothing more, but your eyes are trained on his every movement. Without commenting, he leads the way to the kitchen, opening the freezer and pulling out an ice pack. He takes your hand again, then holds the pack to your knuckles.

“Hold it there,” he says quietly, though he makes no move to let go.

After a moment of silence, your eyes scan up his uniform, then you meet his eyes, just a bit shyer now that he has you alone.

“Why do you look like that?” you ask him.

“Like what?”

“Like a stripper version of a cop.”

He laughs, a bit surprised by your commentary — he’d forgotten about the shrunken uniform. But looking down at himself now, how the buttons of his shirt seem to be holding on for dear life as the fabric stretches across the muscled expanse of his chest, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, he can see what you mean.

“Nobody ever taught you to respect authority figures?”

You snort derisively, and his cock actually twitches in his too-tight pants.

“I respect people who earn it,” you tell him. “Not people who think they’re owed it just because they have a dumb shiny badge, Officer Riley.”

The way you address him with his title is rude, undoubtedly, but there’s a twinkle in your eye now. A challenge.

Simon loves a challenge.

Without another word, he backs you up until you hit the wall, and when you don’t pull away, he presses his free hand against the wall, leaning down and caging you in.

"This seems unprofessional," you tell him, your voice just above a whisper. "Like an abuse of power."

"You ever shut up?"

"Not really."

He likes the honesty, but what he likes even more is thinking about all he ways that he could be the one to shut you up. He has a few solid options in mind, but he starts off simple: by closing the distance between you with a kiss.

It's not exactly soft, just a bit tentative, but when you slide a finger between his belt and his waistband, yanking him a little closer, he stops holding back. The kiss turns consuming, and he drops the ice pack, barely registering the heavy thud of it hitting the floor as he brings both hands to your hips, holding you in place.

Simon moves his kisses towards your neck, pushing your head back to run his tongue over the column of your throat. He wants to taste you, feel you all over him, so much that he —

"Quit slobbering all over me," you mutter, tugging him by the collar back to your lips.

"Fucking hell," he chuckles, kissing you again. "Somebody ought to teach you some manners, pet."

"Wouldn't take."

"You don't think so?" he murmurs, his hands moving down to bunch your skirt up around your waist, slowly. "Don't think you can be trained up to behave?"

He can see it in your eyes, how much you still want to mouth off, but still, your legs part, just slightly. Enough for him to fit his hand in the space between, cupping you firmly as he speaks, his lips brushing against yours as he does.

"Lucky for you, I've got a little bit of faith in you."

#call of duty simon riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #cod simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost simon riley #cod ghost #ghost x you #ghost x reader #officer riley please #the shrunken uniform was a treat just for me tysm for understanding

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mindmelter · 1 month ago

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Reshaping Minds

It was a calm afternoon at the coffee lounge of a high-end hotel in Miami. The kind of place with overpriced lattes, but money was never a problem for me. I had my sunglasses on, my iced coffee in hand, and my radar fully tuned for potential fun. That’s when I saw him.

A goddamn tank of a man.

He stood near the espresso bar, stretching his thick arms in a tight navy-blue tee, making his muscles bulge like he was carved from marble, and his tribal tattoo wrapped around his huge bicep, making him hotter and manlier than everyone at the lounge. His beard was neatly trimmed, baseball cap turned backward, and he had that smug alpha energy straight dudes ooze when they think the world owes them a trophy.

He wasn't alone—They never are—His girlfriend was clinging to him like a purse, giggling at something he said. But I wasn’t looking at her. Heck no. I was focused on the fine piece of muscles that was her boyfriend.

I slid off my lounge chair, walked right up to them, and smiled. "Hey, you two look like you could use some fun."

The woman blinked at me confused. The man raised an eyebrow. "Uh, we’re good, man."

I tilted my head. "You sure? I mean, you’ve got all that meat on you, big guy. Seems like a waste if you’re not being properly used."

He turned to face me fully, clearly annoyed. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

I leaned in just slightly, grinning. "It means you're the kind of thick-brained, thick-bodied beefcake that's good for one thing. Being used. Bent. Owned."

His girlfriend gasped, pulling his arm. "Honey, let’s go. He’s a creep."

But something was happening already inside the man's brain. He didn’t move. Just stared at me.

"What... what the fuck did you say?" he muttered again, but his voice cracked. There it was! His eyes were getting heavier. I stepped closer, like a snake charming its prey. My fingers barely brushed his chest.

"I said you were made to be used. That mind of yours? Serves for nothing but to control your sexy body. No thoughts, just instinct. Grunt when told. Flex when needed. Obey when commanded."

My words pierced his brain. His eyes twitched. His thick chest rose with a heavy breath. I could see his pupils dilating, his mouth parting just a little. "You don’t need to think, big guy. Thinking is for people with something between their ears. Not you."

His girlfriend kept tugging at his arm, but he just stood there. "Honey? Hello? Babe!"

He slowly turned to her, blinked dumbly, then looked back at me. His brows relaxed. His lips parted more. A little line of drool started collecting at the corner of his mouth.

I let out a low chuckle and stepped even closer, almost whispering now. "That's it... Let my words sink in. Let them take root. You're just a toy now. A dumb, hot, perfect toy." His head tilted slightly, eyes half-closed, mouth wide open, and his tongue was hanging loose. Drool dripping down his beard.

The transformation was delicious. My words did far more than just implant commands, they literally reshaped my prey's brain. If you listen carefully, you will hear the wet sounds of his brain moving, shrinking, and molding to my liking. As if his brain were clay, and my words a sculptor's skilled hands.

His girlfriend panicked, backing away. "What the hell are you doing to him!?"

I looked at her calmly. "Relax. He’s finally where he belongs." And then I snapped my fingers in front of her face. Her eyes blinked rapidly. Her mouth opened slightly, then shut. She shivered, then slowly nodded, expression blanking into stunned acceptance.

"He belongs to you now," she said softly. Like she was reading from a script etched into her mind.

I smiled. "You're smarter than him, I see." I turned to the hunk, grabbed his chin and turned his head. "Say you're mine.'"

A moment of silence. Then, in a slow, slurred drawl, he mumbled, "Uhhhm yuhhhrs... suhh..."

Perfect. I gave his cheek a playful pat. "Now listen to me, big guy. That face right there? Dumb. Mindless. Empty. That's your natural expression from now on, you will always look like this. With your eyes heavy and tongue hanging out, blank, docile, and stupid. Got it?"

He gave a soft grunt, lips still parted. His eyes stayed glazed and dull. Good. I turned back to his girlfriend. "You see him now, don’t you? He’s not boyfriend material anymore. He’s too far gone. Too dumb."

She stared at him in silence, then at me. "Yeah... he’s not really... boyfriend material anymore."

"Nope. He’s just a gay sex slave now. A muscle puppet with no brain. Not something you want to bring home to mom or build a family with."

She exhaled sharply. "He’s all yours. I can't date someone that... vacant."

I chuckled, stepping between them and placing a possessive hand on his chest, rubbing his pecs slowly through the thin fabric of his shirt. He didn’t flinch. Just stared into the distance, drool rolling steadily down his tongue. "Smart choice," I said to her. "He’s better off this way. Obedient. Mindless. Always ready. I will take good care of him, don't worry."

She gave a nod and walked away without another word. I turned my full attention to the hunk, both palms now pressed against his chest, playing with his nipples through his shirt, gently twisting them.

He didn’t resist. Didn’t blink. "Good boy," I whispered. "You’re going to make me very happy aren't you?" And he just stood there, blank face locked in, waiting to serve. "Flex for me, boy."

Like a well-oiled machine, the hunk obeyed. His thick, tattooed biceps rose in a slow, powerful curl, veins bulging beneath the ink as his massive arm tightened. He grunted softly, not out of effort—he was too strong for that—but from instinct, like a beast performing on command. I stepped in and ran my hand over his flexed arm, squeezing the hardness of his muscle. My thumb pressed into the peak of his bicep.

"Come, Daddy. Let’s go upstairs."

When we entered my suite, I turned and commanded, "Strip. Now."

He tore off his clothes with urgent clumsiness, revealing every inch of that sculpted Daddy body. His pecs were massive and his thighs were like tree trunks. And between them—his cock. 9 Inches, Thick. Veiny. Fully erect and already leaking.

"On your knees, boy."

The mindless beast dropped instantly, muscles flexing as he settled in front of me. I sat on the edge of the bed, spread my legs wide, and yanked his head toward my crotch. I made him sniff my bulge, and while he took in my musk, I touched his forehead and implanted into his ruined brain everything he needed to know about being a good cock sucking whore.

"Use that whore mouth. Now."

He pulled my cock out and sucked. Greedy. Needy. His lips stretched over my shaft as I gripped his head and rammed myself into his throat. No rhythm. No gentleness. Just ownership.

I used his mouth like a hole. Like a toy. Like he was nothing more than a slab of muscle with a wet hole attached to it. I fucked this handsome Daddy's face, hard and deep, my cock slamming the back of his throat again and again until he gagged. Spit and precum drooled from his lips as I held his head down against my pubes.

"That’s it, Daddy. Choke on your Master's cock. You love being used, don’t you? Just a stupid muscle toy." He moaned through the assault, drool bubbling at the corners of his slack mouth. I slapped his cheek with one hand as I thrust harder, relentlessly.

"You're nothing now. Just a dumb, cock-hungry fuckdoll. Your brain’s gone. Your girl’s gone. All you are is a hole for me to use."

I could hear the wet sloopy sounds—not from the blowjob—but from inside his skull. His brain was being reshaped nonstop with each word that came out of my mouth.

The pressure built. I snarled, shoved his face against my pubes, and came—thick, violent spurts blasting down his throat and spilling out of his mouth. I pulled out mid-release, resting my cock against his panting face, painting his cheeks with cum and spit on the process.

"Good boy, I'm very pleased with your service," I growled, slapping my wet cock against his tongue, "Now your brain will shrink to the size of a grape." The sound his brain made this time was louder as it shrunk to the size of a grape. If I thought his face couldn't get any dumber, the face he made now surpassed that.

He fell to the floor like a limp doll, his thick cock still thobbing hard and leaking. I would make his brain go back to its normal size later, but for now, I will enjoy my new brainless toy.

#mind control #male puppet #brainwash

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a-griffin-in-the-sky · 1 month ago

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Male Pattern Aggression

when a guy shrugs off a woman celebrating something as simple as not shaving her legs with a bored “who cares,” that’s not just casual dismissal. that’s male pattern aggression sneaking in like a snake.

it’s a power move disguised as indifference. the message isn’t “i don’t care,” it’s “your choice, your joy, your body none of it matters to me.” it’s about control, about making sure her expression of freedom feels small, silly, and unworthy of attention.

male pattern aggression loves to weaponize apathy because it’s quieter, sneakier. instead of yelling, it erodes confidence. it gaslights women into thinking their voices and choices are trivial or annoying. it says, “you should care what i think, not what makes you happy.”

so next time you hear that “who cares?” remember—it’s not really about leg hair. it’s about trying to keep her stuck in the cage of not bothering the status quo.

there’s a tired trick where people hear a woman’s poem raw, angry, real and just say, “oh, it’s just edgy,” like that shrinks it down to nothing. like slapping a “too much” sticker on her truth to shove it in a corner.

Calling it “edgy” isn’t a compliment; it’s a shutdown. a way to dodge the uncomfortable message hiding beneath the sharp words and jagged lines. because if they actually heard what she was saying, they might have to reckon with it. And that’s terrifying.

it’s a sneaky form of silencing that whispers: “your pain is performative, your anger is a phase, your voice is background noise.” it’s a way to keep her small, to make her doubt her own power and meaning.

but here’s the truth: edgy is just a code word for uncomfortable, and uncomfortable truths are exactly what the world needs more of. So don’t let them gaslight you into quieting your poem, is fire, not a fad.

when a grown woman gets called “girl” like she’s some clueless kid, that’s not cute or casual that’s a power play. it’s a way of saying “you’re smaller, less serious, less worthy of respect.” it’s the first crack in the foundation of basic human dignity.

Then comes the move where your real, lived concerns get twisted into a “savior complex” like you’re just some crazy person imagining drama. That’s gaslighting, pure and simple. It’s a way to silence your voice and put the focus back on their feelings and control.

And then, oh, the kicker, they brag about trying to get “railed by a dom,” acting like their wants erase your boundaries. That’s male aggression wearing a mask of entitlement. it screams: “my desires matter more than your comfort or consent.”

this is how they keep the power by shrinking you with words, by turning your care into a weapon against you, by ignoring your grown-womanhood and your right to say no.

so when you hear that “girl” and that dismissive bullshit, know this: it’s not about you being “too sensitive” or “overthinking.” it’s about them trying to keep you small, quiet, and under their thumb.

And honestly? watching how some trans activists jump to erase women’s boundaries and gaslight their concerns it’s hard not to see the mirror cracking. sometimes it feels like they’re just MRA activists in disguise, swapping the red pill for rainbow flags but still playing the same old power games. all talk about justice, but at the end of the day? it’s control dressed up as progress. i’d love to have a real conversation honest, open, no bullshit. but here’s the truth: they’re not actually worried about a small minority of people struggling. no, what they really want is to swing their dicks around, flex some power, and make women feel small and guilty for just existing. it’s less about care, more about control. and until that changes? The conversation’s just noise. keep responding if you want every word you type just shows me who you really are. and if you block me? well, that just proves you’re scared. scared of what I say, scared of the truth I’m writing. so go ahead, hide behind that block button. it won’t silence me.

Edit/Part two[5/16/2025] Link here please read

#tra reciepts #thank you for the inspiration #voice to text #radical feminism #radfemblr #radblr #radical feminist community #radical feminist safe

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verus-veritas · 3 months ago

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Becoming The Perfect Family

(AI-Generated - Story concept by the incredible @kylecrusoe-captions)

Kyle’s life had always been a gray blur. An only child to parents who barely looked up from their phones, he’d grown up starved for connection, his days bleeding into one another in a haze of neglect. Then the Armstrongs moved in next door, and everything changed. They weren’t any ordinary family—they were a force. Loud, physical, unapologetic, they filled the quiet suburban street with their presence. Kyle couldn’t look away. From his bedroom window, he watched them, his chest tight with longing, his mind spinning fantasies he’d never dare voice. They were untouchable he thought, until he found the tome.

It was a fluke, really. Tucked in the back of the college library, behind a row of moldy textbooks, the ancient book practically pulsed under his fingers. Its leather cover was cracked, its pages yellowed and curling, but the words inside promised power: Shape reality. Claim what’s yours. Kyle didn’t believe it at first, but desperation has a way of eroding skepticism. That night, alone in his room, he lit a candle, traced the runes with trembling fingers, and whispered the spell. He didn’t expect it to work. He fell asleep to the sound of his own heartbeat, disappointed... until he woke up somewhere else.

The bed was too small, the air thick with the musky scent of sweat and testosterone. Kyle blinked, disoriented, and then he felt a warm, heavy leg slung over his own. Clive Armstrong—his new younger brother—lay sprawled beside him, his lean, runner’s body barely contained by a pair of tight briefs. His wavy brown hair was a mess, his thin mustache twitching as he snored softly.

Kyle’s breath caught. He was in the Armstrong house, sharing a queen-sized bed with Clive like it was the most natural thing in the world. The room was cramped, cluttered with gym bags and running shoes, a testament to the family’s athletic obsession—and their lack of funds for separate bedrooms. Clive shifted, his bare chest brushing Kyle’s arm, and Kyle realized he was in his underwear too. No awkwardness, no hesitation—just the casual intimacy of brothers. The spell had worked.

Jared Armstrong: The Stoic Patriarch

The father, Jared Armstrong was a man carved from grit and muscle. At forty-five, he didn’t look a day over forty, his frame lean but powerful, honed from years of coaching college athletes into submission. His dark hair was cropped short, his jaw perpetually shadowed with stubble that gave him a rugged, almost dangerous edge. He was the kind of handsome that hit you like a punch—unpolished, raw, and utterly masculine. As the head coach at the local college, he had a reputation for running brutal gym classes, leaving students hobbling away with sore muscles and whispered curses. Cold and intimidating, he carried himself with a quiet authority that made people shrink in his presence. But with his sons, there was a flicker of something softer—a gruff tenderness he’d never admit to.

Kyle’s first morning as an Armstrong started with Jared. He stood in the kitchen, shirtless in a pair of faded sweatpants, barking orders as he blended a protein shake. His biceps flexed with every move, a sheen of sweat already clinging to his chest from an early workout. “Up and at ‘em, Kyle,” he grunted, barely glancing over. “No slackers in this house.” His voice was a low rumble, but there was no malice—just expectation. Kyle nodded mutely, still dazed, and Jared tossed him a banana with a smirk. “Eat. You’re too damn skinny.” It was the closest thing to affection Kyle had ever gotten from a father, and it lit something warm and dangerous in his chest.

Clive Armstrong: The Wild Spark

Clive was chaos in motion. At nineteen, a college freshman, he was the younger of Jared’s sons, and he wore his rebellion like a badge. Lean and toned, his body was built for speed—powerful legs that carried him through endless runs, a smooth chest that glistened with sweat every summer morning. His wavy brown hair fell into his eyes, and that thin mustache on his upper lip gave him a roguish charm. He was mischievous, quick with a smirk or a jab, but his temper was a live wire—explosive and unpredictable. Rumors swirled about him on campus: a passionate lover who’d leave you breathless, but a selfish one who’d sulk if he didn’t get his way. Kyle had seen it firsthand—Clive jogging shirtless around the neighborhood, ignoring Kyle’s timid waves with an annoyed glare.

Now, as his “little brother,” Kyle got the full Clive experience. That first morning, Clive rolled out of bed with a groan, stretching his jockish frame until his spine popped. “Fuck, I hate mornings,” he muttered, scratching his abs as he stumbled to the bathroom. He didn’t care that Kyle was there, didn’t bother to cover up—just strutted around in his briefs like it was nothing. Later, at breakfast, he shoved Kyle’s shoulder playfully, grinning. “You’re eating like a bird, bro. Gotta bulk up if you’re gonna keep up with me.” His touch lingered, his fingers brushing Kyle’s arm, and Kyle felt a jolt he couldn’t explain. Clive was a tease, a spark—and Kyle wanted to get burned.

Benjamin Armstrong: The Silent Storm

Benjamin, at twenty-one, was the eldest, a college senior with a presence that filled every room. Tall and muscular, he wasn’t bulky like a bodybuilder but lean and defined, his frame a testament to years on the basketball court. His intense eyes—dark and unreadable—could pin you in place, and the slight stubble on his cheeks only sharpened his brooding edge. Ambitious and quiet, he carried himself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, dismissing anyone he deemed unworthy of his time. But those he cared about? He’d guard them with a ferocity that was almost feral. His athletic fame stretched across state lines—everyone knew Ben Armstrong, the guy who could sink a three-pointer with his eyes closed.

Kyle’s first real encounter with Ben came that afternoon. He was shooting hoops in the driveway, shirtless and focused, his muscles rippling with every move. Kyle hesitated, then stepped outside, and Ben glanced over—those piercing eyes locking onto him. “You just gonna stand there?” he said, voice low and clipped. He tossed Kyle the ball, hard enough to sting. “Shoot.” Kyle fumbled it, and Ben snorted, stepping closer. “Gotta work on that grip, man. You’re an Armstrong—act like it.” There was no warmth, but there was something else—possession. Ben didn’t ignore him anymore. He saw him.

---

For weeks, Kyle soaked it in. The Armstrong house was a whirlwind of testosterone—sweaty gym clothes strewn across the floor, Jared’s gruff lectures about discipline, Clive’s endless energy, Ben’s quiet intensity. Kyle belonged, finally, and it was intoxicating. He’d catch himself staring—Jared curling weights in the garage, his biceps straining; Clive sprinting past the window, abs flexing; Ben toweling off after a shower, water dripping down his chest. They were his family now, but the tome under his mattress whispered a darker desire. He didn’t just want their acceptance. He wanted their love—the kind that crossed every line.

One night, alone in the dim glow of their shared room, Kyle pulled out the tome. Clive was out running, the house quiet. The spell was there, buried in the back: Bind their hearts. Irreversible. The warning loomed large, but Kyle’s hands shook with need. He’d rewritten reality once—what was one more push? He lit the candle, chanted the words, and felt the air hum with power. When he finished, the flame guttered out, and he waited.

The shift was slow, deliciously so. The next morning, Jared’s hand lingered on Kyle’s shoulder as he passed him a plate of eggs. “Looking stronger, kid,” he said, his voice softer, his stubble brushing Kyle’s cheek as he pulled him into a long, sweaty hug. Clive ambushed him later, tackling him onto the couch with a laugh. “Gotcha, bro!” he crowed, pinning Kyle down, his lean body pressing close, his sweaty armpit shoved playfully into Kyle’s face. “Smell that? That’s victory.” His grin was wicked, his touch too firm to be innocent. Ben, meanwhile, waited by the car after class, insisting on driving Kyle home. “Can’t trust you out there alone,” he muttered, his hand grazing Kyle’s thigh as he drove, his eyes flickering with something unspoken.

Day by day, it deepened. Jared took to coaching Kyle in the garage, his hands guiding Kyle’s form, his breath hot against Kyle’s neck. “Good boy,” he’d murmur, and the praise sank into Kyle’s bones. Clive’s roughhousing turned flirty—tickling that lingered on Kyle’s sides, headlocks that pulled their bodies flush. Ben grew obsessive, shadowing Kyle everywhere, hoisting him onto his shoulders after practice with a grip that was too tight, too tender. They were falling for him, their coy glances and casual touches betraying the spell’s work. Kyle had them—father, brothers, all of them—and he wasn’t done yet.

The Morning Fire

The tension between Kyle and Clive had been simmering for days, a slow boil of lingering touches and heated glances. It all came to a head one evening when their usual roughhousing took a turn. Clive had Kyle in a headlock, his lean, sweaty body pressed tight against Kyle’s, his armpit shoved into Kyle’s face as he laughed. “Take it, bro!” he’d teased, but Kyle—caught up in the musk and the heat—flicked his tongue against Clive’s skin, tasting salt and desire. Clive froze, his grip tightening for a split second before he let go, his face flushed, his breath uneven. He didn’t say anything, just smirked and walked away, but the air between them crackled.

The next morning, Kyle woke to a sensation that jolted him from sleep—Clive’s hand, warm and insistent, buried deep in Kyle’s underwear. Fingers curled around him, stroking slow and deliberate, coaxing him awake. Kyle’s eyes fluttered open, groggy, and there was Clive—his wavy brown hair tousled, his thin mustache framing lips inches from Kyle’s own. His face was flushed, his hazel eyes burning with intensity as hot breath fanned across Kyle’s skin. “I want you,” Clive rasped, voice thick with need, before closing the gap. His lips crashed into Kyle’s, hungry and unrestrained, a kiss that was all tongue and heat and perverse promise.

They made out like they were starving for it, hands roaming, bodies tangling in the sheets. Clive rolled Kyle onto his side, pressing up behind him, his jock musk filling the air as he positioned himself. “Gonna take care of you, bro,” he murmured against Kyle’s ear, his voice low and filthy. He entered Kyle slowly, inch by inch, his lean frame molding to Kyle’s back, arms wrapping around him in a possessive hug. The rhythm was sensual, deliberate—Clive’s breaths hitching as he thrust, his lips brushing Kyle’s neck, his cock buried deep. When he finished, he came with a shudder, spilling inside Kyle, kissing his spine as he stayed lodged there, unwilling to pull out. Exhausted and sated, they fell asleep again, entwined in the musky haze of their shared bed.

For the next week, it became their ritual. Every morning, Kyle woke to Clive’s hands or mouth on him, followed by slow, passionate fucking—Clive always the big spoon, always finishing inside, always kissing Kyle’s back as they drifted off again. The bedroom reeked of sweat and sex, an erotic sanctuary for their newfound bond.

The Steamy Afternoon

Benjamin noticed the change almost immediately. His younger brothers were different—closer, more tactile, their mornings stretching longer behind that closed bedroom door. He’d hear the muffled laughter, the creak of the bed, and it gnawed at him. Envy twisted in his gut. Kyle was his brother too, and Ben wasn’t about to be left out. He started claiming Kyle’s time during the day, dragging him to the basketball court five times a week. “Gotta toughen you up,” he’d say, his intense eyes raking over Kyle’s exhausted form. Kyle didn’t mind—Ben’s presence, all towering muscle and quiet intensity, was its own kind of drug.

One afternoon, after a grueling session, they stumbled into the house, drenched in sweat. Ben peeled off his shirt, revealing a torso carved from marble, and nodded toward the bathroom. “Shower time. But, uh, heater’s busted—only enough hot water for one.” It was a lie, and they both knew it, but Kyle didn’t argue. “We’ll share,” Ben said, casual as anything. “No big deal, right? We’re brothers.” The bathroom filled with steam, their wet bodies brushing as they stepped under the spray. Ben scrubbed Kyle’s back, his hands lingering, sliding lower than necessary, and Kyle returned the favor, tracing the lines of Ben’s muscled shoulders. The air thickened, their breaths syncing, until they were both hard, cocks straining against the heat.

Ben turned, water dripping from his stubble, his eyes dark with something raw. “I love you, lil bro,” he said, voice barely audible over the spray. Then, softer: “Need a favor.” Kyle didn’t hesitate. He sank to his knees, the tiles biting into his skin, and took Ben’s engorged cock into his mouth—thick, pulsing, tasting of sweat and salt. Ben groaned, hands fisting in Kyle’s hair, guiding him deeper.

They didn’t stop there. The afternoon bled into hours in Ben’s room, locked in a feverish 69—Kyle’s mouth on Ben, Ben’s on Kyle, sucking and licking until they were both spent, throats raw and bodies trembling.

The Ultimate Weekend

It was a lazy Saturday morning when it all collided. Ben slipped into the younger brothers’ room, intent on dragging Kyle out for an early shootaround, only to freeze in the doorway. There they were—Kyle and Clive, naked and tangled, lips locked in a sloppy, passionate kiss. Clive’s hands roamed Kyle’s body, possessive and greedy, and Kyle moaned into it, arching against him. Ben’s jaw tightened, envy flaring into rage. “What the fuck?” he snapped, storming in. Clive pulled back, smirking, but his eyes were defiant. “He’s mine, Ben. Back off.”

“Yours?” Ben scoffed, stepping closer. “I’ve been fucking him too, asshole.” The room erupted—shouting, shoving, a messy tangle of jealousy and testosterone. Kyle, caught between them, tried to mediate, but they weren’t listening. Finally, Clive growled, “Fine. Let’s settle it—whoever makes him cum hardest wins.” Ben nodded, grim and determined, but they couldn’t agree on turns. “Fuck it,” Ben said, stripping down. “We’ll do it together.”

What followed was a blur of heat and flesh. Kyle found himself sandwiched on the bed—Clive behind him, thrusting into his ass with that slow, possessive rhythm, while Ben knelt in front, feeding Kyle his thick cock, hands gripping his head. Kyle gagged and moaned, lost in the dual assault, their sweaty jock bodies pinning him in place. They were relentless, each trying to outdo the other, forcing him toward climax.

Then the door creaked open. Jared stood there, a tray of pancakes and coffee in hand, his plan to surprise Kyle with breakfast in bed crumbling at the sight. Clive and Ben froze, mid-thrust, panic flashing across their faces. “Dad, we can explain—” Clive started, but Jared cut him off, his voice a low growl.

“You little shits didn’t think to invite me?” He set the tray down, and Kyle noticed the bulge in his pocket—a stack of condom wrappers he’d tried to hide. His intentions had been less innocent than pancakes.

Jared stripped, revealing a body that put every dad in town to shame—hairy, muscular, a coach’s physique built from years of discipline. At school, he was a tyrant, but here, with his sons, he was different—gentle, submissive, eager to please. “I’ve got experience,” he said, voice rough with lust. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

The room descended into chaos—a perverse fuckfest. Clive resumed pounding Kyle’s ass, Ben fucked his throat, and Jared dropped to his knees, devouring Kyle’s cock with a hunger that bordered on worship. His tongue worked expertly, sucking and slurping, while his sons ravaged Kyle from both ends.

Hours passed in a haze of sweat and moans. Kyle came again and again—first from Clive’s relentless thrusts, then Ben’s brutal pace down his throat, and finally Jared’s insatiable mouth, draining him dry. When they finished, well past noon, Kyle collapsed on the musky bed, sore and blissed out. Ben snuggled close, nuzzling his neck, while across the room, Clive bent Jared over the edge of the bed, fucking him with the same passion he’d given Kyle. Jared took it eagerly, groaning his sons’ names.

Kyle lay there, surrounded by their heat, their love, their twisted devotion. Two jock brothers and a coach dad, all his—family and lovers in one. The tome had given him everything, and as he drifted off, drained and overjoyed, he knew he’d found his perfect place in the world.

---

The Final Night

Kyle had everything he’d ever dreamed of—two jock brothers and a coach dad, their bodies and hearts bent to his will by the tome’s magic. But as the days wore on, a gnawing discontent settled in his bones. He’d crafted a perfect family, a perverse paradise of love and lust, but when he caught his reflection in the mirror—scrawny, unremarkable, a shadow next to the Armstrongs’ chiseled glory—it soured everything. He wasn’t one of them, not really. Not in the way he wanted to be. The tome, still hidden under his mattress, hummed with its final offer. Three spells per human, it had warned, before it would vanish forever. He’d used two—reality bending, heart binding. One remained.

Late one night, while Clive slept beside him, Kyle pulled the tome free. Its pages rustled as if alive, guiding him to a spell buried in the back: Soul Possession. The words were stark, immoral, promising to let him claim another’s body, their identity, their life—erasing them to make room for him. His eyes drifted to Clive, sprawled out in the dim moonlight, his toned runner’s body glistening with a sheen of sweat, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. Clive’s jock perfection, his promising future as a track star, his effortless charisma—it was everything Kyle craved. Losing Clive as a lover stung, but taking his place? That was worth it.

He lit the candle, traced the runes, and whispered the incantation, his voice trembling with greed. The air grew heavy, but nothing happened. Disappointed, he crawled back into bed, pressing himself against Clive’s warm frame, and drifted off. It wasn’t until the dead of night that the spell ignited.

Kyle woke—or thought he did—to a sensation of weightlessness. His body shimmered, losing form, dissolving into a pulsing cloud of pure energy. He hovered, disembodied, above the bed, staring down at Clive’s sleeping form. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to flow. Tendrils of his essence slithered downward, seeking entry. They slipped into Clive’s mouth, curling around his tongue, tasting the musk of his breath. They poured into his nose, filling his lungs, and wormed into his ears, threading through the delicate canals. Lower, they ventured—sliding under the waistband of Clive’s briefs, seeping into his cock, hardening it as they invaded, and creeping into his asshole, stretching and filling him with a perverse intimacy.

The process was slow, sensual, a violation so deep it bordered on ecstasy. Inside Clive, Kyle’s energy spread, weaving through every blood vessel, every nerve, a warm, electric tide. He pushed deeper, seeking Clive’s core, his soul, his essence, and found it; a bright flickering spark. Kyle enveloped it, forcing himself inside, fusing with it until there was no separation. Clive’s knowledge flooded him—every race he’d run, every lover he’d taken, every rebellious outburst. His dreams, his aspirations, his thoughts. They were Kyle’s now, absorbed and owned.

On the bed, Clive’s body rebelled. His lean frame seized, muscles twitching violently, his head thrashing against the pillow. Sweat poured from him, soaking the sheets, his jock musk thickening the air as his limbs flailed. His cock strained against his briefs, leaking, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Then, with a final shudder the new core snapped into place. Kyle’s essence fully merged and Clive’s body stilled, limp and glistening in the moonlight.

Morning broke, and the new Clive woke. He stretched, relishing the taut power of his legs, the flex of his abs, the weight of his cock in his briefs. He slipped out of bed, leaving the damp sheets behind, and padded to the bathroom. The mirror greeted him with Clive’s face, and he stopped, breath catching. This was his now. Every detail, every curve, and he intended to savor it.

He leaned closer, hands trembling as they rose to his head. His fingers tugged at the wavy brown hair, thick and soft, pulling gently to feel the roots stretch against his scalp. It was wild, untamed, a runner’s mane, and he let it fall back into place, a slow smile spreading. His gaze dropped to the thin mustache framing his upper lip. He caressed it with his thumb, tracing its coarse texture, the bristles prickling his skin. It was Clive’s signature—roguish, bold—and he pressed harder, feeling the shape of his mouth beneath it. His tongue darted out, thicker than he remembered, heavy and warm as he ran it along his lips, tasting the faint salt of sweat. He pushed it further, curling it against the mustache, playing with its heft, a perverse thrill building in his gut.

He raised an arm, flexing the lean muscle, and buried his face in the pit. Clive’s jock musk hit him—sharp, earthy, a heady mix of sweat and testosterone that made his head swim. He inhaled deeply, letting it fill his lungs, his cock twitching in his briefs as the scent consumed him. With Clive’s vocal cords, he spoke, voice thick and resonant, a rumble that vibrated through his chest: “I love myself.” The words hung in the air, a declaration of ownership, and he groaned, the sound raw and primal.

Memories flickered—Ben in the shower, water slicking his chiseled frame, their bodies pressed tight, then locked in a 69 on Ben’s bed, sucking each other dry. Jared bursting in with breakfast, only to strip and beg Clive to fuck him, his hairy ass clenching around every thrust. The reality he’d crafted had followed him, woven into this new life. The sight of Clive’s face staring back, the musk, the voice, the memories—it was too much. His hand brushed his briefs, and he came hard, a hot, shuddering release that soaked the fabric, his knees buckling as he gripped the sink. He panted, watching the flush spread across Clive’s cheeks in the mirror. But it wasn’t enough. He needed to know more, to feel more.

He stood there, panting, and let Clive’s memories unspool in his mind, a torrent of sensation and sin. Clive jerking off in the shower for the first time, marveling at the power of his own body, the water slicking his lean frame as he came against the tiles. A summer night, lying shirtless on the roof with a boy from track, his hands on Clive’s abs, his mustache brushing the boy’s neck as he whispered filthy promises he’d never keep. And the dreams—Clive’s aspirations to go pro, to feel the wind on his face as he broke records, to fuck his way through every city he’d race in, leaving a trail of spent lovers behind. Every memory was vivid, visceral, a tapestry of sweat, sex, and defiance, and Kyle drank it all in, his cock throbbing anew as he claimed it as his own.

Clive—once Kyle, stepped out of the bathroom, his briefs still damp from his spontaneous release. The mirror had been a revelation, a slow dance of self-discovery that left him trembling with power and lust, but it wasn’t enough. His new flesh hummed with potential, every nerve alight with Clive’s vitality, and he craved more. He padded back to the bedroom, the air thick with the musk of sweat and sex that clung to the sheets from nights of passion with his former self. The tome was gone, its third spell spent, but its legacy pulsed in his veins. This was his now—every inch, every scent, every shudder—and he intended to claim it fully.

The bed loomed before him, a tangled mess of stained fabric and jock stench, a testament to Clive’s athletic life and their shared mornings of perverse love. He crawled onto it, knees sinking into the mattress, and pressed his face into the pillow where Clive’s head had rested hours before. The smell hit him—sharp, tangy, a heady mix of sweat and testosterone that made his cock twitch anew. He groaned, low and guttural, and dragged his tongue across the fabric, tasting the salt of Clive’s essence, now his own. His hands roamed his new body, tracing the lean muscles of his chest, the taut ridges of his abs, and he marveled at the power beneath his skin—runner’s legs, a sprinter’s core, all his to command.

He flipped onto his back, briefs straining as his arousal grew, and raised an arm high. Burying his nose in his pit, he took a long, drawn-out whiff, savoring the jock musk that rolled off him in waves—raw, earthy, intoxicating. It was Clive’s scent, distilled and potent, and he inhaled again, deeper, letting it flood his lungs until his head spun. “Fuck, I love this body,” he rasped, Clive’s thick voice rumbling through his chest, a sound that vibrated with ownership. His hips bucked involuntarily, grinding against the bed, the friction sending sparks up his spine. He needed more—needed to feel this body break under his will.

He rolled onto his stomach, straddling the mattress, and began to hump it slow and deliberate. The sheets rubbed against his cock through the briefs, rough and teasing, as he thrust his hips, imagining every race Clive had run, every lover he’d fucked, every moment of this body’s life now his to relive. His breaths came in pants, hot and heavy, as he picked up the pace, grinding harder, the bed creaking beneath him. He lifted his ass high, thrusting into the air, muscles flexing—calves tight, thighs quivering, abs clenching—as he chased the edge. One hand gripped his hair, tugging at the wavy strands, while the other slid to his mustache, caressing it, feeling its bristles against his fingertips. His tongue lolled out, thicker and wet, licking at the air as if he could taste his own musk.

The pressure built, a molten coil in his gut, and he raised his arm again, shoving his face into his pit for one last, obscene sniff. The musk overwhelmed him, a primal trigger, and he lost it. With a guttural shout—“Fuck, yes! I’m Clive!”—he came, an explosive climax that tore through him. Jock semen erupted from his cock, thick ropes shooting out, splattering across his chest, the sheets, and—impossibly—arcing high enough to hit the ceiling in wet, dripping streaks. His body convulsed, hips jerking, as he rode the waves, smearing the mess across his abs with every shudder. The room reeked of cum and sweat, a shrine to his new identity, and he collapsed, panting, a grin splitting his face.

The door creaked open. His brother Ben and father Jared stood there, framed in the entrance, their faces frozen in shock and streaked with splatters of Clive’s cum. A dollop clung to Ben’s stubble, another dripped from Jared’s eyebrow. For a moment, silence hung heavy, then Ben swiped a finger through the mess on his cheek, bringing it to his lips. He licked it clean, slow and deliberate, a wicked smile curling his mouth. Jared followed, wiping the cum from his face and sucking it off his thumb, his eyes darkening with hunger. “Fuck, Clive,” Ben growled, voice thick with lust. “You’re a goddamn mess.”

They barged in, shedding clothes as they went—Ben’s basketball shorts hitting the floor, Jared’s sweatpants pooling at his ankles—revealing their muscular, sweat-slicked bodies. Clive, still sprawled on the bed, cock half-hard and glistening, didn’t resist. Ben dove first, pinning Clive’s wrists above his head, his tongue lapping at the cum on Clive’s chest, while Jared knelt between his legs, hairy coach frame looming as he took Clive’s cock into his mouth, sucking with a submissive fervor that belied his brash exterior. “My favorite son,” Jared mumbled around him, voice muffled, and Ben chuckled, nipping at Clive’s neck. “Favorite brother, too.”

Clive groaned, head tipping back, as they ravaged him—Ben’s hands roaming his pits, inhaling deeply, Jared’s throat working him with expert care. Round two stretched into a blur of flesh and moans, their twisted love consuming the room. Clive didn’t mind—couldn’t mind. This was the final ending he’d hoped for all along: The tome was gone, but Clive Armstrong was his, body and soul, and his family’s insatiable devotion sealed the deal. The bed creaked, the air stank of jock musk and cum, and as he came again, spilling into Jared’s eager mouth, he knew he’d never want for anything else.

#reality shift #straight to gay #reprogramming #brother #dad #jock #love #possession #magic #AI-generated

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kylestfs · 4 months ago

Text

Dynamic

In a city of millions, two men—Ryan and Jason—lived completely separate lives, their paths never meant to cross.

Until tonight.

Bored, they each scrolled through their phones, searching for something (or someone) to pass the time. That’s when they both found it.

A strange, unnamed app, sitting deep in the app store. No description. No reviews. No history. Just a sleek, pulsing chat bubble icon with a single prompt after installation:

*Start Chat*

Neither of them hesitated.

They clicked.

Their screens went black for a moment before loading a simple chat window. A single message appeared at the top.

— You are now connected. Say hi! —

Ryan, stretched across his bed, thumbed at his screen. The chat had connected him with a random guy.

Whatever. He had nothing better to do.

Ryan: Hey. Who’s this?

Across the city, Jason blinked at the message. Who the hell was this?

Jason: idk, just found this app. You?

Ryan: Same. Looks kinda sketch ngl

Jason: Yeah lol. Guess we’re both bored af

Simple. Casual. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the pull.

Neither of them noticed at first, but the moment they exchanged words, something shifted.

Something had taken hold.

Ryan absently rubbed his fingertips together. His skin felt… softer.

The air in his room seemed warmer, heavier against his body. His shirt, loose before, now draped differently over his torso. His waist felt tighter, his frame subtly shrinking in on itself.

He shifted against his mattress. Something about the way his body rested felt off.

No—not off. Different.

Ryan: Lol yeah… kinda fun tho~

Wait.

His eyes widened slightly. Why had he typed that? That tilde at the end—he never texted like that. It was… cutesy. Flirty.

A faint pink dusted his cheeks.

His softer, rounder cheeks.

Meanwhile, Jason tilted his head at the message.

Something about it made his gut tighten. No—not tighten. Expand.

A slow, rippling sensation spread through his torso, a warmth settling into his shoulders, chest, and arms.

His grip on his phone felt stronger.

He flexed his fingers, watching the tendons shift beneath his skin. His palm looked different.

Larger. Thicker. Rougher.

His lips curled into a small smirk. He typed without thinking.

Jason: Yeah, guess it’s not so bad. Ur kinda funny lol

The moment he hit send—

Crack.

Jason inhaled sharply as his spine lengthened. A sudden heat surged through his body, muscle knitting together, growing denser, stronger. His once lean frame stretched, broadening, his shoulders pushing outward with a slow, satisfying pressure.

He rolled them instinctively, feeling the unfamiliar weight of his new build. His chest felt heavier, his pecs firmer, fuller. His biceps bulged slightly as he shifted, his veins subtly rising beneath his skin.

His scent was changing too.

The faint, neutral smell of his room was being overpowered by something else. Something thicker, muskier.

Something his.

Ryan’s breath hitched as he read Jason’s text.

“Ur kinda funny lol.”

It wasn’t even that flirty, but why did it make his stomach flutter?

His fingers trembled slightly as he typed back.

Ryan: Omg shut uppp lol ur teasing me~

The moment he sent it—

His waist cinched inward.

His stomach flattened, growing softer, smoother. His hips pressed outward, the bones shifting beneath his skin, forming an alluring, delicate curve.

His legs stretched slightly, but instead of gaining size, they slenderized.

His thighs—once average—became soft, plush, and bony.

His calves slimmed, his ankles narrowing into dainty, elegant proportions. His fingers flexed, and he gasped.

They were smaller.

More delicate.

A faint, involuntary giggle bubbled up from his throat.

His higher, sweeter, softer throat.

Jason exhaled through his nose, stretching his newly broadened body.

His arms felt heavy with strength. His hands—now massive compared to before—flexed against his thighs, gripping the fabric of his sweats.

A warm dampness clung beneath his arms, his natural musk intensifying. He reeked.

And he loved it.

A cocky grin spread across his face.

Jason: Lmao, what, you like it when I tease?

Ryan shuddered. His plush thighs squeezed together. His ass twitched.

His soft, round, plump ass.

Jason leaned back, rolling his shoulders. His chest stretched against his shirt, the fabric clinging to the new thickness of his pecs.

His scent was unmistakable now—deep, raw, masculine, and honestly really smelly.

His armpits—warm, slightly damp—radiated a rich, musky funk. His feet, once average-sized, had grown huge, the soles pressing against the floor with a newfound weight.

His socks, discarded nearby, were stained with sweat, the scent thick and heady in the air.

Jason: Lol bet you’d love burying your face in my pits rn huh?

Ryan’s breath hitched.

His body trembled.

A deep, unfamiliar need coiled in his gut. His thighs clenched instinctively, his ass wiggling against the bed.

His lips parted slightly, his pinker, softer lips.

A whimper slipped out.

His hgher, needier whimper.

His mind felt hazy.

Ryan: Omg wtf why would u say that!!!

Jason: Lmao, you love it.

Ryan whined.

He did.

He fucking did.

Jason was complete.

His massive frame, his thick, dominant scent, his cocky, fuckboy energy—he was the epitome of a top.

His feet huge and sweaty. His pits ripe and musky. His voice deep and commanding.

And Ryan?

Ryan was his.

A tiny, blushing, submissive, needy bottom.

His soft, round ass—perfectly made for his top. His body, delicate, built to be claimed. His mind, rewired to crave Jason’s dominance, his scent, his filth

They had started as strangers.

Now, they were something else.

they only had memories of being a couple for a year.

— two days later—

Jason was all Ryan could think about now—his sweaty frame, his overpowering musk, his deep, arrogant voice.

His scent.

His filth.

A whimper slipped from Ryan’s lips. His pinker, fuller lips. His stomach twisted with hunger.

Ryan: omg jason…

Jason smirked at the message, stretching his broad, muscular arms above his head, his damp armpits airing out. He let out a long, lazy exhale, flexing his thick biceps.

His body felt heavy, powerful, dominant.

Ryan was wrapped around his finger.

Jason : Lmao what

Ryan’s thighs clenched.

His soft, dainty fingers hovered over the keyboard. His heart pounded.

He knew what he wanted.

He needed it.

But saying it outright—admitting it—felt so shameless.

Still, his body was betraying him.

His fingers moved.

Ryan: can u…

He hesitated

A soft whimper left his lips as he wiggled against his bed.

Ryan: c-can u send me… a video… of ur fart again?

Jason blinked.

Jason: Lmao, again?

Ryan covered his blushing, soft face. His cheeks burned

His tiny, needy, giggly body squirmed.

Ryan: pls babe?

Jason chuckled, scratching the back of his head.

His short, unkempt hair was messy, sweaty, sticking up in places.

He didn’t think much about it.

In fact, he didn’t think much about anything.

Not his scent. Not his filth. Not the way his boxers clung to his sweaty skin, or how his feet were practically marinating in his old socks.

He just existed.

And he smelled like himself.

Jason: sure i guess, babe

He barely gave it a second thought as he shifted, spreading his legs slightly. He leaned back, pressing into the bed, his massive, sweaty frame sinking into the mattress.

He lifted his thick ass cheek slightly and—

PPPPPFFFRRRRTTTTT

A long, wet, lazy fart rumbled out of him, vibrating against the fabric of his stretched-out, sweaty boxers.

The scent hit him instantly.

Jason: Lmao, that one was loud af.

Ryan shuddered. His eyes were wide, trembling, desperate.

His plump thighs rubbed together, his body overheated with need. The need to smell it.

He had to know.

He had to hear it.

Ryan: how did it smell?

Jason raised an eyebrow.

Smell?

What smell? He didn’t smell at all, right ?

He gave a casual shrug, completely oblivious to the dense, suffocating funk that now lingered in the air around him.

Jason: idk, just normal I guess?

Ryan let out a needy whimper, his fingers gripping the sheets.

Jason: Wait… U really like this huh?

Ryan’s heart pounded. His soft chest rose and fell rapidly.

He couldn’t deny it.

He was hooked. Obsessed.

Jason stretched again, his thick, sweaty muscles flexing. A cocky smirk played at his lips.

Jason: Alright then, say it.

Ryan blinked.

Ryan: s-say what?

Jason grinned.

Jason: Tell me how much u want me.

Ryan whined.

His body burned with humiliation, excitement, and deep, desperate need.

He wanted Jason to own him.

And he would admit it.

There was no escaping it now.

——————-

Ryan :

Jason :

#male transformation #male tf #straight to gay #jockification #twinkification #twink tf #bottom to top #top to bottom #musk #stink #jock tf

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