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atrwriting · 5 months

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kisses and other sweet things (part 2) -- billy the kid x cowgirl!reader

hey party people :) posting this when I should be studying HAHA

send good vibes for my civil procedure final tomorrow many thx <3

I watched the scene where billy and ollinger fight and this very much inspired it lol enjoy

as always, warnings: smuuuut, p in v, unprotected sex (WRAP IT), dom!billy, brat!reader, violence, blood, pussy slapping, overstimulation

thank you all for reading!!! I love you all so much!!!!

ANYWAYS... part two:

neither one of you told… but it didn’t take long for the others to sniff the air and have an inkling for how the wind changed overnight.

in all honesty, it was billy’s fault.

the man found every way to remain close enough to be considered by your side since that night.

he would sit by you at dinner. he wouldn’t touch another woman. he always looked at you when he told a joke. he always looked at you when someone else said something funny. that joyful twinkle in his eye was reserved for you, and only you, and everyone had picked up on it. not to mention — he’d not only check his horse — but yours as well.

everyone knew what was up. everyone. absolutely everyone.

billy made it abundantly clear without even uttering a word that you two had participated in something similar to carnal relationship.

…but, in all honesty, you didn’t mind.

you would’ve preferred to talk about it, sure. what prevented you from bringing that up to billy was that you didn’t have to pry respect and loyalty out of him — the man just did it, and because he wanted to. it was… okay, fuck it — you have to admit it to yourself: it was nice. billy the kid showing you slightly more than common decency and general enjoyment of your company was nice. you were worried about bringing it up to him at the idea of losing the potential staple of someone having your back, and them trusting you enough to have theirs.

you were fucked. totally fucked. absolutely fucked. no way around it.

the man was a mysterious fuck, as well — looked at you like you were an angel, but has fucked you like even the devil would avert its eyes from the debauchery. respected in the streets, and disrespected in the sheets — every woman’s dreams.

the one unfortunate aspect was… the others. you can usually ignore everyone, and anything — only way to get through life. however, the severity of the teasing had begun to worry you.

it first began with a curt up-down look of when billy always found his way to dismount from his horse and walk next to you. it wasn’t like he was guarding you, no… neither was he following you like a puppy. it was like there was a new form of respect there — and given the fact that most of the men still looked at you like you were just a silly girl, they noticed it. for a split second, in your stupid mind, you thought it would maybe make the rest of the men treat you better — but how could you ever think that? you rolled with these guys because their very existence was about disrespect and taking for themselves.

billy had made you bot outsiders — more than you already were.

like… maybe you weren’t together… but you had each other. you weren’t sure if you could count on him yet — but his actions were… well, they confused you. and you weren’t sure if it was a good or bad confusion yet.

there had been very few moments of privacy, so you were not able to catch him alone and speak about what happened. at first, you figured you both would go about your lives as usual… not wanting to expect too much from a man who appeared to live as he wanted when he wanted to. however… you didn’t expect that how he wanted to live his life was, well — apparently by your side.

unfortunately, thinking things over was not a freedom given to you without obstacles. many of them began giving you and him looks — and then the teasing started. instead of being known by name or a nickname, the men could be heard calling you “billy’s girl” in hushed tones.

you feared the day they finally bucked up the jewels and called you his whore. you knew it was coming — you didn't want it to happen, but you knew it was. you couldn't afford to be naive.

if anyone else called you his girl — you might’ve blushed. you almost relished in it. however, when men who barely respected women called you that and you both worked with them — you knew they didn’t mean it fondly. it annoyed you, especially when you hadn’t been able to even talk about it with billy.

were you his girl? were you a fling? would billy fuck another woman if given the chance? and honestly, did he tell anyone?

questions ran through your head with very few conclusions approaching. you thought their teasing would be the worst of the worst — until it wasn’t.

no… the worst was when billy had fought one of them.

a few days after the teasing had begun to get bad, you had finally stopped at another boarding house and bar with the other boys. you figured you would retire early and let them have their fun — but that would not be the case.

when you eventually had drank your share of booze and went upstairs when the girls came around, that was when ollinger had opened his big, fat mouth.

“when billy’s done, can i get a turn?”

you froze in your tracks.

this was your worst fear — losing their respect. you had worked tirelessly to earn it, and there had been times where you felt like you never did. you may never have had their actually respect, the kind they give to men — but they never did something like that. and when all of them laughed, and began to hoot and holler — that’s when you knew where you stood with them.

fucking billy.

but that wouldn't stop you, no. they brought you on because you were a pretty thing with claws — and that's what they were going to get.

“known you longer than i’ve known him. can’t say you’ve ever peaked my interest,” you spat as you turned around to face him from a few feet away. “don’t know if you’re man enough.”

he stood then, eyes wild. he held the neck of a bottle in one hand and immediately took a swig, appearing to ignite the fire in his eyes and the aggression in his steps toward you.

“you want me to show you a real man, sweetheart?”

you took a step forward, afraid to back down. you narrowed your eyes at him. “you want me to show you how i’m a better shot than you, sweetheart?”

he stepped closer to you then. you didn’t budge — you weren’t sure if that was out of pride or fear. when he stepped closer, the stench of liquor leaked from his mouth like smoke from a wildfire. a smirk was plastered on his face, and staying still and silent was the only thing you could do to hold your ground.

“you know what that makes you, right?” he spat in a low tone. “makes you billy’s whore.”

you couldn't help it — your face twisted with shame and anger. your vision was going almost as red as ollinger's, and you weren't sure if both of you would survive the next action that came from you. before you could process the impact of his words, let alone respond — billy spoke up.

“shut your mouth, ollinger.”

your eyes flickered over to where billy stood with his hands balled at his sides.

ollinger took another swig of his bottle before he turned and stalked over to billy. billy didn’t flinch, but simply watched a drunk ollinger try to keep his cool. the entire group watched — and waited.

“you don’t tell me what to do, boy,” ollinger sneered, clutching his bottle. “you ain’t special. i ain’t never seen anything special about you.”

billy reached for his gun, but did not pull it out. billy’s hands were shaky, and that’s when you realized it — he was drunk too. “alright then — let’s fight it out.”

“i ain’t fightin’ you with a gun.” ollinger brushed off billy’s comment with another careless swig of his drink. “you ain’t that important.”

“then let’s fight with our fuckin’ fists.” billy discarded his gun and the belt it was usually kept in. “like men.”

ollinger’s eyes showed a peak of interest.

your eyes… well, they showed terror.

ollinger walked towards billy with a dip of his chin that suggested he would enjoy the aspect of hurting billy more than winning anything over billy. ollinger already thought he was better than billy, he didn’t need to win anything — but that look in his eye? when predator was threatened by another?

without his gun, you were worried for billy. frankly, billy should’ve shown it — or at least you thought he would. ollinger had at least a decade of years, strength, and experience on billy. not to mention — ollinger has also had a vendetta against billy since they met.

ollinger immediately threw of his belt. “i’ll beat your ass any day.”

as ollinger drained the rest of the bottle, you could hear the hollering of the other men around you as they drew closer. ollinger threw the bottle to the ground and stalked towards billy.

as billy was about to start pulling off his vest, you stepped up to intervene.

you’d at least like to talk to him before he died.

however, jesse stepped in front of you. “can’t get in the way of two men fighting, doll.”

you raised your eyebrow at jesse. “ill cut your cock off.”

jesse only laughed, but kept his arm outstretched in front of you.

with years of experience… you thought ollinger would fight fair — but he caught billy with a jab before billy could get his vest off. you lunged for the pair, but jesse and some of the others held you back.

you didn’t know what to do. sure, you believed in billy — but the man had a tendency of getting his shit rocked in hand to hand combat.

ollinger let out an excited battle cry — and your hate sank into your stomach. billy struggled to get up as you fought against jesse.

“come on, billy!” ollinger baited. “come on, billy!”

you watched the look in billy’s eyes then — assessing the threat. billy immediately dodged a punch over his head, came back up, and started slamming ollinger’s head against a wooden post.

the excitement of the men around you slightly died as they realized that billy didn’t fight like other men — he had no interest in punching, or relishing in getting a lick in. he went straight for a possible kill shot, grunting as he hoped to subdue ollinger.

there would be no stopping either of them. you relented against jesse’s arm, staring at the two men. your mouth parted in horror, and your stomach dropped at the sight.

billy eventually threw him over the picnic table like he was nothing more than a sack of flour. his grunts were predatory — powerful and fucking masculine. fighting was fun for ollinger — but this? this? for billy? this was necessity. he didn’t care about asserting dominance — he cared about being left the fuck alone. he needed to make sure ollinger never fucked about him again. dominance was worth nothing if you didn't have survival.

billy, still intoxicated, stumbled over to where he had thrown ollinger — but ollinger was too quick. he grabbed billy by the boot and threw him back. billy landed on his ass, and you watched in fear as ollinger stomped toward him. his eyes were wild and his mouth was curled into a bloody snarl. you wanted to get involved, you knew you should’ve — but what could you do? this was what happened when you rolled with men like this — they had to fight this out themselves, or they would become everyone’s problem. you hated it — every fucking minute of it — because this problem started with ollinger’s disrespect for you and how you could cut his jewels off before he could even get a kiss in. poor billy…

but not poor billy.

no, not poor billy — because when ollinger stood over billy, billy kicked him so far backwards that ollinger then stumbled and fell on his ass.

billy was up in an instant, stumbling, and smacked the absolute shit out of ollinger with an open palm. ollinger flew backwards for a second time that night, and suddenly the men grew more excited watching the fight. all you could do was trail behind them — worried.

billy walked up to the porch and stood above ollinger, but ollinger’s wounded pride had gotten the better of him. he took billy by the cloth of his shoulders, and slammed him repeatedly against the wooden wall of the outside of the house. jesse and his friends were cheering on billy, but all you could hear was his pained grunts. and then, just then — the moonlight had caught billy’s face just right. his eyes were screwed shut as the pain registered from the blow — and blood was pouring down from his nose and into his mouth. billy fell against ollinger in exhaustion, and that was when pat garett started cheering louder and louder.

“please,” you whispered, helpless.

in an instant, billy had gotten his elbows up and clutched the shoulders of ollinger’s shirt. with (basically) a battle cry, he willed himself to push ollinger off of him, in front of him, and then in through the doors of where all of the other men were with their women.

you followed jesse, pat, and the others.

billy and ollinger immediately crashed into the floor of the house with grunts and screams. the men once getting blown or ridden were now cheering on the fight, and the women above them or at their feet were stunned and confused — worried about getting hit.

this time — billy had gotten up before ollinger. ollinger may have had years of experience on billy, but years were years: ollinger was old, and exhausted. billy stood up and began laying overhead punch after overhead punch onto ollinger.

“get up, ollinger!” he yelled, eyes black. “get the fuck up!”

immediately, billy pulled back. like you had thought — he didn’t need the kill shot, but he needed the threat subdued. billy was breathing heavy, he was bleeding… you were so worried for him. jesse pushed past you and grabbed billy’s arm, raising it above his head.

“boys, we got a winner!” jesse cheered before everyone followed in suit.

billy fell back against the nearest bed and sat down. it just so happened that was a bed that your oldest friend was sharing with a woman. stunned, the woman grabbed billy by the shoulders to steady him. she wiped some of the blood off of his face with his shirt. you were thankful — but then her smile turned big when she realized how handsome he was.

your blood boiled.

you watched at his big eyes darted up to her face as he tried to regain his composure. he took one look at her face, your friend, and got up.

he spat once on the floor, cleaning his mouth of any excess blood. over his shoulder, he threw, “no hard feelings, ollinger.”

and started straight towards you.

you stood there, in the back behind everyone, frozen in place. billy was in front of you in as little as five strides. thankfully she had wiped his face — because he only tasted vaguely like blood when he grabbed you by the face and pressed your lips to his.

he cupped your face with one hand, but it held you in place like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. with his finger stroking your cheek, you kissed him with every bit of fear, frustration, and excitement you had in you. your lips folded together like you two were the only ones in the room — and like everyone in the room wasn’t cheering for the clear winner of the fight, and the kiss with the girl the fight was started over.

billy had stood up for you. the one man who had actually ever done that.

against your lips, he whispered. “i know you could handle himself yourself — but you shouldn’t have had to.”

you giggled against his lips, yours stretching into a wide grin. he pecked your lips a couple of times, unable to get enough of being the only one to be able to do this. he replied, “never had much taste for these girls — had a different one in mind.”

“you gonna take her somewhere private, cowboy, or what?” you asked.

billy’s eyes twinkled with mischief before he bent low, and hauled you over his shoulder. your feet kicked in front of him as you struggled to hold your hat in place and keep your balance. you were shouting at him, but nothing could be heard over your giggles or everyone else’s whistling. with one firm arm circling your hips, keeping your ass in place with his massive hand, he kicked open the doors and brought you upstairs.

“billy, if you don’t put me down —“ you laughed, breathlessly. threats were futile. “i swear —“

“shhh, sweetheart — you know i’ll take care of you,” he responded.

billy found an empty bedroom and immediately went to work. he sat you down on a low dresser and immediately started going for your riding pants and shirt. you kicked off your boots and shimmied out of the fabric as billy stood over you.

with one hand pressed to your cheek, he kissed you once more. you pulled away to smile at him. you spoke, “thank you… for what you did.”

“ollinger needs to know when to shut his mouth,” he spoke, engulfing you in a kiss once more. “should’ve made a move if he was jealous. now i’m the only one who gets to have my face between these pretty thighs.”

he pulled you by the hips so you were almost hanging off the edge, your feet flat against the wood of the dresser. you were breathless as your head began to swim. billy got down on his knees, parted your thighs, and dove for your slit.

your head immediately hit the wall. you wanted to arch your back — keen towards him — but you had limited mobility. you were at the mercy of the man before you who was lapping at your clit like nothing else existed. you should've been worried about his injuries, the dried blood on your face... but you couldn't. you didn't. billy was satisfying every bit of desperation you had felt since that night and you were too strung out to fight him. strained moans left your lips as your hips began to buck into his face.

“billy, stop…” you whined. “i want you inside me…”

he didn’t listen. the man kept his tongue drawing all kinds of messy, wet circles around your sensitive bud that pulled every dirty whine out of you. in an instant, billy pushed two fingers into you and immediately started pumping them. you lost your breath — and your ability to speak coherent sentences as well. he was tapping against your upper wall, pining for that sweet spot that was gonna make you sing for him.

“fuck, fuck, fuck…” you cried. one of your hands found his tangled mess of curls and fisted your fingers through them. billy’s tongue was thick, hot, and the roof of it was rough as he shook his head against your center, increasing the friction. your hips and legs were spasming uncontrollably as a warm feeling spread from your abdomen. “jesus christ — you’re so mean.”

the air seemed to shift in that moment, but you were so lost you couldn’t comprehend. billy wrapped his cracked lips around your clit, and pulled at it and sucked. hard.

your eyes screwed shut as a cry vibrated through your chest and into your throat. it hurt, god it hurt, but in the most bittersweet way you could imagine. it was like pain and comfort all in one, delivered by the same hand, driving you into submission. every blood vessel was throbbing, throbbing, throbbing for billy’s movements and you couldn’t regain control — and you weren't sure you wanted to.

he suddenly pulled away. “you think i’m mean, sweetheart?”

his blue eyes pierced into yours when he picked up his head to face you. his eyes were raised in a manner that suggested he expected a response, but you were still in your daze. your eyes were glossy, your lips were puffy and parted, hoping he'd answer his question for you.

billy didn’t like that. with his free hand, he slapped your clit.

your body jolted, surprised at the sensation. it made your breath catch in your throat as all of your senses were on red alert... but it only made your pussy throb harder.

“billy…” you whispered, tears coming to your eyes. “you’re teasing me.”

his dry thumb began to rub circles around your sensitive clit, and the mixture of your slick and the rough skin of his dumb drew you into his control. in that moment — in that raw, vulnerable moment — you couldn’t think of anything else besides billy, and getting him to make you cum.

“mean, that it, sweetheart?” another slap to your clit. “you want me to show you mean?”

even in your haze, you were a brat at heart. with a smirk, yet shaking from how sensitive you were, you smirked at him. “don’t think you can.”

in an instant, he was on his feet. you struggled to ring out your tense muscles and stand with him, but billy wasn’t having it. he flipped you around so you were on your stomach on the dresser, legs hanging over the edge. billy pulled your hips up for you to stand on your toes, forcing your ass into the perfect position for him.

“slut for only me, huh?” he asked, kneading the skin of your ass in his hands. he slapped it once, twice, thrice — ripping little squeals from your petal pink lips. his thumb found its way into the outer folds of your pussy, barely entering. “won’t throw even a pity glance at anyone down there — but something about me just gets you this wet.”

he pushed his thumb into your sopping wet hole, and you squealed. you held onto the dresser to give yourself leverage to push yourself into his hand, but one of his hands held down your lower back.

“more, please…” you whispered.

“that smirk made me think you don’t deserve it,” he spat, still playing with your pretty pussy.

“billy —!” you screamed with exasperation. “please!”

with his thumb still in your pussy, billy leant down and wrapped an arm around your throat. with your neck in the crook of his elbow, he pulled your back to arch up towards him. billy placed his lips right by your ear, and spoke, “is that who’s got you this worked up, baby? huh? me? be sweet, and maybe i’ll kiss those pretty tears away.”

you hadn’t even noticed it — but he was right. your cheeks were stained with tear streaks that made them damp. with broken breaths, you spoke, “please — i promise.”

he began to pump his thumb into your pussy, while his other fingers worked light circles around your clit. “promise what?”

“that i’m — that i —“ you couldn’t get the words out. you were a struggling mess — clinging to the dresser with the little strength in your hands you could muster, and completely at the mercy of billy’s hold. his breath was hot against your face as heat rose throughout your body. “i —“

“fucked so dumb you can't use your words?”

“fuck —“ you cried, already almost succumbing to the feather light touches on your clit. “you’re the only one, billy — only one — please, just let me cum.”

“yeah?” he grunted. “gonna take what i give you?”

“anything, billy —“ you gasped. “please — just want you.”

billy kept his promise. he pressed his lips against your cheek, pushing your head slightly to the side. every muscle in your body was taut with trying to remain balanced and stay perked for every one of billy’s moments. his fingers in your clit began working faster and harder, and your body began to shake. you were so sensitive to everything around you — his kisses, his chokehold, his heat on your back, his fingers buried deep in your folds. you bucked his hips back into his hand, and everything exploded.

without billy’s hold, you would’ve collapse into the dresser. your knuckles were white as they bent, causing your nails to rip at the wood of the dresser. you back was arched completely towards the ceiling as you tried to remain in position. billy was whispering nasty, nasty, nasty things in your ear that coupled with your delicious moans.

“that’s it, baby, just keep cumming for me,” he rasped, groaning in your ear. “can be such a brat — but she’s got the prettiest pussy. i know what makes my girl tick.“

“yeah, yeah, yes —“ you cried, falling against billy’s shoulder. the world melted before you. your eyes were drifting open and closed. the haze had consumed your brain, and each of billy’s movements made a whine well up behind your closed lips. “fuck, billy, i can’t —“

his fingers didn’t stop, and you felt like you were about to collapse. “oh, sweetheart, too much for you?”

you were practically fucking sobbing at this point. “n-no-no—“

“greedy, baby,” he said, licking at your cheek. “thought you were gonna take everything i gave you?”

“your cock, billy — please —“

“naw, sweetheart,” he said stroking your cheek. “think you’re in over your pretty little head. can’t take anymore.”

“no, no, billy — i want your cock so bad —“ your whines were music to his fucking ears.

“yeah, baby?” he asked, shimmying off his pants. “you want my cock? think you can handle it?”

“i can, i can, i can —“ you chanted, your head swimming. you felt billy’s hands spread your ass, kneading the flesh in his hands. his cock slipped in through your folds until he bottomed out, pressing his hips firmly against your back side.

with billy’s mouth still so close to your ear, he rasped, “sucked my cock into you, doll. couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

you arched your backside into his hips, eagerly hoping to meet every thrust. billy had once hand holding your hips down, and the other was clutching the soft, supple skin of your throat. you could hear every labored breath of his, mixing with your own. this position was unlike any other: from the back was usually reserved for women of the night, but holding you? in such an intimate manner? with his lips dragging across the skin of your cheek? waiting for how you reacted to his touch?

you were a mess. mud in his hands — dirty and messy and everywhere —needing him to keep you together.

“nothin’ feels better than you inside me, billy,” you whined.

“i know, darlin’, i’ll always take care of you,” he groaned, lips pulling at your ear lobe which sent your nerve endings on fire. “don’t know how you do it t’me. y’let me, and i'll always be back in between these pretty thighs.”

the groan you let out was hoarse in the most feminine way. your hair was splayed out all around you, cascading down your back. with every thrust, your nipples, taut, hit the cool wood of the dresser and mirrored the smallest bit of pain you needed to leave reality. your skin was flushed and tainted with every touch and caress from billy he gave you. when he saw the blush on your cheeks, and the tears staining your long lashes — he could’ve come right then.

his girl. his pure, fucked out, sweet and scary girl. all his. a force to be reckoned with, but the prettiest sight to see. and you were all his.

however, he wasn’t through with you yet.

no. he was so mean, and he knew it — but he didn't care.

not when he had finally had you after so long.

it was right then that billy promised himself he would never neglect you for so long ever again. he knew that no one had ever touched, fucked, or loved you like he did. he knew that you never let anyone even get as close to him as you let him that night, and he would never forget that — nor would he be so careless as being ungrateful.

his girl — flushed, pink, and finally being able to know what it means to be so vulnerable with a man that she would never know an orgasm like this. he would set the fires of hell on anyone around you if it meant that you could feel this free, so wild, so yourself for the rest of your life. he knew what he had to do next.

he pulled out, and flipped you over so you were back against the wall and sitting up. he immediately stepped in between you and pushed your thighs and legs up so your calves would rest on his shoulders.

“need to feel how deep that pussy can squeeze me,” he grunted, pressing his cock into your folds.

you moaned at his words and movements, practically sand at this point. your body was numb and on fire and in water all at the same time — leaving you completely out of control. all you needed, no — craved was billy sending you over the edge. over the edge, please, over, over, over, need it billy, a pathetic mess you were, but neither of you would change it for the world.

billy began pistoning his hips into yours and you immediately leaned forward to grab onto his bulging biceps. you felt every hot breath hit your face with every thrust. the room was so hot, stuffy, humid, and yet you didn’t want it to end. all you could feel was your tight, soft walls squeezing the living hell out of billy and his beautiful cock.

“‘m gonna cum, billy,” you cried, squeezing your eyes shut.

“yeah, ‘cause you’re a good girl f’me, huh?” he bit. “always takin’ everything i give her. takes my cock so well.”

“only for you, baby,” you cried again, throwing your head back against the wall.

“oh — i don’t think so, sweetheart.” his thumb immediately went to your clit, drawing rough circles on the overstimulated rosebud. "i get to see those pretty eyes when you cum."

your body immediately went taut, sitting up. the slight shake of your limbs was apparent to both of you, and you let out little gasps because of how far you were driven from reality. his cock was pounding against that one sweet spot that made your knuckles white and your teeth bury themselves into the plump of your bottom lip.

“can’t,” you cried, tears beginning to flow once more. "oh, baby — i can't, i can't..."

“i know this pussy can handle it,” he bit. “what happened to being sweet, sugar? huh? goin’ back on your promise?”

his words were the last thing you heard before your body fell mercy to uncontrollable ecstasy. your mind, numb, was thrown back and forth between the throws of passion and the pull and push of billy’s hands bruising the flesh of your hips. you pressed your forehead to billy’s, sobbing through your gritted teeth. tears were pushing through your shut, wrinkled eyelids, and all you could hear was billy begging — coaxing that last orgasm out of you.

billy had won the fight, and he had earned every fucking orgasm he had given you that night. he needed it, he earned it, and he would not be denied it. testosterone was mixing with his blood, making his veins pound, and all he could think about how the scary and sweet girl he won a fight for was weak and needy for his touch.

desperate for a comfort that she hd only allowed him to give her.

he detached your foreheads so your faces were almost pressed together, sides of your noses touching. his lips were brushing against yours — but they weren't kissing you, no. instead, they were reminding you of exactly who you belonged to.

“sweetest fuckin’ girl i know.”

"luckiest guy in this whole thing — you get that? all fuckin' jealous of me."

“knows exactly what to do to fuckin’ please me.”

“pussy just won’t stop cumming, sugar? bet you hate me so much, huh?”

with one final pull of pleasure in your muscles, you screamed his name with a sob. a fucking sob. you were drenched in sweat, your own slick, and tears. fucking tears. they were everywhere — down your cheeks, your neck, and all over billy. your hands found the hair at the back of his neck, and you weaved your fingers through the tendrils for stability.

that was when billy’s orgasm hit him: when you were so weak you could do nothing but cling to him and cry for his touch.

the throaty groan that rumbled through his chest was unlike anything you ever heard. it was animalistic — a primal need was satisfied and everything in his body was singing at the release. he clutched your body to his and your skin warmed at the embrace. he delivered three final pumps into your puffy, pink pussy, and you couldn’t do anything besides take it. you didn't want to do anything else besides take it. the sound of his moans sent every hair on your body standing at attention and your fingers were stroking his soft skin for comfort.

“that’s it, baby,” you whispered, cockdrunk. “love when you're the only one that gets to use me like this.”

at that, he knew you'd be the death of him. he accepted it, and he was okay with it. — happy, even.

you were peppering kisses all over the side of his face as he was coming down from his high. a sleepy haze settled over his eyes, but instead he captured your lips into one final embrace.

“this is the second time this evening i’ve had my shit rocked tonight, darlin’, all because of you,” he whispered. “no dull moment with you, huh?”

“never, baby,” you whispered, letting your eyes fluttered closed as you leaned against him.

“good thing you’re mine,” he quipped, pressing a long and hard kiss to your cheek. “never could share a sweet thing like you.”

----

im buzzing after that

love u guys hehe

-L oxoxox

#william bonney #billy the kid #William h bonney #kid antrim #william h bonney x reader #william bonney smut #billy the kid 2022 #billy the kid smut #billy the kid x reader #billy x reader #billy smut #billy the kid imagine #billy imagine #William h bonney smut #tom Blyth #coriolanus x you #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow

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dcxdpdabbles · 7 months

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Any new ideas for congratulations! It's triplets? Love the idea of Jason just freaking out and trying to figure out how to build a relationship with his kids while being made fun of by his family and said kids. Especially if he goes overprotective mode because Danny has clown trauma too and gets snagged by the joker

Jason watches as Danny- his son.- impatiently taps his fingers against the table. His boy's gaze was looking at everything, taking in the big fancy Wayne Mannor with a sort of disinterest he was not expecting of a child so young.

His sister and Brother- both with alarmingly similar names- were also disinterested, but Dani was swinging her legs, and Dan was tapping his spoon and fork against the table in a fast-paced drumming.

It's strange to know he would fidget a lot as a kid but he always resorted to finger tapping. Was the tripples little habit from him? He wonders what else they inherited and what he missed out on seeing.

"I don't understand," Jasmine said, overlooking the contract Bruce's lawyers wrote up. " Why would you want custody now? It's been five years."

"I didn't know." Jason swallows past the lump in his throat as she gives him an unimpressed stare over the paper. He feels Bruce place a hand on his shoulder, and the silent support allows him to continue. "If I have, I wouldn't have ever let them grow up without me."

"Jason doesn't want full custody," Tim cuts in with a soft voice that has tricked lesser men into selling their shares. He and the rest of his family are all sitting across from Jassmin Fenton, as she is carefully lured back to the manor to discuss their next step. "He just wants to be part of his kid's lives and would happily share that with you."

"Not telling him about the kids sort of played into that," Steph mutters tactlessly. Unfortunately, her voice carries, and the woman across from them bristles.

There is a tense moment where he thinks Jassmin is about to curse them all out before she sighs and slumps in her seat. "Well, it wasn't like I had a means to contact you when I found out. You gave me a fake name."

Jason winces. "I sort of forgot I told you my name was Petter."

"Wasn't a total lie" Dani chirps "It is your middle name."

Jasmine rubs her eyes. "Look, Jason, I don't want to stop you from seeing the kids, but this is all too much right now. I'm dealing with a lot right now-"

"You are currently homeless," Damian cuts in, causing Jasmine to stop in genuine bewilderment.

"No, we're not." Dan scoffs. "You were waiting for us at our house. Waiting to ambush us."

"The house that was on the street that Poison Ivy just destroyed," The boy says, showing everyone his phone screen. There, clear as day is, their home is nothing but rumble. Jasmine's face spams, and she quickly checks her phone, paling at what she reads.

"Oh, Ancients. It's gone. It's all gone," She whispers, gripping the phone. The three kids immediately stiffen, watching their mother with strange intensity. Too aware of what this means.

They were mature for their age, and that is never a good thing.

Oh gods. Did his children live on the streets? Had Jason's carelessness hurt his children like his parents have hurt him?

"Mom?" Danny asks and that seems to snap Jasmine out of her spirl.

"Hotel!" She gasps, hands shaking as she quickly starts tapping on her phone. Jason catches a glimpse of her screen and realizes she is making a to-do list. "I have to book a hotel room. Call the insurance company, go and try to salvage whatever we can....what else?"

"You can stay here, Fenton," Damian surprisingly offers. "Until your home is rebuilt"

"We couldn't possibly-"

"Hotels are expensive, and you must focus on other more important needs. Father certainly has the space."

Jason jerks into action. "This will also give me a chance to connect with the kids!"

Jasmine bites her lip, turning to her children. Jason could appreciate that she was willing to include them in big decisions. The three nodded, so she eventually sighs.

"Alright. But only until I can get our housing settled. And I'll pay rent"

Jason would argue but he recognized the look in her eye. She would not be sway from making payments. So he agrees, tapping his fingers on the table in a specific rhythm to make sure his family agrees too.

He knows it pains Bruce- the old man already thinks of the triplets as his grandchildren and the idea of charging them to live with him will kill him.

Jason notices the way Dan's eyes zero in on his tapping and the glance around the family members. He fights a proud grin when realization bleeds into his boy's eyes. He's got a smart one, likely aware of that the tapping is a form of Morse code.

Tim did say- after pulling up all files of the four- that his children had developed insane intelligence. Maybe he should get them tested for certification geniuses.

"Hey Mr. Jason," Dani suddenly speaks up.

"Yes Darling?"

"I suggest you remove your eyes from my mom before I remove them from your face." The little girl even punches her palm in a poor intimidation attempt. His heart melts.

Then his face turns a dark red hue at Jasmine's raised brow. Unwillingly flashes of thier last time being face-to face rise in his mind. He coughs awkwardly as his sons face become as protective as their sister, Dan cracking his knuckles and Danny reaching for a knife.

"Oh yeah" Tim deadpans watching the kids reaction "No need for DNA test. Those are definitely Jason's kids"

He agrees, he just hopes he can show his children he plans on sticking around and being the father they deserve.

No one notices Cass and Steph slip away to deal with Posion Ivy. Jason kinda wants to send her a thank you gift for making it possible to have his family move into the manor.

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #Congratulations! Its Triplets!#the Dannies are protective of Jazz #Jason is more focus on being a dad but he does have a interest in Jazz #Damian is plotting on being the best uncle #The Waynes vs the Custody battle

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taexual · 8 months

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sleepwalking ● 1 | jjk

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers / fluff / angst / smut (in later chapters)

warnings: explicit language, suggestive themes, SLOW BURN

words: 7.5k

chapter 1 ► when i open my eyes to the future, i can hear you say my name

There was virtually not a single person left on the entire fourth floor of the company building, despite it being a Monday afternoon. Normally, two other managers worked in offices adjacent to yours, so the noise in the hallways never settled below a pleasant hum: producers, promoters, and publicists – the three cursed Ps – shuffled in and out, heels clicking urgently against the marble floor.

This funeral silence was unusual, but you knew it was only a calm before the storm.

Rated Riot were going on their first-ever European tour in two days to promote their sophomore album – named aptly, “ready, set, RIOT” – and today was the final day of meetings. Evidently, the executives at Jett Records assumed that the band deserved to have a whole floor to themselves, so everyone else got a half-day, leaving you and the Floor Administrator, Rue, all by yourselves until the band got here.

This unsettling silence was exactly why you heard them arrive as soon as the door of the building opened four floors below. Rated Riot lived up to their name by making themselves heard before they were seen.

As soon as the sharp ding! of the elevator reached you in your office—your door was always open on meeting days, because the four members of one of the most promising rock bands in the world at the moment lacked any sense of direction—you could immediately feel the atmosphere lighten, the previous silence long gone.

“Rue! The apple of my eye!” Hoseok, the drummer and the de facto mood setter of Rated Riot, exclaimed as you listened to the familiar sounds of the band as they exited the elevator and, based on the repeated clicking of shoes in the lobby, momentarily got disoriented.

“Always looking good, Rue!” Jungkook, the vocalist, as well as the new Golden Boy of Jett Records followed after.

“Good to see you again,” Taehyung, the always well-mannered bassist, said. Silence followed and you assumed he shook Rue’s hand.

“Hello,” Yoongi, who was, technically, the guitarist of the band, but, really, played any instrument he could get his hands on, was the last to speak. He’d always been very well-spoken in songwriting, but quieter and more careful in most everyday conversations.

“Welcome, guys,” Rue greeted them. You couldn’t see any of them from where your office was located, but you’ve been in a similar situation countless times before and you could imagine what was happening without needing to witness it first-hand.

Rue would stand up from her seat and point her right hand down the hallway, reminding them—yet again—that they needed to walk down the hall and take a right turn. The members of Rated Riot, in turn, would walk down the hall. At least one of the four of them would turn left instead, causing a pause as the group gathered back together, exchanging confused glances. Then, they would turn back to Rue—who would still be standing there, her right hand extended like a helpful Statue of Liberty. They’d laugh at themselves, nod at Rue, and take the correct turn.

If things were going well, they’d find your office on first try—they’d just need to find the open door and peer inside; your desk was right in front. More often than not, however, they stumbled around, knocking and chuckling to themselves as they continuously interrupted the offices of everyone else, but you.

They were special. Not just because they looked like loose ducklings, separated from the Mother Duck, whenever they entered the company building, but also because, in spite of their own lack of coordination, they still managed to get things done.

And they brightened the day of everyone they came across. Which was almost ironic—as you realised by watching the four of them enter your office—considering the effortless rockstar aura that surrounded them.

Jungkook walked in first. That was typical because he usually did: sometimes because he was the only one who remembered where your office was, but usually because the other members offered him as a sacrificial lamb when they went knocking around every office on the floor in search of yours.

He was dressed in all-black—always—adorned with silver chains and necklaces that often gave you a start when you looked up, because he had a very specific way of entering the room: he seemed to make sure to position himself in just a way that the light, coming in from the window behind you, always reflected off his jewellery and momentarily blinded you.

Sure enough, you blinked, cringing into yourself as the brightness hit your eyes, and when you opened them again, he was already grinning.

“Hi,” he said and the rest of the members followed in after him—a brighter palette of colours.

Even Yoongi, who was the only one who could have given Jungkook a run for his money if you had to count which one had more black items of clothing in their closet, was wearing a beige, loosely buttoned shirt.

Despite that, however, you could tell they were rock artists as soon as you looked at them—all tattoos, piercings, intense eye make-up behind sunglasses, and old band tees—and you stood up, excited to let them know that, finally, every last loose thread had been found and tightened. They’d get to introduce their artistry on a different continent, and you’d make sure it’d go smoothly.

“We’re leaving for Prague tomorrow morning,” you told them once the five of you settled down at the round table in the back of your office. “So, if you were planning a going away party, I strongly advise against it.”

“We weren’t,” Yoongi said, lifting his glass of lemon water—there was a jug on the table—and giving you a reassuring look. “This is the strongest drink I’m having tonight.”

“Thanks,” you said paradoxically enough, but being grateful when the members of the band you managed didn’t get drunk before an important day was part of the job. “I’d also appreciate it if—”

“Hold on a second, though,” Jungkook interrupted—you’d been anticipating it. “I’m going to a gig tonight, Reconnaissance are in town again. And there’s obviously an after-party—”

Despite Reconnaissance being, arguably, one of the most popular rock bands in the world right now, you were definite when you cut him off, “No.”

“—so, I—wait. No?” he paused. “I never miss their shows, you know that. And I don’t get drunk easily. You know that, too.”

“That’s why you drink so much,” you rebutted. The rest of the band members got their phones out, knowing well enough at this point that this would take a while. “And then I have to come get you out of trouble.”

“You absolutely do not have to do that,” Jungkook insisted. “We’ve been through this.”

“Have we?” you argued. “Because I keep telling you it’s my job to keep you from passing out in a dirty bar bathroom, but you don’t care enough to hear me.”

“Well, you’re not very convincing. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll wake up again.”

You were used to having this conversation with him—you’ve argued about this way before he became a singer and you ended up as his manager. And yet, the lax way he said this made you clench your fists.

Despite being mostly introverted, Jungkook did enjoy getting drinks with friends: even if said friends enjoyed his celebrity status more than they enjoyed the drinks.

“And if you don’t?” you threatened. “Rated Riot’s vocalist gets his stomach pumped. A catchy headline.”

“Yeah, man,” Hoseok interjected, putting his phone screen down on the table and crossing his arms. “Doesn’t go well with the vibe we’re going for. Don’t get your stomach pumped.”

“Fine, I—”

“What he meant was, don’t drink so much that you’d need your stomach pumped,” you clarified because Jungkook moonlighted as a Loophole Finder.

“I never have!” he insisted. “Seriously, you treat me like I’m still nineteen. Have some faith.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the other members of the group look up from their phones. The band had only formed a few years ago, so you were the only person in this room who knew what Jungkook was like when he was nineteen. You never spoke about it – that was likely why everyone was so curious.

In any case, Jungkook was wrong. You did have faith—that’s why you spent so many of your off-duty nights driving down deserted streets to pick him up after his asshole friends convinced him it was a good idea to try the biker bar on the outskirts of town, and he’d gotten in an altercation with a burly redneck that was twice his size.

There was no time for that now, not when he was supposed to be on stage in Prague in three days.

“Well,” Taehyung spoke up. “I was thinking of going to the show as well. Not so much the after-party, I have better plans. But, uh, I could come, after all.”

You appreciated the offer, but you knew that these better plans involved him spending time with his girlfriend, Luna, who was going to join him for a few weeks of the European tour, but after that, the two of them were going to be apart for several months.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” you said, not trying very much to hide the hopeful undertones in your voice. Jungkook’s friends felt intimidated by all the members of Rated Riot; they’d be on their best behaviour if Taehyung was there.

“No, I think it might be fun,” Taehyung said. You exhaled quietly and he could sense your gratitude without words. He turned to his younger bandmate. “Should we go together?”

Jungkook groaned and mumbled under his breath, “not if I have to third-wheel again.”

“When have you ever third-wheeled anyone?” you asked rhetorically, but he was already opening his mouth to reply. Quickly, you added, “be careful, is what I’m saying, okay? I am complaining about having to pick you up from all kinds of holes, but if you need me to bring NDAs, I will bring them. So, ask.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, but chose to stay quiet. He knew better now – the one time he did not make anyone sign a non-disclosure agreement after an impromptu, drunken busking session in New York, pictures of him, half-dressed and giving a lap dance to a random, equally as drunk, groupie, were on every rock page on Instagram. Accompanied with detailed retellings of how it came to happen, of course; all of them more ridiculous than the next. Your personal favourite story was that he was recruiting members for a sex cult.

“We’ll call you,” Taehyung gave you a nod, “if we have to.”

“Perfect,” you said, glancing at Jungkook again, even though expecting him to confirm that he, too, would call you if he had to, was wishful thinking.

Every time you reminded him how he needed to start going out with a less destructive crowd, he’d treat his phone like a poisonous snake – and he’d been doing that even before you became his manager. His friends seemed to get their pleasure fix from watching you arrive and rip him a new one, so they were the ones who called you most of the time, always laughing into their phones like true accomplices.

It was funny how Jungkook was the only one who passed out or got so wasted, he ended up on a ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. His friends always walked away unscathed and, usually, only called you by the time they were back in their bedrooms – “when we left, he was ordering mint and honey daiquiris, you should probably go over there and check up on him.”

It was like they loved pushing him into danger and purposefully bringing the two of you together again, and Jungkook either didn’t realise or didn’t care anymore. It’s been a while, after all.

You and Jungkook had been broken up for almost two years when you got the unbelievable offer to manage an up-and-coming rock band. This was over two years ago now and you were only twenty-four back then. Up until that point, you had worked as an assistant manager for various indie artists, so that offer was massive.

You figured the downside that your ex-boyfriend happened to be in this particular band was worth it, considering the huge leap in your career you’d make by accepting this job.

And, for the most part (excluding the first two months that were pure chaos of repressed feelings), you and Jungkook both made this work, drawing a strict line between your relationship before Rated Riot (back when he still had your phone number saved as “❌”) and after he met you again as Rated Riot’s new manager (ironically, now your name on his phone was “❌❌❌”).

You’ve managed Rated Riot for almost exactly two years now, and if you’d asked the band – which you wouldn’t, partially out of humbleness, but also because you were scared – you’d know that they loved working with you as much as you loved working with them. So, in the end, it all really had been worth it.

“Check your emails for the descriptive itineraries,” you continued smoothly enough. The guys at the table put their phones down and returned their attention to you. “Now, who else is coming with us?”

Technically, the band wasn’t supposed to bring anyone – the label was explicitly clear about that. They wanted the first European tour to go “without a hitch” (meaning, without distractions), but you held a more liberal view here.

You didn’t think loved ones coming on the road were a distraction; if anything, they were a firm support mechanism that made touring easier for the artists.

“I know Luna’s staying until the Barcelona show, yeah?” you asked, double-checking the notes on your laptop.

Taehyung nodded, a small smile on his lips at the mention of the girl. “She flies out the next day, yeah.”

“Okay. Who else?”

“Well, Sid and Jude are coming,” Jungkook spoke up and, after seeing your eyes roll back, added, quieter, “and Minjun isn’t sure.”

The three musketeer-wannabes – Sid, Jude, and Minjun – were on speed dial on your work and personal phones, because if Rated Riot had a performance and the vocalist wasn’t there, it was likely those three who were to blame. They were the only ones who knew Jungkook longer than you did, and they seemed to take pride in the fact that they had successfully been causing you headaches for seven years now.

“Sid and Jude,” you repeated, “aren’t worried they’ll lose their jobs if they travel to Europe abruptly?”

“No, they’re cool,” Jungkook shrugged, not catching the mockery in your voice. “I’ll text Minjun right now. Maybe he’ll come when we’re in Poland…”

“I needed confirmation by last week,” you reminded him. “At the latest.”

He glanced at you from his phone and then went back to texting. “So, why’d you ask now?”

“To double-check,” you said. “They’re going to have to book the hotels themselves. Or sleep on the street. Honestly, I don’t really—”

“So, uh,” Yoongi interrupted before another argument could begin, “how many hotels this time?”

“Prague, Amsterdam, and Paris. And, depending on flight time, maybe two nights in London,” you said with an apologetic smile. “Bring your favourite blankets. We’re living on buses for the next three months.”

None of them minded – if anything, you could see a little glitter in their eyes as they listened to you. Being on the road and having to sleep on the tour bus every night was an experience they’d missed. They hadn’t gone on an actual tour in almost a year – as someone who thrived on live performances, they had obviously missed this.

Really, you’ve missed it, too. Rated Riot may have been a riot to look after as their manager – pun fully intended – especially on tour, but they were your riot to deal with.

You liked your job and the challenges that came with it, because, in the end, you overcame most of them: starting with your previous relationship with Jungkook (no one in the band had a problem with it, and the label miraculously seemed not to know about it) and ending with your relatively young age (Jungkook was the only one who had a problem with you being his age, but he had a problem with almost everything).

Hopefully, one day you’d manage to overcome the challenge that was getting Jungkook to open his eyes and realise that the people he surrounded himself with were more groupies than his friends. But all in due time.

“If you have questions,” you said as the meeting approached its’ conclusion, “go right ahead.”

“Wake-up calls,” Yoongi said. “Any possibility of arranging those?”

You smiled – this had been traditional practice ever since you started to work with them.

“I’ll call,” you said and then remembered a particularly frustrating way in which this had backfired. You added, “and keep you on the phone until you’re out of bed.”

Back when you were an assistant manager to a different band, this had been your main task. And, you supposed, if Rated Riot had assistant managers, they’d be the ones making wake-up calls, too – however, the band had only started to live up to their potential now. Before you booked the European tour for them, Jett Records thought they barely needed one manager to begin with.

You’ve made it this far. If the tour went well, maybe you’d get to expand your team as the band gained popularity.

Jungkook felt giddy the whole night. The Reconnaissance show with Taehyung and Luna was a lot of fun, as expected—he’d seen the band five times before tonight, and they never failed to let him down.

When he arrived at the after-party, he was nearly vibrating with excitement—on top of everything, he was going on tour tomorrow and he knew he might lose his mind over it—and this was usually the time when he tended to get reckless.

He did drink a little too much to retain a completely sober mind, but he stayed true to his word and did not wander anywhere or caused any—serious—trouble. You would have said that’s because Sid and Jude weren’t with him, but Jungkook was convinced it was because he simply had great self-control when he put his mind to it.

The only place he went to after the party was his family’s house, so he could say goodbye to his grandma. She probably wouldn’t even hear him—and if she would, then she probably wouldn’t recognise him—but he couldn’t leave to Europe without saying goodbye to her.

He thought he’d take his Katana to the house, but then remembered immediately the last time he got on his motorcycle drunk – his grandma had, literally, smacked him on the back with a rolling pin, yelling about how careless he was. She didn’t say that she hit him out of concern for his safety—that was obvious—and, instead, she focused on how hard he’d worked on restoring the bike after he’d bought it; his first purchase with the money that he made off Rated Riot’s music.

“Don’t you want it to last?” she had said then. She’d been the only person who believed he could bring the bike to life, despite it not having a single properly functioning part, least of all the engine. “You worked so hard on it. Do you want to wreck it in one night?”

Tonight, however, everyone in the house was asleep when he arrived. It was quiet, so he tried to be silent as he went up the stairs to her room—and then knocked over a picture frame after his feet fumbled on the carpet in the hallway. But no one went out to check who was making the noise—which was dangerous, he realised for a brief, semi-sober second; but the house had security, so he figured they were safe from outsiders—and he gently lowered the handle on his grandma’s door, peering inside.

The room was painted in blue hues from the night light next to the bed where his grandma was sleeping. He approached—really trying to be quiet this time—and carefully pulled her comforter up, so she wouldn’t get cold, even though the room felt warm.

It was always warm here and Jungkook had to bite his lip when he realised how much he missed sitting here as a child while dozens of his cousins ran around the house and wreaked loud, childish havoc. How much he missed his grandma reading him books—never children’s stories, he always insisted she read him the thickest, most boring books he could find on her shelves, just so he could stay in her room longer, listening to her soothing voice and feeling her comforting warmth.

Sniffling quietly, he leaned closer to her and brushed a strand of white hair from her face, listening to her soft breathing as she slept, unaware of his presence.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised in a whisper as he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. She didn’t wake. “We will talk again then.”

He knew he��d keep this promise even if she didn’t hear it, even if she didn’t remember. But leaving her room felt painful and he was far less excited now. The alcohol had begun to wear off and heaviness settled in his chest instead. This happened sometimes when he was left alone with his thoughts, especially after he visited his grandma.

He'd come back, he knew he would. But as he glanced at his grandma’s sleeping frame one more time—remembering how she hadn’t called him by his name in months; not one glint of recognition in her eyes when she’d see him—he wondered if he’d have anyone to come back to.

Surprising exactly no one, Jungkook was the only one who did not answer your wake-up call the next morning. Having foreseen this, you’d already called Hoseok, Yoongi and Taehyung – in that order, because the first two took the longest to wake up, and by that time, Taehyung was already awake on his own – and only then attempted to reach the one remaining member.

Fifteen minutes later, you were already dressed and ready to drive over to his house and personally wake him up with an icy bath in bed. And just then, your phone rang – his name as the caller’s ID.

“Look who—”

“Okay, okay,” Jungkook’s groggy voice cut you off before you could greet him with the appropriate sarcastic remark. “I’m awake. Halfway in the shower.”

“I don’t hear running water.”

He responded with a groan first, then shuffling. You waited patiently, balancing the phone on your shoulder as you unlocked the door of your apartment. Finally, you could hear the water start running on the other end of the call.

“Happy?” Jungkook asked, always the brightest of all rays of sunshine in the morning.

“Ecstatic,” you replied, equally as enthusiastically. “Sending a car to pick you up in half an hour. Don’t be late.”

“I can drive myself—”

“No driving when you’re hungover,” you said, not for the first time. “In fact, don’t even go near your Katana.”

He considered several ways to respond to you; first and foremost, defending his beloved, navy-coloured Suzuki Katana with a matte coating, custom-made leather seat covers, golden rims, purring engine, and—anyway. He ended up choosing to respond with a question, “how do you know I’m hungover?”

“I’ve known you for almost ten years,” you replied. “If you go out drinking the night before, you’ll wake up hungover.”

“Well, how do you know I drank that much last ni—?”

“Listen,” you cut him off, hoisting your suitcases over the threshold of your front door. You fixed your phone against your cheek and continued, “how about you take that shower, and we’ll resume this nice little Q&A at the airport?”

“No,” he replied and, in a purposefully exaggerated breathy voice said, “I simply can’t stop talking to you.”

“Hanging up now.”

Jungkook laughed as he listened to the beep, indicating the end of the call. Putting his phone on the side of the sink, he took his shirt off and was about to continue undressing when his phone vibrated and nearly fell off the sink.

Scrambling to catch it, he smacked it against the cupboard and exhaled in relief when he saw that the screen hadn’t cracked. He was expecting a text from you – a threat, in case he’d go back to bed – but it was actually Sid, asking for the time of his flight.

His friends were taking a separate flight out to Prague – they weren’t happy about it and neither was he, but at least they’d get to hang out in Europe eventually – and, obviously, they wanted to know what time they’d meet up and where.

He double-checked the itinerary you’d emailed him, got confused about the time zone difference and texted Sid back.

“Gonna be there the day before the show,” his text said, “jetlag. Sleep. Maybe beer? Catch u there.”

Sid was, of course, delighted to hear the mention of beer and Jungkook snickered to himself before he resumed undressing for his shower—knowing from experience that you wouldn’t be above shipping him to Prague in the cargo section on the plane if he was late to the airport.

As it turned out, for the first time in his life, Jungkook was so terribly jet-lagged, that he did not feel like doing anything – not even drinking with friends – but sleeping.

He slept through the whole layover in Paris – and, consequently, through Taehyung and Luna’s stories about the 5 minutes they got to spend in front of the Eiffel Tower before rushing back to the airport (never mind that it was about 2 AM) – as well as the flight to Prague.

He only woke up on the bus ride to the hotel when he felt something nudging his lips and opened his eyes to find an open bottle of Coca-Cola in your hands as you held it by his face.

“Did you just—” he started to say, but his voice sounded brittle, more a croak than a voice, really. He cleared his throat and tried again, “did you just wake me up by making me sniff soda?”

“It worked,” you replied, nudging the bottle at him again. “Drink. You need sugar. You didn’t eat anything on the plane here.”

“I had that bagel on the flight to Paris,” he mumbled, but sat up properly and took the bottle from you.

“That was a croissant,” you clarified. It was almost cute to see him barely awake. “And I warned you about flying with a hangover. You did this to yourself.”

“I’m fine,” he replied after taking a big gulp of coke. “Not sure which day it is, but other than that, I’m perfect. Do you have anything for headaches?”

Snickering, you nodded. “Yeah, give me a second.”

You went to fetch your carry-on bag and returned with ibuprofen, which allowed him to go back to sleep until you arrived at the hotel. The other members were also in and out of slumber, but that was their own fault. You and the other girls on this tour, which, really, only meant Luna— Taehyung’s girlfriend—and Maggie—the tour photographer—had planned ahead and taken sleeping pills as soon as the plane took off. Meanwhile, every man on this trip thought too much of himself.

By the time you arrived to the hotel and checked in, it was already lunchtime. If this had been your first time travelling with Rated Riot, you would have been beyond surprised to see what effect food had on them: they looked like they'd just returned from the most refreshing vacation in the Caribbean. Lively conversation and cheerful laughter echoed around the table – no one would have guessed that they’d just spent over 13 hours on airplanes. Their recovery was nearly always miraculous.

And, naturally, since they were feeling better, they wanted to do something as soon as the first rehearsal was over. You had far too many things to do before the show tomorrow, so you couldn’t babysit them – again, an assistant manager would have been life-saving – but you knew you’d still have to keep an eye on them.

Taehyung and Luna went sightseeing, but they were the sort who kept you updated on their adventures through pictures, which you were endlessly grateful for. There was never a reason to worry here; if you were a teacher who had to pretend not to have a favourite student, Taehyung would be the student you were pretending about.

Yoongi and Hoseok, initially, went to a record store together, but then split up – one of them returned to the hotel for a nap, and the other one went café-hopping. Those two were also fine – they usually took some members of the crew with them anyway, so you knew that in the worst-case scenario, you’d still have several people you could call to reach them.

Now Jungkook was going to meet up with Sid and Jude, both of whom had, most unfortunately, successfully landed in Prague. The Diabolical Duo would take him out drinking, you had no doubt about it – and this was where you’d have to step in with another warning. You weren’t the angry mother, dragging her children by their ears, but you felt it necessary to remind Jungkook of what was at stake if he allowed his friends to be their usual, obnoxious selves tonight.

However, you didn’t want to ask, so you had to figure out where to find them yourself. You didn’t even have to use the seven years that you’ve known them to deduce two logical, universal-for-all-assholes things: one, Jungkook’s friends wouldn’t be nearly tired enough not to want to drink. Two, they’d be too jet-lagged to look for their usual hole-in-the-wall spot that sold drinks. Therefore, they’d have to settle for the bar of the hotel.

And when you exited the elevator on the ground floor later that night, your assumption was confirmed – you could hear their laughter from where you were standing in the lobby.

You’d texted Jungkook as you arrived, hoping he’d leave his friends and come see you at the back of the bar for a minute, but unfortunately, Sid and Jude noticed you and waved you over with loud cheers.

Embarrassed as the people in booths around you began to turn to look, you swallowed and walked towards the front where Jungkook and his friends were sitting by the bar.

“Wow, it’s been so long!” Jude exclaimed as you approached. In your opinion, it wasn’t nearly long enough, but you only lifted the corners of your lips and did not comment.

“Jungkook, a moment?” you said instead.

“Let’s get you a drink!” Sid suggested as though you hadn’t spoken and extended a hand, clicking his fingers to get the bartender’s attention. “Hey! Can we get some Margaritas here?”

You cringed watching this, but, again, restrained yourself. They could behave like pricks all they wanted; it wasn’t their reputation that you had to protect. Someone else would, hopefully, teach them a lesson.

“Sure,” Jungkook said to you, sliding off the stool. He seemed sober enough to walk without any sort of waddling or stand without swaying, but you could tell by the relaxation behind his eyes, that he was already tipsy.

His friends patted him on the back and whistled as he followed you to a quieter spot in the back of the bar. He shook his head at them—but had a grin on his face, and for that alone you wanted to punch him.

“Can I count on you to take it easy?” you asked, once the two of you were out of earshot. “Not because you’ll make my job much harder if you don’t, but because you have a rehearsal tomorrow at eight, and that’s hard with the jet lag alone, but add a hangover into the mix, and—”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, but you’ve heard this song many times before. It was one of his top hits. “I’m actually tired, so I might have a few and then go straight to bed.”

“Okay,” you said, choosing to believe him, because that was easier than making him sign a contract, swearing not to wake up in a dumpster. “Can you text me when you’re back in your room? So I know you’re not lost somewhere in Prague with Dumb and Dumber.”

His lip twitched in an almost-smile at the nickname, but he resisted – a loyal friend, even if they didn’t deserve it – and gave you a nod.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll text you. And I won’t get lost.”

“Okay—” you started to say and then squinted your eyes at him, realizing. “I meant don’t go wandering the city streets while drunk.”

He snorted and placed a hand on your left shoulder. Gazing into your eyes, he enunciated very dramatically, “I will not get into trouble. Promise.”

You pursed your lips. “You’d better not.”

“I realise what that would mean, believe it or not,” he said, straightening. “Tomorrow is an important day. I’d never do anything to ruin it.”

“I know,” you said. “I trust you to make smart choices. I don’t trust them.”

You pointed at the twosome by the bar – both of them watching you like you were the entertainment of the night – and Jungkook turned to look. Sid and Jude both immediately waved at him. Jungkook waved back and, when he looked at you again, he was smiling softly.

Clearly, he genuinely enjoyed hanging out with those two. You’d never believe that there was anything about them that was bearable—let alone enjoyable—so Jungkook’s weird attachment to them had to come from some sort of weird destructive force inside of him.

“I’ll keep them in check,” he said and then, possibly prompted by the skeptical frown on your face, he felt the need to explain, “they help me relax. If it weren’t for them, I’d probably be shaking from anxiety all the time. Kind of like you are.”

He winked as he said that last part, grinning at his own wit, but you rolled your eyes in response.

“Goodnight,” you said then. “Don’t forget to text me.”

“Are you going to stay up late waiting for my text?” his tone was humorous and it stopped you from leaving.

“Hopefully not,” you said, ignoring the flirty comment that was obviously meant to rattle your composure. “But it’d do you well to remember that I can make life very difficult for you if you disobey me.”

He lifted his eyebrows at this, but did not lose the grin. “Oh? Will I get punished if I—”

“Goodnight, Jungkook,” you said again—louder—and turned away.

You glanced over your shoulder when you reached the archway leading to the lobby and caught him watching you leave—he was still beaming, but he composed himself and nodded when he caught your eye. You nodded back.

Maybe he really would be fine tonight.

And, truly, Jungkook had meant what he’d said – he couldn’t wait for tomorrow and there was nothing he’d do to ruin that. Not even if the smirking faces of his friends prompted him to laugh as soon as he returned to his seat by the bar.

“What do you want, assholes?” he asked, punching Jude on the shoulder as he walked past his friends. As soon as he sat down, leaving Sid in the middle, he took a big gulp of the beer he’d left waiting; only his third one tonight.

“We don’t want anything,” Jude said, still smirking. “What did she want? Another moral how you’re not being a good boy?”

Jungkook rolled his eyes. “No—”

“I was always curious,” Sid interrupted. “Was she like that when you dated, too? You know, always in charge?”

Even before you and Jungkook had settled into a steady enough rhythm of working with each other, neither of you spoke to others about your relationship. Not while you were dating, and not after you broke up. So, all your friends—real friends and whoever the hell Sid and Jude were—essentially knew nothing of your relationship.

And there was nothing he’d tell them now.

It’s been four years since you broke up—plenty of time to move on. Not to mention, you were both (trying to be) professionals. There was no point to bring back the past; there never had been.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jungkook teased, managing to keep the banter going without revealing how the question irked something inside him.

“I would. That’s why I asked,” Sid replied, laughing haughtily. A few heads turned his way. Sid sounded very much like an entitled heir—or an elephant high on helium—when he laughed, especially when there was nothing funny going on. “I mean, you never talked about her to us. Was it getting rid of her that made you who you are today?”

Jude snorted, slapping Sid on the back in a half-supportive, half-warning manner. Jungkook knew that the level of your patience for his friends ranged from Sid (no patience) to Jude (case-by-case), to Minjun (bearable)—and he could see why.

“I didn’t get rid of her,” he said, an edge to his voice. “We broke up and moved on. Did you hear from Minjun?”

Sid laughed again—even louder than before; the glasses behind the bar seemed to clatter.

“Look at him, trying to change the topic!” he wheezed, looking at Jude over his shoulder.

“Leave him be, man,” Jude said and nodded at Jungkook. “So many girls around us and this dumbass is still hung up on your ex, huh?”

Jungkook finished his beer and held the liquid behind his cheeks for a second before swallowing. He caught the bartender’s eye and lifted his empty glass, indicating a refill.

“I don’t think I’m the one who’s hung up,” Sid said with a very knowing look in his eye.

Jungkook looked at him and raised his eyebrows—surprised and momentarily distracted from his drink. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you come to her as soon as she calls, like a puppy,” Sid replied. “So, you tell me.”

“I have to come when she calls,” Jungkook defended. “She’s my manager.”

“Yeah, dumbass,” Jude said, slapping Sid on the back of the head this time. “She’s his manager.”

Jungkook suddenly found himself smiling when he realised that you’d probably consider this the reason why Sid acted the way he did sometimes – permanent brain damage from Jude’s incessant slaps.

“Well, then someone,” Sid said, angrily accentuating the word—the anger was clearly directed at Jude, but the pronoun at Jungkook, “has a fucking crush on their manager.”

“I don’t have a crush—”

Sid spoke over him, “I bet you could never get her to go out with you again.”

Jungkook saw the bartender approach to pour him a drink and he heard Jude scoffing, but he could only blink, taken aback by what sounded like an accusation. “Why—why would I even—why—”

“Oh, see, see?!” Sid screeched, turning to Jude with a triumphant expression. Jude gave him a pitiful look—and looked about ready to give him a black eye, too. “He knows I’m right, it’s why he’s stuttering!”

“Dude,” Jude said slowly. “You are yelling.”

Jungkook cleared his throat, nodding at the bartender as a thank-you and then bringing his refilled glass to his lips. “And I’m not stuttering.”

“You so are, my man,” Sid taunted, patting Jungkook on the shoulder with so much force, the beer nearly spilled from the glass and from his mouth. “Your ass is so whipped, you’re going to be singing at her wedding to some random producer.”

Suddenly hyper-aware that there were several producers on tour with them right now, Jungkook put his drink down and straightened in his seat.

“I’m not fucking singing at weddings,” he said.

“Not yet,” Sid pointed out, grinning. He knew he'd gotten under his skin.

“Okay, come on now,” Jude interjected, leaning back in his seat to be able to see Jungkook. “You promised you’d sing at my wedding.”

“As if anyone would ever marry you,” came Sid’s snide.

“You shut the fuck up,” Jude snarled, but there was no malice behind his bark. “I have more chances of marrying someone than he has of marrying his manager.”

“He—oh, fuck!” Sid was about to argue, but then burst into laughter—so loud and thunderous again, that the bartender was forced to glance over at the security guards by the entrance to the bar. “That’s good! You’re so right!”

“Both of you are fucking idiots,” Jungkook spoke. The edges of his vision were red. “I could get her to go out with me again if I wanted to.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Sid nodded, wiping invisible tears from his eyes. “Big talk.”

“Jungkook, no offense, my dude,” Jude said, leaning forwards this time. “Let him have this one. Sid may be dumber than box of rocks, but he’s got a point here. Forget about her.”

Another insinuation that had Jungkook throwing his head back in frustration.

“There’s nothing to forget!” he groaned. “What the fuck are you even talking about? I just fucking told you I moved on.”

“So why are you getting all riled up, then?” Sid smirked, more and more satisfied with each curse that he provoked out of him.

Jungkook felt even angrier, because he was getting riled up, but he had a good reason for it. He enjoyed banter as much as the next person, but he did not enjoy mockery at his own expense—especially not the kind that involved you.

He snapped back, “because you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

His friends snickered at this – convinced that his irritation only proved the point they were both making – and Jungkook clenched his jaw, annoyed.

“If anything,” he added sharply as he picked his beer up—as if that could somehow distance him from this conversation, “it’s her who’s still hung up on me.”

That was a cheap, childish defence, and everyone by the bar knew it.

“Yeah, right!” Sid cried out, but resisted from laughing again. “We’ve heard her yell at you more times than we can count. You fucking wish she was still hung up on you.”

“Okay, to be fair, Sid can probably only count to five,” Jude added—Sid finally punched him on the shoulder—as he toyed with the paper umbrella on his fourth cocktail; the Margaritas they’d ordered were long gone. “But he’s right, you know? You’d never get her to go out with you again.”

There was pity in Jude’s voice—as if he felt sorry that Jungkook lived in denial, chasing after you and convincing himself that it was only a matter of time before you’d come back to him.

This made Jungkook’s temper vile, his face red, hot, and angry. He slammed his beer back on the table, forcing some of it to spill. “Yes, I fucking would!”

Sid was hiccupping as he laughed.

“Okay, okay, listen—let’s make a proper bet,” he managed. He picked up a napkin from the bar top, then looked around for something to write on it with—not finding anything, he stood up from his seat and leaned over the bar, grabbing a pen before the bartender could notice. “$1000 says you can’t get her to go on a date with you again.”

He glanced at Jude for approval—Jude shrugged.

“I’d suggest $500,” he said. “We don’t want to rob him blind.”

Jungkook’s face remained stoic, prideful.

“Fine with me. But you have no idea what you’re getting yourselves into,” he bit.

“Oh, that’s right, he’s been awfully cocky about the whole thing, hasn’t he?” Sid spoke, addressing his rhetorical question at the bar. He wrote something on the napkin and then lifted it to show the number “4000” to Jungkook. “How about this: Jude and I each pay you $2000 if you win. But if you lose, you give us your Katana.”

Jungkook lifted his eyebrows, the sudden mention of his bike catching him off-guard. Sid came from old money, he could afford fifteen brand-new motorcycles with the change he found in his suitcase, probably.

“How is that fair?” he asked. “Do you even know how much a Suzuki costs these days? It’s not $4000, I can tell you that much.”

“Why should you care?” Sid asked, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You were so confident about winning the bet just a second ago. Scared you’ll lose after all?”

In his defence, Jungkook did hesitate for half a moment. But there was a shit-eating grin on Sid’s mouth that he wanted to wipe off more than anything else, and he downed the rest of his beer in one big gulp—a showcase of his determination.

“Not at all,” he said then. He wasn’t sure if he was lying as he said this, but he had no time to figure that out. He extended his hand at Sid. “Get your money ready.”

Here, he was putting up a front – this wasn’t about the money at all. It was more a thing of pride; they were teasing him, purposefully making fun of him—and he wanted to prove them wrong, regardless if they were actually wrong.

Smirking, Sid shook his hand—cementing the bet between all three of them, as Jude was busy finishing off his cocktail—and was about to say something when Jungkook jumped off his stool.

“Have to go now,” he said, always a show-off with his overly creative comebacks when he was tipsy. “My horoscope predicts a date and a big fortune in my near future. Got to prepare.”

chapter title credits: sleep token, “rain”

special shout-out & thank you to @eleni-cherie who delivered the much-appreciated kicks in the ass, so that i would keep writing. the odds were really against me, so if it weren't for you & our in-depth fanfic discussions, i definitely wouldn't even be writing this note right now, let alone finally starting this story 💜

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#jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bts reactions #bts x reader #bts angst #bts smut #bts fluff #bts rockstar au #bts scenarios #jungkook rockstar au #jungkook reaction #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook fanfic

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darqx · 20 days

Text

Snakes on a post

Another particularly long answer dump since i, once again, have a backlog of things to potentially answer |D

❗️For commonly asked qs please see my BTD FAQ

Got jumpscared with my own old art for a hot minute there LAUGHS.

(For those wondering, the naga doodle from here was attached to the ask)

That is every other Royal that exists in the Nether and also at least some of the demons that challenged him for his Royal title lol.

Believe me, no one was or is more surprised then me XD;

So, the thing about where Rire's ichor manifests is that it kinda exists and doesn't exist at the same time. Meaning that his upper back is where the manifestation point is anchored, BUT it can still manifest with a bit of space in between it and his back hence why it will manifest over his clothes and not through them.

So if you touch where the manifestation point is sans the ichor, than you are just straight up touching his back. With the ichor, he still gets sensory input from the tentacles to his back but it's a lot more soft and muted esp the further away it gets from him. As you've seen implied though, he would feel a very sharp pain if a great deal of damage was done to the ichor where it clusters at the manifestation point, since he'd DEF be feeling that straight in his back lol.

He is definitely a top and the only way he would bottom for anybody is if they somehow forced him to.

Ah i knew i'd answered this a long time ago [finally found it]! Holy crosses (those that have been blessed) can also burn him but they would need to be in contact with him the entire time. Being a Royal he also has more of a tolerance to these than normal demons.

Well, unless said person actually has the undeniable ability to make good on their words, Rire would just stand there rather genially with that little smile he sometimes has and let them finish.

And then he might use them as reverse suggestions for dealing with said person (why would you give him any ideas!!?)

both

In BTD canon it is quite possible that they actually haven't in person. But we are using creative license here haha.

Rire heals a lot faster than a human. Cain is not my character so I don't know how his stacks up.

I've grouped these asks cos they kind of have similar answers - 360° (jk sorry sorry to the second q that is just a very common spelling mistake and I couldn't resist XD; )

Now, even though we mashed all the characs together in BTD, they all actually come from different storylines and so their canons outside the "BTD canon" may differ. This tends to bleed in. With this in mind:

The rules of Rire's canon (eg the concept of Battle Royales and how to become a Royal) don't apply to Cain. Anyway, they don't live in the same place either.

Cain is canonically the oldest and most OP character in BTD lol so yes he is stronger than Rire - you might've noticed, but Rire is never in the same drawing as Cain voluntarily. I play with this along with the "natural weakness" aspect - which I've also referred to as scissors-paper-rock rules XD Basically; demons beat humans, angels beat demons (purely because demons have weakness against holiness).

It would (be insane) but I hope you are not looking at me to fulfil this :d

Not really

His coronation day is a public holiday in his sector so yes XD

Aww thank you very much for your interest! ≧(´▽｀)≦ It's really cool that some of you guys want to actually fund such a thing - I'd have thought you'd have enough of him killing you in BTD1 XD Unfortunately, I have no plans for a Rire game at the moment as I'm working on a webcomic which looks like it will take up all my free time (that being said, he will be in the webcomic at some point).

Nope! Although i can kinda see why you might think that lol.

Whatever that one is where he doesn't particularly care what someone else identifies as. It really makes no difference to him or how he will act.

There are viruses in the Nether that if contracted could potentially kill you, yes. Part of being a Royal is becoming a lot more robust than normal Demons though. As for if/when Rire dies, I dunno maybe either in a Battle Royale somewhere thousands of years down the line or by old age (which is rare for a Royal but not impossible if you play your cards right).

If you are asking if he has a heat/rut of some sort, he does not |D

#boyfriend to death #art #rire answer dump #answer dump #doodle #long post #decided to actually redesign what a naga rire would viably look like since the old design was bad XD

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bigfatbimbo · 18 days

Note

the vees (individually or together) with a reader who plays guitar/an instrument? i love your vees x dom reader series!

The Vees x Musician Reader Headcanons —

a/n — This is SO ME. Quick lore drop, I’ve played guitar and piano for about 6 years !!

warnings — very suggestive, the vees are horny little shits, technically didn’t clarify and instrument but guitar is kinda implied, also dom reader implied

summary — The Vees with a reader who plays an instrument.

Vox would be very enthusiastic about your talent. The main reasons being that he can capitalize the hell out of it, and it’s incredibly hot to him.

He would definitely offer, many, many times, to have you perform on air in front of an audience. He could get you into countless Voxtek talk shows, and game shows, all to have you perform.

And yes, this does mean he gets to watch you play your instrument. Seeing your fingers move so fast, so gracefully, so precisely on beat, it definitely fucks with his head. He absolutely watches you practice on camera. And he is VERY SOCCER MOM LEVEL INVESTED in all of your performances, think episode eight Vox.

Also, Vox canonically plays electric guitar. However, in recent years, with being a huge CEO, he hasn’t had much time for his hobby. So maybe you drag him off his ass and encourage him to play with you. He honestly forgot how much he enjoys it.

Velvette would probably have similar feelings to Vox. Like she would absolutely use your gift to her advantage.

She would literally make you do music for her fashion shows. Live music just gives it an extra flare, and it’s especially fun for her to watch you indulge in your very attractive talent.

Watching you have that much focus and put so much soul into something would literally get her going so fast. Like she doesn’t wait five seconds after the show to pull you away from the crowd and make out with you.

She would definitely request songs for you to play, just in every day life. Like pretty randomly too; she’d hear a song on tiktok and look over and be like, “Can you play that? Try.”

Valentino would be very unapologetic in how horny your skillset makes him. Like it would be very unfortunate anytime he’s around and you’re playing.

He’d be all up on you, tracing his fingers up and down your back while you attempt to keep focus on your instrument. He’s making remarks the entire time, “Wow, you’re so talented with your hands, y/n. What else can they do?”

Also, yeah he’d attempt to have to play music for his pornos but… he gets very distracted and filming gets cut short. It happens every time, and yes, it is INCREDIBLY annoying and uncomfortable for you and everyone else.

If he heard someone say literally anything bad about the way you played, he would literally shoot whoever said it. Like on the spot, no thoughts, just boom.

All the Vees would be all over you, if we’re going with my collective dom reader au. Like they’d go see you perform, and just bombard you with attention afterwards.

Yes, they all got you different flowers and yes, before they compliment your performance they need to know who’s is your favorite. But then they are complimenting you left and right, it’s honestly probably overwhelming. But the thought is nice.

Well, usually. Sometimes the thought is who can get fucked by you first while you’re all sweaty and hyped up on adrenaline from the crowd.

But they would literally have like front row seats, and be shouting out at anything mildly impressive riff you play.

And if you play a love song, they’re all arguing about who that was directed at because they are all very convinced it’s themselves.

other Vees content here, here, and here !

Also plugging my ao3 account. If you like chaggie and music, you’ll like the fic i’m working on. I’m right here, for future reference.

#hazbin hotel x reader #inbox open #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel smut #vox x reader #valentino x reader #velvette x reader #the vees x reader #dom reader

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katakaluptastrophy · 4 months

Text

You know how it goes: through some incredible circumstances, God and a young woman living under the shadow of an oppressive empire have a metaphysically unusual baby who grows up to be a general nuisance, won't stay dead, and sports a few additional holes...

It's the third Sunday of Advent and I'm a little concerned Bible studies for weird goth kids might be turning into a series... Let's talk about the Blessed Virgin Mary and Commander Awake Remembrance of These Valiant Dead Kia Hua Ko Te Pai Snap Back to Reality Oops There Goes Gravity.

Wake was probably never described as "gentle", "meek", or "mild", but there are a few similarities: distinctive outfits, snazzy shrines, commitment to putting down the mighty from their seats, and of course babies with great and terrible destinies niftily conceived without sex.

On the topic of conception, let's clear up a common, uh, misconception: the term "immaculate conception" does not refer to Mary becoming pregnant with Jesus. It's Mary's own conception.

Why are we talking about how Mary was conceived and what does this have to do with lesbian necromancers?

To answer that question, we have to go back further still, way before Mary's conception. Back to these guys and their unfortunate snack cravings:

Remember how last time we talked about the concept of being in a state of grace? Well, the Christian read on Adam and Eve is that a state of grace was, as it were, the factory setting for humanity. They were fully in tune with God, there was no sickness or death, there was no sin. Until, that is, the whole unfortunate business with the apple. The first sin. The world is fundamentally altered. Humanity is expelled from paradise, burdened with sin, death, disease, patriarchy, and work. Worse, this sinful human nature turns out to be sexually transmissible: every human being is born tainted by this "original sin" of Adam and Eve.

This is why Catholicism is so big on baptising babies: even if they're many years off being able to commit any sins themselves (a sin has to be something consciously chosen and understood), they're still contaminated by that original sin of Adam and Eve. Baptism is understood to erase original sin, wiping the slate clean.

Bear with me, we'll be back to necromancers soon I promise. Have a picture of Mary beating up the devil while an angel holds baby Jesus:

OK, but what does Adam and Eve's danger snack have to do with Mary's conception?

The "immaculate conception" refers to the idea that unlike every human being between Adam and Jesus, Mary was conceived without the contamination of original sin. The rationale for this is complex, but essentially boils down to something like the saving power of Jesus not being bound by piffling things like time and space and thus saving his mother before her own conception and allowing himself to also be conceived and born sinless.

But the important bit is that something specific about Mary means that she is uniquely able to be pregnant with Jesus.

You may be starting to guess where this is going...

Because while unconventional pregnancy seems to have been the plan from the get-go for Jesus, it was not with the artist formerly known as The Bomb:

“I had the baby,” said Wake. “The baby I’d had to incubate myself for nine long fucking months, when the foetal dummies these two gave me died.”

“Oh, God, it was yours,” said Augustine, in horror. “I thought you’d used in vitro on one of Mercy’s—”

“I said they all died,” said Wake. “The dummies died. The ova died. Only the sample was still active, no idea how considering it was twelve weeks after the fact, but I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“So you used it on yourself,” said Augustine. “Anything for the revolution, eh, Wake?”

We have to assume the foetal dummies plan was hatched by Mercymorn, a brilliant scientist with a myriad of experience. If the problem encountered by Wake were as simple as Lyctoral infertility, I suspect Mercy would have spotted that long before.

But what do Wake and John have in common that Mercymorn or any of the other ova-having residents of the Mithraeum did not? They are both (to some extent at least) factory setting humans: unlike everyone else in the Dominicus system, they never died and were resurrected, nor are they the descendants people who were. John's abilities, while macabre, are not straightforwardly the necromancy otherwise practiced in the Houses. That necromancy is a direct result of one specific act of taking that resulted in the very nature of the world changing: a thanergetic system, inhabited by human beings who, necromancer or not, are fundamentally tainted by thanergy and by the after effects of that action of John's. You might call it a sin. An indelible sin. He does.

It's not an exact parallel, but necromancy certainly occupies a space not dissimilar to original sin: the result of a single action, tainting every descendant of its progenitors regardless of their actions of abilities.

And then enter Gideon, born in space away from the thanergetic energy of the Dominicus system to a mother lacking the 10,000 year intergenerational burden of the resurrection and necromancy. The child of Jod, born to die.

#the locked tomb #tlt #tlt meta #awake remembrance of these valiant dead #commander wake #gideon nav #john gaius #Sin will not survive the second coming of Jesus so what does that say about necromancy at the end of the series?

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depravitycentral · 4 months

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Yandere! Shouta Aizawa NSFW Profile

Yandere! Shouta Aizawa x fem! reader

Tw: mentions of dub-con, masturbation, stalking, kidnapping, voyeurism, toys, clothed sex, hair-pulling, this one is actually kind of soft and feels less yandere-y to me so sorry that this one is a little less creepy than normal, Shouta is a pleaser and lives for your praise, he gets off with a blanket you gifted him, very mild somnophilia, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 12K

HABITS

In general, Shouta isn’t that perpetually horny. He’s a busy man with constant stress weighing on his shoulders; working as a pro while being a full-time teacher leaves him drained during the few times he gets to relax, and it’s a lot of work to get himself hard, to get off, and to clean up afterwards.

It’s just not worth it to him – especially because it’s a bit sad to be left with just his fist and some low-grade, unrealistic porn as a man in his thirties, isn’t it?

He doesn’t have a partner, and hasn’t had one for quite some time – there was a girl a decade or so ago, but she didn’t last long, and the sex was subpar at best. And so, Shouta finds himself neglecting any sort of sexual activity most nights that he’s off work, not bothering to get himself all worked up and fuck away some of that pent up stress.

Except, then you show up.

His feelings for you form, and although it takes a long time for them to solidify, it takes an even longer time for them to turn lewd, any sort of sexual thought involving you not really taking root into he’s much further into his obsession.

This is for a few reasons – firstly, he just doesn’t have that high of a libido, and while seeing you naked when he’s watching from outside your window certainly gets him hot and bothered, he isn’t constantly fantasizing about bending you over and fucking you until you’re screaming his name.

(Not never, just not constantly – and at inopportune moments, sometimes. Moments where he really should be focused on the mountains of paperwork on his desk, not focused on how the desk is the perfect height for you to be standing on your tiptoes, ass poised out and your chest pressed against the hard wooden lacquer, your soft skin glistening in the dim light and your pretty thighs twitching and quivering as his fingers press deeper and deeper and deeper -)

Secondly, Shouta’s already feeling such crippling guilt regarding his infatuation with you that adding on overt sexual fantasies for you would push him too far. He already hates that he thinks of you constantly, that he’s always idly worrying about your safety, wanting to know your location and who you’re with and what you’re doing.

He already dislikes that he can’t stop himself from swinging by your apartment at the end of his patrols, making sure that you’re in your bed asleep, safe and sound and looking so fucking pretty in the moonlight. He doesn’t like how wrapped around your finger you have him, so how could he justify wringing himself dry to you, depraved fantasies running through his mind as he imagines the way you’d cream on his fingers, how you’d clench down on him so, so tightly when he fucks you just right?

Shouta can’t – it would breach too many protocols of trust, the friendship formed between the two of you precarious enough as it is with Shouta’s obsessive, disturbing feelings. He doesn’t think of you sexually, banishing every thought from his mind the moment it appears.

Or, at least, that’s what he wishes could be true – unfortunately, his hormones get the better of him sometimes, leaving him rolling around in his bed, cock painfully hard and his mind insistently flashing images of you changing behind his eyelids.

He’s embarrassed, more than anything, that he doesn’t have enough self control to successfully halt any lewd thoughts of you – it’s pathetic, really, because is he so desperate to touch you that he literally can’t stop himself?

Is he really so painfully, pitifully aroused by you that just the mere idea of you licking your lips or smiling at him can get him breathing hard, thankful for the bagginess of his pants?

He hates that the answer is yes, that his body is really that pent up and eager to get you under him, naked and soft and pretty, all for him and only him. It’s demoralizing, but Shouta only has so much restraint – he tries to hold out for as long as he can, really. He swears.

It’s torture at first, popping melatonin and chugging Nyquil, hoping he’ll be able to pass out and sleep off the horniness, but it never quite works. Instead, his dreams are full of you – on your knees, sucking him off so well that your cheeks are literally hollowing, drool spilling down your chin, a string of saliva and precum connecting your puffy lips to his swollen tip when you pull off for air.

He’ll dream of you on your hands and knees, peeking back at him with glassy eyes and biting your lip, clearly embarrassed as you ask him to touch me, please Shouta, I need you…

He always wakes up with soiled sheets, his entire pelvis sticky with now cold cum, and it becomes very, very difficult to look you in the eye that day, only able to conjure up the image of you all tied up in his scarf, your breasts perfectly framed and your thighs spread, slick covering them as you whine his name, desperate for him.

And though he tries to stave off, not letting himself actively fantasize about you sexually while he’s conscious, a particularly rough day of teaching and patrol have him giving up, throwing caution to the wind as he decides that he needs this, that a release is the only way he’ll be able to stay sane.

In the past, the few times he’s masturbated he’s always just fucked his fist, not needing anything too fancy. But for you, something about that feels disrespectful – it’s stupid and he knows it, but the idea of just thrusting into his hand over and over until he eventually spills all over his knuckles seems tacky, low-class, almost offensive to your image, like he’s tarnishing you and the way he idolizes you.

So, he relies on the next best thing he can scrounge up – you’d given him a blanket a few months ago, a birthday present that he’d tried desperately to cover his blush at receiving.

(Hizashi had pitched in, helping you decide which color and texture, having an expert’s opinion so that it would be perfect for the dark-haired man – a level of detail and attention to his desires that still, to this day, makes his heart flutter to think about. You cared, wanting him to be happy, and just that thought leaves his chest swelling with pride, his palms getting a bit clammy and his cheeks feeling too hot.)

He’s kept the blanket on his bed, using it every single night for the limited sleep he manages to get, making sure the material is always, always touching his body. It’s the only way he really feels close to you – the blanket was for him, sure, but you’d touched it, picked it out, held it in your arms while Shouta was dumbly gaping at you and struggling to utter out a strained thank you.

(If he tries hard enough, he thinks he can even smell you on the fabric – it’s not as good as if you were actually here with him, laying in his arms, touching him, but if he strains enough and pretends hard enough, there’s the faintest whiff of you.)

He’s gulping, throwing his uniform off and leaving it crumped up in the corner, before gently, daintily grabbing the edges of the neatly folded blanket (a stark contrast to the harsh pulling and tugging at his costume he’d thrown off moments earlier) and laying it out on the bed.

He lets out a shaky breath, gulping, before tying his hair back into a messy, low ponytail, excitement flitting through him because he’s really about to do it. He’s really about to touch himself to the thought of you, allowing himself to fully indulge in the fantasy that is you, the fantasy that is imagining the way you’d feel against his body, your lips against his own, your hands in his hair and your thighs around his waist.

He’s moving slow as he settles onto his knees on the bed, staring down at the blanket with furrowed brows. This isn’t quite right – the image of you laying before him, body nude and your legs clenched together in anticipation feels very, very right, but there’s something missing.

A thumb comes down to idly rub at the blanket, tracing small circles against the material as he wracks his brain. What’s missing? How can he make this feel like you, like it’s your body he’s touching, like it’s your perfect little cunt he’s fucking?

He’s not sure, but suddenly it hits him – your body, just as he’d been dreaming about.

The blanket doesn’t look enough like you – it’s two dimensional, flat and having no surface area to grip onto, nothing for him to fondle and touch and squeeze.

It needs to have more of your shape – quickly, methodically, he’s reaching down, grabbing handfuls of the blanket and bunching it up, forming a shape that vaguely resembles your torso. He’s careful to get the exact shape of your waist and hips, making sure to leave mounds of crumpled blanket to represent your breasts, even creating a little space between your thighs that represents something soft, something warm and wet and tight – your precious little pussy, something Shouta would literally kill to feel.

He gulps as he looks down at his work, the atmosphere suddenly seeming much thicker, heavier, hotter, because now, the solid colored blanket seems like you, at least having your body shape and your vague proportions. Aizawa lets his hand run down what would be your side, pausing right over your pretend hip.

Fuck, he mutters under his breath, before shifting forward slightly, letting his weight rest on his knees and one hand as he carefully guides his cock to the space between your crafted thighs.

He’d been careful to leave a fold in the fabric, a pouch of sorts – a place for him to push into, slowly spreading the two layers, trying to mimic the way your pretty lips would part for him, your walls sucking him and clenching him nice and tight, wanting to keep him inside and never let him pull out.

Shouta curses as he rubs his tip against the fabric, noting with a small, far-away sense of disdain that there’s precum smearing all along the fabric, certainly leaving a stain that he’ll have to scrub out later. His thumb comes up to gently swipe along where he imagines your cheek to be, even feeling phantom sensations of warmth, of softness, just as you’d be.

He leans down slowly, throat bobbing, before letting his eyes flutter closed, his lips pressing against the blanket – right where he imagines your own to be. The kiss is soft, gentle, heartfelt, his tongue flicking out to lick against the blanket material, groaning and wishing it was your own tongue meeting his, your own spit coating his lips.

As he gets closer, body inching further down until his chest pressed up against what’s supposed to be your breasts, he shuffles his hips forward, pushing past the fabric fold and into you. He groans, pulling back from the kiss to rest his forehead against where he imagines yours to be, letting his eyes shut tight, nearly squeezing them closed as he slowly rocks his hips.

The friction of the blanket feels a bit strange, not how you’d feel, but it’s better than nothing – and it’s so, so very easy to imagine you instead; your warm, slick walls, the way you’d squeeze at him when he brushes up against your spot, the way your legs would wrap around his hips, hooking your ankles and pulling him in closer, begging him to go deeper. He sighs out, biting his lip and furrowing his brow, the pleasure slowly beginning to mount.

He imagines the way you’d moan his name – he bets you’d be airy, a soft sound that gets his hips stuttering ever so slightly because he knows the way his name would sound spilling from your lips would be heaven, the sultry Shouta upturned at the end as he fucks into you just the slightest bit faster.

His hips pick up their pace at the thought of you crying his name, back muscles flexing as he slowly gets faster and faster, the slow, sweet, intimate pace he’d set blown to dust in the wake of his thighs propelling him forward, hips flying and smacking into the blanket so quickly and harshly that the mattress is shaking, bedframe slightly pounding against the wall.

Shouta groans, low and deep, imagining the way you’d beg him to go faster Shouta please, please please please you feel s’good, wanna come for you! Memories of seeing you touch yourself flash behind his closed eyes, seeing the way your face screwed up in pleasure, how you gripped at your pillows and bucked your hips and trembled and arched your back and gasped and came –

Shouta’s chanting your name, his hips sinking into the fold of the blanket over and over, and quickly he’s bringing a thumb down to rub frantic, uneven circles where he imagines your clit to be, desperate to get you coming, wanting to time your orgasm with his.

Fuck, come for me baby, give it to me, god you’re s’damn tight fuuuck - !

His eyes fly open as spurts of warm, milky cum spray from his tip, getting all over the blanket and making his hips stutter and jerk, the sensation of coming in something leaving his arms feeling weak.

He’s panting, still saying your name under his breath, dark hair falling around his face as his thighs flex and clench, the last bits of cum dribbling from his tip and leaving him feeling spent. He can’t help but imagine the way you’d take him, if you’d thank him for giving him everything he has to offer, if you’d hold onto him until you both caught your breath, if your walls would still flutter and clench sporadically even after you’d come down from your high.

He closes his eyes again, heart practically in his throat as he leans down once more to kiss the blanket, tongue sneaking out and wet noises filling the room as spit and drool get slobbered all over the fabric.

He’s still out of breath, panting when he pulls back, but it’s not until he leans back onto his knees and takes a good look at the blanket that his high begins to fade, the reminder that you’re not really there making a sharp feeling dig into his gut.

He stares for a moment, before sighing, slowly pulling out of the blanket and grimacing when he feels cooling cum sliding across his cock, the white mess all over the material and smeared across his skin.

He brings a hand to his forehead, covering his eyes and sighing. What was he doing?

He’d just fucked a blanket – a gift, from you no less – while pretending it was you, his desperation to get you naked and in his grasp strong enough to make him lose him mind.

Pathetic, he was truly pathetic.

He’s ashamed as he throws the blanket into the laundry, hoping the cum stains will come out with all the bleach he’d thrown in alongside it, and as he chugs his coffee, deciding to get to school early and try to collect himself, Shouta can only sigh.

You make him such a fucking fool – a freak, perverted and creepy and gross, and as soon as he catches sight of you in the staff loungeroom, looking all pretty in your simple blouse and slacks, he knows he’s a lost cause, every bit of self-respect falling by the wayside.

Because as soon as he looks at you, all he can think of is how you’d look underneath him, stuffed full of his cum and a dazed, fucked-out expression scrawled across your face. All he can think of is how you’d be absolutely perfect to sink his cock into – and as he darts off to the nearest restroom, desperately trying to get rid of the insistent, raging erection in his pants, he can only sigh, letting his head hang.

He really is a fucking creep.

FAVORITE BODY PARTS

Your thighs

Shouta isn’t one to sexualize women’s bodies. He’s a man with urges, sure, but he’s never had trouble separating sexual attraction from respect for his female friends, even for strangers in the streets. A body is a body, and they aren’t made to be stared at and ogled.

Except where you’re concerned, of course, because while Shouta tries his hardest to not sexualize every thought of you, it’s difficult to hold himself back when he’s so utterly attracted to every single part of you.

It’s hard to not fixate and stare and want when he looks at you, and so while he gives a valiant effort to not obsess over your figure in a less than innocent way, eventually he can’t help himself.

And Shouta discovers that while he loves every inch of you, there’s something about your thighs that drive him absolutely fucking crazy.

Maybe it’s their shape – pretty expanses of your skin that look perfect to grope and squeeze, the soft curves making him salivate in a way that feels almost predatory.

Maybe it’s the way they feel – your skin is so soft, especially if he moves his hands further up, between them, nearing somewhere warm and wet and throbbing.

Maybe it’s the way they feel when they’re around his waist, caging him in and keeping him right where he wants to be, and when they’re around his head?

(Don’t mention the instances where he’s orgasmed just from simply eating you out – it’s embarrassing, and while he won’t deny it, he will change the conversation and pray you don’t see the soft, barely-there pink blooming on his cheeks.)

Maybe it’s even the way you respond when he touches them – how you jump a little bit, his calloused hands feeling a bit cold as they skim along the sides, thumbs pressing into your inner thighs, a comforting finger brushing along the juncture of your legs and pelvic bone.

He’s not entirely sure, but one thing he does know is that just seeing your bare thighs is enough to get him gulping, his dark gaze struggling to move away as he watches the area jiggle and flex while you walk, every step you take only making him want you more and more.

Even before he’s stolen you away, he’s fantasizing about your thighs – he’s bought more pairs of stockings and thigh-highs than he’d care to admit, keeping them neatly organized in a specific drawer in his closet, often fingering the material and biting his lip.

(The image of you wearing them makes him drool, the idea of the top hem squeezing your thigh and making a little bulge appear right above the socks getting his hand wandering down his torso, his fingers making quick word of his belt buckle because fuuuck, would you keep them on while he throws your legs over his shoulders and absolutely destroys you?)

He’s always taking extra time and care to properly worship them when he’s got his head between your legs, letting his lips and tongue trail all along the soft skin, leaving teasing bite marks and hickeys and feeling the way you tremble under his touch because he’s so close yet so far from where you need him.

He’s always got a hand on your thighs when he’s fucking you, his fingers clutching and digging into the skin while he shuts his eyes tight and wills himself to last longer, to prolong the moment, to give you more more more, just like you deserve.

He just really, really likes your thighs, so don’t be surprised when he’s got his hand casually placed on one when you’re watching a movie together, his gaze purposefully not looking at you because you can’t see how flustered he is from touching your clothed thigh in a non-sexual context.

You can’t.

His hands

In general, Shouta lives to please you in bed. He’s by no means submissive (though he could be persuaded if you really, really wanted to be in charge for a night), but he’s a caring partner in every possible sense of the word – sex is about you, and any pleasure he gets from it is just a fun bonus.

And because of this, he takes every opportunity to learn new ways to please you, trying everything from teasing your clit with the tip of his tongue, buying a collection of vibrators, even letting you grind against the expanse of his thigh.

But his favorite method by far is using his fingers on you. They’re thick, with scars and callouses dotting the rough skin, but they’re so gentle with you, always touching you like you’re something fragile and delicate and breakable. He's careful with you when he’s rubbing circles over your clit, the pressure consistent enough to feel good but not too hard, sometimes even teasing you. He’s gentle when he’s running his fingertips over your folds, occasionally dipping in just a hair to feel the warm wetness he wants so very badly to sink into.

(He often sucks in a short, nearly inaudible gasp when he does this, his Adam’s apple bobbing because god you’re wet, and he’ll pull back to lick off his fingers, letting his eyes flutter closed as he tastes you.)

He particularly enjoys fingering you – he’s dexterous, and he always goes slow and purposefully, learning quickly exactly where you like to be touched. He’ll angle the pads of his fingers against that spot inside of you that makes your toes curl, his lip caught between his teeth as he watches your face twist up, hearing your pretty sighs and moans, feeling the way you clench around him, your hips twitching a bit as if to get him deeper, to get more of him. He keeps his pace sensual, the come-hither motion slow and controlled, all the while keeping his thumb pressed firmly against your clit, drawing shapes that stay just consistent enough to get you closer and closer.

All the while, the other hand is gently working at your clit, his fingers expertly getting the exact pressure and pattern you like, making your thighs twitch and your little gasps and mewls louder and more insistent.

And when he’s not actively working between your legs, Shouta’s always got his fingers pleasuring you in other ways – gently kneading at your breasts, pinching and rolling your nipples between a thumb and index finger, groping and squeezing at you like a man starved as his tongue flicks and sucks at your clit.

They’re grasping a handful of your thigh and squeezing reassuringly as he’s fucking you, his pace slow and deep, making sure you feel every possible inch of him as he folds you in half.

He’s even slipping a thumb against your tongue when you take a break to breath, your chest heaving and your fingers wrapped around his girth, a groan slipping from his lips because god, the sight of his precum dribbling down your chin is enough to get his cock twitching on its own. He’ll press down on your tongue, his lip caught between his teeth as you stare up at him, the sight indescribably erotic, a few praises falling from his mouth about how good you look, how pretty you are, how well you take care of him.

(All the while, he’s feeling you suck on his thumb, eagerly running your tongue along the skin and even swallowing around it to give the extra suction. Shouta curses under his breath, and suddenly stands, grabbing you by the hips and forcing you to bend over the chair he’d previously been sitting on, roughly spreading your legs and immediately diving in to lick and suck against your clit, a finger slipping inside of you because he just can’t not touch you after watching you drool all over him.)

He just likes to make you feel good, and while he enjoys pleasuring you with his mouth, nothing can beat the way you moan and shake when he’s working his fingers on you, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you until you’re incoherent, your poor body trembling, the only thing you can think of him him him.

DRIVE

Though you inspire more sexual desire and drive within him than he’s experienced for the last twenty years, Shouta is still not absolutely desperate to fuck you at all times.

Sure, the idea is nice – being intimate with you is something he craves, but nine times out of ten this intimacy takes the form of simply holding you. Sitting beside you with your head resting on his shoulder, a blanket covering the both of your bodies as you snore softly and cling to him in your sleep, showing that you feel safe with him, that you trust him to protect you.

(Shouta is normally able to keep his staring in check and not be too terribly overt with it, but in times like these he allows himself to openly gape at you, those dark eyes of his examining every detail of your face. Every small wrinkle, every hair and mole, even every lash and baby hair that frames your cheeks. You’re just too damn pretty, and like this he can commit every last detail to memory – as if he hadn’t already, as if he doesn’t sleep at night with your face dancing through his dreams, as if he sees flashes of you in everything he does. As if he isn’t thinking of you as unconsciously as he breaths.)

He generally imagines sleeping with you (and genuinely just sleeping – curling up with you in his arms and his face buried next to your neck, the scent of your body and shampoo filling his senses and making him breathe out something that walks the fine line between a sigh and a moan), the peacefulness and tranquility of just having you close to him in the safety of his protection and home.

It’s a type of intimacy that gets Shouta red in the face, the idea so domestic and taboo and foreign that he comes to crave this on a near constant basis, serving as motivation and a way to calm himself when his students are out of control or a villain is being particularly difficult.

But of course, Shouta is only a man, and men have needs – no matter how he tries to keep his obsession with you as innocent as it possibly can be, sexual thoughts trickle in through the cracks of his mental fortitude and leave him with a phantom wonder of how you’d taste – would you be sweet, like the jellies Hizashi had gotten him? Would you be rich and savory? He hopes you’d have a strong musk to you, a smell that he can breathe in and think of you, something that gets his salivating and his body growing hot and his fingers restless and his breath heavy and labored and god –

He’s hard before he knows it, immediately covering his face with his hands because it’s equal parts embarrassing and terrifying how easily you manage to affect him, just the simple thought of you getting his entire body on edge.

And so he eventually takes up masturbation with you in mind, feeling dirty and disgusting each time he recovers from his orgasmic high, making it more and more difficult to look you in the eye without thinking of all the depraved things he’d imagined doing with you mere hours before.

But Shouta thinks he can survive – sure, he wants to fuck you, needs to kiss you, has to see the face you make when you’re coming, but he can control himself. He won’t succumb to the urge to break into your (frustratingly poorly protected) apartment to run his fingers along your pretty skin and fuck his fist mere inches from your face, no matter how badly his body yells and begs him to. He won’t cross this boundary – it’s hypocritical to think of himself not as a pervert at this point, but it’s the only way he confidently resists you.

Except, then you go and force him into kidnapping you – and now you’re with him nearly all moments of the day, your scent in his bedroom (though he knows you never willingly enter there, and he doesn’t force you to), your body always just a heartbeat away, the idea of holding you and kissing much, much closer now.

And even with the constant temptation, Shouta manages to hold out – it’s torture, really, forcing himself to be a good man and giving you privacy, to not touch you, to not press himself against you and feel the contours of your body against his own, but it’s worth it to him. He can’t force anything – he doesn’t want to scare you, and he has this horrible, sneaking suspicion that if he propositioned you, you’d feel too afraid to say no.

And just the thought is enough motivation to keep him from touching you, to keep him celibate from you purely by his choice – even if it starts affecting him physically.

(He’d never, ever admit it to you, but his lust for you becomes so extreme that if he’s gone more than a week or so without having touched himself to the thought of you while you’re under his care, his cock starts physically hurting when he sees you, his hips involuntarily twitching when he hears your voice, his throat feeling dry and his cheeks blooming bright red because god, he’s never wanted to fuck something so bad.)

And so, Shouta forces himself to be an outstanding man – but no one can be alert every moment of every day, and it’s only a matter of time before you catch him in a moment of weakness. Because really, while Shouta was suffering, you were certainly undergoing a struggle of your own – you’ve been stuck with him for a few months at this point, trapped in his modest apartment with everything you could ever need with one glaring, important exception: human touch.

You don’t necessarily want to be physical with your kidnapper, but as the days pass and you slowly come to accept the fact that you won’t be escaping Eraserhead, things start changing. You’re still understandably frightened of him, worried that although he’s not harmed you in any way and hasn’t forced you into much aside from your captivity, he’ll show his true colors and make your life even more of a living hell.

But that doesn’t happen, Shouta staying that familiar presence you’ve become accustomed to; steady, quiet, consistent. Except the more days that pass, the more you start noticing other things about him – he’s strong, isn’t he? You see it when he walks from the bathroom to his bedroom with the towel tightly fastened at his waist, showing off the lean muscle of his arms and torso.

(He can feel your eyes sometimes, but tries not to dwell on what your staring at his naked chest could mean because getting his hopes up means getting them inevitably crushed.)

He’s awfully attentive, isn’t he? He listens when you speak, those dark eyes boring into you and your every wish – aside from escape – granted without so much as a complaint.

And sometimes, he’s a little attractive, isn’t he? In a rugged, man-ish way – a way that makes you gulp and press your thighs together a bit, because something about the stubble that coats his chin and the veins that litter his hands and forearms makes it difficult to breath correctly.

And then the daydreams start – little thoughts about how it would feel for those hands to touch you, for those lips to brush against your own, for his hair to tickle your neck as he hovers over you, his hips moving slowly and rhythmically against you, gruff grunts of your name filling the air between you.

They scare you at first, really, but soon you can’t stop yourself – you know it’s the lack of human contact that’s influencing you, but as time passes and you grow more desperate to know if he’s as attentive in bed as he is everywhere else, you’ll stop caring.

And Shouta can sense that something’s changing – he feels you watching him, notices the way your eyes follow him through a room, how you suck in the sharpest, smallest breath when he nears you, how you grow stiff when he has to flex a muscle in front of you to lift something heavy. Shouta knows that something is different – but it’s not until you grow brave one day that everything is confirmed.

It’d been a long, tiresome day for Shouta – his class had been especially rowdy today, with a simulation villain attack that the teachers participated in, and of course he’d ended up assigned to spar with Todoroki – meaning he’d been moving about, his muscles tired and sore from multiple hours of repetitive fighting. Then he’d had an extra patrol directly after, the villains particularly restless and causing more trouble than normal. Coupled with a nasty rainstorm that had him half freezing to death, Shouta wanted nothing more than to melt into bed, ideally with you beside him but knowing better than to wish for foolish things.

And when he’d stepped in the front door, you’d been waiting for him, sitting nervously on the couch. You’d stood up, but Shouta – despite feeling slightly more awake and alive at the sight of you, like normal – was still exhausted, already on the brink of unconsciousness as he gruffly greeted you. You looked nervous, twiddling your thumbs and biting your lip, but Shouta was too tired to properly ask about it, only mentally noting to check on you tomorrow.

Slumping towards his bedroom, he was abruptly stopped with you grabbed his hand, his entire body going rigid. Your voice was quiet when you asked him why he always seems to avoid touching you, asking if he didn’t want to, if he was repulsed by the idea of touching, if he was repulsed by you.

And Shouta, still half delirious with exhaustion, let the truth slip from his lips before he could help himself – explaining just how badly he craves to feel you, imagining you in every lewd position he can think of, noticing the way your pajama shirts sometimes grow tight when you sleep and roll over, exposing the outline of your breast and nipple and making him physically stop in his tracks and nearly drool like some horny teenager.

Every secret was spilling out of him, his voice still tired and coarse but making your jaw drop, the admission that he’s been fantasizing about making you a mess on his fingers and tongue and cock stunning you. You’d known Shouta harbored some sort of feelings for you, but this?

When he finishes detailing the fact that he regularly fucks his fist to the thought of you at least twice a week after you’ve fallen asleep, you release his hand, immediately missing the warmth of his skin.

Shouta rubs at his eyes, still not facing you, but muttering a small goodnight and retreating to his room, only realizing what’s happened the next morning. His hands shake and he bolts from his bed, his eyes wide and his heart racing, something horrible and feeling like shame and dread sitting in his chest because why the fuck had he told you that?

Facing you the next day has anxiety sitting in his every nerve, his actions jerky and on-edge, an he’d nearly bolted back to the safety of his room when he sawy you sitting at the kitchen table, but then you’d done something unexpected – you’d walked up to him, stood in silence for a moment, then grabbed his hand. Shouta had been confused, unable to ignore the way your hand fit into his own and the softness of your skin against his, but you’d not given him a chance to even ask questions – soon your lips were on his, and your hand had placed his on something warm and soft and squishy –

Shouta gasped against your lips, the feeling of your breast in his hand and your tongue swiping at his lips nearly making his knees buckle. He didn’t respond to your kiss for a few moments, forcing you to pull back and stare at him, something like worry and rejection reflected in your eyes, but it’s not until you whisper in a very small voice that he snaps out of his stupor.

I want you Shouta, and I know you want me.

You were in his bed moments later, his hands frantic and eager and shaking as he practically ripped off your borrowed pajamas, fingers moving fast and settling over every part of your body, seemingly unable to decide on where to stay.

It was rushed, desperation clouding both of your senses, but as Shouta threw your leg over his shoulder and pressed wet kisses against the juncture of your shoulder and neck, his whispered affirmations of his love for you only had you pulling him closer, adoration and shock and something so happy it nearly hurt filling his chest.

Perhaps, just perhaps, something in you loved him as he loved you.

MAIN THREE KINKS

Clothed Sex

It’s about convenience for Shouta – he’s not lazy in the bedroom, but although he finds you irresistible and is normally willing to expend what very little energy he has on sex with you, he’s willing to take any shortcut he can.

Of course, sex with you in an ideal world sees the both of you completely nude, your bodies pressed as close together as physically possible so that not a breath of space lays between them. He likes being close to you, feeling every inch of you, the intimacy of it unmatched and making Shouta revel in the fact that you’re really there with him, that he’s really getting to touch you, that he’s really getting to kiss you and touch you and fuck you, just as he’s been fantasizing of for months.

But that said, there’s a strange allure to clothed sex – it’s taboo and a little dirty, something that makes him feel a little warm, his palms growing a bit sweaty because it could happen at any time. Whenever the mood strikes him or strikes you, he could simply unzip his pants, shuffle them down a bit and fish out his cock, and he'd be ready to go – already half-hard, the eager anticipation of your touch exciting him from nearly the moment you entered the room.

And it’s easy access to you, too – not that he’d ever take advantage of that fact, your consent still something he asks for every time he touches you. It’s easy to slip your panties to the side, sinking you down onto his lap as he groans and his head lolls back, the feeling of your warmth making his toes curl. He just likes how easy it all is – no time is wasted with struggling to get off your shirt or his pants, and the desperation to be inside you that always seems to overwhelm him at the most inconvenient of times can be attended to that much faster.

He just thinks there’s something so hot about it – he’ll specifically stock you with clothing to wear that makes this easy – flouncy skirts and shorts that make shoving everything to the side and bunching his fist into the cloth to get better leverage while he pounds into you.

He’ll get you tank tops and things that make fishing your breasts out of your top easy, so that they can freely hang and jiggle as he bounces you up and down on his lap, your nipples hardening and shivers racing down your spine as he flicks his tongue at one.

He’ll buy underwear that doesn’t chafe when he shoves it to the side, the pretty sight of lace against your skin making him feral, making him fuck into you harder and more frantically because you almost look like some sort of lewd present when you’re wearing that lingerie – like his very own present, the one thing in the world he wants more than anything else.

And he’ll wear clothing that makes this easy, too – pants that can be unzipped and boxers he can tuck underneath his balls, making sure that nothing gets in the way. And although having sex without clothes is much more common than with clothes, Shouta will surprise you and suddenly press up behind you in the kitchen, telling you that you look too good, that he can’t help himself, that he needs you, and has to fuck you right here, right now, I can’t wait.

And so when you nod, he’ll flip up that skirt of yours – the main culprit for the throbbing between his legs, of course, because the clear view of your legs and thighs makes his mouth water – and slip aside those panties, his cock already out and hard and dripping for you.

It’s spontaneous, more than anything, and it’s one of the only ways in which Shouta is a little carefree with sex – one of the only times that he isn’t serious, or at least as serious.

The main way Shouta likes to engage in clothed sex, though, is through cockwarming. He just likes being close to you – he’s touch-starved, and although he doesn’t have the energy to actually fuck you, he still wants to be inside you, to have your body against his, to have you near and be smelling your scent and hearing your voice.

And so, it’s not a rare occurrence to have him pull you into his arms on his modest leather couch, your frumpy sweatpants and t-shirt (both his, of course, a fact that isn’t lost on him – he will not be washing either of those items when they eventually are off your body) covering your form and his own loungewear covering his.

He’ll shuffle up behind you, pulling you against him so that he’s spooning you, and before long you’ll feel something poking at your ass – something hard and insistent, something that seems to be bobbing and moving every few moments.

Truthfully, Shouta couldn’t say what got him hard – perhaps it was just being with you, or maybe smelling you, or the sight of you in his clothes. It could be any number of things – but his breath hitches as you swallow and carefully tug down the hem of your sweatpants, pressing your exposed ass back against him.

He makes a sound like a low whistle, and then he’s fishing his cock out of his own pants, the tip already wet with precum as he shifts his hips to slip between your legs, propping your leg up over his so that he can push inside. He does so with a small groan, resting his forehead against your back, and he feels you clench down on him.

He’s content to lay there – the warmth of his clothing and from you almost too much, but seeing the way you snuggle deeper into the shirt sending something warm and hot and possessive through his chest. He’ll just pull you against him tighter, the slight shift making the both of you hiss at the small burst of pleasure. He’s content to fall asleep that way – relaxed, his cock still nestled inside of you and hard as a rock, the feeling of your cunt lulling him into dreams filled with you naked and moaning his name, all bouncing breasts and desperate hands and begs for more.

(Don’t be surprised, when this happens, to wake up feeling something dripping out of you – yes, it’s cum and yes, that wet dream was enough to get him there. Don’t mention it, either, because Shouta’s always disappointed that he wasn’t awake for it - after all, call him old-fashioned but finishing inside of you is arguably his favorite selfish part of sex.)

Overstimulation

Shouta is not a stingy lover. In the bedroom, he lives to see you enjoying yourself – it soothes this primal, horrible ache in his chest that yearns or your approval and happiness. A lot of his obsession is born out of a desire to please you and keep you happy and safe, and this translates into making absolutely sure you’re satisfied in every possible way between the sheets.

Sex isn’t really sex until you’ve had at least two orgasms, whether that be because of his fingers or tongue, and only then will he throw your pretty legs up over his shoulders, sinking into you with a sharp exhale and letting his face rest against your sternum as he wills himself to not get too excited, to keep his cool and not rut into you like wild animal. He wants you to enjoy sex with him – he craves intimacy with you and he needs you to crave it too, and he’s hopeful that by giving you the best attention and care in bed, you’ll be more inclined to kiss and hold him, to touch him and whisper those three little words in his ear.

(The three little words that make him gasp and shudder, cum immediately spurting out of his red, swollen tip, his knuckles turning white as he grips onto your thigh and the bedsheets tightly enough to keep himself grounded through the pleasure.)

And so, Shouta finds that there’s something darkly pleasing about being the one to get you orgasming, being the source of your pleasure – seeing your face twist up, your mouth forming that pretty ‘o’ and your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Shouta develops a bit of a sick fascination with seeing just how often he can make you come for him, and from what. It stems from a good place; a genuine desire to make you happy and get you shaking with pleasure and incoherent enough that all you can say is his name.

He likes to choose how you come – will it be his fingers? Will he draw pretty circles on the inside of your thighs, teasing you and feeling the way your breathing picks up a bit, a whine of his name telling him that you’re growing impatient, that you need more, that you need him?

He’ll get closer and closer to your folds, pressing a thumb against them and dipping in ever so slightly, the dull pleasure making you bite your lip, embarrassment eating you alive because it feels so dirty to be teased like this, to keep your legs so wide open for him, to feel the way his eyes are staring at you so fully and intensely, the adoration and lust swimming in those dark depths nearly too much for you handle.

He’ll press two fingers against your clit and get to work, rubbing with light pressure and slowly increasing it, feeling the way the nub gets harder and more swollen, fingers swiping down to collect a bit of your slick to make things easier, the pads of his fingers gliding along your sensitive skin and making your hips jump and twist.

He’ll use his other hand to finger you, rough calloused skin dragging against your walls and pressing right into the spot he knows you love – the one that makes your back arch up, your head pushing back against the pillow, your nails digging into the bedsheets and tangling through his hair. Working you through an orgasm with his fingers is his favorite and what you’ll most likely get – he gets a front row seat, watching with rapt attention as you fall apart for him, feeling the way your thighs tremble and close in around him when you’re right on the edge.

There’s this feeling of power, pride and desire making him light headed and only work harder at his ministrations, ignoring your yelps and gasps of overstimulation because he needs to see that again, to feel the way you clench down onto his fingers so tightly that he has to work to pull them out to thrust back in. You’re just so damn sexy, the sight of you laying before him with your pretty legs spread wide open making him swallow so hard you can hear it.

But of course, Shouta also loves using his mouth to get you off – pink lips attaching to your nipple, sucking and running his tongue over your areola to make you squirm, your little keens making his cock twitch against your thigh.

He’ll kiss at your hips, making a trail down to your clit, giving you little kitten licks while his eyes flick up to look at you, seeing the way you sigh and bite your lip, the rising and falling of your chest making him near feral.

He wants to see you moan and writhe, to feel you grasping at him and needing him, and so his patience wears out and he dives between your legs, slick coating his nose and chin as he licks and sucks and thrusts his tongue against you, eyes closed in concentration and hair getting in his face but he doesn’t care – how can he, when you sound so pretty moaning his name like that?

How can he, when your thighs are clenching around his head and you’re just so fucking wet for him, showing him exactly how much he’s affecting you?

It's euphoric, and soon you’ll be crying out his name and creaming all over his lips, shaking in his grasp so hard that he has to hold you down by the hips to help you ride out the pleasure, the taste of you making him so hard that it hurts.

And god, there’s something about the way you respond to voice and his commands in bed that makes Shouta curse under his breath. You look up at him all wide-eyed, pleasure written across your face as you look to him for guidance, his voice gruff and thick with lust as he tells you to let go, come for me, want to see you come for me.

You immediately furrow your brows and bite your lip, grinding yourself harder against his fingers, feeling the pads of them brush against the spot that has you seeing stars, his name a prayer as you chant it over and over, only stopping to moan or gasp.

The sight is intoxicating, leaving Shouta gaping like a fish with parted lips and heavy breaths, staring at you like you’re something heavenly, divine, unable to tear his gaze away because he still can’t quite believe this is happening, that you’re moaning his name, that you’re letting him touch you and oh, he knows what that change in your facial expression means, how you’re blinding grasping at him, how you’re stuttering out a rushed ‘m coming, Shouta ‘m coming fuck-!

Watching you come undone right before his eyes has Shouta’s cock throbbing, his hips subtly moving against your thigh because he needs friction, the sight of you and the knowledge that he made you this way nearly too much for him to bear.

And when you finally calm down, your breathing wild and your eyes a little glazed over, he’ll just swallow and quickly situate him hips between your legs, gripping himself at the base and impatiently prodding at your entrance, his words dark as he tells you that you’ve got another one in you, give it to me.

When he pushes in – slowly, so as not to hurt you – he lets out a groan, only muffled by the way he leans down to kiss you, feeling the way you tense up and eagerly return the gesture, wrapping your ankles around his waist and pulling him deeper, showing him that you need more more more if you’re going to finish like he wants you to.

And Shouta’s happy to oblige – snapping his hips into you until his muscles are sore and screaming, a thumb relentlessly toying with your clit, his lips against your neck and whispering praise tainted with curses.

He’s encouraging you to feel good, telling you to tell me how it – fuck, how it feels, you’re so goddamn tight, tell me how to fuck you – o-oh…

Because really, while he loves to get you coming and falling apart on his terms, Shouta’s pride flies out the window where you’re concerned – he’d do anything to get you clenching down on him and begging him to finish inside you.

Anything.

Voyeurism

Honestly, it’s a byproduct of having stalked you for such an extended period of time. Watching you was the only way to feel close to you – he wasn’t able to hold you and kiss you, to feel you and lay with you and make you whine his name, and becoming your shadow was the only possible substitution.

And even then, it wasn’t enough – all the guilt he harbors from watching you in your more intimate moments never fades, not even after years of having stolen you away, your pretty body and mind fully his to do as he pleases. He’s still ashamed, but some things he just simply can’t unlearn – and so, even once your sexual relationship begins, Shouta finds himself still utterly excited by the prospect of watching you pleasure yourself.

It’s dirty, horrible, something that makes him feel so guilty he can hardly stand it, but he can’t not stop and watch through the crack in your door when he hears what sounds suspiciously close to muffled whimpers.

He can’t not press his ear against the wooden door, closing his eyes and imagining what you’re doing to yourself – maybe you’re playing with that cute little clit, rubbing it in circles and biting your lip because it just feels so damn good, mimicking the way that Shouta works you up slowly and steadily, getting you so sensitive that your hips jump and twitch at just the slightest bit of pressure against your sensitive nerves.

(He’s had dreams about the way you taste – he thinks you’d be musky, something natural and strong and savory, a taste he wants in his mouth at all hours of the day. And the way you’d tremble and gush for him if it was his fingers and mouth toying with the nub, how you’d tangle your fingers in his hair and pull him closer and closer to you, needing as much of him as possible, needing him him him…)

Maybe you’re sinking your fingers inside of you, working up from one to three, stretching yourself out and imagining it’s him instead, that he’s the one filling you up and making your toes curl, that he’s the one causing all those pretty noises to fall from your lips.

(He knows just how much bigger his own fingers are – he’ll imagine the size difference, his eyes shutting tight when he thinks of how much more he can stretch you out, how much better he can make you feel, how the texture of his fingers must send pleasure up your spine in a way that your soft, comparatively dainty fingers can’t.)

Maybe you’re perched up on a pillow, straddling it with your cunt pressed snugly against the fabric, slick smearing across the cotton as you grind your hips back and forth, hunched over so that the angle is just right, imagining it’s him underneath you and it’s his thigh or cock you’re rubbing against.

(He’s had wet dreams about this sight, always hoping and fantasizing that you’re just so desperate for him that you’re imagining it’s his face you’re riding, his mind conjuring up the sound of your voice moaning out his name and telling him yes yes o-oh fuck yes, Shouta ‘s so good, you feel so good! He’d never seen you riding a pillow during all those months of stalking, but the idea’s just too graphic and wanton and lewd for him to not fantasize about, the idea satisfying the part of him that’s embarrassed and ashamed of just how badly he craves you – because surely if you’re humping some piece of cotton and pretending it’s him, then what does he have to be embarrassed about? Lots, really, but it makes him feel slightly better.)

Or maybe you’ve decided that you want something a little more physical, something to really mimic him – he’d seen you using your vibrator many, many times before he stole you away. His face always turned pink at the sight, his throat going dry and his grip on his capture weapon a little loose as he simply stared, the sight of your pretty body contorting and the plastic held against the crest of your pelvic bone making everything else fade away.

You’re so damn pretty – the way you moan and sigh, how your legs twitch, how your breasts sway and jiggle with every motion, making his fingers ache to reach out and squeeze, to knead and touch and grope, like some sort of pervert.

And this fantasy and mental image has stayed with him long after kidnapping you – once your physical relationship begins and Shouta no longer feels it would make you even more uncomfortable and scared of him, he’s buying you a replacement for that trusty vibrator you used to use to death. He’d left it on your nightstand one morning with a hasty note simply saying I’m gone a lot, I don’t want you to get lonely.

Of course, this is only half the truth – he does want you to be happy, and he doesn’t want you to grow resentful of the times when he’s too exhausted to give you proper sex. But of course, the unspoken portion of this gift is that he wants to watch you use said vibrator – and badly.

He wants to sit in a chair at the side of the bed, legs spread wide as he grips the base of his cock, absentmindedly squeezing at his balls while his dark eyes stay trained on your figure. He wants you to be spread out for him, perhaps a skimpy set of lingerie covering your pretty body (or perhaps none at all, if you’re comfortable with it) with your legs spread wide, the vibrator in your hand hovering against your clit. He wants to hear the steady, dull buzzing sound mixing with your whimpers, to see the way your body tenses up and you whine, feet flexing and shaky breaths slipping past your lips as you slowly work towards your high.

He wants to see the way you eventually grow impatient, changing the vibrator’s setting and immediately crying out, the feeling much more intense and making your orgasm hurtle towards you, getting slick all over the bedspread as you cry out his name and writhe.

And Shouta doesn’t want you to look at him – he doesn’t want you to acknowledge that he’s there. Ignore him, just as you would have back when he was simply watching from outside your window – he wants to watch you, not have a show be put on for him.

You’re just too pretty, and there’s something about watching you that gets him hard as rock, his fist twisting and flicking so quickly it’s nearly a blur as he watches you transition to fucking yourself with the toy, your cries loud and wanton as Shouta grunts and curses under his breath. He wants to finish with you this time, his hips thrusting against his hand in an effort to match the pace you’ve set for yourself. It’s a dirty secret of his, and while Shouta won’t force you into it, just know that he would love to catch you masturbating – just the sight of you pleasuring yourself is enough to get him hot under the collar immediately, hand rushing into his trousers to cup himself because god.

He just likes to watch you, and even during regular sex when he’s folded you in half, those eyes are alternating between watching your face, your bouncing breasts, and your cunt swallowing his cock again and again and again, his cheeks a rosy pink and a bead of sweat dripping from his brow.

You’re just too pretty, he can’t take it – how can he not immediately want to get something of his on you, staining your lovely skin and gorgeous face with his cum?

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE

Hair Pulling

But not on you – unless you like it, in which case he might consider but will only ever do it lightly. He doesn’t like causing pain in general, and would only be willing to do it in very specific scenarios – and even then, it will be as gently as he possibly can.

Rather, Shouta likes when you pull his hair – he doesn’t let most people touch it, and it’s a rare day that he actually runs a comb through it, so as a result his scalp is extremely sensitive. And so, when you tunnel your fingers through his dark locks and pull, Shouta audibly groans, the tingling pain sending pleasure racing down his spine.

There’s just something naughty about it – only you get to touch him like this, so only you get to run your fingers through his hair and tug at it.

He particularly likes when you pull it while he’s got his face between your legs. He likes how your fingers tunnel through it and scrape against his scalp, and he’ll often use it as an indicator of whether he’s doing a good job or not. If you pull often and hard, he knows he’s doing what he needs to do – he’ll keep the pace up and stay in that same spot, doing everything and anything in his power to keep you pulling at it, working through any pain in his jaw or tongue because he needs to make sure you’re feeling good even at his own expense.

When he’s got you perched on his face, your pretty thighs framing his head so that all he can smell and taste and feel is you, he likes to have you reach down and still pull lightly at the roots, your breasts squished together and nipples taut, the visual alongside your taste and the slight pain from his scalp making his eyes roll to the back of his head and precum dribble down his length.

When he’s hovering over you and thrusting into you, balls clapping against your ass and your legs wrapped around his waist, he likes to have you tug at his hair, moaning out and crying his name with each tug and letting his ego swell, each burst of light pain making his hips go harder, faster, deeper, anything to get you louder and clenching around him tighter.

Even when you’re just kissing – simple, innocent kisses full of smiles and his hands gripping you just ever so slightly, Shouta likes to have you running your hands through his hair and tugging lightly, keeping him on his toes and forcing his cock to life.

He just really, really likes to have you touch his hair – it’s something intimate and something he’ll only ever let you do, so really, you should count yourself lucky. Shouta sure does when he’s buried deep inside you, watching your face and feeling your hands in his hair as he gives you every last drop he has to offer.

Mirror Sex

In general, Shouta absolutely loves watching you in bed. He thinks you’re genuinely the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, and when you’re gasping on his cock and moaning his name, you’re even prettier, even more breathtaking and lovely and perfect.

And while he prefers positions where he can see your face, he wants to be able to see your expressions always, even if he’s got you bent over while he presses his back to your chest and mounts you like some sort of wild animal.

And so, to solve this problem, Shouta invests in a modest, simple mirror that he keeps facing the end of your ‘shared’ bed – it’s roughly four feet tall and two feet wide, the perfect size so that when he’s got you on your hands and knees for him, your back arching and your arms threatening to give out, he can watch your eyes roll to the back of your head.

He’ll experiment with the pacing of his thrusts, going deeper and harder to see the way your brows scrunch up, how your jaw drops and the most depraved whine slips out of you, pride and arousal swelling in his chest because he made you make that noise.

He’ll go slower and keep his thrusts brushing against the spots that make you gasp just so that he can see the way your lips twitch.

He’ll speed up, fucking into you so fast that his balls slap lewdly against your ass, the noise filling the room alongside your pants and his groans, watching all the while how your eyes flutter and your back arches. He’ll sit you in his lap facing the mirror, spreading your legs and getting to work with his fingers curling and rubbing inside of you, a thumb circling your clit and his lips at your ear as he tells you to watch, pretty, see how good you look?

He’ll kiss a line from behind your ear, down your neck and over your shoulder, occasionally glancing up to the mirror to make sure you’re actively looking, whispering praises against your skin each time.

And he’ll bring you close to the mirror, too – sitting you only a foot away from the reflective surface, letting you get a nice view of Shouta’s favorite sight – your cunt, all spread out and wet, practically begging for something big, heavy, and throbbing to fill it, to stretch it out and make you see stars.

He’ll spread your lips, exposing your clenching hole, smiling at your reflection and making you tell him that you’re pretty, forcing you to grow comfortable with your body because he knows that it makes you insecure to see so much of yourself, and it drives him crazy.

He’ll even fuck you against the mirror – forcing you to watch your face from mere inches away, your hot breaths fogging up the glass, and he’ll make you come like that – holding your chin straight ahead and telling you to watch, sh-shit, watch, don’t take those fucking eyes off your face in a strained voice.

He just likes getting a good view of you during sex – you’re too pretty not to be seen, after all.

BIGGEST FANTASY

In general, Shouta absolutely loves being intimate with you. While he’s no virgin, he doesn’t have an extensive amount of experience, and frankly he’s never been the biggest fan of sex – it’s too messy, too energy draining, and just a massive hassle.

However, when it’s with you, and when you moan his name just right and leave your nail marks down his back, Shouta will gladly strip his clothing at your beck and call, his lips already on yours before you can even finish your sentence.

And while he loves good, rough, passionate sex that’s full of smacking hips, gasps, moans and growls, there’s something to be said for slower, gentler sex, the kind that’s full of airy breaths and slow, meaningful kisses.

It’s the kind of sex where you can really feel him; every inch of him, the way his body covers yours as he hovers over you, the tickle of his hair against your jaw and neck as he buries his face in the juncture of your shoulder and collarbone, his hips rocking into yours and managing to grind against that one perfect spot that gets you sighing out a moan. It’s just more intimate this way, less of a wild, frantic race to get inside of you and more a slow, controlled love making, as embarrassed as he is to use to term.

Regardless, you’re most likely to get this type of sex from Shouta in two specific scenarios – the first of which being after a very long day, filled with a harrowing patrol where he maybe wasn’t able to save everyone, or things didn’t go according to plan. When this happens, he needs to just hold you, to feel you, to hear you whisper his name under your breath and tell him how good he feels, how he’s the best you’ve ever had, how he’s the only one you’ll ever want…

The second – and far more likely – scenario is in the early hours of the morning, when the sunlight is streaming into the modest apartment he keeps you in, your shared bed feeling warm with your bodies pressed against one another. Soft, sleepy morning sex is Shouta’s favorite, and something that he tries to incite as often as he possibly can.

There’s just something about it that gets him hot under the collar; maybe it’s the casualness of it all, the way it feels so natural, so human and so right, as if your bodies were made for each other. Maybe it’s the way it feels so intimate, like you’re both raw, yourselves in the most wonderful way.

Or maybe it’s the way you’re still just slightly sleepy, and you’re much more likely to be clingy at this time, touching him more and letting your real noises come out, not hindered by any shame or hate or embarrassment.

Regardless, Shouta loves it – so on the rare weekends where he’s off, expect to be woken up on the brink of an orgasm just as you deserve.

A yawn slips past Shouta’s lips, eyes peeling open and seeing the gray of his bedsheets. Everything is warm and soft, and as he shifts slightly, something moves next to him.

Nothing seems real for a few moments as he gazes down at you, your body curled up next to his own. It doesn’t feel real that you’re really here – in his bed without any clothing, happily sleeping without a care in the world. He swallows, something coming over him and moving him slowly – carefully – peel off the covers, moving down to where your legs slightly part.

He leans down, face mere inches away from the tufts of your pubic hair, his eyes fluttering closed as he inhales. You’re perfect – and as he gently pries your legs open further, Shouta can’t help but think of how often he’s fantasized about this very moment – how often he’s dreamt of what’s between your thighs, how he’d lay awake at night and press his fingers between two pillows, grinding his fingers against the cotton and pretending it was you, imagining how warm and wet you’d be for him.

He swallows, determination setting his brow as he lays onto his stomach, shuffling so that he can lightly lick at your inner thighs, eyes closing at the familiar taste of you. He takes his time, going slowly and softly, licking closer and closer to your pretty folds, eventually reaching them and licking his lips at the taste.

A thumb comes up to slowly press against your clit, knowing too much pressure would hurt and not warm your body up the way it needed. He continues his licks, before switching roles and starting to suckle at your clit as a finger dips between your folds, collecting the slick and rubbing it between his fingers.

Soon he’s pressing one inside, feeling the way your thighs twitch slightly, a small, sleepy moan ringing in his ears. God, you’re so damn perfect – even unconscious you’re enough to get his cock throbbing against the cotton sheets.

He keeps his pace slow, but as time passes you stir a bit, and when he hears your sleepy voice mumble out his name, Shouta curses, his fingers speeding up a bit.

That gets you more awake – soon your fingers are carding through his hair, sighs and murmurs of his name sounding like heaven.

“Mm, Shouta, that feels good…” You mumble, still dazed from waking up. Your hips are twitching now, a sign that the pleasure is slowly beginning to build.

Shouta groans against your cunt, the sound muffled.

Soon his fingers are picking up the pace again, his circles and licks at your clit growing more insistent, and the hands weaving through his hair start to tug – the sensation gets him humping at the bed for a moment, the morning glow still shining on you as he glances up at your face. You look like an angel – shining in the sunlight, your lips parted in a moan, head thrown back in pleasure.

Shouta pulls back for a moment, sending a kiss to your clit that makes your hips buck. He chuckles a bit, licking his lips.

“You’re so beautiful..” He whispers against your thigh, pressing open mouthed kisses against the skin. You hum at his compliment, and he watches as you smile, his breath practically punched out of his lungs.

“Shouta, you’re too good to me…” Your voice is soft, too, and soon he’s back to sucking at your clit, feeling the way your body jolts slightly, the pleasure making you sigh and swallow. He watches the movement of your throat.

“Feels good, mm yes, oh Shouta - just like that,” You start, eyes closed again, and Shouta finds himself abandoning the gentle pace he’d adopted, instead being more insistent, more pushy – suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to get you coming on his fingers.

You gasp lightly at the new change in pace, grinding your hips to match the new stimulation, and it makes Shouta dizzy. How can you be so attractive? How can you look so perfect in this moment; in his bed, moaning his name, looking and tasting and smelling like his own personal slice of heaven?

It’s cheesy and he’s almost embarrassed, but tears prick at the corners of his eye.

Soon your gasps have turned to moans, and all too soon you warn him in a slurred voice that you’re coming, your back arching up off the mattress and your moans light and airy as you gush against his fingers, white coating all the way down his knuckles and onto his palms. It makes him choke a bit, the feeling of your cunt rhythmically clenching down on him and your chest heaving, and with a final lick to your clit that makes you jerk, he’s moving up to kiss you.

The kiss is slow, his tongue brushing against yours and wet sound filling the room, but Shouta doesn’t mind. How could he, when he’s never felt this relaxed before?

His eyes slowly open as he feels your fingers wrap around him, a thumb brushing along his tip to collect a bit of the wetness there.

“Shouta, let me make you feel good.” You tell him, your voice just a whisper.

He looks at you, his lips parted for a brief moment, before a small smile quirks up the corners of his mouth. “Why would you do that?”

You trace the line of his jaw with your free thumb. The slow strokes of his cock have him a bit distracted, but he hears every word you speak to him. “Because I love you.”

He swallows, the words making something feel tight in his throat.

You laugh a bit at his silence and the dumbstruck look on his face. “What? Do you not love me too?”

And to answer that, Shouta scoffs, leaning down to kiss you again as he grasps himself around the base, pulling himself away from you and pushing into you, feeling your sharp intake of breath against his lips.

His pace is slow, soft, like he’s trying to tell you something – hips moving slowly and deeply, letting you feel every inch of him. He kisses your neck as your head falls back, your eyes fluttering closed.

Pressing a kiss against your collarbone, Shouta smiles against your skin, a groan falling from his lips.

“I love you, more than you’ll ever know.”

And he means it – you’ll don’t know half of the things he’s done for you, and as he squeezes at your breast and hears your soft moan, he knows he’ll never tell you.

#yandere bnha #yandere mha #yandere aizawa #yandere eraserhead #bnha smut #mha smut #_bnha #_shouta aizawa #_lee's profiles

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