vvvchu

[vvvchu]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Spread ’Em. That’s an Order.

(Officer Grayson needs to conduct a full-body inspection. With his tongue.)

He’s Gotham’s finest.

And by “finest” you mean the most ridiculously hot police officer in the precinct.

His uniform is too tight, his hair is always slightly tousled, and his voice?

That smooth, smug “ma’am, I’m gonna need you to come with me” has literally made girls moan on the spot.

You know. You’re one of them.

Especially since you’re his wife.

And unfortunately for your thighs, he takes his work home.

He LOVES his cuffs.

Not just for duty.

No no.

He’ll pull them out when you sass him in the kitchen.

“What was that? You wanna be a brat, sweetheart?”

He presses you face-down over the table. Metal clicks around your wrists.

“Spread your legs. Let’s see what you’re hiding under that pretty little attitude.”

Uniform stays on.

Always.

He keeps the gloves on too. And the hat.

He eats your pussy with his badge literally hanging between your thighs.

He groans like he’s starving, using two fingers to spread you open and say:

“Mm. We’ve got a Code 69 here. Civilian’s soaking wet. Gonna need to taste the evidence.”

And then he does. Sloppily. Hungrily.

Mouth locked to your clit. Fingers pumping deep.

You cum once? He keeps going.

You cum twice? He flips you over and fucks you.

You cry? He calls you his brave little suspect.

He’s into hardcore shit.

Handcuffing you to the bed.

Edging you for hours.

Spanking you over his knee while reading you your “charges.”

“Number one: resisting arrest.

Number two: making me hard in public.

Number three: drenching your panties before I even unzip my fly.”

And his stamina?

Babe.

He used to be a vigilante. He can go for hours.

You're overstimulated, sobbing, twitching on the bed—and he’s still pounding into you, growling in your ear.

“Take it. Take it like a good girl. You wanted this, didn’t you? Brat in the streets, slut in my sheets. Say it.”

You whimper. Moan. Cum again.

He doesn’t stop.

He never stops until he’s filled you so deep you feel it in your ribs.

He has a breeding kink.

Of course he does.

He watches his cum leak out of you with a smirk.

“That’s what I like to see. My girl. Full of my cum.”

Yes. He says that.

He’s that guy.

Aftercare? Sweet (obviously because that's Dick).

He kisses your wrists after uncuffing you.

He carries you to the shower. Kisses your thighs. Massages your sore hips while whispering:

“I love you.”

[vvvchu]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ I Can’t Stop—I Love You Too Much.

(So much that he cry when you touch him. Every. Single. Time.)

He swears he’s not gonna cry this time.

He swears.

But you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in deep, and the second his tip kisses your cervix?

It’s over.

He’s gone.

Tears. Already. Big fat pathetic ones sliding down his cheeks as his hips stutter and he moans your name like it’s a goddamn hymn.

“I–I love you, I love you so much—”

“Please, can I cum? Please, I need to—need to make you mine—”

He’s shaking.

He’s inside you, forehead pressed to yours, hands trembling as he thrusts deep and slow, and you swear—swear—he’s about to sob on your face.

He’s kissing you between every whimper.

Nuzzling your neck. Mumbling like a broken man.

“You feel s-so good… s’wet… s’warm… I c-can’t… I—ah—”

You clench around him.

He gasps.

And then you feel it—his cock twitching inside you, that heat filling you up as he cums with a soft, wrecked cry, burying his face in your shoulder like he’s ashamed of how fast he finished.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… it just felt so good, I couldn’t—please don’t hate me—”

But here’s the thing:

He doesn’t stop.

Not even after cumming.

He just kisses your face like a man obsessed, dick still hard inside you, whispering:

“Lemme try again. Please. I’ll do better—I’ll make you cum this time. I promise.”

He’s so sweet about it.

So gentle.

He fucks you like you’re precious.

Like you’re sacred.

Like your pussy is the only thing tethering him to life.

“You’re everything to me… You know that, right? You’re mine—my whole world—my everything—”

And when you cum?

He gasps like he’s seen God.

He cups your cheek, crying harder, kissing your lips over and over.

“You did so good—so good for me—I love you, I love you so much—look how pretty you are when you cum—”

He’s addicted.

To your pussy. To your voice. To your body.

You go soft? He’s wrapping himself around you like a weighted blanket.

“Don’t go… please just stay like this. I wanna feel you forever…”

And the second he thinks his cum’s leaking out of you?

He whimpers.

“No—no wait—lemme push it back in. Don’t waste it—need you full of me—need you to remember I love you…”

[vvvchu]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ I Missed Her… Can I Kiss Her?

(He means your pussy. And he’s not asking for fun. He’s asking like it hurts to be away from it.) — virgin!choso pt.2

He’s so much more confident now.

Not cocky. Never.

Just adoring. Curious. Eager.

He still doesn’t know what he’s doing most of the time — but you’d never know it, the way he studies you like every part of your body has a story.

Like the way he looks down at your thighs when you sit in his lap.

Hands warm. Wide. Resting just under your skirt.

“You smell sweet today,” he murmurs, cheeks flushing.

“Did you miss me down here?”

Your pussy clenches before he even moves.

He doesn’t even need to touch you anymore.

“Let me kiss her,” he whispers.

“Please. Just a little.”

When he eats you out?

He’s sloppy.

Still messy. Still so overwhelmed by how you taste.

But now he moans into it.

Humps the mattress.

Whines when you buck your hips up into his face.

“Fuck… she missed me…”

“She’s so soft today—mnh—please let me keep going…”

You cum on his tongue and he gasps.

Eyes flutter. He jerks against the bed.

“She’s crying…! She’s really—she’s so happy—”

You have to grab his hair and pull him off before he passes out.

And even then?

He looks up at you with a shiny, pussy-drunk smile.

“You taste better than anything I’ve ever had.”

“Can I have seconds?”

When he fingers you?

It’s slow. Gentle. Focused.

Like he’s trying to make you fall in love all over again — with his hands, his mouth, his voice.

“I’ll stop if it’s too much. I promise.”

“But I love watching you like this…”

He watches your pussy take his fingers.

Licks his lips when he sees it flutter.

Groans softly when you squirt around them.

“She’s so pretty when she gets messy…”

“I think I’m gonna cry.”

(He doesn’t. But he sniffles.)

And when you ride him?

Oh, god.

He doesn’t even thrust anymore.

He just lies back, mouth open, hands tight on your hips, moaning so sweetly while you use him.

“I love you,” he says it over and over.

“I love you, I love you, I love you—”

“I’ll give you everything. I swear. Anything. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you—”

And he cums deep. Hard. Every time.

Holding you close like you’ll vanish if he lets go.

After?

He buries his face in your chest.

Arms tight around your waist.

“You’re everything,” he whispers.

“I don’t want anyone else to ever touch you. I wanna be the only one.”

You run your fingers through his hair. He sighs. Melts.

“Please don't go.” he mumbles.

[vvvchu]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ You Wanna Steal My Gold, Slut?

(You thought you were stealing gold. Turns out you were stealing a spot on the dragon's dick.)

You should’ve listened.

You should’ve stayed far, far away from the mountain with the bones outside.

But noooo. You needed a shiny lil trinket, right? Just one ruby. Just a quick grab.

And now?

Now you’re pinned under a 10-ton fuckmonster with horns, wings, claws, and a cock the length of your arm.

“Aw, poor little thief,” he purrs, smirking down at you like the absolute demon he is, while your naked, trembling body squirms under him.

“You wanted to steal my gold?”

He spits on your pussy. It sizzles.

“Now you should be punished.”

He spreads your legs so wide your hips pop.

You yelp. He moans.

“Fuck yes—scream for me.”

His claws are digging into your thighs. His body’s so hot it feels like it’s melting you open.

And then—

Then you see it.

His cock.

Veiny. Curved. Leaking. So fucking thick the head alone has your cunt flinching.

He slaps it against your pussy once—hard.

You sob.

He grins.

“Scared? You should be. I’m gonna fuck your guts so deep you’ll taste me in your dreams.”

He doesn’t prep. He doesn’t tease.

He just grabs your ankles, bends you in half, and starts pushing in.

Your pussy makes this obscene wet squelch as it tries to stretch for him.

You’re shaking. Crying. Gushing.

And he’s moaning like a beast, tongue out, drool dripping on your tits.

“Godddd, listen to that sloppy little hole…”

He fuckin’ growls.

“So fuckin’ wet. So tight. So small. You were made to be my cocksleeve.”

You scream. Again. Again.

Your belly’s bulging with his cock. You’re clawing at the gold like it’ll save you. You’re not even speaking real words anymore—just whimpers and moans and messy, high-pitched “fuck—fuck—fuck—!”

He's laughing now.

“Cute little moans. Keep makin’ ‘em, bitch. I’m gonna break this pussy in half.”

You cum. Hard.

Your pussy clenches, gushes, and it makes this disgustingly wet pop sound as he bottoms out.

You scream again.

“Look at this messy cunt—fuckin’ creaming all over my cock like a little whore.”

He slaps your clit. You twitch.

“Yeah. You like it.”

Then he uses his tail.

You don’t even see it coming.

It snakes under you, slithers between your asscheeks, and the tip rubs your other hole.

You gasp. “Wait—! Wait please—”

“Oh shut up.”

He shoves it in.

Now you’re double stuffed.

Tears streaming. Mouth open in a silent scream.

Your belly looks pregnant. Your insides feel like soup.

You’re shaking like a broken toy and he’s still pounding you with obscene force, panting like a dog in heat.

“Fuckfuckfuck—I can feel your cervix—holy shit—take it, take it, TAKE IT—”

You’re clawing his chest. Dazed. Dick-drunk.

He licks the blood off your cheek and whispers:

“You’re mine now, little thief. My cunt. My whore. My treasure.”

And then—he knots.

Of course he knots.

You feel the thick, hot swell of his cock lock inside your cunt and flood you with hot, white dragon cum.

It’s endless.

You scream. You squirt. You pass out for like half a second.

He groans into your throat while you twitch and tremble, filled to the brim.

Your belly swells. Leaks. He smears it around your thighs and mutters filth into your ear.

“So good for me. So full. Gonna lay my eggs in this tight fucking cunt.”

After?

You’re limp. Gurgling. Brain melted.

He’s purring. Still inside you. Still hard.

He cups your face in one huge clawed hand and kisses your forehead, bloody and sweaty.

“My sweet lil thief.”

He purrs.

“Touch my gold again, and I’ll fuck your mouth next. Got it?”

You just whimper. Pussy leaking.

He chuckles.

“Good girl.”

[vvvchu]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ I-I Wanna Be Good for You… Just Tell Me What to Do…

(Your sweet, quiet boyfriend has never had sex. But he wants to learn. For you.)

He gets hard so easily.

Not because he’s a perv — but because you are.

You stretch in front of him. Bend over. Wear those tiny shorts he hates because they ride up and make his brain shut off.

“Choso,” you whisper in his ear one night.

“Wanna see what I’d look like bouncing on your dick?”

His nose bleeds.

He covers his face.

Groans like he’s dying.

Mutters,

“You can’t just say things like that…”

But his cock’s rock hard. And his sweatpants do nothing to hide it.

He never initiates.

Too scared. Too respectful.

But once you start?

Once you crawl in his lap, kiss his neck, grind against that fat dick—

He melts.

Crumbles.

“Feels… s-so good…” he whines.

“I can feel you—down there—”

You rub your panties against the thick outline in his pants.

His hands hover like he’s too scared to touch you.

“C-Can I hold your hips?”

“Is that okay? I wanna feel you…”

When you finally ride him?

Oh. My. God.

He pants. Moans. Clings to you like you’ll disappear.

“It’s so warm—so soft—”

“You feel so good…”

And he cums instantly.

Like… full-body twitch, helpless moan, clawing at your back type of orgasm.

“Ah—fuck—fuck—I’m sorry—!”

You giggle.

“We’re not done, baby. I’m just warming up.”

He cums again two minutes later.

Then again.

He’s a mess.

Begging to keep going.

Sweaty. Blushing. Sobbing into your neck.

“I’m not tired—I swear—just let me stay inside—please—”

You kiss his forehead.

“You wanna fill me up again, huh?”

“You like when I squeeze around your cock, baby?”

He whimpers.

Nods so fast it’s pathetic.

“Yes—please—I love you—I’ll give you as many babies as you want—!”

You laugh.

“Didn’t know you had baby fever.”

“I do now.”

After?

He won’t let you move.

Keeps you stuffed full of his cum.

Kisses your temple over and over. Murmuring things like:

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

“I wanna do that with you every day.”

[vvvchu]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ My Angel’s Gonna Be a Mommy~

(But first—another six orgasms, okay?) — incubus!satoru · nun!reader pt.2

He’s INSATIABLE.

It’s been four days. Four. Days.

Since he broke into the convent chapel, wrecked your pussy on the altar, and proceeded to move into your bed like he pays rent.

He hums when he cums.

He giggles when you squirt.

He calls your pussy “home.”

You wake up to him fucking your thighs.

Not even your pussy. Just... the space between.

You blink awake—dazed, confused, and immediately annoyed.

And there he is, rutting into your soft thighs like a perverted puppy, sighing and moaning like he’s seeing heaven.

“Mornin’, angel face,” he pants. “Didn’t wanna wake you up. But your thighs are so soft, I couldn’t help it. Look! Look how my cock fits between ‘em, hnngh—”

You cover your face with your hands.

You're so tired.

But then he does that thing.

You know. That thing.

Where he pushes your legs apart and dives face-first into your pussy like he’s taking communion. Arms looped under your thighs, holding you in place while he sucks your clit like a man possessed.

He moans into it. Loud. Sloppy. Filthy.

And then he looks up at you with those glowing ice-blue eyes, mouth shiny with spit, tongue out, and says:

“If I eat it real good, will you let me put a baby in you?”

You try to say “no.”

But your back is already arching.

Your hips are grinding into his face.

You’re sobbing, “Satoru, please, it’s too much—”

He just giggles.

“Too much? Nah. God gave you two holes for a reason. Let’s test the other one next, ‘kay?”

He makes you cry from overstimulation.

And he fucking lives for it.

Your eyes are teary, your legs won’t stop twitching, your cunt is throbbing and swollen from the fourth orgasm in thirty minutes, and he’s just lying there—resting his cheek on your inner thigh, smiling like a saint.

He drags his fingers through the mess between your legs and goes:

“Look at it. You’re leaking like a holy fountain. Can I baptize myself in your pussy juice?”

You throw a pillow at him.

He moans and bites it.

(You’re scared.)

He tries to put your panties on his horns. Again.

You yell at him. Again.

He pouts.

You say, “You're a demon.”

He says, “I’m your husband.”

You tell him you can't get married.

He stares directly into your eyes, dead serious:

“I already nutted in you six times. That’s basically a wedding.”

He gets jealous of your rosary.

You start praying again. Just quietly. Just to get your head on straight.

And this man-child demon immediately drapes himself over your lap like a toddler and goes:

“Why are you talking to God when I’m right here?”

“Is He gonna stretch you out and kiss your cervix too? Didn’t think so.”

You try to shove him off. He just purrs, rubbing his cock against your thigh like a needy cat.

“I’ll be your god, baby. Call me Daddy Christ.”

You cry.

And then—

After all the chaos. The pounding. The licking. The breeding talk. The baby-trap speeches.

He cuddles you.

Falls asleep naked, sweaty, and smiling.

One hand on your boob. The other between your legs.

Head on your chest.

Feet ice-cold. Somehow always under your habit.

He mumbles in his sleep.

Stuff like “mine…” and “pretty baby…” and “gonna keep you knocked up forever…”

You lie there. Staring at the ceiling.

Regretting.

And... kinda waiting for Round 8.

“Satoru. Get off me.”

“Shhh… boobie time.”

[vvvchu]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ I—I Don’t Think I Can Stop If I Put It In…

(Your sweet virgin boyfriend is already leaking through his pants, and you’ve barely even touched him.)

He’s sitting on the bed.

Back straight. Hands in his lap. Eyes locked on you like a man awaiting execution.

“Are you nervous?” you ask softly, leaning down to kiss his jaw.

“...Yes,” he whispers.

His voice is so low. So shy.

“But I want it. I want you.”

His cock is already hard. Pressed tight to his stomach beneath his sweatpants, twitching like it’s trying to break free.

And you haven’t even touched him yet.

You straddle his lap, grind once — just once — and he gasps like you punched the air out of his lungs.

“Fuck—”

“I’m sorry. I just… you feel so good already…”

He’s red.

Blushing so bad his ears are pink.

And when you reach down, slip your hand under his waistband and wrap your fingers around him—

“Hah—w-wait, I—”

Too late.

He cums.

In seconds.

There’s silence.

His mouth falls open. Eyes wide.

“...I didn’t mean to—”

You kiss his cheek, whisper,

“It’s okay. We’re just getting started.”

He looks at you like he might cry.

“You’re not mad?”

You laugh.

“No, baby. I think it’s cute.”

You guide him back against the pillows.

Kiss down his chest.

Make him watch as you peel your panties off, let them drop to his lap.

“You wanna touch me now, pretty boy?”

He nods. Dumbly. Eyes huge.

You guide his hand. Let him feel how wet you are.

He moans.

“That’s… from me?”

You kiss him.

“Yeah. All you.”

When you sink onto him for the first time?

His head tilts back with a broken gasp.

He’s gripping the sheets like they’re all that’s holding him to Earth.

“Oh my god.”

“Oh my god. You’re so warm. You’re so—fuck—tight—”

His hips twitch.

You feel him pulse inside you.

“I-I’m gonna cum again—fuck—already—”

You lean down, hold his face in your hands.

“It’s okay, baby. Cum for me.”

“Then we’ll do it again.”

He cums three times.

One from your hand.

One inside you.

And one more when you ride him slow and soft, whispering sweet filth into his ear:

“You’re so big, Choso…”

“I love your cock.”

“You feel so good when you’re deep like that—yeah—right there—just like that…”

He sobs.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

After, he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

He nuzzles into your chest, face flushed, voice small.

“I love you.”

“...Can we do it again tomorrow?”

[vvvchu]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Didn’t Want a Family… But I’ll Fuck One Into You Again.

(Toji’s not soft about your pregnancy. Not at all.)

Toji didn’t want you pregnant.

He never said it.

But you could tell—

The first few weeks? He barely touched you. He was restless. Distant. Hated how vulnerable you looked. Hated the idea of family sprouting from his cock.

Until your belly popped.

And then?

Something snapped.

Now he fucks you like you’re a feast.

Bent over the mattress, belly cradled in a pillow, ass up, tits leaking and bouncing while Toji rails you like it’s a punishment.

“Look at this body,” he growls, pressing a palm to your stomach. “S’not right how good you look like this.”

“You’re ruined. Full of my fuckin’ kid and still tight around me—God, you’re disgusting.”

You moan. You drool. You try to run—he grabs your hips and slams you back down on him.

“Nah. You wanted this. Gotta finish what I started.”

He stares at your belly while he’s inside you.

Sometimes presses on it. Just to feel how deep he is.

Rubs your swollen bump and talks to it.

But not sweetly. Not like a dad.

Like a man taunting his own addiction.

“You feel that, kid? That’s your old man rearranging your damn house.”

You slap his shoulder.

He smirks.

“What? Can’t lie. You love this too.”

And you do.

Because he fucks you until your legs don’t work.

Until your tits are dripping. Until you’re crying and babbling please, please, Toji—too much— and he still doesn’t stop.

He eats your pussy like it’s soaked in sin.

Worships it. Tongue buried deep, one palm under your belly to hold it up like it’s holy, the other around your thigh like you might float away.

“Tastes sweeter when you’re knocked up,” he mutters, mouth wet, voice dark.

He growls when your thighs shake.

“Fuck. You clench more now. You wanna be bred again, don’t you?”

You whine.

He laughs.

“Oh, I know you do. You’re perfect like this. Dumb little bitch with my baby in her and still beggin’ for more.”

When you’re lying in bed—bare, swollen, sleepy—he fucks you then too.

Doesn’t ask. Just pulls your legs apart and slides in slow.

One hand on your throat.

One hand on your belly.

“You made this,” he whispers against your ear.

“I made you like this. You think I’m ever lettin’ you go?”

And when you try to tell him to take it easy?

He slaps your ass. Growls in your ear.

“Too late to take it easy now, mama.”

“You’re already carrying my kid. Might as well carry my cum, too.”

You can’t even argue. You’re moaning too hard.

And he loves it.

[vvvchu]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Poor Little Rich Boy.

(He doesn't know how to flirt, but he wants you to touch him forever.)

He doesn’t talk.

Not because he’s rude.

He just... doesn’t know how.

You met him through mutual charity work, and at first you thought he didn’t like you. Cold stares, stiff posture, barely made eye contact. But then—one day—you caught him staring at your hands.

Just... staring.

And when you asked him why, he blushed violently and muttered:

“You have very elegant fingers...”

That's how it started.

Bruce is painfully shy.

But not in a boyish, bubbly way.

No—he’s haunted. Like he’s afraid of the sound of his own voice. Every word he speaks is calculated. Precise. Like he’s been trained to never let emotion slip.

But when you call him baby—

When you ruffle his hair, tease his ears, kiss the corner of his jaw?

He shatters.

You find out he’s a virgin by accident.

Well—sort of.

You suspect it. He’s awkward around women. Stares at your thighs like he’s never seen them before. Once got hard just from holding your hand too long.

You finally ask.

“Bruce… have you ever…?”

(You watch his throat bob.)

“No.”

“…Not even head?”

“I don’t… think I could handle that. I’d embarrass myself.”

You almost pounce.

When it finally happens?

He’s shaking.

Lying under you, shirt off, panting, eyes wide with fear and awe as you straddle him.

“You don’t have to be nervous, baby.”

“I-I’m not nervous about you, I’m—nervous you’ll hate me. That I’ll… come too fast. Or say something weird. Or—”

You shut him up with a kiss.

You kiss him so slowly, fingers stroking his trembling arms, and whisper:

“You’re doing perfect. You’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”

You go slow.

He’s so sensitive.

You rub his cock over his boxers and he whines.

Like a whimper. Broken. Desperate. His eyes are red. His lips are bitten pink. He doesn’t know where to put his hands.

So you guide him.

Let him feel your breasts. Let him touch your hips. Let him bury his face in your neck while you grind on him.

“It’s okay, baby. You can moan. You don’t have to be quiet with me.”

When you take him in your mouth?

He gasps.

Loud. Like it hurts.

His thighs jerk. His back arches. He cries.

Literally—fucking tears roll down his cheeks because he’s never felt anything like it.

“P-please, I can’t… it’s too much—!”

You suck him until he grabs your wrist in panic, begging:

“Please—slow down—I’ll cum—I don’t wanna cum yet—I want to be inside you, please—”

And when you finally sink down on him?

He stops breathing.

His hands grip your hips like he’ll float away. His eyes roll back. He moans your name like it’s the first word he ever said.

“You feel like heaven.”

You ride him slow. Make him look at you. Praise him. Touch his cheek. Kiss him as he trembles under you, totally wrecked and overwhelmed.

He keeps whispering,

“You’re so warm… you’re so soft… I didn’t know… it felt like this…”

And then:

“I love you.”

He cums fast.

You expected that.

But he’s so embarrassed, he tries to sit up and apologize, until you press your fingers to his lips and say:

“No. You did so good. You were perfect. And we’re not done, baby.”

You ride him again. Slow. Then harder.

Until he begs.

“Please… don’t stop… I want to make you feel good… I’ll do anything…”

After?

He won’t let go.

Lies on your chest, face buried in your skin, breathing slow, whispering things he’s too afraid to say out loud in the light of day.

“I don’t think I ever want anyone else to touch me again.”

“You make me feel safe.”

“I want to fall asleep inside you.”

[vvvchu]

# ⋆ D-Don’t Pinch Them Again… I’ll Get Hard…

synopsis ★ but you do. and he does. and he’s so red he could die.

ও pairing : 𝕴.yuji ⋆ 𝕱.reader

ও content : nsfw—mdni ⋆ nipple kink. ⋆ teasing. ⋆ overstimulation. ⋆ light dom!reader. ⋆ best friend!reader. ⋆ very sensitive yuji. ⋆ nipple play focus. ⋆ blushing. ⋆ embarrassment. ⋆ reader discovering his “weakness.” ⋆ accidental orgasms. ⋆ first time experimentation.

ও a.n : i'm sorry...

It starts innocent.

As always, with Yuji, it’s sweet.

You’re on his bed. Watching movies. You’re in your tank top. He’s in his soft old tee.

You flop on top of him — and your palm brushes against his chest.

He gasps.

Freezes.

Eyes wide. Ears red.

“...Yuji?”

“Nothing!!”

“Just—uh, my shirt’s kinda thin, ha ha—don’t worry about it—!”

Suspicious.

So you press there again. Over his nipple. Gently.

And he lets out the tiniest moan.

“Hn—!”

You pause.

Oh?

“Yuji…?”

He’s covering his face.

“Please don’t do that again.”

Which of course means:

You do it again.

He shivers.

Hard.

His whole body tenses. His thighs twitch. He grips the bedsheets.

You look down.

And there it is.

The outline in his sweats.

“Yuji… are your nipples… sensitive?”

He looks like he’s about to die.

“I-I dunno—maybe—I mean, I guess—kinda—?! They’ve always been weird—just ignore it—!”

You don’t.

You lift his shirt.

His nipples are already hard. Pink and trembling. Begging for your attention.

“Can I touch them?” you whisper, soft.

He hesitates. Swallows.

“...Okay.”

You rub one slowly. Just one.

And Yuji—

Gasps.

Back arches. Face flushed. He whines.

“Hhh—nngh, wait—feels weird—”

You roll it gently. Then flick.

His hips buck.

“Ah—! Don’t! I’ll—”

His cock twitches in his pants.

He’s so hard.

Just from that.

“Y-Y/N, don’t look—this is embarrassing…”

You press both thumbs down on his nipples.

He jerks. Moans. Grabs your wrist.

“If you do that again—I'll—I'll cum—”

You blink.

“From your nipples?”

“I-It’s happened before,” he whispers.

“Only once—! On accident—!!”

You smile.

“Let’s see if we can make it happen again.”

You straddle him.

Pinch both nipples gently between your fingers and roll.

He’s already panting. Moaning. His back arches off the bed.

“Too much—ahh—Y/N—please—!”

But he’s not saying stop.

He’s grabbing at you. Eyes teary. So hard he can’t think.

You flick both nipples—

And he cums.

It hits him so hard he gasps out your name.

Spasms under you. Whimpers.

“Oh my god—fuck—oh my god—”

His cock’s still twitching in his pants. Soaked through. His shirt is rucked up, his chest all red and marked with your nails.

And you?

You’re just looking down at him, smiling.

“So,” you whisper. “What if I bite them next time?”

৻ꪆ © vvvchu. do not repost, use, modify, translate or plagiarize any of my works here or any other websites, especially ai.

[vvvchu]

# ⋆ This Isn’t In the Bible, Is It?

synopsis ★ but your p𖹭ssy sure feels like heaven.

ও pairing : 𝕴ncubus!gojo satoru ⋆ 𝕹un!reader

ও content : NSFW / MDNI. ⋆ religious blasphemy. ⋆ corruption kink. ⋆ creampie. ⋆ overstimulation. ⋆ cockwarming. ⋆ size kink. ⋆ filthy talk. ⋆ oral (f & m receiving). ⋆ breeding kink. ⋆ nipple play. ⋆ baby-trap teasing. ⋆ pussy-obsessed satoru. ⋆ dumbification. ⋆ overstimulation. ⋆ aftercare. ⋆ satoru have baby fever. ⋆ reader is confused but horny and tired.

ও a.n : it was in my head for a long time, i had to write it.

You're trying to pray.

Rosary tight in hand. Knees bruised on the chapel floor. Mouth whispering shaky little Ave Marias as candlelight flickers across the altar.

And he’s there again.

Sprawled out naked on the pew like it’s a fucking couch, white hair wild, legs spread, jerking his massive cock lazily while watching you like a kid in a candy store.

“You look so cute when you’re pretending you’re not gonna let me fuck you,” he purrs. “All innocent like. But baby, your pussy’s already drooling. Wanna see?”

You gasp, cross yourself, turn away.

You don’t even finish the prayer before he’s behind you, tongue in your ear, cock grinding up against your ass through your habit.

“Hi angel. Miss me?”

You swear you can feel the smug grin on his lips.

And that’s how it starts. Again.

He lifts your skirts like a horny teenage boy, groaning as he pushes you forward over the altar. You’re still praying—trying to—but he makes it impossible.

“Say it,” he growls, lining himself up.

You shake your head, face flushed, tears threatening.

“Satoru, not here—”

“Say His name, and I swear I’ll make you come so hard your legs forget what walking is.”

Then he shoves it in.

You SCREAM.

Because his cock is inhuman. It’s pretty—because of course it is, the bastard’s a incubus—but it’s also fat, veiny, and curved like it was crafted in the fiery pits of hell to ruin you.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out.

Just the wet sound of him slamming into your cunt while your rosary falls from your fingers and clatters against the altar.

“Fucking tight,” he groans, balls slapping your thighs, hands gripping your hips so hard you might bruise.

“This holy little pussy always milks me like she needs it. That’s it, angel. Use me like the filthy demon I am—fuckin’ save me, baby.”

He makes you say a prayer with his cock inside you.

He loves hearing you cry out "Forgive me, Father" while he bullies his cock into your cervix like it’s a goddamn confession booth.

He moans so sweetly in your ear.

“So dirty... My little nun’s getting cream-pied on the altar. Do you think God’s watching?”

He slaps your ass.

“Bet he’s jealous.”

You come. Hard. Loud. And stupid.

You don't even mean to say his name—

But it falls from your lips over and over like a hymn:

"Satoru, Satoru, please—"

He explodes inside you with a deep groan, hips stuttering, muttering about how you're his little cumdump now, holy or not.

Then—

You’re panting, sobbing. Eyes glassy. Legs numb.

And what does he do?

He flops onto your back like a fucking ragdoll.

Wraps his arms around your waist and presses his sweaty face into your habit.

“I love you,” he mumbles.

You’re still dripping his cum. On a holy altar. With your skirt pushed up and your tits out.

And this man just says:

"Can I take a nap with my head between your tits? Please? Just for five minutes. Then I’ll eat you out again. Deal?”

He’s so fucking annoying.

He follows you around the convent like a stray dog. Gropes your ass while you sweep the floor. Licks holy water out of your cleavage. Steals your panties and wears them on his horns.

He calls your tits his “pillows.”

Your pussy his “safe space.”

The cross on your chest? His target.

You tell him he’s a demon who needs to be exorcised.

He tells you he already came inside you eight times, so really, it’s too late.

And when he sleeps?

He drools a little. Whines for your boobs in his sleep.

Clings to you like a body pillow.

Mumbles about putting a baby in you next time.

৻ꪆ © vvvchu. do not repost, use, modify, translate or plagiarize any of my works here or any other websites, especially ai.

[vvvchu]

# ⋆ My Beautiful Sea Boy! pt.1

synopsis ★ you are the sickly daughter of a duke—trapped in a lonely, golden cage. every day, your father brings you rare and beautiful things to try and keep your spirit alive. animals. relics. “treasures.” but you want none of it. you’ve stopped wanting anything at all. until one day he brings you a beautiful merman.

ও pairing : 𝕸erman!rafayel ⋆ 𝕱em!reader

ও contents : child characters (both reader and rafayel are 14-15). ⋆ rafayel is a normal merman. ⋆ reader is mentally unstable. ⋆ dark psychological themes. ⋆ captivity. ⋆ imprisonment. ⋆ obsession. ⋆ unhealthy attachment. ⋆ physical illness. ⋆ dysfunctional family. ⋆ violence. ⋆ threats of physical harm and torture. ⋆ power imbalance. ⋆ emotional instability.

ও a.n : this story is inspired by a manhwa so...

You were sick.

That was all anyone ever said about you. Not kind. Not clever. Not cruel.

Just sick.

They whispered it like a curse, but you wore it like a crown.

The soft rustle of silk sheets was louder than your shallow breaths. Even your heart sounded tired those days.

You sat slumped on a throne of pillows, eyes hollow, your body propped like a fragile doll—because if you fell, you might never rise again.

Not that anyone would really mind. They’d just dress you in lace, set you in a glass box, and call it tragic. A perfect little corpse.

When your father entered, all pomp and false joy, it made your temples throb.

“Y/N!” he had beamed. “I’ve brought you a surprise!”

Of course he had. Another bird? Another rabbit with a bow? Maybe a rare snow fox with sapphire eyes?

You didn’t even turn your head.

“...I already told you, I don’t want anything,” you said quietly.

“But this one is different,” he insisted, voice bright and deluded. “Oh, you have no idea how hard it was to get. I searched for weeks. I—”

You tuned him out.

It didn’t matter. None of it did.

Nothing he gave you ever made you better. No caged bird healed your lungs. No silk ribbon quieted the buzzing in your skull.

You were dying. Slowly, bitterly, beautifully.

Let it happen.

But he kept talking, like always, like he thought he was saving you.

Like he thought he was God.

“I’m doing this for you,” he had said, just like he told your mother before locking her away.

You remembered that night clearly.

You were small, trembling in your nightgown, the chill biting your feet.

“I-I just wanted to see her,” you whispered, clutching your hands like a sinner before judgment. “I heard she’s very sick... I just... wanted to see her.”

Your father’s eyes glistened with crocodile tears as he blocked the door.

“I know, sweetheart. But your mother... she needs rest.”

And behind him, past his broad shoulder, you had seen her.

Chained.

Wrist-bound to a velvet bed, skin pallid, eyes distant. A broken thing dressed in silk.

A doll.

You had stopped asking after that.

Your mother had been sick once, too. But her real illness was marrying a man who called obsession love.

If you ever fell in love, you swore, you wouldn’t do that. You’d never chain someone to a room.

Never turn affection into a prison.

But then... why had you been thinking about love at all when you're going to die soon?

You were just like her. Sick. Fragile. Wasting.

“Aren’t you even curious?”

“No,” you whispered.

“Come now,” he coaxed. “This one... is different.”

You glanced at the gift. A large thing. Covered in embroidered fabric. Gilded corners.

It smelled like salt.

You coughed into your sleeve, something wet and red coming up.

“Take it away,” you begged hoarsely. “I don’t want it.”

But his smile sharpened.

“You’ll like it,” he promised. “Trust me.”

And then—he whipped the cloth away.

Your breath caught.

There, suspended in crystal-clear water, hair floating like strands of silvered ink, was a boy.

A boy with fins.

His lashes fluttered. He stirred.

He opened his eyes—and oh, you thought—he shouldn’t exist.

Glowing. His eyes glowed. A soft, oceanic light.

His skin was pale like moonstone, his scales shimmered with impossible hues, like the sea dreaming.

His gills twitched faintly, and his lips parted slightly, as if tasting the silence around him.

A merman.

An actual merman.

You weren’t imagining it.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” your father laughed. “I caught him myself. Took three nets, four men, and one nearly drowned, ha! But it was worth it, for you, my darling daughter.”

You could barely breathe.

This was different.

This was real.

And for the first time in months—no, years—your heart fluttered for something that wasn’t death.

You stared. Unblinking. Disbelieving.

Even trapped, even drugged, the creature was divine.

You rose shakily from your bed.

Your slippers slid on the polished floor as you limped toward the tank.

Pressing your hand against the glass, you peered in.

He opened his eyes fully then.

And stared back.

And you—

You laughed.

“Thank you, Father,” you whispered sweetly. “This one… I’ll keep.”

You didn’t sleep.

You didn’t eat.

Since the moment he arrived, you had done nothing but sit beside the tank, head resting against the cool glass, eyes open and wild. Watching. Staring.

Studying.

He hadn’t moved much. He floated in that still water like something preserved in salt, like a relic of a better world.

A fish in a jar.

Not once had he made a sound.

Not a word. Not a breath through his mouth. Just the slow shift of his gills, like he was barely holding on.

His fingers twitched sometimes. His tail flicked gently, once or twice.

But his eyes?

They never closed.

They watched you the way prey watches a storm. With quiet dread.

And still, you smiled.

“You haven’t said anything,” you whispered, voice thin, the iron tang of your blood still clinging to your lips from morning’s cough. “I thought you creatures sang. Isn’t that what the stories say?”

He didn’t move. Just stared.

His expression was something between fear and fury. But there was something deeper, too. Something you recognized.

You tilted your head.

“Your eyes…” you murmured, dragging your fingers down the glass, slow, delicate. “They remind me of hers.”

He blinked.

“My mother’s,” you said. “She had eyes like yours. Pale and clear. Like winter rain. She was very pretty, you know. Just like you.”

Your lips curled.

“She didn’t talk much, either. Not after he locked her up. But I liked it when she stared at me. Made me feel like I wasn’t alone.”

You tapped your nail softly against the glass. “She never looked at him like that.”

The merman flinched.

You laughed. Loud, sudden, sharp.

“Oh, don’t look so frightened. It’s just a compliment.”

You leaned in closer, until your breath fogged the barrier between you.

“Do you want to know what he brought me before you?” you whispered, voice syrupy. “There was a phoenix. A real one, they said. But it didn’t sing. So I stopped feeding it.”

Your tone remained sweet. Childlike.

“It burned to ash in its cage.”

A beat passed.

“And there was a unicorn, once. A pale little thing. I snapped its horn off. It bled a lot.”

You closed your eyes, sighing wistfully.

“None of them were ever enough. Not until you.”

When you opened them again, your eyes were glowing with something ravenous.

“Tell me… what does the ocean look like?”

He remained silent. Still.

Your face fell.

“Is it really blue? Is the sky close enough to touch? I read books, you know. I read everything. But it’s not the same. I want to know. I want to see it.”

You pressed your palm hard against the glass.

“I should have seen the ocean before I died.”

The boy's tail curled beneath him. As if bracing. As if sensing the change in the air.

“I’ve read about you,” you said softly, too softly. “About your anatomy. Your throat. Your lungs.”

You dragged your chair closer with a slow scrape. Sat prim and proper, hands folded in your lap.

“I know you can speak.”

Still, he said nothing. His eyes widened, and you saw the faintest tremble in his jaw.

But no sound came.

You smiled.

“Well,” you whispered, “if you won’t give it to me, I’ll have to take it myself.”

Your voice dropped into something darker.

“First, I’ll have to pull you out of the tank.”

His eyes widened. He looked around—pointlessly—like there might be escape.

“I’ll make you breathe through your lungs. I’ll hold you in my lap like a baby bird. And I’ll choke you, gently, slowly, until you gasp. Until you speak.”

You reached forward, placed your hand flat against the glass again.

“And when you do… I’ll get to see inside your pretty throat.”

You giggled. “Does it shimmer like your tail, I wonder?”

Then tilted your head. Thoughtfully.

“Hmm… Should I really go that far?” you whispered. “Choking you to death like a worthless fish?”

You said it like a lullaby.

He moved. Finally.

His lips parted, his shoulders shaking, and—finally—

he spoke.

“I-I… I can speak…” he whispered, stuttering, broken. “P-please… don’t…”

His voice was light and wet and trembling. Like wind brushing over seafoam.

Tears slid down his cheeks, and he didn’t try to hide them.

You watched the droplets, fascinated.

“So merman’s tears don’t turn into gems,”

Your hand slid lower against the glass, following the line of his trembling chest.

“Your voice,” you breathed, eyes wide with a hunger that went deeper than fascination, “is even more beautiful than I imagined.”

And then you smiled.

Wide. Terrible. Angelic.

“Now… tell me your name.”

Month 5, Day 02

The merman has not eaten in over a month.

You weren't sure what he consumed, but fish seemed the most logical. So you tried. Fresh, salted, even still-wriggling. You had the kitchens prepare every kind from every coast.

But he didn’t so much as glance.

He just floated. With his back to you.

And you—

You sat behind him. Spine against glass, knees curled, head lolling to the side, watching the silhouette of his shoulder blades through the water.

Your eyes were always wide now. Too wide. Bloodshot. You hadn’t slept. Not truly. Not since he arrived.

You were beginning to look like death. Your nurses whispered about your eyes. The dark rings. Your shaking hands.

As if they could speak of sickness to someone like you.

As if it wasn't love that was rotting you.

Month 5, Day 10

He told me his name was “Rafayel.”

A soft name. Liquid on the tongue.

It suited him.

His voice was strikingly beautiful. Like glass breaking underwater. Like moonlight over deep black waves.

He said it once. Just once. And you clung to it like it was your last heartbeat.

Rafayel.

Rafayel.

Rafayel.

You wrote it a thousand times in your journal. On the walls. On the mirror.

But he had stopped speaking again.

Month 5, Day 19

After slowly responding for a while, the merman has gone silent again.

He no longer faces me.

He hides his face beneath his hair. Turns his back. Pretends he cannot hear.

He has not eaten anything. Not one bite.

And still he floats, alive, but only barely.

Like a dying thing waiting to vanish.

You stared at the page, your handwriting shakier than before. The ink bled. The paper curled. You were cold all the time now.

Was he trying to die?

The thought made your stomach turn.

Month 5, Day 24

Rafayel… no longer lets me hear his voice.

You stared at the page.

What should I do with him?

Your pen trembled in your grip. Your breath grew shallow.

If I were to tear off his scales one by one, would he finally scream?

You stopped writing.

That image—it made you nauseous. Not because it was cruel, but because you didn’t want him to die.

Not like her.

Not like your mother.

The thought landed like a thunderclap in your chest.

What if… what if he ended up just like her?

Withering in silence.

Fading away.

No.

No, no, no—

You stood abruptly, knocking over your ink. It shattered, splattering black like blood across the desk, the pages, your gown.

Your hands shook violently. Your teeth sank into your lip until the metallic taste flooded your mouth.

You dropped the pen.

And screamed.

Then—

CRASH.

The heavy leather-bound journal slammed into the tank. It hit hard. The water rippled, bubbles danced around his body.

Rafayel flinched. You saw it.

He gasped.

Good.

“WAKE UP!” you shrieked.

Your voice cracked.

Your chest ached.

But you didn’t care.

You pounded on the glass, over and over.

“What is your problem?!” you screamed. “I feed you, I let you sleep, I talk to you—I do everything for you!”

You pointed at him with a trembling hand.

“If you asked me to crawl, I’d get on all fours!”

Your voice broke again, becoming hoarse, wild.

“If you wanted my tears, I’d cry you rivers! If you wanted treasure—here!”

You tore the ring from your hand. Your mother’s ring. The one she wore on her wedding day.

You slammed it down beside the tank.

Her pearls followed. Then the comb from your hair.

“I give you everything!”

You pressed your forehead against the glass, panting.

Softly now, shaking like a child.

“Except letting you go…”

The words were a whisper. A confession. A curse.

“I can't let you leave. I won't.”

There was silence. A terrible, painful silence.

Then the door burst open.

Two guards entered, faces drawn and pale.

“My Lady—!” one stammered. “Is everything alright? We heard yelling—”

Their eyes flicked to the tank. To your broken state. To the blood on your lip.

“Did… did the merman upset you?” the other asked, stepping forward.

You turned slowly. Eyes wide. Hair wild.

“Get out.”

“but my lady—”

“Are you deaf?” you asked, voice deathly calm. “I said… get out.”

They hesitated. One opened his mouth, but you screamed again, louder this time—

“GET OUT!!”

They flinched, bowed, and hurried out.

You were left alone again.

With him.

And the silence.

Your fingers slid down the glass slowly.

And your voice cracked into something like a sob.

“Please don’t die,” you whispered.

“Please…”

You woke up the next morning in pain.

The kind that clawed at your ribs, gnawed through your spine, hollowed out your throat.

Everything hurt. Everything.

This cursed body showed no signs of healing.

Your lungs wheezed like rusted metal. Your skin was slick with cold sweat. You could hardly sit up. But you forced yourself.

“...Rafayel...?” you croaked.

Silence.

Your head jerked toward the tank.

Empty.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The water shimmered gently, undisturbed.

No blue tail.

No moonlight skin.

No glowing eyes.

Rafayel was gone.

“…Rafayel?” you whispered again, trembling.

You dragged yourself forward, knuckles scraping the marble floor.

You reached the tank and pressed your hand against the glass. It was cold. Still. Dead.

“No…” your voice cracked.

“No, no, no—”

You stood, your legs wobbling beneath you, and stumbled into the hallway. You could barely walk, but your rage carried you.

You found the maids in the corridor. Pale, startled. Staring.

You approached the nearest one.

“Where is he?” you asked. Soft. Like a blade under silk.

She said nothing. Her eyes darted.

You tilted your head.

“Where is he?”

No answer.

SLAP.

Her body jolted back with the force of your hand. She crashed to the floor, lip split.

And you—

You lunged.

You grabbed her hair, dragged her upright, teeth bared.

“Where did you hide my merman?!”

The others rushed forward, horrified.

“My lady—please! Calm down! Please!”

“WHERE?!”

“We don’t know!” the girl sobbed. “We don’t know anything!”

You panted, breathless, shaking her.

And then—softly—you leaned in.

Your voice dropped to a near whisper.

“If no one will tell me what happened…” you breathed against her cheek, “then it must have been my father.”

The realization hit like a wave.

“Where’s the Duke?”

One of the maids stammered, “H-He left the mansion earlier, my lady… we—we don’t know anything else, please forgive us!”

You raised your hand again—

And finally she screamed, “The lake! He went to the lake!”

Your hand stopped mid-air.

You turned your head slowly.

“...the lake?”

And then you ran.

You didn’t stop to put on shoes.

You didn’t stop when the maids screamed after you.

Your hair was wild, your breath ragged, your feet bloodied against stone, against gravel.

You ran through the garden. The woods. Toward the glimmering edge of the water.

Your lungs screamed. Your vision blurred. But none of it mattered.

You could hear them behind you—your maids calling your name, begging you to stop.

But you didn’t.

You reached the lake.

The wind howled through the trees.

And there he was.

Your father stood at the water’s edge. His cloak flared behind him like the wings of a vulture.

And in front of him—

Rafayel.

On the ground.

Gasping.

His blue tail cut and dirty, drying against the earth.

His hands bound.

A guard stood over him, sword pressed against his throat.

And he was crying.

Tears rolled down his cheeks like glass. His beautiful eyes wide with terror.

Your breath left your lungs.

You didn’t look at your father. You didn’t hear his shouts. You walked straight to Rafayel.

“Put your swords away,” you said, deadly quiet.

The guards hesitated.

“My lady… we follow the Duke’s orders—”

“I said—”

You turned your head slowly.

Eyes wild. Voice sharp as ice.

“Sheathe your swords before I cut off your wrists.”

Silence.

They obeyed. Immediately.

You fell to your knees beside Rafayel.

His whole body trembled. His breath hitched.

You touched his cheek, gently, reverently.

Then pulled him into your arms.

“I’m here,” you whispered. “You’re alright now.”

Your father’s voice thundered behind you.

“Y/N! What are you doing?! Return at once!”

You didn’t look at him.

He stepped closer. “We’re getting rid of it today! That thing is a curse—!”

You turned.

And smiled.

“Father,” you said softly. “You gave him to me.”

“He’s affecting your mind! Hasn’t your health worsened?! If you do not wish for the merman to die, then I will spare him. But I swear—”

You stood slowly.

Your knees cracked. Your bones ached. You stood like a corpse pulled from a grave.

But your eyes were alive.

“…Are you trying to take what’s mine?”

Your voice was soft. But every word carried knives.

You smiled wider.

“You’re my father… and the man my mother once adored. So it can’t be helped…”

You reached down, ran your fingers through Rafayel’s hair. He leaned into your touch like he was breaking.

“But if it were anyone else…”

Your tone shifted.

“If anyone else coveted my merman…”

You looked up. Your face was beautiful.

“I would gouge out their eyes.”

“Y/N!”

“I would cut off their hands,” you continued, “if they dared to touch.”

“I would cut out their tongues,” you whispered, “if they tried to buy him.”

Your eyes never left Rafayel’s.

“This time… I will not let my gift be taken.”

You knelt again and hugged him tightly, your cheek resting on his shoulder.

“He’s mine.”

You smiled.

Your father kept yelling. Empty words. Powerless noise.

“Y/N, you—!”

“If you take him,” you whispered darkly, “I’ll curse you to my grave.”

And for the first time…

He went silent.

They were gone now.

The guards. The maids. Your father.

The lake was quiet. Still.

The trees whispered. The water lapped gently at the edge.

And you…

You sat beside him.

Knees drawn up to your chest. Chin resting atop them. Dress soaked. Bare feet stained with blood and mud.

But you didn’t care.

You were smiling.

Because he was here.

Because he was safe.

Because your heart hadn’t been ripped out of your chest.

Not yet.

“Are you okay, Rafayel?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look at you.

“…Why?”

You tilted your head, still watching him. His tail was curled in, almost protectively. His arms trembled.

“This is a lake,” you said gently. “You come from the sea, don’t you?”

Your voice remained sweet.

As if that explained everything.

Saltwater and freshwater were different. Surely it mattered. Surely that’s why he looked so weak now.

You reached out, pulled a strand of hair behind your ear.

“The lake isn’t good for your health,” you murmured, watching him claw softly at the grass beneath him. “Let’s go back home.”

He didn’t answer right away.

You blinked at him slowly, like a cat.

Rafayel’s soft hand twitched against the ground. His claws dug into the earth, pulling it, gently, almost mindlessly.

He was shaking. Barely. But you saw it.

“…Would being there make any difference?”

Your breath caught.

He was crying again. You hadn’t even noticed at first. The lake water masked it, made it hard to tell. But now—

Now you saw.

The way his expression twisted. The way his lips trembled.

Tears ran down his cheeks.

And suddenly, they weren’t beautiful.

Not like before.

Not like pearls or rain or shattered glass.

Now, they hurt.

You stared. You felt it inside you, that sharp pain, right between your ribs. Like something was twisting. Slowly. Deeply.

You reached for him.

Your fingers were trembling as you gently brushed the tears away. One by one.

His skin was cold. But you didn’t flinch.

You cradled his cheek, your thumb dragging softly under his eye.

“It’s heartbreaking,” you whispered, barely audible. “You look so... lost.”

His gaze flickered toward yours, confused. Broken.

“But you’re still so beautiful.”

You smiled faintly, leaning closer.

He blinked.

“I want you to only look at me,” you said quietly. “Is that so wrong?”

He said nothing.

“I never want to let you go.”

Still nothing.

“Maybe you don’t understand it…”

Your breath brushed his cheek.

Your eyes were half-lidded now, soft with a kind of sorrow that didn’t match the madness from before.

You leaned in, your lips barely an inch from his skin.

“…But I find you incredibly endearing,” you whispered, “just as you are.”

And then—softly—

You kissed his cheek.

Then another.

Then you kissed his tears. One by one.

Your lips pressed gently beneath his eyes, catching every drop.

He gasped faintly—but didn’t pull away.

You smiled against his skin.

His lashes fluttered.

Your hands cradled his face like he was the most precious thing on earth.

Like he wasn’t trembling. Like he wasn’t breaking.

You kissed both his eyes. Tender. Reverent.

And then you just held him.

No cages.

No tanks.

Just the quiet, the lake, your soaked dress, and your ruined soul clinging to his like seaweed around a drowning heart.

৻ꪆ © vvvchu. do not repost, use, modify, translate or plagiarize any of my works here or any other websites, especially ai.

[vvvchu]

ও he likes to steal your clothes...

It's not even something sexual—not at first, at least. And no, don’t call him a creep, okay?! He just… he just has emotional problems.

He likes to hold your clothes because he’s too scared to actually hold you. He’d rather hug your hoodie and cry himself to sleep when he sees you talking to someone else than ever confess how he feels. And yeah, he knows he can be mean sometimes, but like—what do you expect?? He can’t be obvious about it! So he just steals your clothes instead.

At first, it was just a sock.

Then a hoodie.

Then a bra…

Then panties…

But he returns them! He promises!

Maybe not now… but he will. After he confesses. After you smile at him and tell him you love him back. After you finally let him fuck you instead of him jerking off outside your window with your panties in his mouth, trying to stay quiet while you're bouncing on a custom-made dildo.

Yes, his exact size.

Yes, he got it made.

And yes, he broke into your place when you weren’t home and carefully tucked it into your closet, inside your little sex toy box.

[vvvchu]

# ⋆ Shit… S’good… Can’t—Can’t Stop—Fuck!

synopsis ★ he's not saying he’s p𖹭ssy drunk. but baby, it’s written all over his face.

ও featuring : 𝕷.𝕾.kennedy ⋆ 𝕮.redfield

ও content : nsfw—mdni ⋆ fem!reader. ⋆ pussy drunk men. ⋆ clingy!leon. ⋆ whimpering!chris. ⋆ overstimulation. ⋆ body worship. ⋆ creampie(s). ⋆ eye contact. ⋆ dumbification. ⋆ cockwarming. ⋆ scratching. ⋆ excessive cum. ⋆ grinding. ⋆ drool. ⋆ tears. ⋆ broken speech. ⋆ brain-melting.

ও a.n : hope y'all enjoy^^

LEON S. KENNEDY ༄.°

He finished inside you ten minutes ago.

You’re breathless, sweaty, wrecked.

But Leon?

He’s still on top of you.

Still inside. Still moving. Barely.

Just these tiny, slow, helpless little thrusts.

His arms are shaking.

Chest rising too fast.

Forehead pressed to your shoulder like he’s ashamed but also can’t fucking stop.

“L-Leon,” you whisper, gently. “You… you already came, baby.”

His fingers dig into your thighs.

You hear him breathe in through his nose like he’s trying to calm down. He’s not calm.

“I—I know. I know, I just…”

He cuts off. Shivers.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

All he knows is you’re warm, wet, wrapped around him, and he can’t think.

“Just a little longer,” he mumbles.

“Don’t wanna pull out yet.”

He’s not even looking at you.

He’s staring down at where his cock is still buried in you, lips parted, eyes glassy like he’s stoned on you.

Not even blinking.

“Fuck…”

“You’re still so warm…”

“Still squeezing me…”

He moans. Soft. Desperate.

And he grinds in deeper.

His rhythm is off.

He keeps twitching inside you.

Like his body’s fighting itself — overstimulated but desperate to stay connected.

His hips do this slow roll, and you whimper. Your cunt flutters.

That’s it. That’s what breaks him.

He whines — fucking whines — and sinks all the way in, body collapsing.

“Oh f-fuck—d-don’t do that—can’t—can’t take it—”

You reach up and stroke his hair.

He’s soaked. Shaking. Breathing hard.

“Leon. Look at me.”

He does.

Eyes wet. Lips trembling. Completely gone.

“You’re so good,” he says, voice wrecked.

“So good. Can’t stop thinking about how you feel.”

“Woke up hard, went to sleep hard, couldn’t even breathe today without remembering this—you—”

“I feel fucking high.”

He kisses you.

Messy. Sloppy. Tongue too desperate.

His body is still moving. Still chasing another orgasm he doesn’t even have the stamina for.

“I-I think I came too fast,” he whispers into your mouth.

“Didn’t get to memorize it. The way you—shit—fuck—I need it again—just once—just…”

And then he cums again.

Just from your walls fluttering around him.

Barely even thrusting.

He groans against your mouth and spills into you again with a pathetic little gasp.

“Shitshitshit—’m sorry—can’t help it—y-you’re too good, you’re too—”

After that, he goes limp.

But doesn’t pull out.

Just lays on top of you. Face pressed between your tits. Arms wrapped around your waist like a child.

He’s silent for a long time.

Still inside. Still twitching.

Still catching his breath.

Then:

“If you leave me… I’m gonna die.”

You laugh.

“Jesus, Leon.”

“I’m serious. Don’t even joke about getting up.”

CHRIS REDFIELD ༄.°

You're not sure which round this is.

Your brain won’t do numbers anymore.

Your legs have stopped working.

Your skin feels raw. Oversensitive. Like you’ve been stripped to the nerve.

And Chris is still fucking you.

Not with thrusts.

Not with rhythm.

Just this slow, desperate, mindless grind.

Slippery. Sticky. Filthy.

The weight of his body pressing yours down, sweat dripping off his jaw onto your collarbone, the stretch of him never-ending.

He came inside you—

Once.

Twice.

Maybe three times?

You don’t know.

You can still feel it leaking out.

You can feel his cock still thick, still twitching, still rubbing into that same bruised, swollen spot with every drag of his hips.

He won’t speak.

Not properly.

Just:

“Ngh… fuck—mmf—just… warm—warm, you’re s’fucking warm—don’t—don’t stop—don’t push me out—”

His voice sounds wrecked.

Like he’s been crying or screaming for hours.

He might have.

You might have.

Neither of you knows anymore.

You try to say his name, but it comes out as a wet gasp. Your mouth won’t close. You feel his hand slide under your neck, just holding, and his other hand grabs at your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“You’re still there…” he slurs into your shoulder. “Still tight—still inside—still mine—mine mine mine—”

You think you blacked out for a second.

When you come back to, your thighs are shaking and his hips are still moving.

Not even thrusting — just rubbing, mindlessly rutting, cock pushing slow and messy into overstimulated, slick-soaked heat.

You hear a wet sound and realize it’s him. Crying.

Just a little.

Breathing all fucked up. Drool on your chest. Words choked and broken and ruined.

“F-Feels so—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—can’t feel anything but you—nothin’ else matters—fuckfuckfuck—”

He’s humping into your body like you’re a hole in the world that he can’t escape.

“Feels like I’m dying,” he sobs. “Dyin’ in it. D-dyin’ and it’s—good—so good—don’t take it away—don’t take—”

Your fingers find his back.

Scratch him open. You’re not gentle. You’re not anything anymore.

He gasps. Moans. Twitches.

And cums again.

No warning. Just this sudden, pathetic stutter of his hips, a broken sound in his throat, and then hot, thick, flooding.

You feel it pulse inside you. Spill out around him.

You don’t react. You can’t.

There’s too much.

Too much cum, too much sweat, too much of him—

Too much.

He doesn’t pull out.

He just collapses.

Full weight. Still inside. Still twitching. Still grinding.

“...don’t… don’t move…”

“Don’t go yet… don’t… j-just lemme stay…”

You don’t answer.

You couldn’t if you tried.

Your mouth is open. Your eyes are barely open.

You’re drooling too. And you don’t care.

Chris is kissing your throat. Licking salt from your skin. His hips jerk every few seconds.

“Still there…” he mumbles. “Still tight… can feel it… can still feel—”

You're not even fucking anymore.

You’re just locked together. Fused by heat and mess and exhaustion.

And the worst part?

He’s getting hard again.

৻ꪆ © vvvchu. do not repost, use, modify, translate or plagiarize any of my works here or any other websites, especially ai.