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dabisbratz · 6 months

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𝒮𝒲𝐸𝐸𝒯 𝒯𝒪𝒪𝒯𝐻 — shouta aizawa x male reader

w.c: 12.4k

warning: dbf!shouta, age gap, (sho in his early 40s, reader is 23), bottom!reader, daddy kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, feminization, mentions of gettin ‘knocked up’ regardless of anatomy, sneaking around, creampie, unprotected sex ( wear condoms ! ), praise/degradation, brat!reader, jealousy, mutual teasing, reader has an oral fixation, improper use of lollipops, mentions of exhibitionism, blowjobs, cumming untouched/hands free orgasm, ‘ taboo ’

sonny says..: not proof read, msorry !! did lotsa jumpin around while writin this. . . n five months later !! she’s all done !! ໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝T ˘ T⸝⸝꒱ྀི১ ♡ m’a lil rusty, forgive me !!

You’re back home for the summer.

Well— not entirely. You’re back at your family’s summer house for the season. Gifted from your grandparents, it teeters at the beginning of a beach, crystal sands and clear, blue waters that stretch out into the horizon. You’ve been looking forward to it since you’d graduated, even if it did come with a set of overbearing parents and a sinful amount of sunscreen.

The air is hot and thick, sticking uncomfortably to your skin through the windshield as you watch an everlasting stretch of greenery and trees pass you by. The road has stretched on for miles, every upcoming exit and street sign blending into one as each hour passes by. You’ve got the company of staticky radio stations and news outlets, spewing something nonsensical about sports, politics, car insurance. . . But it’s the trip you enjoy more than the destination. Traffic and all, you prefer it over the muggy air and parental scolding. Though, the beach is nice. . .

“You’re sure you’re taking the right route?” It’s your mother speaking, her voice crackling through the speakers of your car. You’re sure she’d smack you upside the head for the aggressive roll of your eyes in her. . . general direction, but she’s not exactly within eye-contact distance. Not for another five minutes, anyway.

“I’ve been doing this for years,” You have— it’s true. Though you’re only twenty-two, you’d driven this distance since you’d left for college. There’s a sound akin to the sucking of teeth through the radio, and you have half the mind to turn around and restart your road-trip all over again.

“Why’s there so much attitude in your voice?” Her cheerful, smiley voice suddenly sounds much more shrill, to your chagrin. You thrum your fingers along the leather of the steering wheel, biting back a long, drawn out groan.

“There isn’t any,” Gravel crackles under the weight of your rubber-tire car, snapping and popping into the air as it makes a smooth halt into the driveway. Shifting gears to park, the radio switches off with the twist of your keys. And, perhaps with more force than necessary, you’re slamming the door to your car and face to face with your mother. Her phone is still in hand, eyebrows pinched at the thought of her very own son hanging up on her. “. . . attitude, Ma.”

She hugs you with a squeal, ushering you up the stairs to your childhood ‘home.’ It’s almost exactly like you’d left it— save for a few recent porch decorations and repainted walls. You hope the years have been kind to it, with the irregular weather and constant pipe problems. Floorboards creak under your weight, welcoming you home after a few long years of studies. There’s an everlasting stream of bubbly speech behind you, your mom speaking, but there’s already so much to take in.

The air is fresh and salty, hints of beachy winds flowing upstream through the doorway. It smells like home, and looks like it too, as you situate your small duffel bag by the stairs that lead to the bedrooms. Your room. You hadn’t packed much— there was still a dresser overflowing with old clothes in your bedroom, after all. And now that you think about it, you should probably change into something more fitting for the weather.

“I know you just got here,” The sound of ice swirling against glass catches your attention, and you turn to face your mother. “But could you bring these out to your father?” She’s holding a tray of decorative glasses— or at least, you’d always thought they were— full of oblong ice and freshly squeezed lemonade. The glasses are stocky enough to adorn lollipops— one each, which are probably sickeningly sour. Topped with tiny, colorful umbrellas and intricate swirling straws. It’s almost like she’s trying to impress someone, with the way she’s put so much effort into the drink’s presentation.

Your lips curl to form a playful ‘no’, a boyish smile pulling at your cheeks when she huffs— as if she already knows what you’re about to do. So you shake your head instead, stealing the tray with one hand, “Let me change first.”

In hindsight, wearing clothes about. . four years too small wasn’t a great idea. The shorts that once fit you perfectly— before your growth spurt— are now much too short, like they’ve been tossed around in the laundry one too many times. You feel almost naked, moving the pink hem down with the shake of your legs.

Your mother insists they look just fine, a dramatic downturn to her lips as she rambles on and on about how fast her boy has grown up. Still, as you walk through the sliding glass doors parallel to the open patio, the sunlight bathing your legs does nothing but make you feel stuck under a rapidly growing spotlight.

It all clicks as you walk outside— the detailed drinks, the smell of barbecue and fresh coal. There is someone she’s trying to impress, someone other than your father. Maybe both of them. On a good day.

Wiping the bead of sweat from your brow, your eyes squint at the man in front of you. Around your dad’s age— maybe slightly younger, he stands at a whopping six foot something. There’s age in his face, and worry between his brows as if he’d spent most of his youth grimacing. His hair is long and black like charcoal, save for a few streaks of gray and a salt and pepper ensemble of stubble littering his chin and jaw. Two scars— forming a cross of sorts, one beneath his right eye, horizontal and thin. But the other is much longer, starting below his brow and ending at his cheekbone. It draws your eyes to a milky gray iris— heavily contrasting against the natural black-brown of his left one. It’s pretty, cloudy and almost pearlescent.

His silhouette— tall and thick, with broad shoulders that travel on and on as he crosses thick biceps over his thick chest. He’s standing in the way of the sun, and yet, it peeks through his long hair in small, short leaks. And, surprisingly, his waist is small in his black tank top. If you feel hot he must be scorching, draped in black— down to the beaded bracelet adorning his wrist. His hands— they’re big, maybe enough to cover the entirety of your face, curled into loose fists at his biceps.

And— right, you’re here to help, not gawk. But you can’t help it, shifting your weight from one leg to another as his intimidating gaze slowly sweeps you over. He’s like sex on legs, and if you can squint enough to get the sun out your eyes, you swear you can see the imprint of his cock through his black shorts.

“Uh,” You blink dumbly after introducing yourself, and suddenly the tray you’re holding is weightless. “Ma made these. I’m supposed to help. . . or something. . .”

“Or something.” The man echoes, but it’s quiet and you barely catch it. His voice is deep, way deeper than your own, rumbling in your ears and smooth like butter. Almost husky, with a dark edge to it as flames roar in his face. But it makes your father laugh, hearty and jubilant as he bounces over to where you stand. He gives you a small pat on the back as a greeting, ushering out a small, “son.”

The heat emitting off the grill is enough to make a grown man cry, but neither of you wince when you walk by it. Cold glasses of lemonade are handed out, fingers imprinted on cold condensation painting the surfaces of each glass as they’re passed around— one for you, one for your dad, another for him. You watch rivulets of water drip from his fingertips, down his wrist, past the collection of veins adorning his forearm.

“Mr. Aizawa,” There’s a beat of silence, but it’s quickly filled once you’ve been introduced. “World’s cruelest teacher.”

“Shouta Aizawa.” Is all he says, a correction of sorts, voice grumbly as his fingertips brush against your knuckles. Your eyes flicker down to where he’d touched you, his skin warm and inviting despite the roughness of his palms. You see now, that he’s accompanying your father, occasionally taking over when he walks back into the house every. . . five minutes or so.

“An old friend of mine, we go way back.” Your parents have an odd habit of rambling, it seems, because you and the handsome stranger make exasperated eye contact as your dad begins to reminisce on old memories. “You met him a few times— remember? He’ll be staying with us, so be respectful, you hear me?” His gaze seems to dip for a moment, down your lips and straight to the extra exposed skin of your thighs, then settle back to the ocean before you can comment.

But those five minutes must start now, because after a firm squeeze to your shoulder your father heads inside, leaving you alone with his. . . friend. He’s awfully quiet, busying himself as the patio door slides shut— occasionally sighing as he wipes away the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. It’s obvious you’re staring, maybe a bit too hard, but he’s the best scene around, really. Even with the beach right behind him.

And maybe it’s wrong to think this way— but he’s hot. Old enough to be your dad and then some, sure, but it doesn’t make him any less attractive. He almost makes you nervous, the slow blink of his eyes as he pays you no mind.

“So you’re staying with us, huh?” You eye the juicy meat he’s been flipping for the last five minutes, golden brown and sizzling in the heat. It’s rather thick, soon to be lazily flattened by the tongs he's holding and— you can’t help but wonder. . . Is he good with his hands?

“Don’t make a habit of asking strange old men questions like that.” It’s not entirely clear if he’s serious or not, but he’s certainly assertive. Like a firm, guiding hand placed at the nape of your neck. Your eyebrows pinch in confusion, but before you can ask what he means, it clicks. You’d said it out loud, let it float into the air like an everyday, casual question. But Aizawa doesn’t seem exactly bothered, more passive (if anything), as he takes a swig of the fruity, sour concoction.

“You’re not strange.” Is what you conclude, slamming the tray down hard enough to rattle its contents, and the man notes your lack of regard. Even with a slight spill you don’t bother to clean, you’re already turning to walk off the patio and dig your toes into the hot sand before it can be mentioned— but not without plucking a lemon coated lollipop free from its icy enclosure of glass. There’s an arrangement of seashells hidden beneath the coarse mounds of the glimmering seaside. Different sizes and colors, different textures and shapes. Where some would scrape the soles of your feet, others would glide across them. But as a kid you’d liked the search for tiny crabs much more than the search for shells. Though you’re much older now, you’re not afraid to say you miss it.

“But I’m old?” Aizawa says, not too far behind you from where he stands. There’s a light glint of dry humor in his voice that sends butterflies down your throat and straight into your stomach.

“Yeah. Old enough.” Your small laughter is sweet, dancing in the air in a way that has Shouta nearly pressing his palm flat into the skillet— just to check if his heart is still beating. What do you mean by that, anyway?

There’s a divot where the tightness of your shorts dip into your skin, pressing against the plush skin of your ass whenever you bend over. Even as you’re upright, Shouta can’t stand to look for too long— you’re a real, proper, honest and genuine distraction. Yet here he is, watching you move around on your hands and knees, ass taut and round— shorts tight enough to show off the cute bulge of your balls from behind. And now that he’s really looking, it’s obvious you’re not wearing anything underneath.

He shakes his head, grunting to himself as he peels processed cheese free from its plastic packaging. You just met, that’s not right, you’re simply just minding your own.

“Ugh!” You share a groan, and for completely different reasons. Aizawa can’t help but watch you scramble in the sand, presumably after whatever sea-creature that had the pleasure to pinch you right on the finger. But you seem happy once it’s retrieved, stuck in the seclusion of its tiny shell as you hold it in your palm. From what he can see, you’re not much of a brat at all. Maybe your parents are just too hard on you. He’s always known them to be dramatics.

Still, he has half the mind to drag you over by your ankle, or maybe to press your handsome face into the sand while he fucks you from behind. Ever since you’d brought out that damned lemonade— tugging on the hem of the fabric as if you’d suddenly grown conscious of just how short they were— he’d been hard. And now he has to listen to you grunt and groan over the smallest of injuries. . . His best friend’s son, his presumed pride and joy.

He’s fucked.

From where he stands, slightly elevated, he can see the bulge of the sweet protruding from your cheeks, stuck afore your teeth. Cute, as it swishes from side to side, stuck in your mouth as your occupied fingers caress the diaphanous shell in the palm of your hand. Your lips move, puckered, around the sucker, curled and glossy with molten sugar— it’s hard to make out exactly what words your mouth forms, yet Shouta doesn’t think he’d be able to listen anyway.

Turns out the creature was a hermit crab.

Shouta learns this at dinner, the day’s hard work shared on plastic platters and glass

bottles in the middle of the beach. There’s a roaring flame between the four of you, it casts golden embers along your skin every so often, crackling into the air. Cicadas chirp with the night’s welcome, loud and joyful in retaliation to the silent, serene fireflies and settling ocean.

You’re all sipping on beers, some more than others, but it’s enough to loosen everyone up. Even Shouta, whose eyes look lidded with sleep the more he drinks. He’s not incoherent, he never is. If anything he’s observant. For one, you have an awful habit of holding onto this evening’s lollipop, it seems, as you have it situated between your fingers like a cigarette. Sometimes your grip around it tightens, like when your mother wraps her hand around his bicep, squeezing the flesh in small, sporadic rounds. And though neither of you want to say it, let alone think it— you’re jealous. That’s the second thing.

Even with Shouta’s knee brushing against your own, you can’t help it. He’s so warm, muscly legs pressed against your own in a manner that’s almost electrifying. You want it all to yourself, to suffocate in his heat and capable hands.

You zone out of the conversation, blinking at the fire with reserved eyes until a thick screwer pokes at the flesh of your shoulder, leaving behind a tiny dimple. Jet black hair invades your vision for a moment, smelling of faint seasalt and warm cologne, until you turn, “What?”

“You want chocolate on your marshmallow, right?” Your mother asks for him, squeezing a transparent bag of thick, soft marshmallows. It’s tossed to you in a flash, to which you catch, but not before stealing a glance at the man beside you. His jaw sets, poking out from the mass of stubble. Like she’d stolen a precious moment away.

“Right,” You mumble, stabbing the skewer through the excessive amount of sugar. The stick hovers above the fire, the sweet melting to a crisp, flaky brown. Sticky and gooey, it slowly begins to lose its form. Through all the conversation you can’t help but glance at the older man to your left, taking in the glow of yellow and orange caressing his tan skin. His silhouette is bold and broad, legs spread wide as he sits on a thick log. What was once brown turns a deep, dark charcoal. “Oh, shit! Fuck. I meant shoot, sorry.”

You’re not supposed to swear in front of your parents— Aizawa’s paternal intuition picks that up. But shoving the marshmallow into your mouth, even as it has yet to cool down, he doesn’t quite get. Either way, your expression. . . it’s sickeningly cute. It’s cute to watch you fumble. With lips pursed into a tight line, cheeks bitten and eyebrows pinched with apology despite how obviously uncomfortable you are with the piping, burnt sugar spreading along your tongue.

His heart could almost burst.

“You’re fine, kid.” Shouta’s voice is a gentle whisper, airy like the waves brushing against the shore. With his eyes caught on the sticky white lingering on your cheek, he's desperately aware you’re not a kid. The way you move and speak, the way you carry yourself. The way you suck on lollipops like they’re something else. He’s never been one for dirty jokes or subtle innuendos but. . . yeah, this is doing something to him. His fingers twitch with want, the desire to wipe it away and rub his thumb along your lips. He should really get it together.

And maybe the fact that he’s more worried about your parents being in the way than the fact that they’re your parents proves that.

But they’re pretty preoccupied, lost in conversation neither of you are exactly interested in. Whirling his own marshmallow, chocolate melts down its fluffy outside. It’s steaming, hot and fluffy after twirling around the fire. Looking at it now, it looks comically small in his large hands, much bigger than your own. His lips part, cool air leaving the ‘o’ shaped mold of his mouth as he blows on it with a low, “Here.”

There they go again, mouth open as your pink tongue covers your row of bottom teeth, Shouta doesn’t let go of the skewer despite the light squeezes you press along his knuckles. Instead he holds on tighter, lifting and reaching until the desert melts in your mouth and sticks to your lips. Messy on purpose, your heart plummets into your tummy when dark eyes watch marshmallow fluff pull away from between your teeth. Hungry, starving.

“I can do it myself.” You mumble, wondering if the heat prickling your skin is from the brush of his fingers against your own or the wilting fire.

“Can you?” His expression is tired and flat, but his voice tilts with blooming amusement. It’s odd, the way you’re so quick to shut him down. You almost respond more openly when you hear sneaky comments or listen to gossip— ‘that boy just doesn’t know what to stop,’ ‘why’s he such a smartass?’ — spoken about you directly by you.

“Yeah,” There’s a shine in your eye that isn’t just a product of the glowing fire. Mischievous, almost. “I don’t break that easily.”

Shouta could definitely take your dad in a fight. It’s the first thing that pops into mind as the two of you stand in the dark, dimly lit kitchen. Your parents had gone off to bed almost an hour ago, and with the clock approaching half past midnight, it leaves you two alone. So, yes, he’s considering who would win in a brawl because he can’t stop staring at his best friend’s son and his pretty, kissable lips.

They’re sheen with spit, your pink tongue licking them over as you scrub away yesterday’s dirt from the kitchen counter. It’s a noncommittal motion, your arms wiping suds and heavy contents of water along the granite surface. Yet you seem absolutely dead-set on getting that one stain. The stain that has your ass brushing against his side, bare skin rippling the harder, lazier, you scrub. Not that there’s even a stain to clean.

Yep. He’s fucked.

You suppose he should be focusing on the dishes— not that there’s much of those either— but his attention strays.

It carries him through the motion of leaning over, his body practically draping your own as you bend at the waist. Black hair again, wisps of it, lightly pressed against your back as he leans down, lips by the shell of your ear and an arm trapping you in. His cock is pressed right against the swell of your ass, and he may have to consider slipping it between his waistband.

“I think you got it.”

“Oh, really?” Your hips are moving again, side to side as you scrub shapes into nothing. “Double check for me?”

A low groan sounds behind you, big hands at your thighs that squeeze enough to have the plush skin bruised and tender in the morning. His hand travels, snaking up your thighs to meet the silky skin of your ass. Spread nicely with the way you’re bent over, warmth radiating off each globe as his thick pointer finger loops around the thin layer of pink cotton pressing against your balls.

It’d be so easy, perfect access to slip his thick cock into the warm, tight walls of your hole and pound you against the counter. You could sit on his dick for the whole day, drooling and dumb the more the head kisses your prostate again and again and again. Your Daddy could fuck you on your dad’s favorite sofa, make it squeal and whine under the weight of him filling your fucked-out and used cunt over and over.

Dark pupils blow wide as he pulls the fabric away, watching your hole flutter around nothing. He coos, sweet and deep. Just give him a minute, he’ll give you everything you need. Everything and more, until you’re a braindead fucktoy with glassy eyes and sticky, dripping holes. Until—

You’ve slipped past his arm, twisting as your growling stomach makes itself known. You inhale a quivering breath through your nose, eyes wide and expecting and waiting. His best friend’s son, wriggling and writhing under his palms, handsome face twisting as pearly teeth bite at your stout bottom lip.

He’s almost frustrated with himself, voice flat and distant when you puff out your cheeks. Forget a distraction— you’re a real, honest brat. “You’re still hungry.”

“I’m a growing man, Sho.” It’s almost consequential how your voice cracks, breathy and teetering the edge of a whine as he releases his grip on your body. Light from the fridge illuminates your silhouette in a yellow, halo-adjacent glow, and once again Shouta is staring a little too hard at his best friend’s son as he bends forward at the waist.

Aizawa weighs the juxtaposition between the middle of that sentence for a moment before his breath catches in your throat. Sho. You’d called him by a nickname, ten times sweeter than the candied fruit (grapes, are they?) you’re now sinking your teeth into. You’ve grown alright, and the proof stands hard, throbbing, and pressing against your shorts once you’ve returned to face him. It’s obvious your ploy with the fruit was just something to keep your mind off cumming in your cute, soft shorts— but he’d honestly have preferred to see that.

“I can see that.”

Rough palms press into your jaw— firm, but not aggressive, until fingers close and clasp at your cheeks. A dissolving layer of baby fat at your cheeks spills between his stern fingers, and you blink as the older man turns your face from left to right, then reverse. Seems he’s got a nasty habit of looking you over, breaking you down— bare bones. You still have enough room to chew, teeth grinding on the crystallized sugar with a hard and resounding crunch.

There’s always something in your mouth.

Dark eyes flicker to the lump appearing and disappearing in your throat as you swallow, sweet sugar dotting your lips, “You’re hard.”

“Yeah,” It earns a dark chuckle, though there’s not much light humor in it, “So are you.” His lips curl as he releases his grip, slow and lingering.

“Usually,” your gaze drops to his lips. “When two men,” Then up to his deep, dark eyes as you press against him, chest to chest. His cock twitches against the heat of your body, you can imagine it now— thick and pretty, curved upward with a sticky head and throbbing, heavy veins. “Make eachother. . . hard, they—”

A door slams upstairs, the air going still as your breath catches in your throat. As if that single disturbance has stolen all the oxygen in the world, your body goes rigid and stiff, and the sound of tired steps make their way descending down wooden stairs. The candied grapes are swapped for thick fingers, with light peppers of hair at the knuckles, and you can’t help but suck the seasalt right off.

“Behave.” He takes a single step back, dripping with indubitable authority that makes you feel light and airy. Ready to bend at his will with lazy eyelids and hazy eyes. It’s not a question, not a suggestion— it’s a demand.

“You’re still up,” Your father, shameless as he walks by the two of you with barely any coverings, makes a sleepy gesture in your general direction as he opens the fridge. “Both of you, huh?” He sounds faintly out of breath, and his skin sheen. The mental implications make you cringe, taking a step toward the characteristically nonchalant man who’d just stepped away from you.

Shouta’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t tell me I’m being replaced!” He’s always been a loud man, your father, but it seems tonight his one-too-many beers have finally caught up to him. It’s just a joke, the both of you know it, but you can’t help the prickle of heat poking at your throat. You’re pulled in by the back of your head, your father’s hand pressed against your hair as he holds you in a firm side-hug, “Rather Mr. Aizawa be your old man?”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Your smile is wide and tantalizing, heavy and dripping with something that has yet to be named. “Are you a good Daddy, Mr. Aizawa?”

Then, his eye twitches, “When I want to be.”

Your laugh is instantaneous and loud, an awkward thing that stretches into deep silence. There’s a lot of things you’d like Mr. Aizawa to be— rough, gentle, sweet, and mean. But your dad? It’s laughable, and couldn’t be farther from the truth. And sure, maybe the title you'd like to use on him sounds similar, but they’re most definitely not the same. If only he knew.

“I’m sure you’re the best,” He watches you smile, opposite ends of your mouth pulling at your cheeks in a motion that doesn’t quite meet your eyes— but it’s convincing enough. “Better than your other friends, right Dad?”

Shouta is avoiding you.

You know it, you can tell! He’s always gone nowadays— a couple weeks into your vacation and you can only count a mere handful of the times you remember seeing him. You’ve barely talked, barely stole a few glances here and there— he may as well have disappeared. He’s out somewhere, somewhere that involves your father, and the ocean, and his generously sized deck-boat. You don’t want to say it, but you know you’re the reason why. You’ve gone a bit overboard, perhaps, with the flirting. Ever since that night— even before then, it’d become a natural habit of yours to call the man Daddy.

And, now, he’s grown even closer to your parents because of it. Whenever you come down for breakfast they’ve already finished, leaving your plate in the microwave— as if you’d want cold, limp eggs and soggy, get charred bacon. You want to scream, really. There’s your mother, who leaves lingering touches and bats her eyelashes like some sort of schoolgirl. You feel almost evil for the rage that sears your blood— even more so when your first thought is she’s pushing fifty.

Then there’s your father. Who is and always will be, not if you can help it, closer to Shouta than you ever will be. They drink together a lot, the guest more in moderation, but it still hurts to see them laugh about old times— over, and over, and over again. Even when you’re the topic of conversation, despite your presence being completely ignored, it hurts. You’re right here.

So you mope, lounging around in your swim trunks. Your skin sticks to every surface, humid and thick as your mother complains to you about getting some sun, stepping out the house, then something about how you need to fix the look on your face. She says the warm rays on your skin will do you some good, the salty water of the sea against your body will toughen up your bones and loosen your muscles. But there’s really only one thing on your mind.

It trickles into about an hour and a half when Mr. Aizawa finally comes back. Your father too, you suppose, with flushed cheeks that only sake can replicate. It’s once you’ve been pulled outside and forced to stand in wet, thick sand that washes away from your feet with every sweep of the shore— that they return. Once the sun has begun to set, yet still bright enough to have your brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, they return.

“There’s my boy!” No one’s boy, actually. Your father shouts with an intoxicated wave, and the grimace on Shouta’s face is hidden behind his whipping hair as he slows the boat to a stop.

Or at least, you think so. It’s hard to see with the sun in your eyes, yellow and orange flakes of the gold star percolating your vision.

It dances along the surface of the ocean, pretty and shimmering the closer you step, the further you go, until you’re submerged in water from your knees—down. There’s a shout, something akin to a ‘catch!’, and you have barely any time to react to the ball that’s flying to you with an oddly precise amount of speed and velocity. You gasp, whipping your head back to catch the ball between two sea-soaked hands.

“What the hell?!” Your hands sting, pretty eyes blinking back at the two silhouettes in your vicinity. Mainly at Aizawa, who hasn’t even acknowledged you, let alone looked away from the resplendent horizon. And what’s so good about that? Of all things to look at— you’re right here! You don’t leave with the setting sun, nor do you only ever arrive with the rising one. You’re a constant, and you know you don’t hurt to look at.

So you throw the ball back, all your force behind it with a smug look on your face until it smacks Shouta in the leg— right in the center of his calf with a horrifying thump of a sound.

“Fuck,” You shout in horror, despite it all. Despite the desire to maul him the last few weeks, rushing forward into the water with the cutest tremor to your brows. “Fuck, okay, shit, my bad!”

And it seems you can’t move fast enough to wade through the rippling waves, where schools of tiny, nipping fish and textured shells had twirled and danced about through the currents of pellucid water. But Shouta seems just fine, almost as if he’d forgotten how to react to the feeling of getting punted with a ball at full force. He picks it up, waves it in his large palm, and throws it back. You can hear it tear through the air, just as it smacks you in the shoulder with so much force you don’t register it at first.

Numbness spreads along your arm, eyes blinking up at the older man who laughs. It’s quiet yet hearty, and not at all a pretty sound. It’s more contagious if anything, a wheeze of sorts, but your lips still curl into a petty frown regardless. You can make out a huff of “Your face!” broken up with laughter, biting back on his tongue.

“I’m not laughing.” You grumble, rubbing at your shoulder with faux diligence.

There’s an eerie smile on his face, enough to send shivers down your spine as water drapes your face and drips down your body— boat engine revving with ferocity as the men float off into the boarding dock— Aizawa’s presence arrives just as fast as it leaves.

You’re left to your devices, gawking as you process the last few minutes— his smile, your brattiness and stupidity, the way you’d only just noticed his prosthetic leg— at the mention you can feel miscellaneous fish brush against your own, scales shining through the transparent waters. You can’t help but smile too, wiping it away with the back of your water-draped forearm. Fuck.

It’s only been a month and you’re smitten. He’d left you in favor of your father again, and all you can do is giggle about it.

There’s not much you know about the man— now that you think about it. There’s been a brief drunken mention of him having kids of his own, a little girl, you think. Maybe a son? Despite his affliction for quiet, Aizawa looks as though there’s more he wants to say. To share, to tell. Your father must know it all, seeing as they grew up together, and part of you can’t help but feel a bit jealous.

Hmph.

“What’re you sulking for?” His voice has broken you out of a daydream, turning your body to look him in the eyes. The man of the hour— Shouta. You almost hate how quick you are to melt under his gaze, squaring your shoulders with the stability of poorly glued popsicle sticks.“That ball bounce off your head, too?”

“I’m not sulking.” You watch him walk around the perimeter of the shore, slow and calculating, with his hands balled up in the fabric of his black t-shirt. He pulls it overhead, tummy contracting and biceps rippling— it still manages to catch you by surprise, how much muscle he’s hiding under his baggy clothes. Your brain sets off a symphony of ooh’s and ahh’s, unable to tear your gaze from the light rise and fall of his chest.

Your eyes trail back up, past the bend of his collarbones, up the display of stubble on his throat— he’s staring right at you.

“Uh — I wasn’t. . anyway. . What’re you looking at?”

His lips twitch, briefly pressed together before relaxing as he steps into the cold water. He’s slow, hair rippling just as smooth as the ocean, the further he moves forward. And, despite that, he slowly curls a finger to and fro, as if he’s talking to a small kitten. “C’mere.”

You’re frowning when you trudge forward, hesitance in your step. “Mr. Aizawa,” you grumble, still something of a cute little sound, using the prefix your father introduced him with. Something about it makes Shouta’s frame stiffen— the title, or maybe the pettiness behind it. It’s not like you call him that when you’re in a particularly good mood. “You didn’t seem to want me around earlier.”

“Quiet,” He tuts, clicking his tongue as if he knows the game you’re playing. But despite the curt, clean-cut execution of his tone, his thumb finds your cheek with the same gentleness as a spring breeze. “Your parents were always around earlier.”

Oh.

You play off your surprise well enough, swatting his hand away with a deep grunt. Sure, it feels good. His hands on your skin— such rough palms that cover your body — but you’re not desperate. Not entirely, not even when he fixes the twist of your face with a quick look to your furrowed brows. You settle for a sigh, grumbling, “They don’t have shit to do with me.”

“You’re, what, twenty-five—“

“Twenty three.” You interject, almost proud you can correct him. Rivulets of water trail down your arms, and his gaze seems to follow its motion.

“Twenty three,” He echoes with something of a breathless sigh tilting his voice. For a moment you think it’s the interruption— he’ll work on it later. Maybe he’s been struck by just how much younger you really are. “They have everything to do with you. You’re still their kid, I doubt they’d be enthusiastic about leaving you alone with an older man. A stranger, at that.”

“But they did,” You look around, as if to prove your point. Shouta’s never been one for dramatics, let alone those fueled by snappy attitudes and rolling eyes, but it looks cute on you. Maybe even cuter if it were accompanied by tears. “They left us alone. . . Half naked. . . At a beach. . . Alone..”

“I get it. We’re alone,” Shouta’s voice has always been so deep, rumbly and tired and smooth in your ears but even more so when he’s irritated. “Drop the attitude.” It’s different in a way. Leaves no room for argument, though you still feel the overwhelming need to stomp your foot and keep on pressing. You can’t help the shudder, nor the goosebumps crawling up your thighs. It’s just so fun to push his buttons, to watch his passive face twist for a split second as he processes your words.

It’s not exactly hard when he allows it. Shouta lets you push until your heart’s content, only reprimanding you with a glance or cleared throat— and it’s almost eerie. You can’t help but feel

like you should be anticipating something, even as you stand flush against his thick body in lukewarm ocean water and he looks at you with contentment.

Then it occurs to you. . . He’s letting it build up.

“And you’re not a stranger, Mr. Aizawa.” Obviously you’re softening the blows, so he watches you step forward, arms crossed over his thick, plush chest. You’re just so cute, brushing past his overwhelming seriousness with a smile— albeit sly. He can’t stay mad forever. It’s not fair, how cute you are, with lips stretched out and teeth on display, with the apples of your cheeks rising, and the cutest little twinkle in your eye. He wants to kiss you. . . He wants to kiss you so bad it’s starting to hurt.

Especially when you lean forward, sunlight bouncing off the ocean surface and across your body— painting you in pretty, golden slivers of glow. Across your face, your chest, your stomach, your thighs. It’s been a while since he’s felt his skin against your own. Since he’s run his large, calloused hands along your body.

“What happened to ‘Daddy’?” He asks, absentmindedly.

“What?” You break his trance, looking down at yourself with a hint of something Shouta can’t quite place. Uncertainty, perhaps? Vulnerability, maybe. It’s odd, you usually prance around so confidently. You wear the tiniest— tightest— clothes known to man, have the smartest mouth, egg him on day in and day out.

That’s not it. You look smug. You’re playing him for a damn fool.

“Nothing.” Aizawa sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s wrong— it’s cliché, maybe even taboo. He wants to wipe that look off your face. He wants to kiss his best friend’s son stupid. The man he’d just shared parenting advice to, the man he’d spent years upon years of highschool, college, divorces, with. It’d been so innocent when he’d visit— maybe he should’ve never stopped. Maybe he shouldn’t have come back to see you in full bloom, so handsome and lithe and sweet.

“ ‘Nothing,’ ” You echo, snarky as you mimic the flat, detached tone of Shouta’s voice. If you weren’t sulking before you definitely are now, readying yourself to push past him like some spoiled brat who was just denied their favorite candy after being caught trying to steal it nonetheless. So He holds onto your bicep, squeezing the flesh as it flexes with your feeble attempt at struggling.

“Are you done yet? Or do you need a minute to calm down?” He shifts his weight, voice calm and level as he holds you still despite the straining. Not a single hair on him is out of place, his tranquility almost alarming.

“Let go, old man!” He has to ignore the rush of adrenaline the back and forth gives him— the way he has an incessant urge to squeeze your jaw just a bit tighter.

“Hey,” You watch his lips curl to coo, a tone somewhat akin to a parent shushing a fussy child. Your face is turned to face him directly, “How many times do I have to talk to you?” Then impossibly close as his warm breath pans over the expanse of your face, “What’d I say about the attitude?”

“I don’t care what you say about it.” Your face is squished against his palm as you go to squirm your way out of his hold, but with the way his head angles down toward your face— you can barely get the words to sound convincing. There’s a giggle in your voice, like you think his frustration is amusing.“You like it, don’t you? Forget strange, you’re dirty!”

He’s the only thing keeping you upright, eyes narrowed and lidded, “Stop fuckin’ playing with me, little boy.”

“Dad never lets me drive the boat,” Though the man can sense your whining from miles away, it still manages to catch him off guard. Shouta quirks a brow in questioning, hand hovering a polite foot away from your calf as you stand to walk along the wading boat floor. “Destroyed his last one when I was a kid,” (He doesn’t have to know you were actually nineteen when you did.) You speak in a tone that makes him think just maybe you consider it more your father’s fault than your own. “This one’s nicer anyway.”

“That’s wasteful.” Aizawa bites the inside of his cheek, brows furrowed into a familiar line. Had one of his kids done that it’d be a completely different story. Surely one they wouldn’t be proud of telling either. Through the corner of his eye he watches you dig into the cooler, scrabbling past the beer bottles and iced hennessy, to pull out an ice cream.

“To you,” You spare him a glance before finally plopping down in the passenger’s seat with much more force than necessary— especially when sitting on a boat. “I did him a favor.”

The cooler did a poor job— your ice cream is already melted and soft once it’s unwrapped. Thick, velvety cream that you lap up with your tongue dribbles down your knuckles. He should find it gross, but your pretty eyes flickering upward to meet his own as you take one long, slow lick up each bend of your fingers has done the complete opposite. Fuck. It’s hot— your sticky fingers and messy lips, your pinched brows and tiny, pleased whines.

If only it were his cock.

Shouta’s thick. Much thicker than your ice cream, he’s sure you’d feel a good stretch to your lips if you wrapped them around the head of his cock. You’d probably whine about how hard you have to try, how heavy it is on your tongue— how much it’s stuffing you full when it hasn’t even slid down your throat yet. You’d cry too, maybe, with drool slicking your chin and coating his dick in a pretty, shiny layer of thick saliva.

“Want some?” You lean uncomfortably forward, though your legs are over the arms of your seat and draped across Shouta’s lap. Already close, Shouta can smell the oreo on your tongue and vanilla cream by the corner of your lips. “You’re staring pretty hard.”

“Sit up,” The deflection is an answer in itself, yet the dark-haired man can’t find a reason to look away. “Before you hurt yourself.”

Instead, you take his wrist, thick and decorated with a long vein, to fiddle with his fingers. They’re long— healthy, strong, clipped haphazardly— big. He watches you split his fingers apart, lacing your free hand with his own— and though he remains with all five fingers up, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the urge to close them around your much smaller ones. Shouta clears his throat while you hum, lapping at your ice cream before pressing your lips against his knuckles, “Want you to hurt me instead.”

“Hush,” There’s a sharp intake of breath, dark lashes fluttering as multicolored eyes glance past your shoulder. It’s evident he wants to say more— in the way he shifts his weight to lean outward. “You hardly know me.”

Your foot nudges his upper thigh, pressing into the firm skin as the boat moves further toward the horizon. It feels more secluded that way.. Private, even. As if there’s only the two of you left on the dreamy island. Your face looks a bit exasperated, like you’ve never had to work so hard in your life, and he has to admit it— it’s cute.

“I know you grew up with my dad,” He ignores the venom behind your tongue as you mention your father, letting out a low hum of confirmation. “I know you have two kids— adopted, right?”

“Hitoshi and Eri.” He interjects, voice soft and fond. You’d never noticed it before, but now you’re acutely aware of the gentle presence of breeze and rippling waters. Shouta’s relaxed face is much sweeter, still creased with age but not quite as deep. The cute, pinched dips between his brows are gone, but you know how to bring it back.

“Lucky. Wish you were my Daddy instead,” Aizawa isn’t sure which word he��s more hung up on, nor how it's so easy for you to completely twist his words— but as much as it rushes to his cock, gets him twitching in his pants and throbbing all the way down his heavy shaft— he doesn’t like it. You talk entirely too much. With lips much too sweet and sheen with cream. With a tongue that flicks and presses against your teeth when you smile. With a pretty voice he could listen to, all day. Something that’d sound better through choking and gagging—ragged and crackly and used. Your lashes flutter, soft and gentle against your cheek. “How old is Hitoshi? My age? If he takes after you, then. . .You’re just—“

“Listen to me,” Perhaps it’s not very characteristic of him, but he just can’t stop. Shouta moves without thinking, pressing his fingers into your cheeks until your lips are puckered. “For as long as I’m here,” he offers a squeeze. “For as long as your father is here,” then another, “Turn. It. Off.”

Your face melts into something floaty and distant, the smirk melting right off your face into something much more preferable. His thumb is so close, so close to your pretty lips. You blink once— twice, even— before regressing back into a grin, lips pressing against his long fingers. Fucking brat.

“I’ll just have to hit up Hitoshi sometime, then.”

The persistent comment nearly knocks him over, straight off the boat and plummeting into the cerulean depths of the sea. Instead, Shouta finds it better to step on the gas. . . To ignore the prickling heat in his blood, to ignore the easy taptaptap-ing of your fingers against the screen of your phone. It’s so easy for you to say anything around him— like a deliberate disregard for his reaction. His fingers thrum against the tiller, then wrap around its leather exterior to squeeze, and he doesn’t miss (not even for a second) the glance you give him through the corner of your eye.

The silence is almost painful. The motor speaks for you, loud and rushed and heavy. Aizawa’s jaw sets, clenched at each chiseled edge. His eyebrows furrow deep, angry, and his lips remain tightly shut. You can’t help but stare, watching his hair whip in the wind, dreamy and mellifluous. Not a moment of eye contact is shared, and you feel yourself slinking back into the white leather of your chair for the first time this evening.

Come the wooden dock just adjacent to the shoreline, Shouta’s throwing away wrappers (they’re all yours) and unbuckling his seatbelt. Your arms cross, a pout heavy in your lips as your eyes flutter closed. . Almost as if you being unable to see him makes him unable to see you.

“C’mon, baby.” You both miss the nickname, and despite the tension, it feels so natural dripping from his tongue.

Still, you whine. Mind occupied by your nearly offset tantrum prior to getting back at the dock. “I’m staying outside.”

“You’ll get heatstroke.” Shouta sighs, stepping back to lift you into his arms not even a moment later. You consider it ironic, for a moment, he always wears black despite the scorching heat. Bent at the waist as he leans over the open inside of the boat to unbuckle your seatbelt, his face remains stoic as your arms flail and fly to push him away. Your pretty face morphs into a nasty scowl, grumbles and mumbles toppling from your lips— you’re embarrassed.

He sets you down on the creaking wood, hands placed steady at your waist and shoulder to keep you upright— in your feeble attempt at escapism, your last result was simply going limp.

You just won’t budge, standing planted at the end of the dock despite the tugs to your biceps, forearm— hands, wrists. Your last attempt at pushing him away ends up in stumbles, nearly tripping over your own feet as you stomp down the polished dock, eyes hardening with the contact of deep, dark pools in Aizawa’s irises.

You were holding hands.

It’s been days. You haven’t left your room in days. At first, Shouta doesn’t worry. He doesn’t think twice about it, doesn’t question why you don’t come downstairs. When he asks your parents about it it’s always the same thing— ‘That’s just how he is when he doesn’t get his way,’ or ‘He’ll come around.’ The more he asks, the mode suspicion, More questions, mostly wondering why he’s so enamored by their son— even if he had been closer to you when you were younger. But that was long ago, and you hardly remember.

And that isn’t even it.

He starts to worry, to feel bad, on day six. Not a single sound that even points to your presence. No creaking floorboards, no music playing from your old, antique and overpriced record player, no sounds of muffled laughter. It makes him feel out of his skin, like a bystander watching the inhabitants of this very beach house go about their day like nothing is wrong. But this wrong, so very wrong—

He wants you. His boy, his brat, his best friend’s son. It’s wrong and it’s taboo, but so help him, he yearns.

His feet had carried himself upstairs before his mind could, following after you a good half-hour later. You heard him on his way in, the shuffle of his slipper-clad feet from the outside of your door. Still, you’d made no effort to move, no effort to free yourself from the cocoon of your childhood blankets, no effort to open the door despite his gentle knocking.

“You ready to talk yet?” He was willing to brush it all aside. The pushing, the persistent flirting, the slight disregard for his feelings, the mentions of his son. Really, he was jealous. Maybe it’s unsavory for him to admit, maybe he shouldn’t think of his son as competition. And he knows, of course, there’s nothing there— he’s only ever competing with himself. He just can’t help it.

Maybe he’s a bit spoiled too.

“I don’t like being ignored.” Your voice was small, but he could still hear it through the door. He heard it all, every implication. His sweet boy, his spoiled brat. You froze, just briefly, before he let himself in. The door creaked slowly with its open and close, a gentle click of the lock as the air grew thick.

Your old bed is small and creaky. Almost as much as the underused floorboards, your old bedroom screams with just as much personality as it does neglect. There’s tiny figurines, posters, awards, memorabilia— but it’s all too clean. Even if it has collected dust, not a thing is out of place. Pristine. There’s a few scattered photos— awkward haircuts, familial pets, the works. . Unapologetically you, maybe when you were just a tad bit more naive— but you nonetheless. It even smells like you, just with a hint of sea salt and warm, summer-y vanilla. Shouta wants to bury his nose in it.

“None of my fancy college boyfriends liked it here, Maybe ‘Toshi would.” You shift your weight as Shouta sits at the edge of your bed, the springy mattress creaking ever so slightly. There’s something left unsaid between the small string of words— and it’s sour. Twists on Shouta’s tongue, like he’s bitten into old bread, and it’s not just the mention of past boyfriends. Sure, that’s not exactly what he’d call this. . . relationship, but it’s not like it’d feel wrong. And he’d certainly feel bitter if his son were in his shoes. “Guess my sheets weren’t silky enough. Can tell you what was, th—”

“I like it.” It’s simple. The admission— simple and sweet, like it’s obvious. Shouta watches your lips part for a moment, just to close again, like a fish out of water. You look so small when you’re caught off guard, glancing to the side and shifting your weight onto your palms as you sit in the comfy middle of your bed. He knows what you’re doing— redirecting the conversation by flirting (it does get his heart beating, he’ll admit it)— and it makes you seem softer, almost.

He watches you sniffle for a moment, a quiet sound as you shift your knees with exuberating coyness. Your eyebrows furrow, cheeks puffed into a pout because, “That's it? You just ‘ like ’ it?”

He’ll give it to you, you never give up. He’d been warned, he was skeptical, and he’s been proven wrong. And, in the brunette’s head, you’d tallied over three strikes. Perhaps he was being too lenient. And now, Shouta, the weak man that he is, simply wants to indulge.

“What else would I say?”

“That it’s nice,” You cock your head to the side. “That you’ve never seen a room so nice. Which m’sure is true, anyway. . Are you low income, Sho? I can’t imagine what it’s like being a single father of two— or one, since Hitoshi moved out forever ago.”

The older man takes a breath through his nose, and out through his mouth. Pretty irises flicker down to meet the rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. Then, like the tidal wave of emotion has washed away back into shore, his voice is level as he speaks, “You spoke to him.”

“You ignored me,” You say it as if it’s obvious, simple, that if you can’t have Shouta you’ll have to settle for the next best thing. And though it’s not entirely true, you only really stalked his social media to learn more about his father, you don’t think your heart can stomach seeing pride swell in Aizawa’s chest. “Wanted your attention, Daddy.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, cold air rattling the bones as he watches you stare up at him. Your eyes look softer, boyish, wider at this angle. His pink tongue darts over his equally pink lips, “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“Show me.”

“Shh, sh, sh,” Shouta’s cock slips down your throat with a low grunt, the slippery walls clench around the fat head of his cock. Just as he imagined it, cutting off pretty whines and gasps, head bobbing back and forth— like you can’t tell whether it’s too much or too little. There’s a slight burn— the stretch of his thick, sticky cock nestled against your throat— but it feels good, heavy and throbbing in a way that makes your brain shut off so quickly you drool. It sticks to his shaft and slides down his balls, painting your chin in a syrupy-sweet layer of saliva, but you’re too far gone to wipe it away. Such a good boy.

He must’ve said it aloud, because there you are nodding, lazily bobbing your head as he grinds in and out of your mouth. There’s a loud, sticky sound coming from your throat, squelching and soaked, obscene in a way that makes you whimper around your heavy mouthful of cock. He’s quick to correct himself— you only ever seem to behave when you’re stuffed with his dick, and he can’t have you thinking your behavior is acceptable. With a grunt, deep and velvety, Aizawa pushes deeper into your mouth until you gag— tight throat convulsing and quivering around his shaft.

You slurp loudly, choking and gasping as you struggle to pull back. His balls hit your chin, heavy and sticky and so fucking good as tears stream down your face. You’re starting to get into it now, making a mess of yourself as you stick out your tongue to lick along the prominent vein on the underside of his cock, eyes focused on the rings of saliva holding you together. Shouta pulls out to let you breathe, his cock quickly liding upupup your throat and past your lips until all you can do is whine and lean forward, lips wet with spit as you chase after what you’ve been wanting for the past month.

“Stop fuckin’ moving. Let Daddy use your throat, wanna hear you cry on it,” The bulge of his fat cock shows in your throat, in and out, in and out, in and out.

You want to whine, to beat your fists against his thighs, and kick your feet— it’s all so much. He has you by the hair, big hand pulling and tugging, lifting you on and off his cock like a warm, tight fleshlight. You fail to bite back a growl, though it emits more as a cute, pathetic sound, glassy eyes focused on his cock being shoved down your hot, wet throat. It’s so easy to press your lips against the darkness of his pubes, to smear pre along your pouty lips and cheeks. His cock jumps in your mouth, thick and long and curved, leaking at the tip.

It’s hard to adjust to the stretch, sputtering and gagging with such cute, greedy sounds. You’re getting ahead of yourself, eager, tongue lapping at the achy underside of his dick, pressed against his balls. And, with a gasp, Shouta pulls out, huffs and unintelligible groans filling the air. The blushing head of his cock taps against your cheek. Once, twice, again and again. “C’mere.”

And yet, despite all that bark, your eyes barely make contact with the ones above you. Instead they trace the pulse of his shaft, how heavy his cock hangs between his legs, how it makes his long fingers almost smaller in comparison. The way pre dribbles from the tip, sticky and warm and oh, so inviting. It’s as if he can read your mind, knows how badly you miss the weight of his thick cock stretching your throat, “You can do better than that," and you almost can't believe it.

Better? Your eyes flicker to the saliva dripping from your chin, suddenly aware of the slick pre smeared across your pretty cheeks and the heavy pants leaving your lips. What gets better than this? You let him use your throat like a new fleshlight, cried on his cock and muffled the sounds in his pubes. Ignored the aching of your own cock just to focus on his own, absentmindedly bucking your hips into nothing, even if it made you look like a pathetic puppy. Fine— you can show him better. You can break him first.

You blink rapidly, tears clumped in your pretty eyelashes, lips parting to, indubitably, sass the older man. “What, need help gettin’ it up? Fuck you, can do it m—”

Prideful boy. Shouta will have to fix that.

“— I wasn’t asking.” You really fucked up now, eyes wide as you’re lifted up by your throat and manhandled into Shouta’s strong arms. He smells good, and just as strong, as your face is pressed into his chest and your tiny, tiny shorts are pushed past your thighs. The air is cold, it spreads goosebumps along your skin, and you’re sure Shouta can feel them along his palm as he grabs handfuls of your ass. He ignores your off guard ‘Hey! I wasn’t done!’, ignores the squirm of your waist, ignores your poor, weeping cock.

Being the smooth, calculated man that he is, you’d expect Aizawa to put a rhythm and pace to his spankings. But no, there’s nothing for you to latch onto but the bundles of his hair as he hands out sporadic, random, and hard smacks along each globe of your ass. There is no back and forth, no favoring one over the other— it’s just where he wants, when he wants. If he wants to watch your thighs convulse and jiggle beneath his heavy palm he will, and if he wants to smack your hands away from his wrists as you tug and tug— he will.

Shouta groans when you let out a particularly pathetic cry, biting your lip and whimpering into his warm skin. You can feel his big hands part your cheeks, squeezing the skin until it spills over each finger and your ass has turned tender and sensitive. He coos, feeling you squirm and wriggle against his hold, “S’it too much? Daddy’s poor baby.”

It shouldn’t sound so sweet coming from his lips, even when it’s condescending and rough, even when he’s cracking his palm down again and again despite your kicks and squeals.

But it does.

“Da—ddy. . !” your voice quivers, hips rocking to an uncoordinated tune. So little contact and yet it feels like so much, his hot palms against your warm skin. . . The tears rolling down your darling face. . . The way your cock throbs against your tummy, your mouth aches with emptiness, your hole twitches beneath the weight of his fingers. The thought makes you want to whine all over again, body squirming and trembling as he holds and kneads the flesh of your ass.

“Quiet. I should shove my fingers down your throat to shut you up,” Shouta murmurs, so unnecessarily mean, kissing the dampness of your forehead before his hand cracks down against your plush ass three, four, five more times. You try to keep up your resolve, pretty legs trembling and knuckles clenching— but it’s just so hard. Being a brat is easy— it’s fun— you’ll give up a few tears, cry and pout, get your way. Easy. So you won’t break and give him what he wants. He’ll have to work for it, get a taste of his own mean, mean medicine.

Delayed gratification.

Wet llips open to speak, something smug and almost smart, but it’s reduced to a wet moan. You feel it—fingers spreading apart the globes of your ass, and more cracking down between them, on your empty, pretty little hole. For a moment your brain slips out of your body, thoughts static and turned to mush, fuzzy and convulsing where you lay. You process the sound of hushing, the feeling of wetness, the sound of slick spit against your skin. . . Thick, merciless fingers rubbing and tapping and sliding against you.

“Oh, god,” You sob, eyes fluttering shut and eyebrows pinching the second more pressure builds and— oh, a finger slips inside. “Fingers— that’s, oh god..” Inching in slowly, rubbing against your velvety walls and so fucking slick you’re beginning to see stars. Whatever you had your mind set on earlier flies straight out the window, your brain short circuits as your sopping hole flutters around his fingers, sucking them in.

“Fuck, baby, look at you clench on Daddy’s fingers. Want Daddy to finger-fuck this cute little cunt silly?” If you could see his face you’re sure he’d be smiling— an eerie thing, eyes trained on his fingers getting sucked back into you. Such a needy boy. “C’mon, say it. Tell Daddy you want his big fingers in your sweet, greedy little pussy.”

You can’t help it, hole throbbing rhythmically along his long fingers, squelching and gushing with stickiness. The swell of your ass ripples as you wiggle your hips, rising and falling to grindgrindgrind. “Fuck me already, c’mon, old man.”

“That what your little ‘boyfriends’ do?” Your lip quivers— he hadn't even flinched at the sass— and instead used your own words against you. “Oh, baby. They didn’t give that little boycunt the attention he needed, hm? That why you throw so many tantrums?”

Your hand finds his wrist, fingers wrapping around thick and strong limp just enough to get his hand moving, trying to guide him deeper, faster, harder. He should reward bratty behavior, but the words spill from his mouth almost immediately, “That’s it, just needed something to fill you up, nice and full.”

It’s ironic— he says it just before pulling out his soaked fingers. And, at your nightstand, opens the drawer to retrieve lube. You watch him pause, eyes scanning the contents of the drawer until his lips quirk downward. Lollipop wrappers. An ungodly amount— you really went on a hunger strike because he ignored you? For six whole days?

“What am I gonna do with you.” He sighs, but grabs a sucker regardless, tearing open its pretty, pastel blue packaging to reveal its red, shiny hard candy. He pops the treat into his mouth, holds it on the right side with his teeth, and squirts a generous amount of lube over the globes of your ass. His hands slip and slide as he guides it around, watches it dribble down your thighs and relishes in the way your hole opens up for him, soaked and sticky.

Your eyebrows pinch, hips wiggling as he pulls the lollipop free from his mouth and directs it against your own, “Suck,” He murmurs, but it’s forced past your lips before you can process the demand. Here come more tears, burning your nose as you hiccup out a tiny, overwhelmed, “Daddy?”

“It’s okay, I’m here,” He coos, circling the pad of his thumb along the rim of your hole. Even as your feet instinctively kick, there’s no reaction from him, just a pleased hum. “Keep sucking, atta boy.”

His thumb feels like a lot, makes you squeal and shiver as he presses it inside, and something hot and wet accompanies it. That's good, the heat of his tongue licking and sucking at your throbbing rim, bubbly spit dribbling down his chin and caught in his stubble. One hand is focused on fucking your boyhole raw, till your brain goes numb and you’re incoherent. His palm presses into the small of your ass, tongue working hard until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and your mouth flies open in a silent scream. He takes the opportunity to snatch the lollipop back, keeps his tongue pressed against your walls until—

He trails the glossy sphere of the candy down to your sloppy little hole, nudging and prodding until he slowly works the lollipop inside. “You can take it,” He growls, eyes trained on your fucked-out face. He can feel it, the tightening of your balls, the way your hole aches and pulses with the treat inside you. “That’s it, sweet thing. Wanna make this pussy cum, give it t’me. Let Daddy have it..”

He murmurs, and suddenly, instead of the treat that he’s popping back into his mouth, there’s the head of his perfectly thick, so big, cock pressing against your slick, thoroughly fucked-out hole and—

Oh.

“Sweet.”

You sob into nothing, back arching and spongy walls clinging down on Shouta’s cock as it’s worked inch by inch into you and— you can’t fucking believe it. You fought for so long, put on a bratty attitude and stomped your feet. Why would you ever push Shouta and his cock away for so long? Your breaths are short. Tiny little gasps as his large hands grip your ankles, spreading your legs open to get a better view of the thick dick pumping you full. Your pretty little hole, sheen with spit and lube, exposed and on display for him and his cock. And, yeah, this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. . . You want him to break you.

“You’re— fuck, you’re so gross, Daddy,” Shouta grits his teeth, “Ohh, havin’ your best friend’s son on your fat cock, fuckin’ my pussy so full. . !” You’re straight up babbling, cross-eyed as each thrust knocks coherent thoughts out your brain. A real, proper slut, desperately humping upupup to fuck yourself on his dick. With this position— knees to your ears and holes on display, you barely have the control to move— but it’s cute to watch you try anyway.

“Shut up and take it,” He rasps, voice deep and scratchy in a harsh whisper as his hips snap back and forth. “Don’t want mommy and daddy to hear their son calling someone else daddy, do you?”

“Daddy— Daddy, my pussy—“ You’re babbling, it’s all you can do since Shouta is all force with his thrusts; takes what he needs, feeds you his cock good and so, so deep. Over and over, you let out broken whines, desperate for it, looking down as best you can to watch your own cock bob and jump against your tummy, thighs sticky with spit and lube. You can hear the sound of your slutty, pathetic moans, the wet plaplaplap of skin, lube trailing and frothing between your bodies as Shouta fucks into you. You can’t stop twitching— your legs, your hole, your cock.

“This is Daddy’s pussy,” He corrects, angling his hips just right, the heat of his cock pressing against every special spot you’ve got. Every bundle of nerves, every silky, spongy wall you’ve got wrapped around him. “Just like that,” You’re gagging for it, pouty lips parting with open-mouthed pants as he continues to watch your hole tighten around his thick, veiny cock. He has to swallow down his own drool, reaching deeper into you, your body jerking back as he pounds, and pounds, and pounds. You may not be a good boy, but you’re a damn good slut.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. . .” Your breath is caught in your throat, and if you could, you’d scream, your body tensing as your cock throbs and bounces, cum spraying across your bare chest — stickiness shooting out your spent cock until you’re twitching, handsfree and body set ablaze. Shouta shows no signs of stopping, instead keeping his cock inside you as he flips you around, eyes narrowed. He fucks you through it, watching more cum squirt from your cock, leaky hole milking him for all he’s got.

“Dumb sluts love cock, baby. S’that what you are?” His voice is a low purr, pressing your face into the mattress, watching your ass fall back onto his cock until he feels himself aching hard, hard enough to start cumming inside you.

“Yeah, mhmm,” You drool into your pillow, absentmindedly fucking yourself back onto him. You’re desperate to chase after it, the searing spiral of pressure growing in your stomach, tight hole bearing down on his cock. “Daddy’s slut, s’me!” For a minute you think you’ve passed out, everything going dark as you ride out his hard thrusts, offering tiny movements of your own, up and down to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, to feel his balls slap against your thighs.

“Good sluts take Daddy’s cum,” Your eyes, so glassy and empty, is what gets him, groaning loud as he pumps a load inside you. “Take it, boy. Let Daddy knock you up.” It’s messy, and downright pornographic watching his cum leak out of you, just for him to fuck it back in with the head of his dick. Shouta’s cum starts to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are erratic and sloppy, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. You never want it to stop, not the groaning or moaning, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move.

He ignores your needy, overstimulated whines when he pulls out completely, his spent cock hanging heavy between his thighs. Even when you’re limp and boneless, body trembling violently, you want more.

“Da— Da—ddy,” You sob, eyes squeezed shut as strong arms pull you up and into even stronger thighs. Sitting on his lap now, Shouta coos hums, basks in the sight of his pretty boy’s afterglow.

“Daddy’s here. I’m here, I got you.” He whispers into your shoulder, and that’s all you need to hear. The thought of his best friend melts away— you’re more than that. You’re not just his best friend’s son. . .

You’re Shouta’s boy.

Summer is coming to an end.

There’s a seasonal chill in the air and it’s getting dark in the early afternoon. The beach has switched its course, currents changing direction and fish disappearing from the shoreline. The weather is turning, branches are starting to grow bare and bloom in color, the wind picks up, and the clouds have yet to dissipate into the sky. . Shouta helps you pack, grumbles when you press chaste kisses against his skin the whole time— shuts down the stomps of your feet while you whine, “I don’t wanna leave.”

“Spring break,” Is all Shouta says, his mismatched eyes downcast in a way that highlights his long, pretty eyelashes. Then, voice barely audible, he whispers, “I don’t want you to, either.”

Your body visibly straightens, giddiness painting your boyish face as you smile wide and big. The older man almost regrets saying it, huffing with you lean impossible close to hug him tight. “Will you call me?”

“Whenever you want,” He says, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. You watch as he throws your large bag of lollipops into your carry-on backpack, but not before plucking a treat free from the others. “You know I will.”

And that’s all you need to hear.

6K notes · View notes

dabisbratz · 3 months

Text

𝑀𝐸𝑅𝐼𝒩𝒢𝒰𝐸 𝒟𝒪𝐿𝐿 — kento nanami x male!reader

himbo!reader , farmer!au , strangers/friends/lovers , meet - cute , inaccurate farming techniques , lawyer!nanami , slow burn , depictions of injury ( minor burns ) , check - ins , dumbification , vaguely implied age gap (~5 years) , hand kink , inexperienced reader , light feminization , blowjobs , anal , mating press , fingering , hand-holding , praise , degradation , slut - calling , dirty talk , spit / drool , under-negotiated kink , aftercare

w.c; ~ 13.8k

sonny says. . . naaamiiii !!! {cry} {cry} mbaby :c can ybelieve s’is mfirst nami fic ?!?! just tbe clear, the reader’s size or height isn’t explicitly stated, but he’s vaguely hinted toward bein/appearin physical stronger than nanami.

‘ Next stop: Sekichiku ’

When he wakes up, Kento expects sunlight peeking through greenery— warm, yellow rays of light that dance and flicker across his eyelids. Warm, yellow beams that caress his cheek like the knuckles of someone tender, the palms of someone sweeter. It’ll overwhelm him at first, so bright and unapologetic as his eyes adjust and focus, but he’ll quickly crash, pupils constricting as the disturbance dwindles. And, suddenly, the star’s saturation will be comforting. It’ll be like a second. Just slower paced, peaceful. He expects the rustle of leaves, connected to strong branches and even stronger roots that dig into deep, rich soil. He expects to roll over in his temporary bed, breathing gently beneath shade, shielding his eyes from the welcoming invasion and blanketing him in a seamless flow of cool air.

When he wakes, Kento expects to hear the chirping of birds. It’s never quite enough to hear them in Tokyo. The strum of wind as it tickles his nose and pushes him forward. The swaying of grass— the smell is still so freshly imprinted in his brain, as it makes his head swim while crystal drops glide across its surface — a coarse underfoot of greenery that prickles the souls of his feet.

Tranquility by his side, urging him to get out of bed, chirping in an excited voice as it tugs on his wrist. He expects solitude, rolling its tangerine eyes and tapping its foot impatiently, “This is the break you’ve waited twenty-seven years for.”

But, instead, he finds himself clutching his chest, his heart beating with an unfamiliar pace that isn’t so calm. His body feels cold, like he’s been submerged in the deepest part of the ocean, unrelenting and ruthless as wave after wave crashes into his ribcage. The static in his ears grows louder and louder, ready to combust and burst his eardrums. Instead of the rustle of leaves, the cruel hustle and bustle of city life storms forward against his chest, shoving him back and forth. Back and forth, to and fro, against his body as his knuckles turn white and his vision starts to spot. Back and forth, as he comes undone.

It’s been so long, he’s not quite sure just how to unwind.

He starts off slow, swallowing air in desperate heaps until his legs relax, spreading toward the cushion arms of his faux-velvet chair. Then he flexes his fingers, draws them into tight fists and releases the digits until the shaking has stopped. Sips his complimentary white-wine with newfound steadiness, and tries not to choke when the intercoms ring,

‘Now approaching: Sekichiku.’

It’s a quaint little village, your district, where everyone knows everyone and the news is always, no matter where you are, city-wide. Stone-clad pavement and moss decalled windows, there’s a small blanket of achroous fog further north of town square. Yet, despite that, there’s an ever growing city of greenery and agriculture. With a small population and himself being the only passenger to unload at the station, it seems to be a lot busier than he’d originally thought. Street-food stalls and vendors, selling freshly baked goods and syrupy, savory sweets. It’s not like Tokyo, no, there’s no rush. No pushing or shoving, no overcrowded lines, no smells of smoke and burnt coal.

In fact, the air is rather crisp— the further his legs take him, the more apparent. No longer are his lungs breathing in the stench of sickness or body odors, no longer is he pushing past the fortunate, just to shove the unfortunate. And, admittedly, it’s a bit of a culture shock— but it’s not unwelcome. Regardless, Kento keeps his suitcase close, pushes it forward, sidestepping polite smiles and local shop owners.

He basks in it. The genuine nature to it all, the healthy glow of the atmosphere despite the steam, the fog, the chill to the air. He considers this a luxury— the closest to a vacation he’ll get, even if he’s technically ‘on the clock.’ Still— he soaks in the sights of hugging trees, of mossy roads and cobblestone streets. The colorful banners that jump with life, the lanterns and yellow-lighting that illuminates the day— he’s sure at night they’re even more wondrous. And, oh, the smells. Not at all like tokyo— there isn’t an overwhelming mixture of perfumes and colognes, no fast-food chains competing through aromatic smells, no heavy scents of tobacco littering the air. It's crisp, it’s ripe.

He almost takes no offense to the collision against his side— nor the screeching sound of surfaces grinding against each other, nor the loud and abrasive cry of the man bumping into him, accompanied by the crack of an apple’s core against the ground.

“Woah,” Warm breaths pan down the base of his neck, even warmer hands wrapping around his bicep with strength Nanami is sure shouldn’t be normal for a typical, everyday civilian. He involuntarily grunts, a deep sound that rumbles in his throat and earns an eager, yet apologetic chuckle. “You alright? Y’almost went flyin’!”

His brows furrow quizzically at that. First— he’s certain it’s the latter who nearly lost an arm and a leg with his tumble. Second, he hadn’t expected such a youthful, bouncy voice from the very stature shadowing acast him. Not even a bit, it doesn’t match the muscle straining through thermal clothing at all, let alone the sheer square feet of area being taken up by one person. Blocking his vision almost completely, standing straight— at an angle— that blocks a stall for fresh produce and flaky, steaming bread. The goods speak for themselves, crusted over in golden brown mountains and cloud-like, moist cross-sections.

Swallowing, Kento nods, eyeing the poorly drawn sign for fresh bread. Drawn in sharpie, the prices are written in big, bold, red letters. Endearing, almost, the curve and loop of each letter and number— the lines of each to-scale doodle of bread. Nothing like Tokyo, not nearly as artificial, not perfectly clean-cut. Not so cookie-cutter. There’s some personality in it, as juvenile as it may be. And it’s a shame, really, how promising the stand looks. Apples that shine a golden shade of red, bread that’s glazed in a sweet, sticky layer of yellow molasses and savory honey. And though he’d love to indulge, Kento has yet to label himself as the type. “Great, thank you.” Is all he says, pulling his suitcase along the perimeter of the stand.

Some other time, then.

The days are long as they are hard. The sun has yet to fully set, and still, the Earth pulls and pulls to weigh it down onto your shoulders. The sky is painted in hues of orange and purple, strokes of tangerine and lavender roaming past your bird's eye view. Your back pops as you stretch, arms tensing against the woven basket of leftover harvest, shiny red fruits aligned with the horizon and reaching toward the tiny glimpse of departing stars.

Where blossoms grow from tiny seeds, and orchids dance in gentle breeze— beds upon beds of farmland and agriculture drape the outskirts of the farmstead. Though the weather is turning, branches are starting to grow bare and bloom in color, the wind picks up its seasonal chill, and the clouds have begun to dissipate into the sky. . . The well-received proof of your hard work is still something to behold.

“—ome any minute, now,” You’ve heard it all before, your mother gossiping to her farmer-wife friends as she nurses sweet teas and tangerine tiramisu under her calloused, warm hands. You’d been a mere two steps away from where she sits at the open-island kitchen, shoes tipped in the illuminated speckle of celadon clearing just adjacent to the sliding, front, cedarwood door. “Said so, at least. Did you hear. . . ” Windchimes sing in welcome, soft and mellow as the door opens and shuts behind you, socked feet slipping from boots to warm, fuzzy slippers.

“M’back, Mama,” You mumble, half-humming along to the tune of muffled windchimes the further you walk, arms hoisting the overflowing basket up to your chest. A sweet sigh, then pitter-patter of fleece against parquetry, and the discovery of a sweet, cherry-red ladybug walking along your knuckles, leads to the basket securely placed on a free countertop. There’s a quirk of her brow, something of a gentle question— more of a suggestion— not completely committed to keeping two conversations at once. How’d it go?

“No luck sellin’ today,” your voice buds, small and soft as your eyes trail the curves of a particularly large waste of an apple. An evident pout on your lips, then a quiet huff of air.

Farming has been your whole life, really. It’s what you’re best at, good at. Ever since you were young, barely tall enough to push away tall-grass— barely strong enough to pull out weeds, you knew it was yours. Something special, gravel crumbling and breaking beneath heavy, solid boots and rubber tires. The remnants of small, flying rocks, pelting into each other and leaving behind white, gray smoke as your tractor comes to a slow, gradual halt.

“But I met someone new!” That peaks her attention, nothing short of a gasp coming from a pair of lips—identical to your own— and here come the questions. Was he blond? Oh, I knew it! Did he buy anything? Well, why not? Was he tall? Thought so. . . How about handsome? Come on, now. .

“He was . . hmm, pretty.” Is how you’d like to put it, raising a finger to the air in finality. Truth be told you don’t remember much about his appearance— it was more so his demeanor. He’d bumped into you— you think— and yet, there was something so smooth about him. Not even his slicked hair, wavy at the end and curved just right to frame his face and bleed into the bristles of his blond undercut. He’d carried on like it was nothing, still polite, even admired your handiwork on your stall’s banner. A sweet thing of a stranger.

“You’re so easily impressed,” The smile dusting your lips curls into a wee, nasty little frown. That’s just not true. “A good thing, too, you’ll have to like our new neighbor.”

Her voice melting through one ear and out the other like freshly harvested honey has your throat tied into a thick knot, stuck right at the base of your neck and only growing in size. Hands thrumming against the granite countertop, your body leans inward.

“Neighbor?”

“Mm,” She hums, landline trapped between her ear and sweater-clad shoulder. You’re not entirely sure if it’s toward you or her friend, either way, her conversation stays ambiguous. “I heard he’s some fancy lawyer. You think he’s defendin’ the Hasaba girls from last year?”

That’s something to think about. Two little girls who’d been found locked away by some sort of— police officer, was he? Perhaps something more authoritative, and taken into his personal care. You wouldn’t be surprised if it became legalized— you’d only met that man (Suguru Geto, was it?) in passing, but his stature seemed dead-set on protecting those girls.

There’s a muffled gasp on the other line, crackly with static as a finger twirls around the phone’s coiled, mint wire. The rest of the conversation goes unheard, slippered feet carrying you to the large, alcove window that displays just enough equal farmland and neighborhood housing. And, sure enough, as if on cue, it’s not hard to make out the lines and shadows of the ‘ fancy ’ lawyer, his fluid silhouette effortlessly carrying luggage and— what looks to be— a box of books. Documents, perhaps.

“You didn’t— how come you didn’t say nothin’ ?!” Your excitement has you toppling over, limbs every which way as your face presses into the glass window. When you’re stuck in a place where everyone knows everyone, there’s something exhilarating about having a new neighbor. And he knows nothing.

There’s a quiet mumble that roughly translates to: ‘You didn’t ask.’, but it’s filtered out by the sound of your full-footed stomps. You opt to keep your slippers, racing toward the neglected basket, mind completely set. “I’ll be back, Ma!”

The path along your house isn’t dangerous, but it is harsh on bare feet— inured by heavy boots and pick-up trucks.. Still, it goes completely ignored as you carry the heaviest basket of goods you own, anxiety twisting and turning in your stomach— bunny hops into your chest and stomps and stomps and stomps. You’ve carried yourself past the intersection of the cobblestone path, a lot more smooth the closer it gets to the large, usually untouched, rental home. The lights are off— save for the dim, yellow glow of a small porch lamp resting above an unsullied, sleek and wooden rocking-chair. When there’s no one to inhabit the home, it’s always been comforting to look at— but now? .

Cold would be one way to put it. Your feet are cold, your arms are cold, your hands are cold, and you’re stood at his front door— frozen. Scared is another.

Even so, you’ve always been told you’re the ‘bravest boy’ in your whole district. Cry-baby habits and all.

The door opens before you can knock, and all you can register is brown. Brown wallpaper— the beige type, just barely meeting the requirement. Patterned with old, vintage looking floral prints. Brown, sleek wood of a bannister— steps that lead down into the living room, but are visible from the front door. Brown eyes, such a specific shade. When exposed to the light they almost look gray— green?— but as he stands before you, there’s nothing but molten chocolate and burnt honey-candy. A brown leather belt, securing crisp slacks and an equally crisp button up. You expect to see brown loafers, but—

Fuzzy slippers, brown and soft and cute. Little black buttons for eyes, and two floppy, fluffy ears— reminiscent of a bunny.

“Oh. . . Can I help you?” You’ve heard it before, his voice, but it’s even more striking than ever. It’s easy to forget the voice of someone you’d just met, but there’s something so. . distinct about it. He’s got a slight accent, too, something Tokyo-adjacent— you’ve always wanted to visit for longer than the feeble four hours of a busy work-trip.

“Mhm!” Pretty lips spread to their best grin, pulling at your cheeks until the babyfat wells up. “Well, no— um, actually. .” Brown eyes are expectant, but calm and patient as they watch you fumble over your words. Your fingers tremor as the basket is thrusted forward, heat blooming in your cheeks. “These— This is for you!”

“Ah. . .” Pink lips part, cupid’s bow prominent. There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of his front door closing with a slight click— right in your face. For a moment all you can do is stare, eyes boring into the dark, chestnut wood of the rustic front door. Staring until it’s gone blurry, eyes bubbling with fresh, unshed tears. And, nearly spilling over like an overflowing faucet, they gather before you can blink them away— fat and thick and embarrassing.

“Um. . I like your sli—slippers.” Fully aware you’re speaking to an unmoving door, you can’t behind yourself to walk back the moss-decalled path home. It’s not so cold anymore, your bones having rung out in the, metaphorical, hot sun until they’ve dried completely and— now it’s warm. Warmth in your nose, stinging as you sniffle and bite down a hiccup.

“Sorry for the wait,” Mahogany shifts, offset by a deep rumble of a voice, smooth like velvet in comparison to the sharp, slow creak of door hinges, “Here.”

Dam rebuilt almost immediately, your body straightens. Him again, this time his eyes trained on what he holds in his hand. Brown and gold like sweet honey and, by God, it’s the most crisp set of yen you’ve ever held in your life. His fingers dance with fluidity you’ve never seen before, counting through each slip until he’s deemed an amount satisfactory— there’s a slight patch of hair on each of his knuckles, an array of veins that cascade into his forearm. His fingertips look a bit rough, but his nails are glossy and clipped. Even his cuticles are pushed back, just enough to look healthy and natural.

“Oh! I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know it’s rude to tip, so I left the exact change,” You blink. Once, twice— again, lips parted like a fish, fresh out of water. Then he’s hoisting the basket from your trembling hands, eyes downcast. “Next time, don’t give out things you worked for, for free,” Right where his eyes dip, his monolid, there’s a small mole— cute and circular, and had you not been studying the curves of his face you wouldn’t have noticed it. “You should wear a coat, too.” And, like a schoolboy, you can’t help the flurry of butterflies catching flight in your stomach.

“Yes, Sir,” Pearly whites biting at the fleshy, pink insides of your cheek have your lips puckered, pensive and sweet as you clutch the money to your chest. “Sorry about earlier— um, if it’s okay, I could help with your boxes?”

He leans forward, careful enough to keep the respective bubble of space between the two of your bodies, glancing at heavy, book-piled boxes labeled ‘N.K.’ The woven basket creaks under the weight of his chest, but it stays in one place nonetheless. “That?” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine, just mail. Must’ve arrived before I did.”

It’s a bit awkward, really. Anticipation nips at your fingertips— you’ve never really had to work so hard to continue a conversation. You’ve never had to think about it either, if the words were coming out correct, if anyone was comfortable with your presence.

“Oh,” You breathe, subconsciously leaning closer. Perhaps it’s a miracle he hasn’t actually shut the door in your face, and— right. Your hands move to wipe away any streaks from your cheeks, a small sniffle ringing in the air. “Sorry f’I bothered you. I live, um, closest to the windmill. Yknow, just up the path from here. . . ?”

You haven’t known him for long, but you just can’t consider him comparable. Maybe it’s your heart speed-running past any other rational thought, maybe it’s the blooming heat in your chest, maybe it’s the shiver of winter trailing down your spine. You find yourself desperately hanging onto his every breath, only ever beaming when he shakes his head.

“Kento Nanami,” Tense shoulders relax with a deep inhale, the sweet smell of chocolate stuffed bread filling his nostrils. All that trepidation washes away, hushed under the breeze of Kento’s slow breaths. “Did you make these yourself?”

The door creaks, quiet and welcoming as Nanami extends an arm, stepping aside. Once his eyes finally settle on you they harden, just for a moment, as if he’s finally noticed the pull of your eyes— the crystalline seam tightlined around your waterline, the bright red strain of veins peeking behind your lids. Still, he says nothing, until you’ve introduce yourself with watery tremors.

“It’s cold, and you came all this way without a jacket?” Your eyes trace the vapor floating into the air as he sighs, irises dancing along the edge of your bare forearms. “Come in.”

Your muscles straighten up under his gaze, rippling until rigid as you eagerly nod, “Y’don’t think we could share some of that bread, d’you?”

The best time to farm, you’ve learned, is just after sunrise. The sun rests her head on grassy hills, still groggy and not quite awake yet, herself. But you are, suited up in your boots and overalls, not a single lantern in hand. That’s the first plus, natural lighting of the rising sun. The sweet, dim bath of light that paints the path from your home to your plantation in molten gold.

Then there’s Kento. You’d think he never sleeps, but you’ve seen it. Ritualistic, in a way. For the last two weeks, you’ve watched him go about his day. See, the window of your bedroom leads straight into his study, where he prefers a dimly lit lamp over the bright fluorescents. It’s almost hard to tell when he comes and goes, seeing as whenever you look, there he is. Sat in a swiveling chair and hunched over his desk, writing something in a notepad and skimming through— what looks to be— more documents on his computer.

You can only tell he’s going to bed once there’s a sigh, a pinch to the bridge of his nose before smoothing out his eyebrows, then the discarding of silver-frame, rectangular reading glasses. The lamp stays on, as if he knows he’ll be back in less than seven sleeping hours— which you think, for him, translates to roughly thirty minutes.

And, though he can’t see you, you always make an extra effort to wave up at his study, just before starting up your tractor.

You never expected him to wave back. You never expect his eyes to trail from your face to your supplies. And you, most certainly, never expect him to join you. Two thermal mugs in hand as he makes it over the small hill from his home to your own, past the thorn bushes and vacant tangerine trees. Hot chocolate— piping and rich, it coats your tongue in its sweetness and splashes against your lips with comforting warmth.

“Mm!” You hum, blowing through the small gap between the thermos and its sealed lid. You’d assumed your scarf, wrapped snug around your neck, would do the trick— keep you warm enough — but this seems to actually hit the spot. Sticky accents from remnants of unmelted marshmallows, its fluff clings to the corner of your lips. And Kento, nursing his own mug— though it contains tea— looks up to watch you grin, shards of tiny sugar crystals clinging to your pouty bottom lip.

“Hold still,” all but purring, his thumb swipes at your lip, wipes away the stickiness until they’ve parted— breathless. His eyebrows furrow with concentration, as if it’s a practiced habit, absentmindedly licking his thumb clean with one smooth, quick dart of his tongue.

“Sweet.”

Your breath circulates into the air, a swirl of white that dispels almost immediately. Your thoughts are cut short, breath stuck in your throat, eyes wide and glazed over with astonishment. “It’s— huh?”

“Sweet,” he chimes, lips curling around each letter. He’s beside himself, nearly forgetting who he is until the clear of his throat and a resigned grumble. “I can’t fathom how you manage to drink. . . radioactive waste from a cup.”

His humor is dry— something you have to think over for a moment before smiling against the lid of your cup. Kento notes how you smile— with your whole body— eyes closed tight and teeth on display, shoulders bunched and your stride much more bouncy. He tries not to smile when you giggle, hiding the lower half of your face behind the piping mug as your shoulders brush against his own. With each step the closer you get— to both the blond and your truck.

“It’s good,” Your voice lifts at the end of the statement, feigning offense as you lick your lips. Soft tongue against soft lips, Nanami partly wonders if you naturally taste as sweet as your preference for drinks. “M’not bein’ mean about yours!”

“I'm not being mean,” He corrects, a silent apology laced in his tone— just in case — and your knowing gaze lifts from his cup to his eyes, blazing bright and beautiful. He basks in your attention for a moment, like the gentle rays of a sun-swept island. Had this really been a vacation— no carry-on cases— he would’ve considered booking a flight to Malaysia.

First, he’s buckling you into your seat— it seems you’d forgotten, then he’s reminding you to put on your gloves, despite having bare hands of his own.

“You do this for a living,” is his justification, though you deemed it more a reason for him to wear the protective gear. “You wear them.”

And, now, he’s listening intently as you explain the mild inconvenience that is the technicalities that come with farming. He learns of your affinity to animals. Your slight, biased preference for gardening. The way your nose wrinkles when you think too hard, and the way you often forget what you were saying as you say it.

Though the scenery outside the passenger seat window is beautiful— valleys of faded green and brown, a light fog dusting the air. The symphony of crickets and cicadas, and of course, the sunset making its round up the horizon, teetering along the age of the Earth as it paints each and every blade of grass in its light.

He helps you out of the car as if you haven’t done it yourself a million times, careful not to spill your drink in his other hand. He’s awfully tender, too, his thumb absentmindedly circling the glove-clad skin of your knuckles as your hand squeezes his own. The door slams shut, and he doesn’t miss your expression twist as you whisper a small ‘oops, sorry!’ to your precious truck before unloading supplies.

Kento can’t name a thing— he’s out of his depths, here, but he helps anyway. He carries it down the never-ending row of cabbage and radish, watches his step despite nearly dismantling at least three dozen budding vegetables simultaneously. And you don’t yell at him once, instead offering words of sweet encouragement until you’ve found the place to start, dropping your assortment of tools and buckets.

“M’kay, ‘Nami,” He watches you drop to a crouch, warmth blooming in the apples of his cheeks. It’s not just the suggestive position, nor the way your pretty eyes look up at him from there— but it’s how sweet you say his name. . going as far as to give him a nickname, too.

Still, it manifests through the twitch of his eye, which you don’t catch onto, as he kneels alongside you.

“‘Nami—”

“No. It’s pronounced Nanami.” He interjects, his grip tight along the base of unsavory, frostbitten weeds— at least, that’s what he sees you doing anyway. Almost too tight, heavy and thick hands flexing, you can see the bend of his knuckles as his fingers dig into the roots.

“Na,”And, the smell of dirt, it’s so strong, the earthy undertones invade your nostrils and have no intent on stopping. . . “—na,” Raw, natural. His palms press in at the sides, thumbs stroking at the soil as he feels around for growing stems. For a moment it’s silent, save for the crackling radio beside you. Your pretty lips part, and sweetly, you’ve sounded out his name. “—mi.”

A puff of air leaves his lips, a scoff of a chuckle, and he’s giving a slight nod, quietly whispering the syllables of your name in acknowledgment. “Mhm?”

He doesn’t miss the way your lips split into a wide grin, weeds absentmindedly disregarded for a moment as you giggle, “I already knew that— I just said it!”

“Mm,” He agrees, though he’s not entirely sure you did. Then his heavy fingers tap your wrist— gentle, barely even a tap, but it gets you back on track— picking up the dead weeds. Kento watches, your hands gingerly plucking them free from the root, mastered and effortless.

Your fingertips dig into the soil, palms sticky and damp, littered with defrosting grass along each ridge and defining line. There’s so much care in your fingertips, and with every successful pull your eyes ignite. Like a cute, overgrown puppy. “Good. You’re a smart boy.”

“Y’think m’smart?” And, though your shoulders bunch up— a bit more bashful, you’re shaking your head. “I mean— I knew that already, too,” and it washes away as fast as it arrives, replaced with genuine exuberance. “I tell m’self everyday!”

The blond catches it anyway, gaze unwavering, even as your own struggles to keep contact. Nanami’s eyes are remarkably intimidating despite belonging to someone who’s positioned so utterly relaxed. . Crouching just as you are, but with smooth shoulders and lax biceps. Still, they’re visible through the silk fabric of his button-up, but he seems used to it. Tufts of blonde hair, slightly unruly and disheveled— swept back with gel, yet still set off in a flurry of gold by the back of his head, as if he’d rolled around in bed and decided to lounge about instead of retouching it.

Cozy.

“I do,” The sun dawns down through thick, gray clouds, framing his bronze locks— and with his lips slightly parted and his skin picking up a peachy glow, he looks almost seraphic. “What were you saying?”

“Um,” You pause to rethink through the last hour, warmth blowing past your cheeks as a particularly nippy gust of wind rushes by. “. . We sell ‘em, the weeds! That won’t be for a few days, sometimes we keep ‘em for cookin’, but . . . these aren’t any good.”

“Too many?” He asks, as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s learned in his vacation here, by far, despite having learned that just a few days ago.

“Too many!” Pretty lips part into a wide grin, and perhaps that’s the conclusion to Kento’s sightseeing.

౨ৎ

Kento tries not to lie— not unless he absolutely needs to.

With your black on black attire— a large, knitted sweater, a black bomber atop it, dark jeans to match, a hand-woven gray scarf wrapped around your neck, and white sneakers that carry a cream-colored accent in its threading— it’s hard to keep his mouth shut.

“Where are we going?” Is his first question— but there’s so much more he means to ask. Since when do you dress so nicely? Do your parents know you spent extra farm money on those shoes? Is it bad to feel the urge to hold you closer, just so no one gets any ideas?

Nonetheless, checking the silver-plated Rolex along his wrist with the slight tussle of his lapel-collared trench coat, just before popping open the passenger’s seat of your truck, he ignores the growing thought.

“You’re always locked up in your house,” Twisting your keychain covered keys into the ignition, the truck starts up with a gradual rumble. You’ve figured something was wrong with the oil for quite some time now, but it’s never been enough to start any problems. “Don’t y’wanna have fun?”

That doesn’t entirely answer his question, nor does it ease his mind— a vacation this is, yes. But it’s also paid, and he’s technically on the clock whilst being here. Still, he nods just once, the clench of his jaw apparent in the faint valleys of muscle just below his ear. Though, he supposes he could say the same about you. Every day you wake up, harvest, water crops, feed your animals, clean out troths and shovel up feces. He’s not even entirely sure if that’s your idea of fun— but he hopes not.

Kento doesn’t expect you to be such a great driver. Smooth turns and a gentle ride— even with cobblestone streets and gravel trails. You get carried away when you talk, too, hands moving about and your gaze trailing to his eyes every few seconds. He has to remind you— “Don’t take your hands off the wheel,” “Don’t look at me, look at the road,” — but Kento would be lying if he said it weren’t endearing.

It’s almost like you can barely function without basking in his presence.

“If it were warmer,” You swallow, finally stopping to catch your breath after the last fifteen minutes of rambling. The car slows down to a halt, an overhead traffic-light flashing a bright, crisp shade of red. “We could’ve went apple-pickin’ . . . or even oranges!”

You take the time to fully face him, eyes trailing up his dark trousers and gray turtleneck— it bunches at his chest, and you’re sure without his trench coat it’d be just as strained around his biceps.

“What do you do when it’s cold?” He muses, ducking his head to watch the passing of trees and inner city shops.

“Hm?” You hum, but before he can repeat the question you beat him to it. “Uh, we have this lake— it’s the first to freeze over when it’s cold. . ” So quaint, his eyes gloss over pedestrians as they live amongst themselves. Walking their dogs, sharing a drink at an outdoor bar, couples huddled close together for warmth. The sidewalks are clean and clear, there’s a polite, happy bounce to everyone’s step. Fairy lights blink in every other window, casting a sweet, bright hue along the streets below it. Kento understands it all, despite it being much more. . comfortable. . than Sendai. “And, when it’s completely frozen, we skate on it!”

It feels like home. A gentler, cozier version of it.

“I’m sorry—” The blond clears his throat as he turns to actually look at you, having fully processed your words. “Skating?”

“Are y’scared?” Nanami tries to ignore the burning of his throat when you laugh at his silence— a pretty, featherlight thing of a giggle that only progressively makes it harder for him to catch his breath.

“No,” He grumbles. He’s actually done it before— his younger, studying ‘coworkers’ had a knack for dragging him around outside of work hours— and he wasn’t free from it, even in winter. Yuji, Megumi, and Nobora, perhaps the three only people who could have him willingly risking a fractured disc.

“Don’t be scared, ‘Nami!” The car turns into a short trail, decalled in various signs and brightly colored symbols. “I can help you, m‘kay?”

Four people.

He nods anyway, save you the meltdown, and lets you drag him out the car once you’ve found a good place to park. He’d think it was illegal had there not been a sign for it, let alone communal skates in varying sizes. They’re in good condition, too. A small wooden bench— decorated with moss along its sides, he brushed his fingertips against it by accident— keeps him steady, but when he looks over to you, you’re already walking around with untied skates.

“Come here,” He beckons, voice soft and fond as he quirks a finger in your direction. He watches you fumble, nearly tripping over your own legs as opposed to your laces, but you make it over to him anyway, thigh against thigh. You brace yourself when he pulls your legs over his lap, shifts in his seat and tightens them just enough— “It’s not hurting you, is it?”— to fit comfortably.

“Thank you, ‘Nami,” He can hear the sincerity in your voice— as if he’d saved your life. Your breath pans across his face, warm and minty as you shake your head, “Doesn’t hurt. . .”

He offers a gentle pat to your knees once you’re fully set, softly dropping them back down as he leans to tie his own. It’s a quick process— not as tedious as the knotted up, tattered ones back home— a much more nice change of pace.

The ice, though, is considerably worse. He surmises it’s because it’s relatively untouched— if the whole village of Sekichiku had done two laps over it still wouldn’t have been enough to leave a noticeable dent in the ice— so his skates have nowhere to grip. You, though. . .

You’re much more graceful on ice than on land. A slow turn here, a quick twirl there, you could skate laps around him if you so choose. But you don’t, instead holding onto his wrists as he stiffly skates forward. Kento’s nose is nipped with pink, matching the particular shade of his lips as they part in concentration. The shade dispels down his cheeks, and you’ve never seen his face so. . . soft.

“Say, ‘Nami?” You huff, holding his wrists as you move in a slow, clockwise circle, turning you both. “When’re you leavin’?”

The truth bubbles in his throat, tougher to swallow than he’d originally thought it’d be. He clears his throat, avoids the question, and instead of freeing his wrists altogether, he holds your hand. You’re pouting when you slowly swivel to his side, his heart somersaulting almost painfully at the cute, wee frown to your lips. “Hey,” you whine, caught off guard but still pleasantly surprised, squeezing your palms against his own. “What’re you doin’?”

You’ve always been undeniably sweet. Kento thinks back to your basket of goods. The sweet, savory, aromatic flavors of bread, meats, cheeses, chocolates. How you have it to him so sweetly, no questions asked. There’s no ulterior motive to your demeanor, either. It’s peculiar to have someone so. . dependable. Someone to easily lean on, someone so— hospitable.

You’re perfect.

“I've never—“ He pauses, watching smoke dispel form your lips. An intimate position, he’s in— close enough to hear your breaths, holding on tight enough to feel your pulse through your fingertips. “Noone has ever done this for me. Thank you.”

“What, take you skatin’?”

“Support me unconditionally.” He pulls away before you can say anything in response, relishing in the thought of your pulse speeding against his knuckles as he stiffly skates back toward regular land.

The ride home is smooth, but quiet. And once you get there, hunger overrides your hospitality.

You like Kento’s rental— its kitchen is spacious and just big enough to support the mess of pots and pans that come with baking. It’s warm and inviting, the stove works great and the oven even better. Its heat burns a little brighter, but nothing you can’t handle.

Pain au chocolat — chocolatine — and meringue cookies; they’re a pain in Kento’s ass. Not even something he’d try to attempt without you there— he’s happy to watch you whisk away and laugh at his disgruntled faces. A “taste-tester”, you’d called him, scooping one sugary accessory after another onto the pad of your fingertip and asking him to try.

You weren’t lying. You really do know how to bake— flour dusted skin and all. Twisting raw dough into pretty sculptures of bows and braids, scored surfaces of x’s and o’s, light layers of warm butter that seep into soft, risen dough. And when it bakes, oh, how sweet the smell of aromatic bread is to Nanami’s stomach.

Studying the contours of a pretty face— baby fat rounding your cheeks as they pool into a sweet smile, pearly whites displayed brighter than the moonlight leaking through the floral curtains. Your laughter is wholehearted, hands gripping the hem of Nanami’s fleece shirt, body tipping toward his chest as your giggles dispel into the warm, brown-sugar baked air. For a moment he mentally swoons, something of a comforting coo, eyelids heavy and blanketed with the same baking powder littering your handsome face. He relishes the warmth, which leaves just as fast as it arrives, and suddenly you’re reaching into the oven without your cute, fluffy puppy-patterned mittens protecting your hands.

“Wait,” His tone is harsher than intended, solid and thick, and you— the sweet, softheaded boy that you are, don’t entirely deserve the worried look on your face that melts into sharp, hot pain.

“Ouch!” Your elbow smacks into Nanami’s calf as you flinch, fingertips raw and numb— still pulsing from the fresh burn. The man crouches down, knee to ceramic, palm to your warm shoulder, and suddenly your wide eyes are glittering and gleaming. Had the smile from your face not been growing, he’d have been appalled. “‘Nami, did you see that?!”

“Silly boy,” He sucks his teeth, pulling your clasped hands from your chest. Gingerly, he plucks out each finger one by one, runs the pad of his thumb along the burn sites. “You have to be more gentle with yourself.”

And, as if he’d declared to destroy your favorite equipment, your shoulders deflate. Hazel watches as tears well in your eyes in real time— with award winning speed, really— glassy and wet and oh, you’re so cute. It was just a small reminder, nothing too harsh— it could barely be considered scolding. Yet here you are, sniffling and averting your gaze. Eyes glossed over while your fingers instinctively curl over his own for comfort. Then a small, petulant, “M’sorry, ‘Nami.”

“None of that,” Soothing, it's gentle and soft as his thumb travels along the numb pads of your fingertips. And though it was already a faint sensation, you can tell his touches are deliberately featherlight and calculated, cautious. “Nothing to cry about.”

“I’m not crying,” You grumble, though his ears register the sound as a wet sniffle as you rub at your cheek with the back of your free hand. “I don’t do that.”

“Of course not,” The breathy lilt tongue voice gives it all away, a tiny smile dotting the man’s lips. They’re entirely too enticing, a sweet shade of pink that dispels into the milky tan of his skin. Sheen and glazed with what could be spit, your lips part to mirror the same smile. Though yours is larger, his isn’t any less exuberant— luring you in one centimeter at a time until, inevitably, his breath ghosts along the expanse of your jaw— you can almost taste him.

His voice breaks through the thickened silence, “But it’s okay if you do.”

The next two hours should go by just fine.

౨ৎ

“What does ‘default-judgment’ mean?”

Floorboards creak beneath Kento’s feet, dimly lit ambient lighting placed around the office keeps it lit just enough to see ever so clearly— a small lamp angled above an open file, then the remaining trickle of light cascading over photos. Labeled, dated, clipped, and shipped to his front door just a couple weeks ago. Soon to be released, relinquished, deadlined.

His hair drips with cold water, tiny drops dripping down to the floor while others slither down his neck, and pool where his back dips, just slightly. He doesn’t tense when he sees you— his muscles remain just as relaxed as they were in the shower— and his eyes barely widen past the tired, lidded expression that paints his face every night, before he gets his studying done. But you—

You’re the opposite. Your shoulders raise to your ears, eyes wide and unblinking as they stare at the towel wrapped around his thick, slightly hairy forearm— it’s navy blue, with a brown, horizontal stripe across its fabric, and embroidered letters you can’t quite make out. An intelligible sound, then an unexplainable expression, and— there you are, tripping over your own tongue as your hands shoot to cover your eyes. Only unclothed from the waist up, Kento can’t help the amusement blooming in his chest.

“It’s a deduction based on a defendant’s failure to answer. . or appear, in some cases, to a lawsuit or court.” Nanami’s eyes trace the part of your lips behind your palm as your brain processes (though, he doesn’t think that’d be the correct word for it) his words. They purse, quickly, tight lined, until parting again— once more, with less confidence. With each step he takes (long strides that make him appear as if he’s almost floating) he grows closer, strands of freshly washed angel hair sticking to his forehead.

“. S. . ure!” You smile and nod in faux understanding, fingers curling toward the dip of your hairline, eyes peeking through cracked fingers. From there, beneath your palms, an uncomfortable warmth blossoms from your throat up, settling in your cheeks and sprinkling across your nose— sweltering and tingly.

Kento tuts, a soft noise, and you watch as he inhales a deep breath, pine eyes perusing through the space between your fingers for eye contact. “. . . Don’t worry about all that.” And, as if he can feel the high voltages slamming against your heart, his tongue darts out to moisturize his lips, and his eyes fall to your chest. He sits aslant to you, legs spread wide with the occasional sway of his knee— but nothing too sudden. You’re made all too aware of his half-naked proximity, purportedly close enough to feel the warmth of his body radiating through the room— to smell the sweet undertones of vanilla, musk, and earl gray tea residing in his skin. In a low rumble he speaks, pulling lotion free from the drawer to your left. “Silver lining is: I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

Even as he leans forward, closer and closer, he doesn’t cage you in— even if your chest aches at the loss.

Your heart demands the conversation die after that. Beating so rapidly you assume it’s stopped, silence freezes the air as your hands slowly drop to your lap. Lips pulled with woe, darling eyes low and sodden in an instant. Shoulders dropped just enough to sound a sharp creak in the swiveling chair you’re sat in, your lashes clump with fresh, unshed tears. And, in a lapse moment of murkiness, Kento’s lips twitch into a frown of their own.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, as if afraid your response will confirm it— he’s what’s wrong. His choice of words— wrong. Thin brows furrowed, the dip of his chin has his lips ghosting your cheek.

“. . . Nothin’.” It’s worse. He’d expected tears— maybe even an exchange of fiery words— but instead you’ve shut down, hands balled up in the fabric of your flowy pants, denim bunched up and draped over your thighs. Completely silent, staring at nothing and everything— all in between— all at once.

“Nothing?” He echoes, a silent suggestion for more. The rumble in your ear is almost too much, for a moment you assume you’d conjured it up with your imagination. Too close, too bare, too blunt, too warm— too fleeting.

“Mhm,” When your gaze meets, his heart plummets to his stomach. “Nothin’.” Words rush to his tongue before they can catch up to his brain, and. . you look so . . sad. He’s never seen you so defected— nor had he thought the concept of giving up existed for you. So headstrong, determined to make things work, gears always shifting into overdrive when you can’t make something out. You’ve gone as far as to create your own definition— this isn’t you.

“It’s. . . inevitable,” Kento’s voice softens, dropping to a quiet whisper between just the two of you. “But not for a while,” Then shifts his weight back, pulling away as he speaks in some sick sort of oxymoron, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will.” Grumbling, you’ve always been an open-book.

“Not forever.”

“. . . Ever,” You grunt, choosing to ignore the stern quirk of his thin brow. You’re a bit of a brat— Kento sees that now— behind the pouty lips and soft eyes, behind the large smiles and intimidating prowess. “When are you goin’?”

Nanami treads carefully, fingers wrapped around the closed bottle of lotion. With a snap it clicks open, and a generous amount is pumped into his palms. The smell is neutral and muted, but clean and fresh.

Kento tries not to lie— not unless he absolutely needs to. An unexplainable feeling, adjacent to panic, rises in his stomach as he lies, “Six weeks, at least.”

“Nami…” Ignoring the deadline he’d just given you, you ask, “D’you like your job?”

You watch his posture relax, as if the previous conversation was just as emotionally taxing as it was for you, for him. He sighs, pauses to think for a mere second, then shrugs. “I like its structure.”

“Oh.”

“I like helping people, too.” He adds, much more sincere. Your eyes trail the lotion as it’s rubbed into his biceps, his shoulders, his forearms. His fingers flex and muscles ripple, skin bouncing beneath his fingertips, and light traces of hair at his knuckles raising.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on his veiny hands. You suppose, in a way, your jobs are similar. You, too, help people out— you provide fresh food and crops, you herd cattle and brush the hair of healthy horses. A very hands-on job— it’s rewarding. “Me too. I— I like helping too. And. . .”

His fingers twitch, almost as if they can feel your gaze, but Kento makes no effort to move them.

Six weeks. Time is fleeting.

“I—” With trembling hands you lean forward, clasping Kento’s smooth knuckles against your palm. He’s just as warm as he looks, skin soft and sheen. His fingers flicker in your hold, straining as they tense— silently, asking, ‘what?’ as an increasingly overwhelming urge to keep Kento close washes over you.

It’s moments like these you’d wish you were better with words. To weave them together into something pretty, like a basket made for carrying fresh harvest. To pull apart and braid together an amalgamation of just the right phrases— ones that sound pretty and roll off the tongue. Some that sound soulful and genuine, yet effortless and forthwith at the same time.

Moments like these, where your breath is stuck in your throat and with every rise and fall of his chest you think you’ve lost some more— he’s taken it all from you— you wish you knew just what to say, to do, to bring that air back.

To have him melt at your words the way you do at his actions, to have him feel the same exact thing when your heart clenches in your chest like a rag that’s been wrung out to dry. Without trying, without straining. You wish you were smarter— better at this, as you lean so far from the chair it begins to squeak in protest.

You’re sure there’s better people in Tokyo. With better educational backgrounds, with cleaner jobs. People who have it all together, who have different skills and assets— who don’t stick to one thing simply because they have a natural born talent for it. People who are prettier, more handsome— perhaps more his type. People who have aligning career goals and paths— more accomplishments.

Sweeter, kinder. With softer hands and an easier understanding of city life.

People who are better with words. Who can weave them together into something pretty, like a closed case with no loose ends or dead leads. Who can pull apart and braid together an amalgamation of just the right phrases— ones that sound pretty and roll off the tongue. Who can make their confessions sound soulful and genuine, effortless and forthwith at the same time. All within the heart of Tokyo.

People who aren’t you.

Nanami stands, shuffling over to fix the documents you’d ruined— of course you did— but his face hasn’t changed from his usual tight-lipped expression. Sometimes it’s hard to read him, and it’s times like these you really wish you could.

“I like you,‘Nami.” You whisper to yourself, quietly pouring your heart out with each spoken letter.

And, with a snap, your world goes crumbling down. Increasingly silent, the world stops as you hit the floor and Kento’s chest stills— the soft, quiet beat of his breaths gone quiet, as if it were a mere memory to begin with. The backing of his swiveling chair falls with you, right to the floor, clattering much louder than the sound of your tense body, and—

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I think you have the wrong idea.” His voice is strained. Uncomfortable.

You’ve never felt more humiliated.

౨ৎ

Despite your humiliating attempt to hold onto it, time flies by. Locked away in your room— your only source of comfort being an occasional knock on the door from your mother and the weight of your blanket as it remains overhead. You’ve counted the seconds— tripped over your thoughts after reaching 1,633– started over again. You’ve listened to the pitter-patter of rain against your windowsill, peeked out from your cocoon to bet on a race between the raindrops.

You’ve thought about Kento, of course. So much it plagued you, made your chest uncomfortably tight— until all you could do was let out a humiliated groan all over again. It’s a timeless cycle, and yet, it grows closer to his leaving date.

You haven’t spared a glance toward the actual outside, even when your window overlooks his own study. You’re sure everything’s out of sorts now— weeds overtaking the farm, plants dried out or overwatered, any blooming vegetation snipped at the bud before it could bloom. Tough luck, they’ll get over it.

And, God, has your family tried. Through gentle words and offers of food, through soft praises that fell on deaf ears. Through frustration, too, anger laced in the sweetest yell of ‘where’d my smart boy go?’

Your eyelids feel heavy and thick. No longer swollen with tears or bloodshot with dejection— just heavy, simply tired. Sleep is all you’ve done these days, yet it feels like your body can’t get enough. Fifteen hours a day leave you straining for more, three hours a day leave you exhausted. You can barely remember when you last left your bed— for the bathroom, never for a drink— and even when your frown deepens as you think about it, you can’t bring yourself to fix it.

You can’t bring yourself to fix anything as of late, if it can even be fixed.

You were stupid for thinking he’d feel the same, anyway. A man like ‘Nami— a man like Nanami— so smart and so distinguished. So. . opposite of you, to think you’d fall anywhere near the same line as him. . is laughable, really. Even more so when you consider his upbringing. He doesn’t mention it much, and you try not to pry, but you consider his lifestyle quite traditional and cookie-cutter. You hadn’t even asked if he liked men.

“I think you have the wrong idea.”

His rejection physically pains you, a quiet sniffle and suppressed whine straining your vocal cords. Your nails dig into the fleshy, cushiony part of your palm. You can hear the pitch of his voice — rumbling and deep, you hear the shakiness of his breath—so deeply uncomfortable, cold with disgust. “I think you have the wrong idea.”

A knock to your door startles you awake, eyes wide open as your cocooned body flops around in bed. Still, you barely make an effort to respond, dry lips parting to form a garbled groan.

“Your. . . friend was at the door,” It’s your mother’s voice, but softer and pleading. For a moment your heart twists, eyebrows pinched as you suck in a sharp breath through your teeth— you can’t remember the last time you’d seen her face without slamming a door in it. “Looked tired, so I gave him some coffee. . .”

A bitter, disconcerting ‘so?’ nearly leaves your mouth— something so unlike your usual self, it makes you want to borrow deeper into your sheets and never leave. Shame. She doesn’t expect you to crack the door open. You shake your head, even if she can’t see you, only breaking your stubborn resolve when knocks once more, and slowly, you scuttle around the mess of your bedroom to unlock the door. Your eyes carry dark circles and heavy bags as your gaze pierces straight through her. Then, a shaky breath and barely audible whisper, “. . . S’it Nanami?”

Her aged smile is soft and thoughtful as she leans into the doorframe— something you haven’t seen in a while, and your eyes prickle with warm tears once more. “Between you ‘n me, you’re in much better shape.”

Cracking a smile nearly takes all your energy from you.

You don’t bother changing from your pajamas— they’ve always been so baggy to support the muscle you’ve grown over years of lifting heavy produce and working with truckloads— and now you’re grateful for it. Something to hide behind if you need it, and your fingers subconsciously curl into the fabric of your long sleeves for comfort. Once you get downstairs the two of you depart, and a gentle rub to your shoulder blades is all your mother offers before finding solitude on her own, just a few rooms away if you need her.

And— she was wrong. Of course, he looks tired. You can see it in his shoulders— they’re all wound up and tense, like they’d been when you first met. Sure, his jaw is tightened and you can hear the grind of his teeth against one another despite keeping your distance— but he still seems put together, albeit lacking his usual combover or corporate style of clothing.

It hurts to know he does well without you, as selfish as it may sound.

“Hi,” You mumble, rubbing at your face with the palm of your hand. Your voice crackles with disuse, rumbling and garbled in your throat. “Nanami. .”

“Hi,” He echoes, your name heavy on his tongue as he stands, leveling out the shared eye contact. Just Nanami. For a moment he’s at a loss for words— and it’s odd, typically he has an answer for everything. You remember asking why he’d buckle your seatbelt before his own, and his answer was always the same. You remember asking why he likes what he does— and they’d all circle back to enjoying the small things in life. His Kento’s lips part, taken aback by the loss of his nickname, but they close into a tight line with registration. Perhaps you’re just. . too much.

“I lied to you,” He begins, and your heart leaps to your throat. He clasps his hands together, resting soundly by his thighs as his head tilts downward, a silent plea. “And, for that . . . I’m sorry,” Kento releases a breath, hands coming undone to swipe away stray, gold strands of hair. “Don’t feel obliged to accept, I just— I like y— I want to show you something.”

It’s odd. The look on your face makes him want to scoop you up, to cradle you in his arms and hold you tight. And yet, he can see the cogs turning in your brain, the gradual loss of your frown and faux steel in your eyes as you shrug— he can’t even distinguish if you’re being reluctant or stubborn. Nonetheless, Kento smoothens the fabric of his coat, and makes a small, polite gesture to the door.

“Okay.” Your fist rubs sleep from your eyes, steps heavy and dragging along the floor as you slide your feet into brown bunny slippers— the same ones he’d worn when you officially met.

Stepping into the cold, crisp winter air, you both ignore the tremor to your bottom lip, “What were you gonna. . ?”

Not at all hard to spot, set alight by the glow or orange lanterns, it’s your farm. Oh, it’s much prettier than you could’ve ever imagined it. So clean, with pristine rows and neat placements of fresh soils. You can actually walk through it, as opposed to tip-toeing around like you used to. The air is crisp and fresh, just like you’d remembered it— but it feels better than before. And, dotting the horizon, fireflies dance into the night sky and blend into the twinkling stars. You don’t remember the last time you’d seen them— vision occupied by tall grass or obstructed by rusty tools. You could almost cry. Your breath catches in your throat, a gentle breeze brushing along your forehead and digging into the fabric of your clothes— yet you feel light and warm.

He did all this for you?

“Are you cold?” You blink hard, vision blurred with tears as Kento’s hand grasps your shoulder. “You’re shivering.” He’s quick to shrug off his coat, barely even flinching when the fabric dips into fresh mud, and loops it around your form with steady hands.

“M’okay. .” He frowns, barely visible, and the slight protests of being strong enough to tough it out die on your tongue. But it’s true, you don’t feel cold— not internally, at least. You feel light yet heavy, warm and airy. Heat pokes at your skin, ignites in the apples of your cheeks and trails down your throat. “. . . Thank you, ‘Nami. . . For everythin’.”

‘Why're you saying it like that?’ He wants to ask. As if it’s some sort of sick, roundabout way of saying goodbye. His movement stutters, lips curled into a small ‘o’ before reverting back to its usual, thin line; and he speaks, “I don’t just like you.”

Your fist tightens in his coat, fabric twisting to accommodate your grip.

“I. . admire you. Your strength, your weakness. Your baking. . Your smile, too,” He sighs, quiet and cautious. “Your laugh. I regret not telling you before. At first, I thought you were impulsive, and somehow abrasive, bu—”

You’ve never been one to hide from your feelings— you laugh when you’re happy, scowl when you’re angry, mope when you’re sad. So it’s no surprise to feel you smile; wide and unapologetic. It’s no surprise to feel the tremble of your fingers as they release his coat and land on his biceps. To feel the slow, shaking breath of air he releases at your silence— hearing his own slight sniffle at the nippy, cold breeze. You’re nervous, lips twitching as his chin dips, bashful as his lips intertwine with your own.

A kiss.

"’Nami," Laughing into his mouth, it meets the sound of your lips continuously meeting in breathless, heavy harmony. His lips are plush, soft and sweet, hungry and hasty, everything and nothing and all things in between. “I like you. I like you, I like you, I like you.”

You feel it now— the warmth enveloping his chest, the hard hammering of his heart against his ribcage. "Shit," He whispers, incredulous, and before slowly pulling away, cradles your handsome face between his calloused “I like you too.”

౨ৎ

Kento owns silk pillows. You can tell they’re imported from home— as they disturb the uniform colors of the crisp, cream comforter set blanketing his bed. It’s the first thing you notice, head sinking into the fabric as your eyes flutter closed, thoughts and breaths stolen with each wet, heavy kiss being pressed against your lips. His breath is hot and heavy, small groans and grunts leaving his parted lips, and— he tastes of chocolate.

“Kenny—” You gasp, but the sound of his name on your lips only eggs him on. Hot heat blooms in your stomach, tingling down to your tummy, so deep, something you’ve never really felt before. It tingles, almost, right through your thighs and straight to your cock, plumping up with each passing second. And his hands, god, are so quick and skilled— shedding you of your clothing as if he’s done it a million times before.

“Kenny,” You repeat, much whinier than before, tiny sounds leaving your lips as you squirm in his hold. “Mm, wait,” and his response is barely committal, a low hum that melts into a breathy sigh as your bare skin is exposed and your leaking cock springs free against your tummy. He coos, peeling the sticky fabric of your underwear free. Cute.

“Use your words,” Kento mumbles against your skin, running his hands along the silky smooth skin of the back of your thighs. “I know you can, you’re a smart boy.” You squirm with every touch, plush skin bouncy as you press your thighs together, cock sliding by your navel. And, even when you hide, he can see the precum smearing against your stomach, the tightening of your balls, and, now, your exposed hole winking back at him.

Fuck.

“Mm, don’t look,” You’ve barely convinced yourself, a choked out moan leaving your lips as his big, warm hand wraps around your cock and pumps. “That’s— oh, embarrassin’!” Slow, at first, trailing up the sensitive shaft and rubbing circles into the overly-sensitive head. Until his hand is slick with precum and his own spit, until your thighs are convulsing and you’re close to covering yourself in your own cum. Until you’re sobbing, pulling at his wrist with weak, clammy hands.

“I know, sugar. I know,” And the stifled cry you've been hearing belongs to you. “Feels good, hm?” His free hand grazes down your waist, thumbing at the dip between your hip and your thigh, then cupping the soft, plush skin of your pecs. “Feels better than your own hand, doesn’t it?” Kneading until your nipples harden against his palm, soft skin swelling around his fingers. And, oh, how pretty you are when you cry, overstimulated tears rolling down your cheeks and incoherent babbles leaving your swollen lips.

“Uh— huh, yeah,” Is barely breathed out, and Kento watches pre leak over his knuckles. Creamy and thick, sticky and sweet as your hips rock back and forth, to and fro. You just can’t help yourself, greedy boy, fucking into his fist like it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt and— oh.

It is.

“Messy boy,” He huffs, pressing his forehead against your own— damp and sticky. Your hand, preoccupied with fisting his sheets, is grabbed, and all you can feel is slick, hot heat. “Fuck your fist for me.”

“Wh- Huh?” It takes a moment for your brain to catch up to your hands, wrapped tightly around your cock as your hips buck— whines high and loud in your throat, keening like a puppy. It’s not at all paced, not like Kento, just pure desperation and need as your toes curl and your eyes roll back into your skull. Warmth rises in your face as your legs instinctively part, tingles spreading through your body and needy moans filling the air. Wet and sloppy, your hand is slick and soaked.

He travels lower, lips trailing down your throat, your collarbones— pausing at your chest. He watches the rise and fall, the slight bounce of your pecs as you pant like a dog. Pretty buds hard and sensitive, a gentle suckle is enough to make you arch from the sheets and keen.

“Good boy, that’s it,” You have the urge to get on your knees, to present all your holes to him, to spread yourself open with your fingers- fucking them in and out, in and out, just for Kento. It’s all too much, thinking of what’s next, what’s happening now, what’ll happen later.

Nanami lifts his shirt over his chest, the fabric bunching under your armpits as he keeps it pinned between his teeth, and you have no other choice but to flutter your lashes, watching as his pants are loosened and his cock springs free. Big. Thick and long— and, it seems his tan has traveled to his cock, too. Blushing at the tip, the sweet color of mocha, it disappears the further you look down. Curved, too, slightly past his belly-button and heavy against his navel. It's humiliating, the way your mouth waters almost immediately.

It’d feel so good weighing down on your tongue, fucking your throat fast and rough, making you gag and sputter— choking on your own tears and groans.

“Wanna. . I want. . .” You squirm where you lay, whining high in your throat as you find nowhere to hide— nothing to put your face against, nowhere to bury the drunk, hazy expression on your face.

“Want what?” He murmurs, pretty eyes trailing along the curves of your face before he places a sweet, soft kiss along the edge of your jaw. You take the grip on your waist as a slight indication— Kento’s patience is slowly waning.

“V’never. .” Your lips part into a gasp, eyes fluttering closed as his large hands travel along the expanse of your chest. “I wanna. . . feel you in my throat.”

The smart man he is, Nanami, never misses a beat. Pink lips splitting into a small smile, his thumb rubs circles against your skin. Still, you can feel the throb and twitch of his cock against your thigh, hard and almost leaking. “That’s ambitious, sugar.”

You don’t register scrambling up by your elbows, nor the amount of time it takes for your fingers to fail at wrapping around his cock. Your thoughts are muffled and hazy until a quiet chuckle sounds above you— rumbly and deep, and— ah, Kento’s hand is guiding your head back as he pulls your hands free. You’re panting for it now, mouth dropped open as the slurp and slick noise of his cock tapping against your tongue drops straight to your stomach. You could cum from this alone, without even a single glance toward the ache between your thighs.

"M'gonna be so good, promise, know I can do it! Want it, Sir," A clear habit of rambling when you’re nervous, a soothing coo leaves Kento’s throat. His tip smears along your pillowy lips, sticky and salty as pre paints your chin.

“Shit,” He groans under his breath, fisting his cock to ease the ache in his balls. “Slow. I don’t want to hurt you. Gentle, remember?”

You don’t. You can barely think, let alone recall something from another day. But you nod anyway, eyes glued to his cock as it bobs to and fro— pretty and weeping. You bet it’ll feel so heavy, weighing down on your tongue and nearly crushing your throat as you gag around it. He’ll taste good, too, salty and sweet as he buries his cock down your throat. With your nose pressed into the blond of his pubes, and his balls slick against your chin as they tighten and clench.

Yeah, you want him to cum on your face.

With a whiny nod you take his tip into your mouth, pink tongue over your teeth. In your head, it’s much easier— you can sink down to the base no problem— but in practice. . . You sputter and gurgle, leaning into the gentle touch caressing your cheek as your tongue traces the pulsing, thick vein cascading down his shaft. Through your pathetic whimpers and whines he mumbles— but it falls on deaf ears.

You stick out your tongue, cute and pink, latches onto your bottom lip, slicking his slit as he blinks down at you, pupils blown and wide as he praises you, voice smooth and buttery.

Through your own jittery, inexperienced suckling, his tip is smeared along your lips, slowly tracing your cupid's bow and bottom lip until a thin layer of pre has them glazed over and sticky. Your lips part, carrying a thin trail of creamy pre between them, as his dick slides in and out your hot, wet mouth. Spreading heavy along your tongue, swallowing around the head as his thighs tense, muscles flexing and rippling as they strain to keep still.

“‘Nami’s dick is heavy, sweetheart,” He’s gasping before you can fully take in the stretch of his cock, hips twisting as his eyes flutter closed. It’s been a while, you can tell, with the way his balls are clenched tight, his hand morphed into a fist— careful not to grip your hair. Your spit bubbles and pools around his cock, slick and wet, sliding between the seams of your lips and dripping down your throat, down your sternum, down his thighs. “And you’re taking it so well.”

Running your tongue along his big, veiny cock, his head falls forward— adam’s apple bobbing as he lets out a pleased moan. His cock fills your empty mouth, stuffing it full like a pre-lubed fleshlight, his balls slapping against your chin in sticky, wet plaps. Collecting drool, it froths between your lips and his cock, bubbly and white until your noises are sloppy and loud. “That’s it, good boy, take this load down your pretty little throat. . .”

Gasping on his cock, Kento’s hand holds you close, until you’re buried against his pubes, until your throat is squeezing and contracting and wrapped plush around the thick shaft of his dick. You can feel it, each and every twitch and throb, each hit, sticky rope that paints your mouth as he cums down your throat, ropes shooting down your tongue and sticking to the roof of your mouth. You’ve done so good, such a good boy, marked for Sir, offering a few hollow sucks to his spasming cock before he pulls you off.

You’d rather he paint your face, but you trust him, swallowing the bitter, salty cream as he whispers gentle praises.

“You’re perfect,” Kento mumbles through heavy gasps, rubbing away the fat tears that roll down your cheeks. Such a sweet, pliant boy, leaning into his touch as he gently pushes you back down, off your knees.

Now he’s got you folded, knees bent back in such a slutty, shameless display. The blond squeezes at his cock, his large hand sliding into a fist that clamps down around his beading, shiny slit, then slowly back down to the thick, veiny shaft. Yeah, that’s good, how it slips and slides with rhythmatic pumps. You’d like to imagine that’s how it’ll be when his cock is inside, stretching past your rim and splitting you open, sliding against your velvety walls until he fills you up with his hot, sticky cum.

“Spit,” he says, gentle at first, but hardening as your poor, pitiful attempt at spitting down your own cock turns into gurgles of drool and incoherent moans. He grips your jaw, angling it just right— till you’re resting back on your elbows and have enough space to land a warm, wet glob right down the slit. “Good boy. Look at me, pretty. Like this.”

You watch as he spits down onto his own cock, runny and wet, which stands as a reminder of its own. His fist is so big, but it’s not nearly enough to swallow his cock down. You watch it pop free from his tight grip, loud squelches with each and every movement. Every time he throbs, pulses, shifts— you hear it all.

“That’s it, atta boy, my good little cocksleeve,” You— it must be you, there’s no one else he’s speaking to. Still, with your hand squeezing your throbbing shaft there’s not much you can say, airy little moans and sweet, high gasps leaving your pouty lips as you buck— up, up, up. A thin trail of drool slips down your chin, warm and wet and— oh, that’s nice— trailing down your cock. “That’s it, stick your tongue out.”

You really do play the part, tongue on display as you fuck your fist silly, bumping slits with the blond. Soft and sticky, loud and wet squelching until his own large, warm palm envelops both your cocks, bumping and grinding and sliding so messy. You nearly burst into hysterics when the warmth is gone, and Nanami’s gaze tears away from the pre oozing between your shafts. “Ask Sir for more, angel.”

“Mm, waitwaitwait, don’t— don’t stop,” You keen, stumbling over your tongue. Your brows pinch, eyes glazed over with unshed tears. “Kenny— Sir, please.”

“Good boy,” All but purring, his hands roam along the plush, round mounds of your ass. “Yeah,” His dick slips between the slick skin of your perineum, dragging along the sensitive skin— the head of his cock catching on your rim when his thrusts turn too eager. “You’re a good boy, asking like that.”

“You like grinding on Sir's cock don’t you? Getting me all wet. . .” Just as warm and wet as he’d thought, cooped up in his office and fucking into his fist, lube gushes and trickles out with every deliberate, shallow rut forward. Your balls bounce and twitch, slick and shiny with a mixture of pre. Your moans, so pretty, high and nasally— incoherent and blabbering. The slurp of his cock goes straight to your balls, tightening as you whine like a bitch for it. And his grip, once gentle and steady, leads down to your ass, keeping it spread as he slides the big head of his cock along your pretty little rim, again, and again, and again. It’s more menuevering than bouncing, through your fucked out haze you try to think; you want him to ruin you.

A knot tightens in your tummy, tingling in your balls as your thighs tighten and your legs tremble— fuck, you’re cumming, hard and all at once, it catches you off guard and a choked squeal is knocked from your throat, rope after rope spraying along your own chest.

“I—” You sob, cock convulsing against your tummy as Kento groans. “I didn’t mean to— didn’t know, m’sor—”

He hushes you, a low growl in his throat as his eyes roam up your tummy, past your hard nipples and land on the splatter of cum collecting between the plush hills of your pecs. “S’okay, it just felt too good, mhm? I bet your pussy feels so good, baby— perfect, pretty little pussy swallowing up my cock.”

You don’t expect him to say that— that’s the last thing you expect, eyes rolling back in your skull as you moan, wholehearted and slutty. With the wet squeeze of lube along your bottom half, slicker and sloppier than ever before, your hole winks back at him. Your perfect, pretty little pussy. “That okay, sweetheart? Can Sir pound this hole till it aches for him?”

Your response is barely coherent, garbled sounds and babbling that roughly translates to ‘please’ as thick fingers prod at your tight, puckered hole. Your loud moans are hushed as Kento leans down, close to your ear. His fingers slide against your entrance, sticky lube sliding along with them and connecting to your puffy rim. They feel so big, so long and thick when he taps them against your hole, barely breaching the tiny gape of your rim. “Gonna get you ready for Sir’s dick, gonna finger that cunt nice and slow, get that sweet boy-hole stretched out.”

“Kenny,” You hiccup, uncontrollable tears streaming down your face as you reach forward to press his fingers closer, a tiny gasp leaving your lips as your entrance is breached. You don’t miss the groan you earn in return, deep and shaky as the man takes the opportunity to slip his fingers right in, past the burning stretch of your fluttering ‘cunt’ that sucks the digits deeper and deeper into your gummy walls. “Can take it, pound it, Sir.”

“Look at me, watch me, sugar. Watch Sir fuck this little hole full.” You squeeze your eyes shut for as long as the reluctant, bratty little part of your brain lets you before staring down into hazel. Until his fingers have you seeing stars and rocking back into them like a cock hungry slut, you’ve never felt more full until his cock kisses your insides, leaving you sloppy and open and full.

Your voice isn’t nearly as loud as the wet squelch and slap of skin against skin, his cock sliding in and out your puffy hole as lube gushes out around his dick in white ringlets. Like you’ve creamed on his cock, he can see it slip back inside with each thrust. Your knees over his shoulders, Kento hauls your body up, and with a tiny, wee and pathetic ‘ah!’ you follow suit, your cute little hole clenching and fluttering around his thick, leaking cock.

“Give me a little more, just a little more of this pussy,” You can’t contain the squeals and squeaks that leave your mouth when the blond pistons his hips, a bruising grip on your waist that only gets harder as he grinds his cock down into you. He’s filling you up so good, his balls slapping against your ass with each rushed, rough thrust that has your mind scrambled just as much as your guts. You can’t take it, hands scrambling to grab at something, anything that’ll keep you from screaming.

Pounding into you, your head falls back as you take it, nice and slow, stretching you out— fast and rough, steady and patient— Kento groans above you, bullying his cock inside, grinding while your hips squirm. Mouth open with an unending stream of moans, he breaks you in, turns you into his good boy— his perfect fleshlight. Wet little hole clenching and spasming, his weight pins you down as your greedy hole milks him for all he’s worth.

“Cummin’, Nami, s’too much— M’can’t—” Whining and crying, his touches go right to your head as much as they do your puffy hole."Kenny," you whine, long and pitiful, a pout of a noise that hits him right where you want it to, just as his cock does inside of you. You whine again when your rocking turns into frantic overstimulated grinding, reveling in the stretch of his cock and the rub of your prostate. He groans, thick and gravelly, hands coming up to squeeze at your chest.

“I’ve got you, c’mere, hold Sir’s hand,” He chokes out, feeling it too. The tightening of his balls, the way his dick aches and pulses inside you, the way his cum is starting to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are hard and deep, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. “So good for me,” You never want it to stop, not the pump of his cock, not the drag of his tip against your entrance, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move. Your grip on his knuckles is tight, nails digging into the skin of his hands. “That’s it, such a pretty boy, cumming on my cock.”

A searing knot of pressure grows in your stomach, filling as you bear down on his cock and sob on your whimpers. For a minute you think you’re going to pass out, everything going dark as you spurt all over yourself, globs of cum spraying hard onto your chin and splashing back on the blond. He makes you ride it out, offering hard, shallow thrusts to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, and places a few sweet, tender kisses to your sweaty jaw.

౨ৎ

You wake with a small moan, limbs racked in small aches as your body melts into silk sheets. It smells like him: warm, cozy, and comforting, like a hug. Grateful for the dim, ambient lighting of his bedroom, your eyelids flutter open slowly, and there’s not much to adjust to. You’re clean— its the first thing you notice, a faint scent of soap lingering on your skin as your aching body scrambles for Kento’s warmth.

“I’m here,” He says behind you, hairs on your neck standing straight as you blink at him. Carrying a glass of ice water and a plate of meringue cookies— whisked perfectly. Cute, cloud-like spirals that sit on a porcelain plate— the same ones he watched you make, a smile pulls at your cheeks. “Hungry?” The muscles of your biceps flex as you push yourself up, body subconsciously leaning toward the blond until he’s sat next to you, his touches gentle and fleeting.

He feeds you a cookie, watches your teeth sink into the sweet, then wipes away the remnants of sugar from your lips. So tender, your heart flutters when he takes a bite after you— an indirect kiss.

He swallows, throat bobbing, lashes batting against his high cheekbones, before parting his lips, “I was thinking of extending my stay.”

The room feels ten times brighter, ten times louder, and yet, your heartbeat overpowers it all.

“I like you,” The words tumble from your mouth, almost as if he hadn’t just spent the last hour taking you apart and building you back up. You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. “I more-than-like you, Kenny.”

And, without missing a beat, Kento answers truthfully this time.

“I love you too.”

2K notes · View notes

dabisbratz · 1 year

Text

been fantasizin! — izuku midoriya x male reader

w.c: 2.1k

WARNING: heat cycles, bunny quirk, ear-pulling, creampie (x2), toy use, overstimulation, manhandling, dacryphilia, soft dom!izuku, praise, kissing, drool/spit, body worship, dirty talk, breeding mention, use of the word “pussy” as a synonym for (ass)hole, amab reader

“Honey?” There’s a soft click of the front door as it unlocks, a tall pro-hero setting foot inside with a few grocery bags in hand. The penthouse is homely, not at all too large for it’s two inhabitants, with a nicely decorated living room and fully applianced kitchen. The kitchen island outlooks the living-room, and the living-room outlooks the balcony, with a pretty, twinkling view of Musutafu’s bustling city. Izuku couldn’t have asked for a better home, a better boyfriend, a better life. He fought hard for it, anyway. “I’m back!”

The home is draped in domesticity, well lived in with a few misplaced remotes and a blanket scattered across the pleather couch.

He can’t find you anywhere, not in the kitchen making a snack, not hiding behind the couch, with floppy ears that match your hair and give you away. Not on the balcony, where you like to lean too far out for your viewing pleasure and his dismay. He frowns, freckled cheeks puffed out in a pout and eyes dimly lit. It’s unusual for his bunny to stay where he is, typically he waits by the door for his boyfriend's return, ears bouncing excitedly the second the door is unlocked. There’s only really one place you could be, but he has a few things to put away first.

The groceries end up where they shouldn’t be, apples in the freezer and thinly cut beef stacked inside the fridge, but Midoriya just can’t focus when his day has been knocked off its path like this. He slams the fridge door much harder than intended, the stainless steel shaking in his grasp and nearly threatening to fall. It doesn’t, but the display almost has Izuku panicking again, sights set on two things at one.

So he makes his way to the bedroom.

It’s shared between the two of you, a large, soft, and warm mattress with even softer blankets (you picked them out), and some nice blackout curtains when city lights ended up too overwhelming. The door creaks quietly, nothing compared to the sound that doesn’t seem to be quieting down any time soon.

You’re grinding your cock down against the midsized plushie Izuku had won you on one of your first dates back in highschool, ruining the soft fur with your precum. It must be because it smells just like him, having previously been wearing one of his hoodies, and you’d referred to the bear as Izuku Jr. It’s wet and sticky, almost like the air in the room, which fills with desperate moans as your hips rock back and forth against the plush. Izuku can see the bounce of your ass as you rock it back against a silicone toy, slippery with lube and dribbling onto the bed. He frowns.

Your heat cycle must have started while he was away. His poor boy, his poor baby, was left alone to fend for himself, fucking himself against nothing but a fake for the last few hours. Your pretty thighs must be aching and tired by now, on fire and sore, wrapped around a teddy bear when it could’ve been him. Izuku sighs, shedding himself of his jacket before rolling up his sleeves, and slowly padding over to the bed.

He’s careful not to tear you away, you get very territorial of your ‘nest’, instead tracing his fingertips up your calves, the back of your thighs, the swell of your ass. It’s only when he gives a sharp squeeze to your backside do you notice his presence. Your big ears twitch, swaying along as your head whips back to finally register the man beside you. You can’t say much, throat hoarse and tired from cries that fell on deaf ears, but the look on your face is enough for Izuku to scoop you up and cup your face.

“Don’t stop ‘cause of me,” He whispers against your lips, gently scraping his nails behind your ears. You keen against his touch, chasing his palm until his freckled thumb is slipped into your mouth. You can feel a scar that runs across his thumb, similar to the veins in his dick. “Cockdumb bunny, you’re so pretty like this. How’d this happen, sweetpea?”

You moan around his thumb, suckling and rutting your hips against his clothed thigh, which is already starting to collect sticky stains of pre. There’s a small tug on your ear, hard enough to get your lips to pop off his finger until you’re looking up at him, eyes sparkly and wet. Izuku wipes your drying tears with his big hands, then tugs harder. “I know, too much thinking gets you riled up. Just need an answer, honey, then we can take care of your needy hole.”

‘Zuku’s hands are always better. When your brain isn’t fully online he’s there, all smiles and big hands to touch you just right. He slides his hands up your torso, actively avoiding your cock as he smears the cum on your bellybutton up to your chest, massages it into your hard nipples while you tremble in his hands. You fist the sleeves of his shirt, right where the neckline meets shoulder, pulling him in closer until his breath ghosts i’ve your nipples. You can’t take the lingering touches, you need something constant. Something intense.

But instead you whine, too needy to form any actual complete sentences or thoughts.

“Thought of— wanna be good. Need— M’a good boy. ‘Zuku. Need you.” It’s more jumbled than anything, a pathetic noise leaving your body as he pushes you back down against your plush, dildo discarded somewhere by the headboard. Such a silly thing, you got too far in your head and really thought some silicone was good enough to satiate your needs.

“Just stayed sweet for me? Thought about the stretch of my cock inside you— your mouth, your ass?” Midoriya responds absentmindedly, strong jaw clenched as he lifts you up by the hips, keeping you bent over until your face is smashed into the sheets, bunny ears alert and twitching as he rubs them soothingly. He tuts, sliding his hands down to your ass and spreading the thick cheeks apart wide. He’s met with your overstimulated hole, sloppy and needy as it winks up at him. “Or is this a cunt, honey? Made for breeding? It already looks like you’re gushing.”

He’s partly grateful you’re not positioned to face him, a sharp shade of red dusting his matured cheeks as you nod and press your ass down into his palms. Your thighs are sticky and soaked with lube, must’ve been leaking out of you since you’d gotten up to greet him. Your voice sounds whiny and high, ears bouncing with each downward thrust you make, bouncing against his hands like you’re trying to fuck yourself on his cock, despite it not being out yet.

“ ‘Zuku, ‘Zuku, ‘Zuku,” It’s a mantra of sorts, loud and rushing blood straight down south to Izuku’s stiff cock. You can’t think of anything but him, the stretch of your entrance as he pushes himself impossibly deep into your guts, the feeling of his hand supporting your tummy so he can feel himself sliding in and out of you, the praise that leaves his lips when he’s shooting a load into you, keeping you still on his dick until it finally stops spurting. “Ohh.”

“I think it is, baby,” Izuku purrs, letting you grind against his cock for contact when he removes the warmth of his hands, undoing his fly to free himself from his boxers. He’ll start off quick for now, just to get you coherent again, then fuck you nice and slow, how you deserve it, once you’ve had a load to nurse. He lines himself up quickly, tracing your entrance with the fat head of his dick. “All mine, right? Barely fits, even after all that training you’ve been doing. C’mere, honey. Feel.”

His other hand takes yours to trail it down your hips and past your ass, dipping into the crevice of your ass until your fingertips are pressed against your hole, dipping into the entrance as his cock is slapped against it. He’s right, it barely fits, fat and curved perfectly, you shed a few tears when he slips inside, your hole stretching around his length and swallowing him up despite the intrusion.

“Just gotta fuck it right, don’t I, pretty? Gotta use it nice and sweet, get you all pliant and dizzy just how you like it,” You’re nodding, lips parted and panting loudly against the sheets, drooling onto them and ultimately getting it all over your cheek, but you don’t care. Izuku’s cock is right there, inches away from being inside you, from breeding you and using you like you deserve.

“Did you know you have a really pretty hole, baby? Just as cute as your face!”

He sounds lewd, but it’s genuine. His dimpled smile is enough to tell you that, you can hear it in his voice, even if it’s a little ragged and breathless. He’s rambling again, something about pumping you full until you can’t do anything but twitch against the mattress, but it doesn’t matter. Not when his cock is pushing inside you, not when your own is starting to spurt out rope after rope of cum once he’s inside.

Your hole convulses around him, sucking him in deeper and deeper until it’s clenching around the base of his cock, his curly, dark pubes peeking out from his pants and resting against your ass. He uses you like a toy, rocks you up and down while you ride the wave of your millionth orgasm tonight, tongue rolled out of your mouth and ears droopy against your cheeks. Your pants rival the sound of his balls against your ass, a harsh smacking sound as he increases the speed of his strokes, groaning when you claw at the sheets for support.

“Fuck, you’ll take all my cum, won't you? Yeah, think it'll catch? All this hot, sticky cum inside you?”

Your ass crashes against him, shining under the dimly lit bedside lamp. Bunnies do what they do best, bouncing on and off his cock until you’re delirious, tears streaming down your handsome face. Izuku barely needs to touch your cock, instead meeting your bounces half way while he grabs your wrists, bending them behind your back for leverage. You sob, a pathetic, loud noise that has Izuku groaning soon after, and he knows you’re crying now.

Midoriya shoots deep inside you, thick, creamy ropes of cum pooling inside you just to seep out your puffy, abused hole. It spills over the sides of his cock, dropping down your thighs and your toes curl, a happy sound leaving your throat since you’re finally full.

But Izuku wants one more, just for safekeeping.

He spoons up the cum with his fingers, pushing it back into your hole alongside his sensitive cock, his head falling forward as he melts into you. He gets it now, the neediness, he wants to fuck you full, feel you tighten and squeeze down on his cock because you can’t take it, praise you for being such a good, warm hole for him and his big dick. He’s just as desperate as you, fucking the cum deeper against that sensitive bundle of nerves that makes you lose your voice.

“Say thank you, bunny. Aren’t you grateful for my cock? My cum inside you like you’ve always wanted? Fuck, I love this hole. Don’t forget your manners, baby.”

You’re responding before you can process the question, letting him manhandle you up and down on his cock, your overstimulated hole struggling to keep up with his pace. You'd fall flat on your face if it weren’t for his supportive hand, spread on your tummy and pressing into that delicious bump of his cock every time it fucks up into you.

“Th—ank you, thank you, ‘Zuku, love your cum n’my bunnyboy pussy.” And— oh, he never gets used to it, your sweet voice repeating his words with the promise of a few pats to the head, a scratch behind the ear, a kiss to the forehead. Izuku’s emerald eyes roll back in his head, his thrusts sloppy and unsteady as his balls tighten.

He’s cumming again before he knows it, the familiar clamp of your hole making his hips stutter as you cum too, collecting glob after glob of his cum inside you, feeling it stick to your gooey walls.

“Stay— stay ‘nside.” Your words are slurred, alert bunny ears now limp and tired as you lick your lips, shimmying down on Izuku’s spent cock. There’s a slight bias behind you, but the man doesn’t protest, instead grabbing you by the hips to resettle into a comfortable, spooning position, his hot skin already cooling by the second.

He’ll change later, maybe fuck you against the shower door if you can get up, but for now he’s content with holding you, even if his clothes are sticky and damp. His arm is behind your head, earning a small nuzzle as you sigh into his forearm.

If there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s his love for you.

3K notes · View notes

dabisbratz · 11 months

Text

𝐼𝒩 𝒯𝐼𝑀𝐸 (𝒜𝐿𝐿 𝐹𝐿𝒪𝒲𝐸𝑅𝒮 𝐹𝒜𝒞𝐸 𝒯𝐻𝐸 𝒮𝒰𝒩)— leon s. kennedy x male reader

w.c: ~5.2k

warning: pwp ( porn with plot ), jealousy, exes-to-lovers, oral, phone sex ( ? ), softdomtop!leon, subbottom!reader, re2r leon, dirtytalk, praise/degradation, spanking, fingering, amab reader, light feminization, riding, blowjobs, creampie, leon’s big but doesn’t know it, finger-sucking, finger-hooking, set after re2r n before re4r, krauser mentions, mentions of alcohol, throatpie, d/s dynamic, unprotected sex ( wear condoms! ), aftercare ! ♡

sonny says..: the urge to add a daddy kink to this was so. so very!! strong . had to stay focused.. this is already.. sovery.. self indulgent..

Confronting him was the hard part. It’d been a while since you’d seen Leon, your ex-boyfriend, and you couldn’t help but feel like there was something missing. It was him, you know now— you’ve always known — but you weren’t sure you had the heart to face him. It was you who ended it after all, you who’d sent him down a heartbreak and alcohol induced rabbit hole that could only be documented briefly through a few voicemails and delivered texts. Even after traveling all this way, burning your cash like it grew on trees, trudging through the rainy streets of this random city, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was the right decision.

You couldn’t take it. The voicemails, the messages, the audio messages full of incoherent sobs and pleads. Being away from him, the same man who’d left you jumping for joy. The same man who’d lit sparks in your chest and released butterflies in your stomach. The same man who’d smile at you in the dead of night, genuine and bright, as he told you he’d loved you a million times over. Leon, whose hands were soft and warm on your skin, so gentle and patient. Like no one you’ve ever met, your heart squeezes in your chest. Leon, Leon, Leon.

Was this out of line?

But it’s too late to turn back now, because your hand is curling into a tight fist as you knock on the fourth motel door all night. Once, twice, three times. You’re ready to back out, to run before whoever’s residing here can open the door and, most likely, slam the door in your face with a distasteful choice of words.

But the door opens.

“There’s an extra. . . Uh, umbrella by the mailbox. Looks like you could use it!” He starts, eyes sparkling despite the dim lighting and narrowed space they’re peeking from. It sounds almost rehearsed, like you’re not the first person to knock on his door tonight. And, for a reason you know all too well, the thought stings.

His eyelashes are just as long as you remember them, curled upward and batting against the thin layer of baby-fat adorning his cheeks in a way that looks dreamy and slow. Like he’s relaxed, or perhaps tired. Nonetheless, his pretty, round eyes are undeniably his and hard to miss, you find yourself at a loss for words. You’re lost in the deep pools of blue, bleeding indigo and inky black of his irises matching the recently done-over roadways in a way that feels just as fresh.

Leon looks reminiscent of a puppy, though he always has, with his thick brown eyebrows pinched at each beginning in a way that can only mimic confusion. Or concentration, even. Almost as if it’s detrimental to him that you know there’s an umbrella there for you, for anyone, who needs it. That it’s important you know— with him around— you’ll be safe. He’s barely changed since you’d last seen him in person, the moles on his cheeks and throat unmoved, soft tufts of brown hair swept to the side as normal, and pink, plump lips that curl upward in a way that’s so comforting you could cry. Leon, your Leon, who smiles warmly, lips pulled into a sweet and inviting grin as the apples of his cheeks round out. Your eyes travel to the dimple dead center of his chin, prominent and defining. The perfect place to slot your thumb, really, to hold his chin and lose yourself in his azure eyes.

Even with the pitter patter of rain soaking into your already soaked clothes, this is the warmest you’ve ever felt in the last few months. His presence keeps you warm. Kept you warm.

“Leon.” It’s all you can say, breathless as the air is snatched from your lungs and excuses die on your tongue. What could you even say? Sure, you’d practiced it all in your head before arriving— I’m sorry, I miss you, what happened to us? It’s all easier to piece together in your head in contrast to actually saying it.

There’s a routinely lean against the doorframe as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, and he’s truly looking at you now, opposed to the clear umbrella sat taut beneath his motel’s mailbox. With a flash of lightning he blinks, freckle and mole dusted cheeks set alight for just a mere second as his breath is caught in his closing throat.

“Oh. . . It’s you,” His sharp adam’s apple bobs with an even sharper swallow, and his pinched eyebrows go lax for a brief moment before tightening back up. “. . .Okay. Hi.”

“Hi, Lee.” You mimic, awkwardly shifting to the side. Still in his casual clothes, you presume, Leon looks comfortable as he sports baggy, blue jeans and a white tank top. Almost too comfortable, the fabric straining against his chest and only ever relaxing the closer it delves by his armpits, flowing despite being trapped beneath his wide ribcage and thick biceps. There’s a heavy vein cascading around it, disappearing under his skin only to reappear by his forearms and soft hands. With pink dusted fingertips, one hand is closed around the gold doorknob of his motel room.

You expect him to close it in your face. To slam the door after telling you to leave, with anger painting his soft, pretty features until they’ve hardened into cold stone. But he doesn’t. Instead, he’s opening it a bit wider, no longer leaning on the doorframe as he extends an arm to fully open the door. To fully see you, and you swear his posture is much more relaxed after his gaze has focused on your face.

“You look,” His gaze flickers from your lips to your eyes, and suddenly you’re failing to form vowels on your tongue. Either way you continue, “You look good,” stiffening as you gesture toward his general direction. “You always do. Anyway. . .”

“Thanks,” He’s much too sweet for your liking, smiling at you like you hadn’t broken his heart just a few months prior. His voice is breathy with upcoming laughter as he steps to the side and invites you in. “You too. Y’know, without the rain.”

You’re in over your head, shuffling inside the dimly lit room with heavy steps. The front door opens directly to the small living-room, a small carton of Chinese takeout resting beside a hearty sized weight on the coffee table. What now? You came into this hoping he’d yell at you— maybe give you a reason to turn around and never look back. But he’s not, he’s inviting you in like. . . Like an old friend. The door is shut and locked with a small click, Leon’s form moving from behind you with his large hand ghosting over your lower back.

A shockwave travels up your spine when his palm makes contact with your waist, only for a brief moment. You can’t think straight, watching the muscles in his back ripple and writhe through his shirt. Chocolate tufts of hair rest at the nape of his neck, short and soft. It’s like you were running your fingers through them just a week ago, blades of freshly trimmed hair tickling your fingertips. Right there, he’s so right there, but almost completely out of reach.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all you can say, over and over, until your nose begins to sting and your eyes grow glassy. Then it’s Leon’s turn to look apologetic, hair swaying as he fully turns to face you. Really, he has nothing to be sorry for. You’re so incredibly selfish.

“I can’t,” He pauses to take a breath, and you feel your heart splitting in two. But his tone is soft and warm, tilting with breathy and almost bitter laughter. “I can’t stay mad at you. And believe me, I tried.”

So he’s willing to talk about it. Your face visibly lights up before you can do anything to mask it, every word you’ve been trying to conjure up suddenly speeding past your tongue, “I want us to talk ab—”

“So,” Leon’s face contorts into something forlorn, like he’s weaving unsavory words together in his head. Words he’s never imagined himself saying. “Does he. . . Does he, uh, fuck you good?”

Huh.

“What?” The question falls flat and sour on your tongue, much more like a blank statement than a question. You’re not sure who ‘he’ is, let alone what led to the question in general, but you’re not exactly given much time to think about it either. The brunette steps forward, wide shoulders shifting with a heavy, clothed stride. His freshly bitten lips are released from his pearly teeth, plump and glossy. Closer now, Leon still smells reminiscent of woodsy lavender and minty mouthwash. Despite how faint it lingers in the air, it somehow manages to overwhelm your senses. He smells like home.

He doesn’t miss a beat this time, long eyelashes splayed out on his cheek as he stares down at your lips, eyebrows furrowed.

“Does he?” His head tilts to the side, questioning. You’d take it as an innocent question had it not been for his lips, pulled into a tight line that reeks of jealousy. His eyes have hardened, baby blue to gunmetal gray. His shoulders relax when you shake your head, hands suddenly restless by your side. “Use your words.”

It’s usually accompanied by a ‘please?’ or ‘for me?’

A whimper leaves your lips, soft and sweet and completely unwarranted. He softens.

“I know you can do it for me,” His eye contact is dangerous, relentless as he watches you stumble over your own whimpers and words. “Can’t you?”

“No,” You swallow hard, letting the brunette trap you in his heat. There is no ‘ he ’, no one taking Leon’s rightfully earned place by your side— whether it be in bed or not. That’s why you’ve come all this way, after all. But you play along anyway, desperate to be good. For Leon. “Not like you do, Lee.”

You’re whining now, tears bubbling in your eyes for so many reasons you can’t put together. Ultimately because you need him, because you feel bad for needing him— because maybe you don’t deserve the luxury of needing him. Apologies tumble into a tight ball of hiccups and sobs, and it’s only the thumbs rubbing away your tears that bring you back. Maybe you’re apologizing for fucking someone you haven’t, lost in the role he’s given you.

“I’m just glad to see you. Glad you’re here.” There’s so much he means to tell you, so much you haven’t heard. Raccoon city, the training program he’s been recruited into, why he’s even here in the first place. Sure, maybe he’s much too forgiving. But it’s you. And he’s not letting go again. But there’s more to it, there’s more you need. Venturing out here on your own, probably without letting anyone know, you’re reckless. Acting without thinking, and he can’t have that. He can’t turn you down, not when you’re so clearly in need of a gentle, guiding hand. Not when he misses you. Leon cuts off your apologies with a small kiss, gentle and sweet enough to have you chasing after his lips when he pulls away.

Your voice sounds needy and saccharine sweet as you lean forward, breathing in his airy scent with a wispy, “Leon. . .”

“What do you want, baby?” The nickname slips before he can catch it, but you don’t seem to mind. “What is it?”

“Want. . I want you.”

“But I’m right here? His laugh is genuine this time, lips splitting into a smile as his thumb rubs smooth circles across your cheekbone. “You have me.”

His hands are on you now, giving your body small squeezes of affirmation. Leon’s much bigger than he carries himself— big hands, wide shoulders, thick thighs, sturdy chest, heavy cock. Big all over, really, despite the way he’s able to run around and disappear like it’s nothing— despite how quickly he carries himself.

The thought as you reeling, choking on a sob that earns an immediate coo in response. There’s just so much, and it’s all piling up. But Leon’s here, he’s here like he always has been, he’s here to make it better. He’s always been so good at that. He takes you out of your head, turns it into mush while you float on a cloud and beg for more of. . . Well, you’re not too sure. But you know he can feel you throbbing against his thigh, hard and needy as he shakes his head with faux disapproval.

“That your phone in your pocket or are you just excited to see me?” It’s a stupid joke you both know the answer to, so he doesn’t waste any time laughing over it. You’re nodding anyway, bobbing your head up and down with wet eyelashes— you already look so ruined.

You’re wearing too much clothes, soaked and dripping onto his floor in a way that has the man grimacing as he peels it from your body. You’re much colder than you thought, too, goosebumps trailing down your skin as his big hands rub warm, soothing shapes into your forearm. Lee’s always been like that, the type to offer up his jacket on a rainy day, the type to give you his coat on a snowy one. And you know, undoubtedly, you’d do the very same for him.

“He couldn’t reach those spots, could he?” The question is emphasized by a hearty squeeze to your behind, Leon’s hands dipping beneath your wet pants slipping under the band of your briefs to knead the plump mound of your ass. He’s grabbing handfuls, squishing the skin between fingers and spreading you apart. “Not like I can, huh? Not deep enough?”

With a soft moan you’re discarded of your pants, fists curled into the crisp white of Leon’s wifebeater. You’ll take anything he gives you and love it, but it’s you who should be apologizing. You who should feel the weight of his cock heavy on your tongue. You want the head slipping and sliding down your throat, you want your face streaked in tears and snot by the time he’s done it’s you.

Oh, how you’ve missed this. Leon’s cock is thick and sticky, pre beading at the pretty, pink tip and dripping down it’s fat head. You watch it drip, slow and shiny as it trails down his pulsing shaft. Weeping, his cock twitches with each open breath you blow against it, jumping as his balls tighten. They’re pretty and round, symmetrical on both sides, but not nearly as pretty as his shaft. Thick and curving upwards past his belly button, Leon’s cock has a sensitive vein you want to run your tongue over, trailing up from his balls to the tip, collecting the sticky precum as it falls down into your mouth.

“Pleasepleaseplease…” You trail off, eyes focused solely on the pretty, shiny head of his dick.

“Don’t need to beg, I’ll give it to you. All you want,” You stick out your tongue, cute and pink as you’re ready to suckle along the head of his cock, but instead you’re met with the warmth of his big hand gripping your jaw. His thumb latches onto your bottom lip, rubbing the soft skin as he blinks down at you, his voice smooth and buttery as he commands, “Slow and steady.”

The tip is smeared along your lips, slowly tracing your cupid's bow and bottom lip until a thin layer of pre has them glazed over and sticky. Your lips part, carrying a thin trail between them, as you finally take his cock into your mouth. He’s salty and somewhat bitter, spreading heavy along your tongue, and you can’t help but swallow around the head. His thighs tense, muscles flexing and rippling as his twitching hand finds the back of your head.

“So. . . so wet,” He’s gasping before you can fully take in the stretch of his cock, hips twisting as his eyes flutter closed. It’s been a while, you can tell, with the way they’re clenched tight and his hand is morphing into a fist full of your hair. Your spit bubbles and pools around his cock, slick and wet, sliding between the seams of your lips and dripping down your throat, down your sternum. “Those. . noises. And you’re so.. cute.”

He offers a sharp thrust that has him disappearing down your tight throat, squeezing just right along his twitching shaft. Your jaw aches the further he’s pushed inside, until your nose is buried in his trimmed, gingerbread pubes. It’s obvious he’s trying to be gentle, with the way he lets out a hushed apology for fucking your throat so deep, with the way he’s whining out a constant stream of “You’re such a good boy.”

Praise. He’s so good at it, it’s got you absentmindedly drooling and gagging on his dick. You’re eager to drag out more, running your tongue along his big, veiny cock until Leon’s throwing his head back— adam’s apple bobbing as he lets out a pleased moan. His cock is filling your empty mouth, using you like some sort of pre-lubed fleshlight with his balls slapping against your chin in wet plaps. Collecting drool, it froths between your lips and his cock, bubbly and white until it’s being rubbed along your cheeks.

“That’s it, good boy, just a little more. . .”

Gasping on his cock, Leon’s hand keeps you buried against his pubes until your throat is squeezing and contracting, milking his cock and wrapped plush around the thick head. You can feel it, each twitch and throb of his heavy cock, even when he’s cumming down your throat, sticky and thick ropes shooting down your tongue and sticking to the roof of your mouth. You want to show him. You’re marked for good, offering a few hollow sucks to his spasming cock before pulling off.

“Oh, baby,” Leon’s voice is just as hoarse as your own, eyes following the display of cum resting hot and sticky on your tongue. “Think you can do something for me?”

He leads you up with a gentle hand, wrapped around your throat until you’re sat taut in his lap, thighs on each side of his waist. Leon’s hands are impeccably soft, even as he’s pushing them past your lips and spreading the saltiness of them along your tongue with a gentle, “suck.” You’re eager to please, taking the warm digits in your mouth and separating them with your tongue. The squelches in return are loud and wet, a mixture of cum and drool leaving between the gaps of his fingers and your lips. Your eyelids feel heavy, brain foggy as he pushes them deeper into your mouth, just enough to have you gagging softly.

Then they’re gone.

In his own mouth now, he’s tasting remnants of his cum and pulling off his fingertips with a wet ‘pop!’while his free hand digs for the vanilla lube hidden somewhere in the couch.

“You’re gonna bounce on my fingers like a good boy,” both hands are at your briefs, tugging them down until there’s a loud ripping sound. Your eyes jet between Leon’s wide eyes and your tattered underwear, surprised. You’re not sure if he meant to do that, but it doesn’t matter, because your cock springs to life and jumps against your tummy. “Then my good boy’s gonna take it in his pussy. Okay?”

The question is barely registered but you’re nodding anyway, melting in the brunette’s strong embrace. His hands spread you open, one playing with the squishy flesh of your bum while the other’s slick fingers circle around your puckered entrance. With a wet ‘squilck’ the first finger is in, impossibly deep and hot as your gooey hole sucks it in further. You just can’t get enough, rocking your hips down to the last knuckle and grinding your cock against his own. There’s a sharp smack to your ass, the skin rippling under Leon’s quick palm as he groans, “Hnnh, so noisy n’ I barely started.”

His fingers have always been able to reach deeper than your own, sweet and tantalizing along your prostate as he finds it like he knows it, pressing and pressing and pressing until you’re seeing stars. He adds another, two in total, that slip past your velvety opening with almost no resistance. Usually you’d have to take a third, maybe, but he wants you to really feel it.

“Shh, sh. You hear it?” There’s another swat, stinging and loud as it hits the same exact spot. Your back arches beautifully, his fingers jolting deeper. You're quick to shake your head. “The dirty noises your hole’s makin’ while it takes my fingers?”

You’ll never get used to Leon’s cute face sputtering out such filthy words, it’s like whiplash. And you’re not entirely sure what he’s talking about, it’s hard to hear over the fog and sounds of your own babbling, but you can hear yourself answering anyway, “S’cause you fuck me so good.”

“Think it’ll be just as loud on my cock?”

“Even louder.” You whine, head falling forward into his thick shoulder as the head of his cock traces your slick, soft rim. There’s a cold trickle behind you, loud and squeaky— it’s more lube, enough to coat his cock, your ass, and then some. Enough to have the head of his cock catching on your entrance every time he slides it along your crack. There’s a soft kiss to your cheek, and a free hand creeps up your back to hold you there by the back of your head. You’re turning into a puddle, whining into the shell of Leon’s ear as his dick slides its first inch inside.

Your hole is so tiny. Even after being stretched full of his fingers, you’re gripping his cock like a vice. There’s a tiny, thin band where his head disappears into your warm hole, stretching and shining and sucking his dick further inside. You’re just so tight, sticky and inviting insides that feel like velvet around his thick, throbbing cock. Even as he tries to go slow, sucking in a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, Leon can’t get enough. His cheeks are flushed, deepening and blooming down his neck as he grips the globes of your ass and spreads them apart wide. Cold air runs along your hole, chilly enough to have you whining.

“F-hu-uuck, so tight,” He gasps, blinking rapidly as he watches your face fall into something floaty and, if he’s honest, cockdrunk. Twitching around him so much, you’re milking his cock for all it's got despite him barely being buried completely inside. Part of him wants to keep you on his tip, slipping it in and out your cute entrance until he’s shooting between the spheres of your ass, getting you sticky and hot with his cum. Marking you. “God, hhm, your pussy’s quivering around me so good…”

“Lee. . Leon, I can’t, want it so bad but I can’t. . .” You definitely can— in fact, you have. But he’s just so big, splitting you in two and whiting your brain out.

“Too much? Oh—haah— poor baby. Want me to stop?” He stills his hips, a breathless smile forming on his face when you try to take the reins. You lace your fingers with his own, squeezing hard as you rock your hips back and forth. “No? Then take it for me.”

Take it you do. Your body jerks as he fucks up into you, balls slapping against your ass and cock sliding against your prostate as sloppy, shallow sounds of your poor, drenched hole fill the room. Leon’s hair sticks to his forehead, stringy and disheveled as he whispers into your skin, grabbing handful after handful of your backside.

Beside you, his phone rings.

Leon nearly jumps out of his own skin, patting around the sofa to find his cell— trapped beneath a cushion. You don’t have time to read the Caller ID, something that begins with a ‘K’, but it’s clear he’s going to decline it. With the way he doesn’t spare a glance at you until after he’s got it in hand, and—

“Leon Kennedy.” His grip on your hips is enough to bruise, rocking your body down against his own. You can’t help but gasp, your thoughts spinning like clockwork in your head until your brain has gone light and airy like sugary, sweet cotton candy. All you can do is tighten around his dick, show Leon how much better you are than whoever’s on the phone. You can be good, you’re a good boy.

And you must’ve said it out loud, because he’s decided to busy your mouth with thick, sticky fingers. Even then, your voice isn’t nearly as loud as the wet squelching and slapping of skin against skin, his cock sliding in and out your puffy hole as lube gushes out around his dick in white ringlets. Like you’ve creamed on his cock, and if he looks close enough he can see it slip back inside with each thrust. You really are a good boy.

His fingers are hooked in your mouth, drawing pathetic sounds out of you until your eyes roll back into your skull and you can’t stop bouncing. Your thighs ache and burn but you want it so bad, your neglected cock stuttering along with your hips as he’s pushed deeper and deeper with every small ‘uh-huh!’ that leaves your lips.

“Yeah, that’s right,” He says into the phone, but it sounds more reserved for you. “Ah, yes sir. This job was. . . Christ, it was made for me!” He pulls the phone away for a brief moment. “This ass was made for me.”

His eyes are trained on you as he shoves his phone between his shoulder and ear, both hands on your hips to raise you on and off his cock. Your lip is bitten raw between your teeth, and you don’t realize he’s coaxing it free until he’s speaking, “Let ‘em hear who you belong to. Who’s that?”

“You! You, Leon. Leon.” Like a prayer, his name comes out slurred and crackly. An uninterrupted stream of titles and nicknames reserved just for him, your nails claw at his muscled back.

“That’s right, you’re mine,” There’s a hard, choppy thrust forward as he releases a hand to wrap it around your sensitive, weeping cock, “And this cock? This hole? Mine too.”

“Yeah, yeah, yours,” Clamping down on his shaft, your hand finds the small gap where his cock reappears. Your fingertips trace it, completely soaked but enough to have his balls tightening. “And you’re mine.”

“Fuckfuckfuck,” His phone falls to his side, hushed whines leaving the brunette’s strawberry lips. “All yours, whenever you want. Got that? My good boy gets to have his cock whenever he wants.”

His hand is fast and slick, his thumb running over your slit every so often just to watch the way your body convulses in response. But Leon’s sweet, he’s always been sweet to you, sweet enough to twist his fist the closer it gets to the tip. Sweet enough to tighten the grip he has around you when he gets to the base— when he can feel you’re about to cum.

“Oh, please!” With a dry sob you’re tugging at his wrist, wriggling your hips and falling back into his thick cock. “Wanna cum, Lee. Please let me cum, please.”

“Hey, hey. Don’t tap out now. You can cum for me when I say so, okay?” Your begging goes straight to his dick, pulsating and bullying the small bundle of nerves nestled in the heart shape of your ass. You can’t stop crying, handsome face covered in tears as you ride out the everlasting stretch of his cock forcing you open, just to leave you empty. Again, again, again.

You feel like molten lava, silky and warm as wet spurts of lube catch between the skin of your ass and his pelvis. He can’t take it, just as wrecked as you are when he feels his balls go rigid and impossibly full— he needs to claim you. Now.

His cum is warm— so thick and filling when he shoots right against your prostate. You’ve never felt more full in your life, your thighs lightly squeezing together in his lap as he releases your cock with one, two, three strokes. Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, loud squeals and cries of ‘Leon!’ as your cock twitches and pulses— cum leaking down his fingers as it catches along his fist. And he could be cruel, continuing to pump your cock past its limits. But instead he gauges your reaction with a few slow, experimental tugs— pulling away when your thighs start to shake a little too much.

“One more request for you, sweetheart.” He raises his hand, a slow drip of your own cum landing on his tummy. His hand is brought to your mouth, and Leon watches with an adoring coo as you lick it clean. It’s obvious you’re trying to stay present, trying not to sink too far deep into that sweet, mellow headspace he’s put you in.

“Thank you.” He says, though you’re much too tired to figure out just what he’s thanking you for. Leon pulls you off his cock despite your absentminded protests, blowing air through protruding cheeks when your rim is reluctant to let go.

“Mhm.” Your tongue is thick like molasses, eyes slowly blinking as you’re moved to sit beside him.

“Can I see, please?” He’s already maneuvering you onto your back and spreading your legs wide by your thighs and ankles, yet his pretty eyes flicker up to meet your face, almost as if he’s actually asking. They drastically brighten when you offer a tiny, well-fucked nod. His hands spread you open, watching his cum dribble from your used hole in collective globs. Makes you feel small and properly kept, you prop yourself up on your elbows as your pretty hole clenches around air.

Leon closes his eyes like he’s trying not to cream his (metaphorical) pants all over again, his thumb rubbing a sizable glob into your skin. Your legs close around his hand, holding him still as you whine.

“I know, I know. I’ll be gentle.” There’s a sweet, simple kiss placed to the back of your thigh before Leon stands, disappearing into what your lidded eyes can’t quite make out. But you know you’re whining, something about a ‘sorry’ or an ‘I made a mistake’ before his big, warm hands are back to hold onto your own.

Something wet and dripping— a cloth, is rubbed into your skin, slow and tender and later replaced by sprinkled kisses.

“Can I. . . stay, Lee?” You want to wince at the sound of your own voice, but you don’t think you have the energy to do so yet. You’re being pulled into his arms, sturdy and comforting— even with the faint smell of sex and musk damp on his skin.

“You’d be crazy to think I’m letting you go again.”

1K notes · View notes

dabisbratz · 11 months

Text

𝒮𝒰𝒞𝒦𝐸𝑅-𝒫𝒰𝒩𝒞𝐻 ! — toji fushiguro x male reader

w.c: 3.9k

warning: boxer!toji, size difference/kink, daddy kink, bottom!reader, manhandling, fingering, light feminization, light crossdressing ( ? ), unprotected sex, creampie, praise/degradation, oral sex, size queen ( king? )! reader, impact play ( slapping ), light choking, descriptions of violence (boxing) & blood, hair pulling, tummy bulge, spit, cliffhanger, breeding kink

sonny says..! a lot of ppl think tummy bulges in fics = skinny reader, but when i write them in s’not true for m’fics ! the reader has no body-type descriptions, it’s really jus that toji’s so big he makes one. your body is perfect the way it is, n fanfiction is !! not !! realistic!!

Fushiguro’s got a thing for adrenaline.

It gets his blood pumping— literally and figuratively. It gets him bouncing from one foot to another before his match even begins, his body shakes with uncontrollable tremors and he has to grit his pearly teeth to keep them from chattering. He feels it coursing through his veins, thick and steady as it pumps through with each passing beat of his heart, and he’s never felt more alive.

It gets his heart beating. Loud and rushed in his ears as the sound joins cheering fans in their symphony, muffled by the doors that separate backstage from the ring. Yet he can still hear it, the loud, constant cheer of ‘Toji! Toji! Toji!’ bouncing off his eardrums and straight to his racing heart. It’s almost incomparable.

He knows you’ll be watching tonight, back at home surrounded by memorabilia that reminds you solely of him and his success— his accomplishments and trophies. But you’re the best of them all, his boy, sitting pretty by the sofa as you flick on the tv to watch your man take home another. To say he’s excited would be childish.

He’s over the fucking moon.

“Fushiguro,” It’s his coach speaking, something incoherent in comparison to everything else— the inky black strands of hair already sticking to his forehead, the sight of his veins cascading up his forearm just to reappear thick in his biceps, his freshly bandaged hands being painted with chalk. But he hears it anyway. The man is quick to whip his head to the side, an intense shadow in his lime eyes that has his support team shivering. “Not too much this time.”

Right. Because last time he’d let himself get a little carried away. It was the atmosphere of it all, hanging heavy in the air as he sent punch after punch after punch into the guy, one headshot after another. And sure, maybe he went too far, but at least he never went for the back of the head.

See, Toji considers himself a capable man. He’s big, he’s strong, he’s got it figured out whatever they choose to believe in him or not. And, in the long haul, he’s got it. He’s who the fans turn to, who the reporters question; he’s the headlining artist. He’s the one who gets the title, the belts, the awards, the boy. If his opponent can’t handle a few punches to the face, that's their fault for signing up.

“I got it.” He says, teeth peeking from his plump, pink lips until they’re on display, predatory. And he means it.

The arena is big. A large stadium with an even larger venue meant to pack what looks like at least half of Japan’s population. Smack dab in the middle sits the ring, with black, padded turnbuckles and four crimson ropes. Getting thrown onto the ring ground feels like concrete, solid and rough on any skin that touches it. It’s unforgiving, it’s violent. It’s permanent, and every fight could well be Toji’s last.

But that might just be why he loves it.

His chest heaves violently, large intakes of air through his nose and out through his mouth as he pounds his gloved fist against his gloved palm. His lips part, salty and sheen with sweat as water squirts into his waiting mouth, dripping down his chin and cascading down his chest. He looks good despite it all— the bleeding lip and bruised cheek. It makes the scar on his lip look fresh, freshly split open, and he can’t help but prod at it with his tongue. In the crowd, you wonder if he feels as though it’s been reopened.

“Remember the formation,” It’s garbled through the shouting, the cheering, the pounding in his ears. He can’t quite remember anything, boxing just isn’t that type of thing for him. It’s not algorithmic, he doesn’t have to remember or practice a routine, it’s muscle memory. It’s natural. “You hear me, Scarface?”

“Loud n’ clear.” Though it’s gone through one ear and out the other.

It looks like he’s losing. He’s gotten a few good hits in, caused a few nosebleeds, but his attacks to the body just haven’t been cutting it. His opponent, the smug bastard of a man, with blond hair and woodsy brown eyes may not look as bad as Fushiguro does, but he looks just as tired. He can’t have that, no, not when you’re at home watching. Not when the jumbotrons are broadcasting in front of hundreds and thousands of fans.

There’s a pat on his back that has Toji jolting forward, more on his own volition, but if anyone asks he’ll blame it on that anyway. Because he feels it now, the pent up tenacity bubbling through his veins and straight to his fists as he bares his teeth and stares down his opponent. It’s not like he’s trying to look intimidating— Toji’s a big man. He towers over most, even if they’re in the same weight category. He’s just big, with broad shoulders and an equally broad chest. With a broad rib cage that dips at his waist and widens back at his hips, then travels down his thick, strong thighs and legs.

And, fuck, if his tired-looking opponent isn’t as strong. He throws strong punches that land square center, almost enough to have Toji stumbling. They’ve got matching, blooming bruises. Matching cuts, and Fushiguro swears if he has to watch the blond stretch between matches one more time he’ll knock himself out.

And then he hears it. He does, really— he knows it’s real because he’s fucking hard. His boy, his sweet boy, somewhere in the crowd chanting his name. The only name that ever leaves his lips, sweet as honey whether it’s being moaned or screamed— whether it’s serious or in a fit of boyish giggles. You’re watching. In person. . . In the stadium, you’re watching.

Toji’s cock twitches in his shorts and he’s never felt more grateful for protective cups in his life.

When he walks through the door the air changes.

There’s a small murmur of ‘I’m home, pretty.’ that’s deep and gravelly, accompanied by the sounds of duffel bags falling to the floor with a sharp thud. Toji’s hands look so big as he runs them through his hair, freshly bandaged and flexing effortlessly. How rough would they feel against your ass. . ? You can’t help but imagine his strong hands squeezing and groping your body, his palm cracking down on your ass as he holds you still by your waist alone.

He must catch onto your presence by the hitch of your breath, because the moment he opens his eyes they’re on you. You feel like prey, blinking rapidly as you watch him stalk over despite still wearing his shoes. He’s going to eat you alive, you’re sure of it, his green eyes narrowing as he tugs on the collar of his black compression shirt.

“Hi.” You start, unsure of what to say. It always comes naturally to you— talking to your boyfriend, his overwhelming presence, being able to talk to him despite how intimidating he seems. But now he’s got you stumbling over your words, staring at you in thick silence that makes you want to bury your face in his chest until he says something.

His eyes slowly roam your body, taking in your clothes with a sharp intake of breath through his teeth.Your legs feel like jelly, of course they do, wobbly and malleable and suddenly cold because of all the breeze they’re getting. Right, you’d rushed home to put on your prettiest outfit— a reward for the man. For the champion.

Though pretty might not be the word for it. Sure, it is, but skimpy is much more appropriate. With lace and ribbons and garters on each of your thighs, you’re a sight for sore eyes. The prettiest boy he’s ever seen, leaving little to his imagination (not that he needs it anyway, he’s seen you naked a thousand times over) and stumbling over your own legs with his gaze alone. It makes him want to pull out his phone and replace his lockscreen (already you, but much more innocent). Toji tilts his head to the side, a sharp grin growing on his handsome face.

“This all for me? You shouldn’t have.”

Whether it’s subconscious or not, watching his pink tongue dart out to wet his lips makes you swallow down a whine, squirming where you stand. Your boyfriend, big as ever, bends at his waist to fully tower over you, emerald irises darkening with something that has your stomach twisting and lurching. He’s seen it then, his very first gold medal adorning your neck.

“Toji!” You squeal, chirping in his ears as he whips you around and backs you into a corner. So cute, you look so cute wearing one of his medals. It adorns your pretty neck and glints under the light, his name encrusted into the gold. Like a collar, of sorts.

“Pretty baby,” He purrs in response, swapping the names with his fist curled around the medal, pulling you closer. The grin etched across his face shows nothing but pride, swelling in his chest and glinting over his sharp teeth. “What’d I say about comin’ to my matches?”

You swallow down the lump in your throat, shaking your head before he stalks forward to close the gap between your lips. Fushiguro still tastes vaguely of metallic blood, but his busted lips are just as soft as they were this morning. They’re much more rushed, not as slow or smooth as before— but now he has a goal. His tongue is quick to slip into your mouth, wet and silky in your mouth, enough to have you moaning before he even starts. His hands creep up your body, large palms pressing against your throat until his hands find your hair and tug.

With a gasp you’re immediately brought back, blinking away unshed tears as your hand reaches for your boyfriend’s thick wrist, “Ow! You—”

“I asked you a question, didn’t I?”

Yeah. Well, yes, he did. And you have an answer, you always do. Always have something to say, something that keeps his eyes glued to your pretty lips. Something smart, sometimes, that has the man ready to shut you up with a mouthful of his cock.

“You said,” You huff, bratty as ever, wrapping your hands around his wrist. Your fingers don’t meet, he’s much too big, and you’re sure your grip feels like an ant crawling up his forearm. “Not to, because,” Another tug. “ ‘It distracts you.’ ”

“Right,” He sounds noncommittal, eyes focused on the contractions in your throat as you swallow down your whines. The fist in your hair turns as a gentle palm, flattening against the back of your head as he holds you still. Your man smells faintly of musk and disinfectant— it makes you want to swoon. To drop to your knees and mouth at the fabric of his sweatpants until his dick— it’s yours though, really— is lined up against your cheek and his pre is dribbling down your face. “You distract me.”

“Am I. . .”His hand is on your chin now, lifting your gaze until you’re standing on your tiptoes. Always been so big, so strong, pressing his thumb into the plush of your cheeks with a bit more force than necessary. Your breath is caught in your throat, and your voice comes out breathy and soft and small, “M’I distracting you now, Daddy?”

There’s a sound akin to a purr the second he hears it, the title sweet as saccharin on your lips. Jet black bundles of hair swish and sway as he shakes his head, somewhat ignoring the question as his hands travel past your waist to grope and squeeze at your ass. Soft, squishy. You’ve always been so soft, so little in Toji’s grip, his pretty boy.

But you’re even prettier when your holes are stuffed full and stretched open. You’re even prettier when the sets you’ve put together are ripped and tattered on your body— when you’re a mess of sweat, and spit, and cum. You’re easy to move around— most are easy to be moved by Toji, but you especially.

You’re obedient when it counts, and the second he’s pushing your knees down to the floor you’re opening your mouth.

“Whose mouth is this?” Your brain is foggy but you know the answer to that one. You do, you do, because it always ends in cum down your throat and an array of ‘good boy’s whispered into the air. There’s a rustle of fabric as he fishes his cock from his sweatpants, no longer a large, girthy dickprint twitching under the cotton. Now it’s in his hand, hot and curved and leaking.

Daddy squeezes at his cock, his large hand sliding into a fist that clamps down around the thick, rose gold head, then sloooowly back down to the thick, pulsing, veiny shaft. You want his cock inside, stretching past your rim and splitting you open while you cry and whine over how big he is, you want his cock sliding inside until he fills you up with his sticky, hot cum— so much so it feels like you’re dying, being held down on his cock while load after load is released into your hot hole. He spits down onto it, saliva thick and runny, collecting at the tip until it’s smeared down to the base and mixing with his pre.

“S’yours, Daddy,” You're gasping around the sticky head of his cock, catching the leaking precum on your tongue as he taps it against your lips. It’s bitter and salty, but thick and invasive in a way that makes you feel properly owned. “Yours to fuck, gonna cum down m’throat, Daddy? Want. . . Need you to, wanna feel you shoot on m’tongue.”

“That—fuck— that mouth. . . A’course it’s. . . mine..” He trails off above you, and if you can think, you think you can barely breathe. You’re trembling against his strong thighs, struggling to form words around the jumbled and garbled moans leaving your mouth as Toji’s fingers rub in smooth, slick circles against your entrance. You don’t remember him having lube, but you can’t complain when his fingers feel so creamy rubbing your hole.

If you can think, you think you can barely breathe. You’re trembling against his strong thighs, struggling to form words around the jumbled and garbled moans leaving your mouth as Toji’s fingers rub in smooth, slick circles.

He appreciates the easy access.

You’re sure if he lets go you’ll fall straight through the floor, knees trembling, a needy puddle. And maybe you’re crying, sliding off his cock with wet pops and sticky whines— you’re not entirely sure. All you can hear are Toji’s groans, his grunts of ‘goodboygoodboygoodboy’ as his other hand squeezes around your throat so it tightens around his thick cock. That and his big fingers playing with your hole, swirling and sinking and teasing your mushy walls until you’re fluttering around the digits and letting out pitiful, bitchy whines.

You’re burying your face against his dark pubes, swallowing hard around his dick with thick, sloppy gags that have you coughing against his balls. Whatever Toji’s saying, it’s earned you a tender pat to the back of your head, sweet and light in comparison to his rocking hips that make you jolt back and forth. Your knees dig into the wood, but you don’t necessarily mind it. It's grounding, and you can focus on the drool pooling between your knees as he bends at the waist to finger you.

“. . .want it in here?” There’s a snap of fingers that makes you blink away the edges of fogginess clouding your judgment, and you find yourself being pulled free from his musky cock. Your throat is empty, you’re empty, and you can’t help but press your face into his spit-slick thigh. But there’s a tap to your cheek, a big palm cracking down on the fat of your face, and now you’re much more alert.

“Uh. . .Huh?” You blink away the emotional whiplash, leaning into the now gentle, bandaged thumb rubbing circles against your cheekbone. Then his hand moves lower, past your jaw to collect the ribbon of his medal where it hangs from your throat, and pulls.

“In here, baby,” There’s emphasis on his question with his fingers pounding into you enough to make your toes curl, and your eyes roll back as the digits press against that sweet, jammy bundle of nerves. “Want Daddy’s dick in here?”

You’re not sure whether to pout or nod. You’ve missed an opportunity for his load down your throat, but it’s even better when it’s in your tummy. It’s Toji’s night, decidedly, and it seems you’ve made your choice when you hear yourself whine, “Yes, Daddy. Please!”

You’re not sure how you got here, how fast he’s maneuvered you— back against the wall and knees over his big, broad shoulders— but you’re not complaining. There’s a light buzz in your hips, so you assume he’s picked you up, weightless in his arms, and folded your legs over his arms.

“S’big, s’so so big, Daddy, fuck,” You’re crying into your forearm as Toji holds you still by the neck, his other hand running up and down your tummy. It’s soothing just as much as it is hot, it doesn’t take much for his large hand to roam over your body. But it can’t make you stop whimpering at the feeling of his dick splitting your tiny hole in half. “Not gonna fit— it can’t.”

“It’ll fit. it’s fit before, hasn’t it? Y’have a greedy hole on you, baby.” You’re gasping and trembling with his cock sliding in and out of your opening, sticky lube pooling along with it and connecting his tip to your boyhole. He feels so big, so thick and hot when he taps it against your hole, barely breaching the tiny gape of your shy hole. “And if not we’ll just have to make it fit, won’t we?”

“Yeah, yeah. . .” You breathe, staring up into his eyes with a fucked-out smile. Toji— Daddy—looks so good, so handsome and strong as he offers a scarred smile back. “Can make it fit. Can take it.”

You hiccup, overwhelmed tears streaming down your face as you reach past your thighs to spread the globes of your ass open wide, your pretty hole slightly gaping and winking at his cock. There’s a breathy groan in return, deep and shaky as Toji takes the opportunity to slip past your rim,, past the burning stretch of your fluttering star that sucks him deeper and deeper into your slick, gummy walls. “Wanna feel you for days, wanna get so full, think it’ll take, Daddy? Your cum?”

“Fuck,” He moans, gruff and throaty at the implication. Breeding you, his cock-hungry boy, until you’re full of his cum and unable to move. Until you’re a daddy. “If it doesn’t we’ll just keep going until it does.”

Your hand clasps around the gold medal like a lifeline, eyebrows pinched as his long, thick cock stretches you open. The curve of his dick has you mewling, tears building in your eyes as your boyfriend fucks up into you, despite telling you to ride him. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of it, the feeling of his cock splitting you open like he owns you, or the way his big hands press matching bruises into your hips.

“Open.” Your lips are already parted, hearty moans and whines leaving your mouth over and over. But you make the extra effort to stick out your tongue nonetheless, the wet muscle pretty and glossed over. And, much to your confusion, there’s a gentle kiss placed to the temple of your forehead before he’s hovering back over you.

“Good boy.”

A sloppy string of saliva falls from his lips, missing your tongue by a mile— instead landing on your cheek. It’s enough to make you flinch, a pitiful squeak of a sound escaping as your eyes clench and blink away confusion.

“Oh, I missed,” Fushiguro’s smile is fond and cruel. “Oops.”

You’re so whiny, lifting and rocking your hips as a pathetic attempt at fucking yourself full of cock. It seems you can go barely a few seconds without it, working your hips down the thickness of his cock even as you struggle to take it. His hand gathers the spit, a genuine smile splitting his lips when you move your head to suck them clean.

Such a good boy.

“Really workin’ for it, aren’t you?” Voice as sweet as it is mocking, lube gushes and trickles out with every tilt of your hips. The wet slurp of his dick goes makes you preen, body tightening as you tremble and shake. You’re speared on his cock over, and over, and over, again, and again, and again. It’s more like he’s using you as some sort of fuck-machine than actually fucking you, but it makes sense. Daddy’s much too big to bounce on, it’s easier if he uses you like a toy. It’s easier to keep yourself open, to welcome his cock inside your sloppy hole with the flutter of your lashes. “Good thing you got that medal on, really are the tightest cocksleeve I own. Deserve a trophy for it.”

You don’t have to imagine how deep he is, how far his slick cock reaches, because you can see it. Right there, in your tummy, his cock bulges big and pulsing. You thought feeling him twitch against your walls was enough to have you squirting along both your chests but. . . no. It’s his hand, big and veiny, pressing right into the bulge. Your eyes roll back until your back is arching off the wall— tummy pressed against his palm— and you’re cumming harder than you thought you ever could.

“Shit, did you—”

“C’mon, please. Inside me, Daddy. Please, please I want. . . I can’t, please.” It’s easier if you don’t think about it, it’s easier if you sit there, a tiny toy just barely able to take his cock. You don’t even process your voice as your own, letting your big boyfriend squeeze your hips and lift you on and off his cock until he’s twitching uncontrollably. Your hands ball into tight fists, eyes clenched shut as he uses your trembling hole.

“Barely even touched you,” His breaths are hitched and quick, eyebrows furrowed as he focuses on the slapping of his balls against your ass. So tight and warm, gooey and soft against his thick shaft— massaging his cock just right. You’re so good. “And you came. You’re so easy. So easy to get you dumb off cock, so easy to bounce you up n’ down. Best pussy I’ve ever had.”

“Wait, don’t—” The words are caught in your throat, lips pulled into a small ‘o’ was thick rope after thick rope of cum shoots into your tummy, flooding your senses and spurting from your tight hole. You feel soaked, slick and sticky as your boyfriend offers a few sharp, heavy thrusts. His eyes are glued down, watching his cum make slick bubbles and slide down his own cock, just to disappear back inside your perfect hole. You can’t swallow down the drool escaping from the seams of your lips, instead letting it fall down your chest until your head is falling forward.

“Aht-aht,” You’re pressed dead-center into his chest, burying your messy face between the warm skin. “I’m not done with you yet. Want Daddy t’make you a daddy too, don’t you?”

2K notes · View notes

dabisbratz · 1 year

Text

forget me not — knight!satosugu x male reader

warning: mdni, porn w/ plot, royalty au, prince!reader, knight!satosugu, historical inaccuracies, two ( 2 ) smut scenes: brat!reader, spanking, dirty talk, light feminization, praise / degradation, backshots, possessiveness, jealousy, breeding, overstim, dp, oral, rimming, snowballing, eiffel tower position, mocking, unprotected sex, creampie, arranged marriage ( ment ), full nelson, sub!bottom!reader

w.c: 8.1k

.˚｡♡୨୧ ꒰ sonny says…: this took sooo long t’write but m’actually very happy with the result, hehe !! hope you guys like it too!!

There’s been a disturbance in the force. A rude, sudden awakening plastered on village bulletin boards and hammered into the story-seeking minds of money hungry journalists. The Baron’s son has gone missing.

They say it happened in the midst of the day, unexpected and all too sudden. He was left under the care of Kento Nanami— whom you’ve met a few times, and if you’re being honest. . . You wouldn’t mind taking up the man’s services while the Baron’s son is still missing.

It has nothing to do with you, frankly, seeing as you’ve never been kidnapped. You’re certainly not the Baron’s son— oh, you have much more authority than that— and you’re nowhere near as reckless as he is. Was? In fact, had you been as reckless as to take up the hobby of carriage riding, you’d have taken a butler or two with you. Not that you doubt your abilities in combat— sure, you’ve never thrown an actual punch in your life— but it shouldn’t be too hard. Whatever the status of his stolen life, it has nothing to do with you.

Until it does.

“Satoru Gojo, at your service!” The words are stolen from your mouth before they can even rise, and your hands are being enveloped in the warmth of long, pale palms. His grip is firm, albeit bouncy with vigor as he jolts your hand up and down, nearly snapping your arm clean off.

Satoru. . . Is very pretty. It’s apparent before you even take in his features. It shows in his voice, rich and sweet— you can hear the lopsided smile in it. It shows in his stature: playful yet confident, as if he’s done this a million times before. He doesn’t need good posture to tower over the masses, but he has it anyway. His blazing white hair…Now that’s an anomaly.

Taking note of your strain to wiggle free, he huffs dramatically, swatting your hand away as if it was him who wanted free. He taps a clean fingernail against his bottom lip once, then twice, and leans over to place his face directly in front of your own— increasingly taller by the second. With zero comprehension of personal space, he tilts his gaze up from your hand to your lips. His breath smells faintly of custard tarts, but it’s the smell of his expensive cologne that curves your judgment. For a moment, you consider what it’d be like— being wrapped up in his honey-smooth scent. His voice lowers to a whisper as he tilts his head, “The pleasure’s all mine.”

“You look a mess.” The voice behind him is just as smooth, rich and deep and accompanied by inky, dark hair that you’re sure is against the knightley regime. But you don’t mind it— it’s hard to, especially when it’s attached to someone so. . . beautiful. His eyes match his hair, sleek and sharp dark pools that you’re sure have maidens swooning. His earlobes are stretched, something not as common amongst those of a lower royal status, but it suits him. He’s Suguru Geto, you’ve learned— as Gojo introduces him without a thought, like they’ve known each other for years.

It’s quite evident they do, with the way the white-haired male swings a playful arm over his shoulders and a smile spreads across the brunette’s handsome face. It makes something in your stomach twist, and you’ve decided— just upon feeling it— that you don’t like it.

“He meant to say the pleasure’s ours.”

The garden is peaceful. Full of peonies and orchids, arrays of pink hues and periwinkle petals that dance in the breeze. Leaving little to the imagination sits green leaves of shrubs and berry bushes, lined up along the perimeter of the outstandingly large green-room. Gravel trails of small rocks and shiny pebbles leave a great walkway through the center of every row, bleeding into the rich soil that holds blush roses. You’d spent many sleepless nights here, bare feet digging into the pellets as you’d danced to the celebratory music of the crickets, joining fireflies in their soirée. Kissed by the setting sun, its glowing, orange-yellow rays beam down into the crisp air. You breathe in, deep and full, lungs expanding with rose seeds and baby’s breath. Running your fingertips along the dainty petals, droplets of rainwater tickle your skin. You wish you were a flower, self reliant and free. Devastatingly beautiful under every eye.

Smacked dead center of the garden is a large fountain, sculpted cherubs with gold leaking through the crevices of their wings. Baby cupid follows just behind, a smaller stream of water flowing from his bow and arrow. An extravagant spectacle that was much too flashy for your liking, but gorgeous nonetheless.

There are remnants of your childhood here, large overgrown trees that reach for the skyline holding a wooden swing, sole and lonely, worn down from the years. An unmistakably human dent in the freshly watered roses that fit you perfectly— have fit you perfectly. . . It’s yours.

Or, at least, it is now. After your mother died, you’d taken after her horticulturist nature. It was the last thing you had of her— her trees, her flowers, her soil. She planted the seeds and you nurtured the roots— just as she’d done for you. You used to imagine your life without her when she was around, so much so your throat would tighten and your vision would blur. But it never could’ve amounted to how it’d feel when it actually happened. When she was gone forever, in the midst of the night. Like she’d dissipated into thin air. She left you.

Your knees dig into the soil, a freshly installed pound of mulch to regulate the heat of the roots bound to the ground, scraped up and burning the further you kneel on its surface. You’re sure the fresh smell of grass and dirt will cling to the baby blue silk of your pajamas— especially the shorts— but you have only half the mind to care, shifting your weight ever so often as you spill your family secrets to the peonies. They’re great listeners.

The ground crackles beneath your knees, pebbles leaving behind thick remnants of dust as they’re kicked to the side beneath heavy shoes. It’s not hard to guess who it is, not when you’ve been around the same two idiots for the past several months, or so. There’s a bounce in his step, much bouncier than the other— so you know it’s Gojo.

“You’re so hard to find,” Exasperated and faintly out of breath, the high ranking knight pretends to gasp behind you. “Seriously! Like some kind of.. slippery.. snake.”

“Ugh,” You hear yourself groan, nearly planting your face into the roses to save yourself from facing the knight. “That was the point.”

The white-haired man hums, mumbling something akin to ‘pretty!’ under his breath as he crouches down on one knee beside you. The gesture makes your blood boil as much as your heart flutters, fast and hard as your shoulders inch closer and closer to your ears. Getting on his knees to face you like this. . . You’re a grown man! . . . Albeit on your knees.

Gojo sits the luminescent lantern down, appreciating the quiet sound it makes as it sinks into the gravel path. So dramatic, the moon has barely begun to show, and yet, he’s carrying around a damned lantern!

“Well,” His voice is soft and quiet, as if he’s trying not to wake the tulips. Gojo’s hand, long and thin, pushes down the strain of your shoulders and smooths them out until they’re lax and rested. “It’s time for bed! And I have to make sure you get to bed safe. You know that.”

“The sun hasn’t set yet,” You stand your ground, planting your knees further into the soil despite the jolt of pain shooting straight through them. It’s childish, really. The garden isn’t going anywhere, it’ll be here tomorrow morning, and the morning after that, and after that, and so on and so forth. But it’s your safespace, if you could sleep here you would. “What’s my schedule like tomorrow?”

You’re buying time. Satoru knows he can’t object to answering your questions, he’s legally bound to you— legally bound to answer to you. And if that wasn’t enough, he was bound by an oath of blood.

“Between you and me,” Satoru leans forward, resting his hand atop his knee. His breath tickles the shell of your ear, and smells faintly of sugar cane. “Same thing as always. I don’t know how you do it! I mean, I went to school to be appointed knight. . .”

You’d meant to distract him, but really, you ended up distracting yourself. The knight’s voice is just so smooth, warm and buttery. So you listen as he explains your schedule— breakfast, fencing lessons, fitting for a new set of outerwear, more fencing lessons, lunch— it’s all the same. It’s the small peek into his life that leaves you interested, the implication that his family was wealthy enough to send him to school. That he chose the life of chivalry.

“. .I met Suguru . .We were the strongest in our division, y’know. . .”

“Satoru?” You don’t mean to cut him off, but his recurrent rambling slowly weighs down your eyelids. You turn to sit properly, gritting your teeth as you rest on your backside and dust off your scraped knees. Dirt clings anyway.

It’s clear the knight notices, but he doesn’t make an effort to say anything. Instead, he chirps in acknowledgment to your upcoming question, raising his pale hands to lightly dust away the remaining soil. He’ll have to inform someone of the infirmary division about it after you're safely asleep in bed.

“Can we— I want to sleep here tonight.” His face noticeably contorts, dimples creasing his pale, but still rosy, cheeks as he furrows his eyebrows in thought.

“Knew you’d say that,” You nearly crash straight forward into the pale man’s chest, surprise etched across your features as Suguru’s voice rings behind you. How long had he been there? The trail crunches beneath his feet, slowly growing quiet as he stops adjacent to you and Gojo. He’s holding a quilt in his hands, sturdy and warm and large, accompanied by one of your expensive silk pillows in contrast to their strung together, straw cushions. “You took my lantern, Satoru.”

“Guilty!” The other responds, as if it were a question and not a proclamation of war— courtesy of Suguru.

If the three of you end up sleeping under the stars tonight, you only have half the heart to complain.

Tomorrow comes easy.

Though you suppose, that makes it today. You were left to your own devices, having clothed and groomed yourself accordingly. Your fencing uniform wasn’t entirely traditional, though it wasn’t as if you were doing traditional fencing in the first place. Satoru and Suguru preferred swordsmanship, the art of wielding and yielding a sword against their opponent. And, sure, fighting one against two wasn’t exactly fair, but it was realistic.

Or that’s what you tell yourself to get through it.

Satoru is relentless. The man looks like he’d fall apart after being struck with a particularly heavy gust of wind, but he’s sturdier than he looks. His lean nature only adds to his agility, and going against him is like learning to walk on your feet for the first time all over again.

“Don't think I’ll go easy on you just because you’re my favorite student.” You’re his only student, you want to add, but you’re too busy dodging his sparkling blade.

You haven’t been given the pleasure of using a real one, not like Geto and Gojo do, you’re stuck with a pathetic excuse of a wooden sword. It’s kiddie and cheap in your hand, almost as if you’re holding some sort of toy, but the two insist it’s for your safety. The two are masters at their craft, nothing but the best for the prince—you suppose—they have yet to knick you with their blades.

“Or because you’re the handsomest,” His smile is smug, watching your eyes widen by the centimeter. “Isn’t that right?” It’s accompanied by a grunt, whether it’s frustration or flustered, it certainly has you wound up enough to send a wooden jab straight to his abdomen.

“Atta boy!” He chirps, charging forward to knock you over with a strong, hearty embrace. He’s warm, much thicker and plush than his training garments let on. Suguru pushes him away with a blunt elbow to the ribs, a chuckle parting his pink lips when the man scrambles to shield his side.

“Speak to me like I’m some sort of pet again and my father will have your head.” You grunt, though it’d be idiotic to say you don’t miss the warmth of his body.

That gets an unrestrained laugh out of Suguru, but it dies down before you can truly appreciate it, “My turn.” The air thickens with intensity, and suddenly the wooden sword in your hand is a brick.

“Aw, c’mon! But I’m so hungry,” Gojo’s back just as fast as he leaves, jumping on the two of you with the entirety of his mass. “Don’t tell me you want to pass up soba!”

The weight of Satoru’s body has all three of you toppling over, limbs wrapped around each other as you tumble down the small hill. Blades of grass tickle your back, through your clothing, but your face is protected by the cushiony warmth of Suguru’s chest. He cradles your head the whole way down with one hand, the other wrapped around Satoru’s waist.

You’re sandwiched between them, one heart beat for each ear as your eyes slowly crack open. Their cheeks are dusted a rosy shade of pink, featherlight and sweet as it seeps into the apples of their cheeks and travels up their cheekbones, and back to their lips. Kissable, biteable, your lips can’t help but part as you gaze at them.

There are warm palms pressing into your wrists besides your lack of resistance, and you can’t argue until it’s too late. Warm, your face prickles as a pair of lips press into the fleshiness of your cheeks. Soft like pillows and smooth like silk, it’s a tender kiss to both cheeks that you can barely register. It must look silly, you’re certain, being pinned to another while both press a ginger, heat-of-the-moment kiss to your cheeks.

(It’s scandalous to be caught kissing before marriage, let alone with your knights. But you’re to be crowned soon, and you never liked listening to your father anyway.)

So you can’t help but smile, lips upturned as a hearty, genuine laugh floats into the air and bursts like a freshly blown bubble. Just as transparent— you’re truly happy. This is yours.

They are yours.

You feel cold just from hearing it. The cool breeze of spring beating against the glass door separating your bedroom from your balcony. Large, sculpted and plated in gold handles that glint under your bedside lampshade. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes with balled up fists, you’re quick to scramble out of bed. You slip off your thick blankets in favor of your robe, slipping your arms through the thin material that, really, doesn’t do much to aid your skin from the bitter cold that comes hand in hand with the midnight sky. You venture onward nonetheless, dragging the sheer, lace material behind you as you open the double doors with a quiet grunt.

“C’mon, don’t listen to him!” It’s Gojo, you can tell, the nervous smile in his voice is apparent. It echoes against the tall walls, loud and clear in comparison to the singing crickets and cicadas.

The silky tremor of his voice makes your shoulders relax in an instant, and you can’t help but peek over the sculpted balcony. The flooring is cement but the railings are cold metal, bent into flowery shapes and spiraling coils. You press your palms into the metal, leaning forward until the cold railing is pressed against your stomach.

Satoru stuffs his hands into his pockets, visibly deflating as he shakes his head. It’s hard to see his face from the angle you’re at, but you can tell his glossy lips are pulled into a tight lipped frown.

“I’m the Prince’s personal knight, all have you know!” He raises an accusatory finger toward the balcony at which you stand, and you nearly fall over when he lifts his blue-eyed gaze to meet your own. “Look! Look!”

You feel yourself leaning forward, chasing after Gojo’s dimpled smile until you’re falling fast and hard, but there’s a firm hand gripping the nape of your neck to prevent you from doing so. You nearly jump out of your skin, balling your hands into tight fists in preparation to swing, but the large hand is familiar. Warm, inviting, stern.

Suguru.

His long hair flows with the wind, blending into the inky black sky as he looks down at you through the bridge of his nose. Suguru is the scariest of the two, albeit just as goofy and sugar packed as Satoru, with narrowed eyes and knowing smirk. He’s always first to set things straight, and it’s as simple as a disapproving hum or shake of his head.

“Warn me next time,” Your voice crackles with disuse, but you swat away his guiding hand to emphasize your seriousness. Geto raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smile. “I wasn’t scared.”

“Yeah?” He doesn’t sound all that convinced.

“Not of you anyway. For you,” You clear your throat, watching Geto stalk over to the edge of the railing. “. . .Since I’ve been training. I could’ve…Y’know, really knocked you out.”

You neglect to acknowledge that you’ve been training with him and Satoru, that they’re the reason why you know what you do.

“Right.” The stifled laugh in his voice is evident, but Suguru doesn’t bother arguing with the statement. His eyes have traveled to the box in Satoru’s pretty hands, wrapped in silky paper and tied together with a bow. Small enough to fit in his pocket, he must have fished for it when you weren’t looking. You don’t get to inspect it for long, as he’s being ushered back in before your eyes can really make-out the shape of whatever’s packaged inside.

When you see Satoru again, inside the castle this time— in your very own bedroom, he looks just as good as the day he’d left you. Though his expression is twisted— confusion (toward you) and agitation (toward Geto)—he continues to get you into your actual pajamas, laughing away the embarrassment of stripping you of your garments.

While he discards your shirt, Geto undoes your shorts from behind, eyes dancing down your thighs, your legs, your ankles, to the floor. Where your robe sits, pooling around your feet. Your back is caged against Suguru’s front, his chest pressing up against you as he leans down to press his chin into your shoulder. Warm and big, his arms snake around your waist as Satoru’s long, skinny fingers trail down your bare shoulders, your chest, your navel. . . back up.

Squirming in his hold, Satoru’s fingers circle around your nipples, watching as they harden and stiffen. Cute, soft sounds leave your lips and your head falls forward, lashes fluttering as your back slightly arches.

“I’m to be married next month,” You blurt it out before you can catch yourself, swallowing the lump in your throat as the air chills with silence. It’s thick, frozen like ice and prickles at your skin. “There’s— We’ll be holding a ball for it, and you two will come with me for my suit-fitting.” Suguru’s grip around your waist tightens, and Satoru finds himself rolling and pinching your sensitive buds with more aggression.

“Why?” It falls flat on Gojo’s heavy tongue, and Geto seems too busy burying his face in your neck to ask further questions.

“Guaranteed protection,” Your shoulders stiffen, Suguru pressing his thickening cock against your ass with a grunt of disapproval. Satoru’s face darkens, in a way that’s reserved and scary, like you’ve insulted him and his entire bloodline. “You two are. . . unfit.”

“Unfit.” It’s spoken in unison, steely and hard in a way that has your knees wobbling. You’re lucky to be between them, leaning against them for support as Suguru’s teeth sink into your shoulder. His gaze flickers upward, straight to Satoru, and before you know it, they’re pushing you into your soft bed.

“Ow!” You hiss, hands shooting to cover the area Suguru’s palm crashes against. “The fuck are you doing?!” Heat blooms beneath your fingers, but you’re not able to cover your ass for long, because Satoru’s pulling at your wrists and properly positioning your backside upward. His grip is strong, nearly bruising, as he manhandles you over both their laps and pushes your underwear to the side, fully exposing your ass.

“What your father couldn’t,” Is all you get in return, squirming and thrashing in their strong grip as Geto’s big hand strikes your ass. Your hips twitch and jolt, grinding against a hard knee that has whimpers rising in your throat. You can’t help it, they sound so good when they’re angry, so deep and gravelly. It makes you want to present, to spread your legs and stick out your tongue for their use. “It’s about time you learned some actual manners, boy.”

Satoru’s thumb rubs circles into your cheek as he coos, pretty lips parted and wet— eyelids heavy and his gaze dark as he smiles, “Goin’ floaty on us already?”

You feel your eyebrows furrow, a simple and sweet ‘shut up’ dying out on your tongue and cut short when Suguru spreads the globes of your ass with his fingertips, watching the plush skin spill and swell between his fingers. Your hole is so small, pretty and sweet as it twitches in contact with the cold air. He wants to run his tongue along it, feel it clench and pulse around his tongue until you’re crying on it, rocking your hips and pulling at his hair to feel it deeper.

“C’mere,” It’s not a request, not with the way you’re being dragged closer to the brunette. His nails dig into your soft skin, squeezing and groping until it starts to hurt, but in a way that has your voice squeaky and shaky. Satoru’s there the whole time, his hand wandering down to your throat. “ ‘Getting married’…’unfit’. . .Tch, that’s funny.”

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening as Gojo’s hand tightens around your throat, emphasizing Geto’s words. Your moans are strangled and tight, vision hazy around the edges as the sides of your neck are squeezed. He keeps contact with you the entire time, cerulean eyes intense and deep. You can’t help but rut your hips, pressing your front against the surface of Suguru’s thigh again and again as he lets out a series of smacks against each cheek of your ass.

“You’re not—” You whine, rolling your hips as Suguru’s fingers tap at your hole in warning, watching the cute muscle twitch. Cute, winking back at him and slick with spit. It sticks to his fingers, wet and sloppy “You’re not the boss of me!”

“Waah, waah, ‘you’re not the boss of me!’,” Satoru laughs, tacking on a nasally, prissy voice that rings in your ears and has heat pooling in your stomach. It’s hard to hide the embarrassment in your face, the twitch of your brows as you grit your teeth and roll your eyes— but it’s not like you can keep up the facade. Suguru delivers a particularly harsh slap to your sitspots, enough to make your breath stutter as tears well in your eyes.

“Geto—”

“Suguru.”

“Suguru, stop…!” You kick your legs, scrambling under their strong grip until they share a growl, rumbly and deep and demanding. It’s Gojo’s turn to paw at your ass now, squeezing the flesh as it spills between each finger and circling a slick (when did he grab lube?) digit over the sensitive, winking muscle of your rim.

His fingers slip into the mushy, warm heat with little resistance, and your face lights ablaze when the two groan at the sight, “Don’t tell me you’ve been givin’ our greedy hole attention without us?”

Theirs. Yes— you suppose— in a way it’s theirs. Strictly theirs, with the sleepless nights they’ve spent burying the thickness of their cocks deep inside, pumping one load after another deep inside so it’d really stick. Enough to feel them for days, leaking down your thighs when your needy fingers don’t stuff you a full.

You don’t have time to answer, gurgling over the moans caught in your throat as Gojo’s long fingers twist and stretch you out. You're wrapped up between them, the thickness of their bodies pressing against you as you buck your hips into nothing in particular. Satoru's long fingers feel slick with spit, only moistening as he drools down your crack. Spit falls from his tongue, slow and thick, pooling around your rim before he rubs it deeper in with his knuckles. It’s too much, tears spilling from your eyes as you whine, “S’deep, ‘Toru, go slow—”

“Oh, my prince, are you alright?” Suguru sounds almost smug, muscles in his forearm rippling as he readjusts himself in bed. His thick legs spread wide, clearly comfortable and relaxed. He has an obvious dickprint through his pants, almost shameless as your eyes pan up and down his body. “Do you need saving?”

You sniffle, wet and pathetic as you shake your head, wriggling so rest your face against your pillows, silky smooth as you soothe the burning in your cheeks. There’s a shared tutt behind you, not at all frustrated, but it has you blinking away the tears nonetheless. It goes in vain, peeking back from your shoulder you can see the two knights inching closer, their breaths fanning over your throbbing, aching hole until they share a fat lick, pink tongue lapping up at the lube and spit keeping you slick.

“I think he does, Suguru.”

Your cock leaps.

“It’s too bad we’re deemed unfit, Satoru.”

You’re greedy— and you know it. But once you’ve had both you can’t go back, not when their tongues fight to inch deeper and deeper inside your slutty hole, slick and wet and warm, impossibly deep in a way that has your toes curling and back arching. They eat you out like they’re starving, moaning vibratos through your skin until you're sobbing into your pillow. Even from here, you can feel drool and spit dripping from your sopping hole, past their chins and onto the silk sheets.

Your hands find themselves in their hair, curling into fists around soft bundles of locks as you push their faces in deeper, mewling. You can feel hot, open-mouthed kisses between each swirl and lick of their tongues, and it’s enough to make you squeal.

“M’gonna cum, gonna cum, wait—”

“No. This dick doesn’t get t’fuckin’ come unless it’s on our cocks, you hear me, Princey?” You can’t tell who’s talking— your brain is full of cotton and fog. Just like you can’t tell if you’re nodding or shaking your head, too busy focusing on the emptiness of your hole and tightening of your balls.

“No!” You hiss, trying your best to kick your feet despite the strong grip holding your thighs still. And, fuck, if you’re not a whitney mess. It’s just so good, the lewd sounds of them slurping at your hole and moaning into it, the messy sounds of their mouths on “It’s— M’so. . . achy, wanna cum! Please, Sugu? ‘Toru?”

“Alright.” It’s Gojo speaking, you can tell, because he’s got this saccharine lilt to his voice that makes your lashes flutter and heart skip. He’s moving— or moved, rather— seeing as he’s back to cupping your face with his big, pale hands. You let out a sigh of relief, shoulders drooping as you shimmy to palm at your cock, slick and weeping with pre. You’re sure your sheets are ruined.

“Aht, aht, aht!” Satoru chirps, and your heart plummets as your hand flinches away from your needy, dripping cock. He doesn’t look much better, pink fanning his cheeks as he looks down at you with heavy lids, lips shiny with spit that dribbles down his chin. From his angle his cock presses against your cheek, thick and throbbing as a patch of wetness grows through the fabric of his pants. Saliva pools in your mouth.

“We said you can cum,” It’s Suguru now, with a throaty voice that’s muffled as he keeps his tongue nestled in your warmth. He could sit there for hours. “Not when or how.”

Fuck. Them. Your whines are open-mouthed and pathetic, the perfect opportunity for Gojo to slip his pretty cock into your mouth and down the tight heat of your throat. Yeah, it’s tight, bulging around his cock as drool and spit spills from the seams of your lips and bubbles and froths around his balls and shaft. It’s tighter when he buries his cock to the hilt, pressing your nose into his crystal white pubes until you’re gagging for it.

There’s a particular vein by the underside of his shaft, pulsing and throbbing on your sloppy, wet tongue the more he uses your mouth, fast and rough like you’re nothing but a toy, just with extra steps and a few snarky remarks. He’s really shut you up now, his long cock leaving a bulge behind in your throat as he fills it with salty, bitter precum. His cock is heavy.

“Fuck,” Behind you shifts Geto, who frees his cock with the zip of his fly and the pop! of a bottle. They must’ve swapped before moving, you can hear the slick squelch of warm lube sliding along the length of his pretty dick, wet and loud as he eagerly thumbs his slit. You wish you could really see it, the veins in his hands pulsing as he squeezes his shaft, obscenely pulsing and weeping in his palm. “You’re so soft and warm. Gonna fuck this cute little hole full, till your sweet boycunt’s fucked stupid.”

You and your knights share a groan, loud and obscene as Suguru’s cock stretches your hole open. He’s so big, fucking you full until you feel it in your tummy. Your toes curl deliciously, vision hazy and white as you blink back tears. His fingers, his tongue, his spit, his cock. . . It’s all too good, too skilled and perfect as it angles just right into that special, sensitive bundle of nerves. He’s so deep, sliding in with ease as your puffy hole swallows him in full.

“Look at that,” He’s rambling now, slamming his balls against your thighs as he watches his cock disappear inside. Your hole clamps down around him, convulsing and spasming along his shaft just enough to make wet, sticky sounds. “Took me in so easy, so messy. . . Sure you’re not better suited to be free-use stress relief for the people than their prince? Take what we give you and say thank you, Princey.”

“Thmmph. . .” You can’t speak with a mouthful of cock, and your eyes roll back, stuffed to the brim from both sides. Suguru’s thrusts bounce you forward, whereas Satoru’s pulls you back. You can’t think like this, full and fucked stupid as you hollow out your cheeks with hot pants and wiggle your hips. You really are easy.

“S’a good boy, sugar. Don’t think, just keep fuckin’ yourself full of cock. Muuuuch sweeter this way.” It’s the vibrations that send Gojo over the edge, his head falling forward as he whines high in his throat. His balls clench and pulse against your chin, smearing more pre and spit along your face until he’s cumming, hard and without warning. It’s thick and hot, bitter and salty, as his dick throbs in your throat and slides along your tongue, like he’s milking himself with your mouth. The white-haired man uses you like a toy, keeping you still with a hand at the back of your head as he ruts and grinds his hips, moaning with each sloppy, sticky sound of your mixed fluids getting bullied by his dick.

Your nod is mindless, completely thought free as Satoru pops the pretty head of his cock in and out your wet mouth, “M’a good boy, ‘Toru.”

You can feel Suguru’s cock twitch inside you.

“That’s right! Now say ahh!” He makes an effort to stick out his tongue, slipping free from your mouth as his cum leaks around his cock and leaves behind a trail of white. It’s mostly decorating your tongue, though, thick and creamy ropes resting on the muscle and slowly cooling.

“Ah! Ahhh!” You can’t imagine how stupid you must look, staring up at Satoru with your mouth full of his cum and threatening to dribble down your chin. With the way you bounce with each deep, heavy thrust of Geto’s fat, girthy cock. But he kisses you anyway, slow and sensual as his tongue swirls the cum around in your mouth, keeping it warm and wet.

“That’s it, good boy, princeling,” Suguru moans, hips stuttering and pupils blown wide as he watches cum froth between your lips. He can’t wait anymore, snaking his arm around your waist to grip your cock and run his slick fist along it with feverish strokes, fast enough to have you wailing. His other hand grabs Satoru by the hair, white tufts in his fist as he pulls him forward and swaps his saliva for cum, still warm. “Cum on my cock, fuck it into that pretty hole while I taste ‘Toru’. Fuckin’ earn it.”

For once in your life, you don’t have to be told twice.

You take initiative, bouncing back on the long length of Suguru’s dick with tiny gasps and moans, eyes fluttering shut as he works your cock with the twist of his fist. You’re drooling, dribbling down your neck and chin and mixing with the tears rolling down your handsome face, “Pleaseplease, give it t’me!”

“Right there? Yeah? Rolling your hips, you’re a natural.” It doesn’t take much, not when Geto’s angling his hips just right and slamming into your prostate. Not when you’re watching the two kiss, swapping your spit and Satoru’s cum around like a sweet treat. Not when you’re being fucked deep, deeper than your fingers or any other toy could reach. Not when they pause for air and take the opportunity to ramble filth into your ears.

When Geto pulls out you can’t help but wail, pushing your ass back against his shaft. Though you can’t tell if it’s because you’re close or because you’re empty, but you do know thick, sticky ropes are starting to paint the expanse of your back and ass.

You’re marked territory.

The ballroom. . . Is packed, to say the least. It’s hard to see under your mask, the eye cutouts just barely cutting off into your porcelain mask before your pupils. There’s a distinct flash of gowns, all in many different shades— periwinkle, mauve, violet, ice—glittering and gleaming beneath the candle lit chandeliers. You suppose you look no different, the material of your intricately sewn and handcrafted suit looks jaw dropping in the limelight. Golden stitches and embroidery along the pattern of your suit, draped in lace ruffles to keep you warm. Though you’re already burning from the inside out, blazing with nervousness as your trembling legs carry you into the hall.

There’s a long, intricate table that holds just as intricate gifts and snacks— custards, cookies, cakes— chocolate covered strawberries. They remind you of your knights in a way, they’ve always tasted similar. Though you suppose it’s because they’ve shared more than a couple kisses in their lifetime. Whatever the matter, you expect them to have been gone by now, with Satoru’s sweet tooth and Suguru’s unpredictable appetite.

Everyone knows who you are, but it’s hard for you to pinpoint the others in the room. Your father sits on his throne, ridiculously large and cushiony as he oversees the ballroom. It’s gorgeous, admittedly, flashy and beaming with wealth and pride. Your nervous eyes wander, scouring over the smiling, lipstick stained faces until your eyes settle on your knights, who remain glued to the exits with only half a mask covering their faces. Their suits almost match yours, less intricate and not nearly as vibrant or high quality, but the implication that you’re sharing something is enough.

Suguru stands with his arms crossed, looking intimidatingly sharp as ever, eyes narrowed and lips pulled into a flat line. His hair is in a bun, and when he turns you can see the diamonds adorning the clip holding it all in place. Handsome as always, you’re turning on your heels to face him before you know it.

Satoru is all legs, standing absurdly tall in his fitted suit. His tie is a striking shade of blue, just like his eyes, and you remember having picked it out specially for him. You can’t help but smile, floating in his general direction as soon as your eyes land on him, but. . .

“His Highness,” Your vision is obstructed for the millionth time tonight, and you can’t help the growl threatening to rip through your throat. “Could I introduce you to my daughter? Really, she’s a sweetheart, and—”

“Sorry to cut this short,” The agitation leaves your body, and glancing back up to where your knights once resided, you find the spots empty. They’re behind you, stealthy as ever, and you can’t help the smile etching away at your features. “We have very. . . important matters to discuss with our prince.”

Subtle as ever, Suguru.

You’re sure he’s glaring daggers into the women in front of you, arms crossed and biceps bulging as he pulls them apart with his eyes— dissects them to their bare essentials, leaves them feeling uncomfortable in their own skin.

There’s a hand atop yours that doesn’t belong to your knights, instead it’s much smaller and not nearly as warm. Your fingers twitch, and your smile falters just slightly as the woman’s daughter presses onward. Nearly tripping over his glass heels, her face swims through your vision until you’re backing up into the solid chest of— Satoru? It must be, it’s still soft despite the solidity, and you can see Suguru’s inky black hair in your peripherals.

“My Majesty—”

“That’s enough,” It’s straight venom, and the choice of tone reminds you of that fateful night your knights spent making sure you knew just who owned you. “Hands off.”

Their arms loop around your own, strong and firm as they pull you away. You’re thankful for the loud music, symphonies and harps dancing in the air that cover the sound of slamming doors and frantic, high pitched apologies. Your damned knights, so possessive and jealous. They know what this ball was meant for, and yet. . .

And yet they’re stripping you naked, ripping the mask free from their faces as they corners you against a wall. The party is almost as loud as it’d be had you stood in the center of the ballroom, just muffled by the locked doors Suguru kept secured with the sheath of his sword. You don’t have much time, and for once the two are happy you’d spent the previous night fucking yourself silly on your fingers, because they’ve got one goal in mind.

Marking their territory.

You’re not sure what this position is— but it makes you feel full and properly owned. Gojo's strong arms looped around the back of your knees as he holds you open on display. Suguru looks ravenous. eyes dark and steely as he watches Gojo’s cock pulse and twitch against your hole.

“S’is our fuckhole,” Satoru smiles down at you, feral and manic as he buries himself to the hilt inside you, his balls slapping against the curve of your ass. He doesn’t seem eager to stop, lifting you off his cock and chasing that feeling of you clamping down on him— even when you’re almost too sensitive to take it. Even when you’ve barely adjusted to the stretch of his fat dick, fluttering and wailing around his pretty, veiny shaft. “Our job. . . our job, takin’ care of our boy’s pussy.”

“Think about this, boy,” Suguru groans, deep and rumbly in his throat as you’re made to watch him fist his slippery, squelching cock. “Whenever someone tries to court you. You’re owned. Your holes are owned.” He grips his cock tight, thumbing the slit and smearing precum all over the head as your own bounces along your tummy. Precum dribbles along the lace embroidery of your unbuttoned undershirt, ruining the bunched up fabric. He can’t help but jerk off watching the two of you, heavy pants leaving his lips as he fucks up into his fist, twisting his fist the closer it gets to the gland of his cock, slipping and sliding as he uses his own hand. Yours are much softer, less calloused, but you’re preoccupied. You’d have to use both hands anyway, struggling to wrap them around his cock.

“Whose are you?” And, oh, that’s an easy question. Gojo’s voice is so loud in your ear, even as you eagerly bounce on and off his cock like a sex doll.

“Yours, m’yours, belong t’you!” He makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat, groans and pants joining your moans when he speeds up, his slow and deep strokes becoming fast and hollow, pounding that sensitive spot deep inside you over and over and over. You’re fucked-out and borderline crosseyed as he pounds his dick into you, keeps you steady with his fingers locked behind your head. A string of precum connects you together, pooling at your ass and Satoru’s balls, and his hips crash down, yours convulsing upward to meet him halfway.

“Again.”

“M’yours, m’yours! ‘Toru, Sugu, m’yours! My mouth, my cock, my holes. S’yours.”

“That’s it, let me in,” He blows air out through his mouth, hot and warm as he sinks into your heat. Still tight, as if you haven’t been thoroughly fucked full of Satoru’s cock. His head falls forward, long hair falling from its bun and framing his handsome face. Your gummy walls are unmatched, and he swears he’ll blow his load if you keep squeezing down on him like this. “I know, it’s so big, just keep moaning for me, and I’ll keep pounding this hole, s’all your pretty little head can tell you to do, huh princeling?”

“Uh. . . Uh huh!”

Your crying sounds so cute, and for a moment they forget you’re a prince— not a slut. It’s pitchy in your throat and dragged out as your pretty hole eagerly takes in cock, clamping around it and sucking him deeper into your velvety walls. So good, you can’t help but rock back against it, shameless and devoid of any other thoughts as Satoru keeps his arms looped around your knees. There’s a chant of cockcockcock blaring in your head, Gojo’s cock pressed against your ass and dripping. He’d left behind thick ropes of cum, and as Suguru’s dick reaches deep inside you can hear it froth between the tiny rim of your hole and his shaft.

Your crown tips off your head, threatening to fall as you watch Satoru’s cock join alongside Suguru’s. You’ve never felt more full in your life, stretched and achy— when one pulls out the other pushes in, and you’ve got nowhere to go. The white-haired male behind you manages to grab it before it can fall, lifting your knees higher up for just a moment, and places it atop his head. You can’t protest, all you can do is drool and whine, eyes fluttering shut and hole spasming as the two take turns wearing your crown.

In a way, it’s theirs too.

“S’your favorite part, pretty!” Gojo purrs, shifting to lift your ass to and fro with each respective thrust, groaning as his shaft slides along Suguru’s veins pulsing and head weeping. He keens, high in his throat as his balls tighten for the second time tonight. You’re just too good, who’s gonna sue him for breeding you? “You get to feel our cum shoot deeeep inside! You want that, honey? To be full n’ claimed? Maybe we should walk out and show everyone how slutty you are. Those poor princesses, they have no idea the man they want likes his wet holes fucked too.”

Fuck.

“Jesus. . . Fuck, ‘Toru,” Geto groans, his balls tightening against your own as your cock spurts out rope after rope of cum, sticky and thick as it sprays along your face and unbuttoned shirt. “Never know when to shut up. Look— nngh—look at what you did.”

Satoru pulls out sloooow, and their cum gushes right out your creamy hole. They moan in unison, shaky and unstable, and the tight fit of your small hole has them both following soon after with choked up groans and whines, “Good boy, gooood boy. You take it so well.”

Your thighs shake and your throat finally gives out, your voice hoarse and tired as you squeal. You can feel each rope shoot deep inside you, thick, creamy pooling around their cocks and seeping out your puffy, used hole. Your knights huff, panting into your damp skin with sick, satisfied smiles. You’ve made a real mess of yourself— they’ve made a real mess out of you, and when you walk back into the ballroom they’re sure the smell of sex will cling to your skin. You’re claimed, thoroughly. Inside and out, and they’ll fuck you as many times as they need for others to realize it.

Satoru lets you down slowly, Suguru’s hands on your waist keeping you stable on your wobbly, jelly-like legs. Blinking away unshed tears, the two free you of your soiled garments in favor of something else, conveniently placed clothing that just happens to fit you perfectly. Had you the energy, you’d roll your eyes— they’ve planned this, in one way or another. But you don’t have the energy, not when your eyelids are heavy and drooping as you cling to their strong biceps and allow them to wipe you clean with their own sleeves.

Chivalrous as ever.

“I notified the King, my liege,” Satoru says, satirically proper as Suguru chokes on a laugh beside you. “Before leaving. Of your. . .”

“Predicament,” Suguru chimes in, the smile in his voice audible. You make an extra effort to shimmy free of their hold, face souring as they pretend they didn’t just ruin you from the inside-out. Your chest floods with warmth when they jolt forward, palms hovering over your sweaty body to catch you— just in case, “Looks like you’ll be stuck with us for the rest of the night.”

“But there’s one more thing!” Satoru scrambles to correctly zip up his pants, buttoning them back up with nimble fingers. Then, he fishes into his pockets, pulling out a small box— the one you’d seen quite some time ago— the one you’d forgotten about. Still as pristine as ever, like he’d kept it somewhere safe, he gingerly drops it into your hand.

“We got something for you,” Your eyebrows furrow. They don’t technically make money— sure, enough to keep their pockets open, but they have no need to spend it. They live with you, after all, and will continue to do so once you’re appointed king. Satoru urges you with a “shush!” before you can even speak, but you take the hint. You’re not dumb. “We couldn’t— it's not exactly a ring, but. . .”

Opening the gift— it flips open, you don’t need to unravel the bow at all— it’s a necklace. A thin, gold plated necklace with a small charm dangling from its center. The charm. . . Their coat of arms, shiny and intricate despite its small size. It glimmers in the light, sparkly like a diamond, and there are letters engraved on the flat underside of the pendant, curvy and cursive with hearts for periods. Your thumb traces the initials, the loops and curls of the letters until its shape is indented into the pad of your finger. It’s more than initials to you, it’s officiality, they are yours and you are theirs. You have the necklace to prove it, now.

‘S.G.’

If your mother were here to see this now, you’re sure she’d be jumping for joy. Happy her only child has finally found his match, has finally found something of his own. Happy her only child is marrying for love. Your father will just have to deal with it, you’ve never felt safer in your life. You don’t need a princess, you don’t need a stronger monarchy. You need your knights.

“We thought it’d suit you.” Geto finishes for his white-haired counterpart, a rosy hue painting the height of his cheeks.

It does.

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dabisbratz · 1 year

Text

DADDY’S HOME — gojo satoru x male reader

w.c: 4.3k

warning: light angst, daddy kink, bottom male reader, finger sucking, fingering, apology sex, dubcon (gojo’s a lil pushy but everything is consensual), dacryphilia, dirty talk, praise, biting, reader’s kinda bratty, possessiveness, established relationship, secret relationship, reader’s a regular civilian, anal sex, spit, mating press, sexualizing gojo’s thermographic xray vision, amab body terminology

a/n: the title to this is actually ‘kiss it better’ but i can’t give up ‘daddy’s home’….. s’too funny to changejsgshsgs

Tomorrow, like most days as of late, doesn’t come easy.

You don’t know exactly where Satoru is. Your last memory of him is rushed— it’s foggy and barely there, but you try to recollect how it went anyway. Over and over, you try to recall the curve of Satoru’s lips, his distinct scent, his words. It’s all a blur now, but you’re certain it wasn’t a goodbye. Not like how it feels now.

You’re tired, of that you’re certain, with your eyelids weighing more than the grief on your shoulders and your scleras burning a dark shade of red. Your bathroom mirror mocks you with your very own reflection, and as the bristles of your toothbrush are pushed to and fro, you catch yourself frowning at the dull depiction of, well, you. The distorted image of yourself stares back, tired eyes sunken in and rimmed in deep, dark circles. You try to put on a smile, eyes flickering up to meet your own heavy, mourning gaze.

But you know you’re being dramatic. It hasn’t even been a month yet (you still had eleven more days), just nineteen days of radio silence. Excruciating, lonely, isolating radio silence. The cordolium is almost too much to handle, heavy pangs in your chest as your heart twists and turns and squeezes itself. Like a washcloth wrung out to dry, you dampen and deflate as you make your way out the bathroom— but not before putting your things away and flickering the light off.

When you think about it, really think about it, you wonder if it’s all worth it. The waiting, the secrets, the silence, the mental gymnastics. The gangly limbs and unruly hair, pale and silky. The blotchy shade of pink that clashes with the rest of his face when you refer to him with a pet-name. Is Gojo worth it? If the ground opened up and swallowed you whole, would he be the first person you’d wish to see one last time? Satoru? No, it’s indubitable— he’s worth everything and more.

And to say you miss him would be an understatement.

Tomorrow, like most days as of late, doesn’t really come at all for Satoru.

In a way it does, of that he’s certain, but it doesn’t exactly feel like it. There’s no concept of time here, something a regular human wouldn’t be able to comprehend. If he were that— a regular human, that is— he’s sure his brain would’ve shut down the second he was sealed in the damned prison realm. Physically, he feels just fine. Almost akin to the moment he was originally sealed, as if the amount of time he’s actually spent here was a mere sliver of sixty seconds. Maybe like going to sleep, only with the visuals of the dream being dark skeletons and an inky black skyline, had it counted for one.

But it doesn’t last long— not for him at least— as he eventually finds himself fishing out unused, silver keys and standing in front of your apartment door. Should he. . . just walk in? As if nothing happened? It’s November ninth now, he was sealed in October— realistically, he’s been gone for nineteen days. But not for you, as he only had so often to find the time to actually be with you, he was lucky to see you throughout the entirety of the weekends.

Fuck. He misses you.

Your laugh, your smile, the boyish glint in your eyes. . . The way you frown when he makes an impossibly childish joke, as if you want to laugh but don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Your hands, so warm and gentle as they card through his opalescent strands of hair. Your throat, bruised and painted with fresh bites so everyone knows you belong to him.

That’s enough to get the door open.

Your apartment is dark, not dark enough that he can’t see, but it’s obvious you’re fast asleep. Gojo shuts the door behind him, turning the lock to warn a soft click in return, and immediately makes his way to your bedroom. He’ll be sentimental and sappy about the state of your house later— he just wants to see you.

And- ah, there you are. Facing away from him (or, the doorway) as you lay on your side. You look peaceful— the slow rise and fall of your bare chest as you hold onto your pillow like a lifeline. He’s missed those arms, warm and welcoming as they’re wrapped around his strong form. With your back turned to him, he watches your back expand and deflate, your face enveloped in the cool, soft fabric of your pillow. Your handsome face, something he’s missed more than you’ll ever know, completely covered. Gojo frowns, despite the light building in his chest as he makes his way to the bed.

You’re warm despite only sleeping in your boxers and— is that his t-shirt? He can feel the soothing heat of your body bouncing off your shoulders (your skin is entirely too bare for his liking, no longer littered in hickeys or indents of his teeth). It makes him want to curl up beside you, holding you until he’s stuck with his arms around your frame. Together.

“I’m home,” Satoru whispers, tracing the hill of your shoulder with delicate fingertips as he looks down at the side of your face. Peaceful, you’re unmoving, eyelashes resting against your cheek and pretty, soft lips relaxed. Your breaths come out in stifled, hushed chords, and Gojo finds himself enamored all over again. “Did y’miss me?”

You mumble something soft, not entirely there yet, as his big hands slowly part you from your pillow. He’s jealous of it, he’ll admit, seeing as it gets to press against your body every single night. A constant in your life, he supposes.

“C’mon,” His voice is a gentle purr, sweet in your ears as he coaxes you awake, “Wake up,” like a silent prayer drifting into the night, as he gently shakes you. He’s never been one for rude awakenings, after all. He’s missed your pretty eyes.

Almost on cue, your eyes slowly flutter awake with a groggy groan. Gojo watches the curve of your lips, the furrow of your brows, the way your fists clench around his shirt. Just as handsome as the day he left you, confusion fills your face until your jaw goes slack. The words die on your tongue, your brain slowly working to connect the dots as Gojo fondly watches questions mold your lips.

Nothing of Satoru has changed. His eyes are still so blue; and sparkling with shades that remain unrecognizable to this day. His hair’s still the cleanest twinge of white you’ve ever seen, brighter than the sun during early evening, quilting the rooftops and pavement. His glossy, rosy, lips curl into a small, genuine smile, chirping a quiet ‘good morning!’ and at this angle, shadows meet to frame him perfectly. The curve of his face, the slope of his adam’s apple, his silhouette blanketed by the yellow hue emitting from streetlights that peek through your desolate curtains.

His shoulders have never looked more broad, the expanse of his body large and big as he leans forward. He smells remnant of soap, and there’s something in his scent that makes you sleepier, gets your brain foggy as he looks at you.

With your lover hovering directly above you, an incredulous tremor racks your body. Your hands reach out to touch him, as if he’s not real, and once you’re met with the solid, silky skin of his collarbone you can’t help but gasp.

You watch dimples paint his cheeks as he leans in with his head, staring at your lips with darkening eyes.

“Satoru,” Cold shivers run down his spine, sucking a sharp breath through his teeth at the sound of his name leaving your lips. Like a broken record, you repeat yourself, completely at a loss for words. The love in your voice is audible, desperate, “Satoru.”

Curling your fingers into a fist, you bunch up the fabric of his— Jesus Christ, did he come here in a compression shirt?—shirt and pull him forward, shutting your eyes as your lips crash into his.

You can feel his teeth grazing your mouth, pearly fresh as he smiles. But you swallow it down, using your other hand to snake up the nape of his neck, bristles of his faded undercut prickling your fingertips. He tastes just like how you remember, sweet and soft, with his tongue as wet as it is sharp. He’s home, and he feels like it, too.

Gojo follows suit, snaking a large hand up your chest until it’s resting at the base of your neck, wrapping around the warm flesh. He can feel your heartbeat in your throat, rapid and sharp as he delivers a small squeeze. Frustration bubbles in your stomach, fast and sudden as you pull away, eyebrows knitting together the more you think about it.

“You left me,” It’s not a question, laced with anger as you keep him close with your fist in his shirt. He left you, and has the audacity to turn up in the middle of the night for what— to fuck? You try to ignore the slight fall of his lips, the flash of guilt that sparkles in his irises. “For two weeks. Now you just wanna fuck?”

No— that’s not it. Satoru has half the mind to paint his face with a smile, to block out the question like some kind of declaration against him. But it’s you, you’re saying it because you’re scared, because you care. Because you missed him just as much as he missed you, if not more. You’re not picking a fight, you’re worried. So Gojo lets himself visibly deflate, the smile on his face flickering as he squeezes your neck once more. Yeah, he wants to fuck you, but that’s not all.

“You know that’s not it,” And yeah, maybe he’s right, because you have yet to let go of him or push away his hand. You know he’s right, because you’re subconsciously leaning into the strong hand around your throat, the edges of your brain fogging up the longer he looks at you, “But you’d let me, wouldn’t you?” Gojo's gaze is dark, intense. He cocks his head to the side and smirks, showing off his sharp, shiny canines. Fuck. You’ve fallen right into his trap, letting him snake his hand up your jaw to make you nod, slow and steady, “You know I can’t help myself.”

Heat pools in your stomach, intense as he laughs at whatever pathetic face you must be making in response to his casual manhandling. Pressing a chaste kiss to your lips, again and again, he takes initiative to gather your wrists in his warm palms, pressing your hands against his chest to feel his heart beat. The steady thump, thump, thump-ing is nothing compared to the vibration of your own, showing no signs of slowing as he lets go to lift your (well, his) shirt off your body.

“Feel that?” He breathes, immediately burying his face in your neck. He inhaled your scent, groaning low in his throat as he sinks his teeth into the soft skin. His eyelashes tickle your jaw, long as he closes his eyes and sucks along the skin. With short, stinging bursts, your neck is blemished with indents of his teeth and deep, blooming bruises.

“Mhm, yeah…” You whine, baring your neck as he reaches down to rub circles into your inner thighs. He's heavy lidded, following the curve of your cupid's bow and drinking in the way you bite down on your bottom lip between gasps- the plump flesh covered in a thin sheen of saliva that has his mind racing.

Pulling away, Satoru pushes you down on your back, spreading your thighs apart with two long, big hands. Sparks fly in your groin, legs instinctively coming to close around the pale hands holding you open until Gojo’s grunting, tightening his grip at your thighs to keep you still. “Don’t go runnin’ on me now.”

Sounds of protest bubble up before he can berate you, your body squirming under his strength as he moves a hand to tug at the fabric of your boxers.

He's watching your lips, pretending to listen to what you're saying: even playing the role well enough to add a low hum of response when it's required of him. You’ll never admit how hard it makes you, how your hole flutters around nothing in response to the intentional neglect— but he seems to get it anyway.

Satoru hums, offering a spare, stern glance as he frees your cock from the confines of your underwear. Springing to life, you feel yourself throbbing and achy as he lets out an involuntary moan. Hiking your knees up to your chest, Satoru doesn’t have to tell you to hold them there. You do it yourself, tilting your head to keep watch of his movements.

His biceps ripple and bulge against his shirt as he rids himself of his slim-fitting, matching black pants. He watches you the entire time, pausing to squeeze the base of his cock through his pants as if he’s impatient. There’s a wet patch adorning his underwear, ghosting over the head of his cock that you can make out through its long, thick indent. Saliva gathers in your mouth, threatening to spill as you watch him lift his shirt overhead.

“Gojo,” You hear yourself whine, holding your legs with one hand as the other claws at the sheets, pulling them forward. “Hurry up.”

“Tellin’ me what to do now?” His hair falls over his face, wisps of white disheveled enough to have him carding a hand through it. It falls back into place seamlessly. You’ll be damned if it doesn’t make your brain a little slow, but you don’t have much time to dwell on it because he’s grabbing you, pulling you down so your ass is flush against his bulge.

A small gasp leaves your lips, wet and watery as he ruts his hips against the swell of your ass, your thighs, your balls.

“Two weeks, Go’,” You’re rambling, wiggling your hips against his big, throbbing dick. Damned boxers, the most you get from him is the wetness of his pre-cum grinding against you. “Two weeks, nothing. Thought you left me. Could’ve fucked someone e—”

He cuts you off before you can finish, shoving his long fingers in your mouth to shut you up. His face is scarily calm, like the comment didn’t phase him at all. But you regret it before it even left your lips, your eyes widening as you gag on his fingers. Like he’s fucking your throat with them, wet squelches and drool slides down tithe seams of your lips. Then it’s there, a possessive fire in his eyes as he watches your pretty mouth wrap around his knuckles.

“Wanna try that again?” Narrowing his eyes, he presses his fingertips into your tongue. The weight of his fingers makes you short circuit, your brain blank as you blink up at him with glassy eyes. The cocky asshole has the audacity to look at you like you’ve grown another head. “What? Daddy's fingers fuckin’ your throat remind you who it belongs to? Make you stupid enough to drop the attitude?"

Oh.

He slowly slides out his fingers, giving you a chance to explain yourself. Glimmering and shiny with spit, Satoru inspects them before sucking the drool off with an expectant raise of his eyebrows.

“Be. . .” Quiet. He can sense the end of that sentence from a mile away, tutting as he shoves his fingers back in your mouth with a disappointed shake of his head.

“Where’d my good, sweet boy go?” With his ring and middle fingers fucking your mouth, he uses his thumb to smear your saliva along your lips. Fighting back the urge to spread your legs and whine, suckling on his fingers with a long, drawn out whine, it’s your turn to shake your head.

His good boy. . .

You gurgle around his fingers, sputtering something he can’t understand, as his free hand spreads the globes of your ass apart. He spits down, landing right along your perineum and slowly sliding down onto your cute, winking hole.

“Sorry! You’ll have to speak up!” He chirps, finally removing his fingers for good. But now you don’t have much to say, pursing your lips in defiance as his wet fingers trail down your shaft, balls, and crack. He finds your hole in an instant, rubbing the pads of his fingers in slow, tantalizing circles. “What was that? You know where he went? You sure?”

So deep, he pushes in one knuckle at a time, his fingertips sliding along your gummy, creamy hole, cursing out, “He does that too, grinds his pretty hole on my fingers.”

“Hate you,” Him and his stupidly skilled fingers. Him and his stupidly pretty dick. Him and his stupid, stupid mouth. You sniffle, vision blurry as you sit up on your elbows to watch Satoru’s long, skinny fingers push past the first band of muscle, slick and slow, “You….left me.”

“I know, I’m the worst,” He pouts, pink lips curving downward as he closely watches your velvety walls suck his fingers in deeper. So pretty, your rim stretching and fluttering along the digits as their own special greeting. He’s missed this. “Gonna let Daddy apologize?”

He doesn’t have to look at you to know you’re shaking your head, pouty lips persistent as ever. It’s what he loves about you, though. Satoru can’t help but coo, high in his throat. You’re just so teary-eyed, he can’t take you seriously. But you nod, small and sweet as you avert your gaze. He’s sure you can see him from the corner of your pretty eyes, so he makes sure to keep his pride apparent.

“There he is,” He smiles, watching you clamp down on his fingers from the praise. His fingers hit your prostate, the special bundle of nerves sending electricity up your body until you’re wailing, back arched with tears spilling down your cheeks. “There’s my good boy.”

His cock grinds against your bedsheets, hard and throbbing. As torturous as it is for you— the slow drag of his fingers as he continuously spits into your hole— it’s tenfold for him. He’s nearly losing his head, eyes scanning over your body, then to your sobbing face.

You hiccup, wet and loud and pitiful, rocking your hips like some kind of slut, desperate to feel full again. Full of Satoru. But then you’re empty again, clenching around nothing but air and spit as he pulls away. He mumbles a few profanities, kicking off his boxers in a display that has your bed creaking and shaking— you along with it.

There’s a slick sound of his thick dick taptaptap-ing against your rim, wet and sticky as he grabs handfuls of your ass. Briefly admiring the skin that spills between his fingers, Satoru’s gaze lifts to meet yours. Your survey is lazy now, eyelids heavy as your drool-covered face contorts into a wobbly smile. He wants to fuck that stupid look off your face. He wants to make up for lost time.

“Ohh,” You sigh, melting into the mattress as he lifts your ankles over his shoulders and readjusts so he’s hovering over you in a squat, the head of his cock sliding along your sensitive hole and neglected cock. He’ll take care of you, he promises. “Daddy…”

He nearly shoots all over you.

What a pretty picture that would make, too. Your fucked out face blanketed in thick ropes of cum, your chest shiny with a thin layer of sweat and drool. But there’s somewhere else he’d rather shoot, somewhere deep and warm and mushy around his cock. Inside.

“Fuck,” It’s a sloppy, pathetic sound. The squelch of Satoru’s long, curved cock slipping past that tight band and into your messy hole. You’re not much help either, with your babbling and incoherencies and constant whining of ‘Daddy!’ and ‘please!’ Your hole is plush and tight, gripping his cock like a vice and refusing to let go. And with every drag of his dick comes more sounds, more sticky, clear precum (how cute, your cock is leaking down to your hole) that turns creamy and thick the more he pushes in and out. “Fuuck, don’t move. Sit there and take it.”

“Oh my—” You sob, thighs tightening and trembling at the stretch of his fat dick in your little hole. An intrusion really, because you’re struggling to take it— too big, too much, too good. If Satoru’s talking you don’t hear it, not over your own squeals and wailing, anyway. “. . .Please..!

“You even know what you’re begging for, baby?” Satoru keens, your tears spurring him up until he can’t do anything but mindlessly thrust, kissing away the fat, crystal tears rolling down your handsome face.

“Uh… Uh-huh,” You nod, fast and rushed as you lock your legs together. Your head luls to the side, as you’re much too weak to keep it upright as Satoru watches you. You just can’t help it, your lips parting as his cock bullies your prostate, poking and prodding and pounding. You’re sure you look stupid- utterly and completely fucked out on his dick, your tongue slipping from your mouth and panting like some sort of bitch in heat.

“Yeah? What is it, then?”

“Da—ddy,” You sob, blinking away tears as Gojo’s hips grind in slow circles, deeper and deeper and deeper. “S’so big, I can’t— How s’it even fit?”

Oh, fuck.

“I don’t know, baby,” It’s the genuine surprise that does it for him. Looking down, Satoru rests his forehead on yours as he watches his cock disappear inside you. In and out, in and out, sloppy and messy and— oh. He can see the warmth of your hole, the warmth of his dick, watches it leave and enter, fills you up and leaves you empty again over and over. The way your rim stretches special for his dick, then back to its tiny, winking state just to be split apart all over again. Fuck. “You’re just special like that. Perfect for my—fucking—cock.”

“Missed,” You hiccup, jolting up and down as Satoru pounds into you, relentless and desperate like he’s trying to get you there— trying to get himself there. He is, seeing as your cock feels just about ready to burst and your hole is sensitive it almost hurts. “Missed you, Daddy. . . N’… Missed your cock.”

“T’aww,” His cooing is genuine, not nearly as mocking as early, and heat prickles your body, even if you already felt on fire. “Really? Know something, I missed you too. And my cock— yeah, missed this pretty little hole too. All mine, isn’t it?”

That does it.

Your cock spurts against your stomach, your chest, with the help of a few short, shallow strokes on Satoru’s part. But it felt better, the twisting of his wrist that doesn’t stop even as you start to convulse, eyes rolling back until your vision goes white and cum ropes out your dick in quick, short, sensitive bursts.

You’re clamping down so hard, nearly spitting and pushing out Gojo’s cock the harder he pounds into you, murmuring into your neck until you feel warmth in your tummy. In thick, longer spurts that feel sticky and cling to your gummy walls. You’re full, whining and whimpering as Satoru slowly calms his feverish thrusts, fucking his cum in deeper and deeper, as if it’ll do anything.

“Daddy… too much…” You’re cut off by your own hiccups, feeling some of his cum seep out your sloppy hole and down your crack, globs pooling beneath your ass and sticking to Gojo’s heavy, spent balls. Despite your own protests, you make no movement to unlock your legs, your cock twitching pitifully as your lover’s thick cock nestles against that special spot deep inside you.

“I know,” Satoru doesn’t pull out, instead nuzzling his face into your neck and coaxing you into releasing your legs with small, languid circles to the back of your thighs. “I’m here. Daddy’s right here.”

You know what he’s trying to say, even in the cockdrunk state you’re currently stuck in. With foggy eyes and an equally foggy brain, you pepper tiny kisses along Gojo’s temple, smiling wide when he laughs into your sweaty neck. “Mhmm. . . Know you won’t leave me, ‘Toru.”

Never on purpose, anyway.

“Maaan, you’re always so honest after we fuck! I’m like some sort of elite sex therapist,” You don’t have the energy to grunt or roll your eyes, let alone push him. He continues anyway, teeth nipping at your sensitive neck. “I knew you didn’t mean it. You looooove me!”

Biting back the urge to take it back, you nuzzle your cheek against the silky, soft bundles of Gojo’s white hair, whispering a quiet declaration of love straight into his ear. You hope to stay like this for the rest of the night, limbs entangled as Satoru breathes you in, strong arms holding you in place— his cock inside you, slowly softening until you’re both asleep. Cleanup can wait— after you’ve talked about everything, after you’ve finally gotten a full night of uninterrupted sleep. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow? Yeah, tomorrow comes easy. Of that, you’re certain.

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dabisbratz · 1 year

Text

READ BETWEEN THE LINES — eren jaeger x male reader

w.c: 5.6k

warning: semi-public sex (library), college! au, jock!reader, nerd!eren, bottom reader, exhibitionism, praise/degradation, fingering, riding, mild jealousy, pining, creampie, panty (boxer?)stuffing, mention of ahegao from eren, overstim, edging, oral, dumbification, **feminization,** cum play, unprotected sex, teasing, dirty talk.

a/n: really recommend reading the prequel before this one!

You’re running late. Actually— that’s a major understatement.

You’ve got a soft spot for parties. A close second to the football field and its goals, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. They may leave you disoriented and thick tongued, but they’re special. Especially when they’re yours. The two places you get to truly dominate, to run down an opponent and crush their dreams of ever making it further than this. So why you’re dreading them now. . . it’s hard to say why. It’s complicated.

But you’ve got a few guesses.

You woke up late, fatigue pulling at your limbs as you sank into your mattress and nuzzled your face deeper and deeper into your pillow. If you’re being honest, the previous night was full of bass boosted music, alcohol, and tabs of something that absolutely should not have been mixed with liquor. Foxy, was it? Whatever the concoction, it was built specifically to knock you straight out, face to pillow and body to mattress until the following morning and then some.

And through it all, the hallucinogens and warped vision, you couldn’t help but think of those green eyes— blazing emeralds covered by a sheen layer of glass and plastic. It’s been a week, yet that chocolate brown hair that stops just short of the base of a fair neck and falls just below the end of round spectacles is haunting you. It’s him who left you disoriented and wobbly on your feet. Him, who you’d imagined the soft lips of as they traced the skin of your throat and downward. Eren, that stupid nerd with a stupidly big dick who fucked you stupid and left you to pick up the pieces of your broken. . . situationship.

Okay— maybe it wasn’t him who left. The second you woke up with the realization of what happened (he fucked you and recorded it, had the gall to send it to your girlfriend, for fuck’s sake!) you fled, ran straight out the building and through campus until your lungs were on fire and your heart in your throat. You ran until you couldn’t, until your calves ached and your thighs had just as much throbbing to match. Until sweat dripped down your nose and stained your jersey. Until you couldn’t hear over the sound of your heart pounding against your eardrums. Fuck, you’d left the place stained in your own cum.

With a groan you bury your face into the pillow, growing warmer by the second as your hands curl into fists that slam down into the air mattress. If anyone saw anything that day they certainly haven't mentioned it, but you’re sure with the popularity you hold it wouldn’t be brought up unless you bring it up.

So you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, really.

Joints crackling as you stand, a yawn rips through your throat and floats along behind you until your legs have carried you to the bathroom. Jean left the dorm before the sun could fully rise, probably to get in a few morning reps in and, if you’re being honest, it’s fucked up your time perception. That’s right, not the foxy or hennessy or even the beer. It was Jean. And worst of all it was Eren.

“Fuck you.” You grunt into your toothpaste, squinting at your reflection in the mirror as the bathroom’s fluorescent lights shoot straight through your retinas. You spit it out as if he can hear it, angry and venomous and not at all hesitant.

Walking through campus doesn’t lighten your mood. Your clothes cling uncomfortably— they’re Jean’s, after all— much too tight around your thighs and pressing against your chest with every sharp intake of breath. Your backpack is much too heavy, weighing down your shoulders until you walk with an uncomfortable hunch. Though you suppose it’s an exact physical representation of how you feel.

And if that’s not enough to test your limits, you end up bumping into someone who doesn’t know how to watch where they’re going. With an irritated growl you push them to the side with the help of your sports bag, nearly knocking them straight off their feet. Flashes of blond swim through your vision, bouncing off sunlight as it sways to and fro.

As an act of retaliation, nimble hands press into the plush flesh of your bicep, pushing you back just enough to open the gap between the two of you.

“Watch where you—”

“Armin!” You know that voice. It’s nasally and thick, even gains a husky tone to it when it’s whispered. It’s warm in your ears when it’s laced with praise, and cold when it’s spiked with the exact opposite. You know that voice.

So you run.

You’ve never considered yourself a coward. There’s a lot of things you are, but cowardly isn’t one of them. You’re one of the best, if not the best star players on your team, after all. Your hands ball into fists, clenched tightly as you walk into the occupied classroom, the only space you’d never really claimed as your domain.

It’s stupid, really, the hold he has on you. You’ve heard his voice and now you can’t think. As if you’re drunk all over again, you’re locked in a room with him while music blares through the crack beneath the door. Like you’re on your knees again, your face buried in his skin as you breathe in his scent. Woodsy and sweaty, almost as overpowering as his pulsing cock throbbing against the tightness of your throat. The fuzzy feeling has followed you for weeks, in the back of your mind as you complete mindless tasks and conversations.

You can’t help but let your mind wander, reverting back to that same fogginess that had the questions of last week’s pop quiz distorting before your very eyes.

(“Open,” It’s more of a command than anything, Eren’s very hands on, his fingers slipping into your mouth to pull at the corners of your mouth. Your tongue covers your teeth, your mouth watering as his salty fingertips graze your tongue. His other hand is busy working at the head of his cock, twisting smooth circles over the slit until it crashes down against your tongue. Again, and again, and again. “Good boy.”)

It’s hard to care, even when you’re handed back the test with disappointing results. A shiver racks through your body when a hand is placed on your shoulder, and your nostrils are overloaded with the smell of aftershave and old spice. Connie.

“I don’t know how you expect to stay on the team with grades like that, if you need a tutor. . .” He mumbles, light, golden eyes flickering past your shoulder to avoid head on eye-contact. Tests have never been your forté. It’s exactly why you’re in college solely based on a football scholarship. “I know I’m not one to talk, but—”

“Man, shut up,” You grumble, humiliation spreading through your body as you shift your weight from one foot to another. Crisp sheets of paper crumple between your fingers, balled up until the vermilions fifty percent is tossed into a nearby trash bin. “No one asked you.”

“Look, Jean knows. . . a guy. Says he’s kinda an asshole but,” He makes a motion with his hand in your general direction, chopping through the air. “So are you, so. You should get along just fine.”

The library is peaceful. A calm, comforting silence that’s paired with the company of only three people (you, your tutor, and the librarian— who, if you’re being honest, is sleeping more than she’s working). It’s nice like this. The air is still with tranquility, the only sound tiptoeing around your ears belonging to the sardined books adorning an array of shelves. It’s a stark contrast to the field— usually accompanied by excited screams, whistles, and running feet— but you don’t entirely mind it. It’s a pleasant change in scenery.

That, and it’s curing your hangover headache.

Venturing further into the library, you peek over the arrangements of bookshelves and desks. . . past the rows of computers and technology stations sits your tutor. Sat cozy in the corner of the room, he truly chose the most secluded area of the library. Good. His hair is a warm shade of brown, reaching barely above his neck, and with his back turned to you it’s hard to make out his features, but you swear that shirt he’s wearing looks familiar.

Oh, what the—

“Fuck.” His head snaps back, confirming it is that stupid fucking shirt, and he is that stupid fucking nerd. Devoid of any bodily fluids at that, four eyes had the audacity to wear it out again. As if it wasn’t recognizable, as if he hadn’t used it to clean his own cum off your body. You’re ready to turn on your heels, completely ignore the gnawing in your stomach that grows with every passing second you spend looking at him, ready to run and never look back.

“You look good,” His forest green eyes rake up and down your body, back straightening as he adjusts his glasses. You hate how quick his voice sends shivers up your spine, how it turns your legs to jelly and keeps you frozen in place. His gaze is intense, heated as he pats the seat next to him, fingertips brushing against the glossy cover of his hentai. You clear your throat, loud in comparison to the silence, but the brunette seems unphased. “Sit.”

You do, but not without collecting the manga and placing them on the farest end of the table. He seems to get a kick out of that, huffing hair out his nose as you push the books away like a picky child. Eren’s arm covers his scribbling, but you don’t care enough to press the secrecy. Instead, you unzip your backpack and pull out your laptop. He makes a sound high in his throat, something like a question, as he takes hold of the leg of your chair and pulls you closer.

Right. You forgot about his unprecedented amount of strength.

“Eren—” You start, but the sound of his name on your lips already has him groaning. Heat blooms in your stomach, tingling down to your crotch at the sound, and it’s almost like he’s fucking you all over again. So deep, something you’ve never had before. His cock kissed your insides, left you sloppy and open and empty.

“Eren,” You repeat, much whinier than intended, the name crackling as the man’s big palm squeezes your thigh. “Focus,” his response is noncommittal, a half hum that melts into a breathy laugh and quirk of his thick brow. “Studying. Tutoring. That shit.”

“Missed these tits,” He completely ignores you, instead opting to run his hands beneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. His hands snake up your tummy and shoot straight toward your chest, squeezing the flesh until your nipples harden against his palms. “Wanted to slide my cock between them the second I saw you.”

“They’re not tits.” You rasp, warmth rising in your face as your legs instinctively spread apart. He was right, you are a whore for his cock, and even the thought of getting it makes you braindead. You have the urge to get on your knees, to strip yourself of your clothing and present all your holes to him, spreading yourself wide open with your fingers.

“Aren’t they, though?” He lifts your shirt over your chest, the fabric bunching under your armpits, and you have no other choice but to watch the mounds of flesh spill from between his fingers— he’s got you in a tight grip, pushing your pecs together as he runs his pink tongue over his lips. It's humiliating, the lack of a fight you put up. There’s a weak tug at his wrists, but you’re barely making the effort to actually move him, whines heavy on your tongue. It’s hard, hard, to form the words you want, so you opt for open-mouthed whines.

Eren pushes you to your knees, watching you fall with glassy eyes.

You watch the brunette squeeze at his cock, his large hand sliding into a fist that clamps down around his shiny slit, then slowly back down to the thick, veiny shaft. You want his cock inside, stretching past your rim and splitting you open, you want his cock sliding inside until he fills you up with his sticky, hot cum. He spits down onto it, catching strays that land in your chin. His saliva is thick and runny, beading at the tip until it’s smeared down to the base. Your mouth waters.

Pulling yourself forward, you press your chest together until a small, pathetic excuse of a crease is formed between them. Eren coos, his thick eyebrows pinched together as his glasses nearly fall off his face, “What'd your girlfriend say? Now that she knows you get your pussy fucked just like hers.”

He guides his cock between the plush skin, taptaptap-ing the head of his cock along your nipples so his precum smears across the sensitive skin. It’s shiny now, smeared across your chest and downright filthy. Mixed with his cum, you’re sure you look like a cheap whore, one who’s been tied down and written on for free-use. If Eren had a marker you’re sure he’d write something on your chest, something vulgar enough to have your cock jumping.

“Oh,” He moans, slick squelching erupting from his cock as he slides it between your pecs— your tits, he’d call them, and you can’t help but open your mouth to catch the tip whenever it slides just above your chin. “Oh, fuck. That’s it.”

Eren’s cock is curved, with a dusted pink tip that throbs against your tongue with every forward motion. You can’t help but drool on it a little, thoughts leaving your brain the more he takes the opportunity to fuck his cock between your tits and into your hot, tight mouth.

“She said—” You’re cut off by your own gagging, his thick cock being jammed down the tightness of your throat. You can feel his dick throb, slow and heavy as a bulge appears in your throat with every slow slide in, and every slow slide out. He’s fucking your throat, burying your teary face into his deep pubes as your tongue runs along the thickest vein pulsing on his shaft. Eren’s so fucking big, you can’t breathe. Though you’re not sure you want to.

“Always talkin’ about your stupid ‘girlfriend’, what if I just made you my girlfriend instead? Huh?”You stare up at him with wet eyelashes, batting your eyes as he stares down at you. You can’t exactly make eye contact, not with the fog clouding his glasses, but the feeling of his cock weighing down your tongue along with his bitter pre filling your mouth, you don’t mind all too much.

“M’npph amphh grrmph.” You huff around a mouthful of cock, pants heavy on your drooling tongue. You can’t help but gag, bubbles of saliva pooling around his balls and your chin— it’s messy, it’s nasty, but it feels fucking good. Your dick aches, tingly and sticky and all too needy for your liking.

“Yeah, you’re not,” It’s like he knows exactly what you said, growling as vibrations are sent straight to his cock. It pops between your lips, then sinks back down onto the warmth of your pecs. Not nearly as good as fucking your hole, but it’s still slick and soft. It’s still fucking good. “Got a real warm pussy on you, though.”

“Don’t—”

“You wanna know how I know?” Eren cups your face with both his hands, bobbing your pretty head up and down around the head of his cock. Like you’re nodding on it, he savors the sight of his precum being smeared along your lips. “Cause I’ve fucked it.”

“Rennie!” You gasp, reverting back to that sweet, softheaded boy he’d turned you into a few weeks ago. A spark lights in his eyes, and before you know it he’s pulling you up by your throat, and stripping you naked. A thin trail of precum connects itself to the tip of your cock, sticky and wet enough for Eren’s hand to wrap around.

You see stars.

“Waitwaitwait,” You gurgle, moans caught in your throat as your knees buckle and fall straight into Eren’s lap. He’s wrapped up in your thighs, the thickness resting at his sides as you buck your hips into his tight fist. His hand is slick with spit, only moistening as he drools out another layer. The brunette lets it fall from his tongue, slow and thick, then rubs it into the head of your cock with quick, rapid motions. It’s too much, tears well in your eyes as you babble, “Slow, slow, I can’t—”

“Shh,” Eren’s free hand clasps over your mouth, warm against your sweaty skin. You can’t help but pant into it, your eyebrows pinched as you look down at the man with wobbly eyes. His smile is lopsided, eyes all too wide through the fog of his glasses as he speeds up his hand, twisting and curling and squeezing until your thighs violently tremble and your drooling mouth goes dry. “Don’t want anyone to hear you. What’ll they think then? The school’s best boy’s a slut?”

There’s a quick shake to your head, fast and delirious as you grind against his hand, his cockhead bobbing against your own through the fly of his pants. The silky, stickiness is driving you over the edge, and your eyes begin to roll back. Your moans are muffled and garbled against Eren’s big hand, but the way your cock twitches and leaks tells the nerd everything he needs to know.

The high is right there, you’re at the very edge, with Eren’s slick hand sliding his cock along yours, the thick head towering over your own, and the wet sloshing sounds so fucking loud when you bounce along his thighs, chasing after it. Sparks fly straight down to your dick, tingling along the shaft and pooling all the way down to your hole— it’s sticky now, wet with the mixture of precum that’s pooling between your bodies. He strokes whiny, desperate sounds out of you, precum pooling around his fist and— holy shit, you’re gonna cum.

“Rennie,” You drool, your head falling forward into his shoulder. It’s almost embarrassing how fast. How hard you’re twitching, how your little hole is spasming around nothing. You’re so close. “M’gonna cum, gonna cum, ‘Ren. S’your hand, s’cause—”

So. Fucking. Clo—

“No.” His hand leaves just as you’re ready to burst, cutting off a stream of sticky ropes before they can shoot, and your balls tighten with need. It’s not fair, you’ve been such a good boy! You sat there and took it, maybe you whined and cried a little, but you were good. You feel yourself shaking your head, desperate. “Did I tell you you could cum?”

“But. . . But I deserve it, ‘Ren. M’such a good boy, was such a good boy!” Tears stream down your face, collecting in Eren’s shirt as he rubs smooth circles into your back. He shushes you in a sweet voice, but you can feel his thick cock throbbing at the sight of your tears.

“Good boys don’t make messes,” He tuts, feigning irritation as he pushes you back so he can show off the messiness of his fingers. The long digits are covered in spit and pre, slowly running down his shiny hands and dripping down his wrists. “They clean them.”

His fingers are plunged into your mouth, bitter and sticky, but you can’t help but lap it up, eyes fluttering closed as you moan around the digits. They don’t reach as deep as his cock, don’t leave your throat bulging around the shape or curve of them, and they’re nowhere near as thick of a mouthful, but it’s just as good. Just as warm, just as heavy, just as strong and salty.

“Just like that,” You’re gagging for it now, Eren’s lips parting with open-mouthed pants as he struggles to watch your pretty, pouty mouth wrap around his knuckles. He has to swallow down his own drool, reaching deeper into your mouth every so often so your body jerks back as your throat tightens and constricts. You may not be a good boy, but you’re a damn good slut. “You look fuckin’ stupid. It’s a good thing you were made to take dick, no wonder you need a tutor.”

Eren’s hand slips out your mouth, a breathy laugh escaping his pink lips when you absentmindedly follow after it despite the drool starting to run down your chin. He’s scouring his bag for something, and only when he finds it do you notice how much his cock is weeping, achy as it smears pre along his t-shirt. Lube, sticky and stringy as he pours it into his hand and warms it up with smooth circles against his fingers. He’s pushing you up like it’s nothing, your knees by his sides until his fingers are poking and prodding at your sensitive, puckered rim.

Your squeals sound like heaven. High in your throat and dragged out as your pretty hole eagerly takes in his ring finger, clamping around it and sucking him deeper into your velvety walls. So fucking good, you can’t help but rock back against it, shameless and devoid of any other thoughts. It’s a chant of cockcockcock going off in your head, the faster you take his fingers the faster you get to his dick. The lube leaves behind thick strands, when Eren’s knuckle deep you can hear them froth between the globes of your ass, and as he pulls the finger out sloooow it gushes right out.

“Wanna fuck this pussy full,” Your breath catches in your throat, and the thought of him referring to your hole as a pussy has your brain completely and utterly empty. “Wanna fuck it till you’re shaking. Missed this cute little cunt, missed fucking you stupid.”

You can’t take it.

“Did it miss me, baby?” You can’t take it but you’re nodding, bouncing on his lap and doing all the work to fuck your self full of his fingers. You like it when he takes what he wants, fucks you stupid and uses his unsuspecting strength to take it from you. Like he fucking owns it. “Hm? Did your slutty boy cunt miss me?”

“Yeah, yeah. . .” It’s hard to stay quiet, not when his fingers are pistoning into that special, sweet bundle of nerves that keep you stupid and cockdrunk.

“Missed you, Rennie.”

“What missed me?” There’s an edge to his voice, darker and deeper.

“My. . .” You pout, shaking your head despite the shock of pleasure running up your spine when his free hand presses you down into his fingers. Your vision goes white for a moment, completely blinded as you sniffle out, “My boy cunt, Rennie.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s what you think with, isn’t it?” He flicks your forehead, a boyish grin spreading across his handsome face. It’s annoying how endearing his sad excuse of a mustache is, how it has your heart racing. “You let your pussy do all the thinking, that’s why you always end up taking my cock.”

Yeah. . . Yeah. It’s true, probably, because when you’re around Eren none of your thoughts are coherent. You barely even notice the slick palms rubbing smooth circles into the globes of your ass, the emptiness of your winking hole that clenches around nothing but air. You’re sure you look like a mess, skin slick with sweat, drool and precum and tears covering your face. . . dripping down onto your chest. He’s made a real mess out of you.

“Sit still,” He moans, hushed and close to your ear. His cock slides dangerously close to your entrance, sticky lube sliding along with it and connecting his tip to your boy pussy. He feels so big, so long and thick when he taps it against your hole, barely breaching the tiny gape of your rim. “Let me deeper inside that cunt. Please, baby? Wanna get it all creamy and sloppy with my cum, wanna feel it clamp down just like it did that first time.”

“Uh-huh!” You hiccup, uncontrollable tears streaming down your face as you reach back to spread yourself wide, presenting yourself to his dick. You don’t miss the groan you earn in return, deep and shaky as the nerd takes the opportunity to slip right in, past the burning stretch of your fluttering ‘cunt’ that sucks him deeper and deeper into your gummy walls. “Wan’ it. . . Wan’ it deeper, ‘Ren.”

Just as warm and wet as he remembers is, lube gushes and trickles out with every deliberate, deep thrust forward. The slurp of his cock goes straight to your balls, tightening as you whine like a bitch for it. Eren’s grip goes tight in your ass, keeping it spread as he spears you on his cock again, and again, and again. It’s more menuevering than bouncing, through your braindead haze you start to think, maybe he’s just too big to bounce on, it’s easier if he fucks into like a fleshlight. It’s easier if you don’t think about it, you’re not meant to, after all. It’s easier if you melt on his cock and take it.

“C’mere,” Your fingers are enveloped with the warmth of his own, the digits molding each of your hands into peace signs. Your mouth opens and closes, akin to a fish, but just as you’re about to form the words he cuts you off. “So cute. . . Could you stick out your tongue for me too?”

You should know by now, it’s not a genuine question. The saltiness of Eren’s fingers pressing into your tongue has you drooling, wet and sloppy as he forces your tongue out over your bottom lip. Watching the movement— eyes crossed with the pink of your tongue out on display— you look like a character straight out his favorite hentai.

“Like a real-life ahegao!” Eren pulls out his own phone this time, the camera in your fucked out face as he gives an experimental bounce to his hips. With a tiny ‘uh!’ you follow suit, your sweet boy pussy clenching and fluttering around his thick, heavy cock. You’d be thankful for the hand holding onto your hips had it not been there to keep you from squirming off his dick.

“That’s it,” he purrs, just as unashamed as you remember him to be. “Go on, tell the camera what you are.”

Your eyebrows knit in delayed confusion, Eren’s hips jolting up to send shockwaves up your spine. You’re pushed forward, wet clapping of your ass crashing down onto his thighs snapping you back into a dazed, foggy state. Cut off by a few breathy moans, you whine, “M’your fucktoy, your bitch.”

“That’s right. You’re my bitch. My hole to fuck, my hole to use. Tell me you love it, say ‘I love your cock, Rennie.’ ”

He forces your tongue back out, pinching the muscle between two fingers so you sound as fucked up as you look, gurgling and stuttering a sad excuse of, ‘love it s’much, wan’ feel it f’weeks, s’good t’my holes, Rennie!’ and it’s cruel how his mocking laughter nearly makes you cum on the spot.

“Armin’s part of the photography club, did you know that?” The name rings a bell, but there’s not much to say when you're drooling all over your own chest and panting like a puppy. “That blond you bumped into earlier? Yeah, him.” Your mouth forms a small ‘o’ around your tongue, pretty eyes widening. “Funny thing is, right after that he told me all the angles of you he wanted.”

You can’t contain the squeals and squeaks that leave your mouth when the brunette starts pistoning his hips upward, a bruising grip on your hips that only gets harder as he grinds you down against his cock. He’s filling you up so good, his balls slapping against your ass with each rushed, rough thrust that has your mind scrambled just as much as your guts. The camera is right in your face, zoomed in and focused on the mess on your handsome face.

“Go a—hmmff—head, baby,” Eren moans, and it’s his turn to drool. “Keep fucking yourself stupid on my, haah, cock.”

“M’sorry, Armin,” Your body bounces and convulses, eyes crossed as the shaky camera remains in your face. So cute, Eren had no intentions to share the video. Not with anyone, and certainly not with Armin, but your extra effort to apologize and take his cock as some sort of atonement really spurs him on. “Please… don’t stop, I’ll be good, m’a good boy, promise!”

“God, yeah, you are. A good, dumb slut. So much sweeter when all you can think about is cock.” He tries to ignore the fluttering in his stomach when you giggle around your tongue, sweet and ditzy. He tries to ignore it, but it’s hard when you’re absentmindedly bouncing back on his dick with no hands, both raised to your chest in peace signs. You’re a walking wet dream.

“Please lemme cum, pleasepleaseplease,” Your babbling falls on deaf ears, Eren’s hands are focused on stroking your cock raw, till your brain goes numb and you’re surrounded by sparks. When you lean away you fall onto his cock, but buck your hips forward and you’re being teased by his skilled fingers. His palm presses into your slit, rubbing circles into it until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and your mouth flies open in a silent scream. “Wanna cum on your cock, wanna get it sticky, wanna—ohh, feel it throb inside.”

“Cum with me,” He growls, glasses slipping off his face and onto the floor as his eyes briefly shut. You can feel it, the tightening of his balls, the way his dick aches and pulses inside you, the way his cum is starting to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are erratic and sloppy, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. You never want it to stop, not the groaning or moaning, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move. “That’s it, wanna feel this pussy cum on my dick, give it t’me. Give it to Rennie.”

A searing spiral of pressure grows in your stomach, filling with light as you bear down on his cock and choke on your moans. For a minute you think you’ve passed out, everything going dark as you spurt all over both yourself and Eren, globs of cum spraying hard onto your chest and splashing back on the brunette’s chin. He lets you ride it out, offering tiny thrusts upward to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, and places a few chaste kisses to your messy jaw.

“Shh, not done yet,” It’s cute how whiny you get, pliant in his hands as he lifts your trembling body off his cock with a hiss. He’s careful to replace his cock with his fingers though, twisting and thrusting them forward to collect his cum. You keep him so warm, he misses the feeling of your mushy hole around him already. “Need to make sure you get it.”

You barely put up a fight, letting him place you on the table. You’re on top of his manga— that and his notebooks, your laptop, and cheat sheets. That’s right, you came here to go over questions for your next test, but. . .

Eren’s busy picking up your boxers, not even bothering to wipe off his glasses (they’ve fallen into the wet patch of pre, and it’s obvious it’s coating the lense of the right side of his glasses) as he puts them on. His hair is disheveled, he looks thoroughly fucked, but you’re sure you look worse.

“Fuck,” He groans, breathless as he watches your fingers absentmindedly circle your entrance, globs of cum sticking to your fingertips. That explains it, the sharp shocks shooting straight up to your stomach. He takes a deep breath, tucking himself back into his pants. Part of you is glad he stayed clothed, if anyone walked in they’d see him first. “Maybe you already do.”

The questions die on your tongue when he’s removing your fingers, cum gushing from your puffy hole and spilling onto the table. You don’t miss the way Eren curses, somewhat frustrated, as he bunches up the fabric and slips it past your rim. It feels. . . good, pressed right against your prostate and suddenly you’re wailing again, kicking your feet with overstimulation.

“No, no, no,” You sob, clenching around the soft fabric. It’s too soft, like silk is sliding around your entrance, rubbing the area raw and sensitive. “Too much!”

“Shh.”

The shaking of your head ceases with Eren’s strong hand on your jaw, and you stop yourself when his lips press against your own. Warm and soft, somewhat chapped— but plush nonetheless. He tastes different than last time, he’s sweeter now. Like an energy drink, or a saccharine sour candy. He’s much more gentle with his kisses than his hands, which shift you around until he’s half-assedly got you clothed, just barely enough fabric pulled on your skin to cover your chest and legs.

“Sit on my lap, we’ll read a couple questions and then do some peer revision, yeah?”

Something tells you he doesn’t plan to get much reading done.

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dabisbratz · 1 year

Text

PENITENCE — leon s. kennedy x male reader

w.c: ~5.3k

warning: sub bottom reader, thigh fucking, spit, standing doggy style, dirty talk, leon’s weak pullout game x2, mixed praise/degradation, oral, choking, sexualizing las plagas, breeding mentions, sir kink, finger hooking, drool, infected leon is a lil mean, dumbification, accidental creampie

a/n: got a loooot of requests for a sequel to this!! so here it is! i hope you enjoy! ૮꒰ ´͈ ˙̫ `͈ Ꮚ꒱ა this fic had a mind of its own!! didn get to write leon as feral as i wanted to but… that’s okay!

You’ve never been shot before. Punched, sure, clean in the jaw in the midst of a training session. It caught you so off guard you nearly swallowed your teeth, and the blood gushing from your nose and coating the pearls tasted like rusty gunmetal. But it really didn’t hurt that bad, you felt more congested than anything.

You've never been shot before. Stabbed, sure, right through the hand until thick blood poured straight out your palm like nature’s greatest waterfall. It wasn’t as sharp as you’d think, not some sort of pinch akin to getting a piercing. No, it was panic first, your eyes trailed down to meet the handle of a hunting knife that cut clean through your palm. Then came the realization, Scorching heat beaming through your hand until it began to tremble. But hand wounds heal fast, you barely remember it.

You’ve never been shot before. Grazed, sure, blasted with the shells of a silver shotgun bullet so hard it seared your skin and left an open-mouthed gash. Your bullet ricocheted off an unknown surface, all because you’d taken it upon yourself to practice your aim alone. But it was just a graze, and so long ago the scar had begun to fade.

So the first time it happens, you’re taken for a loop.

Your legs burn, aching as you trudge beside Leon in his hasty motion up a particularly slippery hill. It’s like you’ve been walking in circles, deeper and deeper into the village but somehow passing the same bloodstained tree. For a man who was over a hundred fifty pounds of sheer force and willpower, he sure was light on his toes. Had there not been moisture from previous nights’ rain still lingering in the air you're sure it’d be easier— no mud to slip on, no pockets of rainwater that looked much more shallow than they actually were— but it lingers.

And it’s not just that, there’s an everlasting tremor in your thighs as you walk, you can barely take a few steps without your movements stuttering. You can’t excuse it as a pulled muscle, not when Leon’s been forcing you to sit back and observe. Though it’s partially his fault, you deduce, because you can see the growing pride in his stride as he listens to your trip over your own feet. Almost like it was a mission, fuck the rookie until he cries and let him walk for himself.

Asshole.

You can’t stop talking, not when your brain is working overtime and you have so many questions. Though it’s not entirely clear if he’s listening, Leon’s body subconsciously teeters in your direction, almost like he’s trying to collect your body heat. He’s certainly done that, that and much more. He’s stolen the air from your lungs with a heavy kiss, he’s collected the sounds of your moans and sealed them in a jar.

You spare him a heavy glance, watching the muscles in his back ripple as he marches through the thickening mud. You wish you’d gotten the chance to see him without it, to card your fingers through the strong fabric as he pulls his shirt over his head and balls it up in his veiny fists. To watch his hair fall, golden bundles framing his face and falling back into place like magic, nearly swept over his eye and so unabashedly Leon.

“Would you stop staring at me?” There’s a playful edge to his voice, teetering around the edges as he blows a bullet straight through the frail neck of an infected resident. You’re too focused on the nape of his neck to watch it explode, an amalgamation of blood and arteries and fat splattering onto the ground and surrounding houses. “I mean, if you want a picture all you have to do is ask.”

You can tell he’s somehow watching you through the corner of his gunmetal gray eyes, with your blatant staring, but he doesn’t seem to have much on the tip of his tongue besides a few smartmouthed remarks. Maybe he has eyes behind his full head of hair.

“Ha-ha, very funny.” You purse your lips, tightening your grip around the flashlight paving the way forward.

Truthfully, you’d underestimated just how much cardio and legwork it took to navigate this village— sure, the implication of missing hikers in the area meant there’d be a trail to hike, but in your head it was much more akin to training. Controlled, steep hills that didn’t continue on as far as the eye can see, an obstacle course that had an obtainable goal— it feels like you’re wandering aimlessly.

But Leon’s with you, so surely that can’t be right.

You wonder how much preparation and time he took into this, how many nights of sparring turned into considering your presence under the same blanket of stars, how often he made things with you in mind. Even if it’s just for a mission.

Quite frankly, it was all the time. Thinking of you put an indescribable amount of weight on his chest, it capsized his shoulders, so feathery light, and yet somehow still managed to put strain on his posture. He was always so laid back, cracking jokes and likable by definition. Yet there he stood, second guessing his abilities in protecting you, having you, wooing you. Ashley is his priority. . . but you’re his partner.

And he wants more.

“Leon?” Apprehension builds in your voice, Leon’s steady stride suddenly broken as he looks down at his hands. You bump right into him, colliding face-first into his body. His back is just as sturdy as it looks, barely jolting as you peek around to look at his handsome face.

His veins are turning black, coiling up his wrists from his hands, inky black streaks that branch off up his forearm and disappear under his shirt. Even the thicker veins decorating his bicep— they’ve become an ugly charcoal that looks entirely too unnatural. Painful. As if leeches have burrowed themselves under his skin, the intrusion crawls further into his bloodstream as small, deep grunts escape from his lips.

You still have yet to ask what happened during your separation— after you ran. But, in a way, you’ve got your answer.

“You with me, Lee?” You search his face for something, anything, under the furrowed brows and clenched teeth. His jaw sets, characteristically rigid, which is a generous start. Somewhere beneath the icy blue of his eyes you see recognition, like he’s not exactly looking at you, but he knows you’re there. Lucid enough. Good.

But without Leon leaving a path of bodies for you to walk over, you have to take over and pave the way.

“I’m gonna take your gun, okay?” It’s rhetorical, whether he likes it or not, because he took your gun away before you truly had the chance to use it— and it’s not entirely like he’s in the position to be making demands. You wish you could laugh about it, let a boyish smile wiggle its way across your face, but without Leon there to laugh with you… there’s no point.

And, like most instances, you find yourself jumping into action before you can think, dragging every pound of steel Leon has to offer through the village until you can find somewhere safe. It happens all too fast. One moment, you’re holding onto the pistol while wrapping an arm around Leon’s waist, blowing holes through the infected like you were made for it, watching their bodies topple to the ground in a lifeless display. Then. . .

“Fuck, oh fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” Your heart plummets into your stomach, you can’t help but think you’ve swallowed a bomb. Your blood is cold on your slick skin, flowing down your bicep like sort of fucked up waterfall. It’s thick and sticky, a rich shade of red that only seems to get darker and darker as it pours from your arm. You can’t help but call for your partner, tightening your grip on his waist. “Leon…”

Getting grazed is not the same.

There’s a similar burn, but this time it’s from the outside-in and back out again. Like you’ve been stung by a swarm bees, all at the same time, and in the same exact spot.

It happened so fast, threw you for a loop, the metal of an axe bounced your bullet right back at you, and landed right through your arm.

Your eyes widen, jittery as Leon parts his legs, planting his boots into the mud in a futile attempt at staying upright. Selfless as ever, the blond just can’t seem to sit still when he knows someone he cares about is in danger.

His dusty pink lips are curled into a snarl, one of his veiny hands clasped over your own; fisting at the bunched up fabric by his waist. His eyes, previously clenched shut, are no longer a brilliant shade of blue— they’ve turned yellow, bright like a citrusy candy. His face, still as handsome as before, is adorned with streaky, black veins that cluster near his left cheekbone and disappear into his cheeks. Instinctively, you raise your arm to swipe away his hair in a half-assed attempt at consolation, but the movement burns before you can put away your pistol.

Leon’s eyes flicker to your bicep, watching the red ooze from the inflamed bullet-shaped hole. His gaze darkens, something you can’t quite grasp flashing in his eyes as he takes the gun from your hand and pushes you behind him.

“Leon—”

“Move! Now!” His voice is much deeper than before— still buttery smooth, just dropping in octaves as he yells into the night air. You don’t have to be told twice, stumbling in the mud as he pushes you in the general direction of an abandoned house. In a perfect world you’d use your knife to help, but something tells you sticking around would just worsen the situation for everyone.

So you rush into the house, bursting through the creaky door as gunshots ring behind you. Almost as loud as the static in your ears, buzzing as you search for a closed off room.

The house is empty, fairly sized— equipped with a staircase that leads upstairs. Bedrooms, you presume, since there are only bathrooms and living spaces on the first floor. The floorboards whine and groan under your weight, tracking mud as you keep your hand clasped over your bicep. It probably won’t make much of a difference now, but the bleeding has subsided into thick clots, which momentarily lightens your mood.

You don’t have much on you, it’s best to travel light when you have places to be— heavy backpacks can weigh you down. But you do have a few bandages and travel-sized disinfectant wipes. You can only help Leon effectively if you help yourself first— you’re dead weight if you go back out there dipped in blood— so you get to work.

It’s hasty, messy, and unorganized, but you get it done. Your bicep is wrapped snug, with enough pressure to support your arm without cutting off any circulation. It’s the best you can do for now, with the panic and anxiety blooming in your throat. It burns like bile, attacking your senses until all you can think of is Leon. The look on his face, the sounds of his pained grunts, the veins darkening beneath his skin.

As if he’s heard you, your silent prayers for his presence in its entirety, he crashes through the door. It squeals on its hinges, slamming shut behind him as his heavy boots collide with the wooden floorboards. You can’t quite make out anything else, just the sound of his shoes as he walks through the hall, and into the bathroom.

Maybe it’s just a hunch, an inference, but there’s irritation floating between his steps. You can feel it radiating off him despite not exactly being near him. The sound of poorly running water emits from the small room, muffled through the door, along with a steadier stream of swears.

“Leon?” You ask, pushing yourself off the wooden diningroom chair with the support of your unwounded arm. Would it be best to give him some space? But that’s not really an option, not with what you witnessed. Not with that intrusion trying to take over his body. “I’m coming in.”

Nearly tripping over the red rug decorating the hallway between the bathroom and living spaces, you clumsily open the bathroom door. Just Leon— sitting on the wide ledge of the bathroom’s squat toilet, his gun discarded on the opposing mantel. You can’t see his face, not with his hair casting silky shadows along the expanse of it, but you can picture his tight lipped expression just fine.

The thought makes heat burst through your skin. Nowhere near as painful as a gunshot wound. This time it’s comforting and sweet, it makes your legs feel like jelly and your heart like jam.

“Ocupado,” He sounds rather proud of himself for that one, readjusting his spot on the ledge. The blond lifts his gaze, shades of blue overcasting the previous yellow hues that once clouded his vision. “How do you feel..Your arm..?”

You should be asking him that.

“I’m good,” You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, the strain of your shoulders dissipating into the air the longer you look at him. “You know me. Are you…okay?”

Perhaps ‘okay’ isn’t the word for it. You want to ask if he feels weird, if the deepening of his veins bothers him. What it felt like when he was rendered unconscious. When you felt it— tied to that damned cross— it wasn’t nearly as bad as Leon. In fact, it didn't hurt you at all. You didn’t even notice until the entirety of your arms were decorated in pure, black branches.

“Yeah,” He blinks, not once removing his gaze from the curl of your lips. Still so shiny and wet, soft as they curl with every vowel and syllable that leaves them. He swallows hard, audible as his adam’s apple bobs in his throat. Your eyes trace the small mole just below it, the way his throat bulges. “I’m okay. For the most part.”

He doesn’t seem entirely there, lifting himself up wordlessly until he’s crashing into you, his large, gloved hand finding a place around your neck as he pulls you into a kiss.

The bathroom isn’t an ideal place to do it, though you suppose you two don’t have a clean track record of kissing in the best places. He swallows the air from your lungs, deep and gentle as his lips melt into yours. He tastes just like he did a few hours, just slightly saltier. He tastes like you, you’re still heavy on his tongue and it seems he’s hooked on your flavor.

His tongue is silky, messy in your mouth as you try your hardest to absorb his heat. His mouth is so warm, so wet, and you can’t help but whimper when he pulls away. You want to chase it, that heat, so you can’t help yourself when you follow after his lips.

Oh.

Leon’s eyes— they’re red, and the impossibly dark streaks under his skin are somehow darker.

“Your—”

“I wanna fuck you so bad,” It leaves his lips before the both of you have time to process it. He’s much more surprised than you, pink roses blooming on the apples of his cheeks despite the clear obstruction of his body. You appreciate the honesty, clearing your throat to mask the laugh bubbling in your chest. Leon’s okay, and he’s not just saying it. “…Sorry.”

Leon’s red-eyed gaze is casted to the side, but even in his efforts to avoid looking at you, he can’t help himself. It’s cute, really, charming enough to have your heart doing somersaults in your chest.

“Then do it.”

Blue embers sparkle in his eyes, and suddenly you’re being pulled out the cramped bathroom. Whatever he’s infected with, it’s heightened his abilities, because his grip on your wrist feels just as strong as the rusty chains in the cathedral. He’s holding onto you like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t, an iron grip that feels more comfortable than painful. And through it all, he’s cautious of your injury.

It doesn’t stop him from slapping you against the wall, your back colliding with the old, peeling wallpaper with a loud thud.

“You’re sure—” You start, the words catching in your throat when Leon’s strong hands tear your shirt apart, straight through the middle. The cold air hits you instantly, sending shivers up your spine as you whine in protest. “I only have one shirt!”

“I have a jacket.” His answer is barely audible, as he’s too busy watching the rise and fall of your chest with hungry, predatory eyes. You’re looking at Leon, who has every feature of the man. . . But he feels different. He feels bigger, in every sense of the word, towering over you as his red eyes study you like a bloodthirsty shark.

Next are your pants, you take the liberty of unbuckling your utility belt, keeping your gaze on Leon as he watches your hands pull them down. A considerate patch of sticky wetness decorates the front of your boxers, darkening and dampening the fabric. Leon’s pink tongue slides over his equally pink lips, whatever restraint he’s using slowly slipping away. You expect him to follow suit, but his hands are on you and he’s guiding you down to your knees.

Your face nuzzles against the fabric of his pants, thick but nowhere near as thick as his cock, which has a prominent, twitching outline.Your mouth waters, saliva pooling between your lips as your eyes flutter shut and he presses your cheek against his dick, firm and rough. His hands are so big, cupping the back of your head as he releases a small, hushed groan.

Leon watches you unzip his pants with parted lips and a baited breath. You look so damn pretty, eyes glazed over within the matter of a few seconds and a stupid look in your eye the second you see his dick again. Like you’ve missed it, when it was only just a few hours ago when he was buried deep inside you. He lets you push his pants down to his ankles, your eyes roaming along the skin of his toned thighs, which black vines slowly creep down.

You press a pretty, openmouthed kiss against the head of his cock, watching precum bead at the tip and smear across your lips. Such a sweet boy, kissing his cock as a greeting.

“Goddamn, you’re so cute,” His grip travels down your face to the top of your neck, where your throat meets your jaw. Your gaze is forced upward, straight into Leon’s vermillion irises as he offers a small squeeze. “Just a little slut. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Mhm, yeah,” You pant against his skin, shimmying forward to grind your front against the leather of his boot. “For you— just for you, Sir.”

Yeah, you could get used to this. The girth of his cock, the vein that disappears beneath the pretty head of his dick, the way his balls weigh heavily against your chin. His pubes are a deeper shade of brown, slightly curly and enough that makes you want to bury your nose in it. He’s so sticky, slick and wet like he’s been thinking about this for a while. The thought of Leon gripping himself through his pants is just so hot, the way he’d buck up into his fist and imagine it’s you instead. The way he’d groan and moan into the air, chasing after some artificial tightness that could only simulate you. Your mouth, your hole.

“Think you can be a good boy for me?” You chase after his cock as he pulls it away, gripping it by the base with a gloved hand. You can only imagine how good the leather of his fingerless gloves feel against it. He coos at your attempts to follow along, meanly slapping the weight of his dick against your cheek until you’re messy with precum. “Hm? Yeah?”

You nod frantically, opening your mouth and covering your bottom row of teeth with your tongue. You can be good, you can be good for Leon.

Tears spring in your eyes the second he’s pushing into your mouth, groaning at the sound of your gags as his cock slides in and out, deeper and deeper without warning. He can’t help it, not when you’re drooling all over his pants and whining for it. Not when you’d look so cute hazy eyed and stained with tears as he fucks your throat. Not when your throat bulges around his cock, letting out wet squelches as you struggle to keep your eyes open and watch his hips snap against you.

“That’s it,” Leon sighs, shaky and content as he holds you in place. His good boy. “Just like that, you take it so—f-hucking—good.”

You lurch back, tears blurry in your eyes as you sputter and gag. His precum is salty and warm, coating your throat as you flutter your eyes and hold onto the swell of Leon’s strong, thick thighs. Heat ripples through your body in waves as a low growl rumbles in his throat, bouncing into your ears.

“Shh, I know, I know. Don’t run from me, let me in,” He coos, sliding his long cock from your mouth to watch a long trail of your spit thin out the further he pulls away. “It’s just too big for you, is that right? Hard to focus on anything when all you can think of is dick.”

You’re breathing heavily, panting loud as you slowly register the mess on your face, your chin. Your lips feel swollen, but your mouth feels empty. You must have a particularly dumb look on your face because it pulls a laugh out of the man in front of you, rich and hearty as he lifts you up with an authoritative hand around your throat.

“C’mere.” He mumbles, pulling you in to pepper messy kisses along your jaw. He’s more impulsive, you gather, with whatever’s coursing through his veins. Rougher too, with the way his hand tightens around your throat when he’s throwing commands at you. You don’t mind it, not at all. In fact, it’s made you all hazy, you feel like you’re traveling through a thick layer of fog as you nod along. You want to be good, to earn his praise.

Leon’s hands travel to your waist, dipping into the plush skin until your thighs are spread just far enough for his cock to fit between them. You’ve never felt so exposed, whining high in your throat no matter how pathetic it sounds, and pressing your body against his firm chest.

His cock feels as big as it looks, long and curved as he slides it between your thighs. You can feel every twitch and pulse, you’re sure he can feel you too— with how he’s grunting and groaning against your neck. He fucks into your thighs like he’s chasing after something, trying to satiate it. His grip is punishing, the pads of his fingertips digging into your skin until it hurts.

“I can’t,” You whine, shaking your head as you watch his cock disappear between your thighs. “S’not— I wanna—”

“You can,” Leon growls, making a low warning of a noise in his throat as he tuts in disapproval. It goes straight to your stomach, tingles shocking your body as you clench around nothing. “And you will.”

Instead of keeping you upright by the throat, Leon’s hands leave you to fend for yourself as he slides them down your supple skin, down every dip and curve and slope, until he’s playing with the leftover stickiness of your hole.

You’re certain there’s nowhere near as comfortable as Leon’s arms. They’re big and strong, plush and warm against your skin, and firm in your hand when he’s flexing. They keep you secure and safe, protected from whatever monstrosities are in this godforsaken place, you’re sure he’d hold you till you both fell asleep, and you’d be enveloped in his warmth.

He smells just as warm too, faintly of vanilla underneath all that sex and remnants of polluted air.

“Christ, you’re so… Warm around my fingers. Give it to me, baby, let me fuck you with my fingers.”

You love his warmth, it spreads across your body and travels down your chest, your stomach, your thighs, until he’s taking you apart with it. His fingers are so warm, so thick and perfect as they fuck into you. Even when you’re sloppy like this, sucking his fingers back in like you’d never wanted to be left empty again in the first place, working your hips back to chase after his knuckles. The warmth of his arms as he flips you around, pushes your weight into his own by the base of your neck, maneuvers you just right, keeps you open and vulnerable for him. All for him.

Yeah, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

“Hey, you with me?” It’s his turn to ask, and you wonder if he felt the same butterflies you did.

“Yeah, I’m,” You’re breathlessly spreading your legs and pulling yourself apart with the warmth of your palms to reveal the puffiness of your hole, fucked out and shiny from earlier’s abuse. Leon wonders how easy it’d be to slip back in, to inch his cock deeper and deeper inside as you flutter around him and keen with oversensitivity. “M’with you, Sir.”

“Atta boy,” The smile he flashes is all teeth, dangerous and sharp as his canines glint in the dim lighting. You have half the heart to be a bit scared, but it doesn’t mean much when he’s working you open when you’re already so sensitive. Your hips jitter, twitching both toward and away from his fingers as he presses against that same bundle of nerves from earlier— it’s too much. This time you really mean it, because the second he hits it, tears spring in your eyes and you’re fisting remnants of the peeling wallpaper like a lifeline. “Greedy little hole. Didn’t you just take me?”

“Ohh, oh, God! Leon,” He hums in acknowledgement, as if he’s actually listening to your mindless babbling, nodding with lidded eyes as he uses your hips to pull you down onto his fingers. He’s using you like some kind of toy, moving you with one hand as you sit there and take it. You’re melting into the wall, drool slipping through the seam of your lips and trailing down your exposed chest. “You— your fingers, feel so good.”

“I know, baby.”

The way you’re convulsing around his fingers is telling, crying and sobbing and squealing into the wallpaper while he angles your back down. His large palm presses into the small of your back, strong and firm as he pushes and pushes until you’re arching just right and exposed.

“Let me fuck you till I cum, be my toy,” You can barely hear him over your own sobs, shifting your weight between legs as you steady yourself. His cock slips in easy, smooth and wet and perfect. You missed this feeling the second it left, the fullness of his dick inside you. The curve of his long cock as it inches inside, the feeling of that one particular vein pulsing deep inside. “Gonna fuck you over and over. Yeah? Got that? Because you’re all mine.”

“Uh-huh, mhm,” You gasp, every inhale making you sputter and choke on your tears. “Yes, Sir.”

If you weren’t crying before you surely are now, with the sharp thrusts Leon’s pistoning into your hole, loud and sloppy and squelching as he backs you up on his cock. It’s like he’s mounted you, shoving your face into the wall as he slams into you. In and out, in and out, in and out…With every slap of his balls against your thighs you whine, small pitiful sounds escaping your lips until your voice goes hoarse and all you can do is weakly claw at the wall.

But you’ve been good, save for a few whiny noises and indiscreet pouting, you’ve been so good. So Leon lets your uninjured hand wander, even guides it down to your front as he fucks you from behind so hard it feels like you’re going stupid. You can’t see him like this, but you’d bet there’s a feral look on his face. Pupils blown wide as his red eyes focus on the view of his cock disappearing inside you, his brain short circuiting as it repeats the same code over and over.

Breed, breed, breed.

“Wanna breed you,” He rasps, strong arms pulling you the second he’s pulling out. No matter what, you’re full of him. You’re full of him even as his cock slides away, a trail of precum connecting the two of you as it froths between your thighs and his balls. “Can I fuck my cum into your sloppy little hole? Hm?”

“Course, f’course,” It’s all out the window, every possible thought you’d ever had about how uncomfortable it could be to be…preoccupied while on a mission. Because you want it, you want to be full. You want him to give it to you, deeper and harder and messier and… More. “..Please..”

“Nice of you to say, but,” He groans high in his throat, voice tight and heavy as his hips grow sloppy and weak. Yet, his cock still feels so heavy in your hole, makes you feel like you’re ready to burst apart at the seams. Leon’s fingers pull at your cheeks, slipping in your mouth and pulling at the skin until your mouth is forced wide, your tongue slipping from your mouth as you drool and cry. “I wasn’t really asking. You’d let me cum wherever I wanted, wouldn’t you? It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re cute when you go dumb on my dick.”

You can’t do this.

You tried, really. You tried your hardest, held it for as long as you could. But you’re already there, almost screaming on his dick as you flutter and clamp down on it, light beaming in your stomach as your body grows sensitive and weak. You’re cumming. And Leon’s hand around your throat doesn’t do anything besides aid it, the way you gush and whine around his cock despite his insistent thrusts. You can’t think, you can’t breathe, and it feels so fucking good.

“Jesus fuck, you take that cock so well. Such a good boy, my pretty slut,” Leon pulls you into him, pressing his chest against your back as he sinks his teeth into the base of your neck. Not enough to draw blood, no, just enough to leave a Leon S. Kennedy sized bite mark along your skin. “Tell me you love this cock, pretty baby. I know you can.”

“I love— ohhh — love your cock, Sir. M’so full.” Your twitching doesn’t cease, instead egging him on as your pretty little hole sucks him in deeper, holding him like a vice. Warm and slick, he can’t help but moan into your neck as his balls tighten and he cums.

“That’s it,” You watch him pant through the corner of your eyes, weighed down by fatigue, sex, and the entirety of today's ordeals. But at least the richness of his veins are beginning to clear up, and his pretty, arctic blue eyes are starting to resurface. You smile around a hearty moan, feeling your insides flood with warmth as his eyes flutter shut and his body shudders. “I could really get used to this.”

It’s hard and fast, much too fast for him to have pulled out to shoot across your back— no, he’s partially shot a thick, creamy rope inside you. His veins pulse at the thought, satiated with the sight of your fucked-out hole drooling with his cum.

“Oh… Fuck.”

He’s hard again.

2K notes · View notes

dabisbratz · 1 year

Text

PENANCE — leon s. kennedy x male reader

w.c: 5.1k

౨ৎ . . . warning: light bondage/restraints, fucking on a cross, argument, bottom reader, mixed praise/degradation, leons corny one-liners, impulsive reader, fingering, spit, finger sucking, oral sex, improper use of guns, “make-up” sex (kinda), standing mating press, dirty talk, sir kink, leon’s weak pull-out game, readers genitalia undisclosed, clothed sex, d/s understones, two (2) spanks, phone sex (kinda?)

The last lingering days of winter sit at the very edge of the night, the top of the inveterate day, like the ever-ticking clock resting upon the wall that inches deeper into the midnight sky with its turning. The taste of regret lingers in the air, bitter and sour and pungent, assaulting the senses of any passerby and residents.

So overpowering, in fact, it’s plagued the plagued, drew them straight to you as you ran through the dingy village. Your combat boots slipped through the mud, clingy and riddled with a thick, musty smell that clasped itself to your clothes. The air was thick with fog, an impenetrable layer of milky grays that made it almost impossible to see through, and the gun glued to your hand felt like a cold, heavy brick.

Your mission was simple enough— accompany your superior while he secured ‘Baby Eagle’, make yourself unknown.

Tread carefully.

Your knife— secured by a leather scabbard wrapped around the swell of your thigh— remained cold and sharp. You thought there’d be no use for it— no close encounters.

Tread carefully.

You’d managed to run through the heart of the village, conjuring up quite the mob, full of pitchforks and flames, full of ashes and debris that danced in the air. It burned your lungs more than the running, lit the charcoal fire in the pit of your stomach as you ran until you couldn’t anymore— and your partner was out of sight.

Tread carefully.

Leon told you to stick beside him. Follow closely behind and he’d cover you, as long as you covered him. But you just couldn’t help yourself— the blood rushing through your veins and your heart pumping in your ears— you panicked. You ran. Stupidly, selfishly, you ran. You’d broken the dam and left Leon to pick up the pieces.

The last thing you’d heard before slamming the mass of your body into a wooden door was the gruff scream of your name, Leon, who you knew was more than capable of making it out just fine. That wasn’t the issue, no— it was your recklessness, your brief disregard for his advisory or guiding hand— it was your impulsiveness to run straight into danger.

He’d specifically told you not to on the way there. Stick by his side and you’d be okay— not that you’re incapable—just inexperienced. No strays— none of the sort. No catching any, no following any, no becoming any.

So now you have to pay for your mistakes.

You’re sprawled on the cross like a two-page spread, skin sheen and wet with what you assume is sweat— and dirt sticks to the slickness of your forehead. The pitter patter of rain against the poorly ventilated windowsill lingers, and the dirty glass trembles with loneliness. You can certainly attest to that, with your arms bound above your head and tied up in rusty chains. There’s no one here but you and your thoughts, your increasingly darkening veins and swimming mind.

You don’t remember who chained you up— perhaps the crafty residents of the village with much more intelligence than you’d like to admit, especially considering their predicament. But you do remember the injection of something cold and foreign. Something that absolutely should not be in your body. It doesn’t hurt, though, it’s not uncomfortable. And the wetness of the air bothers your head much more than the injection, if it’s bothering you at all.

It’s more a minor inconvenience than anything, aesthetically.

Perhaps it’s immunity, or maybe just inattentiveness. You’d have to tell Leon about it later, if you ever get to see him again.

You can’t help but think of him, his opalescent skin that travels for miles, the small quirk to his pink lips when he’s reveling in pride, the bleached-blond bundles of hair that sit perfectly atop his head. Like a crown— like a halo. The piercing blue of his eyes, cold as the arctic as he stares right through you. The deep pool of his pupils that dilate and constrict when sunlight hits them just right. . . The swell of his biceps when he crosses his arms, bulging and spilling over his closed fists. His hands, rough and scarred. Gloved and airbrushed with leather gloves that stop just before his knuckles, hiding the veins and muscles of his hands that stream down his wrists like a steady river.

It’s almost like you can hear him, the assertiveness of his voice that reverberates in your ears. Like he’s next to you again, wrapping his large hand around your wrist and maneuvering it into the right position for combat— the thickness of his voice as he notes aloud, “Keep it like this or you’ll hurt yourself.”

This whole time he’s been your keeper, steering you through the village with one hand secured around the handle of his gun and the other cradling the nape of your neck.

(“I got it.” You’d muttered, shaking off the heat of his large palm. There was something calculating in his eyes, and his long, dark eyelashes batted against the prominent curve of his cheekbone.

Your pistol rested in your hand, barely a scratch across its metal surface. You were still a bit slow at reloading, but you got the job done.

“As long as I’m here, I’m sure you do.)

You want to laugh about it now, pitifully, because the chains around your wrists are nowhere near as warm. Just as domineering, maybe, but not comforting in the slightest. It’s embarrassing to admit how often you’d thought about it— his comfort, late hours in the night filled with his voice, his hands, his touch.

Heat pools in your abdomen, swimming down your navel and spreading between your thighs. Now isn’t the time— not that you could take care of anything if you wanted to— You’ve been stripped of everything— just not in the way you want.

There’s a quiet rustle of the leaves, barely audible with the echoing pews of the church, but you hear it. That walking pattern. . . stepstep… step… stepstep’ only belongs to one person, and you feel relief pushing down your shoulders.

“Jesus...”

“Leon,” Breathy like a prayer, your hands clench into fists as you strain against the rusty chains. His figure grows, stalking forward with swaying shoulders that look broader than ever, and his nude lips are pulled tight into a snarl. His eyebrows— full and straight, pinch together with what you assume is anger, and a familiar crease forms between them. “I can explain.”

His shoulders bounce, as if he’s let out a sour chuckle, and there’s a slight shake to his head as he carries himself up the steps to free you. Quite the hero, you can’t bring yourself to stare into his eyes for too long as he scours your body for injuries. Nothing major— nothing he can’t help with, and his blue eyes settle on your face for much longer than he’d like to admit. There’s a soft haze to his furious eyes, the fire behind them dampening as his mind slowly realizes you’re alright for now.

You’re alive.

“Oh, I'm sure you can,” He quips, circling around the contraption you’re chained to. It almost feels primal, his intense gaze taking you in from every angle as he walks forward to trace his fingertips along your wrists. He’s gentle, though, feathery light as he gives an experimental tug to the metal. “And you will. So you better start talking.”

A small breath of relief escapes your freshly parted lips as it’s pulled away, and Leon doesn’t miss the indents freshly engraved into your skin. His frown deepens, but the cool leather of his fingerless gloves feel much more soothing than the chains.

You don’t mind it as much as he does.

A dagger of shame shoots through your chest, beating and writhing against the confines of your rib cage. Your tongue is tied, excuses dying in your throat as you stare at Leon’s five-fingered grip on your wrist. It’s tightening, his nails digging into your wrist ever so slightly, though you already have no chance at escape. You figure it’s meant to ground you, not hurt you.

“It’d be a lot easier if I were free,” You’re stalling, not all that uncomfortable as Leon turns his head in the direction of your face, his head tilted downward and his breath lightly fanning your neck. Warm. “…Leon? Wanna help a guy out, or…”

A characteristic clench to his jaw has the words dying on your tongue, and for some reason unbeknownst to you, he’s seething.

“Pull something like this again and those things won’t be the only ones after your head.” The warmth of his large chest against yours leaves just as it arrives, and he’s tilting his neck to really get a good look at you. Trying to get his point across, you suppose, with steely, gunmetal blue eyes. You can’t help but waver, irises stinging as you turn your attention to your bound wrists. Part of you wants to roll your eyes.

That just won’t do.

Leon sucks his teeth, gripping your jaw with restrained strength so you’re actually looking at him now, and whatever excuse you’ve created dissipates immediately. The look in his eyes—territorial, maybe?—has you at a loss for words, and all you can do is watch his pink tongue dart over his bottom lip.

Whatever he’s thinking about, you don’t like it, because he’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other with his hands on his hips. His face is pensive, but you can still feel the heat of his anger radiating off his skin. Even from a distance. “Shoot the chains or something.”

“Sure, let me accidentally graze you with a shotgun shell while I’m at it.” More bite than he’d intended, Leon loosens the straps to his body armor and lets it hit the ground with a small thud. You blink, eyelashes beating against your cheeks as you blink away surprise.

“Leon—”

“Shh, I don’t give a damn. You could’ve died. Seriously, what were you thinking?” His hair sways, violent and angry and overprotective. “Don’t go running off like that again, you understand?”

“I’m not a kid. I’m a grown man—” Irritation bubbles in your throat— did he just shush you?

“Damn right you’re not. And I’m not your father. Didn’t I tell you not to do anything stupid?”

“I had it under control.” You both know you’re lying through your teeth, but Leon wants to really drive his point home. He nods, noncommittal, snaking his arm around your waist and down the small of your back to unzip the pocket attached to your utility belt. He pulls out your gun, which remains heavy and shiny with disuse.

“Yeah? Under control with no bullets?” He aims the gun at a large mosaic of a stained window, and pulls the trigger with no hesitation. There’s nothing but a click, then resounding silence as he slowly releases the trigger, one hand secured over his knuckles while the other grips the pistol's handle.

��Lee, c’mon, we have stuff to do,” You sound whiny and borderline pathetic. You almost expect him to tell you to ‘use the magic word’, but he’s too busy pressing the pad of his thumb against your lips. His finger tastes vaguely of salt and leather, and you fight the urge to open your mouth and suck on it. “…Please.”

You’re not entirely sure what you’re begging for. The ache in your wrists feels dull and distant, and you can’t help but press the tip of your tongue against the flat underside of his thumb. You watch his pupils blow wide, pink creeping up his neck and pooling around the shells of his ears.

“Okay.” He breathes, broad shoulders melting ever so slightly as he pushes his thumb further into your mouth, taking in every curve and contour of lips as you wrap them around his thumb. It fills your mouth with ease, caressing the flat surface of your tongue with slow, circular strokes. You want more. “Yeah— okay. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand, Sir.” You try to sound more snarky and annoyed than anything, but it’s hard when you’re deepthroating another man’s finger. You sputter around his thumb, can barely form a coherent sentence with it pressing into your mouth like this— but Leon seems to catch on anyway, chuckling humorlessly to himself. Stubborn boy.

There’s a warning pat to your cheek, and suddenly you’re back in that training facility. Dimly lit and nearly empty, save for some equipment and workout machines— save for you and Leon, who kept his hands relaxed as you punched him square in the palm.

It was Leon who was told to take you in, show you the ropes, and he’d done so with a sly remark and a curt nod. It flew over your head at first, whatever he was implying, but you were slowly starting to get it now.

(“Well, looks like you’re stuck with me. Time to break in the fresh meat, then.”)

Only a few months ago, you’d been recruited into special forces, and there was something special about you. Something untapped and not yet tainted— there was still a genuine curve to your lips when you smiled, a sparkle in your eyes as you spoke. Charm was written all over your face, boyish and giddy and eager. You’d reminded Leon a bit of himself back in 1998, full of potential but laced with undeniable naivety.

And, truthfully, he liked you. Likes you, even, because of it. You remind him of who he used to be— why he’s here— to serve and protect. And if he’s being honest, he wants to protect you.

Even if it means putting you back in your place.

Breaking you in.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I understand, Sir.” You’ve lost some bass in your voice, and it comes out shaky and cracked. You don’t have time to dwell on it now, how pathetic you sound, because Leon’s expression is nothing short of prideful. Your breath hitches in your throat, stuck in your larynx as you want the blond take in a sharp breath. He likes the title.

“Atta boy.” His eyelids are blanketed, heavy as he stares down at your lips with the remnants of a lazy smile. His— your — gun is still in his hand, but with him closing the distance between the two of you, it’s pressed against your collarbone.

You can’t help it; the opportunity is right there, and you find yourself leaning forward to press your tongue flat against the slide of the pistol.

“Playing a dangerous game, pretty.” Leon rasps, but taps the barrel of the gun against your tongue anyway. It’s slick with your spit, shiny and wet and he has to resist the urge to suck on it too. To taste you. “Yeeaah, just like that. There you go.”

It’s like you’ve learned nothing.

With a low grunt, Leon pushes the gun deeper into your mouth, using his left hand to hold onto the nape of your neck and keep you still. Asshole.

Ever the brat, you furrow your brows and thrash against your restraints.

“You can take it,” He hushes you, using that voice he has reserved for hostages or targets, all gentle and sweet. It’s hushed, barely a whisper, but it makes your brain foggy anyway. You can take it. “Give me your mouth. You can do that for me, can’t you? Say ‘yes sir’.”

You try, hard as you can, whining around the barrel of the gun with tears springing in your eyes. It’s hot and heavy now, like some sort of makeshift dildo, but you know the real thing would feel better. Warmer, stickier, curved and veiny. Thick on your tongue and pulsing, salty and sweet and long.

“Jesus-fucking-Christ. Holy shit,” He’s fucking your throat, sliding the metal into your mouth as far as it can go. It’d be much better if it were his cock instead, so big and so deep, leaving a bulge as he grinds it into your mouth. You’d take it like a champ too, eager and greedy. “Breathe.”

“Sir,” You gurgle, drool running down your chin and coating your skin until Leon pulls the pistol away and inspects it.

You watch him part his lips, previously pulled into a frown, to suck along the barrel of the gun and lap up your spit. There’s remnants of mint and saliva, fresh and sour when combined with the metal of the pistol. “Shit—Leo.”

“Tastes good. Did you take my gum?” He hums, witty as ever. It’s a passing comment, one you can’t help but laugh at, and the man seems to appreciate it. Even if he doesn’t exactly say that. He doesn’t give you much time to laugh, instead opts to connect his lips with yours. Finally, you moan into his mouth, much sweeter and pliant than before. You can’t stay mad at him.

“That’s all you needed, huh. Just a few sweet words, a couple kisses… If I’d known that I would’ve done that months ago.”

Only because you’re so needy, though. Your hips buck into the air, grinding against the space between your hips as your heart slams against your chest. You want more— need more, and the ache between your thighs is enough to prove it. You whimper, high in your throat and full of frustration.

“You really like hearing yourself talk.” You can’t take yourself seriously, not like this, but you say it anyway with nothing but the intent to get fucked stupid. You don’t doubt his capabilities, not with the way Leon’s staring at you. Predatory and ready, like he expected you to say that, his large hand gripping his cock through his tightening pants. You swallow hard, sensing some kind of mistake, and manage to gulp down your pride in the process. If you were someone else you’d be scared, running away from his anger with your tail between your legs. But you’re not.

“You just can’t wait, that it? Over here humping my leg like a damn dog, and now you have something to say? What, because your little hole gets frustrated when it’s been empty for too long?”

You’re squirming within seconds, struggling to wrap your legs around the dip of his waist. Even after dropping his armor he’s wearing too many clothes, too many layers that separate your skin from his. You can’t exactly take your shirt off, not without ripping it straight down the middle, but your lower half is free rein.

“Spoiled brat,” It’s something the blond registers too, because his big hands are hastily unbuttoning your pants and tugging them down your thighs, trailing behind with the gentle scrape of his fingernails. “Remind me the only way to keep you quiet is stuffing your holes.”

He’ll be able to see you much better like this, kneeling in front of your position on the cross to really see you. The clenching of your hole, empty and needy, the trail of lube gushing from it just as he hopes to, the shiny slickness covering your inner thighs. He wants to bury his face in it, fuck you on his tongue till you’re downright ruined, fucked-out and plaint. Maybe it’s in your nature to drift off, have your brain cut off from an orgasm (or two..or three) until you’re malleable enough to listen.

Your words are stuck in your throat, choked up and wobbly as his fingers relentlessly press into that special bundle of nerves. You feel like a slut, with Leon’s fingers twisting and pounding away, his newfound grip on your thighs so tight you’re gasping, crying out and squealing. He’s still careful, applying just the right amount of strength to keep you still.

“We don’t have much time,” His breath is hot against your entrance, and it can’t help but flutter with his mouth so close. Leon’s face contorts, softening as he licks a fat, wet stripe alongside it. “Wish I could keep you on my tongue. But you won’t mind something bigger, yeah?”

There’s nothing for you to hold onto as his fingers poke and prod at your hole, rubbing smooth, slow circles around the entrance. You want to wrap your arms around him, grip his shirt like iron and stifle your moans with it— but you’re chained. Leon pauses to stick his thumb in his mouth— the same one previously pressed against your own—and brings it down to you, pushing into your hole with ease. The thought of an indirect kiss has you spreading your thighs, lifting a leg just barely above Leon’s shoulder. Maybe you’re easy— maybe a kiss is all you need. Maybe it’s just because it’s Leon.

“Damn. Feel so fucking good on my fingers, baby,” He purrs, his voice melting in your ears. “Keep it up and I’ll see if I can promote you to Special Forces’ personal fuckhole.”

His fingers are wet and thick, you’re not sure how he’d managed to lubricate them so well, maybe he kept some in those extra storage pockets of his, but whatever it is…feels good. Slick and warm, almost feels like he’s fucking a fresh load of cum into you. The thought has you mewling, hands furled into tight fists as you struggle to stay upright.

With an unending stream of pitiful noises, your mouth pools with saliva that starts to dribble from the part of your pouty lips, and you instinctively spread your legs wide. It’s far from gross, the messiness of your drool catching on your chin and trailing down your clothed chest. It’s hot— you’ve gone braindead from his fingers alone, and he’s barely even started. You’re wailing, more wet and hiccupy sobs than moans, and tears stream down your handsome face in response. It’s just too much: too big, too deep, too warm, too wet.

You can’t do anything but take in the digits, slick and warming up by the minute until they curl, deep and thick. Your eyes roll back in your head as Leon keeps an iron hold between your thighs, rubbing and rubbing at your front and—and oh, you’re so close. You’re so close it hurts, the pit of your stomach filling with light and your toes curling deliciously. You have nothing to grab at, nowhere to hold, nothing to keep you stable as you lul your head to and fro. You sound delirious, and you must look just as bad.

“Ohh, m’gonna—”

“Brace yourself,” He mumbles, gloved hands running up the back of your thighs until he’s lifting your lower body off the cross and placing your knees on his shoulders. It’s intimate, personal and close as he lets out a breathy moan in response to the perfect fit of your hips against his own. “I’ll be gentle, sweetheart. For the most part.”

The blond is still clothed, and it’s hard to gauge his reaction of your naked lower-half grinding against his pulsating erection, with his hair partly shielding his pretty face. But you can imagine it, his pink licorice-twist lips divorced and blush high on his cheeks as his precum mixes with yours, sloppy and soaking the front of his inky combat pants.

You whine, wiggling your hips and kicking out your feet like some sort of brat, a completely wordless attempt at telling him to strip. You know there’s tears streaming down your face, just when you think you’ve taken a step forward you discover you’d taken two steps back.

“You’ll take what I give you,” Like molten lava, Leon’s voice grows deeper by the second. He’s pushing your legs further forward, bending you in half until your legs burn and he’s sandwiched indubitably close. You’re glad you stretched before this, because he’s got you bent like a pretzel— like some sort of cheap whore, and there’s no escape. “Your new mission is to take it and look pretty, don’t complain now. You hear me?”

“Yeah,” You feel yourself nodding from a distance, frantic and erratic despite the strong grip he’s got on your chin. You can feel him twitching beneath you, his cock jumping in his pants as he traps you with his weight alone and unbuckles his utility belt. It drops to the floor, loud and heavy, but it’s nothing compared to the obscene sound of his cock slapping against your skin. He’s unzipped his fly— still clothed, almost like he’s emphasizing his power over you. “Yeah, I— yes, Sir.”

“Open,” It’s not a suggestion, as he’s already rutting his hips against the warmth of your skin and snaking one arm around your waist. The other goes to your mouth, wet and ready, pries it further open so your pink tongue is on display. Leon gathers a glob of spit, but rather than your mouth it reaches your cheek, wet and sticky. Leon’s aim is better than anyone you’ve ever known— so it’s deliberate. “Good boy. Use your manners.”

You swallow anyway, desperate pants obstructed as you stick your tongue out further for more. “Thank you, Sir. For— for your spit.”

Leon sinks in with a loud whine as you clench around the fat head of his dick, whining and gasping, fighting your orgasm off with everything you’ve got. There’s a slight burn— the stretch of his fat, lubed up cock nestling into your hole— but it feels good, indescribable and finally plugging you full. It’s hard to hear anything he’s saying behind the loud squelching of his cock slipping inside, that and your own sounds, but you try anyway. He’s filling you till you’re ready to burst at the seams, pressing his weight against your body so you can clamp down and take him completely, no questions asked.

“F-huck, I can’t… Please, please, you’re so,” You’re on fire, his cock curving up just right as your pillowy walls flutter around his intrusion. Right there, electricity sparks inside you and your eyes roll back with the pinch of your eyebrows. “So deep.”

“Yeah?” The blond laughs, breathless and high off the feeling of your velvety walls constricting around him— clenching so perfectly, so hot and slick with rhythmic pulses along his veiny shaft. His hand travels to press on your navel, and he can feel himself sliding in and out, in and out. “Feel it right here?”

You do. And his hand pressing against it isn’t much help, you can’t focus on anything other than his cock. Your wrists are achy, almost as much as your hole, straining against the chains that you still have yet to break from. But it makes it better, you’re open and free for Leon’s use. Just a hole—to be filled, used, fucked. And, yeah, maybe you are. Maybe you want that, being used by Leon and his strong arms, manhandled into any position he wants.

“Yeah, in my— in my stomach.” You sound so cute, sniffling on his dick with every bounce and thrust forward, occasionally thrashing against your restraints. Leon coos, right in your ear and echoing in the pews. Much like the sound of your skin slapping against his, deep and fast thrusts like he’s pounding the brat out of you.

"God, should’ve had you like this all the time, drunk on cock,” You’re twitching, pulsing and convulsing around Leon’s cock, the fabric of his combat pants rubbing against your front. “Just like that, there you go, honey. Don’t run, let me watch my pretty hole swallow this cock.”

His— oh. Yeah, you suppose, it’s his hole to fuck, to kiss, to use. Since day one, really, when you’d spent your first night after meeting him knuckles deep. It’s incomparable to his own, longer and thicker, faster and better. So, yes, your hole is his, and his alone. You nod. babbling in his ears and wriggling in his arms. You’re his. The implication behind it has your heart stuttering, hammering in your chest as butterflies beat against your tummy.

Oh— You’re cumming.

“Shit, sweetheart. Knew you were a slut.”

“I don’ wanna— I can’t—” You let out an array of desperate, hysterical cries around Leon’s long, airbrushed pink cock, thighs and chest heaving and trembling, and arching off the wooden cross. It takes you a moment to form a complete sentence. “Don’t wanna.. st—op.”

“Yeah, yeah..” Leon nods against your neck, burying his face into the warm skin. His hair tickles your throat, soft and silky. “I won't. We won’t. I got you.”

His big palm cracks against the swell of your ass, loud and echoing in the church. Your core tightens, knees tightening on his shoulders as you cum. Hard and fast, you can barely register the squeals being ripped from your throat. Not over the slapping, the spanking, the—

The crackle of Leon’s radio, loud and blaring in his earpiece.

“Hold on.” Tears spill over your glassy eyes.

“Wh— No! Sir, you—“

“Hey. Don’t ‘no’ me. I’m right here, just sit pretty for me and take it,” He moans, emphasizing his words with a sharp snap to his hips. Your toes curl, searing white pleasure sparking in your stomach as Leon responds to the radio comms. You’re overstimulated, sparks of sensitivity striking through you with every quick thrust. “There you go, such a good boy. . .”

“Condor one to Roost,” He replies, sparing you a gentle glance while your legs lock behind his neck. The blond doesn’t let up once, honey locks bouncing as you cry on his dick. “What?”

“…Very funny. . .” Whatever Hunnigan said must’ve been spot on, because a low growl rumbles in his chest and his balls are tightening against your skin. Blotches of pink bloom in his neck, probably following down his wide shoulders— if only he weren’t clothed.

“Goddamn, you’re gonna make me cum, yeah, wish I could fuck it into you. Next time,” It’s deliciously obscene, the sounds of Leon’s cock reaming your hole like his life depends on it. His voice is barely above a whisper, so quiet but full in your ears. “Next time, we’ll make your pretty hole all messy with my cum. Yeah?”

Leon’s hips stutter, his deep thrusts growing shallow and messy as lube and precum froths between your warm skin. You can feel it all, the way his cock jumps and as he cums, missing a beat before pulling out to spurt the rest on your tummy. Thick and hot, it’s starting to cool on your shirt before he can move to wipe it away. Before he can end the call.

“He’s fine. We’ll have Baby Eagle home in time for dinner. Right, rookie?”

2K notes · View notes

dabisbratz · 1 year

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B♡Y NEXT DOOR — kuroo tetsuro x male reader

w.c: 1.6k

WARNING: mentions of blowjobs, deepthroating, free-use, creampies, manhandling, fantasizing, kuroo is kinda a perv!, shy reader, college au.

a/n: msorry this is so short!! the request was kinda vague so i tried to put together what i could! it’s mainly kuroo’s thoughts for the nsfw part, but i think it’s still okay!

Dorm life is not your forté. Sure, you haven’t experienced it yet, but you can just tell it’s going to lead to your forthcoming demise. Exhibit A, it’s two in the morning and you’re only just now moving in after orientation. It’s late, the sun had set hours ago and it was time for the moon to occupy the sky. It’s your saving grace from the darkness of the hall, yellow light illuminating off the walls from just one small lamp by the communal mailboxes. You didn’t expect anyone to be awake, especially since you were particularly tired yourself. Your aching body pops with tension as you stretch your arms, lifting them above your head as your shirt rides up and exposes just a hint of your lower abdomen. Just a few more boxes to go.

You’re ready to curl up in bed, away from any prying eyes and fellow students. Starting during the second semester wasn’t a very smart move, everyone knew each other already, and you’d have ten times more issues trying to make friends when groups were already established. Who knew the type of people you’d be sharing a place with. You sigh, a quiet huff through protruding cheeks, and begin dragging a particularly heavy box inside your room.

“Hey! Be careful,” There’s a gruff voice behind you, raspy from either overuse or lack thereof, but fried from sleep nonetheless. You freeze, body stiffening as your back collides with the person behind you, much more solid than you’d originally thought they’d be. But you push through it, already embarrassed and body ablaze from the rocky first meeting. They let you step through, covering their ears dramatically at the sound of heavy cardboard scraping against the hardwood flooring. “What’s your deal?!”

Ah. It’s a man behind you, no older than you, who stands tall with long, lean limbs. His hair is dark, barely even brown, swooped up with what you assume is copious amounts of gel, save for a few tufts of hair that rest along his right eye. In the dark lighting you can’t exactly make out all his features, but you can tell his facial structure is nice, with the way the moonlight peeking through the blinds cups his cheeks.

His footsteps pound against the floor as he turns to walk around you and the box, hunched over to pick it up himself— save the headache. Apologies bubble in your throat, threatening to spill off your tongue, but despite his words he doesn’t seem all that bothered. Your arms fall to your sides, head bowed as he carries the box somewhere with the others. Should you introduce yourself?

“Sorry…” You start, voice quiet and reserved. You can’t tell if he heard you, but you continue anyway, fighting the urge to find the nearest closed off room and hide. “I didn’t… They said no one would be here today.”

You can hardly see him, just a silhouette of a man, but it makes a movement as if he’s scratching his chin. Maybe you said something wrong.

“Oh,” Is all he says, and you can imagine his lips curling into a small ‘o’ along with it. He really should listen more. In fact, the front door features a calendar with this very day circled, written in messy handwriting ‘roommate move-in.’ “Kenma said something about that. I’m Kuroo, just housesitting!”

So he’s..not your roommate, then? There’s a beat of silence before he flickers on the lights, bright and harsh against your unadjusted survey. Your face is distorted cutely, eyes squinting and eyebrows furrowed as you blink around the room, taking in its appearance. It’s minimalistic, not much besides two beds, video game consoles, and freshly organized wires. You assume the other door by the right of the room leads to the bathroom. You look back at the man, finally adjusted, with hesitance.

He’s staring at you, hazel upturned eyes narrowed like a cat. A shiver runs down your spine, ice cold and painfully obvious as you nervously shift your weight from one foot to the other, shrinking under his gaze. He seems to soften at that, manually widening his eyes so he appears less intimidating. Despite it all, though, he’s cute. With a strong jaw and straight eyelashes, a soft yet handsome and defined face. It’s only then you notice his clothing— or, lack thereof. His boxers are striped, black and red, and that’s about it. You shuffle awkwardly, biting your tongue.

“Well! This place is gonna be real quiet,” He jokes to himself, lips curling upward as he tears his gaze away from your handsome face. Between you and Kenma, he’s sure there won’t be much conversation. You’re not exactly blunt, though. Maybe a ball of nervousness, but not blunt, from what he can see.“You’re a lot cuter than I thought.”

“You too.” Your response is immediate, but the wide eyed expression on your face makes him think you didn’t actually mean to say it. You’re really soft spoken, too. If anything else was going on he surely would’ve missed it. Kuroo feels himself smile.

“Oya? Did you think I was ugly?” He strikes a childish pose, resting his face in his palms as he bats his long eyelashes in your direction. He relishes the sound of your laughter, just as quiet as your voice. He wonders how loud you can get.

He watches you shake your head in response, a genuine smile gracing your face as you pick up the last of your things— blankets and pillows—and carry them over to your assigned bed. His eyes never leave you, glued to your face as you place sheets on your bed and fluff your pillows. You look so easy to move, he could just flip you over and do it for you, hold onto your waist and lift you up like you’re a feather. Pretty, too.

Kuroo clears his throat, dropping his arms to discreetly cover his erection. At this rate he’ll have to tuck his dick in his waistband.

He imagines pushing you down onto your knees, pretty mouth open wide enough for him to rest his cock on your pink tongue, loud slaps echoing through the room. The wet squelch of his precum frothing on your tongue, the head of his cock sliding in and out of your mouth at random moments, just so he can hear you gag and choke on his cock.

He imagines a particularly sharp thrust down your throat, watching it bulge and contract around his dick until you can’t breathe. But even then, you’d hold onto the back of his thighs, try to push him deeper while you cry over not being able to take him deeper.

He imagines burying your face in his pubes, watching your teary eyes roll back when he finally fits himself down your throat, cock twitching as your ruined face presses against his hip. That would be enough for him, your pretty, fucked-out face looking back up at him as your throat makes humiliating noises around his shaft.

He imagines cumming down your throat, guiding himself out when it’s apparent you might black out, watching you catch your breath with loud, rushed pants. He’d cup your face, tapping it gently so you look up at him, forcing you to follow his slow breaths, chest expanding with ease. He’d call you his good boy, slapping his dick against your cheek.

He imagines lifting you up by the soft skin of your throat, watching you stumble over your own feet and lean into him for stability. Your eyes would be glassy, glazed over as you beg him for something, anything. Any type of release, any touch to your pretty body. You’d beg so pretty, soft voice suddenly loud and high pitched as you bounce where you stand, whining out, “Ple—ase, Tets!”

He imagines slutting you out, turning you into a shameless whore while he slides back into you for the third time that day. He wonders if you’d hide your face, closing your legs and whining about the intrusion just to have them parted again, Kuroo’s much stronger, bigger hands digging into the plush of your thighs to inspect your sopping hole. That just wouldn’t do, he’d pull your hands away from your face, holding your jaw between his fingers so you can watch his cock sink into you again and again, cum cascading down your thighs and dripping onto the floor.

He imagines making you beg for it, your entire body tense as he fucks into you, holds you open with his hands to watch his cock get swallowed by your velvety walls. You’re so shy, so quiet and timid. So he imagines your squeals, your mind too far gone after hitting your sweet spots over and over and over. You’d be his sexdoll, pliant and moldable in his hands as he bounces you on and off his cock, even feeding his leaking cum back to you. He wants to smear it over your lips and have you wear it like lipgloss—

Your mattress squeaks, loud enough to snap the business major out of his thoughts, and he finds you shyly sitting crisscross on your bed. Your head is tilted, sweet like a puppy as you blink up at him, voice barely above a whisper.

“Uhm, Kuroo…? Are you okay?”

“Right, right!” Kuroo nods, glad the patch of precum pooling in his boxers is covered by the deep shade of fabric. He bounces on his heels, stiffly shuffling further toward the bathroom as he speaks. “There’s a place opening up on campus that sells really good fish. We should go sometime! Get to know each other, right?”

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dabisbratz · 1 year

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SOFTSPOT — aizawa shouta x male reader

w.c: 3.3k

a/n: alternatively titled: sonny projects onto a reader insert for 3k+ words straight i’ll never get used to writing dirty talk. got carried away.. whoops..

genitalia terms: cock, dick, hole, boypussy, cunt

WARNING: amab reader, praise, degradation, spitting, dirty talk, crybaby!reader, himbo!reader, fingering, anal, nipple play, chest mentions, use of the words ‘tits’ in a mocking manner, dumbification, mutual masterbation, sadism, humiliation, creampie

“Shooo!” You whine, purely instinctual as you shove impulsively purchased gym-mats, equipment, and protein powder into the trunk of your car. Your pro-hero boyfriend isn’t even there, probably off on patrol somewhere, but you can’t help but call for him when you need help…. Even if it’s with a simple task. He’d offered you some exclusive time to workout at U.A’s gym, even after hours, but you preferred the public ones. More motivation that way, you’d put it. Your bottom lip quivers, plump and pouty as you open a jar of discolored powder. You inhale strongly, handsome face distorting in disgust. Ah, well, at least someone else got some good money off it.

Sweat clings to your forehead, sticky on your skin and clinging embarrassingly to your chest, your sleeveless hoodie soaked. It’s a bit uncomfortable, nothing you can’t manage, just a little colder in the winter air.

The trunk of your car slams, loud as you childishly stomp over to the driver’s seat, despite already forgetting what you were so upset about. You don’t pull out of the gym parking lot just yet, instead opening your phone to see if your boyfriend had found the time to respond to your post-gym selfies. The messages remain on read, and you know Shouta would never ignore you, but your eyes can’t help but water from the neglect. You miss him.

So, like any sensible boyfriend, you call him.

Shouta is a capable man; capable of many things. He can swing through the streets of Japan in the blink of an eye— in his sleep, even. He can knock out a villain in record time, with nothing but his fists and maybe an afternoon nap. He can pick you up right where you stand, lift your legs over your head and fuck you like you weigh nothing. But a simple text back is too much?

It rings once, twice…..a few more times, before you finally hear the gruff voice you’ve been yearning for. Instantly, your mood changes, glassy eyes dry within seconds and a large, genuine smile spilling down your face as you glance at yourself in the rearview mirror. “Hello?”

“Sho-Chan!” You beam, loud enough for anyone within a ten mile radius to hear your excitement. Wiggling in your seat, you squeeze your cellphone between your shoulder and ear, starting the car and setting off to go home. Aizawa makes a sound at that, low in his throat and it rumbles in your ear. Damn, if only you kept your earbuds in! “I missed you… a lot!”

“An old man like me?” You frown in response, Shouta isn’t even old. You shake your head profusely, even if he can’t see you, completely missing the rustling sounds in the background of the call. “…Surely you’ve found someone your old age good enough for you at that gym you like so much.”

“Wha— Don’t even joke like that!” You huff, body lurching forward at the red light you almost forgot to stop at. So mean, always pushing your buttons. Your seatbelt is snug against your chest, dipping between the pillowy skin of your pecs. He’d never admit it aloud, but it was most definitely Shouta’s favorite body part of yours, squishy and soft and thick. He’s always touching you there, his large, pale hands digging into the skin until it hurts. He chuckles, hearty but breathless, like he’s preoccupied. You bite your lip, worried. “Uh, Sho?”

As capable as he is, Shouta is also a very weak man. He’s weak for puppy eyes, big and blown out and teary. He’s weak for warm hands, with nails that scratch his back and massage it the following morning after. He’s weak for pictures of you, all smiles and teeth. He’s weak for crying, the sound of hiccups and sobs leaving his pretty boys’ mouth while he tries to fit a cock in his needy holes.

He can see it now, your eyes widening with worry and concern, tears threatening to fall down your face, your eyebrows knitted as you stare at the road ahead of you. With a dragged out sigh, Aizawa groans, mocking as he says: “Sho-Chan’s gonna need your help, baby.”

“Oh!” You’re good at that— very good, even. You’re always eager to help, especially if you’re helping Shouta. It’s the least he deserves, after all. You straighten up in your seat, though you’re already nearing the reserved parking space in front of his house. Seriously, you add, “Anything, I promise. M’almost home.”

There’s a groan on the other side, a spark traveling down your spine and straight to your cock in response. You know that groan, reserved for handjobs and particularly sloppy blowjobs— like when Shouta holds your head in his hands and uses your throat, burying his cock down to the hilt, until all you can taste is him, your nose buried in his dark happy trail and and curly pubes. He’s always been a bit too big for your mouth, instead opting to slap his cock on your tongue or across your cheek when your jaw started aching too much.

“Mhm, bet you are… Waitin’ for Sho to tell you what to do, sweetheart?” You hum in affirmation almost immediately, unbuckling your seatbelt and hopping out the car with a much hastier pace. The cold, outside air makes the hair on your neck stand, your nipples hardening. “Such a good boy. Why don’t you play with your nipples while you tell him how your day was.”

You pause where you stand, eyes widening as your cock twitches in your sweatpants, straining against the fabric. In public, no less, making a distinct print in your pants as you try to cover your erection with one hand. You let out an incredulous laugh, frantically surveying the area as Shouta huffs in your ear. His request isn’t exactly that, more like a command— because you just can’t tell him no.

“I- I worked out a lot,” Switching hands between covering your dickprint and holding your phone, you swallow hard and nod to yourself. Your hand trails up your side, then to your chest, where you gently massage the plush skin of your pecs. Your middle finger gently— slightly, swirls around the sensitive bud of your nipple, a small whimper forming in the back of your throat. “Bought some, um… Um.. Protein powder.”

But you can’t just sit there, not when Shouta is almost right in front of you, his hands on your skin, his fingers inside you, his cock down his throat— he’s right there, just a few steps and a single lock away. And, God, how you hope he takes care of you when you get there. There’s a guttural noise in your ear before it’s briefly cut off. your phone vibrating in your hand as Shouta hangs up, the front door swinging open before you can even knock.

“These tits,” Is the first thing Sho’ says, slamming the door behind you until you’re trapped between it and his tall body. You want to protest, to whine and stomp your feet because they’re certainly not tits, but your need to please is much stronger. Instead, you whine, your head falling forward as you melt in his hands. His hands roam your chest, calloused palms pushing them together obscenely. You squirm, pouting. “Could play with them all day. Would you like that, hm?”

He knows you would.

“Hear how wet my dick is? Fuck, you don’t even know what you do to me,” He’s overwhelming your senses, his stubble brushing against your chest as he takes a perky bud into his mouth, grazing it with his teeth. Shouta’s no stranger to using his mouth— in fact, you might just share an oral fixation in common. Your eyes flutter closed, your knees buckling as he licks a flat, long stripe over your sensitive nipple. “Going stupid on me already?”

You shake your head, your cheeks puffed out as he looks up at you through his dark lashes, his equally dark bangs obstructing his vision. You’re so cute, huffing and puffing quietly as a wet patch grows on your pants, right where your tip leaks through your boxers. Your natural smell is stronger, and your chest is still glowing with sweat from your workout.

“Sho, listen I–”

Shouta’s eyebrows furrow, his jaw setting as his other hand rolls your unoccupied nipple between his fingers. Your mouth snaps shut. Staring back at him is too much for you, his eyes darkening the more you make contact. You feel like prey, and Aizawa is the unrelenting predator.

You blink away, a startled gasp leaving your lips when his strong hand grips your jaw and sets your gaze back on him. His smile is devious, his canines sharp and glinting under the ceiling lights. You can’t hold onto anything around you, not the doorknob or the doorframe, so you settle for Shouta’s sleeve, ballling your hand into a fist as he flicks your nipples to watch your tits jiggle in response. So embarrassing!

“Look at that, sweet boy, letting me use you how I want, letting me take what I want. Good boy.”

Your body feels warm as you keen— scorching hot, even— while Shouta chuckles at the sight, purring low in his chest. You love making Shouta happy- you live for it, love blooming in your chest as you nod along. You’re a good boy! Shouta’s good boy! He said it himself! You could feel the rumble of his voice in your sternum, where he was hunched over before lowering himself to remove your shoes, your pants, your hoodie.

Your boxers are ruined, almost like you had cum in your pants before he even thought of touching your cock. He swats your shy hands away from your crotch, cooing as flustered tears well in your eyes. Even with the fat crystals threatening to spill he can see your cock jump, especially when it lands right atop your belly button, a trail of sticky precum correcting you to your underwear. Such a crybaby.

“Spit on it.”

“I— Spit?” You blink once, twice, three more times as you try to process the demand. Your cock throbs, unbearably needy, as you look down at it. When you glance back up Shouta looks expectant, but patient as he watches you connect the dots. He does it first, untucking himself from his pants to spit down on his palm, then rubbing said spit into his big, veiny cock.

Ah.

It’s more pathetic than anything, your lips parting as you spit down on your cock. It’s more akin to drool, a long trail of spit slowly trailing down your lips and chin until it pools at your head. Wet and slick, your fingers twitch as you wrap your hand around your dick, toying with the slit just like Sho’ does. It feels better with his hands though, and you sigh impatiently. No one does it like he does,

“Need…need your hand.”

You need a lot of Shouta’s things these days. You need his fingers, deep inside your hole while he toys with your chest. You need his hand, warm and right and too good when he fists your cock. You need his dick, thick and barely able to pass the rim of your hole. It hits every spot just right, so big and so deep, sometimes accompanied by Shouta’s thumb if you’re feeling extra greedy. You need him to make decisions for you, when you’re too cockdrunk to remember your words. When you’re too stupid to decide anything for yourself.

You’re sure you’re crying by now— it feels like it, you can feel wet streaks on your face as Shouta takes his cock in his hand and rubs it against his own, heads squelching together and precum mixing together as you keen into his touch. His other hand, less dominant, reaches your neck, holding you steady against the door as you rut into his hand like a puppy. You hear yourself choke on a moan, a strangled and pathetic sound that has Aizawa’s dick twitching against yours. Loud and wet, your head falls back against the door with a quiet thump, much to your hero’s amusement.

There’s too much warmth; his hands, his fingers, his cock. You’re nodding along to nothing, eyes darting everywhere and nowhere all at once. Your body pulses, long strokes to your cock making you whine pitifully. Aizawa’s pupils are blown wide, his pink tongue darting over his equally pink lips as he watches you crumble in his hands, leaning into the hand around your throat. It snakes down your chest, lower against your belly button, and around your waist.

At this rate you’re going to explode.

His big, long fingers reach your ass, kneading the plush skin between fingers. You can feel him pulling your cheeks apart, his hands greedy and strong and harsh, when he lets go to place a hard smack to the exposed skin. Shouta laughs when you whine in return, squirming when he grabs your hip so hard it hurts.

You try so hard, proud of yourself as you try to warn Shouta of what’s coming next, of the cum about to shoot straight across your stomach, it takes every ounce of self control you have to scrape together the words you want to say— you have to say. His tight, wet grip has your toes curling, your balled fists reaching up for the dark bundles of hair draped along Aizawa’s shoulders. His middle finger, inching closer and closer to your rim.

“Oh, fuckfuckfuck, m’gonna cum, waitwait, Shooo.”

“Mmm, hold on, sugar. Gonna get one out of you with my fingers in this cunt,” There’s something cold and sleek pressed against your taint, gradually warming up the more it circles your rim. There’s nowhere for you to go— forward is into Shouta’s arms, your cocks bumping together lewdly, backward are his fingers; long, thick, calloused and deep. You let out another hiccup, going with the latter of the two as his finger disappears inside you. Grunting along. Shouta’s fingers reach impossibly deep inside you first try, your hole swallowing him up with little resistance. “Did you fuck yourself before you got home? Shoved those needy fingers in your hole because you missed Sho-chan’s big dick pulsing inside your hole? T’aww.”

“Uh-huh, mhm, yeah,” Another mindless, breathless nod while in the back of your head you find yourself pouting. It’s not a cunt and you certainly don’t find that phrase hot at all! You move to nuzzle your forehead against his stubble, moaning out tiny sounds with each brush to your prostate. Shouta lets you drool on his shoulder, eyes squeezed right as you buck your hips into his. You’re sobbing into his ear, thighs trembling against the door as he spreads your cheeks apart, and cool air meets your hole. “Hmmph..”

“Turn around for me, show me where Daddy fucks you. Where his dick goes.” That’s a new one. But he’s right, it’s a perfect fit— even if it needs some prep. He fills you up just right, keeps you stuffed on his cock till all you can do is whine and cry, bounces you up and down until you’re both satisfied. You’re in love.

So you turn, dizzy and wobbly on your legs and unabashedly eager to be good for your lover. He keeps you upright if anything, basically manhandling you until you’re where he wants you, back arched against the door and your cheek squished below the peep-hole. Your hands travel down your chest, down to your hips where they swerve back, palms resting on the swell of your ass. A hungry, animalistic grin graces Shouta’s lips as he watches you spread your cheeks apart once more, the puffy hole winking back at him. You try to smile at him, messy-faced and dopey.

Cute.

There’s more spit now than you remember, warm and sloppy as Shouta rubs it into your hole. Your cock strains painfully, desperate for release, but somehow your overwhelming need to feel full is stronger. And full you’ll be, as Aizawa’s balls tighten, his cock sliding across the crack of your ass, then around your hole. There’s an obscene smack of the head against your rim, then the sound of Shouta sucking in a deep breath through his teeth.

“Shh. Let me in, let me in, baby.” His dick enters slowly, making you sniffle in response. You try your hardest to relax, to sit still and let Sho’ take you how he wants, but you can’t help it. He presses into your hole like he owns it, deep and heavy as his thighs meet the bottom of your backside.

“Take it like you were made for me.”

His balls slap against your own slow, at first, then quickly and sporadically increasing in speed at the expense of your throat. It’s almost like he’s fucking you there too, deep enough that you can taste his precum at the very back of your tongue. His strong arms wrap around your body, hands squeezing your large chest while you bat your wet eyelashes.

“Fuuck, you take it so well. Love watching that greedy fuckin’ hole suck me in. So fuckin’ wet n’ sloppy, ugh, such a good pocketpussy.”

Your rut against the door, pounding against it with each forward thrust, your cock threatening to spurt any second. Shouta’s grumbling something in your ear, something you can’t make out through the foggy haze, but you feel yourself tighten up in response anyway. You babble through your tears, wailing loud and incoherent and something along the lines of ‘I’m Sho’s good boy,’ but who’s keeping track.

“Too— hmm.. I can't.” Shouta’s hand caresses your cheek, curling into a lazily formed fist as he gently knocks a knuckle (though it’s more like the fat of his hand) against your forehead. He makes a sly comment about how hollow and empty your head sounds, a dark and rich laugh erupting from his mouth.

“S’it too much, honey? My dick’s just too much for that tiny little hole,” Your cock jumps against your tummy, twitching until it can’t anymore, cum shooting straight out your tip until you’re drooling on the door, eyes rolled behind your head as Shouta continues using you— you’d only gotten tighter, after all. “That’s too bad. Come on— you can take it, let me stuff it full. Bet you’re so proud of yourself too. Proud of that slutty fuckin’ boypussy.”

Your toes curl, thigh muscles clenching tight as Aizawa keeps you upright, lifting your boneless body up and down, his cock disappearing inside you. Even as he pulls out, your body pulls him right back in. But he’s clearly reaching his limit, his dick pulsating inside you with vigor as he spurts a thick, sticky load inside you around your rim.

He pulls out completely with a hiss, watching his cum slowly trickle out, thick globs collecting at the back of your thighs. He’s the only thing holding you up, your strong legs suddenly jello in his grasp. You make no effort to move, letting him manhandle you onto the couch. His hands are warm in contrast to the wet cloth you don’t remember him grabbing, but it feels good and cool against your skin.

“Sho-Chan..” You whine, not nearly as high in your throat as your moans. “Kiss me.”

2K notes · View notes

dabisbratz · 1 year

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I GOT WHAT YOU NEED — yuta okkotsu x male reader

w.c: 2.1k

WARNING: jealousy, semi-public sex, praise, degradation, finger sucking, kissing, doggy-style, creampie, undepicted aftercare, possessiveness, exhibitionism

a/n: they are not highschoolers!! jjh is a college in this:)

There’s something about the high blush on the apples of his cheeks that makes people believe he’s vulnerable. Maybe it’s the curve of them, the way his naturally wide eyes blink. Maybe it’s his timid nature, the way he carries himself alongside his peers. Sure, he doesn’t exactly exude confidence, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t. In fact, Yuta is confident in his abilities, he understands his limits. He understands intentions.

So when he sees you, his pretty boyfriend speaking to a few guys, he sees red. He knows there’s probably nothing malicious brewing in their minds, but he recognizes those looks. The lingering gazes, eyes stuck on your lips as you smile and laugh, subconsciously leaning forward. His perfect boyfriend, too popular for his own good. You have a habit of breaking people down, seeing past their exteriors and embracing them from the inside out. Clearly, you’ve gotten to these delinquents.

He hates it.

Yuta likes to keep to himself. He keeps his hands to himself, stuck in his pockets or to his side, you won’t catch him latching onto anyone, even on a good day. So why does he want to touch you so badly? The men are handsome, he can admit that, with slim faces and piercing eyes. He’s not insecure, Yuta knows you love him, he knows you only want him. But the lines are blurring, everyone’s just too close, too shameless— had he not made it known you were taken, perhaps? That you belonged to someone already?

His mood is souring, eyes narrowed into slits as he bristles. It irks him. The closeness, the leaning in, the trailing eyes, the hands reaching for what’s his. Yuta’s never been this bold before, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets as he walks over, pushing past the small crowd until he gets to you.

If your face wasn’t bright then it certainly is now, twinkling in the sunlight as you grin at him, all pearly teeth and plump lips. He wants to kiss that dumb look right off your face, press his lips against yours until you’re breathless and ditzy. He wants to show you off, his boyfriend. No one else’s.

Then there’s an arm digging into your waist. It certainly isn’t his, clearly belonging to an individual much older than him. Much more bold. Heat bubbles in his veins, straight through the ones protruding in his forearms, cascading into his bloodstream. Some nerve. He’s sure you can hear his teeth grinding, with the way you wince at him as they dig into his gums. It’s clear you’re uncomfortable, just too kind to say anything.

“What?” His voice is mocking, he stares at Yuta through the bridge of his nose, but it’s more like a glance. As if he’s not worth the eye contact. “He’s busy.”

“C’mon,” It’s clear he’s talking to you, but his eyes are glued on the man trying to pull you in closer. Yuta’s vision swims, his strong hand clasped right over the stranger’s to squeeze until it hurts, searing hot pain in his wrist as he tears his arm away from your waist. He wishes there were more, more screams of pain, more evidence that it hurt, but all he gets is a clenched fist and an equally clenched jaw. “I want to teach you a new training technique.”

The walk around campus was tense. The air was thicker than blood, despite being outside. Yuta lugged you along, squeezing your hand when you trail too far behind. Truthfully, you didn’t expect him to hold your hand. Not in public, anyway, his warm palms clasped over your own was almost sweet. Whatever it was, it’s enough to make you smile, knees turning to jello as he dragged you toward an empty space between buildings.

“Yuta? Are you—”

“Whose are you?” You nearly trip over your feet, jaw going slack as Yuta pulls you into the alleyway, pressing your back against the cold building walls. He’s dead serious, eyes blazing as he holds you by your shoulders, breath panning over your face. You blink. Once, twice, again.

Whose are you?

“Yours, I’m… Only yours,” The sincerity lacing your voice nearly breaks his resolve, the furrow of his brow briefly dropping because you’re just that sweet. His sweet boy. “Always.”

“Did he touch you anywhere else?” He asks, already unbuttoning your shirt to inspect your bare body, warm hands tracing the skin until you’re squirming. Sly bastard. You shake your head, wary of your voice, by now it’s surely not trustworthy. Yuta tilts his head, a small smile spreading across his face as his thumbs brush your nipples, tutting when the silky skin hardens beneath the pads of his fingers. “Here? Seems sensitive… Did he bruise you?”

An animalistic sound leaves the back of his throat, surprising the both of you. Just the mere thought of someone touching you, hurting you, leaving a mark on you… He growls. Yuta’s hands are quick to pull your pants down to your ankles, watching the fabric fall until it’s bunched up and holding your legs together.

“Nobody else’s,” He repeats, pulling your cock free to fist at the head, marveling when precum immediately beads at the tip. Your gasp is just as sweet as you, hands shooting out from your sides to grip his wrist, knees buckling under the weight of his iron grip around your cock. “This cock too, right? So pretty, isn’t it? Whose is it?”

“Yours, yours,” Your head is swimming, nails digging into your boyfriend's wrist as he twists his fist along your shaft, steady and tantalizingly slow. You feel yourself clench the second he spits down on your cock, lubing it up to pump faster and faster, until you can’t tell your pants apart from the wet, rhythmic squelching of spit and precum. The head is so sensitive, twitching in Yuta’s grasp as he lets out a breathy chuckle, locking eyes with you. “S’all.. all yo—urs!”

He nods in approval, swatting your wrists away so he can thumb your slit, circling the precum at your tip with his thumb. He lets go, briefly tasting you on his tongue before hooking his thumb into your mouth, letting you have a taste too. You hum around it, eyes blinking rapidly when he presses it against your tongue, moving it deeper into your mouth until you’re almost gagging. Your complaint comes out gurgled, but it’s obvious you’ve let out a frustrated, “Yuta!”

“Need you to cum for me,” His Aegean eyes are full of warmth, despite the last remnants of dark circles resting beneath them. Your boyfriend has always been so cute, under a different circumstance you’d have kissed him silly. “Can you do that for me? Make this pretty cock cum while I feed this hole my cock? Huh?”

Maybe you relied on the cute part a bit too much.

“Uh-huh,” You nod, twirling yourself around on shaky legs. You’re not sure how long you have, soon it’d be time to get home before they start kicking students out of public areas that aren’t the library. Yuta’s hands ghost your waist, careful to catch you in case you fall. But you don’t, instead arching your back toward him until he’s digging his nails into the soft surface of your ass, hard enough to leave indents on the skin. You shiver. “I can— I can do that. For you.”

“Goood boy,” His hands are back on your dick, enveloping it with an overwhelming amount of warmth until you’re drooling onto your arm, hips rutting into his palms. Your hips move so you can fuck into it, cock throbbing so hard you start to wail. It’s too much, the hands relentlessly pumping your cock, the squelching in your ears, Yuta’s teeth nipping at your earlobe while his hardon presses against your ass. He sighs straight into your ear, open mouthed and breathy, feeling your cock jump in his hands. nearly out his hand. You can hear his smile in his voice, body rocking to and fro as he slides his clothed erection between your cheeks. “My good boy.”

His fingers end up finding your mouth again, pressing against your lips until you swallow them down, sputtering all over them as you moan and whine. He has to shut you up somehow, keep you from alerting anyone who may walk by. Keep those cute sounds you make to himself.

The sound of his zipper falls on deaf ears, had it not been for the weight against your rim you wouldn’t have noticed it. You wish you could see it, the dusted brown head of his cock sliding down the space between your asscheeks, wet with precum and— oh, did he just spit on your hole? — saliva. The trail dribbling off his cock must look obscene, and part of you wants to pull away and catch it in your mouth before it can go to waste.

“Ahh, look! Your sloppy hole is drooling on my dick,” He sounds just amazed as you do aroused, your ass fluttering around air as he slaps his cock against your tight rim. If he could just push, impale you on his dick already and bounce you on his cock. “But this isn’t really your hole, is it?”

“Uh-uh,” You sound like a broken record, but it’s all you can say as your mind starts to fog and your brain feels floaty. “S’yours, Yuta. Belongs t’you.”

Your rambling is cut short by the stretch of his cock, longer than it is thick, but enough to make you feel worn out and thoroughly stretched open nonetheless. Yuta goes back to shushing you, pushing himself deeper inside, inch by inch. He could cum now if he focuses too hard on it, on your gooey walls gripping him like a vice. On the spit pooling at his shaft. On your eager efforts to thrust for him, your ass jiggling as you wiggle on his dick.

But that’s not all, it’s the approaching footsteps. The gradually rising voices. The familiar ones from earlier, at that.

Fuck.

He just can’t help himself, pistoning his hips into yours until he hears that delicious clap of his balls against the back of your thighs. Sweat gathers at his brow, Yuta’s free hand bunching up the fabric of your unbuttoned shirt so he can hold it up and watch your hole take his cock like it was made for it. It’s hard to suppress his own groans, a pure erupting from his throat when the realization slowly enters your eyes, slow and delayed because you were too focused on getting fucked silly by his throbbing dick.

“Keep crying like that and the whole school will know all it takes for you to be happy is some dick.”

Your eyes roll back, slutty and shameless as he pulls you closer, getting his cock inside you as deep as he possibly can.

“Don’t want everyone to know how sweet my pussy feels around a cock, do we?” His grunts spark electricity straight down to your cock, which twitches and jumps against your tummy until your toes curl, warmth rallying in your stomach. “S’right, it’s mine. And it’s gonna cum for me.”

He can’t make out what you’re saying, not when his thrusts cut you off every time and his fingers are stroking your warm, wet tongue. Your thighs tremble, finally giving out, as you fall back on Yuta’s cock. He smiles, holding you close until his thrusts are choppy and rushed, voice raspy as you gag on his fingers. You shoot at the same time, his cum reaching deep inside you, thick, creamy ropes of cum leaking out your sensitive, used hole.

Maybe it was the excitement of it all, the thrill of nearly getting caught while you were getting pummeled within an inch of your life. Maybe it was Yuta’s words, driving you crazy and emptying your brain. You’re not sure, but it has you spraying hard against both your stomach and the wall, dollops of cum sticking to your shirt and trailing down your abdomen.

Everything is fuzzy. Your brain, your hearing, your sense of touch. You can barely register Yuta pulling out with a hiss, or the way he gently peppers kisses across your face until he reaches your lips, but you’re absentmindedly melting into the plush skin with no complaints. Beneath it all, though, you can see the way your boyfriends aegean eyes brighten in admiration, his pink lips moving in what you assume is the sentence:

“Wow…you’re too cute..”

3K notes · View notes

dabisbratz · 1 year

Text

CRYBABY — armin arlert x male reader

w.c: 2.5k

genitalia terms: cock, hole, dick

WARNING: humiliation, dirty talk, impact play (face slapping, spanking), edging, restraints (spreader-bar, undisclosed hand restraints), degradation, subspace, sadism, bottom reader, specific body type (taller/bigger than armin, other than that nonspecific!), amab reader. CHECK REBLOGS.

“To be fair, you’re pretty girly, Armin,” Hange chirps, wrapping their arm around Armin’s shoulders with a sly grin. Their hair swings over their face, a dark shadow casting over their gaze. His striking blue eyes watch in amusement as the rest of the Survey Corps nods along in agreement. Truthfully, he doesn’t mind the speculations, albeit a little strange how interested his coworkers are in his sex life, he can’t blame them for being so interested when he has a boyfriend like you. Plus, he’s come quite far from how he used to be— his hair is shorter, cheeks less rounded out by babyfat, shoulders broad and square. He doesn’t need to prove anything. “You let a big rock like that push you around every night?”

The blond coughs into his fist, squeezing his big, cerulean eyes shut to stifle a laugh. You’re much taller than Armin, even on a bad day, with a permanent glare in your eyes. You’d make mountains shrink if they could, with your piercing gaze. Even as you trail behind your boyfriend like a puppy, they see nothing but a guard dog, its canines bared and sharp and dangerous. Your intensity almost surpasses Levi’s, even if they were too scared to admit it.

But it means nothing when you’re under him.

You look up at him like he means the world, glassy eyes blinking against crystal tears as he pushes his cock deeper down your throat and forces you to gag on it. Your eyes roll, drool falling down your chin and down your chest that he loves to squeeze and fondle. You’re such a good boy, the way you writhe and squirm with every orgasm of yours he ruins— just thinking about it makes his dick harden in his cargos.

Armin tugs at the collar of his shirt with his index finger, bending the fabric absentmindedly. His comrades snicker at his flustered display, and the hard smacks to his back lurching him forward, back and forth.

“Bet he really makes you his—“

“… bitch, huh?” His voice is fuzzy in your ears, sweet and tantalizing as rope digs into your wrists. Your legs are bent, knees reaching your head as a spreader-bar holds your thighs wide open. Your back is pressed into Armin’s small mattress, which dips and sinks under your weight. No matter where you turn, you’re consumed in Armin’s warmth, his soft hands roaming along your naked body. He lets you whine, your head lulling back and forth as you knit your eyebrows together.

“Huh…? M’sorry.. m’sorry,” You pant, not quite sure what you’re apologizing for, probably because you’ve lost your train of thought, because you couldn’t hear what filthy things he was saying because he’s fucking you stupid.

“Oh, honey,” The blond's voice is coated in just that, sweetness dripping from his tongue as he grips your cock tight, thumbing the slit and smearing precum all over the head. The bars at your knees stop you from bucking your hips, as he squeezes the base of your cock the second you start to pulse a little too much. “Such a dumb whore. What happened to my big, smart boy?”

Degradation. You love to hear it, especially from Armin’s lips. If you thought too much about it, had it whispered in your ear until your brain melted, you could cum from that alone. Your cock throbs in his hand, as he spits down on it with a quiet ‘p’tuh’ and grins as you shudder. The wetness of his saliva feels too good, too warm against his skin as your rut and flex in his hand. “Mm, your cock is so pretty. Too bad it’s useless.”

You try to fuck into it, chase the feeling that has you wailing, writhing in your restraints and struggling to kick your legs. It’s too much, the squelching in your ears as Armin’s warm breath pans lower and lower down your chest, your abdomen, closer to your throbbing, needy dick. He sighs, open mouthed and breathy, watching your cock jump in retaliation— nearly out his hand. Nonetheless his grip tightens, pumping uppp and dooown, smearing precum until it covers your cock in a thin, shiny and tempting layer. You moan between your teeth, eyes glued on his skinny fingers milking you for all your worth.

“Feel good?” Armin grumbles against your thigh, voice hoarse as he stares down at your weeping cock. With a jumbled moan you nod frantically, toes curling as he twists his fist around your sensitive head and— fuck, you’re cumming. Your eyes roll back, body clenched as a thick rope—

“Aht. Whose cock is this?” Armin’s hand is quickly tightening around the base of your dick cutting off whatever orgasm you were about to feel, whatever ropes of cum that were supposed to spray across your thighs, your stomach, maybe your chin.

“Wh- wai’… waitwait..wha—” You’re stunned, stammering and stumbling over your words as your brain fails to connect the dots of what just happened.

“Answer me, boy,” And— oh. That’s his commander voice, the one he only ever uses in battle. A shiver runs down your spine as you reluctantly make eye contact with your boyfriend, his blue eyes suddenly gunmetal gray. Like a broken record, you whimper, shaking your head and babbling our apologies when, really, you have nothing to be sorry for. “Hush. Just answer the question.”

“S’yours, Ari,” You breathe, big thighs flexing against his hand. One more time, a little more confident you moan: “S’yours.”

“That’s right. That means you cum when I say,” When he pushes an impossibly long finger into your hole you’re done for, mewling as you flutter around him. Even with such a drastic size difference your hole is tight and grips him like a vice, swallowing his finger in and begging for more. His finger slides out slowly, a sharp contrast in the sudden smack straight to your winking hole. You jump, moaning high in your throat as your eyes flutter closed. “Fuck, just one finger stretching this pretty hole like it’s nothing. You want more, baby? Want more fingers in this greedy hole? Gonna cry on my cock all night so everyone knows how good you take it? How much of a slut you are for me? Say it.”

You bat your eyelashes, peering up at your handsome boyfriend through glazed eyes. He coos, if only for a moment, as he dips his other hand into your mouth and watches you suck on his fingers, no questions asked. His face drops a little, pink lips curling into a frown as he wipes his fingers off with the soft skin of your cheek. You’re usually such a good boy— such a good dog. You know better. You keen into the touch, pressing your cheek into his palm until he takes it away, just to smack you across the face with a cruel smile.

Your brain goes blank for just a second, a startled gasp leaving your pretty lips. He wants to squish your cheeks together, watch your face distort into dumb expression while you sit there and take it. Maybe your face will match your mind, empty and eager and broken as tears stream down your face. Armin’s eyes darken, heavy-lidded as he stares at you like he’s going to eat you alive.

“Oh, oh fuck, w-wan’ your cock, Ari’ please give it…give it to me, please,” You babble, as if his question has only just now registered in your brain. Then comes the flaring heat of skin where he’d smacked you, blooming in your cheek and making you whine. Armin tuts, tilting his head in feign innocence, a tuft of blond hair tucked behind his ear. “V’been so good, didn’t cum when you said not to. Been goo-”

“Mhm,” Armin hums, only half listening as he slowly pumps his other hand back up and down your cock, a sadistic grin slowly etching across his face the more you let out a stream of moans. You’re sensitive— almost too sensitive, your hips convulsing in different directions, your eyes squeezing shut, your body begging to cum. You can’t quite make out how his fingers look curling up inside you, long and thin but perfectly stroking that special spot that makes you see stars. “Gonna cum for me? Hm? This pretty cock gonna cum while I finger you? Slap you around a little?”

“Uh-huh, gonna cum.” You’re purring, helplessly rutting your hips until you feel your balls tightening, your abdomen spontaneously spawning and— Ooh! Armin’s index finger slides out of you, and his palm lands right on top, a hard smack straight to your fluttering hole. You're pliant and small like this, squealing into the air while the walls bounce the sound right back at you.

“Not yet.” He whispers into the skin of your inner thighs, placing a chaste kiss on top for safekeeping.

“Noo, no, I can’t,” You gasp, weakly struggling against your restraints in fruitless effort, continuously begging for both release and a chance to move on. You don’t really mean no, you’re conflicted, really— it feels too good, but you’re not sure how much more teasing you can take. “I cant.”

“You can,” The blond snickers, fingers massaging your puckered rim, the puffy skin gaping around his fingertips. You’re slick with a thin layer of precum and lube, shining under the fluorescent bedside lamp. “And you will. Know why? You’re my good little boy. You can take what I give you.”

Collecting yourself, you nod.

Armin beams. You’re certainly not little— not in comparison to him, not in comparison to anyone in the Survey Corps, not in comparison to your friends. But you’re his little boy. To smack around, to manhandle, to fuck into sweet, empty-headed submission. You’re his bitch. He thinks of how everyone else would react, if their jaws would drop at the sight of his guard dog dropping to his knees and presenting right in front of them, at the sight of his big boyfriend going braindead strictly for his dick.

“Just one more time. One more time while I split this pretty hole open on my cock. That’s not too bad, right sweetheart?” Armin whines this time, breathless as he’s quickly stripping himself of his clothes. His cock, pretty and long, curves to the upper right, with an angry pink tip that twitches as he presses it to your rim. You sob beneath him, your bigger body arching up to his touch. His cock is worked into your body inch by inch, his smaller hands spreading your cheeks apart to spread you further— like the slut you are.

He pushes into you deep, bottoming out with a high moan. Heat pools on your stomach, his cock punching your insides and kissing your prostate with each small movement he makes. Your moans are unintelligible, barely even English, as Armin’s blond hair drapes over your sweaty forehead. If you could, you’d wrap your arms around his neck, hold him close and kiss him drunk while his dick rearranges your guts.

“Gonna let me fill you up till you’re drippin’? God, I love this hole, love this ass,” You feel a sharp smack to your backside, your hips stuttering upward in retaliation. His cock slams dead-on into your prostate, your vision momentarily leaving your body as the air is punched from your lungs. “Right there? Fuck, you’re basically milking me.”

Armin nearly crumbles above you, your silky walls throbbing on his cock as his fist grips the sheets on his bed, his large eyes fluttering closed. He can’t exactly fall on you, not with the spreader bar between your bodies, but the thought of him collapsing because you feel that good makes you impossibly harder, “Fuuck, fuck me, ohh, God.”

That earns a genuine chuckle from your boyfriend, his back muscle rippling as he regains his composure and lifts your hips up, brushing your prostate with every twist and turn. He whispers sweet words into the air, something along the lines of good boy and perfect cocksleeve. You hiccup on your own sobs, choking on your words as his cock slams in and out, in and out, Armin’s own moans leaving his mouth. “Ohh, You take my cock so well. That slutty little hole just swallows me right up, sounds so sloppy n’ wet.”

“You’re like,” Armin laughs to himself, his teeth gritting as he sharply inhales, pressing himself deeper and deeper until all you can do is clench around him and take it. Fuck, you’re so full. It’s ironic, you’re so big, but your holes are tight and small, stretching around him perfectly. “You’re like the perfect flashlight. I should let the team pass you ‘round. Imagine that.”

You do, you imagine Armin’s long dick fucking you within an inch of your life while the rest of the Survey Corps watches, maybe they take turn using your holes, maybe Armin stops them from fucking you because that one is his. It’s embarrassing how much you like it, how warm it makes your face feel, how hard it makes your hole spasm around your boyfriend's cock.

“M’gonna cum, gonna cum, Armin. Please,” You can’t control your body now, your cock uncomfortably hard as he fucks into your pillowy body. In one foul swoop, the spreader bar is removed from your thighs, your legs instead wrapping around the blond’s smaller waist. “Lemme cum, wanna cum with you. Wanna feel you cum inside me. God, love you, love you s’much. Y’fuck me so good, fuck your cum ‘nto me, wanna be leaking—”

“God, you’re so easy. Damn whore…Christ,” Armin grunts. his hips stuttering into a choppy, inconsistent pace. The sound of his balls slapping against your ass is obscene, precum and lube frothing between your warm skin. Moving up to press hurried, frantic kisses to your lips, Armin cups your jaw gently, and mumbled a quiet C’mere. “Cum with me, puppy, give it to me.”

You give it to him, your all, as your thighs shake and your throat finally gives out, your voice hoarse and tired. You can feel him shoot deep inside you, thick, creamy ropes of cum pooling inside you and seeping out your puffy, used hole. Armin huffs, panting into your damp skin with a satisfied smile, watching as your cock spurts rope after rope across your chest, across your stomach, even on your chin.

You twitch uncontrollably, finally melting in your boyfriend's embrace as he pulls you close and places scattered kisses on your forehead, “Good boy.”

2K notes · View notes

dabisbratz · 1 year

Text

fiendin’ for that sweet spot — choso x male reader

w.c: 3.2k

WARNING: dirty talk, bondage/restraints, edging, slight feminization, creampie, panty-stuffing, d/s undertones, bottom!male reader, amab aligned, praise, degradation, mocking, established relationship, short aftercare, cmnm (clothed male, naked male), use of the word ‘pussy’

a/n: why did this render me speechless… once again waiting on tumblr to fix the read more command ):

There’s a lot of things preventing you from focusing. For one, the quirk of Choso’s pink lips makes your thoughts linger to his soft kisses and gentle embrace. His lips are always so warm and comforting against your skin, he’s always so tender and gentle when it comes to you. But it’s not just his lips that leave a dizzy daze in your head, that clouds your vision from the walking dream in front of you. There’s his hair, that you love to tug on and braid, rubbing miscellaneous shapes and patterns into his scalp. There’s his eyes, deep and dark, but kind and beautiful. His eye contact lights you on fire, burns you from the inside out.

Then… There’s his hands. Large and well taken care of, fingers wrapped around a silver spoon as he digs into an appetizingly saturated tiramisu. His clipped nails shine in the dimly lit restaurant, leading up to his knuckles that look much better when they’re not swollen and blood soaked, but rather kissed or buried inside you. The tendons in his hand flex and flutter when he twirls the spoon, dipping it into the white, creamy topping that sticks to his lips.

He’s too perfect. Everything you weren’t, with a blood mark decorating his cheeks and a smile brighter than the moonlight outlining the city buildings. If you saw muted hues of gray and blue, he’d make up the specks of magenta in between. You saw the love in his eyes, extraordinarily bright and homely, unconditional and unrelenting. You return it and so, so much more.

You sigh, dreamy and enamored with your boyfriend as you push your cheek into your palm. Choso catches the sound almost immediately, straightening up and nearly smacking his back against the polished wooden booth. His lips curl into a frown, pulling at his decorated cheeks until you’re snapping back to reality.

“What’s wrong?” His eyebrows twitch, but he doesn’t look angry. It’s not like him to remain very expressive facially anyway, but you find a smile threatening to spread across your face. As if he’s discovered the answer himself, he scoops up a generous bite of the sweet and pushes the spoon into your face.

“What? No, it’s nothing, I just— thank you — I’m just thinking,” The dopey smile on your face is telling, even as your eyes focus on the spoon in front of you. It’s way too big a bite for you to chew, and you’re not even interested in the sweet, but the gesture is kind and thoughtful. One hand hovers below the spoon, careful to catch any fallen cream. You almost feel bad for stiffening up at the view of his hands in your face. “There’s something else I’m hungry for.”

Oh. There it is again, that breathy tilt to your voice that you’ve been pulling all night, paired with the lingering touches to his body or the brushing of knees under the table. Your boyfriend clears his throat, letting his hand drop to the table with a fairly loud thud. It’s hard for Choso to remain stoic under your gaze, under your warm hands that rub his skin juuust right, under you as you bounce on his cock like your life depends on it.

“Choso.” Your voice sounds whiny now, as if you’ve given up trying to keep your composure.

He imagines the sound of his name on your tongue. Light and heavy, sweet and savory. He imagines you moaning his name right against the table, his warm hands cupping your cheek as he pushes it into the wood. He imagines spoiling you. Right here, right now.

You’ve always been spoiled. You’re his spoiled boy, constantly showered with gifts and doted on. When he’s not chasing the high of vengeful fights or treating contusions, he’s by your side. Tonight is a great example of that, a lavish dinner at a lavish restaurant where only the most lavish of people attend.

Be patient.” Can’t have everyone in this restaurant knowing you cry like a whore the second you see cock, can we? Electricity shoots through his pants as you whine again, squirming in your leather seat until your shoe is pressing against his crotch and your arms are straight in front of your own, almost as if you’re rutting against them in your chair.

At least the bill had already been left.

You were quite a simple riddle. You’ve always had a few twists and turns, but once Choso’s lips were on yours you were so easy to figure out; so welcoming as if you wanted to be figured out. Choso had you mapped out the best, with every nook and cranny and divot of your body. With every spot that made your eyes roll so prettily into your head, with every spot that made you jolt forward and needy.

You might as well tackle him onto the bed, watching him bounce on the springy mattress with wide eyes. You’re stripping before he can process, pulling your tie over your head and hastily undoing his own, unbuttoning your dress-shirt until it’s discarded somewhere on the floor, and unzipping your increasingly tightening slacks. Choso watches you, his hands now resting on your hips so he can lift you up when it’s time to shimmy out them.

His eyes catch lavender under your fly, then speckles of your warm skin, like it’s not completely covered. He holds you by the back of your thighs once they’re under your buldge, but he can’t help but flip you down into the bed when he realizes what he’s looking at. The air is punched out of your lungs the moment you hit the mattress, arms splayed out angelically while Choso tugs down your pants, and leaves one sleeve stuck at your ankle out of impatience. It makes you feel like a slut. Like you’re easy.

“Holy shit,” He marvels, thumbs tracing the lavender lace pattern that covers your cock and makes you look even prettier. He thought that was impossible. There’s a wet patch that darkens the rest of the underwear, a deeper purple that makes him lick his his lips. And finally, there’s a matching, twinkling plug nestled deep inside you, with a pretty heart-shaped handle that’s perfect for pulling on. His sweet, perfect boy had gone out and got himself panties, decorated his pretty body and even prettier cock, just for him. Plugged himself up, just for him. Because he loves cock— his cock —that much. He wants to fuck you in these. He wants to digest you. “Holy shit.”

“Do you—”

“Yeah,” Is all he says, but you can see his ponytails vigorously bounce as he massages the head of your cock through the underwear. Before your legs can close around his hand, he places the other on your thigh, holds you down into the soft mattress so you can’t escape. Your body feels warm already, igniting under his touch as the excruciatingly soft lace dips into your slit and strokes your cock. You can’t help but start to spread your legs wider, a slutty reaction to a slutty sight, and you feel your face heat up when Choso smiles up at you. “I love them. I love you.”

Maybe you’re in way over your head. Maybe you should’ve never got the damned things, they feel way better on your dick than you’d anticipated, clings too tight, folds just right, rubs against it like heaven. With every squirm the plug shifts inside you, your insides twitch and clench around it but there’s nowhere for it to go, just stuck inside your warm, used hole. You won’t be able to survive the next ten minutes at this rate.

“I love— fuuuck, Iloveyoutoo.” Your eyes flutter closed, just to open back up when Choso’s thick fingers toy with the plug, pushing it deeper inside you through the panties. Your moans are slutty and satisfied, like you’ve been waiting for this all day.

It occurs to him that you’ve been fucking yourself in front of him the whole night, playing with the pretty hole that belongs to him. You’d probably fingered yourself before leaving, got your fingers nice and wet to cum until you get that stupid, fucked-out face you always get after cumming, by yourself. You played with what was his to touch, his to fuck, his to use and leave puffy and sticky and stretched out and swollen. Choso growls.

“My pretty puppy’s been keeping secrets?” He can’t help but feel overprotective and jealous. Jealous of your fingers, which were deep inside you not too long ago. But never as deep as he can get, never as good as his. You just can’t reach the same spots Choso can, you can’t milk the cum out of your cock like he can. You need him to cum just how you like, hard and mind blowing until you can’t form coherent sentences. Overprotective for that very reason, what if you’d gone and hurt yourself trying to make yourself cum like he can? The plug gives you away, twitching violently along with your hole. He frowns, small and tiny as he pulls his hand away from your cock, instead resting it on your corresponding thigh.

“Answer me, sweetheart.” There’s an increasingly rapid shake to your head, though you both know that’s a lie. You want to whine, it’s a gift for our anniversary, you want to grab his hair and bury his face between your cheeks so he can focus on something other than your flustered face. “C’mon, you can do it. Don’t go dumb on me now.”

Your whole body shutters, your hand reaching down to squeeze at your balls to satisfy the ache, but Choso’s swatting your hand away, shaking his head disapprovingly. You almost wilt under his gaze, but the aching is just too much, so you try again. Before you know it he’s tying your hands above your head with— when did he take that off? — his tie and your own to hold together both your wrists and the area where your legs bend.

You’re exposed on your back. legs spread and high against your shoulders. The stretch is delicious, if you weren’t wearing those damned panties you’d be completely exposed, your hole stretched out and plugged, your cock peeking out from the band if the lace. You moan in protest, but it comes out more wonton and slutty as he starts to pump your cock.

“Just couldn’t wait, always so needy. So slutty, so impatient,” He’s focused now, pumping you with the lace separating your skin. The material stretches with every stroke, a wet sound bouncing off the walls as your thighs tremble and your body writhes against the restraints. “A brat, too.”

His disregard for your response makes your cock jump, his grip tightening as the panties shift with the tightening of your balls. You’re close. He watches your face, watches your eyebrows knit together until you’re looking at him like a puppy, whining high and loud in your throat until you’re trembling, a thin layer of sweat making your skin— and especially your nipples— glow. He groans, watching precum pool on the panties until your moans suddenly stop, a silent scream about to leave your mouth as he strokes you closer, and closer, and closer—

Nothing. The pleasure leaves just as fast as it arrives, your hips bucking uncomfortably under your boyfriend's weight. Tears prickle your eyes, and you find yourself shaking your head in protest before he can even speak, “I know, baby, I know. It hurts, you just wanna cum so bad.”

His mocking could make you cum alone, but the feeling of his lower half pressing the plug into your prostate is driving you crazy, rubbing that bundle of nerves and over and over, your eyes roll back and you drool as you pant.

“Nuh-uh, no, honey,” His grip around the base of your cock is impossibly tight, basically strangling it, as he watches your balls contract in an attempt to cum. You’re such a slut, it doesn’t take much to get you to cum. A few nice words here, a few tugs and licks there, and you’re crying for more. “Take what I give you, be my good boy. I know you can, know you will.”

You’re a good boy. A very good one at that, and you find yourself echoing his words with less coherency than most, nodding with a gasp as he takes your cock in hand again and presses the plug further into you. But it’s too good, Choso knows what he’s doing, he always does. He knows all your buttons, how to play with you just right. It’s excruciating, trying to hold onto your orgasm just for him. His fingertips tap the heart shaped handle when you moan particularly pornographic, like he’s coaxing a load out of you.

“Look how ready you are for me. Patience is a virtue, you know.”

Evil bastard.

So you suck it up, squealing when he shoves the panties to the side and tucks it underneath your cock, prods at the plug with his tongue and buries his face between your thighs until his only truly distinct feature is his blood mark. It’s a true, honest shame you can’t grab his hair now, but you don’t think you would’ve been able to hold on even without the restraints. Your begging is jumbled, more breathy ‘mhmmm’s than pleas, but it’s good enough for you.

“Choso— Choso, fuck, fuck me, please. Mhmmm, wan’ you inside. G’v’it t’me, fuck your cum ‘nto me!” Tears stream down your pretty face when he touches your sensitive dick without the confines of the lace, precum now pooling on your lower abdomen and squelching with each speedy stroke. Your toes curl, thighs trashing against the fabric until you’re cumming, clenching around Choso’s tongue and the pretty plug keeping you full. You can’t stop spurting, not when he starts alternating between the plug and his tongue, both setting punishing pressure against your prostate.

“Pretty baby,” The plug is out, and your hole looks lonely. It’s puffy and swollen, shining with spit and lube as it clenches around nothing. Stretched out like it’s been used, it takes fingers like it’s natural, sucks in Choso’s digits and flutters around them in thanks. Despite preaching patience and the joy of delayed gratification, he’s not sure he can wait anymore. So inviting, so needy. For his cock and his cock only, who is he to deny that? “Gonna let me breed you? Gotta watch this pussy cum on my cock while I fill you up, let me have it, honey. Please?”

“Uh-huh, mhm,” You don’t hesitate, not once, tilting your hips up as he slaps his cock against your rim a few times. You’re not sure when he took the time to free himself from his slacks, but you don’t care. A string of his precum keeps you together, falling onto your hole as he sighs in content. You can barely contain a long whine as he pushes inside, inch by inch disappearing inside you and pressing straight into your prostate as the curve of his cock punches air out your lungs. Your hands fight against his tie, curling up the fabric as you ball them into fists and moan when he bottoms out, his balls slapping against you. “Please?”

He fucks you like he’s desperate, large hands digging into hit thighs as he ruts his hips with a rushed, sloppy pace. There’s still so much lube nestled inside your warm walls, pulling him in as he slides in and out, loud and sticky as he pounds himself into you. He chases the warmth, the feeling of your gummy hole struggling to keep him where he belongs— deep inside you. You can feel his cock twitch inside you, hard and throbbing and leaking, getting you ready for the loads he plans to fuck into you. Choso’s handsome face is all the more expressive, his lips parted as he pants and groans with each thrust, hurriedly untying your hands and setting you free to lace his fingers with your own.

His eyes close briefly, as if he’s trying to focus on not cumming, trying not to think of what it’d look like to see his cream oozing out your insides.

But it’s hard not to, especially when his pretty thing is crying on his cock, punching out loud but tiny ‘uh-huh!’s with each thrust as drool slides down his chin, bouncing happily without a single thought in his head. When his pretty boy clenches around his cock, pretty decorated thighs open like a whore and stained in his own cum. He feels himself getting closer, roughening up his pace until you can’t breathe, squeezing his hand impossibly tight while he fucks you like his life depends on it.

“Oh, fuck, Jesus Christ. There you go, baby. Ask me for it, ask me to cum in this pretty boy pussy,” His deep voice makes you soar, jumbled moans and sentences leaving your lips as Choso frees his hand for only a moment, to rip away the lacey panties that somewhat obstruct his vision from your used hole. Your gasp is soft, but powerful enough to egg him on. “S’hole’s so needy, all mine. My job to take care of, t’fuck, t’finger and— oh, God, use like a toy.”

“Don’t— I don’t, Choso, don’t think I—” Can hold on much longer, you want to say, but warmth blooming in your stomach renders you speechless, the now ruined panties sliding under your ass and bunching up beneath your backside.

“I know, baby. You don’t think,” He groans, cock aching as he delivers a few more hard and deep strokes, eyes clenching closed at the sound of your hole sucking him back in with vigor. He can’t help himself, pumping your cock to match his thrusts until he’s shouting inside you, warm and sticky and thick. You can’t handle the sight of him crumbling inside you, hips rocking desperately as he fucks the cum deeper. “Don’t need to. Not with a hole like this.”

That’s it for you, the final blow, game over. You’re cumming before you can correct him, spraying hard onto your stomach and making your hole achy. Choso helps you ride the wave, pumping your sensitive cock until you weakly push his hands away, rocking back against his dick until you feel it soften inside you. “Good boy, my good boy. Need one more thing from you.”

His smile is small and genuine, and despite the sleepiness washing over you from such an intense orgasm, you lull your head to the side, watching him pull the lavender lingerie (more like a piece of fabric, now) out from under you. He glances at your face, gauging a reaction from you as he slowly stuffs your hole with it, watching it convulse with sensitivity. He hushes your whines with a kiss, melting against you.

He holds you for a minute, gives your cheek a soft kiss, and wipes away the cum on your tummy with your discarded shirt before it can cool and harden uncomfortably on your skin.

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