The nurse doing my laser was like "you're doing really good, im impressed" and yk that shit went straight to my big fat head. why yes I am extremely good at sitting still while you torture me with laser beams, thank you
୨୧ — When his daughter brings home her first potential boyfriend at fifteen, Sukuna doesn't say a word. He simply sits across from the terrified boy at the kitchen table, his fork clinking against the plate, the sound sharp in the tense air. The entire time, he maintains unblinking eye contact while you attempt to salvage the rest of the dinner conversation with meaningless small talk.
After about twenty minutes, Sukuna finally speaks, "You touch her wrong, they won't find enough of you to bury. Got it, boy?" The boy is out the door just as you bring out the dessert, and your daughter doesn't speak to her father for three days. But when rumors start to circulate that the same boy pressured another girl into something she didn't want, his daughter quietly finds him outside sipping on his favorite whiskey.
Sitting next to him -her shoulder pressed against his-, she whispers, "How did you know?" Sukuna just shrugs, but there's understanding in the silence between them. After that, she doesn't fight his "inspections" quite so hard. He's always been her protector after all.
︵︵︵ ๑❤︎๑ ︵︵︵
୨୧ — During a parent teaching conference, his daughter’s literature teacher suggests she might be "troubled"… due to her persistent interest in writing dark, violent stories… The teachers eyes flicker towards Sukuna’s tattoos and scars, suggesting it might be due to the home environment.
Wrong choice of words.
Before you can intervene, Sukuna leans forward and asks with a deadly calm, "You ever read Dostoyevsky? The fucking Bible?"
The teacher nods, shrinking back in his seat…
"All full of violence. All considered genius. My daughter’s writing isn’t the problem." His voice never rises, but the temperature in the room seems to drop a whole ten degrees as he continues. "Your small mind is."
Two weeks later, your daughter rushes home holding her regional writing trophy. Sukuna has her piece professionally framed and hung in the living room next day.
Because at the end of the day, that’s still his little girl.
Thinking about gaz who has a mortifyingly intense crush on the medic the 141 tend to work with.
Which usually isn't a problem, he can stumble through conversations well enough so long as he doesn't get distracted staring at your hands patching someone up. Gaz has made sure to keep his crush tightly contained, no need to humiliate himself with that.
That of course, all goes out the window when he's shot twice in the stomach. Blood loss and adrenaline have the sergeant fully convinced he will be dead before you manage to save him.
Might as well confess, right?
"Love, i– i need to tell you something–" he mumbles, trying to grab your arm but being swiftly held down so he doesn't get in the way. "I always liked you. Really liked you."
For a split second, like a fucking amateur, you freeze.
Gaz doesn't notice, already rambling further "you're perfect, yknow? Christ– nights I've spent thinnking about thos' hands of yours. Wanna feel them wi'out gloves–"
"You're losing blood, sergeant." You mumble quieter than you would, trying to rationalize his behavior as nothing more than momentary delusions.
"M no' lying—" gaz huffs, head tossed back but still lucid enough to catch your implication. Not lucid enough to stop himself when he says "can't fuckin' get off to normal shite anymore. All medical porn, innit? thinkin' about you, sometimes just imaginations enough—"
"Sergeant." You warn mildly, pressing at his wound just that bit harder. Retribution for your burning face.
"Mghh! Fuck— keep doing that, love. Need my last breath to be under your hands—" gaz groans, truly having lost it now because you can see the way his cock twitches in his trousers. "Press a little harder, please—"
Ah. The drugs worked.
Gaz goes limp under you, and quietly you thank whatever above that you were the only ones to hear that. Face burning, you finish patching him up to drag to emergency evac.
"Almost had me fooled you felt the same, sergeant." You whisper, completely unaware that kyles comms have been on the whole time.
dry humping in his lap when he reaches around your ass and sinks the tip of his finger inside of you. he groans under his breath in disbelief over how wet you are, the way you gasp and whine and try to fuck yourself on the tease of penetration. he plunges in deep, finger buried in your cunt to the last knuckle as you tremble, desperately slipping and sliding up and down the ridges of his cock, face buried in the crook of his neck as you cum with a whimper.
“if you want it you’re going to have to ask for it properly.”
watching you try. watching your mouth open and close. watching you look away.
“hey.” so soft. tipping your chin back toward me. “it’s just me. take your time.”
long pause. hands twisting in the sheets.
“whenever you’re ready baby.” not rushing. not pushing. waiting patiently.
“please.” barely audible.
“please what sweetheart? tell me what you need.”
swallowing. “please touch me. please i need you to touch me.”
“yeah?” so warm. stroking your cheek with my thumb. “there you go. that’s all i needed.” pressing a kiss to your forehead. “so proud of you for asking.”
you exhaling slowly. some of the shyness leaving your face.
taking my time. pressing kisses to your inner thigh. feeling you shiver. moving so slowly. making sure you feel every single one.
pressing the tip against you gently. not pushing in. just resting there. feeling you shift toward me slightly.
“what do you want baby…?” so soft.
“please.” immediately.
“i know.” so patient. so gentle. “i know sweetheart. tell me.”
“please i want you inside me.” rushed. quiet. still a little shy about it.
“okay.” said reassuringly. “okay baby. i’ve got you.”
pressing in so slowly.
the sound you make.
“i know.” voice low and gentle. pressing deeper. taking so much time with it. feeling you stretch around me slowly. feeling you grip me immediately. “i know. just breathe for me. i’ve got you. i’m right here.”
bottoming out. going completely still.
just holding you there. one hand warm on your hip. the other stroking up and down your side.
“you okay?”
nodding. eyes closed.
“take your time.” pressing a kiss to your shoulder. your collarbone. “we’re not in a rush. just feel me.”
you exhaling slowly. body relaxing incrementally.
“there you go.” so soft. “there you are.”
starting to move. so gently. slow easy rolls that press deep and pull back and press deep again. feeling you melt into it immediately.
“feel good?”
“yes.” barely a whisper. “yes mommy.”
“good.” pressing a kiss to your jaw. your cheek. still moving. “that’s all i want. just want you to feel good.”
working you slow. taking so much time. feeling every small response. the way your breathing changes. the way your hands find my arms and hold on softly. the way you make that small sound when something feels especially good.
staying right there when you do. not moving from it.
“right there?” so soft.
“yes— please yes—”
“okay baby.” keeping exactly that pace. exactly that angle. “i’ve got you. i’m staying right there.”
feeling you get closer slowly. the way your grip tightens slightly. the way your hips start to move with me without meaning to.
“you’re doing so well.” pressing a kiss to your temple. “so perfectly. feel how good you’re taking it.”
“mommy—” voice breaking slightly. “mommy it feels so good—”
“i know.” so warm. hand finding yours. lacing your fingers together. squeezing gently. “i know sweetheart. just let it feel good. you don’t have to do anything else.”
working you steadier now. feeling you get closer and closer. the sounds you’re making getting softer and more desperate at the same time.
“i’ve got you.” pressing a kiss to your hair. “i’m right here. i’ve got you.”
getting you right to the edge.
slowing just slightly.
a soft desperate sound. “please— mommy please i’m so close—”
“i know baby.” so gentle. pressing a kiss to your cheek. your jaw. “i know you are. you’re doing so beautifully.” stroking your hair back from your face. “can you ask me one more time? just once more.”
you looking up at me. eyes wet. so open. so trusting. “please mommy.” so quiet. so earnest. “please i need to cum. please.”
“okay sweetheart.” starting again. fully. giving you everything. “okay. i’ve got you. let go for me. i’m right here.”
feeling you fall apart.
the way your whole body softens and shudders at the same time. the way you hold onto me. the way you say mommy so quietly while it happens like you just need to know i’m still here.
“i’m here.” not stopping. working you through every wave. “i’m right here baby. i’ve got you.”
staying with you through all of it.
after. when you’ve gone soft and still. when your breathing is slow and your grip on my hand has loosened into something gentle.
pulling you close. your face finding my neck.
pressing a kiss to your temple.
holding you there for a long moment.
then pulling back slightly. cupping your face in both hands. looking at you properly.
“hi.”
a small soft smile. “hi.”
pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“you did so well.” cooed at you. “i’m so so proud of you baby”
you tucking your face back into my neck.
keeping you close. rubbing your back slow.
“i’ve got you.” pressing one more kiss to your hair.
Bucky (or Stucky) x Reader who says they don’t like sex but it’s because they’ve never had good sex. Like they describe their experiences and it’s clear they’ve only had horrible partners and need a proper demonstration
The dim glow of the living room lamp cast long shadows across the couch where you sat, tucked between Steve and Bucky. This had become your normal. Soft mornings tangled in sheets, shared missions, quiet nights like this one where everything felt warm and steady.
But intimacy had always been the one line you never crossed.
“I just… don’t like sex,” you’d said before, brushing it off like it didn’t matter.
Tonight, though, it didn’t stay brushed off.
“I’m not broken or anything,” you muttered, staring down at your hands, voice smaller than you meant it to be. “It’s just… it’s never been good.”
The words felt heavy once they were out, but you couldn’t stop now.
“My first boyfriend just—went for it. Like two minutes of nothing and then he just… shoved in. Said I was too dry, like it was my fault.” You huffed a quiet laugh that didn’t sound like humor at all. “The next one lasted maybe thirty seconds and then rolled over and started playing video games. I just… pretended to sleep.”
Steve’s hand stilled on your knee.
You kept going anyway.
“Another one kept asking if I was close every ten seconds until I faked it just to make him stop talking.” You shrugged, like it didn’t sting. “It always hurt. Or felt like nothing. Or just… like I was something to get through.”
Silence stretched for a beat.
Then Bucky let out a low, dangerous sound that rumbled through his chest.
“Doll,” he said, voice rough, edged with something protective and furious all at once, “those assholes didn’t deserve to touch you.”
Steve’s hand moved again, gentler now, grounding. His other hand came up to cup your cheek, turning your face toward him. His eyes were soft—softer than you’d ever seen them—but there was anger there too, quiet and controlled.
“You’re not broken,” he said firmly. “You’ve just never had anyone who cared enough to learn you.”
Your throat tightened.
“Let us show you,” he added, thumb brushing your lower lip. “No pressure. We stop the second you say the word. But if you want to know what it’s supposed to feel like…”
Bucky’s metal fingers traced slowly down your arm, sending a shiver in their wake.
“We’ll make it good, sweetheart,” he murmured. “So good you forget those idiots ever existed.”
Your heart was pounding hard enough you could feel it in your throat.
Part of you wanted to run.
The other part—the one that trusted them, that had been quietly aching for something more every time they kissed you like you were something precious—nodded.
“Okay.”
They didn’t rush.
Not even a little.
Steve kissed you first, slow and deep, his mouth warm and patient as he coaxed you open, letting you set the pace without ever making it feel like you had to. It wasn’t overwhelming—it was steady. Safe.
Behind you, Bucky’s lips found your neck, soft at first, then a little firmer when your breath hitched. He paid attention to every tiny reaction, like he was memorizing you.
Clothes came off gradually, piece by piece, like there was no finish line waiting, just the moment you were in.
Hands mapped your body like it mattered.
Like you mattered.
Bucky lifted you onto the couch like you weighed nothing, settling you back against Steve’s chest so you were cradled between them, surrounded.
“Tell us what feels good,” Steve murmured against your ear, his hands warm as they slid over your chest, cupping your breasts.
His thumbs brushed over your nipples and when they tightened under his touch, you gasped.
Neither of them missed it.
Bucky’s gaze flicked up to your face, watching, before he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your stomach.
“Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “We’re gonna take our time with you.”
By the time he settled between your thighs, your skin was buzzing, anticipation coiling low in your stomach in a way that felt… new.
“Already wet for us,” he praised softly.
The words alone made heat flood your cheeks.
Then his tongue dragged slowly up your center.
Your hips jerked before you could stop them.
He did it again, firmer this time, circling your clit with careful precision, like he was figuring you out one reaction at a time.
Steve didn’t stop touching you—hands kneading gently, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, your jaw as he whispered soft encouragement that made your chest feel warm and full.
“Doing so good,” he murmured. “Just feel it. Let yourself feel it.”
Bucky’s fingers pressed at your entrance and when he slid them in, it wasn’t the sharp, uncomfortable stretch you expected.
It was…right.
Full, but not painful.
His fingers curled, just slightly, and something inside you sparked.
“Oh—”
Your fingers tangled in his hair instinctively, and he hummed, the vibration sending a jolt straight through you.
“That’s it,” Steve murmured. “He’s got you.”
The feeling built differently than anything you’d known before—slow, deep, coiling instead of rushed or awkward. It spread instead of staying sharp, turning into something warm and overwhelming.
“Bucky—Steve—I’m—”
“Come for us, doll,” Bucky growled, mouth closing around your clit.
You shattered.
The sound that left you didn’t feel like it belonged to you—raw and unfiltered as your body clenched and pulsed around his fingers.
It didn’t stop all at once, either. It rolled. Wave after wave until you were trembling. You’d never—never—had that before. They didn’t rush you after, either.
Bucky pressed soft kisses to your thigh while Steve eased you down onto your back, hovering just enough to meet your eyes.
“Still okay?” he asked gently.
You nodded, breathless.
“More.”
The word surprised even you.
But you meant it.
Steve entered you slowly, giving you time to adjust, his hand steady on your hip.
“Okay?” he asked again.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Yeah, it’s—good.”
His forehead dropped to yours, a soft exhale leaving him before he started to move, slow at first, like he was still checking in even without words.
Bucky leaned in, kissing you deep and messy, his hand sliding down between your bodies.
“Feel that?” he murmured. “That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
Steve’s rhythm picked up gradually, each movement controlled, deliberate, hitting that same spot Bucky had found earlier until your breath stuttered.
Bucky’s fingers found your clit again, circling just right.
The combination was overwhelming.
“Too much—” you gasped, even as your body arched into it.
Steve’s mouth curved faintly against your skin.
“Not enough,” he corrected softly. “Let go again.”
And you did.
The second orgasm hit harder, sharper, pulling a broken sound from your throat as your body tightened around him.
Steve groaned, low and wrecked, your name falling from his lips like something sacred.
By the time Bucky took his place, you were already trembling again.
He was rougher—but never careless.
Never thoughtless.
Every movement was still tuned to you, to your reactions, to the sounds you made when something hit just right.
“Such a good girl,” he praised, voice thick. “Taking us so well.”
Steve’s hands grounded you from beneath, his voice soft against your lips as Bucky drove deeper, the rhythm more intense now, the sounds louder, messier.
When your third orgasm hit, it was almost too much—your whole body tightening as Bucky followed you over the edge, his grip firm, his voice breaking on your name.
it’s critically important that you find that insecure trans girl and turn her “i don’t want to be a burden” resistance into “god please stop i can’t cum any more i’m too sensitive” resistance
Knight!Ghost who takes you home as a spoil of war.
Sir Riley is noble and well respected man. Invaluable to the King in battle. But unlike many of his brothers in arms, he had yet to be wed. Despite his stature no man had offered their daughter to him. They knew of the tales. The stories of his horrific visage and beastly temper. Sending their daughter to his bed would surely end in her demise. So he stayed unwed even in his later age.
But a man still has needs. Someone to keep his hearth burning while he was away. Keep his belly fed. A warm body to fuck at night. So no one stopped him when he lifted you over his shoulder and carried you back to his horse. Some pitying looks, but that was all.
The journey back was long. After the first few hours you seemed to accept your fate. Or at the very least stopped struggling. Perhaps you knew there was nothing you could do. Or perhaps you were keenly aware of the effect your fighting had on your new captor. A heavy bulge pressed against the small of your back as you sat in front of him. Burning despite the layers between you. Every jostle of the horse making you flushed all over. This monster. He got off on your terror.
You had a small glimmer of hope when he promised he would not take you until your wedding night. It was tradition after all.
But that didn't stop him from ravishing your body in other ways.
Pressing you to the cold stone floor, hooking a thumb behind your teeth to tug your jaw open and sliding his cock down your throat. Every gag and choke only making him groan as he used you. Muttering about how much better it felt compared to his rough, calloused hands. Spilling down your throat in only a few short thrusts. You were grateful for that at least. But it didn't stop him from coming back only a few hours later.
Or bending you over the dining table mid meal. Food smearing your corset as he shoved your skirts over your hips. Rutting like an animal between the plush of your thighs. Hot length sliding against your cunt, but never entering.
Simon would laugh and coo at the slick that spread down his cock. Making every thrust embarrassingly wet. Returning to his food once he had finished. Scarred features twisting with a grin as he watched you silently clean yourself up.
By the time your wedding night arrived you were terrified. By now you had seen his cock countless times. But you knew even the fingers you curled deep in your cunt late at night as you pictured your soon-to-be husband wouldn't be enough to prepare you for the beast.
Though the hungry look he gave you as he lifted your veil told you that he didn't care. Heat pooling low in your gut. He was already hard, right there at the altar.
You wondered if he would let you make it through the festivities before whisking you away to make you a proper wife.
Can’t stop thinking about Trucker!Simon who’s been rolling for four straight days without a real shower, big frame crammed behind the wheel of his rig, the sleeper cab behind him smelling like diesel, old sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and faint grease of last week’s truck stop burgers.
Trucker!Simon who’s got you- the pretty little bird he picked up on the side of the interstate at 2am, thumb stuck out in your pretty little sundress, soft tits spilling heavier over the neckline every time you breathe, panicked, after you’d quietly explained through the open window that someone had ditched you out there, hundreds of miles from home with nothing but your bag and you just needed a ride to the next town, anywhere, please- in his sleeper, curled up on sheets stiff with old sweat and cum, stained more than clean.
Soft thighs pressed together, pretty mouth parted, eyes wide and already glassy in the low light from the dash. He’s too big for the space, has to duck his head, shoulders brushing the sides, and he fills it completely when he crawls in after you.
Shirt half unbuttoned and stuck to his chest with sweat, jeans open and shoved down, freeing that heavy cock that you’ve seen the outline of under his oil stained pants when he’d palm at it, bulging against his thigh when he drove under street lamps to this trucker stop.
It hangs thick and flushed between his thighs now, heavy balls drawn up tight, the skin at the base dark with dried sweat and the pre he’s been leaking into his boxers since he got a whiff of your sweet floral perfume as you climbed into his rig.
Kneels on the mattress, one big hand braced on the low ceiling, the other reaching down to fist his cock slow and lazy, eyes dragging over you, your soft curves, the way your pretty clothes are already rumpled from being in his rig, the little tremble in your thighs that only gets worse when he leans in closer.
Mattress dipping under his weight, until his chest is right in front of your face, heat rolling off him intense. You wrinkle your nose hard, trying to turn your face away, shoulders curling in like you can escape the stench.
He shifts his weight anyway, knees forcing between your thighs, spreading them wider, one nicotine stained hand wrapping around yours, yanking it down to wrap around his cock. It’s hot, heavy, the skin at the base tacky. Your fingers don’t quite meet around it.
You flinch violently, trying to yank your hand back with a soft disgusted sound, but he just wraps his bigger one over yours and makes you stroke him once, twice, slow, firm drags that smear fresh precum down the shaft while your lower lip wobbles and your breath comes in tiny, hiccuping gasps. He groans at the skin of your hand around his cock which is all too used to the feeling of his calloused hands and scratchy sheets and not at all used to soft and warm.
His fingers thread into your hair, digging into the base of your skull, and he forces your face down the trail of coarse hair on his stomach until your pretty mouth is pressed right against the root of his cock.
The smell is strongest here, musky and sharp, the faint bitter trace of old piss where he’s been too lazy to stop properly. You squeeze your eyes shut and try harder to twist away, soft disgusted whimpers catching in your throat, hands pushing weakly at his stomach, nose wrinkling as you gag at the smell of him. He holds you there until your lips brush the tacky skin.
Rocks his hips forward, the fat head of his cock smearing across your soft cheek, leaving a shiny streak. “Open up.”
When your lips part and you take him in, he grunts low, the wet heat of your mouth making his balls draw up tighter. He pushes the taste of road and sweat across your tongue, then deeper.
You choke immediately, a wet, panicked sound bubbling up as your hands fly to his hips, pushing hard. Tears bead in your lashes and spill down your temples, nose wrinkling hard at the stench, but he doesn’t let you pull back. Both big hands sink into your hair, fingers twisting tight at the roots, dragging you down, groaning when he pushes into your throat, feels it convulse around the fat head of his cock.
“Fuck,” he rasps, barely a word, more a punched out sound of satisfaction.
Then he shoves you down the rest of the way, using his grip on your hair to force your pretty mouth lower, inch by inch, until your nose is pressed flush against the sweaty, crusty hair at the base of his cock.
Your throat spasms hard around him, fluttering and squeezing, and he groans again, deeper this time, hips twitching forward. Saliva floods your mouth instantly, thick and messy, spilling out around your stretched lips and dripping down his balls in shiny strings.
He holds you there, nose buried in the damp, crusted pubes that smell like days of sweat and road grime, cock buried to the hilt in your spasming throat.
One thumb slides forward, pressing against the outside of your neck, feeling the obscene bulge of his cock stretching your throat. He rubs it slowly, while your eyes water and more tears track down your face.
Then he starts to rut, grinding his cock deeper into your throat while saliva pours out of you. Every time he pulls back just enough for you to gasp a wet, choked breath, thick strings of spit stretch between your lips and his cock before he shoves you back down again.
Your hands keep pushing at his thighs, manicured nails scraping over sweat slick skin, but he just tightens his grip in your hair and fucks your throat harder, deeper.
The wet, gurgling sounds are obscene in the cramped sleeper. Your mascara is running, pretty face a mess of tears and spit, nose still wrinkled in disgust even as your throat keeps fluttering and milking him. He groans every time you gag, the sound low and satisfied, hips rolling in steady, filthy ruts that smear more of your saliva into his pubes and down his balls until they’re shiny and dripping with it.
He doesn’t let up until your vision starts to blur at the edges and your hands go slack against his thighs. Only then does he pull you off with a wet, obscene pop, cock shiny and flushed dark, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the head. You cough and gasp, chest heaving, tears and saliva dripping from your chin onto the stained sheets while he fists his cock once, twice, smearing the mess you made all over himself.
Then his hands fall to your hips, manhandles you between his highs, one big hand under your soft legs. The sundress gets shoved higher, bunched under your tits, grips your panties and pulls, ripping them off, forcing your legs wide even as your thighs tremble and try to close.
You’re crying harder now, soft hiccuping sobs, hands pushing frantically at his stomach and chest as he lines up, eyes wide and pleading up at him.
“Please- wait” your voice cracks, small and teary, “- condom? Do you have a condom?”
He pauses for half a second, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. Then he answers, low and rough, “Ain’t got one.”
The stretch of his cock is immediate and overwhelming, feels like he’s splitting you in half. Your back arches hard, a broken whimper slipping out as your hands beat harder at his chest, trying to push him off, soft thighs shaking uncontrollably.
He’s too big for the cab and he’s too big for you, hips grinding forward, heavy balls pressing tight against your ass, coarse hair at his base rubbing against your soft skin while fresh tears spill down your temples.
You keep pushing at him, palms flat against his sweaty chest, trying to create space, soft disgusted sounds mixing with the first helpless little moans that start slipping out every time he bottoms out.
The mattress creaks. The sheets stick to your back, stiff and filthy. Every thrust makes the cab rock slightly on its suspension. Sweat rolls off his chest in fat drops, splattering onto your soft belly and the swell of your tits while he fucks you in deep, heavy strokes that grind right up against your cervix. The wet slap of his heavy, pendulous balls is loud in the cramped space, scent getting thicker the harder he works, mixing with the new smell of sex and your own unwanted arousal until the whole sleeper reeks of it.
He breathes heavy, low grunts punched out of him every time your cunt flutters and squeezes around the thick drag of his cock. One hand stays braced on the ceiling, the other gripping the back of your soft thigh hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open while he uses you.
Your hands are still on his chest, pushing weakly, fingers slipping through the thick sweat coating his skin, but the resistance is turning sloppy. Your pretty face is scrunched, eyes going glassy, mouth falling open on broken little moans.
He fucks you through an orgasm like that, grinding rolls that drag the fat head of his cock inside you until your soft body locks up and you sob out a high, whiny sound, cunt pulsing and gushing around him.
He doesn’t stop. Just keeps using you, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your collarbone, the wet slap of his balls getting filthier as your slick and his precum mix into a messy froth at the base of his cock.
You’re babbling now, soft and fucked stupid, little “ah- ah- plea- ” sounds that don’t quite form real words. Your thighs are shaking so hard they can’t stay wrapped around him. He catches one and folds it higher, nearly bending you in half on the narrow mattress, and the new angle makes you wail, eyes rolling back as he grinds right up against your cervix with every thrust.
When he gets close he drops forward heavier, chest crushing your soft tits, the full weight of him pinning you down into the stiff sheets.
You panic the second you realize what’s about to happen, hands shoving harder at his sweaty chest, legs kicking weakly, soft sobs turning frantic. “Nono, pull out, I’m not on birth control- please-”
He doesn’t even grunt in response, just wraps his arms around your body, shoves you down on his cock throbing deep inside you, and then he’s cumming thick, hot spurts pumping straight into your womb, flooding your uterus with days’ worth of heavy, pungent load. It’s so much it forces its way out around his cock in messy rivulets, smearing down your ass onto the already ruined mattress.
Empties every last drop deep inside you, flooding you until your lower belly feels warm and full. Only when the last spurt finishes does he pull out, thick strings of cum stretching between his cock and your messy cunt.
Before you can scramble away he grabs tou, big hands flipping your soft, trembling body onto your stomach, then hauling your hips up so your face is shoved down into the filthy mattress. One heavy palm plants between your shoulder blades and stays there, pinning your face into the stiff, sweat-and-cum-stained sheets. Your sundress is rucked up around your waist, soft ass presented, and he’s already lining up again, the fat head of his cock nudging through the mess leaking out of you.
You try to twist, try to push up on your arms, panicked little sounds muffled into the mattress. “Wait- wait, you can’t- ”
He pushes in anyway.
“Haven’ fucked anyone in months,” he mutters, hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt your whole body and your mouth opens on a moan, drool pooling onto the mattress beneath your head. “Balls been so heavy they ache. Ain’t wastin’ it on these fuckin’ sheets again when I got a pretty little hole right here to fill over and over.”
Maybe you should have just walked to the next town.
aaron who has been in high paying jobs for a long time falling in love with someone who’s never had real money. aaron not realising what it is about his paying for everything that makes you so squirmy. dinner, movies, dates to fancy places, vacations, he just sees it all as the gentlemanly thing to do, and once’s he enamoured with you, like, in love with you—second date, tipsy, kissing his cheek telling him he smells nice as he tries to get you home in one piece—it’s his desire to pay for everything regardless. he doesn’t even like seeing your purse on the table, it gives him the heebies.
aaron who asks you to move in without any real hesitation at the eight month mark. knows it’s early for some, feels late for you, god, what would he have given somewhere in that three months dating period to get to keep you every day? when he was laying awake at night thinking of excuses to text you, call you, and invite you over. he would’ve asked you then if he hadn’t known it was taboo. so eight months was him trying his very hardest to be good.
aaron who stares at you in confusion when you ask him, a little nervously across the dinner table, how much your half of the rent would be. and then aaron who leans over to kiss you square on the tip of the nose before he stands without answering, because what can he even really say? he rounds the table to lean down for a hug, squeezes you so tightly you groan as he murmurs, honey, why would i ever make you pay rent when im already doing it alone? sharing rent is perfectly fine when its a necessity, but aaron genuinely doesn’t need your help.
the ensuing disagreements on fairness and trust, on not wanting to be made homeless on short notice if you break up, and the follow up conversation a week later where he’s put your name on the mortgage and handed you a little business card for one of JJ’s lawyer friends in case you actually worry you’ll need it. then your sniffly giggles as you ask him if you can repaint the bedroom, and his elation at getting to keep you. your little flush of delight when he gives you his credit card and tells you to go get whatever you want. you see it as a generosity, and he sees it like this: when a woman takes half of your heart for herself, and holds it in two soft hands, when she looks at you like you’re everything and trusts you to take care of her, money is inconsequential. (and he likes it when you let him treat you, but that’s an adjacent topic.)
so you get to learn what it’s like to be taken care of in a very specific way. a very American way, maybe, that almost nuclear arrangement, except aaron doesn’t make you stay at home if it’s not what you want, and you aren’t expected to do the majority of the chores, or handle the mental load, or cook dinner every night. you’re an equal, just a spoiled one. you’re genuinely and wholeheartedly a treasure to him. it’s why he does it all, chivalry yes, but devotion. he just loves you in a way that means he feels like looking after you is the least he can do, because you love him so well. if he had nothing, he’d still want to give you everything, because if he had nothing you’d still love him to death.
Hi!! I adore your writing❤️❤️ I see ur requests are open so I was wondering if youd be interested in writing something where Joel fucks the attitude out of reader?? Maybe she’s angry and stubborn for some reason and then she feels better afterward.
Three days since you accidentally saw Joel's truck pull into Tommy's driveway at two in the morning. Three days since you then watched some pretty woman with long hair and a laugh loud enough to wake the neighbours, climb out of the passenger seat, while resting her hand on his shoulder like she had the right to touch him.
Three days since you realised you were just a nobody for Joel. Just that bratty little girl, he met at a bar, who spread her legs for him whenever he wanted. Not his woman. Not his girlfriend. Not his anything if you'd put it bluntly.
The thought made you want to break something.
So, your plan was to confront him. All these sweet messages, all those nights when he had you under him—praising, loving, caring for you, they had to mean something to him, right?
He was already on his porch, horsing it down in the sun and having absolutely no clue of the world when you marched straight over to him with murder in your eyes.
"Who was she?" You snapped, trying to make your presence loud.
Joel looked up, the water still spraying, his expression shifting from surprise to something confused. "Excuse me?"
"That woman. In your truck. Tuesday night." Your voice was sharp, brittle, and you hated how shaky it sounded. "Pretty. Laughs like a goddamn bird. Who in the hell is she?"
He turned off the hose, slowly, careful, and set it down.
Then he crossed his arms, those dark orbs studying you with an unreadable calm that made you want to scream. "That's none of your business."
"None of my—" You laughed bitter. "Are you serious? You fucked me in your car, called me 'good girl,' and I don't get to ask who you're bringing home at two in the morning?"
Joel's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth."
"Or what? You'll spank me again? Put me over your knee like I'm some child who needs—"
"Stop." His voice cracked like thunder, and you flinched despite yourself. He stepped closer, and you backed up until your shoulders hit his front door. "You wanna throw a tantrum, fine. But you don't get to come onto my property and talk to me like that."
"Then tell me who she was." Your voice just above a whisper.
"It ain't your concern."
"It is my concern when—" and louder again.
"Enough."
He grabbed your arm—not hard but enough to hurt and to make you gasp—then pulled you into his house. You struggled, digging your heels in, but he didn't slow down.
Through the front door, past the living room, into the kitchen where he finally released you, turning to face you with a look that made your stomach drop.
"You wanna act like a brat?" His voice was low, a slight anger bubbling behind it. "Fine. Then I'll treat you like one."
"Don't you dare—"
"You're gonna shut up, and listen. Or I swear to God, I'll bend you over this counter and spank you 'till you can't sit for a week."
The threat hit you like a slap, and you hated the way your body reacted—the way your cunt throbbed, the way your breath caught. You crossed your arms, glaring at him, but you didn't move.
"She's Tommy's new girlfriend," Joel said, his voice flat. "She drove him home because his truck broke down. I gave her a ride back to her place."
The words landed like a bucket of cold water.
You blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." He stepped closer, and this time you didn't back away. "You've been stompin' around here for three days, lookin' at me like a kicked dog, all 'cause you saw a woman in my truck and decided I was cheatin' on you."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." His hand came up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced over your bottom lip. "You think I don't know you? The way you get all bratty when you're jealous?"
You wanted to deny it. Wanted to shove his hand away and tell him to go to hell. But your eyes were burning, and your throat was tight, and all that anger that had been sitting inside you was turning into something that was close to humiliation. Or even embarrassment.
"I don't like sharing," you whispered, your eyes watering.
"Neither do I, baby." His voice softened, just a fraction. "Which is why I don't. You think I'd let some other woman in my bed after havin' you?"
"But you didn't tell me."
"I didn't think I had to." He sighed, running his hand over his face, suddenly looking older, tireder. "Goddammit, girl. You gotta learn to use your words instead of tearin' me like a feral cat."
"I'm not a cat." You pouted.
"No, you're a brat with a temper." But there was no heat in it now—just exhaustion. He stepped back, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms again. "Alright. You wanted answers. You got 'em. Now what?"
Now what.
You stood there, frozen, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind a hollow, shaky feeling. You'd spent three days working yourself into a frenzy, convinced he had been with someone else, and it was all for nothing. You felt stupid.
And still so, so fucking wound up.
"I don't know," you admitted, your voice barely audible.
Joel watched you for a long moment. Then he pushed off of the counter and crossed to you, his hands settling on your hips, pulling you against him.
"You're still angry," he said, but it wasn't a question.
"I don't know what I am."
"Angry. Stubborn. All wound up with nowhere to go." His hand slid up your back, into your hair, tilting your head back. "I know that feelin'. And I know how to fix it."
"You mean you know how to fuck it out of me."
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "If ya wanna put it that way."
Suddenly he turned you.
The kitchen counter felt cool against your palms as he pressed your chest down over the smooth surface with a firm hand at the back of your neck. Your shorts and panties were shoved down in one rough motion, cool air kissing your bare skin before his palm followed, spreading you open with calloused fingers.
"Look at this," he muttered, two thick fingers dragging through your slick folds. "Already wet and I ain't even touched you proper. Been walkin' around mad for days 'cause you thought I was givin' my cock to someboyd else."
You whimpered, hips twitching back against his hand as he circled your clit once, twice, drawing out the tension that had built for days.
Joel's belt then clinked, zipper rasped, and then the blunt head of his cock nudged against your entrance, thick and insistent.
"Who does this belong to?" he asked, as he pushed inside in one long, thick slide, stretching you open inch by inch until his hips were flush against your ass.
"You," you gasped, fingers curling against the countertop.
"Say it again." He bottomed out, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other anchored your hip, holding you steady as he began to move.
"Yours, Joel—fuck—yours."
He pulled back and drove in hard, setting a punishing rhythm that made the cabinets rattle and your breath come in short bursts.
Every thrust knocked a broken sound out of you, while the slap of skin on skin echoed through the kitchen as he fucked the attitude out of you with deep, quick strokes. The emotional weight of the past three days poured into each movement—his frustration, your jealousy, the possessive need to claim what was his.
"That's right," he grunted, sweat beading at his temple. "This tight little cunt's mine. Your attitude's mine too. You get jealous, you get mouthy, you come to me. You don't stew for three goddamn days."
Your legs shook, knees threatening to buckle as his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that sent sparks racing up your spine.
The story of your jealousy unraveled in the rhythm of his hips—the way you had watched from the window, the sting of seeing another woman in his space, the way it had twisted into this desperate, bratty silence.
"Who's fuckin' you right now?" he demanded, voice rough with exertion.
"You—Joel—only you—"
"That's it. Come on, baby. Let it out."
Your orgasm crashed through you so hard your knees buckled, waves of pleasure rolling over you as your walls clenched around him.
But Joel caught you, one arm banding around your waist as he kept fucking you through it, the aftershocks leaving you trembling and gasping against the counter.
"Easy," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and steady. "I got you, babygirl."
He eased you down onto the kitchen floor, laying you on your back on the cool tile with careful hands.
Joel shoved his jeans lower, knelt between your spread thighs, and slid back inside you in one smooth thrust, the new angle hitting deeper, drawing out a fresh moan, and a gush from your cunt.
"Still got that attitude?" he asked, rolling his hips slow and deep now, each stroke claiming your pussy.
You shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming mix of humiliation, relief, and pleasure. "No—Joel—please—"
"Please what?"
"Don't stop—need you—"
He braced one hand besides your head, the other sliding under your ass to tilt you just right, every stroke dragging over that perfect spot inside you.
Your second orgasm built fast, the emotional depth of the scene layering on top of the physical—the way his tired eyes softened even as he dominated you, the way your bratty jealousy melted into submission under his steady hands.
"There she is," he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. "My good girl. Cum for me again, honey. Show me who you belong to."
You came with a broken cry, body arching off of the tile as pleasure flooded through you.
Joel groaned, hips stuttering as he followed you, spilling deep inside you in hot, thick pulses that filled you completely.
He stayed buried, cock twitching inside you.
After a long moment he eased out, gathered you into his arms, and sat back against the cabinets with you in his lap. His big hand stroked slow circles on your back while you trembled through the aftershocks, the kitchen quiet once more except for your shared breathing.
"Next time you get jealous," he said quietly, lips against your hair, "you use your words. Or I'll bend you over the nearest surface and remind you again. Understand?"
You nodded against his chest, soft and small, the bratty edges smoothed away by his steady presence. "Yes."
Joel kissed the top of your head, tired and fond. "Good girl."
Imagine waking up from a nap with hands all over you. They are slowly moving, caressing, touching you all over, but where you need them the most. Your whole body is vibrating with need, and you are barely awake yet. But fuck, does it feel fantastic... You open your eyes, expecting to see your lovely boyfriend behind you, but there's... there's nothing.
Your heartbeat picks up, your hole clenches, and you are about to scream when a hand covers your mouth. More hands join the party, and you can do nothing when they pin you down. They aren't worrying about your struggling anymore, hands pinching and touching and caressing every part of you, every little bit of sensitive skin, over and under your clothes. You don't know what to do, you don't know what is happening... But fuck, it feels so good.
"Honey, do you-" Your boyfriend's voice sounds across the house and suddenly there's no hands anymore.
He appears in the doorway and you stare at him, horny as fuck and on the brink of an orgasm. He doesn't realize anything is wrong, but you can't think of only one thing: how to bring those hands back.
No thoughts just the 141 who's convinced there's something wrong with vulture hybrid!reader...
They've worked with you before on the field, gaz personally scouted you after a week-long op. Brilliant in combat, a deadly force. By all means, you should blend with the team.
Except...you don't, not really.
You're social, yes, but you seem to stutter around group meals. Something the team uses as a crutch for low-stakes bonding.
Gaz is the one to notice it first, how you always pick at your plate before eating it, as if trying to convince yourself to do so. You'll eat the meat after a moment, but the rest goes largely ignored.
So you're picky, that's no big deal as long as you're eating. Or, at least it isn't until Kyle and ghost step out for a smoke one night and find you rummaging through the trash.
You pop up with a bit of turkey from two days ago in your mouth, and stare them straight in the eyes before swallowing the rest of it, ruffling your feathers casually. "Evening."
"Sergeant. What the fuck." Gaz grimaces, stomach churning at even the thought of that taste. More than that, worried sick about what the hell drove you to eat that "are you okay?"
"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" You very carefully try to remain casual.
"You. You just wait rotting meat. From the trash!" Gaz waves a hand between you and the dumpster "is the food here not adequate? Do you need substitutes? Special vitamins? What's wrong—"
"Better flavor, innit?" Ghost interrupts, lighting up a smoke and eyeing you almost jealously.
Gaz mentally notes to never let you or ghost to your devices on solo missions. Who knows what you freaks would do with a corpse.
"No. Absolutely not." He pinches the bridge of his nose, lip curled in irritation, before looking at you "if you want old meat, toss some in a container and keep it in your room or something, I don't care. Stop eating from the damn trash. can't have you choking on glass."
Ghost scoffs next to him, no doubt already planning to bully gaz for his "natural leadership" later tonight.
You're still a bit shocked it was...that easy.
No excessive groans of disgust. No demands to eat normally. Just, a safer alternative. Huh.
And to think you spent all those weeks convinced they would kick you out. Foolish you, they've been dealing with ghost for years.
You always knew it would be difficult joining the 141 as the only human while all your teammates are big cat hybrids, but you never thought it would be this bad....
You've felt more accepted in groups as a rookie being hazed, because at least you could earn your place. With the task force you have no idea what you're doing wrong.
Everytime you walk into a room, they make no effort to hid the grimace they share.
Lips curled back, nose scrunched, brows furrowed. Indisputably a grimace, followed by an exhale. It's fucking humiliating. Do you smell bad? Is it because you're human? You know feline hybrids have sharp noses.
So you buy a new perfume, shower more and always spritz some on afterwards.
That, somehow, makes it worse.
Ghost leaves the room when you enter, gaz and soap always sit farthest from you, and even price turns sharp and stilted in his conversation. And they're always fucking grimacing.
Little do you know, that grimace is actually a flehmen response. A natural habit of feline hybrids to inhale scents better. Oh, and the reason they do it all the time with you? Because you smell amazing, mouthwatering.
The fact you've recently started wearing a perfume with civet pheromones. If only you knew just how much they struggle to remain professional with you walking around smelling so damn enticing....
No thoughts just alpha!ghost who grew learning to control his scent and omega!reader who very much...didn't.
Ghost had always been told that spilling your scent everywhere was poor manners, that only children couldn't control their scent. Meanwhile you were taught that having an open scent was essential for communication and perfectly normal.
Which means the first time ghost meets you, his instincts have no idea what to do with such strong happy omega scents suddenly in his space. Ghost grew up with scent blockers at home, and in most public spaces people wear some sort of blocker. You barely have a chance to purr a greeting before he's grabbing you by the shoulders and shoving his face into your neck.
"Mghhggh— omega. Sweet. Good." He rumbles, low and muffled into skin, almost as if he doesn't register it's happening. You can only stand in shocked confusion. Gaze slipping to the still open door of his office and wondering if you should call for help, because you have no idea why he's acting like this and—
"Fuck— you smell good— christ—" ghost holds you tighter, crowding you against the desk. You tentatively lean in to sniff around his scent blockers and get the faintest scent of arousal.
Which is instantly confirmed by his hips rutting forward, his hard cock rubbing against you while he whines "sorry— I don't— fuck that's good—"
Oh. Oh shit. The peices slowly click into place, and you realize exactly what your scent is doing to him, though you always thought this sort of aphrodisiac like reaction was a myth.
You try to soften your scent, knowing it will stress him out if your own scent fluctuates too much, one hand sneaking up to massage the back of his neck "hey. Hey, it's okay. I get it, do what you need to do."
Ghost makes a sound caught between a growl and a keen, pressing the entire length of his body against you. "Fuck— sorry— hold still— omega. Smell good. Mhhh—!"
You've never seen an alpha react like this.
You've also never seen an alpha pop a dry knot in his trousers, and yet thats exactly what ghost just did.
....you. probably shouldn't leave him alone in such a vulnerable state, right? You should stick around in his office, close the door and makes sure he's okay.
You're just being a considerate coworker....or thats what you'll tell yourself later.
people hate it when i say "black people getting cancer is racist" but im literally fucking right because systemic racism has led to chemical dumping being acceptable in black/brown neighborhoods and black people have higher rates of cancer as a result
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