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fushitoru · 5 days ago

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in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic

pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader

summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved— until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?

warnings ⸺ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied

a/n i'll see u at the end :3

December 23, 2018.

“How do you feel?”

The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.

The stars were really bright that day.

The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.

Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.

“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”

You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?

It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.

He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.

“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”

What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.

It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.

At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”

You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”

“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”

Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”

“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.”

“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly.

“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.

You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,

I love you.

It goes unsaid.

Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.

You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.

“Always.”

December 24, 2018.

He looks like he’s watching the sky again.

You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.

But you know better. And still, you wait.

Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.

His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.

The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.

But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.

You were going to plant them for him every spring.

You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.

You were going to grow old together.

Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.

“I’ll go,” you say.

It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.

“I said I’ll go.”

You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him.

You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.

As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji—his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.

You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.

You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”

You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.

You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.

Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.

So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.

When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.

You just think: I kept my promise.

I waited.

Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:

Let us try again.

Please—let us try again.

…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

You wake up from your dream, gasping.

The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.

It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.

What a weird fucking dream.

One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid.

From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?

You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.

Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.

Gojo.

A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.

What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.

Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?

You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—

It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.

Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.

And notice immediately that you are going to be late.

Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet.

When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.

Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.

His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?”

“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”

As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.

Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.

You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.

Gojo.

Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name.

But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—

This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.

Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.

Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”

Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles.

It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.

He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.

But you do.

When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.

Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”

And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.

So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?

Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”

You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.

Respectfully, what the fuck.

As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.

Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”

You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”

Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.

And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.

It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.

Then, a vision.

It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.

A bed.

It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—

The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.

You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left.

Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.

Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.

In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.

next. the aftermath (soon!)

a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!

to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.

TAGLIST P1:

@nithica @rh-tg1 @tbzzluvr @spookytyphoonfire @vsynical

@totallyuniquenut @yamiyas @nishayuro @nariminsstuff @starmapz

@sylusonlylove @purplemint @elliesndg @gggellaa @arabellasolstice

@arrozyfrijoles23 @yeehawbrothers @that-one-lightskin @candyluvsboba @avaults

@iheartkhloe @angelcherrry @madamechrissy @xxemmarldxx @lovenbesos

@liveforkny @nattie-smack @cherryredribbons @introvertatitsfinest @starlightoru-gojo

@hyori2 @gxldencloset @l0v3m3m0re @cuntysaurusrex @nanamineedstherapy

@oikawasxx @littlemisspoets-blog @anuncalledbridge @watermelonmuntchers @zeyno-14

@k-kkiana @nanamiskentos @kviwi @evawts @forest-nymph420

@bontensh0e @viiennie @blossomedfloweroflove @6isek @dreamssfyre

#aashi writes #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru

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enhaflixer · 3 months ago

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enhypen x f!reader - breeding kink + overstim

ENHA HARD HOURS 18+ MDNI okay so there is cockwarming, belly bulging, lots of dirty talk, and a bit of a lactation kink in sunghoons one and a daddy kink in jakes i think maybe sunghoon and jungwon take the cake for making me drip on this one honestly idek what i was thinking writing this one it was brain empty hands typing.

𝐋𝐞𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠

Heeseung has been on edge all fucking evening.

It starts at dinner—his eyes glued to you the entire time, watching the way your sundress flutters around your thighs, the way you shift in your seat, completely oblivious to how wrecked he already is.

Then at home—the way you walk around the apartment, still wearing that same pretty little dress, still teasing him without even trying.

And now?

Now, you’re bent over to pick something up off the floor, the hem of your sundress lifting just enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of soft, bare skin.

And Heeseung snaps.

His hands are on you before you even realize he’s moved—gripping your hips, grinding his cock against your ass, letting out a deep, breathy groan that’s been building inside him all fucking day.

“Fuck, angel,” he hisses, his breath hot against your ear, his fingers gripping tight, keeping you in place. “You have any idea what you’ve been doing to me?”

You gasp, startled, hands clutching at the dresser in front of you for balance.

“Hee—”

“Walking around all day in this little dress,” he murmurs, one hand sliding down your stomach, dipping between your thighs, fingers grazing the soft skin just above your knee. “So short, angel. Barely covering anything. Did you wear this for me? Hm? You trying to make me lose my fucking mind?”

You feel his cock pressing against you, already so hard, already straining against his sweats.

And then—just to tease you, just to hear you whimper.

His fingers inch higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, tracing lazy circles up the inside of your thigh.

You shiver, biting your lip, trying to ignore the way your breath shakes beneath his touch.

“Ah, angel,” he breathes, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his fingers curling around the fabric of your dress, slowly, teasingly bunching it up.

Then, voice drenched in something dark, something hungry, something desperate.

“Bend over for me. Right now.”

You do.

Because how could you not?

Your body melts into his touch, your hands gripping the dresser, your back arching slightly as heeseung pushes your dress up around your waist.

And when he sees you like this—your ass bare, your thighs trembling, your slick already coating your inner thighs from how badly you’ve wanted him all day—

He groans, low and deep, head dropping to your shoulder.

“Jesus, baby—”

Then, in one slow, deep movement,

He slides his cock inside you.

You gasp, your body tensing, your fingers gripping the dresser so hard your knuckles turn white.

Because he’s so fucking deep.

Because he doesn’t ease into it.

Because he fills you up all at once, burying himself inside you in one smooth, deliberate thrust, stretching you open, pressing so deep you swear you feel him in your stomach.

Heeseung?

He moans.

Loud. Breathy. Wrecked.

His fingers dig into your hips, his chest heaving, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as he breathes through the feeling of being so deep inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice shaking, his hands sliding up your back, keeping you pressed firmly against the dresser.

“You’re already sucking me in, angel. You want this that bad? Hm? Want me to fuck you stupid?”

You whimper, nodding desperately, already too lost in the pleasure to answer properly.

That’s all he needs.

Heeseung grins, voice dripping with filth, his hips snapping against yours as he starts fucking into you—deep, slow, grinding thrusts, pressing his cock as far inside as he can go.

His hands slide under your dress, gripping your tits, squeezing, rolling your sensitive nipples between his fingers, making you moan louder, making your body arch for him.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, his lips dragging over your shoulder, biting down lightly. “Made for me. Made to take my cum. Gonna breed you, angel. Gonna fill you up so good you won’t need this dress anymore—gonna have my cum dripping down your thighs instead.”

When you clench around him at his words, Heeseung gasps, his pace stuttering, his fingers flexing against your skin.

“Shit—you like that, angel? Like when I talk about stuffing you full?”

He lets out a deep, filthy groan, his hips snapping faster, thrusting into you rougher, his breath ragged against your neck.

And then—his hand slides down, pressing against the bulge in your stomach, feeling the way his cock fills you up.

“Feel that?” His voice is low, husky, wrecked. “That’s me, angel. That’s where I’m gonna fucking fill you up.”

And then—as his thrusts turn erratic, as his breath catches, as his entire body tenses against yours.

He spills inside you.

His moans turn into soft, shaky gasps, his fingers dig into your hips, pressing you back onto him, making sure you take all of it.

And when he finally comes down, when his breath slows, when his forehead rests against the back of your neck,

He still doesn’t move.

He stays there, still deep inside you, still keeping his cum tucked inside where it belongs.

And then, so soft, so teasing, so unbearably filthy,

“Better not let a drop go to waste, angel. That dress was short enough already.”

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠

You’ve been bothering him all week.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

You did it in the kitchen— wrapping your arms around him from behind while he cooked, pressing your cheek to his back, whispering, “Baby, don’t you wanna give me a baby? One with your pretty eyes and my smile?”

You did it on the couch— climbing into his lap while he was watching TV, grinding against his cock through his sweats, murmuring against his lips, “Isn’t that what good husbands do? They give their wife whatever she wants?”

You did it in bed— naked, stretched out on top of him, licking the shell of his ear, dragging your fingers down his stomach, pressing soft, teasing kisses along his jaw.

“Fuck me full, Jay. Please, please, please—right now, right now, right now.”

Jay had been so fucking patient.

Just smiling, shaking his head, gripping your waist and kissing you deep, groaning as he held back.

But now?

Now, you’re doing it again—laying in bed, tangled up in his arms, whispering filth in his ear like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to him.

“Please, baby,” your voice is sweet, breathy, teasing, your fingers trailing down his chest, your nails scraping lightly at his abs. “Please fill me up. I want you to make me a mommy, Jay. I want you to fuck me so deep that it sticks, want you to pump me so full of your cum I can’t even think, wanna be so full I can feel it dripping down my thighs—”

And Jay snaps.

One second, he’s laying there, listening, gritting his teeth, gripping the sheets so tight his knuckles turn white.

The next—he has you flipped onto your stomach, pinned beneath him, his hands grabbing at your hips, yanking them up, shoving a pillow under you, spreading you open for him.

His chest is rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths, his jaw clenched tight, his voice low and wrecked and dangerously strained.

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

You whimper, breath catching, fingers clutching at the pillow.

“Nope.”

And then you wiggle your hips back against him, your soaked cunt pressing against his rock-hard cock, teasing, taunting.

Jay loses it.

His hand flies to the back of your neck, pressing you down into the mattress, holding you there as he grinds against you, slow, deliberate, letting you feel exactly how hard you’ve made him.

His voice is low, dark, dripping with something dangerous.

“You’ve been begging for it all fucking week,” he murmurs, dragging the head of his cock between your folds, coating himself in your slick. “You want me to fuck a baby into you that bad, sweetheart?”

You whimper, pressing your ass back against him, nodding frantically.

“Yes—yes, please, Jay.”

And then—without another word, without another second of teasing.

Jay slams into you in one deep, brutal thrust.

You scream.

Your entire body jerks, your fingers claw at the pillow, your eyes go wide as he stretches you open, stuffing you full in one smooth motion, pressing so deep you swear you can feel him in your fucking throat.

Jay moans.

Loud. Deep. Wrecked.

His fingers dig into your hips, his head dropping forward, his chest pressing against your back, his breath shaky and hot against your ear.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice raw, his grip tightening. “You’re so fucking tight—”

And then he pulls back—just a little,

Before he fucks you.

Hard.

His pace is brutal, unforgiving, every snap of his hips forcing sharp little gasps from your throat, making your body jerk up against him, making you completely fucking helpless beneath him.

“You begged for this, baby,” he pants, his hand slipping under your stomach, pressing against the bulge in your belly, feeling himself inside you. “Begged for me to fuck you stupid, begged for me to breed you—so take it.”

You whimper, moaning brokenly, eyes rolling back as he fucks into you harder, deeper, rougher.

And when you start shaking, when your walls clamp down around him so tight he nearly fucking chokes.

Jay groans, wrecked and desperate, his cock twitching inside you.

His hand slides up, presses down against your stomach again.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasps, pressing harder, his voice shaking. “You’re gonna feel me inside you for fucking days.”

You whimper, body trembling, legs shaking, pleasure ripping through your body so intensely you feel like you might break.

And Jay?

Jay laughs, breathless, teasing, completely obsessed with the way you’re falling apart under him.

“Oh, baby,” his voice is soft now, gentle, dripping with something possessive and tender and absolutely filthy.

“You’re gonna look so fucking pretty carrying my baby.”

And then, with one final, deep thrust, pressing as far inside you as he can go,

He spills inside you.

His moans turn into soft, broken little gasps, his hips still rolling, still grinding, still fucking his cum deep inside you, making sure you take all of it.

But he doesn’t stop.

Because when he feels the way your walls flutter around him, still so tight, still so warm, still sucking him in,

He groans, his hands gripping your waist, keeping you in place.

“Oh, no, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice soft, teasing, completely fucked-out.

Then he pulls back and slams into you again.

“You wanted me to fuck a baby into you, didn’t you?” His voice is wrecked, strained, dripping with lust. “So let me make sure it fucking sticks.”

𝐒𝐢𝐦 𝐉𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐮𝐧

Jake has been suffering.

For months.

Maybe even longer.

The obsession started out innocent enough—little thoughts, little fantasies. At first, it was just an idea that curled up inside his brain whenever he looked at you. You, swollen with his baby, glowing, carrying the life he put inside you.

Then, it got worse.

It became a need.

A deep, aching, primal fucking need.

It was in the way he touched you—his hands sliding down to press warm and firm over your lower belly whenever he pulled you against him at night. The way his lips would linger there, soft and reverent, before murmuring “Wouldn’t it be nice, baby?” against your skin.

It was in the way he looked at you—his brown eyes dark and full of something dangerous, something obsessed, something close to unraveling every time you wore one of those tiny little dresses that clung to your body just right.

It was in the way he spoke to you.

Whispered things in public, just loud enough for you to hear.

“You’d be such a pretty mommy, you know that? I’d take such good care of you.”

“Bet you’d look so fucking good carrying my baby. All full of me, round and soft, showing everyone who you belong to.”

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me put a baby in you, fill you up just right, pump you so full you couldn’t even think about anything else.”

You just laughed.

Ruffled his hair, kissed him deep, tugged him by the belt into the bedroom but never let him finish inside.

Always made him pull out.

Always left him aching, desperate, completely wrecked.

Tonight, you’re done making him wait.

So you plan it.

You wait for him in bed—the room bathed in warm, flickering candlelight, wearing the tiniest, most delicate nightgown you own.

Wine red.

Thin straps barely clinging to your shoulders, the silk soft and sheer, dipping so dangerously low over your chest that your nipples are just barely hidden beneath the lace trim. The hem short enough that it barely covers the curve of your ass.

Your nails are painted the same deep shade, your toes, your lips—all matching, all designed to drive him insane.

And when Jake walks in—tie loosened, dress shirt slightly unbuttoned, hair already messy from running his fingers through it all day.

He stops in his tracks.

Dead fucking silent.

Like his brain just short-circuited.

His eyes drag over every inch of you,from the curve of your thighs, to the lace hanging off your skin, to the way you spread your legs just a little, dragging your fingers up your own thigh like you’re already waiting for him.

And then?

Then, you say the words.

“I stopped taking my birth control.”

Jake physically shudders.

Like a full-body tremor, a violent, wrecked little reaction, his hands clenching into fists, his pupils dilating so fast you swear you see them blow out completely black.

“What?” His voice is already wrecked, already hoarse, already breaking.

You tilt your head, smiling slow, lazy, teasing.

“I stopped taking my birth control, daddy.”

Jake fucking whimpers.

The sound that leaves his mouth is pathetic.

Absolutely wrecked.

His knees actually buckle, his hips twitch forward, his breath leaves him in sharp, ragged gasps like he’s already about to come just from hearing those words.

“Oh my fucking God—baby, please, please.”

He’s on you in seconds.

No hesitation.

His hands are all over you, grabbing at you, pulling you into his lap, grinding against you so hard it’s almost bruising. His mouth is everywhere,your neck, your collarbones, your chest, his breath shaking against your skin as he gasps against your lips.

“Say it again.” His voice is low, rough, dangerous. “Say it again, baby, tell me I can finally fucking breed you.”

You lick into his mouth, slow and teasing, dragging your fingers through his curls, gripping the back of his neck, whispering the words right against his lips.

“I stopped taking my birth control, daddy. Breed me. Fuck a baby into me.”

And Jake fucking breaks.

His hips buck up into yours so hard you feel his cock throbbing through his pants, his moan coming out high and whiny, completely fucking gone.

“Oh, f-fuck, oh my God, baby.”

His fingers fly to his belt, unbuckling it so fast that he nearly fumbles, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

When he finally gets his cock free, when he presses the leaking tip against your folds, dragging it through your slick.

His whole body shudders.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re dripping.” His voice breaks. “All for me? Huh? All for daddy’s cock?”

You whimper, shifting against him, rubbing yourself over his length, making him suck in a sharp, ragged breath.

“Fuck, baby, you’re already making a mess. You want it that bad, huh? Want me to pump you so full you’ll be dripping for days—”

And before you can even answer—before you can even fucking breathe, Jake slams into you.

Hard. Fast. Deep. Brutal.

You scream.

Your back arches, your hands claw at his shoulders, your body trembles from the sudden stretch, the overwhelming fullness.

And Jake?

Jake moans.

Loud. Choked. Completely fucking destroyed.

“Oh my God, baby—fuck!”

His hips jerk, his fingers digging into your waist, his forehead pressing against yours as he gasps for air.

And then he starts moving.

Fast.

Rough.

Completely feral.

“Gonna breed you, baby,” he pants, his voice cracking, shaking. “Gonna fill you up so fucking deep you’ll feel it for weeks—”

“Gonna fuck you till you can’t even stand, keep stuffing you with my cum until you can’t take anymore,”

And when you whimper, when your walls flutter around him, when your body shakes with the force of how deep he’s fucking you.

Jake snaps.

His hips stutter, his hands tremble, his moans turn into wrecked little whimpers.

“Oh, f-fuck, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna fucking come, baby, take it, take all of it,”

And then, with one final, deep, messy thrust, pressing as far inside you as he can,

He spills inside you.

And it doesn’t stop.

Jake is still moaning, still rutting into you, still grinding his cock as deep as it’ll go, his breath shaky, his whimpers high and needy as he fucks his cum deeper.

And then—his voice, soft, trembling, completely wrecked. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop, baby. Hope you meant it.”

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧 (beware)

Sunghoon always pulls out.

Even when he’s panting against your skin, moaning your name, fucking you so deep and slow that you can feel every inch of him drag along your walls—he never lets himself go completely.

Even now, with you clenching around him, nails scratching down his back, his glasses fogging up from how deep he’s breathing, you know he’s still planning to pull out at the last second.

That’s why you decide to ruin him.

You drag your hands up his back, pulling him closer, pressing your lips to his ear, whispering sweet and filthy.

“Cum inside me.”

Sunghoon’s entire body locks up.

His hips stutter, his breath catches, his hands dig into your waist, holding you so tight you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow.

His voice comes out wrecked, hoarse, completely caught off guard.

“W-what?”

You tilt your head, letting your lips drag along his jaw, teasing, soft, sinful.

“I want you to cum inside me, baby. Fill me up. Give me everything.”

His eyes snap down to your tits immediately.

They’re bouncing every time he thrusts, slick and glistening with sweat, nipples hard and begging for his mouth.

Just like you knew he would,

Sunghoon loses it.

He grabs at them immediately, groaning as his fingers dig into the soft flesh, squeezing, kneading, pushing them together, watching how they spill through the gaps in his hands.

“F-fuck,” he chokes out, palming them roughly, sucking in a sharp breath. “You look so fucking good, baby. So soft,”

His head dips instantly, latching onto one of your nipples without hesitation.

The second his warm tongue flicks against the sensitive peak, you let out a soft moan, arching into his mouth, letting him bury his face between them.

“You love sucking on them, don’t you?” you murmur, fingers tugging his hair, keeping him there. “Bet you’ll love them even more when they’re bigger.”

He groans into your skin, sucking harder, tongue swirling, lips wet and messy.

“Bigger?” His voice is breathless, muffled against your tits, moaning between every word.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, raking your nails down his back, gasping when he nips at you. “They’re gonna get huge when you put a baby in me, Hoonie. Heavy. Sensitive. So full.”

Sunghoon whimpers.

Actually fucking whimpers.

His hips jerk forward on instinct, thrusting into you deeper, his breath getting shakier, more uneven, more desperate.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” you purr, rolling your hips against him, watching the way his brows furrow, the way his jaw clenches, the way he moans around your nipple. “Watching them get bigger just for you. All full with milk, leaking—”

Sunghoon gasps, moans so deep it vibrates against your skin, sucking harder, needier, sloppier.

“Fuck.” he chokes out, switching to your other nipple, latching on immediately, sucking so hard you swear you feel his tongue everywhere.

“You’d drink it for me, wouldn’t you, baby?” you whisper, watching the way his cock twitches inside you. “When they’re too heavy, when they ache, you’d help me, right? Suck it all out? Just like you’re doing now?”

His hips snap forward so hard you cry out.

His grip on your tits turns bruising, his moans completely fucked, completely broken, completely desperate.

“Oh my fucking God,” he gasps, pulling back just to stare at them, glossy with his spit, flushed and swollen. “You’re trying to fucking kill me,”

You laugh softly, dragging your fingers through his damp hair.

“Not my fault you get so horny for my tits, baby. Just imagine how they’ll look when you fuck a baby into me.”

Sunghoon lets out a wrecked, desperate groan, his eyes glued to your chest, hips moving faster, harder, deeper, his forehead pressing against your shoulder.

“You really fucking want it?” His voice is shaky, breathless, barely even there. “You want me to breed you, baby? Fill you up?”

“Yes, Hoonie,” you whimper, moaning his name, pulling him closer. “Want you to fuck me so full I start leaking. Want you to suck it out when it’s too much. Want you to make sure I stay full of your cum every single fucking night–”

Sunghoon snaps.

His hips slam into you harder, his moans turning high, breathless, broken.

“Oh my God, oh my God—I’m gonna fucking cum!”

His cock twitches, his entire body tenses, and then he’s spilling inside you, deep, hot, thick, endless.

His moans turn into soft, gasping whimpers, his hands trembling against your chest, still cupping your tits, still squeezing, still sucking softly at your flushed, sensitive skin.

You whisper in his ear, wrecked, sweet, teasing.

“You’re still sucking on them, baby,” you murmur, dragging your nails up his spine, making him shudder.

His hips twitch, still pressing into you, still rocking his cum deeper inside you.

“You wanna go again?” you whisper, breathless, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “We still need to make sure it doesn't leak.”

Sunghoon lets out a wrecked, broken moan, his cock already getting hard again.“Fuck—we’re not stopping.”

𝐊𝐢𝐦 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐨𝐨

Sunoo has been glowing all week.

Ever since you both agreed to start trying for a baby, he’s been softer, more affectionate, more eager to touch you at any given moment. His hands wander constantly—over your stomach, your waist, the dip of your spine, up under your shirt when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. Every night, he holds you just a little tighter, whispers just a little sweeter, kisses you just a little longer.

Tonight, he’s above you, warm and solid, his lips trailing soft, lingering kisses over your cheek, your jaw, the curve of your shoulder. His hips move slow, deep, rocking into you like he’s savoring every second.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. “Still can’t believe we’re really doing this.”

Your arms wrap around his back, fingers dragging over the smooth expanse of skin. His body shivers beneath your touch, his breath hitching as his rhythm falters for just a second.

“It’s real,” you whisper, pressing your lips against his temple. “You’re gonna fill me up so well, baby.”

A soft moan spills from his lips, a quiet little gasp that has you clenching around him. His hands tighten against your waist, gripping you like you might disappear.

“You really want that?” His voice shakes slightly, like he’s holding himself back.

You nod, brushing your lips against his ear. “Want all of you, Sunoo. Want you to give me everything.”

His movements grow more deliberate, more fluid, more desperate. His forehead presses against yours, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a shaky breath.

“You’re gonna be so pretty carrying my baby,” he whispers. “So full, so soft. I’ll take care of you, you know that, right?”

Your heart clenches, warmth blooming through your chest. You kiss him, slow and deep, letting him feel just how much you want this, how much you want him.

His pace quickens. He’s always been so careful, so sweet, but this is different. He’s lost in you, breath ragged, fingers flexing against your skin. Every thrust has him sinking deeper, pressing harder, like he’s trying to mark you from the inside out.

“I can’t stop,” he gasps, voice trembling, lips brushing over yours with every desperate exhale. “You feel too good, baby. I need—”

His voice breaks into a soft moan, the words fading into nothing as he presses deeper, holding you tight, completely and utterly lost.

Your legs tighten around his waist, keeping him buried inside you. He shudders when he feels it, his whole body tensing, his hips stuttering against yours.

“Give it to me, baby,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Make me full.”

Sunoo chokes on a breath, his moan turning into something high and sweet, completely wrecked. His hands tremble as he grips your thighs, pressing himself as deep as he can. His hips stutter, then still.

Warmth spreads through you as he spills inside, filling you up just like he promised.

But when you shift beneath him, when your walls flutter around him just right, he lets out a soft, helpless little whimper.

His cock twitches. His fingers dig into your skin.

“You’re still hard, baby,” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “You wanna keep going?”

A small, breathless gasp leaves his lips, his body trembling above you.

“You feel so good,” he whispers. “I don’t think I can stop.”

He shifts slightly, hips pressing forward again, sinking deeper, still so sensitive, still shivering from his last orgasm. A soft, gasping moan spills from his lips, his fingers curling around your waist.

“You said you wanted everything,” he breathes, voice shaking, forehead pressing against yours.

His hips roll forward, slow but insistent.

“Let me give it to you.”

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐰𝐨𝐧 (BEWAREEEE)

Jungwon was trying to get some work done.

But no—you were being a spoiled little brat, sitting in his lap, cockwarming him like it was nothing, wiggling every few minutes, sighing dramatically while he pretended to ignore the way your walls squeezed around him every single time you shifted.

He tried.

Tried so hard to keep his focus, to type, to pretend that he wasn’t throbbing inside you, to act like he wasn’t just barely holding it together, until you spread your legs.

Until you dragged one of his busy hands off his keyboard, guided it down between your thighs, pressed his fingers against your swollen, needy clit.

His entire body tensed, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt, his fingers twitching against your heat.

“Baby.” His voice was low, warning, already strained. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You leaned in, lips brushing against his ear, breath hot, desperate, completely ruining him.

“Jungwon, please,” you whined, shifting slightly, feeling his cock press even deeper inside you. “Just give me a baby.”

His fingers tightened on your waist, his breath came out in a slow, sharp exhale, and his laptop screen went black as he slammed it shut.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, gripping your hips, pulling you down fully onto him, forcing a gasping moan from your lips.

But you didn’t care.

Didn’t care that he was fed up, that his patience had snapped, that he was trying so hard to stay in control.

Because your brain had already turned to mush, because you were so full, so stretched, so perfectly stuffed with his cock that you could feel him pushing against the walls of your stomach.

You wanted more.

“I wanna get pregnant again as soon as I give you one baby,” you gasped, your fingers trailing down your stomach, pressing against the bulge that was forming there, where his cock was stretching you open so perfectly.

Jungwon’s eyes snapped down to where your hand rested over your belly.

His cock twitched inside you, hard, needy, responding to every single word that fell from your mouth.

“You’re already stuffed full of me, and you’re still talking?” he growled, rolling his hips forward, sharp, deep, making you whimper.

But you wouldn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

Didn’t want to stop.

“I wanna be pregnant all the time,” you babbled, completely gone, rocking yourself onto him, feeling every inch drag along your sensitive walls. “I wanna push out quadruplets just so you can fuck me full again right after. Wanna—wanna be dripping with your cum all the time, Jungwon, wanna be permanently wet for you, wanna plug myself up with your cock so none of it leaks out—”

Jungwon sucked in a sharp breath, groaning deep in his chest, pressing his forehead against your shoulder as he gritted his teeth.

“You don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

You shook your head, whining, rolling your hips, your own hand slipping between your legs, pressing against your clit, rubbing messy little circles as you shuddered.

“Won’t stop,” you gasped, tilting your head to whisper against his jaw. “Not until you fuck me hard enough that you push your cum in so deep I'm sticky inside. Not until I’m so full I start leaking just from walking. Not until I have no choice but to plug it back in with my fingers because I can’t let a drop go to waste—”

His hands clamped down on your thighs, locking you in place, his breathing ragged, his entire body trembling beneath you.

“Keep talking,” he ordered, voice rough, barely restrained, something almost unhinged.

His hips snapped up into you, deep, sharp, over and over, your body jerking from the force, from the overstimulation, from the heat building inside you so fast it was making you dizzy.

But you still wouldn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

“Jungwon—oh my God, Jungwon, I wanna be pregnant so bad, I want all of your babies, I want to always be full, always be leaking, always— Fuck me so hard you'd turn one baby into triplets wouldn't you?”

His pace turned brutal.

No more teasing. No more patience. No more self-control.

“You wanna be fucked stupid, huh?” he growled, pulling you forward, pressing you flush against his chest, his voice hot and sharp in your ear.

You nodded frantically, sobbing out broken little moans, still rubbing at your clit, still rocking onto him, completely fucking insatiable.

“I’ll make sure it takes,” he muttered, grinding up into you, so deep you could feel him pressing against your stomach again. “I’ll fuck you so full you won’t even be able to think about anything else—”

His hands slid back down to your belly, pressing against the bulge, feeling where he was stretching you open.

“You feel that?” he groaned, digging his fingers into the soft flesh there, pressing against himself inside you.

Your body tensed, toes curling, every muscle trembling.

“That’s where I’m gonna pump you full. Right here, baby. That’s where I’m gonna make you a mommy.”

You let out a shattered cry, body clenching around him, pleasure crashing over you so violently your vision went white.

“Jungwon, oh my God, oh my God, I wanna be breastfeeding to newborns while you’re still fucking a third one right back into me, fuck i wanna be so full with you all the time my pussy permanently tastes like your cum please,” you babbled

He moaned, loud, ragged, desperate.

With one final, deep, ruthless thrust, pressing as far inside you as he could go, he spilled inside you.

Thick. Hot. Filling you completely, just like you begged for.

His fingers dug into your hips, his breath hitched, his body trembled beneath you, his lips parting in a wrecked little gasp.

But you weren’t done.

Couldn’t be done.

Would never be done.

You shuddered against him, whimpering, clenching around his cock, feeling the mess dripping out of you, feeling the heat of his release spreading through your stomach.

But it wasn’t enough.

Never enough.

“You can’t let any of it go to waste,” you panted, brain completely melted, fingers curling against his chest. “Jungwon, please, please.”

His head snapped up, eyes wild, hair damp, chest rising and falling in sharp, heaving breaths.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, shoving his fingers inside you, pushing his cum back in.

Your breath caught, body jerking, a high, wrecked sob escaping your throat.

“You wanted it, baby,” he murmured, voice dark, teasing, dripping with something possessive. “Wanted me to breed you, right? You’re gonna take every last drop.”

His lips brushed against your ear, his fingers sliding deeper.

“I won’t stop until you’re carrying my baby.”

𝐍𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐤𝐢

Riki doesn’t know when to stop.

Or, more accurately—he knows, but he doesn’t care.

He likes pushing you past your limits, watching you squirm, watching your body tremble from the sheer amount of pleasure he’s forcing you to take.

Right now, you’re under him, barely coherent, already so spent, so weak, so fucking wrecked, but he just grins down at you, completely unbothered, completely unaffected.

“You crying already, sweetheart?” His voice is smooth, teasing, so infuriatingly calm despite the way you’re falling apart.

You whimper, shaking your head even though tears are slipping down your cheeks, your entire body trembling beneath him.

Riki just laughs, soft and taunting, dragging his fingers down your stomach, feeling how your muscles twitch under his touch.

“Too bad,” he hums, adjusting his grip on your hips, tilting them up just slightly, making you feel every inch of him. “I’m not done yet.”

You let out a wrecked sob, your fingers clawing at the sheets, your mind too foggy, too overwhelmed, too overstimulated to form words.

His lips curl into a slow, lazy grin, fingers pressing against your trembling thighs, feeling the way they shake beneath his touch.

“You can take more,” he murmurs, his tone mocking, saccharine sweet, but underneath it, there’s something darker, something hungrier.

You try to shake your head, try to beg, try to push him away, but he just tuts, clicking his tongue.

“You say that,” he smirks, dragging a finger down your cheek, wiping away a tear, then bringing it to his lips, sucking it off like he actually enjoys the taste of your desperation. “But your body’s telling me something else.”

His hips snap forward, rough, slow, deep, forcing another gasping cry from your lips.

Your back arches off the bed, your head falling back, your breath leaving you in ragged, broken little sobs.

“Fuck, that’s pretty,” he groans, watching the way your body reacts, watching the way you squirm beneath him.

His fingers trail down, brushing over your sensitive clit, pressing down just slightly.

You flinch violently, a wrecked whimper leaving your lips, your thighs snapping shut on instinct.

Riki just grins, grabbing your legs, forcing them open again.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he murmurs, voice mocking, condescending, so fucking entertained by how wrecked you are. “None of that. You wanted this, remember? You wanted me to fuck you until you couldn’t think straight. How am I meant to fuck a baby into you if you’re behaving this way, honey?”

You shake your head frantically, breath catching, words slurring together as you try to plead with him.

“N-no, Riki—”

He tilts his head, eyes dark, completely unfazed.

“Sweetheart, I don’t remember giving you a choice.”

His fingers rub slow, lazy circles over your clit, his cock pressing even deeper, making your entire body jerk, making you cry out, making you twitch uncontrollably from the overwhelming sensation.

Tears slip down your cheeks, your breath coming in sharp, gasping sobs, your body trembling. He laughs, breathless and taunting, voice dripping with amusement.

“Shit,” he mutters, dragging his tongue along your jaw, pressing hot, teasing kisses against your throat. “You look so fucking good like this. Can’t even fight it anymore, can you?”

Your hands grip at his arms, weak, useless, just barely managing to keep hold of him as your vision goes hazy.

He leans in, lips brushing against your ear, voice low and dark and impossibly cruel.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispers, dragging his tongue along your earlobe, his fingers circling your overstimulated clit with cruel precision. “Give me one more.”

You let out a shattered cry, your body arching, shaking, breaking, pleasure tearing through you so violently it feels like you’re coming apart at the seams.

Your vision blurs, white-hot heat flooding through your veins, waves of ecstasy crashing over you so hard you swear you stop breathing.

Riki just grins, his voice soft, teasing, drenched in satisfaction.

“See? Told you you could take more.”

Your body twitches, trembles, shudders against him, your limbs limp, your mind blank, completely and utterly spent.

Riki clicks his tongue, watching the way you struggle to even keep your eyes open.

“Not passing out on me yet, are you?” His voice is mocking, amused, but underneath it, there’s something almost… affectionate.

“You can sleep when I’m done.”

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @naurwayyyyy @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @zzhengyu @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4 @starniras @wonuziex

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cathnospam · 1 month ago

Text

“What do you want for your birthday.”

“Nothing.”

“What kinda cake?”

“None.”

“Well besides my ass, which would be chocolate flavor—-“

“Are you finished?!”

That’s exactly how your conversation with your husband Katsuki went for the past 4 weeks.

Every year you get him something he always wants, last year was a new tool for his gauntlets, years before that was the autographed card from All Might, but this is your first year as a husband and wife and you really wanna do something EXTRA special.

But you’ve ran out of ideas.

And unfortunately you’ve ran out of time.

You were on a business trip for a week before his birthday and while you were in the states you managed to buy him new clothes, a hand written letter, a few American snacks he always wanted to try, and even some jewelry, but…it still didn’t seem enough.

Bakugo was actually the perfect husband, he allowed you the option to be a stay at home wife even if you are a hero too, he’s grown so emotionally intelligent for you, he listens, he cares, you just want to give him a birthday he deserves.

And you know he’d be grateful regardless, he always is. Which is why he always tells you he doesn’t want anything.

You get off the plane early to surprise him. Knowing he’d be off work by now, you told him to call off, but you knew he wouldn’t listen. Not even for his birthday, but luckily Kiri was on your side and insisted he headed home early and take a break for a couple days.

He honestly didn’t want to. He needed a distraction from you being gone. You just told him you’d probably won’t be in by tomorrow morning which means you’ll be missing his birthday. His voice sounded crushed behind his passive aggressive insults on the phone. You nearly told him it was a lie, but you needed your plan to go accordingly.

When you take the uber back to his penthouse, you arrive inside and it was quiet and dark. Hopefully he wasn’t home yet.

You drop your luggage to place all his gifts on the table and blow up a few balloons, and place his card right for him to see when he opens his door.

But he didn’t show up yet.

You waited

waited

wait waited.

But 45 minutes passed and he still wasn’t home.

You sigh, and text Kiri where he was and headed to take a quick shower,

25 minutes passed and you’re out to see he texted back,

“He went drinking w us (I TRIED TO SEND HIM HOME), but he’s headed back rn. i’m taking him.”

You roll your eyes until you hear the door open and the familiar voices of Bakugo cursing and kicking out his fellow friends.

“What—-?”

“Happy Birthday!”

You tip toe out the corner to see your flustered hubby holding his card, eyes widened from confusion to place it back down and rush over to you.

Man you missed his scent.

He was wearing an all black outfit with his gold chain with your wedding ring on it. You missed him so much.

“You said you were—“

“I know i know. I wanted to surprise you….you’re not mad are you—-!”

Picking you up from your ass he kisses you, practically swallowing your lips in the process, “H-hey I’m only wearing a robe here?!”

“Good. My present is easy to unwrap then.”

You playfully smack his chest before he smacks his lips with your agains, “THOSE are your presents….but…I wanted to give you something better..”

Bakugo furrowed his brows for a moment and rolled his eyes, placing you down he hugged you. He just needed to smell you, make sure you were really with him.

“You’re such a dumbass…”

“How? Because I wanted to give you the best present?”

“You did by being here you idiot.”

You looked at him a bit dumbfounded and he just scoffs at you before lifting you up over his shoulders and taking you both to the bedroom.

you really are dense, because if you really knew him you’d know you’re the only present he needed and wanted this year.

#mha #bakugo katuski #bakugou katsuki #bnha bakugo katsuki #bnha bakugou #katsuki bakugo mha #mha bakugou #bakugo x black reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo #bakugo x black female #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bakugo x female reader #bakugou x you

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robinsgrl · 6 months ago

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rafe with a weird and clingy girl pt. 2 y’all i have a lot of these you don’t even know how weird of a gf i can be.

weird girl masterlist

main masterlist

it’s not just cute aggression. although that is a main factor. you need to be touching him at aalllll times. like all the time.

you’re both in bed, the night a cold one for the outer banks. he’s on his side of the bed reading a lame book that you can’t care for. and despite being under the same blanket as him, he feels warmer.

you place your cold hands on his abs and he lets out a tiny yelp and shoves you away. “god, why are you so cold?”

“as my boyfriend it’s your job to warm me up!”

“no way, then i quit”

you put your hands back on him and despite how he tenses from the cold, he doesn’t push you away again. this gives you to the idea to trail your hand down and put them in his shorts.

“what the hell are you doing?”

“that’s the warmest part of you”

“what?”

“it’s like when i put my hands in my bra cause it’s really warm”

“you put your hands in your bra?”

“shut up, you put your hands in my bra all the time”

“to cop a feel not to get warm”

“don’t move my hands!” because he’s trying to get your hands out of his shorts

“baby, you cant grip on me because you want to warm up”

“okay then pretend im coping a feel!”

“get off of me weirdo!” he laughs, attention now on you as you practically wrestle

you like to slap his ass. it’s hard not to. he’s so tantalizing. even when he isn’t trying. you go to the gym with him once and he’s lifting weights as you drool behind him. up and down. up and down. You let out a wolf whistle as you watch him and he tries and hold back his smile.

“just like that” you coo

“you sound like a pervert”

“im a pervert for you”

“that’s not as romantic as you think it is”

“what would you do if i squished a cheek right now?”

this alarms him and he drops the weights, giving you a scolding look. “you can’t squish a guys cheek while he’s lifting”

“im not going to.” you scoff, rolling your eyes at him. you were definitely going to.

he gives you a careful side eye, making sure you’re on your best behavior. a few minutes later and he’s back at his task. you sit, bored, still just watching him. you sigh loudly as you get up off the machine you were sitting on. “you’re boring. im leaving”

“wait for me, angel, im almost—“

you giggle and run away as you send a smack to his ass, “sorry! i had to!”

“jesus, you’re an animal!” he calls out after you.

you don’t even stop at family events. cameron events are usually stuffy. you hate them. but you do what you can for rafe. it’s the end of the awkward dinner and you two are washing dishes. “surprised you didn’t make the help do this”

“we gave him the day off”

“spoiled brat” you tease him as he rinses a dish under the water. you finish drying off the plate and put it in the cabinet, eyes trailing over him. his ass looks good in his dress pants.

with a hop to your step, you stand behind him and wrap your arms around his waist. “what are you up to?”

you scoff, “can’t a girl hug her man?”

“you’re hugging me like a broke boyfriend. you only do that when you’re up to something”

“would it surprise you if i said im trying to cop a feel?”

“nothing about you surprises me anymore”

“so you won’t be mad?”

“i’ll be pissed.”

“too late” you bring your hands behind him and give his ass a squeeze. he tenses at this, pushing himself forward to get away from you.

“you’re perverted!”

“you have cake! i can’t help it!”

“cake? god, you gross me out”

“stop running away!”

he’s threatening you with a wet hand towel but you dodge him as you keep chasing after him. dinners at this house are always the worst but not as the two of you run around the kitchen, laughter filling the air.

“uh, what’s happening?” wheezie’s voice cuts the two of you off.

rafe’s got you draped on his shoulder, your hands on his ass from the upside down angle you’re in. you both pause. “we’re touching butts.”

“jesus, baby, don’t tell my sister that”

#rafe cameron thoughts #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron blurb #obx blurb #outer banks blurb #obx x reader #obx fanfiction #obx fic #obx x you #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron obx #have u guys watched superstore #i hope u noticed the little bit #wrote this during my lunch #sorry for any mistakes #weird girl!reader

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nezuscribe · 7 months ago

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you’re glad to have a friend like arranged!gojo, it feels good to have somebody to talk to and listen to. you feel nice being able to laugh with somebody and not apologize for the awful jokes or strange things you say. but sometimes you have to stop yourself from getting attached, reminding yourself that he won’t care for you like that.

and though that’s the farthest from the truth, it’s what you’ve convinced yourself. so when your birthday comes around, you decide to celebrate the way you always have, alone.

he’s your friend, not a husband, so you don’t see any need in dragging him into this ordeal.

you bake a little cake for yourself a couple day in advance, just like you used to at your old home. you stash it away for when night rolls around and it’s just yourself, you can enjoy it the way you have for years.

when you were little you would gawk and stare at the lavish parties your father and his wife threw for your sisters, the balls and the presents growing bigger and bigger the more they grew up. you’d mimic their behaviors on your own, dressing up in the best dress you had (a hand me downs from your older sister that never fit quite right) and pretended you too were surrounded by a room of people as they watched you eat cake.

and sure, when you were younger you’d feel embarrassed eating by yourself surrounded by drawings of people you’d prop up on chairs, but it’s become tradition now (not the drawings, you realize now how depressing that must’ve looked).

so the night of your birthday you take the cake you had hidden in the back of the ice den out, bringing it to the corner of the kitchens where the cooks kept the little table for themselves and began cutting into it, cursing yourself for freezing it too long.

you serve yourself a piece, hunching over your plate as you dug in with your fork, eating in silence.

you write a little note for the cooks to enjoy the rest of it as you place it back in the den once you were done, going back to your room for the night.

the following day when you were walking around the library looking for something new you spot gojo talking to one of his advisors, his eyes focused and his tilted slightly as he gave him all of his attention.

you pause, holding back until you were sure they were done with their conversation to reveal yourself from behind one of the looming bookshelves, watching as the advisor bowed his head to you before he left.

the crease between his eyebrows relaxes, his eyes softening when you waved at him, your smile gleaming.

“i didn’t see you for breakfast,” he tells you as he walks over to where you were standing, pushing some of his hair back as you grin apologetically.

“i slept in,” you admit sheepishly, tired from last night as you play with your fingers, “i also might’ve been a little snippy with alina when she tried to wake me up.”

gojo snorts, absentmindedly pulling some books out and putting them back in as he rests his side on the wall of binded pages.

“baking?�� he asks simply, knowing you well enough to know that the only reason you’d miss breakfast would be because you spent the majority of the night in the kitchens.

“how’d you know?” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest as he tsks, his fingers picking some stray leaves from your head from earlier when you were walking through the gardens.

“i help whisk the butter and sugar when you don’t feel like it. i don’t know why you keep me out of the kitchens,” he murmurs petulantly and you chuckle a little bit, rolling your eyes at his antics.

“it’s for your own sake,” you tell him, a glimmer in your eyes that he’d chase around the world the see, “and besides, i wasn’t baking. i was enjoying the fruits of my previous labor.”

gojo squints a little bit, confused. usually you eat what you make the night of, sometimes bringing a plate by his room if it’s not too late.

“when else did you bake this week without me?” he asks, trying to mask his hurt with a playful grin, trying to recall the times he heard back from one of his guards that you were down in the kitchens.

“only a few days ago, when i trying to assemble the cake.” you say with a shrug. his mouth opens in shock, a pout on his lips as he averts your gaze.

“you had cake? without me?” he almost whines it out and you shove his boot with the point of your shoe, trying to calm him down.

who would’ve thought the most fearsome warrior of the north, hell, the entire kingdom, would have such a sweet-tooth?

“it was small,” you try to reason, “and you wouldn’t have liked the flavors. it’s a recipe from the west.”

gojo groans, stepping closer to you as he gently flick your nose, watching the way you’d scrunch it up in annoyance.

“but you know i love cake,” he murmurs, “and you said you’d only bake it for birthdays…you lied to me,” his pink lips pull into a pout, one that you want to kiss off his gorgeous face, and control yourself from letting the heat get too much in your cheeks.

“well,” you quirk a brow, “if it helps, it was for a birthday.”

gojo looks up from the ground, brows furrowed once again in confusion.

“mine?” he says a little hopefully, as if it was anywhere near his birthday.

you snort, shaking your head as your finger pokes itself in your chest.

“mine…you idiot,” you mutter under your breath, wondering how somebody how his caliber could be so daft.

but he doesn’t seem to find it funny, in fact, his brows seem to meet in the middle, the pout gone form his lips as he frowns.

“what do you mean yours? your birthday isn’t for…? isn’t it in…?” he tries to think, think back to when your birthday was, only to realize he didn’t know, to realize he’d never asked you about it, always assuming it’d be something told to him.

“it’s nothing big,” you try to say quickly to cover up the awkwardness, “i usually just make myself a cake and get it over with.” you say with a chuckle but he’s not finding anything about this humorous.

great, you think bitterly to yourself, said something else and fucked it up. you wince, wishing you’d just stayed quite.

“your birthday was yesterday?” gojo asks, his voice hushed and heavy. he looks like he cares, he looks sad. you find it unnerving.

“i,” you laugh uncomfortably, fidgeting with your ring as you swallow thickly, “i think so...? i eyeball the day every year.”

truth be told you done really know what day you were born. your father never remembered the exact date seeing how the nature of his relationship with your mother was so secretive, and nobody ever found the true date out. so usually you find a date each year that you think matches with what time season you were born with and go with that.

gojo feels like his heart has slowed, watching the way you shrink into yourself the way he notices you’d i when you feel like you’ve done something wrong.

“eyeball?” he bites out and you wince at his tone, and he wishes he could take it back and start over again without the bite of a general in his words.

“look gojo it’s nothing, really,” you insist, waving him off as you try to escape, shifting around so you were closer to the doorway, “it’s just a day, it’s nothing important,” you tell him reassuringly.

but he doesn’t believe you, running a hand down his face as he pinches at the bridge of your nose.

“why do you write these things off as if they’re not important?” his voice is deep, echoing around the walls of the vast library as your hold your breath, “why don’t you-”

“because it’s not important,” you say again, your voice a little bit harsher, “it’s just a day.”

his eyes drown in blue, dark and wavering like the shoreline.

“then why bake a cake?” he snaps, not in anger but in genuine questioning, and your face falls a little.

maybe because years ago you thought it was something important. maybe because you want that little girl to feel like she matters.

he gapes, knowing he said something wrong, but can’t speak.

“i…” you open your mouth then close it again, looking away from him as you shrug, “i have to go, i - um, shoko asked for me.” you lie lamely, not caring as you bow your head down slightly to him before you briskly leave.

and maybe if you turned back you could see the way his face fell too.

but with all the maybes you’ve told yourself no to, you’ve grown accustomed to the belief that every maybe wouldn’t have a chance of becoming something.

because maybe if you had actually told him the truth when you wanted to a couple days ago, that you’d like to celebrate with him, he wouldn’t shut you down the way you’d imagined he would and maybe he would’ve said yes.

but for now you convince yourself that this man is a friend who pretends like he cares. because never once have you heard of a man caring so deeply for somebody that he’d shed a tear over the fact that you’d celebrate your birthday alone. but then again, you’ve never met a man like gojo before.

#gojo x reader #gojo x reader angst #gojo x you #gojo drabble #jjk x reader #jjk angst #jjk drabble #satoru x reader #jjk x you #arranged!gojo

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