Strawberry and Cherries

21 🍂

[cleo-fox]

Surrender

Summary: Finding your soulmate is supposed to be a romantic, life changing experience.

No one tells you what to do when a). your soulmate is the homicidal maniac who led the successful takeover of your planet and made himself king and b). you kind of still want him anyway.

(Soulmate AU where Loki won)

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, dirty talk, praise kink, oral sex, teasing, orgasm delay, sex, vaginal fingering.

A/N: look, I was intrigued by the idea of a Loki Wins AU and also a soulmate AU and this just sort of happened. I may write more of this concept because it gave me IDEAS. This is also available on AO3.

The mark on your wrist begins to burn the minute he walks into the room.

At first you think it’s a coincidence or a mistake—there are guards walking with him, perhaps it’s one of them. But then he flinches, his right hand going to his left wrist and your heart sinks to your knees. It could still be a coincidence, you tell yourself halfheartedly.

He scans the room and when his eyes land on you, it’s like the tumblers of a lock clicking into place and you know.

He’s much taller than you thought he was—that’s the only conscious and coherent thought you manage to have as he approaches you. Being the subject of his gaze is overwhelming in a way that you sort of expect, but it still makes you want to sit down and close your eyes. He looks you over, his gaze lingering briefly on your nametag from work.

“Show me your wrist,” he says.

You don’t think he’s using his powers, but you comply automatically, extending your arm toward him, wrist turned up. There’s a frisson of electricity that buzzes along the back of your hand when he touches it—if there were any remaining doubts about who he is and his relationship to you, that feeling surely puts them to rest. You know that he must have felt something too from the way he looks at you sharply, as though he thinks you’ve done something intentional to cause this. You can only hope that your wide eyed bewilderment convincingly conveys your innocence.

His expression betrays nothing as he examines the mark on your wrist, which is now glowing a bright gold that would be pretty if the circumstances were different.

It’s funny, you think. You’ve been waiting for this moment your entire life and all you can think is that you wish it wasn’t happening.

He releases your hand and looks at you in a calculating sort of way. “Come with me,” he says finally.

You do, of course. What other choice do you have?

*

The next several hours are a blur.

You are shuffled from place to place. Usually there is at least one guard—you’re not sure why. The idea of you being able to do any damage to him is laughable and escape doesn’t exactly seem like an option. Where could you go that he could not find you?

It’s a depressing thought; you try not to think much about it.

You know exactly when the news breaks because it coincides with your phone basically becoming unusable due to the flood of notifications, calls, and texts. You put it on airplane mode to compose a short message to your family and friends. Your reassurances feel a little trite given the circumstances: I’m fine, I’ll call when I can.

You can’t exactly type what you’re really thinking, which is more along the lines of I’ve just learned that my soulmate is the homicidal maniac who led the successful takeover of our planet. I’m doing about as well as you’d expect.

You turn airplane mode off long enough to send the email. Once it sends, you power down your phone. It doesn’t seem prudent to leave it on, at least not right now—right now, it only serves as a reminder of a life you know you’re going to have to leave behind and you’re not at all ready to confront that particular loss.

They eventually take you to what you assume are his rooms. You’re surprised by how traditional the decor is—you had expected a cold sort of minimalism, but there’s more wood and warm colors than you would have thought. You are informed that there are clothes for you in the closet; you nod and say nothing, though you wonder how they managed to pull an entire wardrobe together in the span of only a few hours. Magic, perhaps.

You are finally left alone, though you’re fairly certain that you would find guards stationed outside if you were to look.

You take one of the elegant velvet throws from the bed and wrap it tightly around yourself before settling on the couch next to the window. You’re not exactly cold, but it feels like a necessary armor between you and this unfamiliar place.

You stare out the window for a long time. You’re too high up to people watch and you’re not sure that you could handle that anyway—it would be yet another reminder of the fact that your life has changed in a massive, earth shaking way that you can’t even begin to understand. Instead, you stare at the tiny cars on the city streets below, snaking their way to destinations that feel so far out of your grasp that they might as well be on a different planet altogether.

*

It’s late when he finally shows up—so late that you’ve actually gotten ready for bed, donning one of the silk nightgowns that had been left for you. You can tell it’s more expensive than any sleepwear you’ve ever owned in your life. You’re just glad that it’s modest—you had half expected to find that all your pajamas were bustiers, thongs, and thigh highs in some sort of ill considered attempt to seduce you. But this is elegant and understated, with a matching robe that you cinch tightly around your waist.

You sit on the couch, the throw still wrapped snugly around you. He looks at you, the corner of his mouth curled up in a slight smirk.

“I hope you don’t intend to stay there the entire night,” he says.

“I hardly know you,” you say before you can even contemplate whether it’s wise.

He looks…amused isn’t quite the right word, but there’s a subtle tilt to the corner of his lips—not quite a smile, but maybe somewhere in the vicinity.

“Give it time,” he says, and something about that makes you shiver.

*

You intend to sleep on the couch, at least for these first few nights when everything still feels so raw and strange.

Or that was your plan, anyway.

Loki doesn’t say anything else as he prepares for bed and you stare resolutely at the window so as not to invite any more conversation or prompt any invitations to join him in bed. Eventually, the lights go out and you are left alone with your thoughts in the dark.

The room is much colder at night.

You’re not sure if it’s on purpose, though you wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Perhaps he likes it like this. Perhaps it’s to lure you to him, to tempt you into seeking out the warmth of his bed and body.

You pull the blanket more tightly around your shoulders. Eventually, you allow your eyes to drift shut.

You wake some time later in the middle of the night. The room feels even colder, the velvet of the throw and the silk of your nightgown and robe a scanty defense against the chill. You burrow against the couch cushions and it’s sort of bearable.

But you also have to pee.

You hold off for as long as you can, but you eventually summon the will to leave the couch and seek out the bathroom.

The bathroom is even colder—perhaps it’s all that glass and marble that makes the difference. You’re wearing your robe and you’ve still got the blanket wrapped around you, but your teeth are chattering by the time you wash your hands. You run the water as hot as you can stand, but it only does so much. If you were braver—if it wasn’t your first night here, you would run an extra hot shower and stay under the spray until your fingers and toes pruned and the chill was chased from your bones.

Instead, you hustle back to the couch, burrowing against the cushions, throw and robe wrapped tightly around you. But you still can’t seem to shake the cold. You huddle on the couch, shivering, trying to calm your body.

Time passes and you don’t grow any warmer. You wonder if you can steal another throw from the bed—surely he won’t miss one—when a voice speaks from the darkness.

“Come to bed,” Loki says.

You clear your throat. “What?”

“I can hear your teeth chattering from here. Come to bed and stop being absurd.”

You hesitate, staring into the dark. You consider the cold, the slight kink in your neck from the way you’ve been sleeping on the couch, the late hour, the way that sleep pulls at your eyes. A bed is appealing. Maybe more appealing than it should be.

You find yourself getting to your feet and slowly making your way across the room.

You pause on the other side of the bed—your side, you suppose, though calling it that still feels too intimate. You can just make him out in the dark.

“You’ll stay on your side,” you say, like making it a statement will make it so.

“Well, you hardly know me.” His voice is clipped, more bitter than you expect as he echoes your words from earlier.

You can’t help but scowl. “I’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours and it’s the middle of the night. I’m not doing this right now.”

He laughs. It’s sharp and brittle and unexpected, but it’s a laugh all the same, and something about that helps, if only a little.

You don’t say anything else as you climb into bed. You find that the blankets are warm—warmer than you expect—and heavy. There’s a part of you that expects yourself to be too nervous and on edge to fully relax, but the coziness of the blankets piled around you is oddly calming, even with Loki mere inches away. You hunker down underneath the blankets, situating yourself on the pillows.

He doesn’t say anything and it’s not long until his breathing becomes steady and even.

And after a while, yours does, too.

*

Consciousness creeps up on you slowly the next morning, a far cry from the jarring alarm on your phone that usually disrupts your slumber. You are warm and cozy, cocooned in the blankets, safe from all of the bullshit that had happened yesterday.

It’s such a peaceful, easy awakening that it takes you a moment to realize that you aren’t alone.

It takes another moment for you to realize that your cheek is pressed against Loki’s chest. And to make matters worse, not only are your arms wrapped around his him, your right leg is also flung across his waist, like you can’t bear to be parted from him for even a moment.

But before the panic sets in, there is a barely perceptible moment where your body just enjoys the feeling of being pressed against him. It’s quick and you’d deny it if asked, but the rush that you get from giving into the pull of your soulbond for even that brief moment is nothing short of incredible.

But it’s just a moment and your mind quickly turns to the matter of extracting yourself without drawing his notice. Ideally, he’ll just stay asleep and you won’t have to deal with any awkward fallout. If you move very slowly and carefully, perhaps he won’t notice.

You carefully start to move your leg from his waist.

“To be clear, you’re on my side of the bed,” he says.

God fucking dammit.

You abandon all subtlety and quickly peel yourself away from him.

“I must have rolled over in my sleep,” you say, incredibly conscious of how stupid that sounds.

He smirks, which is somehow worse than if he’d said anything.

“It won’t happen again,” you say.

It does.

This is your new routine: you start every evening on the couch, wrapped up in your robe and throw. You wake some time in the night, teeth chattering. Sometimes, Loki will tell you to come to bed. Other times, you quietly give up and slip under the covers on your side of the bed.

But every morning without fail, you wake tangled around him.

Sometimes, he’s spooned up behind you; more often, though, you’re the one clinging to him. It’s as though your body has a homing device that leads you over to his side of the bed in your sleep, dutifully ignoring all of your stern warnings about who stays where.

The worst part of it is that you’re fighting your own instincts. On a very basic, physical level, you yearn to be close to him. There’s a part of you that revels in these unintentional moments of closeness, that wants to allow yourself to enjoy the feeling of him, to allow him to put his hands on your body, for you to put your hands on him.

The fact that he wakes up noticeably hard most mornings does not make this any easier.

This is a problem that you’re not entirely sure how to solve and the second week in, your desire for information finally outweighs your desire to avoid social media and the deluge of emails and texts that you know are waiting for you on your phone.

You turn your phone back on and immediately delete all of your social media apps. You don’t know what they’re saying about you and you don’t care to. You turn off all of your notifications, even the little number icons that show you how many unread emails and texts that you have. You want absolutely no distractions.

You open a private browser window and pull up Google.

Newly connected soulbonds are the hormonal equivalent of pouring out a bunch of gasoline and striking a match. Soulbonds are intended to be consummated. You know this. There are people who wait it out for one reason or another, but that’s very much the exception—it’s a physical and emotional test of endurance. And you’re beginning to understand why.

The internet is not very helpful. You already know what happens when you don’t consummate a soulbond promptly—increased arousal, restlessness, vivid dreams, and so on as time goes on. You’re more interested in mitigation. You find a few blogs that have entirely irrelevant suggestions like cuddling on the couch or holding hands. “While you’re waiting for intercourse, why not try some outercourse?” one post muses with a level of earnestness that causes you to immediately turn off your phone and fling it across the room.

You’re going to have sex with him at some point. That’s inevitable. On a very basic level, you want him—it’s more or less coded into your DNA. But that is at odds with the reality of who he is and what he’s done. It might feel good to wake up tangled around him, but it only takes a minute to remember the battle of New York and it nearly extinguishes the desire burning within you.

But only nearly and only for now.

*

The third week is when things start getting increasingly difficult.

Loki seems content to wait things out. You can feel the burn of his gaze on you, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t prod.

You, on the other hand, find yourself slipping into a heightened state of arousal that is becoming impossible to ignore. Midway through the week, you finally give in and try touching yourself in the shower in the hope of some relief and you come so quickly and so hard that you have to clap a hand over your mouth to keep from crying out and your legs very nearly buckle from the force of it. A few twitches of your fingers has you sprawled on the shower floor and coming again, harder than before. You repeat this trick a few times but even as strong as it is, it doesn’t really help—you’re back to where you started within minutes.

Worse though, is the fact that it’s his face that you see when you come. Every. Single. Time. You imagine him over you, his gaze dark and intent as he watches you come; slack jawed and hissing in pleasure as he pushes into you; growling in approval and impatience as you take his cock into your mouth. The images come entirely unbidden and stick in the forefront of your thoughts like a burr clinging to wool.

When you see him later that afternoon, his gaze lands on you in such a way that it feels like he knows everything you’ve done and everything you’ve seen, from that moment in the shower to the shameful thoughts you had as you came.

The dreams start shortly after, and they are objectively worse.

The dreams are far more vivid than just images. In the dreams, he’s touching you, coaxing you to peaks you could never have imagined, pressing into you, taking you hard and fast and achingly slow and everything in between. The dreams leave you out of breath and shaky, aching for a touch that you know that you should not want, but do with every fiber of your being. By some miracle, they only seem to occur while you are on the couch and not when you’re in bed, but that luck won’t hold forever.

Perhaps more importantly, you know it’s only a matter of time before you give in. Deep down, you’ve known this from the moment the mark on your wrist started to burn. Your resistance is eroding like a sandcastle at high tide and it’s only a matter of time before you crumble.

But not yet. Not yet.

*

Five weeks after your arrival, you wake sweating and out of breath from another dream.

You take a few deep breaths. It was similar to the ones you’d had before. Thinking about the details makes your core ache and your clit throb so you try to keep them out of your mind.

You’re half surprised that you’re not tangled around Loki, given the content and subject of your dream, but that makes sense when you realize he’s not in bed. Instead, he sits on the couch, staring into the middle distance. Perhaps he is struggling with the same kinds of dreams.

The idea of you making Loki too hot and bothered to sleep is more appealing than you’d like to admit. You hastily dismiss the thought before it can bring any more heat to your already too warm skin or add more fuel to the flickering desire that seems to have settled permanently in the cradle of your hips.

You slip out of bed and go to the window, folding your arms across your stomach as you stare out at the sleeping city.

“You were calling out in your sleep.”

More heat prickles at your skin.

“Hm,” you say, trying your best to sound casual.

“What were you dreaming of?” he asks.

He’s only asking because he already knows the answer. You know this. But the lie still slips from your lips: “I don’t remember.”

He laughs, a quiet and dangerous sound that stokes the fire in your belly. “Have you forgotten, darling, that I am the god of lies?”

You can hear him walking toward you, but you keep your back turned. Has the room always been this warm?

He waits until he is directly behind you to speak again. “Will you lie again when I ask if you were dreaming of me?” His voice is so close, full of depth and a little husky. 

“You flatter yourself,” you say.

You can hear the smirk in his voice, feel the whisper of his breath on your neck. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?” He pauses for a moment. “But you were calling out for me.”

Your lips are dry. You want to deny it, but it feels useless. Worst case scenario, he’s still mostly right: you were dreaming of him and you can’t even really deny crying out for him because you were asleep and you don’t know for sure.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he continues. His voice drops. “Every time I close my eyes, I see you writhing in pleasure beneath me.” He pauses. “Or I see myself between your legs, worshiping you with my mouth, bringing you to ecstasy over and over before I finally take you.”

Your heart is pounding and every nerve in your body feels as though it’s connected directly to your clit. You are warm—too warm—and you can feel your pulse pounding in your throat.

“What were you dreaming of?” he continues, his voice barely a murmur.

“Nothing,” you say.

He clicks his tongue. “Try again, darling.”

You say nothing and after a moment of silence, he seems to decide that it’s time to switch strategies.

“You must be so wet,” he murmurs, his tone low and soothing.

Your stomach and your cunt clench. If he starts talking dirty to you, it’s over.

“We’re not meant to go this long like this,” he says. “We both know that. It’s been five weeks. Your poor cunt is probably aching for me, just as I ache for you.”

Your breath is coming in shaky gasps. You need him. You can feel your resolve starting to slip.

“Yield to me.” His voice is rough with wanting, like this is just as hard for him as it is for you. “I know you feel it. I feel it, too. You yearn for me, you crave my touch. Let me make you feel good, darling, let me ease that ache. Yield and I will give you everything.”

You draw in a shaking breath and slowly turn to face him. He’s looking at you with an intensity that you expect, but it takes your breath away nonetheless.

The remnants of your resistance are lost to the wave of him and the only thing that’s left in its place is a raw need like you’ve never experienced before.

You don’t know what to say, so in the end, you settle for his name. Just his name, said quietly with all the desperation and longing that has been making your life hell these past few weeks.

You get a glimpse of the fire in his eyes before he’s on you.

There’s nothing gentle about this kiss. It’s the kiss of two people who have been deprived of each other for too long, your teeth bumping against each other, tongues twisting and tangling. You end up pressed against the wall next to the window, your leg wrapped around his waist, his hand supporting your thigh. He presses his hips against you and you moan into his mouth at the feeling of his hard cock dragging against your swollen, sensitive clit. He draws back slightly to look at your face as he slowly grinds his hips against yours, his free hand moving to palm your breast over the silk of your nightgown.

You moan again, your head dropping back against the wall. The soft, slippery friction of the silk of your nightgown against your nipple and the soaked lace of your underwear rubbing against your clit is enough to make you go cross eyed, a slow tease that only fans the burning embers within you. Your body is overheated and too tense, but Loki is blessedly cool in a way that somehow both soothes and inflames.

“You’re drenched. I can already feel that,” he says, his voice thick with desire as he moves against you. “I could make you come like this.”

You whimper, rocking your hips back against him. “Please.”

He shakes his head. “Another time. Tonight I want to feel you when you come.” He drops his hand from your breast, trailing down your stomach and moving in between your legs. His fingers slip beneath your underwear, and you let out a needy whine as he strokes the slick folds of your sex. “Is this all for me?” he asks, his voice slipping into a low growl.

You barely manage a breathy affirmative.

“Sweet thing.” His thumb rolls over your clit as he slides one finger into you, and your back arches automatically, your breasts jutting out. “We’re going to have to do something about this, aren’t we?”

“Please,” you breathe.

“How can I resist such a sweet plea?” he says, sliding another finger into you and curling it just so. “Or such a wet and needy cunt?”

“Don’t stop,” you say.

“I ought to make you beg me for it after everything you put me through.” His eyes darken as his thumb presses against your clit and you moan. “But perhaps I can be generous. I can feel how much you need to come on my fingers.”

You nod, slack jawed and panting.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” he murmurs. “You’ve tried to deny yourself, but you need me, you need my touch.”

You whimper, your hips rocking.

“Say it,” he says, stroking your clit.

“I need to come,” you moan.

“A good start,” he says, his voice a stern purr. “But not quite what I asked, my love. Try again.”

A twinge of irritation manages to work its way to the forefront of your mind. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly in a state to be playing twenty questions.”

His eyes light up with a predatory gleam that heralds the arrival of something that you know will end enjoyably for you.

“Oh, darling, that attitude won’t do at all.” His fingers are immediately and conspicuously absent and you very nearly cry out in frustration. But before you can, he is sweeping you into his arms and making the journey to the bed in several long strides. He sets you gently on the bed and looms over you, green eyes flashing as his hands stroke up your thighs. You lift your hips and he pulls your underwear off, tossing it to the side.

“Let’s try that again, shall we?” His voice is a growl. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need to come.” You know it’s the wrong answer, but this particular game of cat and mouse and the predatory gleam in Loki’s eyes are making you even wetter and god, you need him.

His eyes flash with a barely concealed delight. “Try again.”

You spread your legs rather conspicuously, hiking your nightgown up to your waist. “I need to come.”

He’s looking at you intently, lips slightly parted. “You’re trying to distract me with that pretty cunt, you wicked thing.”

“Is it working?” you ask.

He lowers his head to kiss the inside of your left knee. “It would work much better if you answered me properly and told me everything you need.”

You think you have an idea of what he wants to hear, but you’re not quite ready to give up the game yet. Instead, you pull your nightgown up and over your head and toss it to the side. His eyes are dark as he looks at you, his gaze lingering on your breasts and trailing down to the apex of your spread legs. You wonder what it would take to make him lose control, to take you in the way that you both need.The thought sends another flood of heat to your aching core. 

You lick your lips. “Will you make me come, Loki?”

Another wolfish grin. “Closer. But not quite. Try again.”

You let your hand slide down your stomach and between your legs and you part your sopping folds so he can see the full extent of what he’s done to you—every dripping inch. The look he’s giving you now only heightens the feeling.

“Should I make myself come?” you ask and you’re immediately rewarded with an almost feral look and a sharp smack to your ass.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls.

You put on your most innocent expression, even as his visible hunger makes you ache. “I thought you’d like seeing me touch myself.”

“Oh, there will be time for that later,” he says, his eyes still dark. “I’m particularly interested in seeing what prompted those intriguing little noises I kept hearing while you were in the shower. But every tremor of pleasure that wracks your body tonight will be from me alone. Now,” his eyes glitter and his hand replaces yours on your cunt, his long fingers spreading you open, but not touching you, his expression rapt with undisguised greed, “tell me what you need.”

Your capacity to tease and resist him was well and truly exceeded when he smacked your ass and was further obliterated by the monologue he just delivered. “I need you to make me come, Loki. I need you so bad.”

His smile is filled with dark promises and a hunger that you have every interest in sating several times over.

“Good girl,” he says.

And his fingers slide back into you as his mouth envelopes your aching clit.

You moan as your hips lift and your hands tangle in his hair. He mumbles something that sounds like “perfect” against your clit, first teasing you with the tip of his tongue and then pressing it flat against you and rubbing in slow circles. Meanwhile, his fingers have found that soft, aching spot inside of you and he presses against it in slow, firm thrusts that make you tremble.

You initially think that you’ll be quite quick to come because you’re already so wound up, but Loki seems determined to find the edge and keep you there for as long as possible—and he’s really, really good at it. He falls into a rhythm where his tongue strokes your clit once, twice, three times and withdraws; his fingers pick up the thread, stroking your walls once, twice, three times and withdrawing, only for his tongue to resume where he left off. In this way, he keeps you balanced on the edge in a perfect kind of torture. It feels so good, but it’s not quite enough to get you there just yet.

You make liberal use of his name—it’s a plea, a curse, a benediction, a moan, a sigh. Instinctively, you know that he likes this, but it’s not enough to distract him into letting you fall even a moment before he wants you to.

The ache that’s been building in your hips for the last couple weeks is growing, burning bright and warm. Your body feels electric in the best way, your nerves humming and buzzing and straining for release.

“Loki,” you moan, partly as encouragement and partly because you want him so badly.

You’re so close. Your entire body is tense and trembling; all you can think about is how badly you need to come, how much you are aching for your release.

So close.

“Loki, please,” you moan, truly desperate now. “Please let me come. Make me yours—”

You’re not sure if it’s what you said, the desperation in your voice, or pure coincidence, but in that moment, he shifts his rhythm so that his mouth and fingers are no longer alternating, but are instead moving in sync. And this is what you need to tip you over, to allow that wave to finally, finally crest and then break.

Your orgasm hits you hard, pulling a loud moan from deep within your chest and making your entire body quake. Sparklers are dancing along your veins, champagne bubbles fizzing along your muscles, stars bursting behind your eyes. You have never felt anything like this before—you are satisfied but also aching for more, falling apart and being remade over and over again.

It’s only when you’re decidedly in the blissful wave of the aftershocks that he dares to lift his head and he looks you over like you’re something wonderful. Before you can raise your hands to reach for him, he’s crawling up to you, claiming your mouth in a kiss that feels deeper than the ocean.

He slides his hand in between your legs and you whimper, shivering at the sensation of his thumb stroking your sensitive clit. But somehow, he finds that particular angle and pressure that’s just enough, but not too much. You moan and he slides a finger back into you, rolling in the same rhythm as his thumb on your clit.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Keep going for me, darling. I want to watch you come this time.” His voice is so firm and authoritative and it strikes sparks up and down your spine.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your hips rocking with his hand.

“You’re doing so well getting ready for me,” he purrs. He lowers his voice to a rough growl. “I can’t wait to fuck you until you’re trembling and coming all over my cock like the wicked, filthy girl that you are.”

It’s the combination of his words and his voice and his perfect hands that does it this time. A rolling, fluttering shudder fizzes through your body, building to a peak that has you letting out a guttural moan as you clench around his thrusting fingers.

“Yes, that’s it,” Loki says as he watches you through hooded eyes. “You are gorgeous when you come undone.”

He kisses you slowly, fingers moving steadily until the final shudder rolls through you.

Somehow, through all of this, he’s remained fully clothed. There’s an aspect to this that’s appealing—it makes everything feel particularly decadent and a little forbidden—but your palms are practically itching with your need to touch him. You need him inside you, but you also need him close, bare skin on bare skin.

Your hands sneak under his shirt and you suck in a sharp breath when you feel the heat of his skin underneath your palms. You tug his shirt off him and make quick work of his pants before drawing back to look at him.

He looks like art. It’s a silly thought, but there’s some truth to it—there’s an almost ethereal quality in the sharp angles of his face and the elegant symmetry of his musculature. 

Your gaze drifts down to his cock. He’s long, thick, and hard, the tip flushed and slick with pre-come. An ache courses through you—something about seeing the full evidence of his arousal makes everything seem more real, makes you want him with renewed ferocity.

You want to touch him and so you do, your fingers curling around his shaft.

“Can you feel how much I need you?” he asks as you stroke him slowly. He is remarkably composed, though you catch the slight hitch in his breath and it sends a thrill through you.

“Will you show me?” you ask.

“Every day,” he says.

It’s an answer you’re not expecting. You were speaking strictly in the immediate, physical sense. This feels deeper, more meaningful. You’re not quite sure what to say, so you kiss him and he kisses you back with an intensity and thoroughness that makes your toes curl.

He rolls over you, his body covering yours. It’s almost overwhelming how good his bare skin feels against yours. You take his cock in your hand again and stroke him, slowly rubbing the tip from your clit to your entrance, coating him in your slick.

You expect him to just push forward when you guide him to your entrance and you’re almost disappointed that he doesn’t—you’ve both waited so long for this and your need for him is burning inside you like an inferno.

But instead he pauses, his eyes locked with yours.

“Will you have me?” he asks. There’s vulnerability in the question, a softness in his green eyes that you don’t expect. It feels like a loaded question, though not necessarily in a bad way.

You don’t hesitate. “Yes,” you breathe.

Something like relief flashes briefly in his eyes before he leans in and kisses you. You tilt your hips up again and this time, you feel the blunt head of his cock slowly press into your waiting warmth.

You’d read people describing first times with their soulmates and it had always sounded so hyperbolic and silly. They’d throw around words like euphoric and transcendent and all you could do was try not to roll your eyes.

But the moment Loki is fully seated inside you, you finally get it. Every overwrought, overused cliché seems to occur to you all at once—puzzle pieces falling into place and locks and keys and halves made whole and all that bullshit—and it all makes sense in a way that it hadn’t before.

Loki’s eyes are stormy above you, to the point that you think you may have angered him, but then he kisses you with a ferocity and possessiveness that steals your breath and makes you tighten around him.

“Mine,” he growls against your lips. “Mine.”

There’s a lot of emotion in that word. There’s history in that word. It’s the sort of thing that the two of you will probably need to unpack later. For now, though, you wrap your legs around him and meet his demanding, hungry kisses with your own.

“I’m yours,” you murmur against his lips. “Take me.”

You expect him to respond to that plea with a frantic pace. But instead, his first thrusts are slow, like he’s savoring it. Your body yields to him instinctively, your muscles drawing him in and then tightening further as he withdraws. You are so slick, so ready for him that it almost feels a little obscene.

“You are exquisite,” he rasps as he sinks into you, his head bowing to kiss and nip at your neck. “I have been aching for you.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

You’re not entirely sure what you’re asking for—more of this, more of him—but he seems to know anyway. He kisses you deeply as you wrap your legs around his waist, rolling your hips up to meet his.

In one fluid motion, he rolls you over so that you are on top. He looks up at you, an irrepressible smirk curling at the corners of his lips.

“Go on,” he says, his voice low. “I want to see you take your pleasure from me. Claim your throne, my love.”

A shiver works its way up your spine. This is a man who single-handedly conquered the entire planet and he’s telling you he wants you to ride his cock until you come. It is raw and sexy and undeniably hot and the way he’s looking up at you makes you feel beautiful and powerful.

You lean forward, bracing your hands on the mattress, tilting your pelvis until you find the right angle, the one that makes your stomach tighten and your breath stutter. 

A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “Right there?”

You let out a shaky breath and rock your hips. “Yeah.”

It takes a moment for you to find your rhythm, but you find that you want—or perhaps need—to go slow and steady. Loki watches you, his hips rocking with yours as he lets you set the pace, his hands sliding from your hips to your breasts and back again, like he can’t get enough. His gaze is intent and intense and you get the sense that he’s cataloging every movement, every gasp or sigh, furrowed brow or bitten lip.

The coil in your hips is starting to wind tighter and you know it won’t be long. 

As though he knows, Loki slides a hand down your body, palm gently pressing against your lower stomach. A fantastic pressure begins to blossom in your hips and you whimper.

“You’re doing so well,” he purrs. “So tight and wet. You’re perfect.”

“Getting close,” you breathe.

“I know, I can feel you,” he says.

You’re at a point somewhere beyond words, riding that wave, chasing bliss that you can almost feel. A choked whimper falls from your lips.

“That’s it,” rasps Loki. “Be a good girl and come on my cock.” He flicks his thumb against your clit and you completely unravel.

It was good the first two times, but having him inside you as you come sends you to another plane of existence entirely. Your orgasm seems extended, the feeling of his cock against the spasming muscles of your cunt creating more even rippling pleasure. And the noise that he makes, the filthy praise that falls from his lips, the way that his fingertips dig into your hips just makes it all better.

He rolls you over onto your back just as you’re starting to feel boneless, and pulls you into a deep kiss.  He thrusts into you, a little faster than the pace you had set, but still slow and steady.

“I want to feel you come again,” he breathes. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this, how good you feel?”

You shudder as his cock drags again against that spot inside you. He repeats the motion and you keen, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“That’s it,” he rasps, bringing your leg up over his hip to press even more deeply inside of you. “Come on, darling. Let me feel you.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, meeting his hungry, demanding kiss with your own. You roll your hips with his, chasing the flickers of bliss that he’s steadily stoking to an inferno once more.

“Please,” you mumble against his lips. “Need you. Please.”

He groans and increases his pace just enough to make you whimper. The desire inside of you is catching fire.

“I…fuck, I—” Your hands are gripping his shoulders, your body shaking as you approach your end.

Loki’s eyes are wild, his teeth bared. You can tell that he’s close, that he’s chasing the same incredible feeling that you are.

“I want you to come for me,” he grits out. “And the second I feel your tight cunt start to tremble around me, I’m going to come inside you.

You moan, fingernails digging into his shoulders. You are unbearably close.

“Do you want that, darling?” he says. “Do you want me to come inside you? Do you want your perfect cunt filled with my seed?”

You are almost beyond words, but not quite: “Yes. Please.”

Despite how close he is, he still gives the impression of being entirely in control. He lowers his head so that his lips graze yours and his eyes are all that you can see. “Then come for me,” he says.

Two more deadly smooth rolls of his hips and you do. A guttural, plaintive sound falls from your lips as your whole body trembles with the force of your orgasm, your cunt squeezing around the girth of his cock. He groans, mumbling something in a language you don’t recognize before he, too, starts to unravel.

His face is rapturous when he comes, his head tipping back and his mouth falling open, brow furrowing. If you weren’t so distracted with the rippling shocks of your own pleasure, you would try to commit it to memory. Instead, you simply try to enjoy the feeling of him emptying himself inside of you, the stuttering thrust of his hips, the soft groan that falls from his lips. Finally he stills, resting his head in the crook of your shoulder. You can feel his heart pounding against yours.

You feel…it’s not different, exactly, but there’s a kind of ease and connection that just feels right. The restless ache inside of you is finally quiet and you feel loose and languid and pleasantly sleepy.

Finding your soulmate isn’t necessarily the same as falling in love. Sometimes it all happens in the moment. Sometimes it’s years in between.

For you, though, you can pinpoint the exact moment that seed was planted: Loki raising his head to look at you, his hand curled against your cheek. His gaze is careful, reverent, like you are as warm and golden as the dawn just barely beginning to streak the morning sky.

[choivae]

ᝰ.ᐟ nanami with a girlfriend who has sensitive thighs ⸝⸝ 18+ mdni

bf!nanami is a man of physical habit, when you two are winding down on the couch after his long shift—his heavy, warm hand naturally finds a home on your thigh. the first time it happens, he’s just reading the paper, but he feels the immediate, rigid tension in your muscles.

he casually glances over, assuming you’re just caught off guard or feeling a bit shy. "are you cold?" he asks, his deep voice slicing through the quiet room. when you quickly shake your head, he simply pats your knee and shrugs it off, returning to his reading, though his observant mind notes the slight tremor in your frame.

bf!nanami who starts getting genuinely suspicious after the third or fourth time. it doesn't matter if his touch is a passive weight or a gentle, absentminded caress through your sweatpants—your breath hitches every single time. he notices the way your toes curl, the subtle shiver that runs up your spine, and the way you try to casually shift away from his reach.

nanami is nothing if not analytical; he knows compliance versus involuntary reaction, and you are definitely hiding something. he begins to purposely linger his touch, tracing the seam of your pants just to watch your eyelashes flutter and your lips part in a silent gasp.

bf!nanami decides to test his hypothesis on a rainy saturday afternoon. you're both cuddled up, your guard completely down as you watch a movie. without a word or a shift in his stoic expression, his large hand slides up your inner thigh and delivers a sudden, firm squeeze.

bf!nanami watches you gasp, a high, completely involuntary sound escaping your throat—a sharp, needy little squeak that cuts off the moment you realize what you've done. "oh? and what exactly was that noise for?" your hands fly to grip his wrist, trying to pull his hand away, but he doesn't let go.

instead, a slow, incredibly rare, and distinctly smug smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. he looks down at you through his glasses, thoroughly amused by your bright red face. "i don't recall the movie being quite that exciting," he drawls, his fingers sinking deeper into the soft flesh.

bf!nanami who is a little bit mean about it, but in the most intoxicating way possible. he deliberately applies just a fraction more pressure, kneading the sensitive muscle with his broad palm and watching you squirm helplessly against him. "i didn't realize a simple touch could reduce you to this," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a gravelly warmth that tells you he finds this incredibly hot.

he teases you relentlessly, leaning down so his lips brush your burning ear. "look at me. tell me why you're trembling so much just from my hand. if you don't answer, i'll just have to keep squeezing until you do." he refuses to let you look away until you confess just how sensitive your thighs actually are.

bf!nanami who likes to abuse this newfound knowledge at every single opportunity, especially when he wants to fluster you in public. if you're out at a quiet restaurant, his hand will slide under the tablecloth, his fingers mapping out the soft skin of your thighs.

he loves watching you try to maintain a straight face while ordering food, your fingers white-knuckling the menu because he's lightly scratching the apex of your thigh. when you catch his eye, pleading with him silently, he just takes a calm sip of his wine and whispers, "focus on the waiter, sweetheart. tell him what you want to eat."

bf!nanami turns into an absolute menace behind closed doors. during sex, your thighs become his absolute favorite target. he likes to pin your legs wide apart, his heavy palms bruising your hips before sliding down to grip your thighs with enough force to leave faint, temporary marks.

he loves to deeply knead the ultra-sensitive skin right where your leg meets your hip, watching your back arch off the bed as you let out a ragged sob. "look at how flushed you get here," he grunts, his thumb pressing firmly into the sweet spot, relishing the way your thighs clamp around his waist in a desperate bid for relief.

bf!nanami who pairs his heavy-handed groping with sensory overload. while he’s driving himself into you, he’ll lean down to bite and press open-mouthed kisses against your inner thighs, deliberately targeting the spots that make your hips stutter-step and bring a sob to your throat.

he loves the contrast of his rough, calloused hands soothing over the ultra-sensitive skin, murmuring praises against your neck while ensuring you can't think about anything else but his touch.

he'll deliberately slow his pace just to focus entirely on your thighs, sinking his teeth into the soft skin until you're completely undone. "good girl," he rumbles against your skin, "let me hear you make that sound again."

[blueberrymoons77]

I’m in love with my wife (send help)

You and Satoru had been in an arranged marriage for a year now, and one night, after months of yearning, everything finally comes crashing together

Tags: explicit sex, emotional sex, soft sex, angst, p eating, body worship, multiple orgasms, crying during sex, love confession

wc: 6k

Satoru had really screwed up this time. Badly. He could tell in the way you moved in silence. The way you watched quietly as the girl he brought home stormed out while you were coming back to the house from some outing.

Your eyes hadn't met his since. It's been three hours. Three hours of your quiet moving through the house like a ghost he couldn't touch. Usually he kept his… acquaintances far away from you. He never brought them home, no matter how hard they begged. But he'd been careless. And drunk. And before he knew it he had the girl at his house, your house, and once he'd realized what he'd done he kicked her out. She'd slapped him, her ring cutting his cheek, and left just as you were coming in.

He watched you, feeling like a child in trouble—which was a sensation so foreign to him it sat wrong in his chest, too tight, too unfamiliar. Satoru Gojo didn't answer to anyone. He never had. He was the strongest, untouchable, untethered. But here he was, hovering in his own kitchen like a kicked puppy, waiting for you to acknowledge him.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. And yet he couldn't make himself stop.

He knew your marriage was of convenience. The two of your clans forcing a marriage upon you two for the sake of tradition. And the two of you had agreed. On your wedding night, the day you met, you'd see other people and be discreet about it.

It's been a year. A year and he's grown accustomed to this shaky routine you two have. He'd come home, you'd make food. You were quiet most of the time. Polite. Keeping to yourself. But always took his feelings and opinions into consideration. When you were remodeling the house you checked with him with every change, made sure he liked it, made sure you put things he'd be happy with. You made dinner. Things he liked. And sweets you knew he'd love. You were observant. Especially to him.

The two of you had formed a friendship. Quiet nights where he'd come home and find you reading. He'd eat the leftovers you'd made him and plop down on the couch and disrupt your quiet time by asking a million questions about what was going on in the book. You never got annoyed. It was your superpower, he used to tell himself. You were the only person who didn't get annoyed by him.

You'd set your book down and tell him all about it and he'd just watch you. In your cute pajamas and your hair braided and your glasses he only ever saw on you at night. And faintly he'd think you were so beautiful it wasn't fair. He'd also think he was the only one who got to see you like this. And for some reason he held onto that small possession for dear life, for reasons he didn't want to analyze too carefully—didn't want to pick at, the way you didn't pick at a healing wound.

But getting back to now. Now you were ignoring him. And he felt small. And he didn't know how to fix it. You set the table and he stands uselessly. He studies your face as you sit down, drinking in every line of it, the careful neutrality you'd arranged over your features like armor. He sits across from you, foot tapping on the floor.

He looks at his bowl.

"You made curry,” he states stupidly.

"Astute observation," you remark and still refuse to look at him.

He almost smiles. He would've smiled if it weren't for the tension pressing down on the room like a held breath. There she is. Another thing he admired about you was your ability to be so effortlessly cutting. When it was deserved of course.

"Yeah…" he says, playing with his spoon. What is wrong with him? He knows why you're mad. He brought a girl here. Here. Home. To his and your space. He ruined the fragile stability of the home— the quiet, careful thing the two of you had built together without ever naming it. "I sent her away. I kicked her out—when I realized what I did I—"

"I didn't ask," you cut him off, taking a long bite of your food.

He didn't know how to fix things. Satoru Gojo wasn't made for this. Not marriage. He never was. It's part of the reason he stayed away from you. He knew in the end he'd always hurt you. He just hadn't expected it to feel like this—like something caving in inside of him.

Then you glance up at him for the first time, eyes tracking his face. You set your spoon down and wordlessly get up, his gaze following your every move like it's sacred, like he's cataloguing you. You come back out with a cotton swab and cleaner. He frowns in confusion when you sit directly in front of him and grasp his chin in your grip.

"She shouldn't have hit you," you whisper. Your touch is so gentle it makes the back of his throat ache. You dab at his cheek with the wet cotton ball, cleaning him like he's something worth tending to.

Fuck. You're a saint. You always have been.

"You don't feel that urge sometimes? I'm very hittable," he says and smiles—but it's not his usual smirk, all sharp edges and performance. It's quieter than that. More honest. Vulnerable in a way he'd never let anyone else see.

"Of course not," you say, eyebrows drawing in. "I wouldn't ever hit you. That's abuse."

He wants to laugh. He wants to tease you but this— whatever this is— is far too fragile to poke at. His eyes flick down to your lips. He wants to kiss you. He's noticed over the last four months, maybe longer, that he always wants to kiss you. That your lips look soft and smooth and he remembers exactly what they felt like on their wedding night—the only night he's allowed himself to really have you. He has to physically stop himself from glancing down at your thighs that were excruciatingly close to his face. Down, boy.

"I wasn't nice to her," he says, because he needs to keep talking or he'll do something reckless.

"That doesn't justify violence. She hurt you."

"I'm fine. It's just a scratch." He tries for a smile but your expression doesn't budge. You put a bandaid on his face with the same steady hands you do everything with and his heart does something embarrassing in his chest. Why do you have to be so goddamn sweet?

"Satoru," you start, holding your chin high in that way you do before you state something you absolutely believe in. "I don't want any more women in the house. Do you… do you honestly not realize how disrespectful that is to me—?"

"I know," he cuts you off, closing his eyes. For once he's serious. This is the type of situation where he needs to be serious. The smirk, the bravado, the arrogant deflection—none of that works on you. It never has. "I know. It won't happen again. I'm sorry." A beat. Then again quieter, "I'm sorry, princess."

Satoru Gojo apologizes. And you are the only person who will ever get him to. Despite everything. You are his wife and he respects that. He respects you. Or he thought he did. He's not sure what he thought anymore.

You get up and go back to your own spot. The rest of dinner is spent in silence. He doesn't understand. He apologized. Why are you still mad? Why can't you go back to teasing him like you always do? Why does the distance between you across a small table feel like miles?

After dinner he follows you around like a lost puppy — which is humiliating, really, the great Satoru Gojo trailing after someone like he needs their approval to exist. But he can feel the disappointment radiating from you and he hates it. Wants to tear it up. Wants a time machine so he can go back and not fuck everything up.

Once you get to the bedroom—technically it was both of yours but it was yours more than his. Satoru sleeps in the guest room. The arrangement had made sense, once. Now it just felt like a reminder of all the space he'd put between them on purpose.

"I said it won't happen again," he repeats. He needs you to say something. Anything.

"Do you want a gold star?" You snap, whirling around suddenly. This is the angriest he's ever seen you, and something shameful and fascinated in him thinks, god she’s beautiful like this. "You shouldn't have done it in the first place!"

"I know—"

You shove at his chest suddenly. Coming from the woman who just said violence wasn't the answer. He must really bring out the worst in you. "Did you sleep with her in our bed?"

"No!" He insists. "No—fuck no— I didn't touch her. Not in this house at least. Not in your space. I wouldn't— come on, princess. You know I wouldn't do that."

"Do I?"

And that hits him somewhere unprotected. Right in the middle of his chest where he doesn't usually let people reach.

"As soon as I realized what was happening I kicked her out. I swear. I swear it."

Silence. But he can see some of the tension loosen from your shoulders, just slightly. Enough.

He shifts on his feet, jaw working. "Can I sleep in here tonight?"

It's bold to ask but he asks anyway. For some reason he feels clingy, desperate in a way he'd never admit out loud. Sleeping without you, tonight of all nights, sounds like a particular kind of misery he doesn't want to sit with.

"I suppose," you say, and disappear into the bathroom.

Satoru stares at the door for a long moment before shedding his clothes. He climbs into your side of the bed first by accident, then corrects himself, then wonders why he corrected himself. He pulls the sheets back and sinks into them and breathes. They smell like you. Sweet. He hears the water running and he knows you're washing your face. He's watched you do it enough times that he could close his eyes and see every step. He loves that you take care of yourself. That you're so sure of yourself in every aspect of life, so unhurried. It's damning. And he's envious of your stillness, which is ironic considering who he is—what he is.

If he's being completely honest, which he isn't often, only in rare moments like this when the walls come down because he's too tired to hold them up, he stays away from you on purpose. Because he knows— truly knows—that he could love you. Not the convenient kind. Not the quiet understanding kind. The kind that would swallow him whole and leave nothing behind. And it's nauseating. Terrifying. So he pushes you away, keeps the guest room, keeps his distance, keeps his acquaintances. But the feeling still lingers. It lingers in the soft glances and the soft touches and the way you look after him —the man who takes care of everyone else and has never once known how to be taken care of in return. It lingers.

He shouldn't be in here. He should be in the guest room. Far from you. Far from all of it.

But when you emerge from the bathroom he doesn't leave.

You'd changed. Pink silk pajamas, shorts and a tank top, your hair braided in one long braid down your shoulder, glasses perched on your nose.

Shit.

This is his favorite version of you. He's never told you that. He probably never will.

You slide into bed, careful to keep to your side, and he gets a slow drift of your scent—pure sugar and vanilla, like a goddamn bakery, like something made to ruin him. He's always had a weakness for sweet things.

It wasn't the first time the two of you had shared a bed. It had happened a couple times over the last year, always for some mundane reason or another. And every time, he regrets it in the morning. Because every time, he wakes up wanting more, and he doesn't know what to do with that.

"You always put that stuff on?" He finds himself murmuring, before he can think better of it.

"Hmm?" You raise an eyebrow and turn on your side to face him so the two of you are eye to eye. The small lamp on your nightstand throws warm light across your face. He has to remind himself to breathe at a reasonable pace.

"That lotion or whatever. It smells good."

"Oh," you say, and then you smile. Soft. Just barely. His chest constricts so fast it nearly winds him. Your first smile all day and he doesn't even feel like he's earned it, which makes it somehow worse. "It's body oil. Not lotion."

"Oh," he murmurs back.

Body oil. Of course it is. Of course.

Your scent reaches him again, curling through the small space between them, and something in him—the part that is always, always holding back—simply gives. He can't stop himself from leaning forward, closing the distance, and burying his face in the curve of your neck. The exhale that leaves him is involuntary. He inhales you in like he's been starving for it.

You don't shove him off.

You should. You both know you should.

His lips find the column of your throat, not kissing, not yet, just skimming. The barest suggestion of pressure. Waiting. Asking a question he doesn't have the courage to say out loud.

"W-what—" your voice comes out broken, barely a whisper. "What are you doing?"

The sound of you stuttering does something irreversible to him. His lips trace upward, slow as anything, mapping the soft skin just below your jaw. Still not a real kiss. Still holding himself at the edge of it.

"Kissing my wife." The words come out low, rougher than he intends. And then finally, after a year, after all the careful distance and deliberate coldness and every night he made himself walk to the guest room —he presses a real kiss below your jaw. Slow. Aching. Like he's savoring something he's been denying himself for so long he's forgotten what it felt like to want something this badly.

"Fuck—" he breathes against your skin, the curse more of a prayer.

Your hands find his shoulders. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just gripping, like you need something to hold onto. Like you're as undone as he is and trying not to show it. It only urges him on.

"Satoru." His name on your lips in that wrecked little exhale is the single most devastating sound he's ever heard in his life. "We shouldn't."

He presses another kiss just behind your ear, where the vanilla is warmest. He lingers there. His eyes fall shut.

"Why?" He breathes it against your skin, then shifts until he's half over you, bracing his weight carefully on his forearms so he can look down at your face. He needs to see you. "Tell me why, because I can't think of a single reason right now. I can't think of anything but you."

You're looking up at him and your expression is—god, you're going to destroy him. You're looking at him like you've been holding something back too. Like maybe he isn't the only one who's been keeping distance on purpose.

"Because," you say, and it's not an answer, and you both know it's not an answer.

So he doesn't stop.

He traces his mouth up your cheek, the curve of it, your temple, the center of your forehead. Unhurried. Worshipful. He has spent a year keeping himself from this and he refuses to rush now that he's finally here. Every kiss is a confession he doesn't know how to make with words. Every brush of his lips says I notice you and I think about you and you're the only person who has ever made me feel small and safe at the same time.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your skin, the words spilling out of him like a secret he can't keep anymore. "Do you know that? Do you have any idea what you do to me, just... existing?"

His mouth reaches the corner of yours and he stops. Waits. His heartbeat is embarrassingly loud in his own ears.

And then you move first.

You're the one who crosses the last impossible inch. You're the one who presses your lips into his, soft and certain, like you've decided something.

Holy shit. My wife is kissing me.

Your lips are slow, consuming, devastatingly unhurried. Like you've thought about how you'd do this and you are not going to let him rush you. He's been kissed before. Many times. By many people. None of it felt like this—like being unmade. Like being seen. He makes a sound low in his throat that he'll be embarrassed about later, melting into you and your sweet touch before he can stop himself. His hand finds your jaw, your cheek, tilting your face up toward him like he'll get more of you that way.

He matches your rhythm, your pace, letting the fire catch slow—slow and sizzling and inevitable, like something that was always going to happen, like something that should have happened months ago, like maybe the whole year has just been them circling this moment and finally, finally falling in.

Then you slide your tongue in with his and he groans, deep and guttural. His hips move slightly against you before he can stop himself, letting you feel just how much he aches for you. "You feel that?" he rasps, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak. "That's all you. That's what you do to me. No one else—just you."

"Satoru," you gasp against his lips and that's all he wants to hear for the rest of his life is his name from your mouth. "Please."

He kisses down now, down your throat, allowing himself to claim you. His his his. All of you. His wife. He sucks on every inch of skin, hungry, desperate. "Please what, baby? Tell me what you want." His voice is wrecked, pleading. "I'll give you anything. Anything. Just tell me."

"Please touch me," you plead, arching into his hands that are on your waist.

"Fuck." The word is punched out of him. "Fuck, you have no idea what that does to me." One of his hands slide up your belly, under your loose tank top and cups your breast. He marvels at how well you fill out his hand, how perfect every inch of you is for him. "You're so perfect. So goddamn perfect."

"Can I..?" He asks you, already breathless.

You respond by flinging your tank top off for him.

"Oh fuck," he says when he gets a good look at you, his voice barely above a whisper, reverent. "Look at you. Just—look at you." Of course he's seen you naked before. On your wedding night. But this is different. Way different. That night had been about business and honor and consummating for the cameras so the old fucking elders could watch.

But this is different. This is just you two.

His mouth joins his hand, he can't help but taste, drawing in your pretty peaked nipple into his warm mouth. He needs to taste every inch of you. Needs to worship you. Needs it more than he needs to get off. He nibbles and sucks and when you gasp his name again he groans against your skin, the vibration making you shiver. "God, you taste sweet. Like candy. Like my new favorite thing."

"Please," You moan and arch into him.

He pulls back just enough to smirk at you, but it's soft, fond—the arrogance tempered into something almost tender. "Please what? Use your words, pretty girl. I want to hear you." He's not done playing with your pretty tits. So you can beg all you like. But he's taking his sweet time. He switches to the other breast to show it just as much attention. Fuck. My wife has perfect tits, he thinks to himself. Taste so sweet. So pretty. So perfect. This is heaven. His face is buried in your breasts while you plead with him for more. If he died right now he'd die the happiest he's ever been.

Your nails dig into his shoulder in warning. He smiles against your nipple, latching off of it to look at you wickedly. "You have no idea," he murmurs against your skin, "how long I've—" He stops. Switches his mouth to your other breast instead of finishing the sentence. That's too much. That's too honest. But his hands tighten on you, and maybe that says it anyway.

"Please, Satoru!" you moan, arching sharply. Unable to tell him properly what you want. Just that you’re aching for more.

"No," he says simply, against your nipple, but his voice is warm, teasing. "Not yet. I'm not done. I could do this all night." He can feel your frustration and he loves it. He smiles against your skin. "I'm not done."

Your nails drag into his shoulder in warning and he laughs—actually laughs, quiet and warm— and lifts his head just enough to look at you. Your brows are furrowed, jaw dropped, completely wrecked, and he has done that to you, he has, and it's the best thing he's ever seen in his life.

"Don't give me that look," he says, holding eye contact as he slowly swirls his tongue over the peak. "I told you. I'm. Not. Done. You're so sensitive, baby. It's driving me crazy."

A tiny whimper escapes you and suddenly he feels your body snap, shaking uncontrollably. He watches your face contort in its peak of pleasure, his own eyes going wide with awe. He keeps sucking, amazed, watching you.

When your body stops and your huffing is when he unlatches. "Holy shit, baby," he says absolutely in awe, kissing your sternum over and over like he can't get enough. "You just came from me sucking on your pretty tits? Just from that?" He laughs, disbelieving, delighted. "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen. Ever."

He's never made a woman cum like that. Ever. Fuck.

A flush travels up your neck, embarrassment on your face. Your hands slap over your cheeks to hide.

He smiles against your skin. "No, don't hide," he kisses up your chest before reaching your chin. He tugs on your wrist gently. "Come on, look at me."

"Shut up."

His smile gets bigger, he kisses your hand that's covering your face. "Don't be embarrassed. Baby, that was so fucking hot." He kisses more, murmurs against your skin, muffled, "fucking sexy. You're fucking sexy. I can't believe you're—"

Mine. But he doesn’t say that. He can’t.

Your grip loosens and he finally gets you to look at him. He doesn't hesitate when your lips are free. He kisses them, pulling you into a slow kiss, grinding into you, letting you know just how much he likes it when you cum for him.

"More," you gasp against his mouth.

"Yeah?" He grins, nipping at your lower lip. "You want more? Because I've got plenty."

Oh he can do more.

His hand travels down, yanking your shorts down and throwing them somewhere. He licks his lips when he sees your pink lace panties. "So fucking cute," he breathes. "Everything you wear is fucking cute. I want to buy you more of this. I want to take you shopping and get you pretty pink bras and panties and lingerie and then I want to take them off you. Slowly."

He spreads your thighs with both his hands then brings his thumb up to press down on your clit through your panties.

"Mmm!" You whine and arch again. You're so sensitive. Probably the most sensitive girl he's ever been with. He can probably make you cum just from pressing on your pretty little bundle a couple of times.

He marvels at how wet you are, soaking the panties through just from getting your nipples played with. "All of this," he murmurs, almost to himself, "just for me. You're soaked, baby. All for me."

His mouth waters at the sight. He takes what he wants. He leans down and sucks on your clit through the fabric, he feels your hands frantically claw at him and your surprised moan but he can't process any of it. His eyes roll back and he devours you, sucking you, his tongue rolling around the sensitive bud while he makes out with your cunt. It's as slow and aching as when he was kissing your throat only now it was your most sensitive area. He moans against you, the sound vibrating through you. "God, you taste so good. I could stay here forever."

His hands slide under your ass, clutching the globes and pressing you into his mouth. This is bliss.

"You taste so good," he groans against you. "Why didn't we do this sooner. Why did I wait so long—should've been eating your pretty cunt months ago—I'm such an idiot—"

"Ssatoru!" Your hand flies to his white strands, gripping at the root. "Oh—yes yes yes."

He moves his head to a rhythm, encouraged by your moans. He needs you to cum just like this. Through the fabric. Just from him kissing your cunt sloppy. He slides his tongue hot and wet along your clit over and over, then nibbles around the bud. "That's it," he chants against you. "Come on, baby. Cum for me again. I want to feel it."

"Ah! Mm cuming—I'm cumming!" You shout and shake around him as your orgasm crashes over you. He keeps going, drawing out every last bit of pleasure he can take. Your hands tighten to the point of it being painful but then loosen once you've come down from your high.

"That's it. That's my girl." He presses a soft kiss to your clothed core, gentle now. "So good. You're so good."

He's reluctant to pull away. Him and your cunt are just getting acquainted. Becoming good friends if you will. But he does. He pulls up and kisses your quaking belly before resting his forehead against yours. You're staring in a daze and he could get addicted to that expression. No he always is. He wants another one. And another one. He wants at least four.

"Two," he whispers more to himself.

"Two?" You frown.

He grins, but it's soft, almost shy— which looks strange on someone usually so insufferably confident. "I want at least four. At least. I'm not done with you yet. Not even close."

Your eyes widen cutely. "Satoru…" you breathe and reach up, cupping the side of his face. He nearly shivers, leaning into your palm, nuzzling like a cat. Your hands feel so good on him he mutters your name. "I want you."

You want him. He turns his face into your hand and kisses softly, breathing you in. He nods. A part of him can't believe this is happening. He never thought—he never thought they would get here. And he's hit suddenly by how dangerous this is. After this there's no going back. There isn't. He won't be able to. "I want you too," he whispers, voice cracking. "I've wanted you for so long. I was just too scared to—" He shakes his head, unable to finish. "I'm here now. I'm here."

He slides down your panties and you lift your hips to help him. Your desperate eyes looking into him is too much. He needs to be inside you.

In one swift motion, he kicks off his own pants and boxers together—no grace or elegance here, just urgency—and then hovers over you again, bare chest to bare chest now as he lines himself up with trembling restraint. He was achingly hard, his cock swollen and desperate for you.

His hands cradle either side of your face for a heartbeat, gazing into your eyes, so much left to say, before he finally murmurs against those lips: "Look at me. I want to see you. And… tell me if I need to stop. Promise me."

He waits for you to nod before pushing forward, just an inch, losing himself in your tight warm cunt. Fuck fuck fuck. "Oh—god—you're so tight—"

Your hands fly up, eager to grasp onto something for leverage and find his shoulder.

He pushes deeper. He watches your face—watches as you take every inch of him, your eyebrows scrunching at the stretch and fucking—it's the hottest thing he's ever seen. "That's it," he breathes. "Take all of me. You feel so good. So perfect." He finally bottoms out inside you and you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. He's not faring any better. The feeling of your tight cunt sucking him in is almost too much, he drops his face into your neck trying to control himself. "Give me a second," he pants.

He finally bottoms out inside you and you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. He's not faring any better. The feeling of your tight cunt sucking him in is almost too much—"Shit, you feel—fuck, you feel incredible"—he drops his face into your neck trying to control himself.

He has a moment of clarity. This is you. His wife. Not some random girl he picked up at a bar. This is important. This means something.

He gives you both a second before pulling back, almost all the way out before thrusting back in.

"Fuck," he grunts at the same time you say, "Satoru!" You arch your back into him, desperate for more. And he wants you to feel more. He wants to drive you crazy. So he does it again and again, slow deep thrusts. He's never had sex like this before. Not this aching hungry sort of rhythm.

"God, you're so tight," he groans against your skin. "So perfect. Feel you squeezing me—fuck, baby—"

He smiles against your skin as your nails dig into him. "That's it," he murmurs in your ear, completely fascinated by the way you're taking him. "So fucking beautiful. Just feel it. All of it. You feel so good wrapped around me—so fucking good—"

You surprise him by turning your head and catching his lips. He groans into your mouth, deep and desperate. He raises one of his hands to interlock with one of yours, pressing it into the pillows by your head, thrusting his hips at the same agonizing pace. This. This is pure intensity, pure bliss, pure frustration. The intimacy hits him like a punch to the chest.

This isn't casual sex. This isn't some fling or obligation. We are holding hands. We are married. And I am so completely in lo—

He breaks the kiss only to press his forehead against yours, breathing hard as he sets an even rhythm of slow but deep thrusts that let you both feel every inch of connection. Every roll of his hips says more than words could right now.

"You have no idea," he says against your lips, voice cracked open in a way he'd never let anyone hear. "What you do to me. You have absolutely no idea." He thrusts deeper, and a broken sound escapes him. "Been wanting this—wanting you—for so long. So fucking long."

Every roll of his hips is a sentence. I'm sorry I kept you at arm's length. I'm sorry I was a coward. I'm sorry I brought her here. I'm yours. I think I've always been yours.

He pushes as deep as he can, trying to mark you as much as he can. "Want you to feel me tomorrow," he rasps. "Want you to walk around and know—know you're mine." So you remember this. So this haunts you the way it will haunt him. The way you have haunted him for months, in the soft lamp-lit image of you and your glasses and your braided hair and your books. You consume him.

"Need you to remember," he rasps, barely coherent, "remember this. Remember my name on your lips. Remember how good we fit together."

Remember me.

Your legs come up to wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper into your cunt. "Oh—oh fuck," he breathes, the sensation nearly undoing him. One hand moves from your hip to your thigh, holding your legs around him. "Just like that—yeah, just like that, baby—wrap yourself around me—"

You gaze into his eyes, nudging your nose with his softly.

It feels like too much. Tears fill his eyes and he hides his face away in your neck, hips picking up speed. "You're everything," he whispers against your skin, voice breaking. "Everything. I can't—I can't believe I almost—"

He feels your fingers run through his hair, nails gliding over his scalp and he knows what the touch is. It’s a silent, I’ve got you.

You always take care of him. But right now he needs to take care of you.

He hitches your legs higher, changing the angle slightly so his cock hits deeper inside you.

"Satoru!" You moan, hand tightening on his and in his hair. "I'm—ah—I'm close—Toru—so close."

"Yeah? You gonna cum for me?" His voice is wrecked. "Wanna feel it—wanna feel you come apart on my cock—" He feels your pussy clench around him—tightening—and it sends a shockwave of pleasure through his entire body. But even more than that? The way your hips start moving in perfect sync with his, meeting every thrust like the two of you have been doing this forever instead of just tonight…

A broken noise leaves his throat. Fuck. He's close too.

"Cum for me again." His voice comes out rough when he murmurs in your ear. "Cum with me. Want us to—fuck—want to feel you—"

"Ah-!" You moan and your body obeys, shaking and trembling around him as you reach your peak. "Satoru Satoru—S—'Toru!"

You chanting his name in your little slurred voice is like fucking heroin. "That's it—that's my good girl—" His thrusts grow frantic and then stutter. He groans low in his throat, saying your name like a prayer as he cums, electricity lighting down his spine. "Oh god—fuck—I'm—yes—"

He pumps you full of his cum, spurt after spurt. And it's like every atom in his body is electrified. Telling him how right this is. This is where he's always supposed to cum. Inside you. Over and over.

He collapses against you, still buried deep, trembling. He nuzzles into your neck, completely spent. After minutes of just catching each others breaths lets himself look at you. Your eyes crack open and he gets a glimpse of those beautiful irises.

“Hey,” you murmur, reaching up to slide your fingers through his white curls. Then you do that thing again, you nudge him with your nose.

Fuck.

“Hey,” he says back. Then with absolute surety. “I love you.”

Because he does. He has. This entire time. He's loved you. He was just terrified of what that meant. And that's what this was. It was love. The two of you didn't just have sex. You made love.

Your eyes widen, shocked, mouth opening then closing. “But Satoru—“

“But what?” He cuts you off. He finally rolls off of you and it feels wrong. His body protests. His heart clenches being ripped away from where it belongs. He glares at the ceiling suddenly. What if there is someone else? The two of you had agreed on an open marriage. And he'd never had the courage before to ask if there was another man. “Is there another guy? Is that why you don't love me? I don't care if there's another man you love. I'm your husband. Me. And I'll make you love me back. I swear it.” The arrogance bleeds back in — the absolute certainty that he can win you, that he will win you, because Satoru Gojo doesn't lose. Not at anything. Not even this.

“Would you shut up?” You snap and suddenly you roll on top of him, fully straddling him and everything in his mind turns to mush. He stares up at you in awe. Your messy braid, your bare breasts covered in marks from him. “There's no other guy. There's never been another guy Satoru. And—of course I love you. I've always …”

“You do?” He asks hopeful, sitting up on his elbows to get closer to you. The arrogance flickers, replaced by something raw and young and desperate.

You get distracted, eyes flicking to his lips but then you come to your senses and push him back down, hand to his chest. “That's not the point! Why now? Why do you love me now? It doesn't make any sense. No —No you're just feeling guilty about what you did and you don't know how to process that emotion.”

“Don't tell me what I feel.”

You open your mouth again but he stops you.

“I love you," he repeats, and his voice breaks on it, cracks right down the middle and he doesn't try to hide it. "I know I do. I know it the way I know everything that matters—in my bones, in my gut, in the part of me that doesn't lie." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are glassy and fierce at once, like a man confessing something he's been carrying so long it's left marks. "I knew the night I met you. Our wedding night—when I was cold to you, when I was cruel and distant and I told myself it meant nothing—" His jaw tightens. "I knew then. Standing there in front of you I knew and it felt like the ground disappearing under my feet."

He exhales, shaky, his hands cradling your face like you might vanish.

“Do you understand what that's like? For me? There is nothing in this world that scares me. Nothing. I have faced things that would break most people and I didn't flinch." His thumb swipes across your cheek. "And then there was you. You in your quiet way, learning me without asking permission, taking care of me without making me feel small— you scared me more than anything I've ever walked toward." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "Why do you think I kept running? I wasn't running from you. I was running because you know me. The real parts. The ugly parts. You see straight through all of it and that is the most terrifying thing anyone has ever done to me."

His forehead drops to yours. He closes his eyes.

"I kept waiting for you to give up on me," he admits, quieter now, the confession scraped raw from somewhere deep. "I kept waiting for you to get tired of the distance. The coldness. The other women." His throat works. "I think part of me wanted you to. Because if you gave up on me I'd have an excuse to keep the wall up. Keep telling myself it wasn't real. That it didn't mean anything." A broken sound escapes him, something between a laugh and a sob. "But you just — you kept making me dinner. You kept asking if I liked the curtains. You kept leaving the light on."

He opens his eyes.

"Do you know what it did to me every time I came home at two in the morning and the light was on? Because you wanted me to be able to find my way in the dark?" His voice fractures on the last word. "You were taking care of me. Nobody has ever— I have never let anyone — "

He stops. Steadies himself. Tries again.

"I don't know how to do this," he says honestly. "I need you to know that going in. I'm going to mess up. I'm probably going to get scared and I'm probably going to say something stupid and push you away again." His hands tighten gently around your face. "But I'm telling you right now, in this moment where I am more sure than I have ever been of anything—I will always come back. I will always come back to you. Because there is no version of my life that makes sense without you in it anymore and I stopped being able to pretend there was."

The room is so quiet.

You're looking at him and he feels completely stripped —no armor, no smirking, no deflection. Just Satoru. Just the man underneath all of it, who learned your nighttime routine by heart and memorized which sweets you liked and held onto the fact that he was the only one who got to see you in your glasses like it was something holy.

"Say something," he whispers. "Please. You can yell at me if you want. You can tell me it's too late. But please say something because I have never in my life said any of that to anyone and the silence is going to kill me."

And then suddenly tears fall from your pretty eyes and onto his thumbs and his heart shatters.

“Shh,” he whispers, “don’t cry baby.”

You lean forward and catch his lips in a soft emotional kiss. “Took you long enough,” you murmur against him.

A laugh slips from his throat.

And for the first time in as long as he can remember— maybe for the first time ever—Satoru Gojo feels like he’s exactly where he is supposed to be.

He doesn't go back to the guest room that night.

He doesn't go back to the guest room ever again.

[velvetvowsandvikingdreams]

˚₊‧꒰ა ꣑ৎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚The Monster's Bride˚₊‧꒰ა ꣑ৎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Summary: You are the daughter of King Ælle, beloved amongst so many people, and now forced to marry the cursed son of Ragnar—this is your wedding night...

Warnings: mdni! dubcon!, smut!, slight!non!conseual, dom!Ivar, posessive!Ivar, virginity, p!in!v, f!receiving, m!receiving, power imbalance, choking, enemies to lovers, shame, religious guilt, christianity, norse mythology, emotional conflict, inner turmoil, faith vs. desire, soft!ivar at the end, mentions of violence, aftercare (fluff)

Pairing: Ivar x f!christian!reader

Words: 7k

Note: Thanks so much to the anon who requested this! ᥫ᭡

The deed was done.

The blood eagle had been performed on King Ælle. They had avenged Ragnar.

But there was still one loose end.

You.

Ælle’s daughter. The beloved one. You had been taken alive, held now in one of the old stone chambers beneath the keep, locked away while they decided your fate.

Later, in the great hall, the brothers sat around a heavy wooden table, drinking mead. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows across their bloodstained faces.

Ubbe leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "What should we do with her?"

Björn shrugged. "What do you mean? She’s no threat."

"She’s still Ælle’s blood," Hvitserk said, voice low. "But she’s not him. Ragnar would not have wanted us to kill her."

Ivar scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You’re all soft."

"She’s a Christian," he added, lifting his cup. "And we all know what fate their kind usually meet."

Björn narrowed his eyes. "So what are you saying, little brother? You want to burn her at the stake? Toss her to the gods like driftwood?"

Ivar’s lips curled into a grin. "Crucifixion. Poetic, isn’t it? Let her God watch while she hangs on his symbol."

The others groaned. Hvitserk actually gagged on his drink.

"That’s not clever, it’s madness," Ubbe muttered.

Ivar looked affronted. "Madness is the only way."

There was a pause. Then Ubbe spoke again, his tone careful. "...We could use her."

All eyes turned to him.

"How?" Hvitserk asked.

Ubbe glanced at Ivar, then back to the fire. "What would be more unbearable for a Christian princess than to be wedded to a heathen? Especially If it's someone like Ivar."

"What do you mean someone like me?" Ivar snapped, straightening.

The others burst into laughter.

Even Björn cracked a rare grin. "You really need to ask?"

Ivar’s eyes burned, and suddenly, his fist came down hard on the table, making the cups rattle.

"I am not a joke," he snarled, voice low and trembling with fury. "You think this is funny? Do you think Ragnar would’ve laughed?"

His brothers fell quiet.

Björn leaned back. "Think about it, brother. What would be more torturous for her than to be chained to you? A man she despises, a heathen in every way. Your presence alone would haunt her. You—" his voice dipped low, "—you are her nightmare incarnate."

Ivar’s lips twitched, he thought about it for a minute and then, a slow, dark grimace crept across his face. He raised his hand, smirking into his palm. "A Christian princess wed to me... I like that." His ice-blue eyes gleamed with ruthless delight. "I need to see her."

── .✦

He pushed the door open.

The room beyond was dim, little more than a cell, with rough stone walls. You sat on a narrow bench, your hands bound, your hair wild around your face. You looked up when the door creaked—and froze.

It was him.

You scrambled to your feet instantly, eyes wide. "You," you breathed, your voice shaking with fury and terror.

Ivar smiled, slow and cruel, leaning against the doorframe. "Me."

You backed away as he entered, dragging the crutch with him, metal scraping faintly. He closed the door behind him, the sound final.

"We killed your father today," he said, voice low and almost conversational. "Cut him open like a pig. He squealed."

"Monster," you spat, trembling. "You’re not a man, you’re the devil."

Ivar laughed. Not a chuckle—a full, unhinged laugh. "Good," he said. "Call me more."

Your back hit the wall, and your fingers scraped at the stone as if looking for something, anything—to hold. "Heathen," you hissed. "Wicked, blasphemous thing—you’re cursed. Gods or devils, you belong to neither. You’re just... wrong."

That smile of his only widened.

He limped toward you, crutch in his hand, agonizing slowness, dragging one leg stiffly behind him. "And yet," he said, tilting his head, "here you are. Cornered by a wrong, cursed thing. Trembling."

You tried to dart past him.

He caught your arm, twisted you sharply, facing him.

"I like when you call me names," he whispered. "Means you’re afraid. And fear…" he dragged the word like a lover’s touch, "fear is honest."

You struggled, but his grip was tight. "Let me go!"

"Oh no, little dove," he said, voice dipping lower, mocking. "Not yet. You still think this is the worst thing that could happen to you. But your nightmare’s just beginning."

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

"You’re going to marry me."

You gasped, horrified.

Ivar grinned.

"You’re crazy," you whispered.

"I’m Ivar," he said simply, pulling back to look you in the eye. "And you, little Christian… You really should learn when to keep your mouth shut," he muttered.

Ivar's hand shot up, fingers clamping around your jaw, forcing your face toward his. His grip was bruising. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, breath hot with the stink of blood and mead.

And that’s when you did it.

You spit—right in his face.

It landed just beneath his eye, sliding down over the sharp edge of his cheekbone. For a second, everything froze.

He laughed.

Low at first. Then louder.

He wiped the spit away slowly, smearing it with the back of his hand as if it were nothing more than dirt.

"You really are your father’s daughter," he said, still chuckling. "But that didn’t help him, did it?"

His thumb pressed against your cheekbone, forcing your face up to his. "You think that defiance makes you strong. But it just makes this more fun for me."

You jerked your head away, but he held you there.

"You’ll kneel," he said calmly. "Whether it’s to your God or to me… doesn’t matter. In the end, it’ll be the same."

Then he let go of your face, suddenly and without warning.

Ivar took a step toward the door, tapping the crutch against the floor. Before leaving, he looked over his shoulder, eyes glinting.

"Sleep well, little Christian," he said. "In the evening, they’ll come to prepare you."

You stared at him, stunned.

"For what?" you asked, voice tight.

He stopped in the doorway, looking back with that same smirk.

"Our wedding night," he said simply.

── .✦

You hadn't slept. The stone floor had grown colder through the night, and no matter how many times you closed your eyes, your mind wouldn’t let go. You prayed, desperate prayers whispered into the dark. You asked God to take you, to end it, to make you vanish. Anything but this.

But morning came anyway.

You opened your eyes, still alive. Still here. Your prayers had gone unanswered.

The dread sat heavy in your gut, thick and sour. You’d been in the chamber so long you’d counted every stone in the walls—twice.

Then, finally, the door creaked open.

Three women entered—maids, or maybe slaves, you weren’t sure.

Their eyes were kind.

"We are here to prepare you, princess," one of them said.

You didn’t resist. What would be the point? They weren’t the ones forcing this. They were just part of the machinery.

They combed your hair, braided it with ribbons and beads, made intricate plaits like the ones you’d seen on shieldmaidens. You sat still, silent, as they worked. When the tears came, they didn’t stop you. One woman gently wiped your cheek with her sleeve.

"It will be alright," she murmured, though you could tell she didn’t believe it either.

You didn’t reply. You stared at the wall and let them do what they came to do.

They bathed you, rubbed fragrant oils into your skin—lavender, bergamot, something sweet and sharp beneath it. It made your stomach turn. One of the women whispered something in Norse, her hand warm as she touched your shoulder.

“I pray that the Gods will protect you tonight,"

"I don’t believe in your false Gods," you said, voice trembling.

They only smiled. No scolding. No argument.

Once they were finished, they led you through the long hallways, until you reached a heavy door. His chamber.

You stepped inside.

It was unlike anything you'd known. Animal furs spilled over the bed like something untamed. The room smelled of burning wood and mead—raw and primal. Trophies of hunts hung on the walls; antlers, wolf pelts, horns. A place for a predator, not a man.

Your eyes caught the mirror beside the bed.

You stepped toward it—and froze.

You didn’t look like a Saxon princess anymore.

Hair braided like a pagan, skin gleaming with their oils, wrapped in soft linen and foreign brocade. You looked... other. Like something wild. Not yourself.

"Forgive me, Father," you whispered, voice cracking. "I look like a heathen. Like a wild animal."

From the doorway, his voice cut through the stillness.

"Now you look like a real princess."

You turned sharply.

Ivar stood leaning on his crutch at the threshold, watching you like a hawk. He stepped inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft thud.

── .✦

You coiled away from him, instinct sharp as a blade. Panic surged through you, and you bolted toward the bed like it could protect you, clutching a pillow as if it were a weapon. You hurled it at him, voice cracking.

"Go away! Heathen!"

It hit him square in the chest and dropped to the floor, harmless. He laughed.

"You call me heathen," he said, limping toward you, voice slick with amusement. "But what makes you so holy, hm? Christian?" The word dripped with sarcasm.

He lowered himself to the edge of the bed with a grunt—small, but sharp. You noticed it, the flicker of pain he tried to mask, the stiffness in his movements. He didn't want you to see the effort it cost him to walk.

You pressed back against the headboard, every muscle rigid, your gaze full of loathing. He turned to you slowly, eyes burning.

"Your false Gods are cruel," you spat. "They demand blood and pain. My God offers mercy. Love."

He let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "Love?" His mouth twisted. "Where was His love when your father put my father into a pit of vipers?"

You swallowed hard.

"Even now, I choose my faith. Even now, I choose Him." You whispered.

A silence stretched between you. Then, without a word, he began to undress. His fingers moved with slow precision, unfastening the leather, dragging his tunic off over his head and then the braces on his legs.

Your breath hitched. The firelight danced across his skin—inked and scarred, taut muscle coiled over bone. The tattoos on his back told stories, they stirred something in you—fascination, fear.

"What are you doing?" you asked, voice brittle.

He said nothing, just crawled closer, dragging himself across the bed with effort that didn’t make him look weak—it made him look unstoppable. Inevitable.

His hand brushed yours.

Rough. Calloused. Real.

You flinched.

Then suddenly he was on you, his weight a hot pressure, breath mixing with yours. You thrashed, striking at his toned chest with balled fists, nails catching on the inked skin—but he didn’t budge.

"No—please," you cried out.

He caught your wrists and pinned them above your head, his grip firm, not cruel.

"I wish you’d stop fighting this…" he whispered, his breath stirring the fine hairs at your skin.

You turned your face away, hating the tremble in your body. Hating that part of you wanted to feel anything but fear.

"This is wrong…" you whispered.

"You want it to be wrong," he murmured. His lips brushed your jaw. "Because if it’s wrong, then you’re still innocent. Then none of this is your fault. Then it’s all on me—the monster. The devil."

Your stomach twisted, shame blooming like poison. Because part of you heard him. Part of you felt what he was saying. And worse, you hated your body for answering. The heat, the ache, the flush in your chest.

"I don’t want you," you whispered, hating how weak it sounded.

"You do," he answered, low and steady. "But you want to hate me more."

"Get off me, monster!" you whined, trying to get loose from his grip.

He froze.

And then, slowly, he let go. Just… let go. Your wrists dropped, free, and he rolled off of you, one arm flung behind his head as he laid beside you, staring up at the ceiling.

"I’m sorry…" he said quietly.

The words hit you like a slap. You turned your head, frowning, confused.

He was tense—jaw clenched, throat bobbing. His chest rose and fell, steady but strained. There was no mocking smile now. No cruel game.

Just silence.

Too much silence.

He turned fully onto his side, his back to you, shoulders tense beneath the thin fur draped across him. He said nothing.

You stared at him, at the line of his spine, the way his body curled in ever so slightly. For a moment, your hand twitched with the urge to reach out—to lay it gently on his shoulder, to ask if he was alright.

But did anyone ask if you were alright?
If you wanted this?

"I won’t touch you," he said quietly, voice muffled but clear.

Your brows knit in confusion. His voice held no threat, no venom.

"So… you’ll kill me?" you asked, voice fragile. The lump in your throat ached as you swallowed.

He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the flicker in his eyes.

"Do you really think that badly of me?"

You didn’t answer right away.

"Well… yes," you said finally, honest and bitter. "You forced me into marriage. You murdered my father. And now you lie here like you expect me to pretend any of this is normal."

He turned toward you.

"I had to avenge my father," he said, low. "I had to. You would’ve done the same."

"I still could," you said, the edge of defiance curling into your voice.

His lips twitched. "You would’ve already," he replied, narrowing his eyes, jaw tight.

A beat passed.

You exhaled, resting your cheek against your palm as you watched him. The fire cracked somewhere near your feet. Without the snarl, the smirk, or the bloodlust, he looked... different.

Almost gentle.

Your eyes wandered—down the curve of his lips, parted slightly in thought, the thick lashes that kissed his cheekbones. His strong nose, the faintest scruff shadowing his jaw. He was rough, imperfect, and far too proud of himself—but he wasn’t ugly.

"You like staring at monsters?" he asked suddenly, voice dry, sardonic.

Your gaze snapped up. He was watching you now, those impossibly blue eyes glinting in the firelight. He’d caught you.

Your cheeks flushed hot.

He saw it—and something in him softened. Your expression—wide-eyed, caught off guard, flushed—made him still. You didn’t even realize how innocent you looked to him, just then. How untouched by war, even with everything you'd seen.

He wanted to reach out. He ached to. To cup your cheek gently, maybe brush his thumb over your lips. But he didn’t.

He knew what would happen. You’d recoil. You’d pull away.

So he stayed still.

But you didn’t.

You saw the tremor in his fingers. The one resting on his chest, the other tucked behind his head. You saw the way he waited—quietly, tense, wanting.

And you moved.

Carefully. You reached toward him, slow.

He flinched—barely.

Your fingers brushed his. Then threaded through them.

His palm was rough, calloused, all hard edges—so different from your own. But you didn’t recoil. Not this time.

He was flesh. Warmth. Breathing.

Your fingers stayed laced with his, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

"I don’t feel like a monster when you touch me like this," Ivar said quietly.

You glanced at him, surprised by the confession. His eyes weren’t on yours. They were fixed on the ceiling, as though he couldn’t quite bear to meet your gaze.

"I don’t understand you," you said. "One moment you’re cruel… and the next…"

"I’m not," he interrupted, turning his head to face you now, his expression sharp with sudden vulnerability. "I do what I must. I had to be cruel. I was born cursed, a cripple."

He paused, swallowing the weight in his throat.

"My mother told me I was special. A gift from the gods. But others—they called me a mistake. A punishment. Even now, even with all I’ve won, they still look at me and see something wrong."

Your hand tightened in his, just slightly.

He looked at you, eyes searching yours.

"Do you see me that way?"'he asked, his voice hoarse now. "Do you look at me and see… a cursed thing? A monster in a man’s skin?"

You shook your head slowly. "No."

"Liar," he murmured, but there wasn’t anger in it—just sadness. "You did. You still might."

Your lips parted. "I thought you were a monster. But then… monsters don’t talk like you do right now. They don’t shake when someone reaches out to them."

His breath caught.

"And your God?" he asked, voice quieter now. "Does He approve of you touching the Devil? Would He still call you pure?"

"I don’t think God’s afraid of broken things," you said, just as soft. "I think He loves them harder."

There was a pause. He turned to face you more fully, propped on one elbow now, your hands still joined. His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back to your eyes.

"You confuse me," he said, voice roughened. "You hate me. I see it. But you touch me like… like I matter."

You hesitated. "I don’t know what I feel. But I don’t hate you right now."

Ivar stared at you, expression unreadable. "All I ever wanted was to be understood—like I am not just a cursed thing that people pity..."

You didn’t answer. Maybe you couldn’t.

But you didn’t pull your hand away.

You swallowed, throat dry. "And what is it you want now?"

His eyes slid to yours, slow and dark.

"You."

It was a single word, but it echoed between you.

"I want you to believe that there is something in me besides blood and fury."

He reached out now, carefully, slowly. His fingers grazed your cheek, and though your breath hitched, you didn’t pull away.

"I could worship you," he whispered. "Not like your God does. Not with mercy or rules. I would worship you with obsession. With fire. I would tear down Gods for you, if you asked."

Your heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the fire.

"Ivar…"

He shook his head slightly, eyes still locked on yours.

"You don’t have to say anything," he murmured. "Just don’t lie to me. Don’t look at me like I’m something foul when you know you’re curious. When you know something in you wants to understand me."

You did. God help you, you did. And in that moment, you realized he wasn’t the only one who felt too much.

You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t dare. But you didn’t pull away when he leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to yours, his breath warm and shaky.

You lifted your hand slowly, brushing your fingers over his jaw, unsure if he’d allow it. He closed his eyes at the contact, lashes trembling. Your thumb ghosted over the faint stubble on his cheek. You could feel the heat under his skin.

"I don’t know how to… do this," you whispered.

His lips curved—just slightly. "Neither do I."

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. They were darker than before, but the whites of them had a faint, almost icy sheen to them.

"Your eyes," you murmured. "They’re… blue."

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, as if choosing whether to lie or not.

"It happens," he said quietly, "when the pain is worse. Some days it’s just a dull ache. Other days, it feels like my legs are full of fire and glass."

Your heart sank. "Is it like that now?"

He gave a short laugh—tired, bitter. "Not the worst I’ve had. But close."

You leaned forward without thinking, pressing your lips softly to his cheek. He stilled completely beneath you, breath catching in his throat.

"Does this help?" you asked.

His hand came up, brushing your hair back behind your ear, fingertips tentative, reverent. "More than you know."

Your noses brushed. His lips hovered over yours, uncertain.

"May I?" he asked, so gently it made your heart swell.

You nodded, and his mouth met yours, clumsy but sincere. He kissed like he fought—with all of him, desperate and fierce, like it was the only language he truly knew. But there was hesitation too, like he didn’t trust himself to be soft.

Your hands came up to his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the strain in the muscle from dragging himself with every step. His body was stronger than it looked—he’d had to be. You could feel that just beneath your fingertips.

He grabbed your waist and pulled you into his lap. Your knees shifted on either side of his hips as you moved, lips never parting from his.

His hands rested on your thighs, tentative and trembling, thumbs tracing the shape of you through the linen that still clung to your form.

His fingers slid up your sides, gathering the fabric, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath it. You gasped against his mouth when his thumbs brushed just beneath your breasts.

"I need to see your body…" he whispered, voice rough, as if the need hurt him. "Please…"

You hesitated—your heart pounding, your hands frozen against his chest—but then you nodded, just barely. He sat up slightly, and together, you pulled the dress over your head, letting it fall behind you to the floor in a soft heap.

You were bare to him now.

Lit only by firelight.

Hair braided like his people, skin glowing like it had been blessed by the gods.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

His mouth opened, then closed—swallowed hard.

"By the Gods…" he murmured, voice hoarse with awe.

His eyes devoured every inch of you—your collarbones, the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts.

You saw the way his jaw clenched. He didn’t know where to look first—he wanted to look everywhere. It was too much, too perfect. The first woman he had ever seen nude.

He leaned in, lips brushing the base of your throat. "You were crafted by Freya herself," he whispered against your hot skin.

His thumb grazed over your hardened nipple, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips that made his eyes flick up to yours—dark, dilated, hungry.

"You like that," he breathed, a hint of wonder in his tone.

He closed his lips around your breast, sucking softly, and your back arched instinctively, a moan escaping you before you could stop it.

"Ivar—" you whimpered, your voice catching in your throat as heat coiled low in your belly.

That sound—your voice saying his name like that—broke something in him. He swirled his tongue slowly over the peak, then moved to the other, lavishing you with the same attention. His faint stubble tickled your skin, his breath hot.

"You taste like the sweetest mead," he rasped against your fevered skin, voice trembling with restraint. "And I want every part of it."

You rocked slightly in his lap without meaning to, the friction setting your nerves alight.

Ivar groaned against your chest, the sound vibrating through you.

His mouth left your skin with a wet sound, lips flushed, eyes darker than you'd ever seen them. His breath was ragged as he looked up at you, his hand moved up—fingers grazing the column of your throat.

He wrapped them there.

"Look at you," he growled. "My little Christian princess, letting a heathen touch her like this… moaning under me like you were made for sin."

"Ivar—please,"

Your breath hitched. Heat surged through you—shame, need, both tangled like a knot.

"You’re so damn perfect," he muttered against your neck, his grip tightening just slightly, "I want to ruin you."

His other hand moved over your stomach, lower, slower, teasing—never quite touching where you ached for him most.

"I want you crying out my name so loud your God hears it."

Your lips parted in a gasp, hips circling against his body instinctively, begging for more.

"I want you to forget every holy word you’ve ever said," he hissed. "To forget heaven. To worship this. Us. Me."

His mouth crashed against yours then, all tongue and teeth and hunger, and you whimpered into it, helpless against the fire that had taken root in you.

He shifted his weight above you once more, but this time you welcomed every inch of him—every searing kiss, every burning touch. "Ivar—" you murmured into his mouth, voice trembling with need.

"Tell me what you crave, my sweet one," he whispered against your throat, teeth grazing softly as his lips trailed a scorching path down your bare skin. His hands gripped your hips possessively, claiming you like a man who had been starved for your fire. His kisses drifted lower, worshiping your belly until his lips brushed the sensitive curve of your pelvic bone, making your breath catch and flutter against your lips.

Raising his gaze, his piercing ice-blue eyes locked onto yours, devouring you with hunger and reverence. They roamed over your glistening core, and a slow lick of his lips told you exactly how much he desired you.

Your cheeks flushed crimson, mingled with shame and fierce want. You tried to close your legs instinctively, but he parted them wider, unwavering.

"Don’t hide from me... you are the most beautiful thing in all of Midgard," he whispered, his breath hot and heavy against your sensitive clit. A shiver ran through you as the heat of his mouth ignited your skin. You squirmed beneath him, but his hands held you steady.

"Ivar, please," you whispered, voice thick with need.

One finger slipped inside you, exploring your wet, trembling entrance, sending a jolt of fire through your nerves. You gasped, teeth catching your lip as he circled your clit slowly, deliberately, drawing out your moans.

"More," you begged, voice breaking with longing, but he was entranced—mesmerized by your response.

He would never let you go.

He then slipped another finger inside you, slowly—stretching your heat, filling your tight, velvety walls. Your back arched instinctively, a cry escaping your lips.
"Oh, fuck—Ivar…" you gasped, the curse tangled with pleasure.

"So tight," he groaned, voice low and reverent against your aching core. His mouth followed his fingers, tongue flattening against your drenched pussy—claiming you with slow, decadent strokes. His tongue flicked your clit with maddening precision, each movement coaxing more helpless moans from your lips.

You were unraveling beneath him, breathless mess as he pumped his fingers inside you, curling them just right. His tongue moved in slow, torturous circles over your pulsing clit, drawing out every drop of want from your body.

"So sweet," he whispered, mouth pressed to your cunt, the words vibrating against your most sensitive flesh.

You looked down at him, breathless, lips parted in a silent plea. Your fingers twisted in the furs, knuckles white, as your thighs trembled. The chamber echoed with the sounds of your surrender—moans, whimpers, the slick rhythm of his fingers, the deep growl of his voice against you.

"Oh—God," you cried out, your eyes rolling back as he found that perfect rhythm. His tongue moved with purpose now, stroking that spot, knowing exactly what you needed and giving it to you without mercy.

"Let your God hear you," he growled against your soaked pussy, his voice thick with hunger and pride. "Let him hear how desperate you are for me."

Then he spit on your cunt—hot and obscene—before sealing his lips over your clit, sucking hard, tongue flicking rapidly, insatiably. You writhed, hips jerking, body straining against the edge.

But he held you firm.

His hands dug into your thighs, fingers bruising, possessive.

You were his.

"I—Ivar, I—" You couldn't even form the words. They dissolved into breathless moans as your climax crept closer like a storm you couldn't outrun.

He didn’t stop. If anything, he grew more desperate. His fingers moved faster, rougher, curling to stroke that one place inside you that made your vision blur.

"I want to feel you come on my tongue," he growled against you, voice thick with heat and command. "Give it to me. Let me taste it, please princess."

That was all it took.

Your hips bucked wildly as you shattered beneath him, mouth falling open in a silent cry. Your body convulsed around his fingers, and he groaned deep in his throat as your slick flooded his mouth.

He didn’t stop. He devoured you through it, moaning against your pussy like your taste was the only thing that could save him.

"Too much," you whimpered, breath catching.

Only then did he pull away, slowly, his mouth glistening, his lips swollen and red from his devotion to you. He looked up, licking his lips, pride and possessiveness burning in those glacier-blue eyes.

"You look like a goddess when you fall apart for me," he murmured, his voice low.

You tried to speak, to say something, but your body was spent—limbs limp, chest rising and falling as you stared at him, dazed and glowing.

And then, he was climbing up your body again—slowly, deliberately—his mouth finding yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he kissed you deeply.

"Gods, I need you," he whispered against your lips.

You could feel him now—hot, hard, and heavy against your thigh. His cock pressed into your skin, pulsing with need, and your fingers moved on instinct. You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his thick length. He groaned into your mouth—guttural, needy.

"Princess," he breathed against your lips as your fingers curled around him, stroking him slowly. He was heavy in your hand, the skin hot and silky, the veins rigid beneath your touch. His hips gave a shallow thrust as you explored him, and you smiled softly against his mouth—you had this effect on him.

"You’re so hard for me," you whispered, voice trembling with awe and need. "God, I want to feel you inside me…"

But you weren’t ready to give in just yet.

Not before teasing him. Not before tasting him.

You pushed gently against his chest, and he let you—though confusion flickered in his eyes.

"Lie back," you whispered, lips brushing his jaw. "Let me taste you now."

His breath caught.

He hesitated, but only for a heartbeat, before obeying—leaning back into the furs, chest rising and falling, muscles tight with anticipation. You moved between his thighs, eyes locked on his thick, aching cock. It stood proud and heavy, flushed dark with need, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

You leaned in slowly, deliberately, blowing warm breath against the head. His hips jerked.

"Gods," he groaned, fist clenching in the furs.

You kissed the tip first—just the softest press of lips—and he cursed low under his breath. Then your tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of him, teasing around the head in slow, circular strokes.

"Ivar—" you whispered against him, loving the way his thighs tensed under your touch.

Then you took him in your mouth, slowly, inch by inch.

His moan was raw. Boyish.

You hollowed your cheeks, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock as you slid down further, letting him fill your mouth until he hit the back of your throat.

He growled—his hips twitching upward before you pressed your hand to his stomach, holding him down.

"Please, princess," he gasped. "You’re going to kill me…"

You pulled back with a soft pop, licking him from base to tip, your spit and his precum making everything wet, messy.

And then you did it again.

He was panting now, chest heaving, his muscles twitching under your touch. Every time you swallowed him deep, he cursed like a man coming undone.

Your other hand gripped his thigh for balance, fingers digging into his skin as you increased the pace—wet, rhythmic, sinful. You moaned around him, just to feel the vibration ripple through his cock, and he choked on a desperate whine.

"Gods above—please," he gasped. "You're going to make me come—fuck, stop or I’ll—"

But you didn’t stop.

His hands tangled in your braids. Guiding.

You wanted to see him fall apart. You wanted to taste every last drop of him.

You kept going, faster now, your mouth and hand working in perfect rhythm, and his hips began to stutter—losing control.

"Let me… let me come in your mouth," he rasped, voice thick, pleading. "Please, sweet one—I need—"

And that's when you stopped.

When you finally pulled back, lips swollen, eyes shining—you looked up at him.

He stared at you like he’d never seen anything so devastatingly perfect.

"By the Gods..." he breathed, still panting. "You’ll be the death of me."

You smiled.

He hadn’t stopped staring at you since you pulled off him, lips slick, eyes glowing with something that looked like awe.

And then he moved—slow and strong, climbing over your body once more, his arms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. His face hovered inches from yours, breath ragged, lips parted.

He kissed you.

Hungry.

Your tongues met in a heated dance, slick and wet and perfect.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, your legs parting instinctively beneath his hips.

"Ivar," you breathed against his lips, your voice shaking with need, with truth. "I need you inside me…"

He circled your entrance with the swollen head of his cock, dragging it up and down your soaked slit, letting it brush maddeningly against your aching clit. He teased you slowly, lazily, watching every gasp, every flinch of your hips.

"Ivar…" you whimpered, need thick in your voice.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped against your neck, "and I will."

You shook your head, hips bucking.

"Then tell me what you want, princess."

"Stop teasing," you whispered, almost broken with desire. "Put it in. I want you."

With one powerful, careful thrust, he slid inside you—slow, deep, and all at once.

Your breath left your lungs in a gasp—his too. The stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming tightness. He filled you completely, the heat of him burning through your entire body.

And then there was the pain.

You whimpered, body tensing beneath him. The sting tore through your center, raw and sharp, and you felt the unmistakable warmth of blood between your thighs. Your nails gripped his shoulders, and tears pricked at your eyes.

He froze instantly, his entire body going still.

"I’m here," he whispered softly, forehead pressed to yours, his voice shaking with restraint. "Look at me."

You did.

His eyes were gentle now, pleading. His hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing away tears you didn’t even know had fallen.

"If it’s too much—if it hurts—I’ll stop. You tell me. Just say the word, and I’ll stop."

You swallowed hard, blinking up at him, heart racing.

"No," you whispered, voice small but firm. "Don’t stop. Just… just stay like this for a moment."

And in that stillness, your body began to relax around him. The sting faded. The pain and pleasure began to blur.

And beneath it all, was love.

He stayed inside you for a long, perfect heartbeat, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked like nothing in the world could pull him away. You felt everything—his warmth, his breath, the stretch of him inside you.

Then, slowly… he moved.

He groaned low—deep in his throat—and it made your skin bloom with heat.

"Gods, you're so tight," he whispered, the words more reverent than vulgar. "You feel like you were made for me…"

His thrusts were slow, careful at first—his brow furrowed in concentration, lips parted as if every inch inside you unraveled his sanity.

Your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping tightly—Odin’s ravens, inked across his chest—Huginn and Muninn—watching like silent sentinels.

You dug your nails into them, half in awe, half in instinct.

He gasped.

He dropped his head to your neck, breath hot against your skin, hips rolling deeper, slower now, but harder.

"Princess," he whispered into your ear. "You feel like… like everything I’ve ever wanted."

You whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist tightly, the friction building now—each movement rubbing that perfect, sensitive spot inside you.

"Faster," you begged, breathless. "Please, Ivar—"

You felt him twitch as he drove into you again, harder, the rhythm growing.

"I need—I need to see you fall apart again," he breathed. "Need to feel you come on me,"

You cried out at his words, your hips rising to meet his thrusts, the pleasure mounting fast now. Every drag of his cock inside you had you gasping, clenching tighter, needing more.

"Are you mine?" he asked, voice low and raw.

"Yes," you gasped, without hesitation. "I’m yours—Ivar, I’m yours."

And something wild bloomed in his eyes—pride, obsession. He kissed you fiercely, tongues clashing, your nails digging deeper into the dark ravens inked across his shoulders as he began to lose himself in you completely.

"Am I a monster now?" he groaned, voice dark and breathless as he slammed into you, deeper than before—so deep it made your body jerk, made your mouth fall open in a strangled cry.

"N-No—!" you whimpered, the word broken, swallowed by the sheer stretch of him, by the slick sound of your bodies colliding—wet, fast, relentless.

He licked across your throat, sucking marks into your neck like he wanted the Gods to see who you belonged to. Then he bit your lower lip—hard—pulling a filthy, desperate moan from your chest as he devoured your sounds.

Your pussy clenched around him, fluttering uncontrollably, and he felt it—gasped like he was the one being fucked.

His eyes, those piercing ice-blue eyes, locked on yours.

Even as your eyes fluttered, rolling back with each brutal thrust, he held your gaze. Like he was drinking you in. Like he needed to watch you come undone just for him.

You reached between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit, desperate for more.

"Rub your clit for me, princess," he groaned into your ear, the heat of his breath making your toes curl. "I want to see how filthy you can be for me."

You obeyed instantly, two fingers circling, flicking over your slick bud. The added stimulation sent your body lurching into madness.

"Ivar—fuck!" you cried out, legs shaking as your orgasm built fast, too fast.

He growled—deep and feral—his thrusts growing rougher, needier.

Then his hand wrapped around your throat.

Firm. Possessive.

"Look at me when you come," he whispered, eyes wide, lips parted, wild. "Please…"

And that did it.

You shattered with a scream, your back arching, your thighs shaking as your orgasm ripped through you. Your vision went white. Your mouth stayed open, the cry dragging out far too long.

And still—you looked at him.

When your eyes cleared, you saw him, undone. His mouth open, pupils blown, his entire face twisted in awe and disbelief as your pussy clenched around him again and again, milking him, claiming him.

"Oh—Princess," he gasped—and then he came.

You felt it.

His cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you with his release in thick, hot waves. His breath stuttered, and his moan—vulnerable, sinful—filled your ears like a blessing.

You felt him twitch again inside you—once, twice—his cum still leaking as his breath finally evened out. His lips grazed yours in a kiss too soft for how wrecked you both were.

And through it all… he didn’t look away.

── .✦

You laid together in silence, bodies tangled in the thick furs, skin damp and warm, the scent of sex still lingering like incense in the air.

His arm was draped around you, pulling you into his chest—you felt safe.

He was quiet for a long time. One of his fingers traced absent circles against your hip, but his mind was elsewhere. Heavy.

Finally, in the hush between heartbeats, he spoke.

"I never thought…" His voice was hoarse, low. "I never thought I could feel this whole."

You lifted your eyes to meet his.

"Because of my legs," he continued, almost like a confession. "Because of what I am. What I’m not."

You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head gently.

"I’ve had power. Fear. Victory. Women scared of me. But none of them ever looked at me the way you did." He turned to face you now, those ice-blue eyes suddenly fragile beneath all their fire. "You cried my name like I was a God. You touched me like I was whole."

You reached up and touched his face, your thumb brushing over his lips. "You are whole."

"I forced this," he said, bitterly.

You nodded slowly. "I was taught to fear men like you. That you were wicked. That your Gods were false and your hunger sinful."

"And now?" he whispered.

"You are human, just like me."

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

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@tessakate @ivarlover @deathsthighs @oddsnendsfanfics @mighra

[sukunaglazerrr]

HusbandKuna x Reader who lost her memory

After a tragic accident erased your memories, you no longer remember the man you married. Unfortunately for you, Ryomen Sukuna remembers everything. And he'll do whatever it takes to make you remember him too.

Everything was so much weird.

When you first opened your eyes, the world was a blur of harsh lights and a rhythmic, annoying beep that made your head throb. A crowd of people were hovering over your bed, their faces twisted into expressions of pure horror and desperation. It felt like they were looking at a ghost or maybe a god that had suddenly fallen from the sky. The moment you blinked and stared back at them with blank, unrecognizing eyes, the room dissolved into quiet, breathless weeping.

You were completely utterly lost. Who was the woman with the dark circles under her eyes calling herself Shoko? Why was she gripping your hand like her entire world was ending? You knew your own name y/n echoed clearly in the empty caverns of your mind, but beyond that single fact, there was only a vast, terrifying void. You understood the modern world. you knew what a smartphone was, you recognized the concept of Wi-Fi, and when you mumbled those details, the doctors in the room let out collective, gasping sighs of relief.

But the real shock came twenty minutes later.

The heavy door to the hospital room burst open with a violent slam. A man lunged inside like a madman, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. You had never seen anyone look like him. His hair was a soft, striking shade of pastel pink so pretty and unexpected that you wondered for a fleeting second if he had dyed it just to stand out. Dark, intricate tattoos mapped across his skin, curling around his sharp cheekbones and framing his eyes. And those eyes... they were a piercing, burning red, swirling with a volatile mixture of terrifying rage and profound, shattering sadness.

You just sat there in your oversized, faded blue hospital gown, looking small and fragile as your confused gaze met his. The man froze, roughly brushing a strand of pink hair out of his face. His clothes were covered in a layer of grey dust and dried grit, looking as though he had sprinted straight off a construction site the second he got the news.

"Fucking... God. Hey, princess... fuck, don't you ever scare me like that again" he breathed, his deep, gravelly voice cracking as he took two massive strides toward your bedside, staring down at you with a desperation that made the air feel heavy.

You shrank back into the pillows, your brow furrowing. Princess? Were you in some bizarre historical simulation? Did kings and horses still exist? No, the blinking medical monitors around you disproved that immediately.

"Mr. Sukuna, please. I need to speak with you in private for a moment" a woman in her mid forties interrupted, her expression incredibly grave as she stepped between you and the huge man. She glanced at the other people lingering by the door. There was a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, who had the exact same pink hair as the tattooed man, his face streaked with tears. Beside him stood another boy with unruly, spiky black hair and a dull, stoic expression that couldn't quite hide the anxiety in his eyes. At the doctor's quiet command, they all slowly filed out into the hallway.

Left alone for a moment, you stared at the stark white walls, the untouched glass of water on the bedside table, and the crushing, dull monotony of the room.

When the door clicked open again, the female physician returned, holding a thick medical chart. The tattooed man followed closely behind her. He tried to offer you a small, reassuring smile, but it looked incredibly strained on his rugged face. His crimson eyes locked onto you, tracking every breath you took as if you might literally vanish into thin air if he dared to look away for a single second.

"Hello, y/n. I am Dr. Jennifer" the woman said kindly, stepping up to the mattress. "Do you know why you were brought here today?"

You frowned, looking between her and the towering man. "No."

The syllable was short and hollow. Beside the doctor, Sukuna’s entire frame stiffened. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered violently beneath his tattoos, his knuckles turning white as he balled his hands into fists.

"Right. But you do remember your name?" she pressed gently.

"Yes... y/n I am Y/N." you answered firmly. You knew the name belonged to you, even if the history attached to it was completely gone.

"And do you know where you are right now?"

"A hospital?"

"Correct" Dr. Jennifer nodded, opening the document in her hands. "Look, I am going to explain exactly what happened, and I need you to listen very carefully, alright?" You gave a small, hesitant nod. "You were in a severe accident yesterday evening. You were walking home from the local market when a car veered off the road and hit you. It is a miracle you walked away with minor physical injuries, but the trauma to your head has caused a severe case of retrograde amnesia. Honestly, it's a surprise you even remember your name right now."

You let out a quiet hum, your eyes drifting down to your own hands resting on the thin blanket. That was when you noticed it a slender, platinum band set with a brilliant, flawlessly cut diamond resting securely on your left ring finger. It looked incredibly expensive, classy, and entirely foreign

So you were married.

"Y/n" Dr. Jennifer’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. You snapped your head up to look at her. "This man standing beside me... he is your husband."

The doctor tilted her head toward the giant. He was massive easily over six feet of raw, intimidating muscle, his tattooed face giving him a terrifying, dangerous aura. Your very first instinctual thought was that this man looked incredibly scary.

Sukuna didn't say a word. He just stood there, letting you analyze him, before he offered you a tiny, incredibly vulnerable nod. You tilted your head, staring into his intense red eyes, desperately searching for a single spark of familiarity. Did I really marry this giant?

"His name is Ryomen Sukuna, and he is going to take care of you" the doctor continued, closing her chart. "For the next few weeks, you need to let your brain rest, but you also need to gently stimulate it to try and regain those lost memories. Spending time in a familiar environment, in your own home with your husband, is going to be the best medicine for you."

You nodded mutely. You didn't exactly have a choice. You were being handed over to a complete stranger who happened to hold a legal claim to your entire life.

"Alright then. I wish you a safe and speedy recovery" Dr. Jennifer said with a final, empathetic smile before slipping out of the room.

The heavy silence that followed was suffocating. Sukuna cleared his throat roughly, taking a few slow, tentative steps toward the edge of your bed. He moved with an immense amount of caution, as if he genuinely believed a sudden movement might break you into pieces. He pulled up the small plastic chair, sinking into it.

"Hey" he said softly. Even in a whisper, his voice was incredibly manly, deep, and rough.

"Hello" you replied shortly, your eyes tracking his hands.

To your surprise, his large, scarred fingers were trembling slightly as he fidgeted with them, refusing to meet your eyes. When he finally looked up, you realized the piercing red of his irises was completely glossy, swimming with unshed tears.

"Yo... you're getting discharged today" he choked out, taking a deep, ragged breath as if the mere act of speaking was causing him physical pain. "I'm going to go sign the paperwork, and then I'm taking you to... our house. I'm going to do whatever the fuck it takes to help you remember, princess."

You stared at his rugged, tattooed face for a long moment before letting out a soft, distant hum.

An hour later, you were sitting in the passenger seat of a sleek, black Jeep, The man Sukuna kept his left hand firmly on the steering wheel while his eyes flicked toward you every sixty seconds, his intense gaze making a nervous flutter erupt in your stomach.

You stared out the window, watching the city buildings, sprawling neighborhoods, and vibrant green trees blur past. Intrigued by the warm breeze, you raised your hand, pressing your palm gently against the glass as if you wanted to touch the passing leaves. Instantly, the window smoothly rolled down. Startled, you turned your head to find Sukuna adjusting the master controls, his eyes locked onto you with an unreadable warmth.

"Can I ask you something-" you murmured softly.

"Yes." The answer came incredibly fast, almost desperate. He was hanging on your every word, practically begging for you to speak to him.

"How... how did we meet?" you asked, leaning your elbow on the door frame as the wind whipped through your hair.

"We met in high school" he answered quickly, navigating a sharp turn onto a quiet, "We've been married for seven years."

"High school?" You tilted your head, a faint smile touching your lips as you extended your hand just slightly out into the rushing air. "Were we friends back then?"

"Careful" he commanded firmly, though there was no real heat in his voice. You obediently pulled your hand back inside. A faint, nostalgic softness crept into his red eyes as he looked ahead. "Friends? no. You could say we didn't liked eachother each other when we first met. You thought I was a loud, arrogant mannerless jerk and I thought you were a stubborn, bossy brat."

He smoothly pulled the Jeep into a long brick driveway, coming to a stop in front of a breathtaking, modern two story house. It was painted a crisp, elegant white with sleek charcoal-grey accents, boasting massive, floor to ceiling windows that caught the afternoon sun.

"This is...our house" Sukuna murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "We've been living here for about four years."

He killed the engine, threw his door open, and practically sprinted around the hood of the car to open your door before you could even reach for the handle. He extended a massive, tattooed hand toward you, his palm open and waiting. You stared at his hand, your eyes traveling up the thick muscles of his forearm, before you deliberately stepped down onto the driveway without taking it.

Sukuna’s hand froze in mid-air. You watched his fingers slowly curl back into a fist before he pulled his arm away, a flash of pure, agonizing heartbreak crossing his features before he quickly masked it with a stoic expression.

As your feet hit the pavement, you looked up at the towering structure, desperately begging your brain to spark even a single ounce of familiarity. Nothing came. But as you turned around, you caught a glimpse of the man standing beside you. He was on the absolute verge of tears. His chest was tight, his jaw locked as he stared at you. You were his entire world, his beautiful wife, and yet you were looking at him like he was a total stranger. He suddenly felt a wave of profound hatred for every single time he had ever been mean or stubborn with you in the past, even in jest. He just wanted his girl back. His sweet innocent girl.

"The house is beautiful" you murmured gently, walking toward the porch.

'The house.' Not our house. The detached wording made Sukuna’s jaw clench painfully.

"Of course it is. I built the damn thing" he muttered, following closely behind you.

It was your exact dream house. Years ago, back when you were just broke college students dating in a cramped apartment, you had traced a clumsy design on a napkin, telling him you wanted a modern white house with endless windows, three bedrooms, and a kitchen large enough for the two of you to bake and slow-dance together while listening to old jazz records. Sukuna had kept that napkin. The moment he made his fortune, he hired a crew but did the vast majority of the heavy structural work with his own two hands. He had gifted you the keys on your third wedding anniversary, and he could still vividly remember the way you had wept tears of joy, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him until you were both breathless. He wanted that smile back. He would give anything just to have you look at him the way you used to.

You stepped inside, ignoring the heavy emotion rolling off him. Sukuna quickly gathered your small hospital bags and followed you into the foyer, shutting the door behind him.

Your eyes immediately gravitated toward the kitchen. It was vast, open, and undeniably stunning, featuring a massive quartz island and a huge sliding glass door that opened directly into a manicured backyard garden. The entire layout felt strangely perfect.

"Let me show you... around" Sukuna offered quietly.

He spent the next half hour guiding you through the corridors of what was supposed to be your life. But as he showed you the grand master bedroompointing out the side of the bed where you used to curl into his chest every single night your face remained entirely blank. You felt a twinge of heavy guilt pooling in your stomach. He showed you the living room, drawing your attention to a collection of large, breathtaking canvas paintings hanging on the walls.

"You painted those" Sukuna noted, a faint trace of pride in his rough voice. "You're a brilliant artist, princess."

You blinked in genuine surprise, looking down at your hands. "I drew these?" You were suprised, you don't even remember touching a brush in your life. But this is your new life. New start.

"Yeah." Sukuna stopped at the edge of the hallway, looking down at you with completely bloodshot eyes. He hadn't slept a single second since the hospital called him about your accident. All he wanted to do was wrap his massive arms around your waist, pull you flush against his chest, and bury his face in your hair until the nightmare ended. But he couldn't. "Look... you can sleep in the guest bedroom down the hall, or you can take our bedroom and I'll stay in the guest room. Whatever makes you feel comfortable. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable you."

"Okay" you hummed softly.

His heart broke a little more at the compliant, distant tone. "I'll go start on some dinner, and then I'll get your medication ready. If you need a single damn thing, you just call out for me, alright? Your clothes are all in the dresser, undergarments in the top drawer, pajamas in the second..."

You nodded, offering him a polite murmur of thanks before retreating into the guest room. You changed into a simple, comfortable t-shirt and sweats. A little while later, his deep voice echoed up the stairs, announcing that dinner was ready. You walked down to the dining room, sitting at the large table like a polite houseguest waiting to be served.

"Do you need help?" Sukuna asked, carefully sliding a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup and a large spoon toward you. You shook your head, grasping the utensil and taking a quiet sip. He sat across from you, his own bowl entirely untouched as he just stared at your face. "Y/n... you really don't remember a single damn thing about me?"

His voice cracked completely on the last word, the raw vulnerability of a ruthless man exposed right in front of you. You looked up, meeting his glossy red eyes.

"No... I don't. I'm really sorry" you whispered genuinely.

He let out a slow nod, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forced himself to look away. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault."

"Do I... do I have parents? Or friends?" you asked, a sudden curiosity about your own forgotten life bubbling up.

"Yeah. You have parents. Your father—"

"Where are they?" you interrupted quickly, leaning forward. "Do they know I was in an accident? Why aren't they here?"

"They haven't spoken to you in over seven years. Not since the day you married me" Sukuna said, his tone dropping into something cold and bitter.

"Why?"

"Your family is rich as fuck. Extremely strict, arrogant aristocrats" Sukuna explained, his red eyes locking back onto yours. "They completely forbade you from seeing me because I was just a rough, tattooed bastard from the wrong side of the tracks with a criminal record and a unstable future. They told you that if you walked out that door with me, you’d be cut off permanently."

You stared at him, a sudden spark of heat flaring in your chest. "Well, that's so stupid of them. It sounds like a good thing we don't talk to them then."

The sheer, unyielding loyalty in your voice made Sukuna’s lips twitch, a genuine, heartbreaking smile threatening to break through his stoic mask. Even with a wiped memory, his sweet wife still possessed that exact same fiery, protective spirit.

"Yeah" he chuckled hoarsely, letting out a long sigh. "You have an incredible best friend named Shoko. You two are both doctors. you work in the exact same surgical unit at the city hospital. We have a ton of mutual friends we met back in our high school days. And those kids at the hospital? The pink-haired teenager is my nephew, Yuji, and the dark-haired one is Megumi, our friend's kid. They practically worship the ground you walk on, princess. You love those brats to death."

"Can I see them?" you asked, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.

"Of course. Whenever you want." he promised, his eyes tracking the way your lips curved.

"How old are you, anyway?"

"I'm thirty two. You're thirty" Sukuna answered smoothly.

"Wow. So we're getting old," you teased gently.

Sukuna let out a sudden, rough snort, a wicked glint flashing in his eyes. "Old or not, woman... you're still completely breathtaking."

A deep, violent blush instantly stained your cheeks. You hadn't been around an attractive man or any man, for that matter in your conscious memory, and having this giant, dangerously handsome individual throw such a raw compliment at you made your heart do a chaotic somersault. You quickly looked down at your soup, missing the way his eyes softened at your reaction.

Over the next three weeks, the fragments of a life began to surround you, even if the puzzle pieces wouldn't quite lock into place.

Yuji and Megumi came over to the house constantly. Yuji spent hours enthusiastically teaching you how to make his signature protein shakes and weird jello molds, his loud laughter filling the quiet house, while Megumi sat nearby with his usual serious expression. But the moment you offered Megumi a soft, encouraging smile, his sharp features would instantly melt into something deeply tender. Yet, beneath their smiles, you could see the underlying sadness in their eyes every time you failed to remember a shared inside joke.

When Shoko finally visited, she broke down completely, throwing her arms around your neck and sobbing into your shoulder. It was a bizarre maybe stupid too, overwhelming feeling being fiercely loved by people you couldn't even remember and a heavy weight of guilt began to settle deep in your chest. You even met Toji, Megumi's father, a tall, stoic man who didn't say much but looked at you with a quiet, profound pity that made you realize just how broken your situation truly was.

And then, there was Sukuna.

Your husband spent every single day patiently guiding you through your routines, driving you past your old university, cooking your favorite meals, and trying every gentle trigger possible. But your mind remained a stubborn, locked vault. Sukuna was growing desperate furious and completely fucked up by the stagnation.

To make matters worse, just one week before the accident, you had playfully taken down every single one of your framed marriage photographs to rearrange the living room gallery wall, hiding them away in a "genius spot" that Sukuna had completely forgotten more like you didn't even told him. He had spent hours frantically tearing the house apart while you were out, searching for a single modern photo of the two of you together.

He was completely unraveling. He couldn't sleep. The woman he loved was sleeping in the room next to him, yet she looked at him with the polite, distant eyes of a stranger. He felt like a ghost haunting his own home. One evening, he sat alone in the dark kitchen and wept the third time he had ever cried in his entire life. The first had been tears of pure joy on your wedding day when he saw you walking the aisle. the second had been out of terror when the ER doctor told him a car had struck you. and now, he was crying simply because he missed his wife so damn much

His phone offered no help either. his gallery was filled entirely with candid photos he had taken of you you stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped around your head, you laughing in a department store dressing room, or a hilarious picture of you biting into a raw lemon and making a completely disgusted face. He had no photos of the two of you together on his device, you had always been the one insisted on keeping the physical, printed albums. The only joint photos he could find were a few faded, wrinkled prints from your high school days, showing a younger, wilder version of himself wrapping his arms around you from behind while you laughed into the camera. When he showed them to you, you just stared at them blankly. It was killing him.

At the end of the third week, Sukuna was sitting heavily on the living room sofa, completely exhausted after another failed search through the house. He was mindlessly scrolling through the candid photos of you on his phone, a faint, melancholy smile touching his lips. His fingers traced your face on the photo, your bright smile. your bubbly laughter at his most unfunniset jokes, now all of that are vanished.

The heavy front door clicked open. Shoko had taken you out for an afternoon of shopping to get you out of the house, and she had just dropped you off at the curb. You stepped into the foyer, balancing several shopping bags in your arms.

Sukuna instantly locked his phone, shoving it into his pocket as he stood up, his red eyes drinking in the sight of you. "Had fun, princess?"

"Yes, I did. And thank you... for letting me use your credit card" you said softly, walking over to the coffee table and gently sliding the black card back toward him.

"You bought dresses?" he asked, pointing toward the bags. Honestly, he didn't give a single fuck about the money. you could have emptied his entire bank account and he would have gladly signed it away just to see you happy.

"I bought a few things..." You cleared your throat nervously, your fingers twisting together. "But... I actually bought something for you, too."

The words hit his chest like a physical blow. Even with her mind completely wiped, your beautiful, kind soul was still looking out for him. "Really?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Can I see it?"

You gave a small nod, walking over to the couch and tentatively sitting down right next to him. The close proximity made his heart start to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"I don't know if it's really your style, or if you'll even like it..." you mumbled bashfully, reaching into a small velvet pouch and pulling out a heavy, intricately braided silver bracelet studded with raw, brilliant red stones. "The color... it just immediately reminded me of you. Of your eyes."

You gently reached out, grasping his massive, calloused wrist to drape the metal over his skin. Oh God, if you only knew how fast his heart was racing beneath his chest. Your soft, warm fingers lingering against his pulse point was pure, exquisite torture.

"It looks incredible, Y/n. Thank you." he whispered, a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile spreading across his tattooed face as he looked down at the crimson stones.

"Thank you... for being so incredibly patient with me" you said quietly, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

Sukuna let out a long, ragged sigh, his hand hovering over yours for a fraction of a second before he pulled back. "I will always be patient with you, princess. Always."

You looked directly into his burning red eyes, and for the first time in three weeks, a warm, genuine smile broke across your face. Sukuna felt his breath hitch. he was entirely certain he was about to pass out from the sheer weight of his love for you.

"Can you stay right here for a bit? I need to go jump in the shower real quick. I'll be fast" he muttered hoarsely, his hand instinctively reaching out to gently ruffle your hair a comforting, domestic habit he had carefully maintained. You let out a soft chuckle at the gesture.

The moment his heavy footsteps disappeared up the stairs and the sound of running water echoed through the pipes, you stood up, wandering aimlessly around the quiet main floor. Your feet pulled you toward the small, cozy library nestled just off the living room. The walls were lined with hundreds of books some ancient leather volumes, others modern art textbooks. You pulled one off the shelf, flipping through the pages before sliding it back into place.

As you stepped back, your eyes caught a glimpse of something hidden on the absolute highest shelf, shoved far back into the shadows near the ceiling. It looked like a massive, heavy frame leaning flat against the back wall, obscured by a decorative ceramic vase. Intrigued, you stood on your tiptoes, stretching your arms up as high as they could go, blindly reaching for the top edge of the wooden frame.

Your fingers caught the molding, but as you pulled, the heavy ceramic vase shifted, losing its balance.

Crash!

The vase shattered against the hardwood floor with a deafening, echoing smash. Startled, you let out a sharp cry, stumbling backward as the massive hidden frame came tumbling down from the top shelf, striking the edge of the desk before landing flat on the rug. The backing of the frame split completely open upon impact, and a massive cascade of loose, glossy photographs erupted across the floor hundreds of them, scattering like playing cards across the room.

You gasped, placing a hand over your racing heart as you looked away from the broken pottery, your eyes drifting down to the sea of images covering the floor.

You froze.

Right at your feet lay a massive, professionally printed portrait. In the photograph, you were sitting securely on Sukuna's lap. You were wearing a breathtaking, flowing white lace wedding dress, holding a vibrant bouquet of sunflowers, and laughing so brightly your eyes were crinkled shut. Sukuna was clad in a sharp, tailored black tuxedo, his massive arms wrapped fiercely around your waist from behind, an absolutely massive, unbothered, triumphant grin plastered across his face.

Your breath hitched violently. You stumbled forward, falling to your knees as your hands frantically snatched up another photo from the pile. In this one, you were hoisted high up on Sukuna's broad shoulders at a crowded, flashing outdoor music festival; your mouth was wide open in a breathless scream of laughter, while his large hands were clamped firmly around your thighs to keep you safe, both of your faces painted with pure, unadulterated euphoria.

You grabbed a third photo, and the entire world stopped spinning. It was a quiet, intimate shot taken right in the backyard garden outside. You were sitting cross-legged on the green grass, wearing a simple summer dress with a soft, shy smile, while Sukuna’s heavy head was resting completely in your lap. He was looking up at you with an expression of such pure, unconditional adoration it made your soul ache, while your fingers were woven gently through his soft pink hair.

Pink hair.

The backyard.

The jazz music.

The napkin.

A sudden, violent explosion of memories ripped through the barriers of your mind. It wasn't a trickle; it was a catastrophic, roaring tidal wave. Seven years of laughter, fierce arguments, passionate late-night apologies, the smell of his skin, the exact weight of his body pressing you into the master mattress, the sound of his deep voice whispering "I've got you, princess" into the dark. It all hit your brain at once with the force of a freight train.

The sheer, overwhelming velocity of the memories made the room spin violently. Your vision blurred into a vortex of white light and crimson eyes. You let out a choked gasp, your strength entirely giving out as your body collapsed sideways onto the hardwood floor with a loud, heavy thud, the scattered photographs of your life pooling around your unconscious form.

When you finally opened your eyes again, the harsh glare of the ceiling lights was gone, replaced by the warm, dim ambiance of the living room. You were laying flat on the soft fabric of the sofa.

"She's waking up! Sukuna, look, her eyes are moving!" Yuji’s panicked, loud voice cut through the quiet room.

You blinked heavily, your vision slowly focusing. Megumi was standing right beside his cousin, his dark eyes wide and completely swimming with anxiety. Shoko was hovering over you, a small medical flashlight in her hand, her face pale as she checked your vitals.

But your heart didn't care about any of them. Your eyes frantically scanned the tight circle of people, instantly landing on the massive, tattooed man standing frozen at the foot of the couch. His pastel pink hair was damp from the shower, his chest heaving under a plain black t-shirt, and his face was a mask of pure, absolute terror.

As your eyes met his, a single, heavy tear spilled over your eyelid, tracing a hot path down your cheek. The vast, terrifying void in your mind was completely gone, replaced by the roaring, beautiful fire of your reality.

"Ryo..." you choked out, your voice a broken, breathless sob.

Sukuna froze, his entire frame visibly violently shuddering at the sound of the nickname the private, intimate name only you were ever allowed to call him.

Before anyone else could even blink, you threw yourself forward off the sofa cushions, completely ignoring the dull ache in your muscles. You lunged straight into his space, your arms wrapping fiercely around his massive neck. You buried your face in the crook of his collarbone, gripping the fabric of his shirt with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity as you pressed a hard, crying kiss directly against his tattooed jaw.

"I remember... us" you sobbed violently into his skin, your entire body trembling as the tears flowed freely. "I remember everything, Ryo... I remember you."

Sukuna’s mind completely blanked. For a single, breathless second, he couldn't even process the words. And then, a raw, ragged sound escaped his throat a mixture of a sob and a laugh. His massive, powerful arms came crashing down around your frame, pulling you so close against his chest you could barely breathe, lifting your knees entirely off the floor as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

And there, in the middle of his living room, surrounded by his family and the scattered photographs of your love, Ryomen Sukuna closed his eyes and wept for the fourth time in his life.

"I fucking love you" he whispers

(not me me writing all night just for 36 like and one reblog😣🙏🏾)

[voodoochildthings]

Live to serve

Sanji x reader

You and Sanji have a mutually beneficial agreement.

Word count: 4K

Tags: MDNI! smut, 18+, secret relationship, Sanji loves to please, oral sex, fingering, p in v, multiple orgasms.

A/N: I've always had a little crush on Sanji, but it's become unbearable since OPLA came out. And I blame Taz Skylar and his Instagram account.

Enjoy!

You snort and shake your head at the boys while you get up and clear your plate, the mood in the kitchen light and cheerful. Both Luffy and Chopper are back to pretending to be walruses again and Usopp has engaged in an enthralling tale about the Sniper King’s adventures, but as fun as an evening of camaraderie might be, you have different plans for tonight. 

Sanji’s bent over a cutting board, garnishing a cheese platter that he just threw together when you put down your plate at the sink, casually excusing yourself from the party. 

“I’m gonna call it a night, I still have some work to do. You guys have fun! Oh and… Sanji? I probably could still go for some dessert later, if you wanna whip something up. I’m in the mood for something salty today, I think.”

Out of the corner of your eye you see Nami waving good-bye, Robin’s head turning, and, of course, Sanji just about catching the drink he almost toppled when he heard your request. You don’t turn to look at him, not wanting to risk Robin catching your glance. Discovering your little arrangement. She really is annoyingly perceptive, that one.

A little over half an hour later you’re sitting at your desk, brows furrowed over today’s newspaper. You’re trying to align the information printed with the things your little birds from all over the world wrote to you in their letters when you hear a knock at the door. Two short raps, followed by a long one. 

“Come in.”

The door creaks open, and a half bowing, long, slender figure appears in the doorway. Funny how he can make himself so small, you think as Sanji slips inside your room, quietly closing the door behind him. 

“Evenin’, love.” 

He straightens up as he makes his way toward you just to bow down low again when he reaches you. You can feel his cheek brushing against your hair, how he's greedily inhaling your scent while his hand carefully places a small plate in front of you, careful not to put it on your documents. 

“Chocolate soufflé, with a dash of Aqua Laguna salt. And I still had some of those white strawberries you liked so much.” The tone of his voice is so sultry, so charming, it sends a tingle down your spine. You turn a little to look at him, his keen eyes observing your reaction.

“That looks delicious, Sanji, thank you,” you say as you pick up the spoon, take a bite of the treat. You close your eyes, savor the explosion of flavors on your tongue with a soft hum as you lick the spoon clean. When you open your eyes again you can see Sanji staring at your mouth, his lips slightly parted, almost drooling on your shoulder. You have to giggle when a needy little huff leaves him. “Anything for you, dear.”

“Roll your tongue back up, Sanji,” you smirk, and he snaps back to reality. “You know you’re gonna be using it quite a bit.”

You can hear Sanji inhaling deeply, breath staggering as his ears turn pink. He clears his throat, takes a step back and sits on the edge of your desk. 

“Anything specific you're in the mood for today?”

You turn on your seat to fully look at him, standing there. He’s got his hands stuffed away in his pockets, you can see they’re balled into fists beneath the silky fabric of his trousers. His eyes are glued to you, follow you around the room as you stand up and walk over to your vanity.

“You know, I’m still not done working. I really have to figure some stuff out…” you sigh dramatically as you reach under your skirt, hook the waistband of your panties with one finger and quickly pull them down. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t get started.”

Sanji all but squeals as his head snaps to the side, turning to follow your panties’ trajectory as they fly over to the bed. You can’t help the self-satisfied smile on your face, you just love watching him like that. Big ocean eyes, adoring, practically begging for you to let him do your bidding. You know he has very little self-control when it comes to beautiful women, that he will bend over backwards to get praise from anyone with a nice pair of tits and a pretty smile, but you know he'll drop anyone if you summon him. He's even pried himself away from Nami to revere you.

It was purely carnal at first. You had gotten drunk on a long voyage after not setting foot on land for weeks, things had gotten boring for everyone on the Thousand Sunny. So you threw a party. Everyone had had a blast, and Sanji had waited on you, Nami and Robin hand and foot. Paid you compliments. Boosted your ego. And it had made something stir deep inside of you. 

You can’t fully recall the events of that evening, but you do distinctly remember squeezing his face with one of your hands, telling him that you’d kill him if he was ever to breathe a word of what was about to happen to a living soul – or Brooke – and then you’d been on each other. And boy, had he delivered. 

You had always imagined Sanji to be like one of those firecrackers that immediately exploded in your hand, but you’d never been so wrong. Behind the facade of that lovesick puppy, chasing after any short skirt, getting a nose bleed from talking to a woman for too long, there was an animal lurking, a lion waiting to be freed from his cage.

You don’t remember how many times he had made you come that night, but it was more than enough to break your previous record, and to make you crave more of it as soon as you were able to walk straight again. And Sanji? Happy to do your every bidding. Now, you'd like to think what you're doing is strictly physical, but if you were honest you would have to admit to yourself that you enjoy the attention. Really enjoy it.

When you’re back at your desk, you lay your hand on Sanji's cheek, softly guide him onto his knees as you sit back down. You’re met with zero resistance, and you feel his nose running up the inside of your leg as soon as he’s vanished under the table. You have to grin to yourself as you hear his blissful sigh, then you get back to work on your letters.

You feel Sanji’s hands wandering up and down your legs, caressing every inch of your skin with the soft tips of the fingers he’s so careful never to use in a fight, peppering feather-light kisses all over you. He pries your legs open, just like you’ve seen him do to all kinds of exotic fruit with practised ease, slowly getting you ready for what he’s about to give you. 

When his mouth finally reaches the inside of your thigh, he, apparently not being able to help himself, bites down on your flesh longingly, prompting a small moan full of surprise from you. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you want to reach under the table, grab a fistful of his hair, tell him he’s doing good, but you’re not there yet.

You close your eyes, take a deep breath, focus on the sensation between your legs and try to relax. You've noticed over the past couple of weeks that Sanji has this weird, pressure relieving effect on you that's so much more enduring than when you just get yourself off. He'll just keep working you for hours and hours on end, putting you in an almost trance-like state as he pleasures you just the way you like it, without even so much as thinking about his own high.

You've learned not to be impatient, to savor Sanji's diligence as he makes sure every inch of your body gets worshipped the way it should. Your lower half is already tingling nicely when he finally comes close to where you really want him.

Your back arches involuntarily when his tongue runs up the inside of your thigh, you can feel your legs twitching but Sanji's firm grip keeps you in place. He places a kiss right in the valley where your leg ends, and then one more further up. You're not sure when you started holding your breath, but the gasp shaking your body when he finally runs his tongue through your folds fills your lungs with new life.

You feel the vibration in your core as he hums into your body, satisfied with the response he's eliciting from you. You can feel him nuzzling his nose into you, tongue lapping up every bit of wetness he can find. The first time he went down on you like that you were genuinely scared he'd suffocate, but you've come to learn that Sanji has a strong will to live. Especially when he's drowning in pussy. Now, you just lean back and enjoy the entertainment. 

You feel the buzz spreading through every cell of your body, the heat in your core rising, and if you let yourself, you could easily come right on the spot. But that's not what you want. You want to make this last, stretch it as far as you can, because once he pushes you off that ledge? You'll be a goner.

That's why, when you feel one of Sanji's slender fingers getting closer to your entrance, you tell him, “no.”

His movement stills immediately, you can feel him lifting his head. Like a good little soldier, waiting for your command.

“Not yet,” you huff, noticing how mellow your voice sounds. “Just your tongue, for a little longer.”

“Your wish is my command,” you hear his raspy voice from underneath your desk, and without further ado, he dives back in. You finally give up on reviewing the paper, let your head drop onto your arms that are lying on the table, and you notice how you almost fall off your seat because you keep scooting forward, your body seeking out more and more of the delectable sensation Sanji's providing you.

You feel Sanji's grip on your thighs tightening as he keeps devouring you, edged on by your moans that become less controlled with each passing moment. All the muscles in your lower body seem to be fighting against you, spasming as you try to ground yourself, try to control your breathing, but when Sanji finally finds that unforgiving rhythm that's just right for you today, you give in.

The sound you make is beyond sinful as you finally allow yourself the release you've been building up to. You know exactly what's going on in Sanji's head, that he must be bursting, finally reaping the reward of having you come on his face, but apart from his fingertips sinking deeper into your skin it doesn't show. He just keeps you high, firm grip on your thighs so you don't accidentally crush him.

He only eases up when your quivering legs finally start to slump, your moan turning into a staggered growl. He chuckles as he wipes his lower face on your thigh, keeping you close as you twitch in response to the feathery light kisses he scatters on your skin.

You groan, letting your head loll to the side, lids heavy, hair sticking to your sweaty face. Everything's still in a haze, you don't remember him getting up when you feel Sanji brushing the offending strain away with his thumb. You can smell yourself on him when he lowers himself to your level so his face is mere inches from yours.

“You good, princess?”

“Mhm,” is all you manage to press out, accompanied by a half-hearted nod that Sanji rewards with a light chuckle.

“Come on. Let's get you to bed.”

Before you fully realize what's happening, Sanji has swept you up, your body apparently weighing nothing to him, and carries you across the room. You're still breathing heavily, press your face into his firm chest and let yourself fall into his delicious, peculiar scent of cloves and some other spice he must have picked up in one of the many towns you passed through.

He gently places you on the bed, making sure your head is resting on a pillow and your skirt pulled down enough to cover you, and then he sits down next to you.

“That kinda took it out of you, huh?”

You sigh blissfully, heart still racing, but Sanji’s voice immediately reignites something deep within. You roll onto your side, prop yourself up on one elbow and look at him, expectantly. He raises his eyebrow, a puzzled look on his face.

“Oh, you– do you still want more?”

You can feel the confusion flicker across your face for a second, and then you see that intoxicating smile of his curling around his lips. 

“Sanji!” You both laugh as you playfully hit him in the chest, and then, before you could say “millefeuille”, he’s on you again. You squirm a little as he covers you with his long body, moan when you feel his hot breath against your neck. Sanji leaves enough space between the two of you so you can unbutton his blue pinstriped shirt and make quick work of his belt buckle. He’s already down to his boxers when you quickly peel yourself out of your shirt and bra while he pulls your skirt down, finally discarding it on the floor. 

Sanji’s kneeling over your naked form, drinking you in, his face appearing almost reverent in the low light. You bite your lip, earning a breathless huff from Sanji. He places his hand on your collarbone, then proceeds to trace it down your body, along your curves and dimples until it finally comes to rest just underneath your hipbone. 

“God, you’re beautiful.”

You hum softly, and while this kind of praise from Sanji is exactly what you want, exactly what gets your engine going, the sincerity he expresses it with goes straight to your soul. You tilt your head up, and, as he always does, Sanji gives you what you want.

You can positively taste the burning passion as he kisses you tenderly, a quiet little moan betraying how much he’s been longing for this. Still, he’s so soft, so controlled, not allowing himself to run wild. Stoically holding back. When you lift your hips, trying to seek out some friction in vain because Sanji’s too far away, you know what you must do.

There’s not a lot of space on your bed, but luckily, Sanji’s not the only one who knows how to use his legs. You wrap yourself around him, and, with the smoothest movement, spin him to lie flat on his back. Now, finally straddling him, you press down and feel his hot, throbbing cock pressed right up against your still needy pussy. 

Sanji groans as you slowly grind over him, only the thin fabric of his boxers separating your heat from his. His hands find their way to your hips, fingers denting your skin while he throws his head back, eyes closed. You run your palm over his chiseled chest, his lean body twitching in sync with your movements. For a second, you think you should drag this out as well, just keep riding him like this. But when you look at his twisted little face you decide you want him, stat.

You shift your weight so you can reach under yourself, and, unceremoniously, pull his boxers down only as much as you need for his cock to spring free. You grab him, maybe a little too tight, give him a couple of cursory strokes, and then sink down on him with no hesitation.

One of the things you love about Sanji is the fact that he's so vocal. Every little movement of yours is rewarded with a moan, growl or quiet curse. The way he whispers your name when your pussy clenches around him sends shivers down your spine every damn time, the way he mewls when your fingers wander over his skin makes you feel so powerful and wanted at the same time you could combust.

You shift a little, settling on his lap, allowing him to reach even deeper. Through hooded lids you can see that Sanji's eyes have fluttered shut, he looks like he's hanging on by a thread. Still, you decide to start grinding. You know he's not going to disappoint you. Your vision goes blurry when you start rolling your hips, Sanji's thick head inside you hitting that spot that switches off the outside world.

You can already feel yourself speeding up, your body just taking over, greedily seeking out another high. Your hips keep working him, nails digging into his hard surface in a way you're sure it would hurt a normal person, but you know he can take it. And even if he couldn't, he wouldn't complain.

When you feel you're close you lean back, prop yourself up on his thighs for a better angle, better purchase. You and Sanji almost fall out of rhythm as he tries to match your erratic movement, but when the wave finally crashes down over you, your back arching, toes curling, Sanji's got you. Like he always does. 

A loud, almost pained moan spills from your lips as he keeps thrusting while you ride your high, pulling you into him as your cries turn into whimpers before you finally go slack. 

You feel your arms on his thighs turn into jelly, but Sanji sits up in the blink of an eye, catching you before you can fall. He pulls you close, your bodies slick against each other's, your chest heaving way more noticeably than his. 

Sanji pulls you into a tight hug while you try to regulate your breathing, nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck while you try to come down. His hand wanders up and down your back, gently caressing you, keeping you as close as he possibly could. Whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you just looked? Like a goddess come down to earth just to bless me.” He inhales deeply, the squeeze he’s giving you turning possessive for an instant before he quickly regains his composure.

As soon as he notices you shifting, having recovered enough to move again, Sanji gives you space to lift yourself off him. He groans at the slight twitch your pussy gives around his still hard cock. 

“Okay. Wow. That was… that was good.” You fumble with your legs as you lift yourself off him, your body immediately protesting at the loss of contact even though you should be exhausted.

Sanji cocks his head, looks at you with that impish smile of his, the erection between his legs bobbing up and down.

“Good? Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”

You have to chuckle as you scoot closer, kneel next to him. You let your lips ghost over his shoulder to the back of his neck, where you place a couple of kisses before you whisper in his ear.

“That was amazing. You were amazing. Mind-blowing. Earth-shattering.”

You can feel the goosebumps rippling all over his body as you praise him just before he captures you in another kiss, just as searing hot as the last one, but way less controlled. You feel him brushing a strand of hair behind your ear and then quickly turning you so you're in his arms again.

He gently lowers you on the bed, eyes not leaving yours for a second. He runs his hand over your breast, circles your nipple once, then lets it move further down. You can’t control the way your body twitches under him, and it’s a good thing because Sanji knows exactly what you’re asking for, even if your mouth is refusing to say it. 

He dips down, lips trailing down your chest until they find your nipple. He licks a broad stripe over it, making you twitch again, and then takes it into his mouth. Your eyes flutter shut as he starts sucking on one while pinching the other with his fingers, and a little gasp leaves you as he pushes two fingers into the heat you've been desperately pressing up against him.

You’re not entirely sure for how long Sanji keeps working you, at this point, the thing turning you on most are the content, passionate little sounds he’s making while chasing your high. His voice is raspy when he finally drops your nipple from his mouth with a soft plop. You open your eyes to find him looking at you, enamoured with the way you're writhing beneath him. 

“I, uh,” he says, voice cracking at the single syllable as he continues to pump his fingers into you. “I’m really sorry but I don’t think I can keep this up for much longer,” he huffs, eyes only shooting down to look between his legs for a second. You can’t see much with the dim light and his body so close to yours, but you’ve felt his hardness poking you. Felt the pre-cum oozing from his tip against your sizzling skin. 

You lift your hands, cup his face to look at it for a moment. Study the adoration, the devotion written all over it, brush that rogue strand of hair away only for it to immediately fall back in place. 

“Sanji?”

He holds his breath, eyes wide, trying to read your wish before you say it out loud. As he always does.

“Will you come inside me?”

The sound he makes is almost a whimper, and then he’s so fast you’re almost unable to follow his movements. Still on his knees between your thighs, he runs a hand over your ass and down your leg as he gently pushes it up to finally rest it on his shoulder. All air leaves your body when he presses into your wetness, his movement offensively unhurried for someone as consumed by lust as you know him to be. He runs his cheek over your calf, kissing every inch of skin he can reach as he slowly drives into you. His thrusts are deep, powerful, and it takes only a couple of them for you to almost lose yourself again. You can feel him tensing up inside you, and the moment you allow the moan that’s been trying to break free from you to escape you’re both gone. Sanji’s hips stutter as he paints your insides white, his entire body shudders before he collapses onto you, not halting his movement before the tension in your body subsides. 

You both lie there for a while, breathing falling into rhythm with each other, quietly enjoying the peace of the moment. Sanji rolls off you, careful not to break your skin to skin contact for a second. Pulls you into his arm before his back even hits the mattress. He gently caresses your shoulder, tracing imaginary lines on your arms.

You're not exactly sure how, but he produces a cigarette from somewhere, lights it on the oil lamp that's standing on the bedside table. He takes a long drag, slowly exhales, letting the smoke curl its way up to the ceiling.

“So,” he says, the cheeky grin already back on his lips. “You hungry for anything else, my queen?”

[archivesonlyyyhhh]

oh gosh he so fucking hot!!

[dirtylittlediary]

teach me your ways - frank castle

pairing : frank castle x innocent f!reader

summary : you're untouched, inexperienced, and completely wrong for a man like Frank Castle. Which is exactly why he can’t stay away from you.

word count : 7.6 k

warnings : buckle up bc this is a long one - smut, minors DNI, 18 +, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap that shi up), popping of one's cherry, mentions of blood, soft but not really!frank, implied age gap, inexperienced reader, praise kink, size kink, canon-typical mentions of violence, explicit language

a/n: yall come up with the shit i wouldn't even think abt (like this here) but im always so glad to write it !!! my requests are open to any and all characters, so keep em comin' - as usual, not proofread !

Karen introduced you to Frank Castle on a Tuesday, and afterward you blamed her for it constantly. At first, he was just the terrifying guy who showed up at her apartment bleeding half to death and refusing medical help like it was a personality trait. You thought he was rude. He thought you talked too much. Karen thought you were both idiots almost immediately.

But then Frank kept showing up. Always with some excuse. Information for Matt. Coffee for Karen. Food nobody asked for. And somehow he always lingered longer when you were there too. You fell for him slowly.

In stupid little pieces.

The way he remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. The way he automatically walked closest to the street at night. The way his giant terrifying self softened every time you laughed at one of his dry muttered jokes like he couldn’t help it.

And Frank— God.

Frank fell hard.

Karen noticed first.

“You’re staring again,” she told him one night while you sat on the floor stealing fries from the takeout container in your lap.

“I ain’t starin’.”

“You absolutely are." Frank looked at you like you were something dangerous in the best possible way. Like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure he was allowed to. That was the thing about him. He never pushed.

Not once.

You dated other guys before Frank. Plenty. But they always got impatient eventually. Always acted like sex was some finish line they deserved to cross if they waited long enough. So you kept saying no. And after enough bad experiences, the fear just… stayed. Frank never made you feel guilty for it. The two of you became disgustingly affectionate anyway. Constantly touching. Your legs over his lap on the couch. His hand at your back guiding you through crowds. Falling asleep tangled together during movies. Stealing his shirts. Sitting between his knees while he cleaned guns and listening to him grumble about your taste in music. But every time things almost turned sexual, panic crept in. And every single time, Frank stopped immediately. One night he walked you home and looked at your mouth long enough to make your knees weak.

“If I kiss you,” he asked quietly, “you tellin’ me to stop?” You panicked. And Frank stepped back instantly like your comfort mattered more than breathing. That was probably when you realized you loved him. Not because he wanted you. Because he didn’t need anything from you to stay.

----------

You stand in the bedroom, pacing back and forth, chewing on your thumb.

God, you feel so stupid.

Your heart is pounding hard enough to make your ribs ache. You’ve faced armed men before. You’ve patched bullet wounds with shaking hands. You’ve stared down monsters and lived through it. And somehow this is worse. Because this is Frank.

Frank, who kisses your shoulder every morning without fail.

Frank, who drapes himself over you on the couch like a weighted blanket because he knows you secretly love it.

Frank, who always reaches for your hand first in crowded places.

Frank, who has spent months loving you with his entire body while carefully avoiding the one line you kept drawing between you.

Not because you hated touch.

God, no.

You’re practically glued to him half the time. You sit in his lap while he cleans guns. Fall asleep with your face in his neck. Steal his shirts and crawl into his arms every night like it’s instinct. And the need that crawls inside your skin when you see him shirtless, or doing anything with his hands- god. It's insatiable.

But sex— Sex always felt different to you.

Too vulnerable.

Too permanent.

Too much.

And every guy before Frank eventually got tired of waiting. Some were patient at first. Most pretended to be. Then came the guilt trips. The sighs. The passive-aggressive comments. The inevitable: What, you don’t trust me?

And eventually, somehow, time just… kept passing. Until suddenly you were here.

A grown virgin.

In Frank’s apartment.

In Frank’s clothes.

Hopelessly in love with a man who has never once made you feel bad for being scared. Which honestly makes this so much harder. You stop pacing long enough to stare at yourself in the mirror.

“You are a grown woman,” you mutter weakly. The reflection looks unconvinced. From the living room, you hear the low murmur of the TV and the faint clink of a beer bottle against the coffee table. Frank’s home from a job. Showered already. Clean black t-shirt. Gray sweats hanging low on his hips. You know because you’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying not to think about it. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Fuck it.

Before you can lose your nerve, you walk out into the living room. Frank’s sprawled on the couch, one arm stretched across the back cushions, beer balanced against his stomach while some old war documentary drones quietly from the television. The second he sees you hovering there, he frowns slightly.

“You alright, baby?” he asks. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Frank immediately sits up straighter.

“That bad, huh?” You blurt it before you lose your nerve.

“Frank, I want to have sex with you.” Frank spits beer all over himself. You jump backward as he starts choking violently.

“Jesus Christ—”

“Oh my God.” He’s coughing hard enough his face turns red.

“Sorry-shit-” Frank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at you like you just confessed to arson. “You—what?” Your face burns.

“Well now I regret bringin’ it up.”

“No, hold on.” He sets the beer down carefully like sudden movements might scare you off. “What?” You groan and cover your face.

“This is humiliating.”

“Sweetheart.” His voice softens immediately. “C’mere.” You shake your head aggressively.

“No, because now you’re gonna look at me weird.”

“I have literally never looked at you weird a day in my life.”

“You absolutely have.”

“Okay, fair. But not for this.” You peek at him through your fingers. Frank still looks stunned. Not upset. Not uncomfortable. Just deeply confused. “You wanna…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “With me?”

“Frank, there are no other people in this apartment.”

“That ain’t what I mean.” You know that. Your stomach twists violently. Frank studies you carefully now, all teasing gone.

“I thought you didn’t want that stuff,” he says gently. “And I was okay with that.”

“I do want it.”

“Then why’ve you looked ready to bolt every time things got heated?” Your face gets hotter.

“Because I’ve never done it before.” Silence. Frank blinks once.

“…done what before?” You stare at the floor.

“Any of it.” Another beat. Then:

“…Baby.” You want the earth to swallow you whole.

“I’m a virgin, okay? I've never been kissed, never been touched by anyone except myself. ” you blurt out finally. “And before you make a face about it—”

“I ain’t makin’ a face.”

“You are internally.”

“I’m really not.” You risk a glance up. He genuinely isn’t. He just looks… shocked.

“You never—?”

“No.”

“And nobody ever—?”

“No.” Frank leans back slowly against the couch cushions like he just got hit with something.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I know. God, i'm so fucking embarassing.”

“No, sweetheart, I just—” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I thought maybe you just weren’t comfortable with physical intimacy.” You snort nervously.

“I’m literally attached to your spine twenty-four hours a day.”

“That’s true.”

“I love physical stuff.” Your voice gets smaller. “I just… wanted my first time to actually mean something.” Frank goes very still at that. “And all the guys before you kept acting like they deserved it eventually because they waited long enough.” You shrug tightly. “So I kept saying no.” Something ugly flashes across Frank’s face. Not at you. Never at you. At them.

“I’m gonna need names,” he mutters darkly. Despite everything, you laugh.

“No, you absolutely do not.”

“They sound annoyin’.”

“They were.” A silence settles between you. Not awkward. Just… full. Frank looks at you for a long second, something almost painful softening his face.

“You know I’d wait forever, right?” he says quietly. Your chest aches instantly.

“I know.”

“And I mean forever.”

“I know.”

“You don’t gotta prove anythin’ to me.” Your throat tightens.

“That’s kinda the problem,” you admit softly. Frank frowns slightly.

“What d’you mean?”

You stare down at your hands.

“I mean…” God. “I’m not doing this because I feel pressured.” Your voice gets quieter. “I’m doing it because I’m in love with you and I trust you and I think about you constantly.” Frank exhales sharply.

“You gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m tryin’ real hard to keep actin’ normal.” Your stomach flips. You walk closer to him, just so he can drag you to stand between his legs, his hands on your waist. You force yourself to keep talking before fear catches up again.

“I think about you kissing me,” you admit quietly. “And touching me.” Your face burns hotter. “And I think about your hands a lot, which honestly feels medically concerning at this point.” Frank makes a strangled sound. You look up just in time to see him drag a hand over his face.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps.

“And I know I’m late to all this and weird about it and probably overthinking everything—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts through immediately. Firm. “None of that.” You stop. Frank leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours with that terrifying intensity he gets when he means something completely. “There is nothin’ wrong with you.” Emotion punches straight through your chest. He softens instantly seeing your face change.

“C’mere,” he says quietly. This time, you go immediately. Frank catches you the second you lean into him, pulling you straight into his lap like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around your waist automatically, warm and solid and safe, and you bury your face in his neck with a shaky breath.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly against your hair. You cling harder.

“I’m nervous.”

“I know.”

“You still want me?” Frank actually leans back enough to look offended.

“Baby, I have wanted you since the second you yelled at me in Karen’s kitchen for bleeding on her floor.” A startled laugh escapes you.

“You remember that?”

“You threatened me with a mop.”

“You were bleeding everywhere.”

“And I still thought you were cute.” You groan into his shoulder.

“This is awful.”

“No,” he says softly, one hand sliding up your back. “This is you trustin’ me.” His thumb strokes slowly along your spine.

“You sure about this?” he asks quietly. You nod against him.

“Yeah.”

“And if you change your mind at any point?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“And then we stop."

“Yes.” Frank studies your face carefully for another second. Then his hand slides gently into your hair.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. Your heart practically stops. You nod once.

“Yeah.” Frank closes the distance so gently you almost don’t feel it at first—just the soft, rough drag of his thumb along your jaw, then his lips, warm and chapped, brushing yours. It’s not the kind of kiss you expected from Frank. You were bracing for a car wreck, something bruising and violent, the way he is on a job. But it’s nothing like that. He kisses you so slow, so careful, like you might shatter. You don’t shatter. Not exactly. But the sensation is so intense you feel yourself splitting open from the inside out. His hand cups the back of your head, steadying you. He pulls back barely an inch.

“You okay?” Voice low, hoarse. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you push forward, mouth crashing into his, desperate for the centrifugal force he’s been holding back. He lets you, lets you climb messily into his lap, lets you fist your hands in his shirt. And when your tongue nudges against his, Frank gives a little grunt and opens for you, just a hair, just enough. Every nerve in your body catches fire. You’d thought, maybe, that the first time would feel awkward. Like taking a test you never studied for. But Frank makes it easy. He keeps checking in with you, saying your name between kisses, grounding you with his hands, never letting you get lost in the panic of it. At some point, you realize you’re straddling his thighs and he’s got one palm splayed wide over your lower back, the other bracing your jaw, like he’s afraid you’ll tip out of gravity if he ever lets go.

“You still good?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you say, and it comes out as a gasp. You’re trembling. Not with fear—the opposite. You want to crawl out of your skin. Frank’s hands are on your hips now, then under your shirt,dragging slow up your ribs. He keeps it gentle, keeps it steady, like he’s reading your mind. When his thumb sweeps over one nipple, you arch so hard you nearly headbutt him. He huffs a tiny laugh, then grins, wide and wolfish.

“Sensitive?”

“Shut up.” He does, at least for a second. His mouth finds your neck, then your collarbone, then the top of your breast. He peppers all of it with slow, open-mouthed kisses that threaten to melt your brain. He lifts the hoodie up and off in one slow motion, and you almost laugh at yourself for being nervous; it’s just Frank, looking at you like he’s been starving and you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted.

“Christ,” he says, low and reverent, and runs a thumb just under the swell of your breast, gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll spook. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, and the words go straight to your cunt. You whine, grinding down against him on instinct, and he groans, hands darting out to steady you. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you part for him. You feel his hands everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—steadying you, coaxing you closer. His touch is a little rough around the edges, always bordering on too much, but never quite crossing the line. He’s so careful with you it almost breaks your heart. He pulls back long enough to look you up and down, like he’s memorizing you. There’s a heat in his eyes that makes you shiver, but it’s the possessiveness that really undoes you. Like he can’t believe you’re letting him see you like this.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, low and rough, and you nearly combust. You can’t stop touching him—his shoulders, his jaw, the back of his neck. He likes it, you can tell, because he keeps pressing you closer, like he wants to crawl inside your skin.

“Can I touch you?” you whisper. You don’t even recognize your own voice, breathy and shaking. Frank’s face goes soft, like you just handed him a live wire and told him to hold it for you.

“Baby, you can do whatever you want to me.” He grins, then kisses you again, slow and deep, while guiding your hands under his shirt. You run your fingers over his chest, all scars and muscle and heat. His skin is hot to the touch, the steady beat of his heart pounding under your palms. You dig your nails in, just a little, and Frank makes a sound that’s half-growl, half-moan, like he’s straining not to just take you apart right there.

“You good?” he asks again, voice ragged. You nod, then remember to say it:

“Yeah. Yes. I’m good—you’re…” You can’t finish the sentence, so you just kiss him again. It feels less scary now, more inevitable, like gravity. He lets you push him back against the couch, your thighs tight around his waist. His hands slip from your ribs to your ass, squeezing gently, like he’s testing how much you can take. You whimper, hips jerking forward, rubbing against the hard line of him through his sweats. Frank curses, low and frantic, and you get drunk on the sound.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he pants. “Gotta slow down or I’m gonna blow it before we even start.”

“Don’t slow down,” you say. “I want—” You don’t know how to finish the sentence. Frank does it for you.

“You want me?” He’s grinning, but his eyes are almost desperate.

“Yes,” you say. “Frank, I want you.” Something in him snaps. He reaches down, clearing his throat as he taps your thighs.

“Sit up, baby.” He hums. You lean forward, sitting up on your knees. His hands are slow and careful as they pull down your shorts, and you bite your bottom lip as he softly coaxes it off your legs. Your wet cunt soaks through your panties, and when you sit back down on his sweatpants, that extra barrier of tissue removed makes the strain in his pants much bigger against you. He’s hard as hell now, and you can feel the heat of him even through his boxers. Your thighs tremble. The air in the apartment seems thinner, more electric. Frank’s hands run reverently up your thighs, slow, no rush, but the tension in his arms says he’s holding himself back. It makes you feel powerful. It makes you feel safe.

“Gonna take these off, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb sliding under the band of your panties. He’s watching your face, checking for panic. There isn’t any. Not anymore. You nod, and he peels them down, slow, exposing you inch by inch. When the fabric finally drags off your ankles, you’re left straddling his lap, bare except for your tank top, skin goosepimpled and desperate. Frank’s hands splay wide over the soft meat of your ass, kneading you, warm and solid. He guides you forward, grinding you down against the bulge of his cock, and you gasp. The friction’s almost too much. Not enough. You can feel yourself slick up, can see it glistening on his gray sweats when you grind on him again.

“Fuck, look at you,” Frank rasps, voice tight. “So fuckin’ wet, baby.” Your face should be burning, but you just want more. You want him everywhere. You want to come apart all over him. It makes you brave.

“Can I see you?” you whisper, hands curling under the hem of his shirt. Frank doesn’t answer. He just lifts his arms, lets you peel the shirt up and off, revealing the wild scar-mapped planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle , the old bullet wound you once stitched shut with trembling hands. You run your fingertips over every inch, tracing him like you’re memorizing a map you’ll never get to visit again. He shivers under your touch.

“God,” you murmur, awe in your voice. He grins, lopsided and a little shy, and pulls you in for another kiss. This one’s dirtier—the way his tongue drags over yours, the way his hands squeeze your waist, the press of his cock as he grinds up into you. He’s leaking through his boxers now, hot and slick, and you rub yourself shamelessly against it, chasing the friction. Frank groans, deep and desperate.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he breathes. “We got time.” You don’t know how you’ll survive it. He nudges your thighs apart, makes a show of looking down at the space between your bodies. All his focus is on you: on your bare knees bracketing his hips, the hungry, worshipful way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. It’s more than he deserves, and he wants to say something gentle to you, but all that comes out is a low,

“Fuck, baby. You’re drivin’ me crazy.” You laugh, but it’s nervous, hands trembling a little as you brace them on his shoulders. Frank has to slow down, to make sure his hands are steady as he slides them up and down your sides. You’re soaking wet—so wet the slick’s already darkened the front of his sweats, and his cock is straining, thick and angry, beneath the fabric. The look on your face terrifies and thrills him, like you’re balancing right on the edge of a rooftop, dizzy from the height and the want. He wants to say something to make it easier.

“Hey. We can stop anytime, you hear me?” He cups your face in one big hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You nod, but the motion’s a little frantic, like you’re trying to prove you’re not scared. He’s never seen anyone so fucking brave.

“I don’t want to stop,” you whisper, voice shaking, “I just—” You squeeze your eyes shut, like you’re embarrassed. Your hands dig into his shoulders. “Frank, I don’t know what to do.” He nods, softly guiding your hands down to his sweats. He kisses your temple.

“Take these off.” Your hands fumble at the waistband, palms slick, vision swimming with nerves and need. You hook your fingers under the elastic and pull, unsure, but he lifts his hips to help and the gray cotton peels away easy as a wish. His cock springs free, heavy, flushed, the head slicked already, and you stare, breath burning in your throat.

He’s… god, he’s big.

You don’t even have enough data points to compare, but your brain still tries, and it short-circuits. Frank watches you with a patience that’s almost predatory, like he’s holding himself together with staples and baling wire. His hand covers yours, guiding it, and you curl your fingers delicately around the shaft. He hisses, jaw clenched, and the muscles in his thighs jump against your knees. Your thumb drags along the vein, and god, it’s hot, how responsive he is. How it makes him shudder.

“You’re a quick study,” Frank murmurs, voice gone low and rough. “Jesus.” He slides his hand up your thigh, kneading gently, and then reaches between them, thumb brushing over you where you’re soaked and swollen. The touch is electric, makes you jerk forward, grinding against his cock. The head bumps you clit, and you whimper, dizzy with it. He holds you by the hip, steadying, anchoring.

“You want to keep going, baby?” You nod, frantic and eager. He grins, but there’s an edge to it; it looks like he might snap in half from wanting her. You bite your bottom lip, face flushed. Frank’s watching your face hard.

“Hey. You okay?” You nod, eyes never leaving him. He’s so solid. So alive. The kind of body that absorbs bullets and wins bar fights and breaks things for a living. You want it inside you. That realization hits so hard it makes you whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek, hand gentle as it cups your jaw, pulling you back to him for a kiss. “Don’t gotta do anything you don’t want,” he rumbles. “Just say the word.” You shake your head.

“I want to. I just…” The words get stuck in your throat, so you scrape them out: “I don’t want to be bad at it.” Frank actually laughs, low, delighted.

“You’re not gonna be bad at anything, baby. Not with me.” He pulls you in and the kiss goes molten, needier, his hands anchoring your hips and rocking you down against his cock, bare now, the heat and velvet of it dizzying between your legs. He groans into your mouth, one hand finding your thigh and urging it higher, opening you more. The stretch is intense but perfect; you want to be wrecked by him, want to feel it for days. He strokes his thumb up and down your thigh and says, almost reverent,

“You’re dripping.” You hide your face in his neck, mortified, but his hand finds your hair and tugs you back, just a little, so you have to look at him. “Nothin’ to be nervous about,” he says softly. “This is supposed to feel good, sweetheart. Let me make it good for you.” You nod, not trusting your voice. Frank sucks in a harsh breath and lines himself up, guiding the head of his cock through your slick folds, rubbing slow circles right at your entrance. You see stars. Every part of you is wound so tight you feel like a strummed string.

“Gonna go slow, okay?” he murmurs. He’s all gentleness, which would piss you off if you weren’t so desperate for it. His cock pushes in, just the tip at first, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for something to hold. There’s an ache, deep and unfamiliar, but it’s not bad. Not really. Frank watches your face, waiting for a flinch, for a stop, but you just nod and grind down, needing more. He exhales sharp, lets you take him another inch. Then another.

“There you go,” he says, voice a rumble in your chest, “you’re doing so good—shit, better than good, you’re doing fuckin’ amazing.” The pain is blinding. Stars explode behind your eyes, your eyes clenched shut. You’re clinging to him, shaking, every muscle locked up with that dizzying, too-much pressure. Your nails dig into his shoulders so hard he thinks he’ll feel them for days. The pain-pleasure blend is exquisite. Frank moves slow, gives you time, lets you adjust, but it’s still a stretch—he’s not small, and your body’s never done this before. He cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking over the spot just under your ear.

“Breathe, baby. That’s it. You’re doin’ perfect. All you gotta do is breathe for me.” You nod, jaw clenched, and force yourself to inhale. The ache eases a little, edges softening, and then you’re not so much impaled as full.

So, so full.

Like Frank is the only thing holding you to the world now, insides stretched almost to breaking, but in a way that makes you feel alive and forged. He’s not moving, just letting you get used to it. You try to shift, testing the fit, and holy shit, it’s… you have no words. It’s everything. His patience is infuriating and tender at once.

“Hurts?” he asks, all concern and hands.

“Yeah. But… not bad.” You burrow against him, seeking his pulse with your lips, needing the distraction. “Just—give me a second.” He does. He’d sit here all night if you needed, hold you open and safe, and never ask for more than you could give. But it doesn’t take long.

You’re greedy beneath the nerves, hips rolling forward for more before you’re halfway ready. Frank groans, the sound vibrating through her whole body, and drops his head back against the couch. His hands find your waist, bracing you, guiding every tentative movement. He’s letting you control this, but he’s not shy about what he wants, either; he helps you set a rhythm, each grind down taking him deeper, your slickness making it easier with every slow, careful stroke. Frank’s hands steady your hips, anchoring you to him, and every measured inch you take feels like the world dividing into before and after. Your thighs tremble, every muscle in yout legs a live wire; your knees dig into the worn cushion, and you’tr sure there will be bruises tomorrow, bruises shaped like Frank’s hands and your own hunger. You can’t imagine anything more perfect.

It’s all so much. Too much, and not enough. Every time you rocks your hips down, he lets you take what you want, but the stretch is so heavy it’s almost dizzying. Your breath comes out in little, shaky bursts, and your hands scrabble for purchase—his shoulders, the rough line of his jaw, the knotted muscle of his biceps. He likes that, you can tell by the way his whole body goes taut when she squeezes. You lose yourself in the mess of it, in the heat pressed chest-to-chest, in the pulse of his cock inside you, in the rasp of his voice when he says your name. You’re barely moving, just grinding yourself down, but it’s everything. Every inch you take feels like a little victory. Frank’s patience is a living thing, the tension in his arms shaking by the second, and the only way he lets it show is the bite of his fingers into you skin and the scruff of his jaw brushing you cheek.

“Attagirl,” he rumbles, voice shredded. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” You whimper, overwhelmed. The pain’s still there, but smaller now, a bright spot eclipsed by the full, shuddering pleasure carving up your spine. You shift your hips forward again and the angle changes and—oh—your thighs lock up with the shock of it. You gasp, head falling forward onto his shoulder, hair falling between your faces. Frank groans, arms squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe, and the sound is so raw, so animal, you want to cry. You try to move, to find a rhythm, but it’s awkward at first, your body still learning the mechanics. Frank seems to sense it, thumbs stroking slow circles into your hip bones, talking you through it with broken little instructions.

“Just like that,” he says, his hand guiding the small of your back. “Easy, sweetheart. Let me help you.” He moves with you, not against, and suddenly it clicks, your hips rolling forward and up, down, forward and up, and his cock—God, it’s so deep—rubs along something inside you that makes your whole body lock up. You cry out, surprised. Frank’s teeth find your shoulder, biting down just enough to ground you, and then he’s kissing the spot, like an apology.

“Good?” he grits out, barely holding on. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you rock down harder, desperate for more. The friction is brutal, the stretch never-ending, and you want it to last forever and end now, all at once. You grab his face in both hands and kisses him, messy, desperate, Your tears breaking loose and trailing down your nose onto his face. Frank's breath hitches, and for a second, you think you've broken him. His whole body goes rigid under you, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, like he's trying to crawl inside you through your mouth. One of his hands slides up your back, fisting in your hair, holding you in place while the other grips your hip, guiding you into a rhythm that's less tentative and more purposeful.

"Fuck, baby," he pants against your lips. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sob. You're overwhelmed—by the sensation, by the emotion, by the sheer Frankness of it all. He's everywhere. His scent, his taste, the feel of his scarred skin under your hands, the sound of his ragged breathing in your ear. It's a sensory overload that threatens to short-circuit your brain.

"Frank," you whimper, burying your face in his neck again. "I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he growls, cutting you off. He shifts his hips, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, slow and deliberate. The drag of him against your inner walls is exquisite, a perfect, friction-filled agony that makes your toes curl. "Feel that? That's you takin' me. That's you, sweetheart. All you." You nod, but it's a frantic, desperate motion. You're chasing something, a feeling building deep in your belly, a coil of heat that gets tighter with every thrust. Frank seems to sense it, his movements becoming a little more forceful, a little more confident. He's still letting you set the pace, but he's not just a passive participant anymore. He's an active force, a storm you're willingly riding.

"God, you're tight," he grits out, his voice strained. "So fuckin' tight for me. Squeezin' me so good." His words are filthy, but his tone is reverent, and the combination is heady. It makes you feel powerful, desired, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. You rock your hips faster, matching his rhythm, the awkwardness of before replaced by a desperate, primal need. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a vulgar, beautiful symphony that's all yours. Frank's hands are everywhere now—one gripping your ass, the other sliding up your back to trace the line of your spine. He's mapping you, claiming you, and you've never felt more seen. Your head falls back and Frank lets out a low guttural groan, his hands squeezing your waist to help you grind against you harder.

The new angle is a revelation. It’s like he’s found a secret switch inside you, one you didn’t even know existed. The head of his cock drags against a spot so sensitive, so electric, that a sharp cry tears from your throat. Your back arches, a deep, involuntary curve that presses your breasts against his chest, and your hands fly from his shoulders to tangle in his hair, holding on for dear life.

“Jesus,” Frank grunts, his voice a raw, ragged thing. He’s watching you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face. “Right there, huh? Found it.” He doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds like a hunter who’s finally cornered his prey. He does it again, a deliberate, grinding roll of his hips that sends a shockwave of pure, unadulterated bliss through your entire system.

Your answer is a broken moan, your hips moving on their own now, chasing that feeling, chasing him. The rhythm is frantic, messy, desperate. You’re no longer thinking, no longer worrying about being good at it or doing it right. You’re just feeling. Every nerve ending is on fire, every muscle in your body strung tight as a bowstring. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, a hot, heavy pressure that promises an explosion.

“Frank, Frank, Frank,” you chant his name like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain can still form. It’s a plea and a praise all at once.

“I got you, baby,” he growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of letting you lead. His hands are bruising on your hips now, his grip the only thing keeping you grounded as you start to lose yourself to the sensation. Your thighs are trembling, your whole body on fire as your hands slide up to tangle in his hair.

You've only ever come on your own fingers.

This.. This feels different.

The pressure building in your stomach is tighter, more feral.

It’s not a wave you can ride out. It’s a dam breaking. A fault line splitting open. The pressure in your stomach doesn't just crest; it detonates. A sharp, guttural cry is ripped from your throat as your entire body seizes, your back bowing so violently you’re surprised you don’t snap in two. Your inner walls clamp down on him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip that you have no control over, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot static of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Your eyes go wide, at the feeling, thinking something is wrong.

"Oh my god, Frank- I - I might- I don't-"

"No, no, baby, hey, look at me." Frank's voice cuts through your panic, rough with his own impending release but sharp with command. His hands leave your hips, one flying up to cup your jaw, forcing your wide, terrified eyes to meet his. "It's not wrong. You're not wrong. You're just feelin' it. Let it happen. That's it, that's the good part." His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, a frantic, grounding motion.

"Don't fight it. Jesus Christ, don't you fuckin' fight it, just let go." Frank’s name is a shattered gasp on your lips as you shatter, your nails digging into his scalp, your body convulsing with the force of it. It’s endless, a series of crippling, ecstatic spasms that wrack you from the inside out, leaving you a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.

“Fuck,” Frank snarls, the sound torn from his own chest as your orgasm drags him over the edge with you. The tight, milking grip of your cunt is too much, a final, perfect torment. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, desperate groan, his hips jerking as he pours himself into you. You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release, a deep, primal claiming that seems to go on forever, his body shuddering against yours with the force of it. For a long, stretched-out moment, you’re both frozen, locked together in the eye of the storm. The only sounds are the frantic, ragged pulls of your breaths and the frantic hammering of his heart against your ribs. You’re limp, a dead weight in his lap, every muscle liquefied, your brain a blissful, static-filled void. You’ve never felt so completely wrecked. So completely whole.

Your entire body is spasming in his grip.

Frank’s breathing is still ragged against your throat, his arms locked around you like if he loosens his grip for even a second you’ll disappear. Your whole body trembles uncontrollably, tiny aftershocks rippling through your thighs and stomach, and he notices every single one.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice wrecked soft now. “Easy, sweetheart. I got you.” His palm slides up and down your spine slowly, grounding you back into your body piece by piece. You’re still shaking so hard your teeth almost chatter. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this exposed before. Not physically.

Emotionally.

Frank presses a kiss to your damp temple, then another to your cheek, slower this time. Careful. Like he’s trying to soothe the very nerves he just set on fire.

“You okay?” he asks again quietly. You nod weakly against his shoulder.

“I think my soul left my body.” That earns a rough little laugh out of him. The sound vibrates warm against your skin.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Mine too.” Your muscles finally start unlocking enough for you to realize how boneless you’ve gone in his lap. Frank shifts carefully beneath you with a low grunt, one hand rubbing your thigh.

“C’mere,” he says softly. “Lemme clean you up.” You make a tiny noise of protest when he helps lift you off him. The sudden emptiness makes you whine before you can stop yourself, legs trembling violently the second your knees touch the mattress. Frank freezes like the sound nearly killed him.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps. You bury your burning face in his shoulder immediately.

“Don’t.”

“No, sweetheart, you don’t get it,” he says, sounding half tortured. “You keep makin’ noises like that and I’m gonna need another minute.”

“You are such a pig,” you mumble.

“Correct.” You hear the smile in his voice. Then he reaches for the discarded t-shirt on the floor beside the couch, gentle again as he wipes carefully between your thighs. You hiss softly at the sensitivity, instinctively trying to squirm away.

“I know,” he murmurs immediately. “I know. Sorry, baby.” The nickname settles warm in your chest now instead of frightening you. Frank glances down as he cleans you up. Then pauses. You notice the tiny streak of red a second later. Your stomach drops.

“Oh my God.” Frank looks up instantly.

“What?”

“There’s blood.” Panic climbs your throat so fast it makes your voice pitchy. “Frank, there’s— I—did I start my period? Oh my God, am I bleeding? Did something tear?” Your breathing starts speeding up again immediately. “Jesus Christ, am I dying?” For one single second he just stares at you. Then a startled laugh bursts out of him. Not mocking. Just genuinely caught off guard.

“Baby,” he says gently, trying very hard not to smile now. “You are not dyin’.” You blink at him, horrified.

“There’s blood!”

“Yeah.” He brushes his thumb soothingly against your knee. “That can happen your first time.” You stare.

“…what?” His expression softens instantly at your confusion.

“You were a virgin,” he says carefully. “Little bleeding’s normal sometimes. Especially ‘cause I got carried away.” Guilt flickers briefly across his face at that last part. “You ain’t hurt bad. Promise.” Your entire body floods with relief so intense you nearly flop sideways.

“Oh my God.” Frank finally chuckles properly now, rubbing a hand down his face. You hide your face against his shoulder with a groan of humiliation while Frank keeps quietly laughing above you, warm chest rumbling beneath your cheek.

“Don’t make fun of me,” you mutter.

“I ain’t makin’ fun.” Another tiny laugh immediately betrays him. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm.” His hand slides lazily up and down your thigh. “Still alive though, right?” You smack weakly at his chest. Frank catches your wrist easily, bringing your knuckles to his mouth for one absentminded kiss before helping tug your shirt back down properly over your stomach. The tenderness of it nearly kills you more than the sex did. You let him guide you sideways across his lap once you’re dressed again, your legs draped over the couch cushions while he settles back with a long exhale. His fingers trace idle circles against the soft skin just above your knee, grounding and warm. The apartment feels different now.

Quieter. Softer. Like something huge shifted without either of you knowing how to name it yet. You stare at the wall for a long second before mumbling:

“I really thought I was bleeding internally.” That gets another laugh out of him, fuller this time. He drops his head briefly against yours.

“Baby, you work in medicine.”

“Not vagina medicine. And my parents never really taught me this stuff. They assumed Karen would.” Frank barks out an actual laugh at that, shoulders shaking beneath you. You can’t help smiling a little yourself.

“Fair point,” he admits. Silence settles again after that. Comfortable this time. His fingers never stop moving against your leg. Then quieter:

“You okay?” he asks again. Not physically. Everything. The emotion in his voice catches you off guard. You tilt your head enough to look up at him. Frank’s eyes are already on you, darker now without all the urgency from before. There’s still heat there, sure—but underneath it is something almost nervous. Like he’s waiting for you to regret this.

Regret him.

Your chest aches suddenly.

“I’m okay,” you say softly. His whole body loosens at that. Tiny. Almost invisible. But you feel it. Frank swallows once, gaze dropping briefly to where his hand rests on your thigh.

“I know tonight was a lot,” he says carefully. “And I know I probably shoulda slowed down more—”

“You did slow down.” His eyes flick back to yours.

“You were scared.”

“I was nervous,” you correct quietly. “Not scared of you.” That one lands somewhere deep. You see it happen in real time. Frank goes still. Your fingers slide up over the back of his hand, threading through his.

“I trusted you,” you admit. He stares at you like the words physically hurt him. Then he leans down and presses his forehead against yours, eyes closing.

“Christ,” he whispers roughly. One of his arms tightens around your waist. Not possessive. Protective. Careful with you in a way nobody ever has been before. “You got no idea what that means to me,” he says softly. Your face falls and you reach up, wincing at the pull in your legs. You reach up, wincing slightly as your body reminds you it’s still catching up to everything that just happened. Frank notices immediately—of course he does.

“Hey,” he says softly, catching your wrist before you can push yourself too far. “Easy. Don’t go doin’ that.”

“I’m fine,” you insist automatically. Frank gives you a look that says he does not believe a single word of that.

"Sweetheart, you just impaled yourself on my dick for your first time. I have reason to worry."

You freeze.

Then slowly turn your head to look at him.

“…you’re going to make me die of embarrassment after I survived everything else?”

Frank doesn’t even pretend to feel bad.

A faint, crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “Seems fair.”

You groan and drop your forehead against his chest, fully intending to disappear into him as a person.

He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling under you, and his hand immediately comes up to your hair—slower now, soothing instead of teasing.

“Hey,” he says again, softer. “I’m not makin’ fun of you.”

“Yes you are.”

“A little,” he admits.

You make a small, muffled sound of protest. Frank presses a kiss into the top of your head like he’s apologizing anyway.

"Y'know what this means, right baby ?" He asks, his hand trailing up and down your side.

"No. Enlighten me." He squeezes you into him as he leans over and reaches for his beer. He sits back down, groaning as he takes a sip and presses the cold bottle to the back of your neck.

"You're never fuckin' gettin' rid of me. I was your first time." He says. You roll your eyes.

"Oh, shut up, Frank." He laughs.

"No, no, i'm serious. I should get like.. a certificate. Frame it and put it up on the wall where everyone can see when they walk in-"

"Oh my god, Frank."

"—'Certificate of Deflowering: Awarded to Frank Castle for Services Rendered Above and Beyond the Call of Duty.'" You can't help it, a snort of laughter escapes you muffled against his chest. The cold bottle against your neck is a shock, but a pleasant one, grounding you in the ridiculous, wonderful reality of the moment.

"Oh my God," you groan, lifting your head just enough to glare at him. "You are the worst human being I have ever met."

"Yep," he says, popping the 'p' with absolute relish. He takes another swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "And the man who just took your virginity on a couch that's probably seen at least three separate gunfights. So, you know. We all have our complexities."

taglist !

@overdrive1975 , @alialuvsreid , @nanni197 , @goawayplease95 

[numbuh666]

Peaches

pairing: bowser!sukuna x peach!reader

summary: Your plan to escape Sukuna turns futile

cw: MDNI, dark fic but its crack treated seriously, yandere sukuna, non-con/dub-con, references to some mario games, smut, kidnapping, captivity, cunnilingus, anal play, anal sex, aphrodisiacs(mushrooms from the games), obsession, vaginal and anal fingering, light bondage, spanking

wc: 6.3k (wtf happened)

a/n: Since this is kinda dark, for those of you in my perma taglist, please let me know if you’d like to be removed from this story.

dividers: @/dollywons @/cafekitsune @/honeyluvsw

You really can’t catch a break can you?

But honestly, it was kind of your own fault for being a little too careless. How could you not see that things were a little too peaceful for the past few months or so? Maybe the whispers of you being too kind for your own good were true, especially when it comes to your enemies.

Even so, you always tried to give people a benefit of the doubt and see the good in them, even someone like Sukuna. While you did find his obsession with you a bit unnerving at times, you thought maybe by trying to bring out more of that softer side might convince him to end this exhausting feud between your kingdoms.

And look where that got you.

While you were no stranger to bearing the brunt of his schemes, having Satoru around made you hardly imagine a scenario where he’d actually win. Not that you underestimated Sukuna that much, but it surprised and saddened you how easily you played right into his hands. You seriously regret not sending more of an entourage with Satoru when he got that letter about winning some free mansion, but at the time you felt like you both needed a break away from your everyday lives.

Not too long after he left, you decided to do a little traveling yourself, just to see what some of the vacation spots in your brochures had in store. Next thing you know, you’re ambushed while sightseeing and now you’re stuck in his castle—in this room with no clue of Satoru’s whereabouts. Usually he’d have been here within a few hours, but as the days went on in this gloomy place, you lost track of time and started to worry. Still, you tried not to lose hope, taking matters into your own hands and plotting your escape.

Although, that’s easier said than done. Sukuna had left you confined in this gilded cage of a room for the duration of your captivity, only letting you out to join him for meals, the occasional walk or ceremonies celebrating his latest conquest so the best course of action would be to lay low. Slowly gaining his trust and being sweet enough to convince him to let you roam around a bit more, which seemed to work pretty well surprisingly. At times you could almost forget how dangerous he really was when he tried to charm you with gifts, or ignore how creepy it was that he tailored this room to almost resemble yours back home.

Either way, this place was really getting to you, but now was your chance.

It was late, and currently Sukuna was probably resting from what you know, and hopefully it’d stay that way while you finish picking this lock.

The sound of lock clicking made you pause briefly.

It actually worked.

Tentatively, you slowly pulled the door open enough just to peak through the crack. Silence. Opening it a bit wider, you stuck your head out—looking both ways down the hall.

Empty.

You should really be offended. No one around takes you seriously enough to keep a look out? Or maybe they slack off when their boss isn’t around.

Quietly closing the door behind you, you started to make your way out, making sure your footsteps were quiet as you took in your surroundings. Even when you were let out, the places you were allowed to go were limited, so you still didn’t have much of an idea of the layout of this place. It made you wonder if anyone else got lost here sometimes.

As you expected, the escape was not going as smoothly as you planned. You ended up having to hide or take a bunch of weird routes, to avoid being seen, sometimes wandering into areas that seemed like trap rooms. Was this what Satoru went through every other week? If you had known you’d get this far, you probably would’ve waited a bit longer to plan things out. Maybe if you’re lucky, you could find a map room or something and try to search for a warp pipe that leads somewhere far away from this place. Then from there you could find a way back home, and start a search for Satoru.

Eventually things started to clear up a bit as you reached what looked like the kitchen area. If you remembered correctly, you could have sworn there—

“Taking a little night stroll?” a voice from behind cut through the silence of the corridor.

You froze in your tracks, unsure how you could even face him right now. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You should’ve given yourself more time to plan this out. Or found a power up lying around somewhere? Why? Why now, when you were so close? Taking a few deep breaths, you calmed yourself down.

It’ll be okay. There’s still hope. You can get outta this.

Turning around to meet Sukuna’s intimidating glare, you gave your best charmingly apologetic smile you could muster, which was pretty easy with how fucking scared you were right now.

“Oh…you’re still up too,” you spoke softly, fiddling with your hands, noticing that he was in his usual spiked cape that did little to cover his muscular physique. Does he ever wear a shirt?

“I am,”

“I-I know it’s late but…” your eyes darted away briefly as you bit your lip. “I haven’t been feeling too well lately…m-maybe a little restless…and umm…I guess someone left my door unlocked, so I’d thought I’d come down and make some tea…and uh…”

His expression remained unreadable behind his cold gaze as he watched you stammer and stutter like a moron. God, you probably looked so pathetic right now. Get it together already! You deal with him on a regular basis!

Beads of sweat trickled down your forehead, as you mentally shook yourself. “D-do you think…you have the ingredients around here somewhere? It’s a special kind of tea that’s my comfort drink. Oh! And I’ll make you some too! It’s a pretty popular recipe back in my kingdom and I’m sure you’ll love it. Maybe we can even take a st—

“Enough with your lies, brat,” he cut you off, making you flinch.

Oh he’s pissed.

“You really are a sneaky little thing,” his figure towered over you as he approached. “Batting your pretty lashes thinking you can fool me.”

You tried to make a break for it but he was quicker, grabbing you roughly and forcing you to face him as he pulled you close. “Ungrateful too.” One hand gripped your chin, tilting your head up as his crimson eyes bore into yours. “I really don’t get it. Why are you so desperate to go back to that sorry excuse of a kingdom? To that…plumber.” His nails dug harshly into your cheeks as he emphasized that last word.

“I—I’m so—“ you squeaked

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” his voice giddy and high pitched as he mocked you. “It’s always lies with you, you little shit! You really don’t know what’s for your own good. When you’re being done a favor.” His hold on you had become so tight, you thought he was going to crush you—hyper aware of how your breasts were practically squished against his bare chest. The tears you tried to hold back, started to blur your vision. You’ve never seen him this mad with you before.

He sighed, his grip loosened slightly before he continued. “You know you won’t stand a chance right? Against me or some other major threat that comes along.” The hand that held your chin left to stroke your hair. “Some defense to have. Look how easy it is to subdue you.”

“And you think keeping me locked in here like some caged animal is an ideal solution?” you hissed bitterly.

“I did allow you freedom, but obviously that was a mistake. I just might have to keep you chained up from now on.”

“And what about my friends?! You and your minions are always attacking and trying to kill my people and you expect me to just be okay with that? You say you care about me giving me all these frivolous gifts, but have you even considered how I feel?!”

You continued to prattle on, but it might as well be white noise to him. As frustrating as your defiance was, he knew it wouldn’t be easy keeping you here. Things like this take time, and you’ll learn to love him soon enough.

But that doesn’t mean he’s letting you off the hook.

So he held you there as you eventually stopped trying to reason with him and cried your heart out, gently rubbing soothing circles along your back. “Hey.” he murmured, resting his head against the crook of your neck. “Quit getting yourself so worked up. You’re gonna make your headache worse.”

“Huh? But I—“

“I know, but you’re not feeling well, right?”

He lifts his head from your shoulder and your teary, blurry vision, you see him pull out something small and pink from his pocket. Some sort of pastry…no, a mushroom? But before you can question it, he’s bringing your chin up to face him again—

“Open,” his voice stern as he grips your jaw.

“Wh—“ then he stuffs the little thing in your mouth with both fingers. Confused and muffling you try to resist

“Quit be so fucking difficult. I’m trying to help you.” he grunts, forcing your mouth open just a bit wider, as he slides the shroom in and holds it in place until you give in. “Good girl.” With a satisfied smirk, he slowly retracts fingers, a string saliva trailing behind as they pull out with a satisfying pop. “Now chew.” Using that same hand, he moved your jaw up and down, before tilting your head up further until you swallowed, your grimaces and glares only furthering his amusement.

Whatever he just fed you was very sweet on your tongue—way too sickeningly sweet like the first time you ever baked—and you’re sure it’ll leave the worst aftertaste imaginable after a while.

“The fuck was that?!” you shoved away from him, or rather he pretty much let you, as you sputtered and gagged, wondering how many times you’ll have to brush your teeth to make the sweetness go away.

“Stop your whining, I didn’t poison you.” he simply rolled his eyes at your displeasure.

You might as well have!, you wanted to respond, if you weren’t so preoccupied with getting rid of this revolting taste. Fuck. You needed some water. Some ice cold water, to wash it down, and maybe some to pour over the rest of you, with how increasingly warm it was getting. Seriously, why was it getting hotter?

“Something the matter, princess?” you could practically hear the smugness in tone as he approached you again.

“Just…leave me alone! What did you even do to me?” you rasped, wiping the sweat from your brow. The stupid dress you were wearing suddenly felt like it had too many layers, and you desperately wanted out. Your vision seemed blurrier as you stumbled—trying to get anywhere away from him, but he caught you in his arms before you could make another move.

“Giving you a little push,” he chuckled, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine as he started to pepper little kisses along your cheek and jawline, stunning you for a second. The other hand around your waist toyed with the lace of your corset—loosening it slightly. Every bone and nerve in your body was practically screaming for you to flee, and you desperately did—hating how the softness of his lips raised goosebumps along your neck, or how this unbearable warmth was starting to build up and replace your fear with…desire?

That wasn’t a power-up.

One moment you’re trying to get him off and the next, you’re being hauled over his shoulder like a sack of bread as he carries you back upstairs—with you cursing and screaming the entire way, probably loud enough to wake the entire castle. It seemed like it was starting to kick in, seeing how you’re being brattier than usual.

By the time he reaches his room, your hits against his back have become sloppy—panting heavily as you take in the surroundings.

“Let me go you asshole!” you shout and continue to struggle, as he presses you up against the wall. “Take me back to my r—,” he soft lips pressing against your shuts you up except for a confused moan that muffles as is tongue swishes with yours. Your breath hitches when he starts to hike up your dress, his hands uncharacteristically warm against your skin as they trail up your thighs.

“I really don’t know what to do with you anymore, princess,” he pulls away from your warm mouth, sighing. His words were soft in contrast to the cruel way he kneaded and teased your curves “Would’ve waited for our wedding night like you wanted, but you just had to up and—Oh, what’s this?” His smirk widened when his fingers brushed along the slickness you leaked, as he got closer to your most sensitive area.

You couldn’t do more than let out short gasps and whimpers as continued to do what he pleased—his finger lightly tapping the now soaked material that barely covered your throbbing cunt and goading sparks of unwanted pleasure out of you from your increased sensitivity. A single touch and you were already losing your mind, from the likes of him—craving him.

“Oh, you really like that huh?” His voice sends vibrations throughout your body as he leans into your neck to leave more kisses. “Didn’t know my little princess was such a slut,” He pressed his finger a bit harder before rubbing little circles along the fabric where he could feel the outline of your slit, his other hand settling on the crest of your ass, his prodding and kneading of the plushness of it making your highly stimulated state worse.

Feeling overwhelmed you try to shove him off again, only for him to laugh giddily as he presses himself tighter against you, muttering about how fun it’ll be to tame you and other heinous things—gasping when you felt the hardness of him through his pants pressing against your thigh, much to your disgust. With every new sensation, it was as if your cognitive process was slowly deteriorating and giving in to his whims. The shroom—his hands like fire against your skin was all too much.

Would he have you feeling this good if he hadn’t drugged you? Have you grinding against him like some animal in heat? No

“S’ fucking wet... Want me to fuck you with my fingers, yeah?” he rasps, cupping your soaked mound with palm and giving it a little squeeze.

“N-no!” you said abruptly, not caring how your body wanted nothing more for him to slide your panties to the side and fix what he started.

“No?” he raises from your shoulder to look at you, tilting his head to the side pouting. “Scared I’ll make you come? Knowing you can’t do anything about it?” You could feel the ball of his palm massaging over your clothed clit, pussy twitching in anticipation.

“P-Please d-,”

“Don’t stop”? his hand gives your cunt a light smack, eliciting a cute little yelp “Or maybe you still think your little knight is gonna barge in, watching his precious princess begging for her new ki—“

The mention of Satoru has you slapping him hard across the face before you can even think. His ministrations coming to an abrupt pause, as blood trickles down his lip from where he bit his tongue. Flinching, you expect him to retaliate.

“Guess you’re not ready for your reward yet,” he huffs, then retracts his hands, leaving you feeling cold.

It was like your emotions were at war between relief and regret. Instinctively, you grabbed his hand that felt oh so good against you, trying to make him keep going, but he was having none of it. You’ve never felt so pathetic needing his finger inside you—needing to clench them.

“Oh no, it’s too late for that,” he chuckles, hauling you up again and ignoring your pleads.

What is he going to do now? Is he taking you back to your room? Hopefully not like this and leaving you at the mercy of your own fingers. There’s no way you could satisfy yourself as much.

He stops to get something, and then you’re plopped down face first onto his bed. As you tried to gather your bearings, he was already on top of you with a firm grip of your wrists, forcing them up and beginning to tie them to the pole of the headboard with a thick rope. “Such an ungrateful brat. I provide you anything you could possibly want, lovely dresses, your own goddamn room” he grunts, tightening the rope as if to emphasize his point. “Don’t even have to lift around here, and this is how you behave.”

He lightly tugs up your skirt again, his hand sliding along the curve of your hip making you stiffen and cunt throb with excitement. Please please please. Just a little higher. “This power up is supposed to last a few hours or so. Really a shame, but I think leaving you here would be a fitting punishment.” Giving your hip a little pat, he gets up.

No, no no no. You shake your head, whimpering and struggling with your bindings.“Wait! No please! You can’t—don’t leave me here!” But your pleas may as well have fallen on deaf ears as you watched him retreat to a little armchair across from you, sitting lazily with one leg crossed over his knee, chin resting on his fist like it was his own throne.

Thanks to your little stunt earlier, Sukuna was wide awake and could probably do this all night if he wanted. Hell, he actually might, just to see how much of your resolve he could break. His beautiful face carved with an evil as he observed every whine and jerk, with glee. Maybe, he’ll leave for a bit to go torture prisoners down in the dungeon and come back to see to you as nothing than a sobbing, writhing mess. It was pitiful, but it was your own fault after all.

You were in a state of delirium, stuck in this desperate endless cycle of needing to cum and not cumming. At times you growled in frustration when you tried to quell your arousal with your hands, only to forget they were bound. Then you tried rubbing your thighs together but it wasn’t a good substitute for the need to be filled, so you were left rutting against the mattress like some depraved beast.

“Fucking fuck! Fuck you Sukuna! I swear I’m gonna fucking kill you!” you spat, words full of venom as saliva dripping down your chin, staining the pillowcase. You’ve never been so humiliated in your life. Satoru would never do this to you. You wished he were here right now—imagining him taking care of you, which only made you hornier.

He simply quirked an eyebrow. “You will?”

“J-just shut th— come fix this already!”, the words died in your throat, as you squeezed your eyes shut on the brink of tears again. “Please…” you cried softly. The ecstasy was becoming so much to handle that you felt like you’d die if you didn’t get your release soon. You fucking hated him s—

“My my you’re seeming a little desperate,” your eyes flew open when you felt his warm breath brushing your ear. Your head immediately turned to see him at your level with arms propped up on the bedside. “Is that begging I hear?”

Nails digging into your palm and lip trembling, you were torn between your pride and dignity and giving in. There’s no way you can do it. You just can’t succumb to this monster. No amount of shrooms can or If you try hard enough, you can let yourself be lulled to sleep into some faraway dream that’ll take care of the rest.

How hard can it be?

“Well? Speak up, brat.” he suddenly frowned, with an impatient edge to his tone.

How long was a few hours?

“Tch, maybe I’m hearing things.”

And these bindings are awfully tight.

“As much as I love the sound of your voice, your little tantrum is starting to bore me.” Leaving your field of view, panic starts to settle in when hear his retreating footsteps.

“No no no! I-I’m sorry! Don’t leave! I really am this time!” your breaths heavy as you wriggle and squirm, somehow thinking you can go after him if you need to. “Please… Sukuna! Need…to cum! P-please make me cum. Make me cum…”

Silence. Coming to the conclusion he left the room, your heart sank. Who the fuck were you kidding? There’s no way you’ll get a wink of sleep in this posi—

“And why should I do that?” his large hand snakes between your legs, briefly brushing against the area you want it most before settling on the curve of your ass. There it was again. That rush of sudden contact that has you jolting and sucking in a sharp breath. You didn’t even bother to resist arching into it.

“Please I-I’m really really sorry. Fuck me, please…!”

“Still thinking you have the right to make demands?” his fingers slide between hems of your pretty laced panties. You tense a even more as he pulls them down,

“I-I—,”

His hand suddenly comes down hard on your ass followed by a loud smack. The stinging impact making you let out an embarrassing yelp as you scrambled your body further up the bed to get away.

“You really think you deserve to be rewarded?” he asks calmly, gently rubbing and massaging your stinging flesh soothingly before slapping it harder this time.

“N-no!”

“Mmhmm, and why is that?”

The painful sensation made it difficult to string your words together, which didn’t satisfy him in the least. He brought his hand down again and again, only managing to hear the sounds of your shrieks in return. It hurt like hell, but you couldn’t deny that it felt so painfully good. Burying your face in the pillow, your nails dug into your palm almost hard enough to draw blood as your pussy clenched with need.

“I’ll keep going until I get an answer.” he said bluntly, this time striking your naked cunt.

“B-because I t-tried to run!”

“And…?”

Another smack.

“I-I hit you—,” you blubbered through choked sobs. “and d-disrespected…you!”

“Correct. And that’s worthy of a punishment is it not?”

“Y-yes.”

“Very good,” he gave your ass a light squeeze. “Now I want you to count, just to be sure you’re really sorry.”

So you tried to oblige his command to the best of ability, but the tremors along with the intensity of strikes increasing with each count made you lose your train of thought. You were glad you weren’t able to see his face in this position, your shame and humiliation at full display.

“Start over. You’re too sloppy.” his voice low and dangerous as he tugged your head up by the hair from the pillow to hear you more clearly. Then he began again, his grin full of mania while he watched you slowly break down from the rough treatment. His other hand reached down his pants to stroke his swollen cock to how nice your cheeks jiggled.

You don’t know how long you’ve been stuck in this state of pleasured agony, but it seemed like he was dragging it on as long as possible this time, with the knot in stomach growing tighter and cunt pulsating. But he was right, this was your fault. You deserved this.

Why were you even fighting this?

“Good girl,” you heard him say over your sobs and racing thoughts, caressing and soothing over your abused skin lovingly. No doubt you’ll have quite a few bruises blooming there for a while. He leans down to gently brush away some tears running down your face sideways with a soft expression. “You’re so much fun when you misbehave.”

Whatever dignity you had left was gone at this point.

Sighing, he starts to shimmy off his cloak, bringing more of your attention to the taut muscles of his abs and the sharp, angular tattoos. You were ashamed to admit that even without the shroom, you couldn't deny you found him attractive when he wasn’t absolutely deplorable.

“Like what you see?” he gave a sharp-toothed grin, that predatory glint in his eyes returning. He tossed the cape somewhere off to the far corner of the room before sliding down his pants. Your eyes followed every detail from his muscular thighs and the tattoos trailing down his v-line, to his half-hard cock springing free, eyes widening at the size of it.

There’s absolutely no possible way you can take that. That thing will rip you apart, but the excitement and lust made it too hard for you to care all that much.

Your breaths came out short and fast when you could feel Sukuna climbing onto the bed over you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His hands wrapped around your midsection as he arches your ass up higher, causing your head to press down further into the pillow.

“What a mess you're making,” he tuts, bringing your embarrassingly wet mound closer to his view. He tilted his head as if he was studying a piece of art on a canvas, tracing a calloused finger down your entrance and prodding at the lips. Hearing you a squeak from the touch, he chuckled. “Relax princess, I’ll take good care of you,” he coaxes, licking the sample taste of your wetness from his finger before bringing his face closer to breathe in your scent.

His hands sensually running along the smooth skin of your thighs does little to ease your shakiness, nor is there any time to mentally prepare yourself when the slick warmth of his tongue makes contact with your throbbing slit, savoring the taste as he moves more further to lather your sensitive clit. The pressure applied to your bud has scrambling and squirming in your bindings, wishing for anything to grab onto. It was agonizingly delightful. The coaxing pattern of his tongue moving back and forth has you nearly losing yourself and mewling in pure ecstasy.

“Ah—f-fucking, stop it,” you rasp, despite the way your body grinding against his face wants otherwise.

“Stop your whining,” he mutters, and you can feel him grinning against your skin. “I meant what I said about helping.”

He gives your heated sex another ravenous lick before slithering his way up to the tight rim of your asshole, turning your little huffs into a confused yelp.

“H-hey what the fuck?! Ew!”

But he simply laughs and pays your complaint no mind, and lets your body speak for itself. Spreading your cheeks further apart, his grip on your ass was firm as he continued to swirl around the tight ring of muscle, until the ache of his own arousal became too much to bear and let his hands wander. Trailing up the curves of your hips and his claws to tear through more of your corset. Your nerves felt as if they were set ablaze as his hands reached further up your ruined dress, tenderly brushing along your stomach as they reached to cup your breasts.

“You taste so sweet,” his low groan against you sends vibrations throughout your nerves. One of his hands reaching down to jerk his swollen cock ease the ache.

“S-shit— ah! quit it!” your shrill voice cut through when the sinful touch of the palm tugging and massaging your pebbled nipple went back down to rub little circles along your clit.

In response, he hummed mischievously and gave it a little spank as he rubbed it harder while simultaneously slipping two fingers in and out between your folds.

Panting heavily, a small smile formed on your face as the pressure in your core kept building like a dam about to burst.

“Fuck—… gonna cum,” you breathe, but he hears yours plea just fine, pulling out his fingers and burrowing his face in your cunt again to fuck you out with his tongue.

“Let it out….that it’s…there you go,” his voice sultry as he coaxes you through the creamy flood that gushes from you, his mouth open wide licking and taking in all of your sweet arousal, feeling like he was about to nearly come himself.

From your point it was as if the rest of the world ceased to exist, losing yourself in his whispered praises and the still ever burning lust coursing through your veins. This was nice. You were so silly for even trying to run from this.

You’re hardly given a moment to catch your breath, when his fingers start running up your thighs gathering up more of your slick as they move to tease your entrance again, making you jerk as you try to look back at him.

“You don’t seriously think I’m done with you yet, do you?” he jeers, planting a wet, sloppy kiss along it. Without thinking, you’re already pressing more of yourself onto him, which he indulges by playing with the sensitive bud of your clit.

“My sweet princess,” he sighs in mocking disappointment, a thick finger circling the rim of your other entrance. “What would your poor citizen think if they’d known you liked to be bent over like some common whore?” The rest of his sentence could barely reach your ears over the sharp cry that you let out when he breached the tiny hole that fluttered your insides. His other hand continues his assault on your clit, applying more pressure and circling it more quickly.

Not trying to boost his ego any further, you planted your face back into the pillow to stifle any more embarrassing sounds you were making. You shuddered in disgusted pleasure from the amount of cum you felt leaking down your thighs to your lower legs.

“I see that plumber hasn’t managed to stretch you out properly,” he rasps, the sound of his tone could be misconstrued for frustration. “The one time he does something that’s not a pain in my ass.” He has you both moaning in unison from the stretch, as his finger curls deeply in and out.

“P-please,” you muffled, not having the energy to raise up and look back to challenge his words. All you could think about was your satisfaction. For him to keep going, arching up higher as he enters a second digit, his other finger along your pussy ramping up its ministrations your clit faster and harder.

“More…need…” your nails dig so deep into your palm they break a layer of skin.

Then it all stops, his hands retracting and making you lift your head in confusion. Somewhere from behind you can hear him rummaging through one of the nightstand drawers and the sound of a cap popping.

Oh no.

He’s not actually going to do it?

And then the feeling of a cold blob circling around your tight hole confirms your worst fears. You writhe and squirm as a wave of panic starts to cut through your lustful haze, his cruel laugh serving as a reminder of your situation and that no one was coming to save you.This fucking psycho. He’s out of his goddamn mind.

He’s actually going to fuck you there.

“W-wait!” you try to move, wincing as his claws dig into your skin to keep you still. “Will it even f—,”

“It will,” he says dismissively. You don’t even need to look to know he was grinning like a maniac. Shutting your eyes you plant your face back down with shuddering breaths as his hot and and heavy member drags along your thigh—precum smearing your already glistening skin.

“And stop clenching so damn much,” he lightly pats your thigh, like that’ll fucking help. “It’ll hurt less if you relax.” Smoothly massaging your skin, he prods at your hole.

You made it this far, right?

You know it’s coming, but that doesn’t stop the high pitched mewl that escapes from you when the fat tip of his cock stretches you as it slowly breeches through. Your face burns as more tears trickle down your cheeks from the sensation of being slowly filled.

“Theeerre we g—fuck…Doin’ real good, princess.” his voice shaky and breathy, his composure already slipping as he steadies your hips to keep you spread out with a bruising force. “Just stay like that for me.”

You’re rewarded with a hand reaching to stroke more coaxing circles along your clit, which mixed with the effect of the drug soothes you through the pain enough to distract you from the thickest part of him nestling his away inside, whimpering as he sinks deeper in by inch. Briefly, you’re able to relax slightly once you’ve taken in the hardest part, before your breaths shorten when he bottoms out around you snugly.

“Wasnt so bad now was it?,” he leans to kiss along the shell of your ear, pushing his hips tightly against your ass. “Told you it’d fit.”

One of his tattooed hands splayed beside your head as he began to move, his grunts mixing with your whimpers as you struggled to take his achingly slow thrusts. Unsurprisingly it hurt like hell, but at the same time you needed it, gasping through the pain eventually dulled into pure blissful pleasure.

“All that crying only for you to like it, huh?” he says hoarsely, the slow stretch with each push of hips knocking the air from his lungs, one arm snug around your waist keeping your ass arched up high.

“Fucking you so silly, you can’t even run your mouth,” then his pace starts to pick up, groaning and grunting as his cock twitches dragging along your fleshy walls, your vision getting blurrier as the hand behside you leaves to entangle through your locks of hair. “Should be lucky I didn’t make you wait longer.”

Drool starts to spill from your mouth as you’re nearly left speechless save for your moaning, as he continues having his way with you—claiming ownership over your mind and soul. Over the sounds of his balls slapping against your ass, bouncing off the walls, you listen to him prattle on and on about how long he’s waited to have you all to himself, but that stupid plumber was always getting in his way. Taking you from him. When you’d be much better off by his side, a whole empire to worship the ground you walk on. Make sure no one dares lay a hand on you.

It was disgusting really, yet your cunt throbbed and dripped with every filthy image he planted in your mind as he went into detail on how hard it was to hold back from dragging you on his throne to bounce you his, forcing Satoru to watch while he gave you orgasm after orgasm.

“Hm, actually maybe I’ll bring him here for a while. I’m sure you’d like that too, peaches?” his tone taking on mock innocence. Just another excuse to further your humiliation and shame, reveling how much you pulsate around his cock as he fucks into you deeper.

“Oh, you’re crying again.” Hang on, I wanna get a good look. His claws swipe through the ropes ensnaring your wrists with only a moment to process the relief of relaxing your arms before he’s flipping you over, giving you a nice full view of his flushed face and sweat running down his chest and abs.

“Fuck…you’re so pretty,” he gently cups your face with one palm. Your tearful, defeated fucked out expression and body were like a work of art. He might even consider painting this exact moment later on. Another swipe and rip and your gown is fully torn, letting your tits bounce freely bobbing up and down.

Pulling you closer, he threw your legs around him only making you feel more vulnerable and exposed letting him see every reaction, he garnered from you being stretched and filled.

S’ too much,” covering your face when one of his large hands trails over your delicate collarbone before trailing to grab one of your breasts, gasping and whining with each tug and pull.

“Don’t hide from me” he growled, a sharp pinch to your abused clit has you crying out. “I want you to watch. I need to see all of you.”

You were getting that feeling again, sensing it clawing its way to the surface to be set free.

“Can’t wait to make you my pretty little wife,” sweat dripping down his face as his thrust become more erratic, his fingers rubbing your pussy lips harshly. You’re seeing stars dotting your vision as you watch him move back and forth, sure that he’s reaching your stomach at this point.Not that you cared much, too focused on how you could feel every ridge and vein sliding against your walls, grasping the sheets so harshly they might tear.

“Gonna make sure to fuck all your holes every night. Treat you like a queen.” his words slur as he laughs looking so unhinged it’d terrify you more if your mind weren’t turned to mush.

“P-please,” was all you could manage with a hoarse voice. Everything around you was getting so spiny and dizzy that you’re starting to laugh too. Your body feeling like it was being boiled from inside out as more stars flash your vision white.

“Cum for me, peaches,” you hear him say, hardly registering his arms wrapping around your shaking form, screaming a broken moan against his chest, nails digging into skin as you convulsed and squirted with him continuing to rut you through it.

You didn’t mind one bit as he kept you there, bringing you into another sloppy kiss until he came hard in and out of you. Face all scrunched up as he filled you to the brim and jerking the rest of his arousal up your chest and stomach with a low groan until it reached your lips. Pressing his mouth to yours, he swirled his tongue around as he forced you to taste him.

Then with a satisfied ruffle to your head he pulls away to get you cleaned up.

But the drug was still running hot in your veins, you’re grasping out to pull him back. He did this to you, and you’re sure as hell gonna make him own up until you passed out

“Still eager, huh?” he chuckles settling back down to bring your hand over his still swollen erection. “Maybe if you put that mouth of your to good, use I may consider fucking your other hole next.”

taglist: @angryflowerwitch @blcknebula @dayarncollector

a/n: oof, that was a lot. I’m planning on doing another fic with bowser!kuna as a threesome with Gojo some time in the future. Anyways I’m going to sleep now. K, byeeee!

[sai-int]

WHAT IS GOIN ONNNNN AM I GONNA HAVE TO PICK SIDES

[archivesonlyyyhhh]

DADDY PRlCE VS DADDY GHOST

[dwidkwite]

it started out of nowhere. you were at a pub one evening, a little tipsy from your previous drinks ; when a man came up to you and blalantly made you understand that he wanted a little company for the night. his name was john from what he told you. he was tall, arms tattoed and most importantly very handsome, he for sure knew how to talk to a woman.

you decided to give him a chance and bring him to your place that was closer. he was really not what you expected, he talked like a caring gentleman back at the pub, but the second you entered your apartment, he immediately pushed you on the couch and ripped off your underwear. he roughly manhandled you, and you let him do it.

after multiple orgasms on the sofa, he picked you up and proceeded in your bedroom. he took you harshly in doggy style, your cheek flat against your mattress. you were a babbling mess as his balls rapidly met your ass cheeks, his hands firmy gripping your hair to make you stay in place. you could hear his gruff voice behind you, however you were too far gone to decipher what he was saying to you.

when you woke up next morning he was gone, you found a scratch of paper on your bedside table, his number.

that's how your first night ended, it was the beginning of it.

it’s been a few months now, and you noticed a change in john’s attitude. he doesn’t leave immediately after you fall asleep anymore, you always find him sleeping soundly next to you in the morning, he even made you breakfast once.

he always pays for you when you meet at the pub, even when you order takeout, he never said anything about it ; you never questioned it either.

the most shocking one was how he acted in bed, the 'fuckin’ slut' turned into 'takin’ me so well, luv'. the way he couldn’t help but put his lips on your skin, lips as he fucked you. or how he gently brushed strands of hair off your sticky face when you were completely cock drunk.

but what really made you realize that everything changed was when you woke up at 3am, your phone buzzing. you grabbed it and got slightly stunned by the screen light 'Jonathan' proudly showing on it. you frowned, price was on a deployment since a few weeks now, was he okay ? you heard his gruff voice when you picked up, "i don’t know why i called you, luvie" a faint sight escaped his lips, "do you miss me?" it was his way to say that he did. you chuckled softly, and price felt his heart squeeze at the other end of the line.

you stayed on the phone quite a long time, before you heard someone call him.

"i need t'go now" he inhaled, "can’t wait to see ya, doll"

[sabrlne]

ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ʀɪʟᴇʏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

{ᴀʀʀᴀɴɢᴇᴅ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ} "ᴘᴀʀᴛ 3"

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1 , ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

You jolt up screaming, face sweaty and hands shaky…

Another nightmare, another time your mind hitting the replay button to that night.

You start panting heavily as your heart feels like it’s going to escape from your chest, nothing makes sense to you, you feel nothing but fear and panic, and you do not even realize you were not breathing well.

“Breathe,” a voice comes out of nowhere, it breaks into the cloud of the intense feeling you’re experiencing now, you don’t even recognize who it is.

“Please don’t- please-,” you choke out, your mind is playing sick tricks with you, making you feel like you’re back to that night again, like the stalker is right in front of you, like the blade is shining in his grip.

“Y/n, breathe with me,” the voice replies urgently and firmly.

“Don’t kill me please- please don’t-,” you say as you put your hands over your ears and shut your eyes with full force, hoping that will even make this stop.

The voice says something but you can’t make it out, it’s blocked by your hands.

“Please please, please I’m begging you,” you cry out, repeating the exact same words you did while trying to save your life.

Then your ears barrier –your hands– gets removed, you don’t understand what’s happening, so you open your eyes panting in fear.

And there he was.

Simon was looking at you, his own eyes wide, reflecting panic and helplessness.

He has been here since you woke up, or… let’s say, since he found you asleep on the couch.

He still never leaves home whenever he leaves the base, no more pubs at night, no more escaping.

And it’s one of those regular nights where he stays like a protective shadow around you, not crowding you, but always watching.

So when he came out of the shower, and saw you asleep on the couch, he felt relief at seeing you relaxed and at peace.

So he gently covered you up with your blanket and sat on the ground.

He watched you as you slept, counting each eyelash, each breath you took.

He didn’t leave, he didn’t fall asleep, he just guarded you, just like how he always should have done.

And when he heard you whining in your sleep, his heartbeat started raising, and he shook you to wake up.

But you didn’t know any of this… you didn’t know he was with you the whole time.

“Y/n look at me, listen to me,” he says, his voice deep, as he tries to stop it from shaking, this wasn’t about his emotions, to him, it was about you and only you.

You reply with a whine as you try to put your hands over your ears, because seeing him now, makes you feel more confused, and it raises more sorrow in you.

Because to you, you know Simon feels guilty, you know he regrets every single second he stayed away from you that night instead of staying and protecting you.

You know that he is trying to show you, that if he could reverse time, if he hadn’t been coward enough to hide from you and from what you made him feel, you wouldn’t have been this hurt.

So he stops you from covering your ears, holding back your wrists firmly.

“No, none of that, focus on me.”

You shake your head, “It hurts,” you whimper out.

He nods, “I know, I swear to God I know, but please just focus on me.”

You continue crying, it’s very hard for you to gain control over your body when your whole nerves are screaming for danger ahead.

“I don’t want to die.”

You cry out, and that sentence pierced right through Simon’s heart.

His heart that is breaking at the sight of you like this, who’s wanting to just make you feel safe again, feel secure in your own mind.

He knows that there’s a long way to go, and considering what happened between you, it seems impossible.

But he can’t lose you, not when he almost did, not when he found you again.

“You’re not dying, I swear I’ll never let anyone harm you, just breathe in.”

He inhales, “and out,” he exhales.

Your body shakes in rejection of any help, but you try, that small aware part of your mind knows what’s happening, so you inhale slowly, shaken, cut off by crying hiccups, but you try.

“Good, very good, just like that, now out,” Simon exhales, demonstrating gently, a flicker of hope raises in his chest as he sees you trying.

You follow, and exhale, still not perfect, but you’re trying, Simon continues.

“Good girl, don’t stop, you’re doing great.”

He praises you gently, trying to convince you that there is no danger surrounding you, that you were protected, right here, right where he exists.

“I- s-,” you try to speak, but Simon cuts you off.

“Shhh… no, just breathe.”

The storm inside your head finally starting to cool down, still hiccuping, you stare at Simon.

And since that night, since everything, you felt a strange feeling as you stared at him, it bloomed in your chest like a cool bucket of water after being thirsty for decades.

It was comfort.

You felt your heart pace slowing down, your hands less shaky now, and you just stare at Simon.

Simon stares back, holding eye contact as he nods slowly.

“Yes, there you are.”

He says gently, he knows you’re calming down, and hell if that didn’t feel like one of his greatest achievements throughout his life.

Then slowly, and so delicately, he lifts his hand and guides yours towards your chest, pressing your palm right above your heart.

“You feel that? That’s you, alive, breathing, your heart beating…”

You just stare at him, even after the storm, even when your mind is still fragile, you’re stunned by the man in front of you.

The one who treated you like less than an afterthought, is now trying his best to make sure you’re okay.

Then he speaks again.

“You’re safe with me, and you always will be.”

You take a shuddering breath at that, it’s very hard for you to trust what he’s saying, but his tone, that look in his eyes, reveal that this man, is willing to put his words into actions and more.

And with the last shred of panic leaving you, your body felt weak, like someone just pressed the ‘turn off’ button, and you shut down.

Your body goes limp in Simon’s arms, but he holds you tight, making sure you won’t fall from the couch.

He stares at your face, now eyes closed, hair sticking to your sweaty forehead, tear trails over your cheeks, which are red too and so is your nose.

He puts an arm beneath your knees, and he lifts you, walking slowly through the dim hall as he makes his way to your room.

He makes his way in and he puts you down into your bed, your head leaning to the side as your hair fans over the pillow.

And he thinks to himself, ‘how can someone look so beautiful even in the hardest moments of their life?’

He covers you up again, just like before, and he sits on the edge of the bed, watching you sleep again.

Simon knows what you just gone through by heart, he carries more baggage that no normal human can endure.

But it doesn’t matter to him anymore, you’re what matters.

Because even when physical scars fade into another story of your life, the mental ones don’t fade in the same way.

The mental scars don’t fade, they come back, and the worst part is, you never know when, or in what form they will…

“Sleep angel…,” he says quietly, knowing for a fact, he doesn’t think he can let you sleep alone ever again.

[rawkonig]

warnings !! - cnc. dubcon. smut. 18+. rough sex. bdsm. mental illness. comic!simon riley. equally fucked up!reader. various kinks being explored. dark fantasies. dead dove themes.

this photo but its simon “i do horrible things, to women. and i like it” riley. who gets awfully nauseous every time he has sex with you. he just can’t help but to act out those horrible fantasies with you.

he’s always tried to suppress that dark part of him. keep it away from everyone, but especially you; for a time. but don’t get him wrong— it was extremely difficult.

when he first met you, it took everything inside him not to follow you home that same night. it was just a first date, if you could really call it that. he took you out for a coffee in the morning, and brought you home by afternoon. he thought about it. really, really thought about it.

it would’ve been easy. the sun was out so you had your windows open, and the neighbors were either all at work or out enjoying themselves. he easily could have climbed through one of those open windows, or bet on the fact that you hadn’t locked your door just yet. but he drove away; simon knew these thoughts were wrong. and he wouldn’t let them over come him.

the months went on though, you got to know each other, got to love each other— as much as simon could express. you learned to deal with his work, did your best to always understand where he was coming from and how his experiences shaped him. really, you were doing all you could do with a man like simon riley.

you could just… tell something was wrong though. he let you in on most of his history, his illnesses, trying to warn you on whatever the fuck was wrong with him. it was just very obvious he was dancing around another topic, you weren’t dumb, you also didn’t want to push him too far. simon is the type of man to tell you when he’s ready exactly when he is, never stalls, never waits to speak.

and while he can’t let this… secret out, the sex is very restrained. he was always very quick with it, only ever taking you in bed on your back— so he could hold you and sloppily kiss you. that wasn’t the problem— the problem was he always looked oddly uncomfortable. eyebrows knitted together, jaw clenching like it did when he was upset. always came so quickly too.

the aftercare was awkward; like he didn’t know what to do. he wanted to hold you, so, so bad. but every time he looked at you, he also got the need to see how you looked when you cried. wondered how long it would take to make you, who trusted simon so blindly, scared of him. the only time he’s ever seen you cry was during a movie; and like a creep he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.

burning that image into his head, not even just to please himself but to replay over and over again— putting you in different scenarios. the sound of your sniffles was gradually becoming boring, the motivation to give you other reasons to cry (harder) over.

on your end— the sex got so agonizingly boring that you had to bring it up to simon. something had to change, and you were honestly sick of faking orgasms. so when you told him all of the degrading things you wanted him to do to you; simon was sure he was going to marry you (and that scared him).

suddenly; both of you are getting satisfied in your own weird, little fucked up ways. the favorite scenario between you two was simon finally getting to play out his stalking fantasy. you taking little to no convincing to leave your doors unlocked at night, letting yourself fully fall asleep so that when simon came in— the scare was truly in your bones for a moment.

it only fueled the sex. suddenly, simon was ruining you. taking you on your knees, bent over in public spaces, even chased you down through the woods and tied you up.

made you truly scream that time, throwing your legs over his shoulders did nothing because each thrust just made you jostle around— digging your back deeper into the mud. had to lift your ass up to bury his cock in deeper, holding you there as he spilt his seed deep into your core— hand smothering over your mouth when you began to complain about his lack of condom.

and then there’s the basement scenario. where he keeps you there only for a night (because otherwise he begins to miss you too much), and uses you whenever he pleases. rolling you over into the hard concrete, scuffing up your knees and elbows till they were raw. left handprints on your ass so red and purple he was sure they might never fade.

and the absolute best part about it? the sickening smile on your teary eyed face— plus the way you’d get down lower and spread your legs further.

[sabrlne]

ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ʀɪʟᴇʏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

{ᴀʀʀᴀɴɢᴇᴅ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ}

ᴛᴡ: ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ꜱᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ

The fluorescent lights were blinding, and the footsteps and yells of urgent nurses and doctors filled the hospital hall.

But Simon didn’t notice any of it. His mind was like a broken record, repeating everything that happened, every opinion, every argument, every calculated benefit that led to this moment.

You, his wife just by paper, now in an operating room after a horrific break-in accident.

You were stabbed, right in the stomach after a stalker broke into your house and tried to force himself on you.

It all started when you both got married just for the benefits of it. You didn’t know each other before, but you both agreed, as long as it benefited you both.

From the start, you knew he wasn’t an easy person to deal with. Stoic, cold, very hard to read, didn’t talk much, and always kept to himself.

He was a ghost, literally. His name suited him in more ways than one.

So you kept your distance, stayed respectful, and tried your best not to bother him more than he already was.

And for Simon… well, let’s just say he didn’t even care at first. He saw you as nothing more than a woman he was married to on paper, nothing more, nothing less.

He kept his distance too, never bothering to talk, to ask, or even to acknowledge your presence in the house.

You kept observing him, his routine, his mannerisms, his habits, and you felt like he was actually approachable, just not in the usual way. You had to carefully choose your words and actions, and to you, he seemed… broken.

He had that aura about him, like he had endured more than what any normal person should.

He carried it with him in his posture, in the way he moved in silence, in the way he avoided small talk or anything that involved getting to know him.

But he carried it even more in his eyes. God, those eyes. They spoke far more than any word or gesture could.

You felt empathy towards him, and being who you were, you didn’t want him to think that you were a threat or a new irregularity in his life, so you decided to approach him.

At first, it was subtle. Small talk about nonsense, which he always responded to with one-word answers.

Small acts of kindness. Cooking for him, taking care of his things, being attentive and patient, just little things.

But it felt like approaching an injured animal.

You knew you didn’t have to do any of it. You guys were just married on paper anyway. Nothing sensual, nothing intimate, just two people co-existing in a house.

But you didn’t want to feel like a burden, and your intention was simply to turn him into a friend, to become comfortable around each other.

But for Simon, as time passed, each day with a new attempt from you started to annoy him.

He hated it. Every kind and attentive gesture from you made him feel more and more threatened.

Why would she act like this? What does she want from me?

So he started acting rude, distant, and cold.

You didn’t understand why he was acting like this. It wasn’t supposed to backfire on you, but you didn’t stop.

You tried everything you could think of, showed nothing but good intentions, patience, kindness…

Still nothing. Every gesture was met with rejection and rudeness.

So you finally accepted it. You kept your distance, stayed respectful, you even apologized for it.

He didn’t give you any proper answer, and that only made you feel more stupid.

Simon felt relieved. When you stopped, so did the threats.

Days passed as you both co-existed in the house, but the peace didn’t last long before strange things started happening.

Footsteps following you at night in dim streets, shadows disappearing as soon as you looked in their direction.

It happened everywhere you went. The pharmacy, the supermarket, the bank, the park, anywhere.

Someone was stalking you.

You thought it was just in your head, that you were imagining things, being paranoid, and you didn’t tell anyone.

Until one night. Simon was out, God knows where, and you were sitting on the couch eating pizza while watching a series when you noticed a shadow by the window.

You squinted your eyes, blinked quickly, but it didn’t disappear. It stayed there. It was a person.

You felt your heartbeat quicken. You muted the TV and stood up, walking slowly towards the window, and as you got closer, he walked away.

You ran towards the door and stepped outside to check, but he was gone.

Your hands shook violently. Suddenly, the idea of stepping outside felt incredibly stupid, so you ran back in and locked the door, breathing heavily as you did.

So the next day, you finally decided to tell Simon, because seemingly, now he was your only family member.

After a long day of him being at base, you let him rest for a bit. You didn’t want to crowd him the moment he came home.

So when you heard him moving around in his room, you finally built up the courage and walked to him, knocking gently on the door.

It only took a few seconds before he opened it. He was in civilian clothes, and you knew he was leaving again, like he did every night.

You took a deep breath and spoke.

“Hey Simon, can we talk for a moment? Please?” you asked politely.

“What is it?” he replied coldly.

“I, uh… are you going out again tonight?”

“Yeah.” His tone carried finality.

That made you hesitate for a moment, but you kept pushing.

“Can you… can you stay for the night? I don’t feel safe alone,” you asked quietly.

He raised an eyebrow, staring at you, his eyes piercing into yours like you had crossed a line.

“What are you? Ten?” he mocked.

“No… no, it’s just last night I—”

He cut you off. “I’m leaving. I’m not babysitting you. You’re a grown woman.”

With that, he pushed past you and walked towards the door, slamming it shut behind him, scoffing under his breath as he made his way to his car as quickly as he could.

Because why would he stay? When every added second with you made him feel things he had vowed he would never allow himself to feel?

Why would he stay when those eyes of yours made him feel safer than anything he had ever endured?

Why would he stay when your scent lingering around the house made him close his eyes just so his heart could calm down a little?

Why would he stay when your voice made his heart skip a beat every time you spoke to him with that gentle, patient tone?

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t let his guard down. He wouldn’t let himself accept something so pure as this, because in his world, being soft got you killed. Betrayed. Broken.

And damn you for making him feel soft at all.

So he ran away. He always stayed away from you, wouldn’t come back home until he knew you were asleep. Not because he hated you.

But because he didn’t. And he didn’t know how to deal with it.

But now… when he came back at midnight and saw you on the ground, soaked in your own blood, your face pale from blood loss, he felt like his heart stopped.

So there he was now, sitting in the hospital hallway while they tried to save you, hands stained with your blood, replaying everything he had done to you, every harsh word and gesture meant to make you hate him.

How he ran away when you tried to ask for his protection, not even giving you the time to explain.

And now… regret was useless, because whether they saved you or not, he didn’t think he would ever forgive himself for this.

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

[hangenism]

how gojo makes love vs how he fucks cw: nsfw

gentle!gojo takes his time with you. he worships you from head to toe, trailing kisses down your body. he traces your scars and asks you how you got them. he whispers softly to you: "you're beautiful" and "my pretty girl" until you turn away in embarrassment.

gentle!gojo loosens you up before slipping it in, using his fingers and his tongue to stretch you out. he's sure to make you come at least twice before he's satisfied. your pleasure was his pleasure.

gentle!gojo lovesss missionary because he can watch your face twist in pleasure as you take him. he showers you with praises to keep you going and checks in to make sure you're doing okay. he buries his face in your neck and breathes you in. you smell like sex and your sweet vanilla perfume, his absolute favorite.

gentle!gojo also gets pussy drunk. he presses kisses into your thigh and talks to your pussy. "so pretty, so soaked, just for me? what did i do to deserve all this," he slurs before nuzzling his head deeper in between your thighs.

gentle!gojo understands the importance of aftercare. he runs you a warm bath, lights your favorite candles, and holds you close to his chest. pressing his lips closely to your ear, he tells you how good you did for him and how proud of you he is. he thanks you for trusting him enough to have you like that.

on the other hand..

rough!gojo will fuck the attitude out of you if he has to. he pins your hands up and makes you take everything he gives you. "you done?" he asks, fingers tilting your chin back up when you tried to look away. if you dare to not reply, he snaps his hips against yours and taunts you. "what happened baby? you had a lot to say earlier."

rough!gojo uses you as an outlet to take all his anger out. he pounds into you at a relentless pace, gripping you so hard that you were sure to leave marks in the morning.

rough!gojo is the jealous type. he goes real quiet when he’s jealous, keeping a firm hand at your lower back possessively if a guy even looked in your direction the wrong way. the second you got home, he reminds you exactly who you belonged to.

rough!gojo degrades you in bed. he swears calling you a filthy slut or a dirty whore got you even wetter. he chuckles when you clench around him each time he whispered those words in your ear, balls slapping against your ass with each thrust, hitting that sweet spot deep inside.

rough!gojo loves to edge you. he brings you so close to the edge you could practically taste it, before pulling out randomly. "'toru," you whine. "please," you hiccup, tears forming in your eyes as you realize just how close you were. "i need to co—"

slamming back into you, he smirks as you yelp in response. "i tell you when you get to come. lemme hear baby, let go for me. for real this time."

rough!gojo has the stamina of a horse. he can go multiple rounds with little to no breaks. all he needs is to feel is your cunt fluttering around him and he flips you over onto your stomach, prepared to go again and again and again.

2 sides of the same coin! been a minute since i've posted smut 🤔 art credits: @ satsu1640

[lesserthan-3]

reader who is, unfortunately, a “too honest for their own good” kind of drunk who gets dragged to the bar with tf141.

“kyyyle,” you slur, leaning over the table to which Gaz cracks a smile. “so pretty…anyone ever tell you you’re pretty? like ‘men should be buying you dinner’ pretty.”

soap snorts, an amused smile on his lips. “Ya don’ even get a handsome, just fuckin’ pretty.”

“oi, piss off, soap,” replies gaz with no real heat behind it. “and you,” he starts, bringing his attention backed to your slumped form, “are a shitty drinker.”

you giggle, barely lifting up your head from the table.

price shakes his head, taking a large swing from the pint. “kids these days.”

the laughter dies down, everyone enjoying the relaxing ambiance that’s been so hard to enjoy with missions on end these days. that is until-

“ugh- I’m so horny.”

the table stills, all eyes landing on your slumped form before soap bursts into uncontrollable laughter. his fist slams the table as gaz tries to still the man who’s slightly tipsy and leaning back in his chair.

“bloody hell,” ghost mumbles, crossing his arms. “you’re one them, huh? those honest-to-god-drunks.”

“you shouldn’t be saying those things out loud,” advises price, knowing full well that it’s going to go unheard seeing as you’re shit-faced drunk right now.

you groan, forehead connected with the table again. “you don’t get it. you’re old- probably have the sex drive of a tumble weed.”

gaz and soap have a poor attempt at stifling a laugh and even ghost cracks a small and an unseen smirk at your comment. price doesn’t bother with a retort, knowing you’ll have your regrets when they tell you about this conversation in the morning.

soap puts an encouraging pat on your back. “aye, cmon lass, if ya wanted to get laid, all ye gotta do is ask.” it’s clearly a joke but your head perks up anyways.

“don’t tempt me, cause I’ve thought about it.”

“you don’t say…” his eyes light up with interest.

ghost interrupts with a warning tone. “don’t encourage her, Johnny.”

“too late, LT.” soap stalks around your chair, sliding his arms ‘round back. he leans in close till you pick up the scent of beer on his lips. “tell me, what d’ya think of?”

you match his lean with one of your own, eyes blown wide and curious. “are you rough in bed? tell me you’re rough in bed.”

soap smirks, flashing a charming wink. “aye, lass. why? want my handprint on your ass?” ghost flashes him a stern look but soap merely shrugs unapologetically.

you groan at his answer, “god, I hope I remember that in the morning.”

“we get it. we get it. you’re horny for soap. let’s stop before I hurl.” gaz puts his hand on your shoulders, urging you to drink more water.

“dont be jealous, gaz. you’re in there too.”

and suddenly, the angel on his shoulder disappears. “oh yeah?”

“god, you have no idea how hard it is to work with hot men all day long. takes everything in me to not just give up on the mats and let you just pin me down.”

by now, soap has his phone out, recording this for evidence when you’re inevitably going to try to walk back on your words in the morning.

“would love to be bent over a desk, don’t even care who’s behind me. or who’s the biggest? LT? probably not you then- at least not first.”

you ramble on and on… about how you could get off to the gruff sound of your captains voice alone, or how sometimes you’d be soaking wet through your panties if they praised you enough.

and it’s not until you go into an explicit and ultra-specific scenario that involves all four men, some rope, vibrators, and a blindfold, going to ultra-specific detail about soap in your pussy, price in your mouth, and how maybe you’d even let someone in your ass, does someone do the sensible thing of slapping a hand around your mouth.

“I’m gonna take my hand off’ya, and you’re gon’ be quiet, yeah?”

your eyes glance up to a stone cold stare behind a mask, meeting his gaze before you nod. “good girl.”

his hand slowly withdraws and you’re silent. it stays that was for a moment, everyone unsure how to break the tension left in the air after your revelation…that is until-

“aye, what’s that LT?”

and that, would be the stiffy that’s hardly concealed behind his jeans- perhaps he needs to buy baggier clothes from now on.

you stare at it. then you stare at him. “god, I knew you were big.”

[whalnut]

toji's spent all his money on your onlyfans ?! ☆

"you have any idea how much money i've spent on you, sweetheart?"

toji's voice is rough as he crowds you against his apartment wall, one hand already sliding under your shirt. his other hand holds his phone, showing your onlyfans page—and his transaction history. thousands of dollars in tips, custom content purchases, private messages.

"every fucking video. every photo. i've bought it all." he tosses the phone aside and grips your jaw, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. "but now i get the real thing."

he kisses you brutally, all teeth and tongue, claiming your mouth like he owns it. his hands strip you efficiently, years of combat experience making him quick and precise. within seconds, you're naked while he's still fully clothed.

"on the bed, baby. show me that pretty pussy i've been jerking off to for months."

you climb onto his bed, spreading your legs as he watches with dark hunger. toji strips slowly, revealing his scarred, muscular body—the body you've fantasized about while filming content.

"you know what i want?" he kneels between your thighs, running his rough palms up your legs. "i want you to ride my face like you do that dildo in your videos. but this time, it's my tongue making you scream."

he lies back and pulls you up to straddle his face. the first swipe of his tongue makes you moan—he's skilled, experienced, knowing exactly how to work you. he eats you out like a man starving, tongue fucking into you while his nose grinds against your clit.

"toji—fuck—oh god—"

his hands grip your ass, forcing you to grind harder against his mouth. he groans against your pussy, the vibrations making you shake. when you come, gushing on his face, he drinks it down greedily.

"taste better than i imagined, sweetheart." he flips you onto your back, positioning his thick cock at your entrance. "now i'm gonna fuck you better than any toy ever could."

he pushes inside, stretching you open on his massive length. you cry out at the fullness, nails digging into his shoulders as he bottoms out.

"that's it, baby. take every fucking inch." he starts moving, deep strokes that make you feel him in your stomach. "this pussy belongs to me now. gonna fuck you so good you'll never want anyone else watching those videos."

his pace is relentless, powerful thrusts that shake the entire bed. one hand finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles while he pounds into you.

"come on my cock, sweetheart. give me what i paid for."

your second orgasm hits harder than the first, vision whiting out as pleasure consumes you. toji fucks you through it, chasing his own release.

"gonna fill you up, baby. gonna pump you so full of cum you'll be dripping for days."

he comes with a guttural groan, cock pulsing as he empties inside you. when he finally pulls out, he immediately pushes his cum back inside with his fingers.

"we're not done, sweetheart. i've got months of fantasies to work through, and we're doing every single one tonight."

©2026 whalnut

[lesserthan-3]

boyfriend gaz who sort of has a thing for making you cry.

not in a mean way- he’s the sweetest and most perfect man you could ask for. He gives you “just because” flowers, he insists you never touch a door, and hell would freeze over before he lets you leave home without a kiss.

but he loves to kiss you fat tears away as he bullies his cock inside of you, his chin and lips glistening with your sweet arousal.

“I know, baby, I know, I know. Poor thing must be so sensitive.”

to which you nod and let out the cutest sniffle that makes his cock just jerk with excitement.