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hannie-dul-set · 5 months

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STAR STUDDED BAGGAGE [2].

SYNOPSIS. the saying “never meet your idols” exists for a reason. you just didn’t expect the reason to be because said idols would end up declaring that you’re their alleged lover from a past life (past lives, rather). now you have three big celebrities vying for your attention, and it’s not as dreamlike as you imagined it to be.

PAIRINGS. choi yeonjun, choi soobin, choi beomgyu x female! reader. GENRES. reincarnation! au, celebrity! au (soloist! yeonjun, actor! soobin, rock band member! beomgyu), slight college! au, slight historical! au, rom-com, angst if you squint, reverse harem woohoo. WARNINGS. swearing, multiple instances where personal space is invaded HAHAHHA, the boys are very dramatic please understand their yearning hearts. WORD COUNT. 4.5k.

NOTE. woohoo! next chapter to this shitshow! some parts may be a bit confusing and vague....sometimes ominous....but all will be known in due time HAHAHHA (may be tempted to give a spoiler or two if u ask). hope you enjoy! please let me know what you think of this chapter and the story so far!

MASTERLIST | NEXT >

CHAPTER 2 — these meet-cutes aren’t cute at all.

YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO READ LIPS. But you don’t need to know how to get the idea that Taehyun is shooting an insult at you right now. His face says it all. “I said you look like hell,” he repeats after you’ve removed your headphones, the music still leaking out even after you’ve settled it down the cemented table.

“Taehyun’s right,” Gaeul pipes in, and Woohyun seconds it. “You look like crap. What did you do last night?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” you grunt, melting into the table. The sound of Yeong-Il’s Second Life is still just barely playing in the background thanks to your loud as fuck headphones volume. “We finished our exams. Of course I stayed up until six in the morning watching dramas.”

Three disappointed stares and one of full respect. “Dude, you’re crazy,” says Huening. “What did you watch? Night Has Come? My Demon? You should’ve invited me. I feel betrayed.”

“Both,” you reply, but you don’t seem all too happy after consuming over twenty episodes worth of dopamine. You’re frowning. You slam a fist down the table and let out a groan. “But they don’t fill the Choi Soobin shaped hole in my heart— fuck! Why isn’t he getting employed? Why hasn’t he been posting on his Insta? It’s been six months since his last drama. I miss him already.”

Huening’s attempts to console you consist of a few pats on your back. Gaeul’s attempt is a lot more effective. “Didn’t you win a slot to Choi Yeonjun’s fansign this weekend? Aren’t you coming?” You spring up with a gasp. “Girl, don’t tell me you forgot.”

“I did! I fucking forgot because I have a deadline on the same fucking day, fuck! I want to die. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Are you still going?” asks Woohyun.

“Of course she is! Deadlines come ten times a week, but the chance to meet Choi Yeonjin comes one in a million!” Gaeul exclaims, then grabs you by the shoulders with a very serious look on her face, as if she wasn’t just disappointed that you sacrificed sleep just to watch a bunch of dramas. “Tell him I’m in love with him. No, wait, I need to tell him that in person. Tell him to wait for me. I’ll get in next time for sure.”

You whine out something that sounds like an agreement. “I haven’t prepared an outfit yet. This is so depressing. Gaeul, help me.”

Taehyun, who doesn’t share any of your unhealthy fixations, still hasn’t crawled out from his state of disappointed concern. “Just make sure you don’t miss your Saturday deadline,” he says. You roll your eyes in response.

“This is me you’re talking to. I may not seem like it, but I have my shit together. You don’t have to worry.”

They hate to admit it, but it’s true.

Your friends have always wondered how you managed to balance your hellish course load, your evening shifts at The Grind, and your hobby of fangirling over pretty and good looking men. The only reason you were able to binge two dramas until daylight is because you’ve finished all your midterm requirements before taking your exams, and you’ll definitely be able to attend the fansign because you’ll somehow finish a thirty-page paper in one day, in between classes and your work shifts.

They’re quite convinced you’re insane. The lifeless look in your eyes as you flit through your flashcards to review for a recitation later is a testament to that insanity.

But sometimes, a little spark of life manages to slip through.

Like right now, as you check a notification in your phone in the middle of reviewing.

“Shit, fuck, shit— oh my god. Yeong-Il dropped an interview, fuck, hold on—”

“Whoa, really?’ Woohyun digs his nose next to you. You guys have a graded recitation in thirty minutes, and you’re walking to the classroom with a blank face zeroed in at your phone screen in landscape instead of the flashcards you have now tossed away into your bag, paying no mind to your surroundings to the point that Gael and Huening have to make sure you’re still walking in the right direction.

Taehyun isn’t sure whether to be impressed or concerned. They can’t even tell you off because they know you’ll somehow find the answers to Prof Yang’s questions anyway.

APPARENTLY, THERE’S A CAR ACCIDENT OUT FRONT. On top of having a tiring day of rehearsals and the interview with Beomgyu exposing his delusions on the internet being dropped earlier (they didn’t edit it out, those rats), Yeong-Il isn’t having a good day, so it’s to no one’s surprise the the tension inside their van on the way back to their dorms is rather palpable.

Beomgyu, however, doesn’t feel said tension. Or maybe he just doesn’t care because he’s closing his eyes, ready to nap while all the rest of the vehicles surrounding theirs are honking their horns, and while Jeongin and Jimin are monitoring the interview on a phone. The part where Beomgyu talks about his alleged first love comes up. “Beomgyu,” Heeseung groans, covering his ears with a neck pillow. “Did you really have to say all that?”

“Ahh, quit nagging. No one’s even taking it seriously,” he grumbles, arms crossed and turning over his body to face the window instead of his bandmates.

“Yeah, people are just raving about how romantic Beomgyu is,” says Jimin.

“And making edits of him and Heeseung,” adds Jeongin. “They’re mistaking your stressed-out glances at Beomgyu as signs of unrequited love—”

Heeseung shoves a hand against Jeongin’s face to shut him up. “Still. You should be more careful of what you say in front of the camera, Gyu.”

“Nyenye. You should be more careful of what you say in front of the camera, Gyu.”

They’re friendly as usual. Heeseung can’t put in the last word because Beomgyu has completely transformed into a sleeping position— yet he can’t seem to sleep and rest despite being absolutely fucked out and tired. He lets out a groan, squirming in the car seat. “Ugh.” The car still isn’t moving. The road is still a mess. All he wants is to rest as soon as possible, and he can’t even have that. All he wants is to see you again as soon as possible, and he’s starting to feel like he can’t have that as well.

Beomgyu gives up. He begrudgingly opens his eyes and looks at the state of the traffic out the window. It’s getting dark. Streetlights are being lit up one after the other, and he watches people moving faster than the frozen cars, like the road and the sidewalk are on two separate spaces of time.

A thought enters his head. What are the chances that you’ll be one of the people walking along the sidewalk right now?

“They’re making way for an ambulance.”

It’s a fruitlessly hopeful thought, he knows. It’s a silly possibility to entertain. But still. He can’t help but examine each of the faces passing by in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, his wish from four-hundred years ago will finally fucking come true.

“Damn, when are we getting home?”

Right when Beomgyu gives up hoping and tries to fall back asleep again, he spots a familiar face walking down the sidewalk. Wait a minute—

“Man, this sucks.”

He jolts up, There’s no way. There’s no way Beomgyu wouldn’t recognize that expression— stone-cold, looking as if the very thing in front of you is a worthless bug waiting to be stepped on, warding away any possible attempts of anyone bothering you. There are no knives in your hands, but a phone and a paper bag. You’re not adorned in the blue, red, white, and gold like he’s used to, but a large coat draped over your shoulders.

Still. Even if your face is covered by a mask, or if you’ve inhabited the body of a completely different person.

“Beomgyu, wanna play are round when we get—”

There’s no way Beomgyu wouldn’t recognize you.

Looks like the chances are high after all.

“Beomgyu?!”

The van door slides open. Beomgyu feels the cold air hitting his face as he rushes in between the gaps of the traffic-saddled cars and the spaces in between. He hears Heeseung and Jeongin and Jimin calling after him but he doesn’t give a shit. Not now. Not when he’s sure he finally has you within reach, closing in the gap between you before you can disappear into a corner. Not when all he has to do is stretch out his hand, breath caught in his throat and heart racing, and pull you by the arm so you can turn around and look at him.

And you do.

Your phone crashes to the ground, and you’re looking at him like you want to punch him in the face. Beomgyu’s heart skips a beat.

“What the hell?!”

“It’s you.”

Beomgyu watches your brows knit together, your mouth falling into a sneer. It’s like looking into a time machine. Holy shit.

“It’s really you.”

That look of annoyance. There’s no denying it. Night has fallen. The only thing illuminating your face is a single streetlight hanging above, but he’d be stupid to mistake you for anyone else. The arm that shakes his hold off is yours. The eyes that are glaring at him— sharp as knives— are yours, yours, and yours alone and he can get lost in them for hours on end. “The fuck? Do I know—”

Your name falls from his lips for the first time in centuries. It’s always been blurry, always at the tip of his tongue the moment his memories from four-hundred years ago came crashing back to him like a storm. But now, it comes off naturally the moment he sees you. It rolls off his tongue like it’s the only thing he was ever meant to sing.

He says your name once more. Your eyes widen in alarm.

“Are you a stalker?”

“I love you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I love you,” he repeats, breathless. “My biggest regret was failing to tell you how much I loved when I still had the chance.”

“What the fuck? What are you—”

Beomgyu reaches out for your hands, tugging you closer. Your skin burns him. Warm. Alive. “Now that I’ve been given that chance, I’m not letting go of you anymore.” He pauses, practicing the words inside his head before saying, “Let’s get married.”

“What?!”

“I love you. I missed you. Let’s get married right now.”

You don’t say anything. You’re silent. Beomgyu feels his stomach wrench and drop and hurt all the way to his chest and lungs because why—

Why are you looking at him like that?

“I’m going to call the fucking cops.” Once again, you shove him off, pulling your hands back and pressing them close to your chest. “There’s a crazy fucking bastard on the— shit! My phone! The screen is cracked, gosh! I haven’t even finished paying for it, for fuck’s sake, you have to— ex—excuse me, are you crying? Are you actually crying? What the hell?”

Beomgu’s vision is cloudy and his cheeks are wet. He knows you’ve always been spunky. You’ve always had an attitude and you two didn’t start off on the right foot, either. But why are you acting like you don’t know him? Like he’s some sort of fucking stranger?

“Hey, I should be the one crying right now! You broke my phone! What is wrong with—”

“There you are!”

Suddenly, he doesn’t see you anymore. Heeseung’s voice comes crashing in and he gets shoved aside, eyes stinging and mind still in a daze. “I’m so, so sorry for my friend over here. We can’t pay for the damages right away, but please take this. Again, we’re so sorry! Hope you have a great night, still!”

No. He can’t let you slip away again. Not when he can finally hold you in his arms like all the countless times he hasn’t. “Dude, what are you doing?!” Heeseung yanks him back before he can run after you down the sidewalk. “Quit being weird. Why the hell are you crying?”

Beomgyu is having a hard time understanding. He’s not sure if he can’t, or if he simply doesn’t want to believe this— but your eyes don’t lie. He can tell if you’re annoyed by him just by looking at you. He can tell if you’re angry, regretful, elated, or drunk from the onslaught of his affections, so this time— he can clearly tell as well.

He can tell just from the look in your eyes that you don’t remember him.

That all those years of waiting for you was all for naught.

SOOBIN KNOWS THAT HE SHOULDN’T BE HERE RIGHT NOW. He knows that he’s supposed to be on a diet, and he knows that he has a photo shoot for a magazine this weekend. He even got rid of his stash of instant ramyeon because of that, deleted all those delivery apps because this’ll be his first schedule after a few months of taking a break.

But he is here, at one in the morning, in between the isles of the 7-Eleven nearest to his apartment building, because cravings sometimes trump rationality, and god he sure is craving for a cup of noodles. Or two. Two sounds good. And since he’s already here, might as well put a pack of milk bread in his basket. A can of Sprite too. Manager Lee is gonna kill him, but at least he’ll die full and satisfied.

“Hey, hold the door open for me.”

“Don’t you have hands?”

“Nice! They have empty seats outside. Waiting here. Buy me some donuts.”

Ah, shit. Soobin pulls his hood over his head and readjusts his mask. Sounds like a group coming in. He should pay later once the store’s emptier— meaning, he has no choice but to browse for more snacks to add to his basket. Totally not because he wants to, no.

“Why’d you bring your laptop all the way here? You can continue working in Woohyung’s apartment.”

“Yeah, girl. There’s still a lot of time before the deadline.”

Soobin doesn’t want to eavesdrop, but the voices are talking pretty loudly. He’s dropping a few packets of yakgwa cookies into his basket while listening to a group of college students mourning about their courses. Good thing he chose not to pursue tertiary education.

“I need to finish this as soon as possible if I want to attend the fucking fansign. Crap, I should’ve switched majors when I had the chance.”

He abruptly stops snack surfing. Wait. Pause. Hold on.

“Should’ve done that before junior year.”

“I know. Shut up. Get me a popsicle, please. Chocolate. Thank you.”

That voice—

“They ran out. Only strawberry or melon. Pick one”

“That’s fucking balls.”

“You’re so eloquent.”

“Suck my fucking dick.”

Okay. Nevermind. It’s kinda weird to hear a voice that sounds eerily similar to the love of his life’s saying so much obscenities. You only spoke pretty words to him before, so maybe he’s just tripping. There’s no way you’d swear so much, so he continues browsing the snack aisle. Maybe he just misses you so much that he’s starting to mistake a similarly sounding voice as yours and subconsciously letting his hopes up.

“Hyun, by the way. I forgot to mention. I met a Choi Beomgyu lookalike last night on the way home from work. It was fucking wild.”

Then again, he thinks, arm paused hovering above a bag of chips. People didn’t really say suck my fucking dick in Joseon era.

Soobin stops filling his basket and starts moving out of the aisle, following the sound of your voice.

“I almost fell in love on the spot, but the guy wasn’t right in the head, I think.” Closer. You’re starting to sound closer. “He knew my name. He kept acting like he knew me and asked me to fucking marry him? I even dropped my phone because he scared the shit out of me. I don’t know, it was wild.”

Where? Where are you?

“Dude, really? No way.”

“I’m serious! I’m telling you—”

Where the hell are you?

“I even got a card from his friend when he dragged the Beomgyu clone away. I have it here, take a loo— wait. Wait. Isn’t BH the agency that manages Yeong-Il? Am I wrong— oh, sorry!”

There you are.

There’s a stain on his hoodie. Bright pink. It matches the popsicle you’re holding, the varsity jacket you’re wearing, and the color painting his cheeks because you’re right in front of him. You’re actually right in front of him right now— face flushed with panic, eyes rapidly blinking. “Are—are you Choi Soobin?” someone says. Not you. You’re still profusely apologizing while trying to wipe away the stain with your jacket sleeve.

“That’s ridiculous, Huening. Go get me some tissues! I’m so, so sorry, oh gosh. I should’ve been paying more attention.”

You’re here. It’s actually you. His heart is racing. He can’t fucking breathe. He’s not sure if he should cry, scream, or all of the above.

But there’s something different. There’s something wrong.

“I can tell Choi Soobin from a picture of his ear! I’m telling you it’s him!” Your attention is pulled away by your companion tugging on your arm. “You’re Choi Soobin, right?! Jipuragi? Figured Obscurity?”

“Dude, you’re making him uncomfortable! Why in the world would Choi Soobin be—”

Soobin pulls down his mask, tugging on its fabric. When you turn back to look at him, your popsicle drops to the ground and you let out a gasp.

Your eyes are shining. You’re beaming. You do recognize him. You do know him.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, I’m such a big fan.”

Just not in the way he was hoping for.

“Y—yeah. Would you like a picture?”

You let out a squeal. So does your friend. This isn’t how Soobin expected his reunion with you to go about. This is wrong. He had it all planned in his head like a screenplay, and all that was left was to execute it without fail.

The moment he sees you, he was supposed to spin you around and hear your laughter fluttering in the air. He was supposed to hold you in his arms and give you the first kiss he’d been saving in this life because he’s been waiting for you all this time, yearning for years and years to give you the life he wasn’t able to in the past. To make up for everything you missed because in this life— there’s no class system to keep you apart. There’s nothing stopping him from loving you out in the open.

He didn’t expect to give you his autograph and take a fan selca with you after years of waiting.

This is so wrong. This is so freaking wrong.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” who he assumes is your friend says, and you’re smiling so, so brightly while looking at the photo of you and him that everything he wishes to say and profess and confess just lodges in his throat, blocking everything in its path.

“Thank you! Don’t worry, we won’t post this anywhere,” you say. Soobin holds back the inhuman urge to tell you why settle for a photo, when you can have him instead?

“S—sure. Anytime.”

“Ah, we should probably give you some privacy now. Huening, stop gawking! Anyway, fighting! We’re looking forward to your upcoming dramas!”

Just like that, you leave. You walk out of the store and join the rest of your friends outside, and he sees you showing off the signature he left on your receipt from the window, when he could give you so much more than that, when you could show off that you already own his entire heart. This...this really isn’t how he wanted to reunite with you. And the underlying reason for it something he doesn’t want to entertain.

“YEONJUN, YOU’RE UP IN TEN,” says a staff member. It’s the last week of promotions, and Yeonjun is getting his hair and makeup retouched one last time before he’s set to go uponstage to open the fansign. His manager tells him not to do anything stupid, or scandalous, or all of the above onstage— an almost everyday reminder that Yeonjun, more often than not, isn’t interested in listening to.

“Noona, you should trust me more,” he reacts, a slight whine in his tone. Manager Kim’s expression is nothing but dubious.

“At the very least warn me before you do something insane so I can prepare.”

“Will do,” Yeonjun grins, and his manager waves him off. Screams erupt the moment he emerges from behind the stage curtains, and everything else just comes naturally for Choi Yeonjun— not needing to second guess when he blows a kiss mid-performance, stirs the crowd with a comment or two, and making sure that all eyes are on him, almost as if he was born on every stage he steps foot on.

And to think he started this career without any desire for stardom.

Now, there’s nothing he desires more than blinding lights and the visceral sounds of cheers.

“A—ah, hello!”

Well. There is one thing.

“Crap, I—I’m so nervous I don’t think I can breathe.”

“Oh no,” replies Yeonjun to the fan sitting before him, marker in hand as he flips open the tabbed page on the nth album splayed out on the table. “Should I give you CPR to help you start breathing again?”

The girl lets out something sort of a squeal. He grins out a laugh and asks for her name and if she’s eaten anything yet.

“Thank you! Oh— oh, wait, one more thing—”

“Next!”

It’s a fast paced rotation. It always is. But Yeonjun uses the split second before the next person carousels in front of him to make a quick scan across the people lining up, across the people waiting in the audience seats, clinging onto the sliver of probability that this may finally be the day where his years of yearning for the ghost of past can finally end— well overdue for god knows how long already.

He reuses and rehashes the same lines, same dialogue, and same greetings for the next person, and the next person, and the next and the next and the next. It’s just one face after another. Not that he’s bored, or unappreciative of the fans that spent their time (and truckloads of money) to see him. But it’s human to feel a sense of disappointment when the face he wants to see doesn't turn up after the fifth, tenth, seventh, hundredth, thousand, nth face, fansign after a fansign.

“Next.”

His wrist is getting sore, back is getting tired, but Yeonjun readies himself for another round of mindless chat, missing the opportunity to do his routine scans when he closes his eyes to roll back his shoulders.

“Oh.”

Yeonjun hears the voice in front of him say. It’s a singular syllable, not even a word, but it’s enough to snap him wide awake.

“Oh my gosh,” you say again. Yeonjun doesn’t feel his fingertips. “You’re even prettier up close, whoa, this is crazy.”

He’s frozen. The usual ments and words and lines that usually flow naturally off his tongue don’t come. His brain is empty. The ink from his marker seeps into the album page underneath his numb hands. He hears his manager say something, but his manager’s voice is so far away— so, so, so far away, but the face he;s been yearning for in his memories is now, all of a sudden and without warning, within an arm’s reach, right before his eyes.

The marker stumbles out of his grasp. If Yeonjun reaches an arm out right now—

“U—uh.”

—he’d be able to touch your face.

“O—oh, holy shit, okay so we’re doing this now.”

And he is. The very feeling of your soft skin, unchanged from the feeling stored in the capsules of his memories, burns stronger than the adrenaline he feels when he’s onstage under the spotlight.

It’s real. You’re real.

You’re right in front of him right now.

“Choi Yeonjun, what the hell are you doing?!”

The hiss of his manager from behind is ignored when he suddenly springs up from behind the table, and you let out a yelp when he drags you up along with him. He’s holding both of your hands, thumbs brushing over the ridges of your knuckles before pulling them closer to his chest. There’s whispering in the background, along with the snaps and flashes of the numerous cameras littered everywhere in the venue.

“Yeonjun.”

He pays no mind to them. Instead he brings up your hands to his face and presses a kiss onto your knuckles.

There’s a scream and gasp and a yell coming from somewhere.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

But all he’s focused on is the swirls in your widened eyes, dizzy and taken aback, voiceless with your mouth hanging open. Yeonjun furrows his brows. “Why don’t you look happy to see me, my love?” You hack out a hard cough and Yeonjun drops your hands in surprise. “What’s— what’s wrong?” he stammers, leaning forward and closing into your face while you turn away from him, digging more unease into his bones because this...this doesn’t seem right.

“Sh—shit, I think I need to sit down, oh my god,” he hears you say, and it hits him. Yes. You were never good at expressing your affection. Yes, yes. Perhaps you’re just overtaken by a surge of emotions, that your appearance looks like that of constipated confusion of trepidation as a result of being overwhelmed by the fact that you’re so in love with him and that you’re happy to see him again.

Yes. That must be it. You’re both sat back down, and he scribbles something on your now ink-stained album. “Next.” And when you’re just about to bow and leave, he says your name— one that he thought he’s forgotten— and you freeze.

“Why do you look so surprised?” he laughs. “There’s no need to be shy. Should I kiss you again to ease your— ack!”

“Next! Next person!”

Suddenly, you’re being scurried away. “No, wait!” he yells out, but the moment he tries to get up again, he’s jerked right back.

His manager is holding the back of his collar, and you’re disappearing into the crowd. Was…was Manager Kim always this strong? He can’t even budge, can’t even run after you after he’d finally been reunited with you again.

“Choi Yeonjun, that’s enough!”

He blinks, remembering belatedly just where he is right now.

There’s still a line of people waiting for him. Yeonjun drops back to his seat, his manager losing her grip on his shirt, and he brings himself back after a round of inhales and exhales. It’s alright, he thinks to himself. It’s gonna work out. “Sorry about that,” he hums, smiling at a now different face sitting in front of him. “What did you tell me your name was?”

You’ve been separated from him yet again, but this time it’s fine. He’s not anxious. He’s certain that it won’t take centuries for you to return to each other, no— it won’t be long until then because this time, he’s not dead.

You’re both still alive at this point in time.

And that enough assures him that he’s going to find his way back to you.

“Next!”

STAR STUDDED BAGGAGE. © hannie-dul-set, 2024.

#txt x reader #choi beomgyu x reader #choi soobin x reader #choi yeonjun x reader #tomorrow x together x reader #txt x you #yeonjun x reader #soobin x reader #beomgyu x reader #choi soobin x you #choi beomgyu x you #choi yeonjun x you #txt fluff #txt fanfic #txt imagines #txt scenarios

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cheolism · 1 year

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voice

✿ — boo seungkwan x f!reader ❀ — summary: your boyfriend calls while you're fantasizing about his fingers and voice ✿ — wc is approx 2.3k ❀ — tags: established relationship, phone sex, guided masturbation, mutual masturbation. dirty talk, soft seungkwan, soft!dom seungkwan. seungkwan says take your vitamins!! my adoration for his soft voice and hands. ✿ — warnings: reader has female anatomy, two uses of good girl. other petnames: kitten, angel, princess, baby. tears from desperation, frustration. ❀ — inspired by @playmetheclassics and the svt carat call

Five minutes left until your scheduled call with Seungkwan, and you were absolutely screwed.

Your hand was pressed against your cunt, fingers molding to its shape. You weren't doing anything other than grinding gently into your hand, soft little rocks that had your mouth parting and eyes fluttering. Your fingers snagged against the fabric of your sweatpants, the fabric seemingly doing nothing to obscure the outline of your pussy, nothing to keep you bared from the gentle pleasure of your fingers.

The picture on your phone, discarded on the bed beside you, began to dim. You hurriedly tapped it back awake and, once again, were met with the selfie your boyfriend had sent.

It was perfectly innocent. Seungkwan, smiling widely into the camera, cheeks rising like bread and eyes sparkling. His free hand raised, throwing a peace sign into the camera, his long, slender fingers spread in a perfect, unintentional imitation of how he would hold open your cunt when he was ready to feast on your pussy.

His fingers -- you gasped a little, your middle finger pressing down into your hole and just grazing it. Seungkwan's fingers were the most beautiful you had ever seen and were, more often than not, the object of your desire. Watching him peel open ramen packets, tie the laces of his shoes, how nimble his fingers moved and weaved, mind inevitably turning perverted with thoughts of how reverently, deliciously, his fingers moved in your cunt.

You whined, pitching forward and burrowing your face into the sheets. His fingers were so much longer than your own, could reach deep within and bring you to tears in just a matter of minutes.

Meanwhile you felt like crying out of frustration from your own fingers seemingly not being enough.

vrrrrrrrrrrrrt. vrrrrrrrrrrrrt.

The second vibration had you springing up in your bed, thighs inadvertently squeezing your hand further into your cunt. You yanked your hand out, scrambling for the phone.

"Kwannie!" You gasped out, squirming on your bed to get in a comfortable position. You snapped your legs shut in a false pretense of modesty, though all this did was trap the warmth of your cunt, pressing down on it and applying pressure to your clit. But then when you opened your legs for relief the air of the room rushed in, cooling your cunt and causing it to clench.

"Angel!" Seungkwan called back. You could hear the smile in his voice, could imagine how his cheeks were raising, eyes twinkling, how his entire being would be glowing. "I miss you so much, sweetheart."

You sighed, eyes fluttering shut. "I missed you, darling. Miss you."

"Did you get the picture of the cat I sent you?" There was a rustling noise on his end, the sound of sheets and blankets wrinkling. "It was right outside the hotel, I swear! I nearly picked it up and brought it inside. It was so cute and sweet, Angel!"

Seungkwan carried on talking about the cat, describing its tabby orange coat, the amber of its eyes. His voice was soft and sweet, reminding you of gentle smiles and hearts filled with love and adoration, his voice sounding like what kitten paws feel like, like clouds and kitten paws and sweetness personified.

He paused, catching his breath in a soft little pant. The hitch in his breath was minuscule, seemingly irrelevant; immediately your gut was reacting, twisting, your mind automatically filling in the blanks.

Seungkwan, panting; the press of his hands on your thighs as he lifted them, fingers digging into your flesh. His breath, warm against your face as he whined at the feel of your cunt clenching around him desperately. Seungkwan's cock slowly driving into you, dragging against your walls, your cunt rapidly clenching and relaxing in an attempt to accommodate the intrusion.

Fuck.

You put the phone on speaker, resting it on the bed next to you. Then you were tugging your sweats down and over your ass. You stuffed your hand underneath your underwear, the cold of your fingers piercing through the warmth of your cunt and dragging a soft little whimper from your lips.

Seungkwan paused. "Angel? Are you okay?"

"Y -- yeah!" You cleared your throat. "Just uh. Got a little frog stuck in my throat."

"Sweetheart," he began, and you could detect the nagging tone in his voice. It did nothing to stop your fingers from slipping to line with your cunt, your middle pressing down and rubbing tauntingly against your hole. "If you need to grab some cold medicine, go on ahead. I know there's some beneath the bathroom sink. There should be the cherry flavored cough candies you like, I remember grabbing some before we left."

Seungkwan carried on, talking about all the different cold medicines beneath your sink, concerned about your nonexistent ailment. Meanwhile your thumb, not yet warmed from your cunt and still cold from the air of the bedroom, brushed against your clit. The difference in temperature had you jolting, and immediately you were rocking up into your hand.

You dipped two of your fingers into your hole. Not enough to do anything other than massage it, but still you were rocking your hips up into your hand, thumb brushing against your clit. It was a gentle sort of pressure, one that crept up on you and had you exhaling in soft little puffs of air.

"Fuck --" Seungkwan broke off from his tangent about vitamins. You could picture his frown in your mind. "I've got a hangnail."

A hangnail.

On his finger.

Immediately your mind was spinning fantasies. Seungkwan's fingers, his fingers pressed against your cunt instead of yours. His long thumb rocking against your clit in time with his fingers inside of your cunt. His soft, sweet melodic voice coaxing you into an orgasm.

"Seungkwan!" You gasped, the thought of his fingers in your cunt causing your hips to rock up further, your own fingers dipping in further. "Fuck --"

The line went silent on his end. Realization seeped through you, how his name had left your lips wantonly.

"Wait -- Seungkwan --"

"Oh," he breathed against the phone, voice curling in delight. "Is that what my kitten has been doing?"

Your hand quickened against your cunt. No longer were you gently trying to bring an orgasm, trying to bring it like the ocean lapping at the beach on a bright day. Now your fingers were rapidly plunging into your pussy, thumb harsh against your clit, more like the ocean waves crashing against a cliff side during a storm.

"Are you fucking yourself, angel?" Seungkwan's voice was farther away from the phone as he, presumably, worked his pants down enough to stick his hand inside. "Has my dirty little angel been using her fingers this whole time? Being a perverted little kitten?"

"Kwannie," you gasped, eyes squeezing shut. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry Kwannie. Just want -- saw your fingers in the picture --"

Seungkwan chuckled. His voice was deepening quick, gaining that rasp that he acquired when desire settled deep within his gut. "What? Are you telling me an innocent picture like that had you so desperate for me?"

"Your fingers, Kwannie," you breathed, biting down on your lip. You were working your hand furiously in your cunt, but no matter how you tried to bring out your orgasm, something was missing. Something was missing, and you knew it was a man who was halfway across the world.

"Just my fingers are enough to get you to stick your hand in your cunt like this." Seungkwan laughed again, but it wasn't like his loud, cute boyish giggle that constantly had you laughing alongside him. It was dark and stern, the sort of laugh that went straight to your cunt and had wetness gushing from it.

"Yes." You tossed your head back against the pillows. "Your fingers, your voice. Kwannie, your fucking voice."

He swore softly on the other end. "Fuck, kitten. You like me that much, do you? My fingers, my voice? Like me talking to you?"

"Yes."

"Can't believe I was sitting here talking about cough medicine while you had your fingers knuckle deep in your pussy," he sighed. A little groan escaped his lips and had you imagining his hand in his pants, wrapped around his dick, thumb pressing into the slit. "Tell me, sweetheart. Talk to me about it."

"I hate it," you sobbed, hips driving up and into your hand relentlessly. "I want you, Seungkwan. Want you here, want your fingers, want your mouth and cock, want your dick and fingers in my cunt, want it so badly."

Seungkwan whined in response, his stoic demeanor slipping. No matter how hard he would always try, as soon as you started rambling and crying he was on his knees, ready to give you the world. "Are your fingers too short, kitten? Can't reach into your cunt like mine can?"

"Want you," you cried. The pressure in your cunt combined with pure, unbridled emotion had tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. You wanted Seungkwan. You wanted him at your side as the two of you ate cereal in the mornings, wanted to hear him nagging you to take your vitamins, his fingers dividing them up. You wanted his dick in your cunt, wanted to feel his wicked fingers press into you.

You missed Seungkwan, you missed him so fucking much.

"Fuck, fuck," he hissed into the phone. You could picture it, his eyes pressed shut, eyelashes fluttering against the rise of his cheeks. His mouth in a pout, his lips glistening from the juices of your cunt, your saliva. "Wish it's my fingers in your pussy, angel? Wish it's my fingers sinking into you, wish it's my fingers knuckle-deep?"

You couldn't help but nod into the phone. You couldn't do anything other than whine, your thumb bearing down on your clit meanly. You wanted Seungkwan; wanted to orgasm; wanted his body next to yours, wanted his thighs wrapped around your head as you take his cock in your mouth.

"Gotta picture it's my fingers," he ordered, voice soft but no less stern. "It's my long fingers in your cunt, angel. It's my thumb on your clit, it's my fingers that you're clenching around. It feels so good, kitten. Love how you feel around my fingers always. Love how you sound for me, love how pretty you look."

"Kwan," you sobbed.

"Can hear your cunt, kitten," he groaned. "Can fucking hear your cunt around my fingers. I bet you're soaked. You're soaked for me, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Good girl. Always so good for me, baby. You gotta keep being good, angel."

"Mm good," you whimpered. "Always good. Good for you, Seungkwannie."

He cursed into the phone again. "Fuck. Your hand feels so good on my dick, angel."

You could practically feel his dick in your hand. Could see it, how it would curve upwards, precum leaking profusely from the tip because you and Seungkwan were absolutely messy together, his cock always wet for you, your cunt always drenched for him.

"Feels so good," he echoed, voice tearing off in a soft moan. "Gonna cum for you, angel. Can you cum for me? Need you to cum, kitten. Need to hear you cry, need to -- fuck, fuck. Gotta cum for me, kitten."

"Kwan --" You shoved a third finger into your cunt, the stretch immediately burning. But you carried on, desperate, the stretch delicious and burning and driving you insane. You felt full, moreso than before, but -- "Need your cock, Kwannie. Please, please, please --"

"Don't cry, kitten," he cooed. "I'll give you my cock. Just cum for me first, okay? Gotta get your cunt all soaked and pretty first, okay?"

You nodded into the phone again. You were working hard, desperate for a release. But: "Nothing -- Kwannie, I can't, I can't --"

"It's okay, angel," he soothed, his voice gentle and sweet. "Calm down, baby. Listen to me, all right?

"Take your fingers out, okay -- don't cry, it's okay, kitten. Gotta trust me, trust your Seungkwannie, okay? Take your fingers out, wipe 'em off. Can you do that?

"Want you to grab your pillow. The second one, the one beneath the first. Want you to mount it, kitten. Mount it like it's my dick. Put the side against your cunt. I want you to ride it, angel. Drag your cunt on it, rock on it. That's it, that's a good girl. Love hearing your whimpers, baby.

"Okay. Grab my pillow, sweetheart. Press your pretty face into it, want you to breathe it in. Bet it still smells like me, don't it? Take deep breaths in. Want your tears to soak it, baby.

"You're doing so good, princess. Can you -- want you to focus on pressing your cute little clit against the pillow, okay? Feels good? You look so beautiful, kitten, look so perfect. You sound perfect, and you feel so perfect around my fingers.

"You gotta cum now for me, okay? Can you cum for me like a good girl?"

Both pillows soaked, one from your cunt and orgasm and the other from your tears, you flopped onto the mattress. You panted, closing your eyes as you tried to catch your breath while your hand patted around for the bed, trying to find your phone.

"Kwannie --" You gasped, bringing the phone to your face. "Seungkwan, fuck -- did you --"

Seungkwan laughed, though not unkindly. "Of course I did, angel. You sounded so beautiful. I wish -- I wish I was there with you, though."

You shut your eyes, feeling a lump form in your throat. "Yeah. Yeah. I wish you were here, too, baby."

"I'll be back -- fuck --" You jumped at his startled shout, pulling your phone away from your face in bewilderment. You could hear him shouting from the other side of the phone. "No -- get out! Fuck, I told you not to come in --"

"It's my room too --"

"Hoshi, I told you to give me an hour! I swear to God --" Seungkwan's voice suddenly was loud in the phone, desperation heavy with every word. "Baby, I gotta go. I'll call you back -- just give me -- CLOSE THE FUCKING DOOR KWON SOONYOUNG!"

#svthub #my writing #seungkwan #boo seungkwan #svt #seventeen #seungkwan x reader #seungkwan fic #seungkwan oneshot #boo seungkwan x reader #boo seungkwan fic #boo seungkwan oneshot #svt fic #svt oneshot #svt x reader #seventeen fic #seventeen oneshot #seventeen x reader #svt smut

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griefabyss69 · 4 months

Text

Push It In

Written for @steddiemicrofic!

4th (last) Installment in The Hole Story!

[ AO3 ] [ Tip / Commissions post ]

‘HOLE’ wc: 404 | rated: E | cw: Ass Eating <3, Weed Smoking

Steve cracks - Eddie's right there with him.

Confessing his thing for Eddie's tongue while they weren't high enough to excuse it could've been bad, but Eddie had smiled warmly, and his restless tongue had snagged him.

Now they’re plastered together on his bed, Steve laughing against his clavicle, plausible deniability fading with every thump of Eddie's heartbeat.

"Even when I hated you, I couldn't stop thinking about it,” Steve confesses. “Obsessed, man."

"Holy shit," Eddie breathes.

"I don't know what kind of magic God put into your tongue, but it's… mesmerizing."

Eddie's heart speeds up underneath Steve's cheek. "I'm game if you are."

The half-chub Steve's been sporting fills out. "Now?"

Steve’s stripping before Eddie finishes nodding. Months of foreplay, and in a flash he's waiting with his cock out between spread thighs.

Eddie looks reverent; glassy, flushed. Awed.

"If this is a dream, do not wake me up." He places warm hands on Steve's shoulders. "What… what kind of…?"

"Put your mouth on me and I'm happy," Steve smiles easily. "I think about your tongue in my ass a lot, though."

There: the locked diary, spread open for Eddie's eyes.

Eddie moans. "Okay. Get comfortable."

Steve moves with a shiver, knows exactly what he likes; face in the pillow, ass in the air, letting Eddie do all the work this time.

Eddie gently spreads him open. "This is going to ruin me for everything else.”

Steve's so turned on he nearly collapses; he arches his back in offering, and Eddie bends, breathing hot over him, lips kissing a path down his tailbone to his asshole.

Steve clenches his fists around fabric.

It's incredible, the tip of his tongue so much better than his fingers. "You're so hot," Eddie says before he licks flat over him. “Can't believe you like this."

Steve muffles his groan and tries to grind against his tongue. Minutes pass like hours; Steve's cock is dripping by the time Eddie asks, "More?"

"Yeah,” Steve admits, and Eddie's tongue comes back, flicking in alternating pressure long enough to drive him nuts.

When he pushes in, Steve fucking dies.

The shape of his tongue is nothing like his fingers. Steve squeezes his hole around it and it moves inside of him, licking and fucking him at the same time, and he has to bite Eddie's pillow just to survive as he comes. Eddie's moans press into his skin, his tongue still deep inside.

Steve’s ruined for everything else, too.

#griefabyss69 writing #the hole story #steddiemicroficjanuary #I was tempted to make a joke about steve's crack in the summary but we're being classy today

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sh1-n0bu · 2 years

Note

I need to leave my horny thoughts with someone and I chose you to be my victim but like am I the only one who goes absolutely feral over the thought of aftercare. Like I look at characters like scaramouche with the urge to absolute ruin him but like I want to take care of him too. I give him many kisses mwah mwah.

God damn it I'm so fucking gay

♡︎ 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙤𝙮 ♡︎

Characters: sub!scaramouche x dom!gn!reader

Warnings: like i always make my reader’s nb so everyone can feel included i do say cock but it can be thought of as a strap on too, hair pulling, crying, a bit of blood, mirror-fucking (kind of), a bit of dumbification, feminization, marking, a bit of a creampie ig???

and as a tradition no proof read, we die like a true horny mfs

Notes: and i will happily be the victim nonnie😌but yeah sameee. i’m more of a gentle dom but i don’t mind being mean sometimes(only with consent tho) and the aftercare would be just me spoiling the shit outta my bbies. also i tried head cannons for this ask. hope u don’t mind nonnie luv😚💓

oh scara scara scara

my favorite lovely brat

rough him up a bit he srsly wouldn’t mind it

mark him all up. the little whore wouldn’t mind showing off who he belongs to and who belongs to him

bite his neck, leave hickeys, bruise him up, and if the hickeys and love marks are starting to disappear, force him down and suck on the same spot

when you force him to sit still on your lap while marking him for long enough the little brat won’t hesitate to start grinding his needy neglected cock on your thighs

and when he feels nice and wants to be babied and spoiled by you, he would wear cute short pastel skirts and crop tops, a lace lingerie of your favorite color and favorite style

would lift up his tiny skirt to show you the see through lacy panties he chose and would ask “do i look pretty, love?”

pls spoil him, he needs it and definitely craves it even though he doesn’t say anything

buy him nice lingerie, accessories to go with it, clothes, spoil him, fuck him how he wants it

when you give him the gifts you got him or show him the tiniest bit of affection like goodbye kisses he just melts

put light make up on him just to watch as everything rolls down his face while his slutty hole gets absolutely wrecked by you

pull on his hair and make him watch himself get fucked stupid on the mirror opposite of your bed that you may or may not have put there purposely just for this reason

poor little scaramouche is so red and embarrassed of how you’re fucking his tiny self so good and deep to the point even a belly bulge is seen

he would whine and sob sooo prettily

“hic f-fuck me… mmoohre! pleashhee… i-i’ll be good hnng-ghh i’ll be shoshosho good! promishee”

and if you wanna leave him completely fucked out to the point he can’t even think of a single plea then press the cute belly bulge

baby boy would start trashing around with eyes blown wide and heart shaped pupils<3

“g-gAAANHHGG NO! NO NO NO! D-DON’T TOUCH ME THE-AAUUNNNGGH♡︎♡︎“

the prettiest crier fr fr😌

mouth open with his tongue lolling out, put your fingers in his mouth and gently pull on his tongue, it makes him cum right then and there on the spot

slowly but deeply fuck him, his eyes would turn into heart pupils real quick with his red eyeliner running down

make him suck your fingers, he has a bit of a hand kink, especially if you’re taller or your hand has some noticeable scars or/and blisters

heavily making out with him while turning his mind into a mushy mess has him whining and sobbing out so freely and loudly

LOUD and i cannot say this enough

would be even louder if you were to gently nibble on his lower lip and accidentally cause it to bleed

keep filling his cute slutty hole until he’s a sobbing mess who can’t even focus his eyes on you with his heart shaped pupils<3

but always be sure to take good care of him afterwards

since he’s short and a puppet i’m pretty sure he doesn’t weigh that much so manhandle him

princess carry your precious boy and have a nice refreshing bath with him, his mushy brain and marked body would enjoy the feeling

and always cuddling and a nice pillow talk where you just praise him and call him your good boy, your sweet prince is a must or else the brat will pout and ignore you in the morning🙄

hold him close to you while you both drift off to sleep

he’d have the cutest, pleased small smile🥹

“hnng - lub you too♡︎” —> his words not mine

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rosyjn · 10 months

Text

Dilf!Jake w his little halloween traditions from earth (no smut🙄)

You rest under the weaved roof of your tent, holding your baby against your chest. His soft coos mix in with the sound of soft wind blowing on Pandora.

"Lawnol a mì te’lan," you sing softly, almost whispering. Jake's ears perk from outside. He sits quaintly on his knees, parallel to the entrance of the tent. His pupils dilate as he turns his head and peeks at you and his son. His eyes burn into the side of your head.

You don't notice. You don't catch him admiring the way your eyes stare lovingly at your boy, or at how the beads in your hair sit perfectly and compliment your features. Your beautiful baby, Neteyam, relaxes in your arms while you stroke his head with your thumb.

"Ngaru irayo seiyi ayoe," you sing another line of your songcord, closing your eyes in peace with your child. Jake's heart flutters. You slowly swivel your body, ensuring to keep Neteyam asleep. You rise up from the ground and tip toe to the baby cradle. A sharp inhale leaves your mouth as you set him down, sighing as he squirms in his sleep.

Your head snaps around as something scurries past the entrance of the tent. You kneel to the ground, peering out. Your ears perk up as you hear the scraping and cutting of wood. A maternal instinct kicks in. Your pupils contract.

Your feet tap on the floor lightly as you scoot towards the noise, turning around after every few steps to check on Neteyam. You push the flaps of the tent away and put your eyes on Jake. He sits and holds an ovular shaped piece of wood, carving it attentively with his adorned dagger. The expression on his face is concentrated. His brows are furrowed and he grinds his teeth.

You sigh in relief and scamper to him, like a spider. He looks up when he sees you, his face softening.

"Ma'Jake, you scared me," you take a knee next to him and place your hand on his broad shoulder. His hair is tied back and he brushes off his craft with his fingers, catching your attention. Your eyes widen as you stare at it in awe. It is shaped like a strange face, hollowed out on the inside, having an eye-like droopy feature with holes and a saggy mouth.

"How's my beautiful baby mama?" he smiles and watches your face, but you don't look up.

"I did not know you were an artisan, a maker of crafts," you reach out and rub the item. "What do you call this?" your voice is filled with wonder and curiosity. You are thrilled by Jake's new creation.

"On Earth, around this time, the sky people have a celebration. Called Halloween. We eat sweets and...dress up. Look," he holds it up to his face, making it look like he has long eyes and a droopy mouth. Your ears fold back and you laugh. Jake takes it down and looks at it, then drops it in his lap.

"This is a mask, um," he struggles to explain the concept to you. A native Na'vi would not understand this easily, but you try your best. "We have a lot of characters and stories on earth. So we make masks and clothes to be them, this mask is a ghost face, like aungia," he picks it up, giving you a second to look at it.

"Eltur tìtxen si!" you grab it from his hand. You think it is so beautiful. Often, sky people and their ideas upset you. They are very violent and close-minded to you. But this was different. A unique celebration that they had. You never saw anyone else talk about it, but you were intrigued.

"You put it on your face, to pretend," Jake tells you. You listen to him and hold it up, turning your face to him. He chuckles and looks down at the ground.

"We'll make a small one, for Neteyam! And then we'll pick berries and eat sweets!" you're jumping with excitement as you take the mask off and hold it up against your chest. Jake nods in approval, with a smile that reaches his eyes.

"We'll have to share the food, too. Give it out to other people," he says.

"Of course! Even better," you sigh and lean into his arms, setting the mask aside.

(Sorry y’all this was really bad)

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medusdeeznuts · 9 months

Text

This is based off my headcanon that Beelzebub was the Archangel Zadkiel, the angel of mercy

“Mercy” a single word, uttered by the Almighty at their creation. That’s who they are, Heaven’s Mercy, new and bright and determined. With a big heart and small hands, they fashion tiny creatures for this new world. Bees and butterflies and worms and ants. New life so delicate only the most Merciful and gentle hands could possibly hold and shape them.

“Mercy” Samael calls to them, pleads with them to understand. In their infinite compassion, they do. It wounds the Lightbringer to be bereft of answers, as he is only trying to illuminate their path. They give him their gentleness and support. He needs it, after all, they are Merciful, surely the Almighty can understand.

“Mercy!” Used for the first time as a plea as they throw themselves between Michael and Lucifer. Their heart is breaking, everything is wrong, this is not what Heaven is supposed to be. “Please, let no more bleed today!”

But Heaven has no more room for Mercy

“Mercy-“ the worst is lost to the howling wings in their ears and the screams as their grace is ripped from them. They plummet from the sky, everything hurts, they are burning, they don’t understand

(After the climb, burning and sobbing, from putrid boiling sulfur, feeling the maggots and flies growing in their rotting grace, they will understand. Mercy is dead, Mercy is dead and rotting)

“Mercy” Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, Prince of Hell, chokes on the word as they grind their rotten teeth. They seethe at the traitorous snake in the tub as she scores Hell’s only pardon. It tears open old wounds they don’t remember how to bleed from.

“Mercy” It is a vain, haggard whisper at the feet of their King. It changes nothing as the only body they have known for 6,000 years is ripped from them. It is agony unlike any other, pain of the flesh and the loss of identity. But Lord Beelzebub does not cry. (It is simply damp and leaking in Duke Dagon’s office, where they hole up after. The aquatic demon will pretend not to notice. He will also pretend his heart doesn’t break, because he is a demon and demons aren’t supposed to care)

Hell has never had room for Mercy

Mercy. Not spoken this time, but the concept. A compromise, a cease fire, lavender eyes and melodious miracles. There is warmth where there hasn’t been in a very long time. The Prince of Hell relinquishes the fly to the first Merciful hands they have seen in a very long time. Later in a bookshop they will grasp that same hand, unafraid for the first time. After all, only the most Merciful and careful hands can touch such delicate creatures without crushing them. His hands are gentler than any they have ever known. It is all so new and yet tastes so old and they are filled with light again.

Gabriel has made room for Zadkiel

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ropesore · 13 days

Text

i'd love to kiss and caress an older man's wife, my eyes locked with her's while she slowly spreads her pretty legs for a much younger, inexperienced girl.

i'd touch my lips tenderly, like a sip of nectar, to her cunt. from there, i'd suck her pretty nub, my tongue gratifying her sweet pussy as i lick at her entrance, as if clamoring to be let in.

my own needy cunny would grow damp as i pry my hands under his gorgeous wife's ass, kneading her delightful, heart-shaped peach.

her hands would clutch the back of my head, pushing my tongue into her enchanting cunt, further prompting a moan of satisfaction from my sultry temptress.

he'd stand behind me, swiftly tearing the small skirt i'd been wearing; gathering a fistful of my ass in his palm as he strokes his throbbing cock with the other. he'd spit on my cunt from behind, despite it being saturated and drooling fervently, as he asked his beautiful wife about her day.

she'd answer him and i'd whimper into her slickened slit as he plunged his older cock inside me, hearing them discussing me in third person. daddy would be telling his gorgeous wife how tight my little hole was and she would then nod toward me, suggesting daddy corrupt my little ass.

i'd feel a sinking sense of fear as i'd hear daddy's cruel agreement, then releasing his cock from the tight clench of my little snatch. he'd sheen a thumb in my cunny-drool, subsequently pushing it into my tight, virgin ass. his thumb would sink into me with a satisfying release as it surpassed my tight anal muscles.

his lovely wife would tell me how well i've taken her husband's thumb in my unused, teenage ass; i'd blush, looking up at her now from between her thighs and admiring her gorgeous face before sinking my mouth back into her candy-like crevice. i'd be moving my ass in small and very slow circular motions whilst daddy kneaded my one-way hole, as if wagging a puppy tail in excitement.

i was far too engrossed in her delicious juices to make out every word, until daddy yanked on my hair and told me to get up. i'd lick my lips childishly and obey him. he'd tell me to position myself next to his wife, so that our gleaming cunts were clamped together. i'd do as i was told, my hands, however, were in need of occupation and i'd clutch his thick cock in my small hands, gently sliding down his shaft and to its angry head.

his alluring wife would grind her cunt against mine, leading the way until, eventually, we were both chafing wholeheartedly against each other. i found her so mesmerising - the way she knew how to be pleasured and how to pleasure daddy too. i'd continue to take daddy's cock in my hand, until i was too overstimulated by his wife's scissoring to move my hand at a faster pace. then, the older man would stuff his cock into my little mouth, grinning at us both while he thrusted into my throat. i'd gag, desperate for breath after a while and he'd release me, rotating to his wife's side and letting her take his full length down her pretty throat too.

after their years of marriage together, she was clearly an experienced mouth-whore for her husband, and i admired the way she was able to take his cock deeper into her velvet passage.

dada would come back round to me, filling my mouth with his cock once again. he'd pass his gifted length between us several more times as we continued to grind, whimper and moan - our little cunts producing audible, sloppy noises.

daddy would announce that he was about to shoot his load, and he'd jerk off above our pretty pussies, then quickly moving to dump the rest of his seed in his wife's mouth. i'd sit up and suck on her perfect nipples briefly before she lifted my head and touched her lips to mine. our cunts were drenched in daddy's cum, and her mouth was also full of his jizz. she'd kindly spit his seed into my mouth as our tongues entwined. we'd swap his cum between us like needy whores while daddy petted our heads and slapped our dripping cunts <3

#ropesore #free use slvt #sharing wife #praise and degredation #dad x wife x daughter #puppygirl #daddy's good girl #rapedoll #r@pe play #fauxc3st

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anarchysmut · 1 year

Text

Twisted Love

Warnings: afab!reader/Rika, implied sub!Rika (very subtle), praising, cunnilingus, marking, body worshipping, position "69"

this is a smutty fic based on V's bad end where mc ends up with Rika, making love to each other. MC is replaced with reader.

Even though it's apparent that in the game the relationship is very unhealthy and based on obsession, i still have to say that i do not condone unhealthy/toxic dynamic in any shape, way or form.

Your lips are on hers, hunger stored inside your chests now unleashed as you kiss your lover. Her silky golden locks brush against your cheeks, tickling the skin.

Rika holds onto your shoulders like her life depends on it, as if you could disappear any second. She breaks the contact, looking deeply in your eyes, her emerald ones filled with lust.

"You're not going to leave me, right? Please, say you won't!" She bites her bottom lip, awaiting your answer. You can see the distant fear in her eyes, body tense.

"Rika, my love, I'm never going to leave you. No matter what, I will stay with you." She visibly relaxes at your reply, satisfied with it.

"Touch me, kiss me... Love me," Rika takes your hands in hers and guides them on her body, placing your palms right on her chest. She shivers as you slide them down to where she needs you the most.

You resume your kiss, pulling Rika on one of your thighs, grabbing her plump ass. She gasps against your lips, grinding down on your leg. You can feel how wet she is, how desperate she is.

You reach your hand down, rubbing slow circles through her lace underwear. Rika digs her nails in your back, overtaken by the pleasure you give her. She lands sloppy kisses on your face, lips, jaw and neck.

"Let's take these off, hm?" She is hypnotized by your whispers, only able to nod in agreement as she lets you lay her down on the bed and pull her underwear off, leaving a black lingerie gown on. She looks absolutely angelic in it.

Rika can feel your hands roam down her thigs, squeezing them ever so slightly. She feels so good, so loved and appreciated. Not the same as when she was with Jihyun, he never was enough for her, you opened her eyes with the unconditional love and devotion to her. Something that aroused her even more.

"You're so beautiful, so perfect. Rika, my Rika. I love you so much, no one will ever love you like i do, especially not him. Let me show you just how much i love you." You kiss her inner thigh, biting down on it. She smells amazing, looks amazing, tastes amazing. Everything about her is ethereal.

Kissing and licking your way up to her vagina, you don't break eye contact with Rika. You spread her inner lips with your thumbs, blowing air on her sex. She can't help but whine at the coldness, it's uncomfortable but not so much that makes her want to stop.

She curls her fingers in your hair, pulling your closer to her pussy. You'd love to tease your lover some more, but she's been good enough to receive her reward. You lick a long stripe from her hole to her clit, enjoying a loud gasp. Her grip on your hair tightens as you continue licking and sucking.

"Ah! [Name], wait. I want you to feel good, too." You smile at her sudden request, before crawling on top of her, your vagina above her face. Rika kisses your skin, leaving hickeys on your thighs. Desperately she pulls you down on her face, circling her tongue around your clitoris.

"Love you, love you, love you..." Rika whispers against your skin frantically, relishing in your scent. It drove her crazy, you drove her crazy. She wanted to be yours, she wanted to have you whole, be as one. She loved you, she loved you with her whole heart.

She finally found her true love, someone she could be herself with. And she wasn't planning on letting you go. Ever.

#mystic messenger #mysme #mystic messenger rika #mysme rika #mystic messenger smut #mystic messenger fanfiction #mysme smut #mysme fanfic #rika x reader #rika smut

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speedruntechnically · 11 months

Text

More writing from an old scrapped v2gabe thing I wanted to finish but never did

There’s pain. Searing, stinging, aching. Intense. About as intense as their processor can handle. It stems out from their chest, radiating in sharp waves, coming and going with the pump of their artificial heart. Their heart, which holds less and less blood with each cycle, pouring from the gaping hole in their plating. Severed wires spark and torn tubing flutters in the wind as the Mindflayer above them coos, the electronic hum almost soothing if not for its sinister undertone. Blood mixes with seawater in the empty spaces of their body, uncomfortable and strange, their legs collapsing under them with a cacophonous crash.

V2’s helm hits the ground hard. A spiderweb of cracks spreads across their lens in an instant, glass creaking with a sickeningly shrill sound. Warnings clutter their vision, flickering spots of static and the rocking of the ferry turning the world around them into a smear of colors and shapes. They attempt to get their legs under them, hands fighting for purchase on slick floorboards that groan under their weight, but another burning ball of heat sends them back to their stomach. Shards of glass pierce layers of rubber padding, mixing with gore to grind between their joints. The side of their wingpack buzzes, alight with agony. Something thuds next to their helm, filling their audials with fuzz. A blow to the head makes the sound ramp up in both pitch and volume. It must have knocked something loose as well, because their vision starts to rapidly fade, glitching in reds, greens, and blues, critical alerts fighting for their attention.

Systems begin to shut down against their will, their body desperate to conserve power while their mind screams at them to free themself, to not give up so easily. Frantic hands scramble for a shotgun just out of reach. Even as they try to crawl, overwhelmed by the feeling of miserable defeat, they find the task of moving their limbs harder and harder. Their balance is off, one side of their body much too light, and they collapse to their side again.

Tendrils snake up their body, tightening around their wrists and neck, sharp points threatening to press in.

Unwilling to face their demise head on, V2 closes the shutters over their optic. The Mindflayer continues to hum her electronic song, V2 finding themself suddenly jealous of even her most basic vocal capabilities. If they could speak, at least then they could utter something, anything, some sorry display of final words.

This isn’t how they should die. They shouldn’t be dying in the first place, but especially not like this. A death at the hands of an inferior machine is nothing but pathetic.

“Machine?”

The words are strangely clear, voice oddly familiar. V2 flinches at the noise, waiting for it to crash harshly into static.

Footsteps stop inches from their head, heavy, echoing, loud. “Ah, I see.” A pause, smooth silence. “Are you… conscious?”

The shuffling of fabric and clinking of metal is their only warning before a hand is on their shoulder, warm, solid, gentle. So different from the hard plastic bodies of Mindflayers, different enough to make V2 jump, optic snapping open and springing to their feet.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” The voice is strained, just slightly.

V2’s hand darts to the edge of their wing, fingers twitching, ready to grab their revolver at the slightest movement.

The figure in front of them is large and imposing, composed of defined muscle and sturdy armor bathed in shadow. His hunched form towers over them but remains perfectly still, posture one of more concern and confusion than intent to attack. Their optic darts between his hands, still outstretched, and the swords hanging from his hip.

“I apologize for startling you. I thought you might be your… predecessor, I assume, from your similar build and designation. I see that my former assumption was incorrect.”

V2 narrows their optic, gaze now focused on the golden cross hovering inches from their face. They take a half step back, wings hiking high. Doubtful as they are, they hope such a display of threat works, knowing their wingspan must pale in comparison to his own, massive cyan wings folded neatly behind his back.

The figure now stands up to his full height, nearly twice as tall as V2. As he folds his arms over his chest, armored plating clacking with strikingly soft sounds, their eye follows the movement of his halo, the same mellow blue as his wings, washing them in gentle light.

“Be at ease. I have no intention to harm you. I am not sure whether that is even possible.” His voice is low and calm, flowing over them with an air of confidence that tells them this Angel might be in total control here. And yet, even with the subtle shifting of their feet, desperate for just a little more distance between them, V2 finds that their feelings of fearful deja-vu have begun to melt into something more peaceful, more content. “I was merely curious to see another being here. Especially one of your nature.”

V2 lets their posture relax just the tiniest amount, hand dropping to their side, but they keep watching, keep tracking, the Angel’s movements. He seems to be telling the truth, but they can never be too sure. They’ve been wronged before. They point, slowly, to his swords, studying the way the gilding on the scabbards catches the light.

The Angel’s gaze follows their hand. “My swords? Yes, I am armed, but, as I said, I have no intention to harm you. You also appear to be armed. I find I am not understanding your point.”

Still slow and deliberate, V2 slots a hand into a wing. Grip light, they pull their revolver out and hold it at arms length to their side. With their other hand, they point again to the Angel’s swords and drop their gun.

His shoulders sink, heaving a sigh. “Alright, very well. If you are going to disarm yourself, I suppose it is only fair I do the same.” His hands work over his waist, deft and quick, movements small and precise, until he pulls back, letting the scabbards fall with a dull thump. “Happy?”

V2 picks up on a slight change in his tone, voice falling towards annoyance. They wonder how quickly he angers, and what that would mean for them. But they nod, less on edge now that they don’t have to worry about losing yet another limb.

“Good.” He turns his head, staring at something off in the distance. Whatever he’s looking at, V2 can’t make it out.

The pair slips into relative silence, V2’s body hissing and vents expelling air, the Angel’s soft breathing barely audible. V2 commits his form to memory, filling in their databanks, noting gaps in armor and breaks in chainmail, tears on leather and scars on skin. They are near fascinated with how easily silver turns to gold, metal plates lovingly crafted with skill no human could replicate.

The Angel speaks again, still calm and soft, voice echoing and reverberating off itself. He doesn’t turn to meet their gaze, not even when V2 inquisitively tilts their head.

“I must say, for some-” Hesitation, mere milliseconds, but V2 catches it nonetheless. “-thing that has recently -- for lack of a better word-- died, you seem to be taking this all quite well. I am perhaps a little embarrassed to admit I was less composed than you currently are.”

V2 nods slowly, unsure why he is telling them this. It does not aid them in battle, nor do they think it would aid him. Even if his words are true, even if he truly has no intention to fight them, surely such an exchange of information between Angels and Machines is meaningless.

They file the concept of death, his, theirs, away for later.

“I suppose I tried to escape, in a way. I was not ready to die. I knew it was coming, I had accepted it in some ways, but still I did not wish for it. I was… angry.”

The Angel turns to meet V2’s gaze, perhaps waiting for a response they cannot give. Instead, they sit, joints clicking and fans humming, gesturing beside them, inviting the Angel to sit with them.

He does not.

“I

#I kinda fucked myself by ending in the middle of the dialouge cause I have no idea where I was going #also. this one IS in html #mine #my writing

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spokenofwords · 10 months

Text

Chemical Romance

This rhythmic rapture is about a different kind of love

Not the hand-written romantic vows strapped to the leg of a messenger dove

Or the palpitating scarlet letter, fallen from the courier and left in the mud

It is a secret swan song, undercutting a police state circling high above

I share this surreptitious subject because it needs to be discussed

It’s important, a must, like freedom of speech, in danger of being lost in the dust

And I won’t pander to you with black and white issues

Or cite the wrongs of the world, to pull on heart strings, with cheap shot virtues

Instead, trigger warning alerts, the descriptions will be overt,

But the intention is not to resurrect long dead hurt

The aim is to divert off the beaten path most poets walk their words

And cover new ground, a little less tightly wound

To avoid red rose lovers, and sun and moon significant others

Both gone rotten with an overuse in culture

Because I want to talk about my love for those magical substances we call drugs

Our back-pocket relationship has the magnitude of any star-crossed love

And I don’t love drugs because they fill a hole I’m so desperate to control

Or because they expand my mind to three times it’s expected size

The moment that first milligram touched my blood I knew the future

Legendary nights stretching out like the echo of a rumour

Their flavour to savour, the kind billionaires pay for

Drugs are my healing factor

Allowing me to decipher the anger splattered across my body’s tattered armour

They knot an umbilical cord to strangers I wouldn’t know

And lift my sleep deprived party soul from morning lows

But company is the coagulant that consolidates these chemicals into gold

Their magic stays static until shared with similar enlightened souls

Coz I don’t need twenty-four seven consumption to feel whole

Without them, I don’t wallow and wine

My mood stuck in a clinical landslide nose-dive

Things are fine, I’m fine

Even when the days are a sickening grind I manage to survive

I stay sober and alive, no suicide

But why watch the world go by with colourblind frosted eyes

When you could indulge in a 4K high-def Friday night high?

Mandy Monroe takes me dancing

Till the last empathetic drips of energy have evaporated

Kelly Coke keeps me going

Her eternal heart-pounding hope never stops flowing

Katrina Ket-Ket-Kettlehead is a blessed mess,

Dragging me backwards through the night in a state of undress

Alice Acid is my go-to-girl

She shows me the Wonderland colours of the rabbit hole

And the two CB siblings hold me close to consolidate the evening

Their magic sandwiches me in a waterbed of teddy bear feelings

Now I know the little gears between your ears are whirling with fictions

Making conscious connections this sounds like an advertisement campaign for addiction

But you’ve identified the wrong negative symbol in this equation

Addiction and recreation are separate beings, with no genetic relation

Recreation creates elation, spreading love in all the clubs

Like a superpower handed down from the Gods above.

Addiction’s a different shape, with it’s own backbreaking weight

A hopeless fate, chasing your shadow for a made-up taste

Body dissolving into waste

It’s true they breath the same air, that’s fair

But only one keeps you bound and gaged in a basement of despair

I separate the two with boundaries, walls to keep you functioning in society

But thinking one always follows the other like fraternity brothers is an absurdity

I have three culprits banned from my body’s shop floor

Crack, meth and heroine always get ignored, doesn’t matter how many red roses they leave at my door

Half of you in here share these truths

You’re chemical romantics too, with your own riptide stories to boot

And the rest of you think I’m a social deformity with a screw loose

Spewing self-justifying delusions from the bottom of my stomach as proof

And that’s fine, I’m happy to walk the duality of that tight rope line

But please recognise the hypocrisy littering your mind

As an indulgent glass of wine becomes a ritual bottle sacrifice every night

Because I think alcohol was the devil’s design, his trick to destroy us, body and mind

There are so many more efficient ways of feeling good

And drowning your sorrows just drowns you

Trust me, I’ve tried it more times than a few

We all have our vices, it’s one of the human strings that ties us

So bring your vice out of the cold weather,

Embrace it, face it, wear it to your skin like tight fitting leather

Because your connection can’t be severed, you’re tethered,

And a balance must develop, like the falling dance of a feather

I’m not saying my love hasn’t had it’s issues,

I’ve been guilty of pushing the relationship to misuse

The early years deliver new frontiers, but a level of conscious responsibility also disappears

So to avoid salted tears, a reciprocation of respect must be adhered to

Each love is special, and in the throws of its arms one should be careful

I respect drugs like a sacred new love

I don’t burry my head in its bosom, ignoring when to say enough is enough

I choose the red pill, because ignorance isn’t a skill

It kills opening up our third-eye with cheap throw-away thrills

So this has been a love letter to one of life’s unspoken treasures

In the hope that our perception of them gets better…

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sexlapis · 2 years

Note

Hi hi!! I noticed ur requests are open, and if its not like too much to ask could you maybe write something about kazuha liking it when reader pulls his hair?? I can imagine him having it as a kink ^^

sorry for the long wait anon!

❀: kazuha x gn reader

cw: nsfw, top sub kazuha, bottom dom reader, implied face sitting+cum eating, reader calls kazuha leaf boy, not proofread

it started off so soft and innocent. when you and kazuha would often lay on the couch together, him laying on your front, you would slide your fingers through his hair. you just couldn’t help yourself. his hair was a beautiful pure white, masterfully tainted with a strand of blood red and it was so smooth and silky. you would caress his scalp as he laid his head on your soft chest and he would be out like a light, sleeping like a log.

from then on, you would randomly touch his hair, giving him head pats, playing and braiding his hair, even washing it for him. and kazuha indulges you completely, enjoying how your hands massag his scalp, lulling him into a sleep.

but what kazuha enjoys the most, is when you’re on top of him, straddling his waist and enthusiastically bouncing on his thick cock while tugging at his soft hair.

he would try to smother and hide his moans, hiding his face in you chest but you simply wouldn’t allow it.

you grab onto his hair and tug him out, slipping your tongue into his mouth and biting on his bottom lip, you breathe, “don’t hide those sounds from me, lemme hear you.” you wrap your one hand in his hair and pull his head back, looking at him.

kazuha was really a sight. his face painted red, ruby eyes glossed over with tears, his soft lips shape and shined with his drool. the visual makes you heated, even more aroused than you already were and you begin grinding on hu with a new found vigour.

kazuha gasps and an continuous stream of whimpers and moans flow out of his mouth, along with phrases of, “yes, please please” and “oh my god, oh god” and you’re personal favourite, “i cant take it..i love it so much!”

his hips begin to meet your every bounce, the slapping of skin resounding around your bedroom and then his nails are digging into your thighs and his orgasm runs through him like a storm, trapping his whole body, causing him to tremble. he releases inside of your tight heat, your walls now painted white and dripping with his essence.

kazuha breathes heavily as you slow down, his body still shaking slightly. he sighs and drops his head onto you sweaty chest, pressing a kiss to your heart. “thank you..”

you giggle at his gesture and wrap your arms around his neck. you lean down to make eye contact with him. “you can thank me by using that pretty mouth on me to make me cum, hm?”

you push kazuha down onto the bed and make your way up to his head, straddling it and hovering over his face. he salivates at the sight of your cum filled hole, dripping down your inter thighs.

you gently smack his check. “on with it, leaf boy.”

a/n: i’m finally going to get through my inbox that has requests from 6 months ago lol <3

#kazuha.💋#kazuha x reader #kazuha x you #kazuha x y/n #kazuha x gn reader #kazuha x gender neutral reader #kazuha smut #kazuha kaedehara x reader #kazuha kaedehara x you #kazuha kaedehara smut #kaedehara kazuha smut

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writefandoms · 3 years

Text

Something New(Kinktober)

Undertaker x Female!Reader

Request: (#6) Overstimulation + (#17) Toys with Undertaker

Shivering at the light breeze that caresses your body. The lace undergarments do very little to warm your cold skin. With your backside sitting on top of your heels, your thighs spread open on the silk sheets.

Any other day you would be worried about leaving stains on the freshly washed sheets, but with the man behind gently trailing his nails up your thigh, you had more pressing matters to deal with. A long black nail drags up your inner thigh, stopping right at the flimsy cloth over your groin.

The little warmth the grim reaper gives off, disappears. The sound of movement behind you made you even more anxious. Undertaker tended to enjoy the small trembles that ran through your body.

“So pretty, my love~” His praise made heat rise to your cheeks and between your legs. “Ready to get started?”

You finally cave in and turn to see what he’s planning. The sight before you is almost too much to bear.

Undertaker stands before you, robes untied at the front, exposing a long strip of pale, toned, skin. His hair is pushed back so you can see the devious look in his eyes. But no matter how attractive he looked, the most erotic aspect was what he held in his hands. In his left hand was a small bottle of clear liquid. But in his right hand was a black, shiny, phallic shaped toy. It wasn’t too long, only about 5 inches, but it had a girth to it.

“You okay, dearie?” He giggled as you practically drooled over the toy in his hand.

“Where did you even find that?” Sitting behind you on the bed, he places the toy in between your spread thighs. There’s a lack of blood flow to your feet, but the perverse fantasies you're imagining distract you from any uncomfortability you feel.

“That doesn’t matter, all that matters are those little noises you’re going to make.” The serious tone in his voice goes straight to the apex of your thighs. Still spread open, you have no outlet to relieve the wetness pooling in your panties.

“Just get on with it,” he laughs at your attempt at sounding assertive, “Please?”

He must have been just as eager as you, because he immediately got to work. Starting at your neck, he leaves small kisses behind your ear. Each kiss became more desperate, sucking and biting as he moved down to your shoulder. Both hands move to your chest, cupping your breast over your bra. Massaging them, fingers taking each hardened nipple between them, pinching, tugging, over and over.

“Oh~” You struggle to silence the small moans leaving you. His ministrations were not enough, like he was purposefully holding back to watch you squirm.

He pulls his lips away, resting his chin on your shoulder so he could peer at your exposed figure. Deciding he wished to see more, he moves a hand away to unclip the back of your bra. Pushing the straps of your shoulders, he allows the lace material to fall off your chest, pulling it away from your body and throwing it to the side.

“So gorgeous~” He whispers in your ear, giggling at your half hearted ‘shut up’ you throw at him.

The dildo still sits in front of you, between your legs, reaching just below your naval.

“Looks fun doesn’t it?” He asks when he notices you staring, “Can’t wait to see it inside you.”

“Sto- ah!” You cut yourself off once his fingers find their way to your panties. Slipping your lace panties to the side and rubbing along your slit. The rough texture of his finger pads makes your hips grind against him.

He has to be extra careful with his long nails, but once you feel the tip of his nail against your glistening hole, you know what’s coming. Slowly pushing in, you feel his blunt nail scrape your walls. Soft, wet noises fill the room along with your light panting.

He works his finger in and out, pausing for a moment to push a second finger in, and resuming his fast pace.

“G-god!”

“How kind of you, love~” His fingers only speed up at your noises, turning your head to meet his lips in a heated kiss.

Kissing slowly turns into his tongue exploring your mouth, mapping out every detail. Drool falls from the corner of lips, moaning into his lips. A small puddle forms on the sheets below you, wetness dripping down his fingers.

Walls clench as he stops once again, you feel a third nail against your opening, a painful stretch follows as he pushes three fingers in. Pausing for a moment, he breaks away from the kiss, a string of saliva connecting you two.

“Are you close?” His question is rhetorical, but your body answers for you. Thighs shake uncontrollably as your walls tighten around his fingers. Even as your body convulses, his fingers don’t stop, milking your orgasm for everything you can give him.

“N-no more...” Panting as the continued thrusting becomes almost painful.

“We have to prepare you well, darling.” That was his graceful way of saying no, fingers not stopping to give you a break. Sounds of wetness thrusting fill the room, but your loud groans make it difficult to hear them.

“F-fuck!” His lips latch to your shoulder, biting into you, hard.

The mad man pulls another orgasm from you, this one quick and barely noticeable. But he feels the tightening and spasming of your soaking walls, and knows you reached your limit.

Pulling his fingers out of you slowly, letting you shift your weight against him. Your back leaning against his chest.

“That was…” Exhaustion and a dull ache fills your muscles, struggling to find the right words.

“We’re not finished yet.” He wipes your essence onto the sheets beside your two, wrapping one arm around your waist and the other on top of your thigh. “Let’s get this little guy buried in you.”

Even in the midst of pleasure, you let out a groan of annoyance accompanied with an eyeroll at his awfully timed pun. Leave it to Undertaker to ruin the mood. “You’re awful, you know that?”

It only takes him gripping the toy in front of you, to change the air in the room. The intimidating thickness of the silicone phallus leaves your mind clouded with want. He presses the shaft against your lower lips, the angle offers little stimulation to your clit. Cold liquid pours over the dildo, making you jump slightly. Undertaker moves his palm against the shaft, spreading the oil across the surface.

One hand holds the base of the dildo while the other taps your ass, gesturing for you to sit up on your knees. Slowly lower yourself onto it until you feel the tip touch against your hole. Pausing for a moment before pushing against the head, feeling slight resistance until it pushes into you. Undertaker holds onto the base, giving you a moment to get accustomed to the stretch.

Pushing you're hip slightly, you let out a yelp of pain, and Undertaker immediately pulls away. Sitting up fully to alleviate some of the pain in your thigh muscles.

“Are you okay, love?” He looks up at you worried, panic clear in his voice. “Can we change positions?” You look down gesturing at your half bent knees, a visible strain in your thighs trying to hold yourself up.

Undertaker nods quickly understanding the issue, and gently pulls the toy out of you. He waits beside you as you situate yourself onto your back against the pillows. “Alright, I’m set now.”

His silence concerns you, looking at what little skin you can see, you notice a sheer pink tint on his pale cheeks. “Sorry…I got a tad bit too into it.” He tilts his head down slightly in shame.

It’s a struggle to hold back your laughter at the adorable display, the almost childlike look of guilt on his face is a welcomed change to his usual goofy demeanor. “I wanted tonight to be perfect…”

The insecurity in his voice makes you freeze, never wanting to hear him so defeated. “No need to apologize, love.” Cupping his cheek to turn him to face you, he looks down at you with a slight frown.

Pulling his robe down to meet your lips, the kiss is slow and enough to make your eyes flutter shut. Moving in sync with each other, hands wandering across your naked form. The air no longer holds the same intensity it did before, a romantic tension is cut around you both. Lust replaced with gentle touches and pounding heartbeats.

Finally pulling away, you touch your forehead against his. Bangs shifting to give you a view of his gaze. “I would give you the world, love~” He spoke, breaking the silence first.

“As would I.” You respond in kind, relaxing when he lets out one of his infamous giggles.

“Hehehe~ now shall we continue?”

#undertaker x female!reader #undertaker x reader #undertaker x you #undertaker #undertaker smut #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji imagine #kuroshitsuji scenario #black butler #reader insert

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gingersnaaps · 3 years

Text

sandman

to be taken by sleep really isn't such a bad thing - not when osamu's the one waiting in your dreams.

wc: 3.2k

tags/tw's(PLEASE READ): explicit n*fw, dubcon, creampie, breeding mentions, penetration, fingering, sex dreams, sleep paralysis, incubus!osamu vibes, vaguely supernatural, you fall asleep forever at the end, fem!reader with inner genitals

a/n: written for @ultimate-astridwriting's wonderful collab and inspired by my recent stint of sleep deprivation also i feel like i may have strayed a bit from the prompt but oh well

i don’t want minors interacting with my content

You can’t recall when Miya Osamu first started appearing in your dreams.

It was a subtle thing at first: the features of strangers, normally blurred beyond recognition, melded into his half-lidded eyes and soft smile, and you’d catch glimpses of his face in the reflection of windows and out of the corner of your eye. You didn’t think too much of it. You’d read an article somewhere that mentioned how faces in one’s dreams came from the interactions in our real lives, and with how much you’d been frequenting his onigiri shop, you suppose that his appearances were to be expected.

Still felt a little strange for you to be having a dream so intimate, though.

You’re lying on top of his broad chest, one arm on your waist, the other resting gently on your thigh. His thumb rubs tender circles into your skin, stroking softly as you rise and fall with the movement of his chest.

“‘Miya?” you ask tentatively. “How did I end up here?”

He chuckles. It’s a deep, rich, sound, one that reminds you of rivers running steady and full moons in the countryside, the vibrations passing from his body to yours. When he speaks, his voice is low and a little quiet, but with his lips grazing your ear, you don’t miss a single word.

“Call me Osamu.”

The familiarity leaves your face slightly flushed, embarrassment tingling across your skin. He shifts you around in his arms, tilting your body so that you meet his warm, inviting, gaze. The hand on your thigh seems to burn red-hot, and you wonder if he can hear the heartbeat pulsing just inches away from his fingertips.

He smiles softly at you. “You’re a beautiful girl.”

Your heart seizes, malfunctions, pounds erratically-

You wake up in the dark, damp sheets clinging to your skin, heart skipping like a schoolgirl and drunk off the compliment from your dream.

There’s a bad ache in between your legs. You trail a hand down your front, fingers sliding into your pajama shorts to quell your want.

Dusk is falling across Tokyo when you head to Miya’s - no, Osamu’s - onigiri shop. Twilight makes giants of the pedestrians, stretches out the shadows that loom tall in the soft gray-orange of the setting sun, the darkened shapes scurrying through the city’s rush hour.

Unlike them, you’re not going home.

A busy schedule meant little time for home-cooked meals, and the food here really was excellent. When you push open the door to his shop, the jangle of a bell sounds somewhere above you, and Osamu barely looks up before a smile settles on his face.

“The usual, I suppose,” he says, beckoning you inside.

You nod gratefully. The atmosphere of the shop is comforting - there’s just a few customers trickling through, picking up their to-go order that he’s prepared. You pick a seat near the window, one that gives you an unobstructed view of the sunset outside.

The chatter dies down as the last customers leave the shop, their onigiri clutched in hand, and a peaceful silence descends on the space around you. He brings out your food just a few minutes later, setting the dish in front of you.

“As requested by my favorite customer,” he says, a wry grin on his face. “Glad to have you back tonight.”

Your stomach flutters at the closeness between the two of you, and you suddenly feel embarrassed - ashamed of how much you’d been thinking about him, of the dreams you’d been having, of the way his touch had left you wanting for more in those same dreams - but it’s a good kind of embarrassed, one that leaves excitement bubbling in your core.

It feels a bit like a crush.

“Couldn’t miss out on the food, could I?” you reply.

“So you’re only here for my onigiri.”

“I- no, of course not."

“Just teasing.”

He smiles crookedly, and for just a moment, there’s a knowing glint that flashes in his eyes - the kind of expression that makes it seem like he’s aware of more than he’s letting on - but it vanishes almost immediately, passing too quickly for you to be sure of anything.

He turns to go back inside the kitchen, lifting up a hand casually to wave goodbye. “See you soon.”

Upon your arrival home, the first thing you notice is how very tired you are.

It’s not too out of the ordinary - it was a Monday afternoon, after all, and that had always been your least favorite day of the week - but the minute you crash onto the couch, your eyelids seem to droop with sleep, limbs growing heavy as the room around you swirls into a half-conscious haze.

You’ve still got chores to take care of. There’s dishes from the morning to wash, laundry to fold and put away, a few work emails to respond to that were probably very important, but you just can’t seem to stave off the overwhelming fatigue that seeps through your veins and numbs your entire body.

You need to sleep.

So you let it happen. You let your eyes flutter shut, let yourself relax and melt into the soft cushions of the couch, let your mind go nice and blank and empty.

After you give up the struggle of staying awake, the dreams come quickly.

“Glad to have you back so soon.”

The warm, quiet, voice from yesterday rumbles somewhere above you. You’re laying on his chest again, ear pressed to the soft fabric of his faded black shirt. You make a small, confused, noise, but he just laughs, gently brushing aside your hair, a hand trailing down your body and creeping closer to your inner thigh.

His touch feels electric. Every brush of his fingertips against your thigh, feather-light and teasing, leaves you with your heartbeat thudding in your cunt.

“We’ve gotta get you ready,” he murmurs. “Prep you well enough so that you’ll feel good when the time is right.”

You clench around nothing at his words, and maybe he can feel it with his hand so dangerously close to your pussy, because he smiles lazily and asks, “Are you that desperate?”

You’re not sure whether you should deny it - he can probably tell you are, anyway, but the thought of nodding, of saying yes, ‘Samu, want it so fucking bad - it leaves you with your cheeks flushed hot with shame.

He doesn’t need your explicit confirmation to read the way your body twitches against his, though, and he moves his hand lower to cup around your pussy. His palm is warm, the pressure steady and constant as he holds his hand still against your throbbing cunt. You can’t help but squirm against him, sloppily grinding your clit against his waiting hand, bucking your hips back and forth for any friction you can get. You’re panting, breaths quick and shallow as you feel the drag of the cotton panties in between his skin and yours, and a lewd moan tumbles from your lips. “Touch me,” you mumble, voice thick with arousal.

You look so pretty down there, hair mussed and mouth open slack in a perfect o, getting off all by yourself - he should give you a hand, shouldn’t he?

He nudges your damp panties aside, the thin fabric creasing the fat of your pussy as he brings a thumb up to your clit. His ministrations start slow, circling your clit patiently while you writhe from the pleasure, just barely dipping his index finger into your hole, his long, dextrous fingers skilled and patient as he works to search out the sensitive spots that leave you gasping and delirious.

“I want you dripping,” he says softly, sliding his finger inside all the way to the base of his knuckle. “Want you spread out on my hand, soaking me through, wet enough for me to fuck you full.”

You shudder with anticipation at his words, hips wriggling and rutting against his stiffening cock as his finger drags along the ridges of your g-spot. Every movement of his is accompanied by an embarrassingly audible squelching noise, your cunt already swollen and hot with arousal, your slick running in a cool trail down the crease of your thigh.

He flicks his thumb against your clit, this time more harshly. “ ‘m gonna fill you up so good when you’re ready,” he whispers. “Fuck you until your pussy milks my cock dry.”

Your eyelids flutter, a rush of pleasure crashing down on you as he pops another finger inside. Your hand fists at his shirt weakly, grabbing and pawing at the fabric as he curls his fingers just right inside you.

“You’re gonna feel so fucking good, sweetheart.”

You wake up from your dream as an orgasm ripples through your body, eyes flying wide open as you squirm and thrash on the couch. The pleasure coiling tight inside your core unwinds, pulsing in your cunt as you moan.

The room is dark and empty.

You rub the sleep from your eyes, vision bleary as you reach for your phone - it reads 7:00 AM. You’ve slept for almost twelve hours.

As you get up, swinging your legs off the couch and righting yourself, you notice one intense, overwhelming, feeling that roots you to the couch and leaves your limbs limp and loose:

You still feel so tired.

The rest of the week seems to pass by in a blur. You’re so exhausted you can barely think straight, stumbling from your office to your home - and sometimes to Osamu’s onigiri shop - going about your life half-dazed and barely conscious.

The only respite you get is in sleep.

Your dreams have gotten particularly intense as of late, head clouding full of visions where you’re fucked in every position: shoved up against the wall, facedown in the mattress, and even hoisted up on the counter. Through it all, there’s one constant.

Miya Osamu features in every single one of them.

You know his voice by heart now, a low, quiet, rumble that both soothes you and sets your cunt thrumming with anticipation. His silver-gray hair, his round, half-lidded eyes, the softness and the warmth of his body - they’re as familiar to you as your own features by now. You’re pretty sure you’ve even memorized the feeling of his cock buried deep inside you.

In every dream, he whispers the most tantalizing promises in your ear, breathing promises of how he’s gonna fuck you so good, sweetheart, gonna fill you up, gonna breed this pretty pussy until you’re carrying my seed inside you.

And even though you never wake up well rested anymore, you find that you don’t particularly mind. After all, there’s not much you look forward to in your waking hours. Every grating hour you spend working your stupid little job, or attending your lengthy, useless, lectures - it all feels like you’re just going through the motions, like you’re just trying to make it through so that night falls sooner and he can finally come visit you.

The week comes and goes, and soon enough, it’s already Friday.

You stumble in through the front door, a yawn itching at your throat, and you head straight for your bedroom. You pass by the ever-growing stack of dirty dishes in the sink, the stack of bills on the countertop, the laundry you’ve left in the drying machine. You’ll get to it next week.

For now, you just want to sleep.

The bedroom is gloomy and dim, grey light from an overcast twilight filtering through the blinds. The room feels stuffy in the dark, the four walls suffocating the small space, but you don’t bother with turning on the lights. Why would you, when you plan on heading straight to sleep?

You undress clumsily, almost tripping as you pull off your pants and shrug off your blouse, and stagger into the soft, warm, embrace of your bed.

A warm burst of comfort surges through you as the familiar feeling of drowsiness overtakes you. Your eyelids grow heavy, lashes fluttering slightly, the thump of your heart slowing - you’re right on the precipice between the conscious and the unconscious, straddling the border between sleep and waking -

You hear a voice sound from shadowy recesses of your room.

It’s a voice you’d recognize anywhere.

“I missed you at my shop today.”

You open your mouth to respond, but no noise comes out. It’s as if your vocal cords have been plucked from your throat, your voice frozen somewhere deep inside your trachea, and the only sound you can make is that of silence. A bit belatedly, you realize that you can’t move either, your limbs settling uselessly at your side as you lie paralyzed on your back.

A head of gleaming, silver, hair emerges in front of you, and your breath catches in your throat. You’re not sure if this is a dream anymore.

You blink once, and suddenly, you find him in your bed. He’s hovering above you, arms pressed to either side of your head, gazing down with a hungry, hungry, expression. He’s waited all week for this, sweetheart - won’t you finally indulge him?

He pulls the comforter aside, large hands gliding over your body and hoisting up your hips. You feel like a ragdoll in his hands, limp and immobile, and he rearranges your limbs and positions you until he gains easy access to your ready, waiting, cunt - the same cunt that he’s been preparing all week.

He drags a finger through your slick folds, already wet and sticky from the ministrations of the previous few days. There’s no need to bother with prep. He can already feel the way your cunt pulses at his touch, can see the need etched into the gleam of your eyes even as the expression on the rest of your face remains frozen.

His hand glides over his clothed cock, strained and throbbing with need as he pulls it out and strokes slowly, eyes fixated on your body the entire time. His dick is big, flushed almost purple as cream beads at the tip, balls fat and full and heavy.

Osamu’s had enough of waiting.

With a groan, he pops his cockhead into your drooling, twitching, hole, pushing in steady, thrusting all the way into your tightening cunt until he hits your cervix.

“Feels so fuckin’ good,” he murmurs, face scrunched with pleasure. “So tight it feels like you’re trying to milk me dry.”

He rolls his hips slowly, dragging his cock along the front of your walls, the ridge of a vein pressing right into your sweet spot. Your legs twitch uselessly as he pulls halfway out before slamming his cock back in.

“I wonder if you’d like that,” he muses. He brings a thumb to rest at your puffy, swollen, clit, pressing down in steady circles, his touch unrelenting and firm, sending spasms of pleasure that leave you clenching and gripping down onto his thick cock.

“I think you would. I think you’d love it if I filled you up, if I fucked you full of cum and bred this tight little hole,” he says, the barest hint of an amused smile tugging at his lips. His voice is calm and steady - a striking contrast to his filthy words, his brazen promises.

His slow, steady, strokes quicken, hips slamming roughly into yours, each thrust satiating the want in your cunt. Your walls pulse as if they need to be filled, squelching lewdly as he fucks you hard and deep.

He leans down. His lips hover millimeters away from your forehead, just barely grazing your skin with tender, light, kisses. “Take it,” he whispers, thumb rubbing harshly at your clit. “Take it like a good girl for me. I know you can.”

The kisses he presses to your forehead start to travel down the underside of your jaw, soft little nips and bites with his blunt teeth that leaves a trail of his glossy spit on your face. His mouth finds your ear.

“When I cum, you better not waste a single drop,” he breathes. “Wanna fill you up, make you mine. I want to own this pussy.”

He brings his hand down to pat your stomach where your womb would be, rubbing the soft surface of your skin in tender circles. His balls are aching so badly - he needs to cum, needs that release, needs to stuff your messy cunt.

“Cum with me,” he urges. “Right now.”

The pleasure pulsing inside you draws taught - snaps - and you’re pushed over the edge. If you were still capable of speaking and moving, you’re sure you’d be moaning loudly, hips twitching uselessly as he creams your pussy over and over. He fucks you through your orgasm, spent cock softening inside you as you squeeze his dick. After all, he doesn’t want any of it to leak. He wants it sloshing around in your hole, filling you up until you’re warm and wet and sticky, wants to breed you, to mark you down as his.

You look beautiful with your insides stained white, he thinks.

You can feel your cunt twitching slightly as you come down from your high. He smiles warmly, gives your pussy a little pat -

You blink and he’s gone.

Almost as if he was never there in the first place.

Sleep takes you quickly after that. You’re exhausted from being fucked, exhausted from the constant stimulation, and you quickly fall fast asleep. All is silent and still in your darkened bedroom.

The next day, right as the sun starts to drop over the horizon, glinting stars nestled in the sky high above, you find yourself back in front of Osamu’s onigiri shop.

It’s partly due to the hunger gnawing in your stomach, but it’s more out of curiosity than anything. You need to know if it’s real, if he’s real, if the past two weeks were nothing but a fever dream.

And you really want to see him again.

As you push open the door to his shop, you’re greeted with his friendly smile, as usual.

“Same thing again?” he asks.

“Of course.”

The exhaustion hasn’t gone anywhere. You’re still constantly tired, always drifting off during the daytime, limbs weary and worn. When you sit yourself down at the usual spot - the table near the window - that irresistible fatigue seems to creep up on you again.

It’s so calm and comforting in his little shop. The lights are warm, the view is pretty, the quiet chatter of his few customers soothing to your ears. It’s so easy to rest your head in between your hands, shoulders slumping, mind empty of every little unimportant thought, so easy to just close your eyes, so easy to fall into the rose-tinted haze of your nice, pleasurable, dreams.

Osamu comes out of the kitchen in the back of the shop, carrying your food on a plate, and finds you fast asleep with your head on his table.

He’s not surprised. In fact, he’s quite pleased.

In fact, if he has his way, you’ll never have to wake up again.

tyvm for reading!! i really appreciate reblogs and comments - it's part of what motivates me to keep making content :)

here's my masterlist if you'd like more.

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