This blog is strictly 18+ because literally all I reblog is smut. So there's your warning
I <3 pedro pascal
Likes and follows are from @priceismybbg
My other blog is @sheriff-hassan-enthusiast
Some of my favorite characters (most of them featured on this blog)- joel miller, ellie williams, any of the cod characters specifically gaz(severelyunderated), ghost and könig, sheriff Hassan and father paul, doc ock. Are you seeing the theme here
My newest obsession is Miguel O'Hara and Spider punk
Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who’s so offended by your previous mechanic's scams that he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.
cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn
wc: 10.4k, one shot
notes: based on these two asks: first and second! thank you nonnie for the idea <3
main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah
It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.
Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.
Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.
By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.
"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.
You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.
Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.
"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."
He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”
You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.
"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.
"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.
Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."
True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.
Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."
He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.
None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.
"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"
Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”
"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."
Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.
"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"
"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."
Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.
Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.
"You know what those other things were?"
You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."
That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.
"And you paid anyway."
It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.
Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”
"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"
After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."
The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.
"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"
A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"
A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"
You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.
"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."
His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.
"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."
—
The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.
At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.
He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.
"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."
You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.
Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.
“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."
There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.
You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.
"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"
Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."
"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."
Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."
"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."
"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."
He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.
——
Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.
Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.
"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.
"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."
Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.
"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."
"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."
For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.
"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."
While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.
When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.
"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."
Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.
"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."
A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.
A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.
"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"
"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.
"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."
Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.
"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."
Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”
You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"
He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.
Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.
"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."
"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."
Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.
Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.
This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.
The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.
All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.
You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.
For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.
Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.
For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.
Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.
The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.
At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.
The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.
"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."
Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."
"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."
"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."
"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."
Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.
"Goodnight, Sukuna."
"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.
The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.
"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.
Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.
He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?
The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.
Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.
His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.
Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.
But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.
—
Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.
Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.
He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.
Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.
“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.
"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"
Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.
Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.
By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.
He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.
Bzzzt.
The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.
Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.
[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!
OH THANK FUCK.
Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.
Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.
[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.
He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.
The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?
By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.
With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.
Hey, you free this weekend?
He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.
Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.
"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.
With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.
Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.
Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.
His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.
Make sure you check your oil this week.
He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement.
"What the fuck am I doing?"
He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.
Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.
I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.
He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.
"No. That's fucking creepy."
He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.
A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.
“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.
Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.
Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.
"For fuck's sake."
By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.
Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.
I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.
He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.
With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.
Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.
[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)
Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.
Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.
A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.
Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.
Food. You’re asking about bringing food.
For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.
Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.
Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.
[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?
He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.
A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.
—
Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.
He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.
Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.
“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.
"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"
Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."
He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.
"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."
You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."
"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."
Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.
"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."
He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.
"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."
For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.
When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.
All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.
A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.
"Pizza's here,” he rasps.
He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.
"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."
Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."
The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."
For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.
After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.
Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.
Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.
You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.
Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.
Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.
Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.
He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.
And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?
He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.
"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.
You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"
Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.
For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.
Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.
“Never mind.”
You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.
"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.
"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.
It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.
"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."
Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.
But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.
A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.
"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.
Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.
His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.
"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."
He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.
The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.
Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.
Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.
Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.
Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.
That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.
Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.
Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.
For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.
A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.
“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”
Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."
His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.
"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.
You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.
notes:
> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman
> sukuna: she baked me a pie
> sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind
nsfw. 40s könig. come eating. pussy slapping. voyeurism. manhandling. degradation. squirting. sex work.
you never planned on doing porn.
you don't think anyone does, really. you had a whole different life mapped out— degree, stable job, retirement.
but college was bleeding you dry. bills stacked faster than you could pay them, textbooks cost more than your monthly groceries, and your financial aid office had the efficiency of a broken vending machine. part-time jobs barely kept the lights on. dinner was whatever was cheap and lasted the longest.
you worked, studied, scraped by, but it felt more like drowning in slow motion.
camming started as an experiment. a shot in the dark born from desperation.
you bought a cheap ring light from amazon, found a secondhand webcam on facebook marketplace, and set up your little filming space in the corner of your apartment. it was nothing fancy. the lighting was bad, the camera wasn’t great, and instead of a tripod you had a stack of books.
but it worked.
you slipped into the only matching lingerie set you owned— soft pink lace, delicate ribbons, tiny bows stitched in all the right places. sheer enough to tease, but still leaving just enough to the imagination. the bra straps slipped down your shoulders as you posed in front of the mirror, lips parted, fingers playing with the waistband of your panties.
picking the best ones, you captioned them with something playful then posted them to onlyfans, shut your laptop, and forgot about it. you weren’t expecting much. maybe a few subscribers, a little extra cash, nothing major.
then, your account blew up.
someone with a bit of reach had apparently found your photos and posted them to a a ddlg subreddit, and suddenly you were everywhere.
at first, you didn’t notice. but when you woke up to hundreds of new notifications, dms, and tips flooding in overnight, you started digging.
that’s when you saw it. a post on reddit. thousands of upvotes. hundreds of comments dissecting your photos in excruciating detail.
[r/ddlg] found this new onlyfans girl and i'm losing my mind. she’s so soft. look at her. look at her.
🔺14.3k upvotes 💬 793 comment
u/daddysfavorite456: this is the most perfect little babygirl i’ve ever seen wtf
🔺6.2k
u/sirspanksalot: the way she’s tugging her panties down just a little… i need a moment
🔺4.9k
u/subsugarplum: her little pout in the third pic is actually ruining my life
🔺3.3k
u/softdom_daddy: how do we make sure she never pays for anything again in her life?
🔺7.1k
your breath caught in your throat as you scrolled. every detail of your photos was being analyzed. obsessed over.
the way you tilted your head just slightly, eyes wide and doe-like. the way your fingers curled in the hem of your panties, like you were hesitating. like you needed permission. the little pout in the last photo, lower lip caught between your teeth, the faintest furrow in your brows.
suddenly, your subscriber count was doubling by the hour.
new subscribers flooded in overnight. your follower count jumped by thousands. dms piled up, requests, tips, compliments, outright begging.
"you're perfect. please let me take care of you." ($20 tip)
"you’re the softest little thing i’ve ever seen." ($50 tip)
"tell me you do custom videos. i’ll pay whatever." ($100 tip)
the sudden influx of attention was overwhelming. you barely had time to process it before people were demanding more.
demand skyrocketed. they were practically clawing at your metaphorical door, begging for more content, more variety— more, more, more.
for now, solo work was fine. it was safe. comfortable. easy to control. but you knew it wouldn’t be enough forever. you saw it in the comments, in the messages, in the ever-growing list of requests. they wanted more than just you and a camera. they wanted another presence. another body in the frame.
you debated your options. a studio would be the safest bet. you had the budget now— painstakingly built, every small tip, every renewal adding up until you finally had enough that you didn't need to comprise comfort.
but finding the right studio was another thing entirely.
you didn’t want the overproduced, garish lights and cheap theatrics of mainstream porn. you wanted subtlety. intimacy. something with taste. good lighting, soft edits, angles that captured the feeling rather than just the act.
something that matched the persona you had so carefully built.
you thought about it for weeks before finally bringing it up to valeria, a girl you often had collabs with.
she tilted her head when you mentioned it. "professional production..? you know there are a lot of seedy guys out there."
you nodded, worrying your lip between your teeth. you’d done enough research to know that most so-called "professional" setups were just glorified scams, with sleazy directors who treated performers like props.
valeria watched you for a second, then clicked her tongue. "but, if you ever actually follow through, i know a guy. a lot of the girls have worked with him before. big name in the business. respects his actors. good guy." she pulled out her phone. "i’ll send you his portfolio. put in a good word."
you meet könig a few weeks later, after countless back-and-forth emails, late-night calls hammering out details, discussions about setups, plot points, pricing. every conversation had been strictly professional so far and you appreciated the distinct lack of attempts to try and get in your pants.
you don’t expect to spot him the moment you step into the airbnb you rented for the shoot, but there he is, standing head and shoulders above the rest of the crew. and the first thing that strikes you isn’t his height (though jesus, he’s massive). it’s how out of place he looks.
he doesn’t carry himself like someone in the industry. doesn’t exude that easy sleaze, that over-familiar smirk you’ve come to expect from men in this business. no tight black tee straining over biceps, no carefully curated air of supremacy with just a hint of nicotine.
instead, he looks like someone’s dad who got lost on his way to a hardware store and somehow ended up in the adult industry instead.
his glasses are perched high on the bridge of his nose, pushed up with the absentminded shove of a knuckle. his sweater— soft, thick, comfortable— hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal thick forearms dusted with silver hair. he’s dressed like he should be standing at a backyard grill, not directing an erotic film.
he’s older than you expected. forty, according to his portfolio, and he wears it well. silver threading through black, crow’s feet at the corners of sharp, washed-out blue eyes. his nose is crooked— like it had been broken once and never quite set right— makes his face look lived-in, a little rough around the edges. his stubble is light, a soft dusting of salt and pepper.
he looks warm.
he’s talking to someone. one of the crew, maybe, head dipped slightly, listening intently. but even hunched, even relaxed, his sheer size makes him loom.
and then the door clicks shut behind you, and he hears it. könig's head lifts, pale blue eyes settling on you in an instant.
he excuses himself with a quiet murmur. hands tucked into the front pocket of his pants, broad shoulders rolling slightly like he’s trying to make himself smaller, less imposing.
it doesn’t work.
“good to finally meet you,” he says, accent curling soft in his words.
oh, you think. you hadn’t expected that, either.
his voice is deep, just shy of being harsh. it's a far cry from the sharp tone you’d imagined after hearing him speak over the phone. there’s something smoother about it in person, a warmth undercutting the rough edges.
you shift the tray of coffee in your hands, balancing it carefully before setting it down on the small folding table near the entrance.
“brought coffee for everyone,” you say, wringing your hands because you refuse to brush them off on your dress.
he glances down at the cups, and for a second you think you see something soften in his expression.
“thoughtful,” he murmurs, and though his face remains unreadable, you can hear the approval in his voice.
you exhale, trying to shake off the nervous energy thrumming in your chest, and clear your throat. “figured caffeine would help. don’t wanna be the reason your crew collapses mid-shoot.”
könig huffs something close to a chuckle, tipping his head toward the set-up behind him. “they’ve worked under worse conditions.”
you’re not sure what that means, but before you can ask, he gestures for you to follow him further into the space.
the next few minutes are easy. professional. you go over the shot list, the angles he’s planning, how he likes to work— efficient and minimal retakes unless absolutely necessary. he asks about your preferences, what you don’t want, what you do.
it’s…comfortable. smoother than you expected. he’s patient, but direct. no wasted words, no unnecessary small talk, just the work. you like that.
and then your phone rings.
you pull it from your pocket without thinking, glancing at the name on the screen. simon riley. your co-star. you press accept, bringing the phone to your ear.
“hey, you on your way?” you ask, already stepping away from könig, mind half on the conversation you’d just been having.
but simon doesn’t answer right away. there’s a beat of silence. “can’t make it.”
your stomach drops. you stop short, pulse spiking. “what?”
“somethin’ came up. won’t be able to get there.”
you glance at könig, breath stalling in your throat. this cannot be happening.
“simon, i can’t reschedule,” you hiss, stepping further away, out of earshot. “i already paid for the location, the crew’s already here-”
“nothin’ i can do, sweetheart,” he interrupts, not unkind. “’m sorry.”
but sorry doesn’t fix this. sorry doesn’t change the fact that if you don’t shoot today, you’re out thousands. your grip tightens around your phone. “simon, please-”
the line clicks.
he’s gone.
panic creeps up your spine, cold sweat starting to form on your palms. you can’t not shoot today. you can’t afford it. the budget’s already stretched thin, and a reschedule isn’t just inconvenient— it’s impossible.
you drag a hand to wipe the sweat on your forehead.
könig’s eyes are on you and you can feel the heat of his gaze. when you turn, he asks, “problem?”
you open your mouth, hesitate. because what the fuck are you supposed to say? every option you can think of results in you losing a few hundred dollars at the minimum.
you figure the truth is the best option you've got. “simon's out.”
könig watches as your fingers tighten around your phone, knuckles turning white. you press your lips together, trembling just slightly before biting down.
he tilts his head, slow. "know anyone that can sub in?"
you shake your head immediately, too fast, too frantic. a sharp inhale makes your shoulders rise, lashes fluttering against the unshed tears that suddenly gloss your eyes.
fuck.
you’re going to cry.
könig shouldn’t be looking this closely.
shouldn’t be cataloging every shift of your body. shouldn’t be tracking how your throat works as you swallow, how the delicate line of your jaw tenses under pressure.
it’s detail that shouldn’t register. detail that has no purpose. no place. no right to send his thoughts careening somewhere they have no business going.
but there they go anyway.
because he's been watching you.
not in a way that's creepy— könig tells himself that, over and over. he was just a professional doing his research, getting a feel for his clients. it’s good business practice, staying informed, making sure he knows who he’s working with, what they bring to the table.
and if that research led him to your socials, to hours of footage in soft, honeyed lighting, to endless clips of you sprawled out on pristine white sheets as you mewled into the camera— well. that was just part of the job, wasn’t it?
but the truth, the thing he never says out loud, not even to himself is that he’s spent far too many nights with his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, watching you through the screen.
watching you in those tiny lingerie sets. pink and white lace, frilly little bows, the kind of girlish softness that makes his teeth ache.
könig's watched every fucking video. every stream. every post. hours spent with his laptop open, pants shoved down around his hips, hand working his cock as you bat your lashes and moan so sweetly it makes his head spin.
‘am i a good girl?’ you breathe into the mic, like you’re talking right to him. like you know.
and god, does he know you.
he’s studied you. learned you. mapped out every twitch, every tell, every fleeting flicker of pleasure that crosses your pretty face. the way your brows pinch together when you’re getting desperate. the way your lips part right before you come, glossy and swollen, tongue darting out to wet them like you want something in your mouth, like you’re inviting someone to grab you by the jaw and fuck your throat until you can’t think.
he’s seen how your thighs start to tremble when you edge yourself too long. how your back arches off the sheets when you finally let go, hips rolling into your own hand, breath catching in your throat as you fall apart in a mess of shuddery gasps.
könig has jerked off to all of it.
not just once. not just twice.
so many times he’s lost count.
sometimes slow, drawing it out to hear that little whimper you make at the end— the one that sounds like you’ve been fucked dumb.
sometimes rough. desperate. chasing his own release with one hand fisted in the sheets and the other pumping his cock.
it drives him fucking crazy.
it’s worse up close. worse when you shift on your feet, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to hold yourself together.
stop.
he clenches his fists. drags in a breath through his nose. he is not some fucking rookie. not some kid who can’t keep his head straight.
but then you make a sound that crawls under his skin and sinks deep. and suddenly his thoughts are careening somewhere they shouldn’t go—
places where that breathy little sound is choked out against his palm. where those fingers twisting at your sleeves are scrabbling at his belt instead, pulling, fumbling, desperate.
his cock twitches.
jesus christ.
it’s perverse. it’s wrong. twenty years between you. he shouldn't even be thinking about you like this. but then he thinks about how small your hands would look trying to wrap around his cock. how easily he could press you up against the nearest wall, let you feel how bad he wants you, let you know exactly what you do to him—
and yeah.
he’s fucked.
his grip tightens on the coffee cup, knuckles white, cardboard crumpling in his palm.
"we can reschedule." it’s the logical thing to say. the right thing.
but you stiffen immediately, shaking your head almost violently, like the mere suggestion hurts.
"i can’t." your voice wobbles. "i don’t have the budget for it. the airbnb, the crew- if we don’t shoot today, it’s done. i lose it."
he can hear the distraught in your voice, the panic creeping in, rising in your throat. and könig— könig has never been good at ignoring that kind of thing.
his jaw tightens. his fingers flex. his pulse pounds in his ears. and before he can think better of it—
"i can do it."
your head jerks up, eyes locking onto his. wide. startled.
"what?"
könig lifts a broad shoulder, deceptively casual, ignoring how his pulse is hammering in his throat. acting as if he didn’t just offer himself up like it was nothing.
"i can do it," he repeats. "you need a scene partner."
he pauses, just long enough to make sure you’re really listening before he adds, pointed: "i’ve done worse for less."
it’s true too. könig had started shooting for money, not for passion, not for art. there were years where he took any job that paid, no matter how grimy, no matter how degrading. no dignity in it, no careful framing, no thoughtful direction. just harsh lighting, rough hands, the sound of too many bodies shifting in too little space.
it’s not like that anymore.
now, he works for himself. he makes art, in his own way. he only takes projects that meet his standards, only shoots what he knows will look good.
könig lets out a short, amused breath, tilting his head. "wouldn’t offer if i wasn’t."
your gaze flickers down to his mouth, just for a second, before snapping back up.
he notices. of course he fucking notices.
you hesitate, worrying your lip between your teeth, and he wants— god, he wants.
he lifts his coffee, takes a slow sip. watches you.
"think it through," he says, letting the accent curl around the words. "do you trust me?"
you stare at him, breath coming in short, uneven pulls. your fingers tighten around your phone.
and then, even though you probably shouldn't, you nod.
this is insane, is all you can think as your hands smooth down the dress, fingertips catching on the fabric’s delicate weave. it sways when you move, hem teasing the tops of your thighs.
the crew picked it because it feels normal, something someone’s wife might wear on a lazy sunday, waiting for her husband to walk through the door. not lingerie, not tight or short or scandalous. innocent.
somehow, that makes it worse.
the set sprawls before you, carefully crafted to mimic home. the couch sits comfortably worn— or at least looks like it, upholstery creased just enough to suggest years of use. a blanket lies draped over the back, fringes brushed out to seem effortless.
the coffee table holds small artifacts of a life: a half-empty mug with a faint lipstick stain, a book splayed open, pages curled, a pair of keys glinting under the warm overhead glow. off to the side, a framed photo perches, two strangers caught in mid-laugh, frozen happiness you’re supposed to claim as yours.
the lighting bathes it all in amber. soft, forgiving. like sunset spilling through a window that doesn’t exist. everything is designed to feel. to pull the viewer into a scene that isn’t real but wants to be. warmth. comfort. longing.
your pulse trips. nerves coil tight under your. stepping out, you inhale–
and there he is.
könig stands beside the couch, posture loose, almost as if he’s holding himself back from something. the uniform strains against him, fabric pulled taut across broad shoulders and the solid line of his chest. it’s glaringly obvious that it wasn’t tailored for a man like him— you doubt anything ever is— but he wears it like it belongs to him anyway. the belt grips a tapered waist, dog tags resting cold against his sternum. they glint when he shifts, catching the warmth of the lights.
he’s big. that part you knew. everyone knows. but there’s something about seeing him like this, the bulk of him filling the space, boots planted, arms crossed, sleeves clinging to thick forearms, that makes your breath catch in your throat.
he looks like he could hold the world in his hands. break it if he wanted.
then he lifts his head. and his gaze finds you.
it hits like a physical weight, gravity pulling you closer.
his eyes track the line of your body. starting from your face, drifting down, and back up again. for a moment you assume he’s taking inventory, cataloguing details you didn’t know you were offering.
your skin prickles under the attention. heat pooling low, spreading outwards.
könig’s jaw shifts. a muscle ticks. his fingers flex where they rest against his bicep, knuckles pale for half a second before he eases them loose.
you swallow. "do i look okay?"
silence stretches. then: "you look perfect."
his voice sounds like it's been scraped raw from something you can’t name. and you know you shouldn’t take his words to heart. shouldn’t make something out of nothing. he was just being polite—
but god, he doesn’t stop looking.
you breathe out. "are we ready?"
that seems to snap him out. könig exhales, nostrils flaring. “yeah," he says, looking away.. "we’re ready."
you nod and he turns, clapping his hands together.
"quiet on set!" his voice cuts through the chatter. "lights- ready? camera?"
a muffled ‘rolling!’ comes from behind the equipment.
he glances back, stepping into place. "sound?"
"speed!"
he nods, shoulders shifting under the snug uniform. "all right. action on me. three... two..."
his gaze flickers forward, locks onto you. his hand lifts, a silent ‘ready?’
you nod.
"action!"
the front door creaks open.
you see him first— broad shoulders filling the doorway, boots heavy against the worn rug you picked out last fall. his bag drops with a dull thump, keys jangling, and for a beat, you just stand there, watching.
it doesn't feel real. something out of a dream. your husband looks older somehow. tired. lines carved a little deeper around his eyes, hair at his temples brushed with more gray than before.
it's longer now too, the ends curling where sweat and travel have left it mussed.
then his gaze lifts, blue catching yours. and that’s all it takes.
you move.
your feet carry you faster than you realize, dress fluttering against your legs as you throw yourself into him.
könig catches you with a small grunt, part effort, part relief, hardly moving from his spot. strong arms close around you as he lifts you off the floor with an ease that's almost unfair.
his hand finds the back of your thigh, fingers splayed wide. "easy, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice rough from disuse, deepened by exhaustion and age. there’s an edge to it, earned from years of barking orders and nicotine abuse. "still getting old, you know."
you huff a breath that’s almost a laugh. "you’re not that old."
"hm." könig presses his face into your hair. "tell that to my back."
your chest tightens. god, you missed him. missed the way he smells— soap, leather, that faint trace of cologne you’d tucked into his bag months ago, almost worn off, but still miraculously there. you press your nose to his neck, breathing him in, and whisper, "missed you."
"missed you more." when he pulls back, his gaze traces every line of your face, eyes crinkling at the corners. "lemme take a good look at you, baby."
heat blooms in your cheeks, but you let him. there’s something reverent about his gaze when you meet his eyes.
then, he kisses you.
and fuck.
it’s messy. warm. his mouth is rough against yours, stubble scraping your skin, tasting like coffee burned down to the dregs.
"god," you breathe, voice catching on a gasp. "i love you."
könig chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours. "love you too," he murmurs, using that voice he saves for early mornings when you’re tucked against him, trading lazy kisses and whispered secrets.
his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you close. the world tilts, narrows, until there’s nothing but him. his body, his breath, the scratch of his stubble when he tilts his head, brushing his nose against yours.
then his fingers slip under your dress. his breath hitches the moment he finds you bare, his touch grazing soft folds, sticky and warm with slick.
"no panties?" his voice dips somewhere between a laugh and a growl.
heat blooms in your stomach. you bite your lip, shrugging. "figured you'd appreciate it."
his gaze darkens, blue eclipsed by black. "oh, do i."
könig’s fingers slide between your folds, dragging through the slick mess you’ve already made. you flinch at the contact, hips twitching toward him before you can catch yourself.
he pushes it in, slow. the stretch punches a gasp out of you, walls fluttering around the intrusion. he pauses, ignores your whine, brows drawing together, finger knuckle-deep. "did you get tighter?"
his voice is soft, almost like he’s talking more to himself than you, words slipping out under his breath.
his finger curls, pressing snug against your walls, testing just how much resistance it meets.
you whimper, thighs twitching, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. "m-maybe if you fucked me more, i wouldn’t be."
the words tumble out before you can think to stop them. your pulse skips as you process what you just said. heat floods your face.
könig’s head tilts. his eyes flick up, narrowing, — not angry, not exactly— but his stare steals the breath from your lungs all the same. your lips part, trying to fumble out an apology stuck at the back of your throat when—
slap.
he pulls his finger free and smacks your pussy.
you squeak, body jerking as the sting blooms quick and hot between your legs, warmth spreading through your skin, rushing up your spine. you’re caught between shock and the low, simmering heat that pools in your belly.
"careful," könig warns although his tone is deceptively light. his fingers tap against your clit in soft, featherlight pulses of teasing pressure that makes your thighs jump. "keep that attitude and i’ll slap this pretty little thing five times. make you count every single one. s’that what you want?"
your cunt clenches, slick dribbling down to coat his knuckles. he feels it, of course he does. feels how your body betrays you, responding before your mind can catch up.
chest heaving, you shake your head, breath shivering out of you. "no-"
"no?" he echoes a soft mockery, fingers dragging through the mess between your thighs, spreading it just to hear the wet sound it makes echo in the space between you. "then behave, sweetheart. don’t make me teach you."
your heart pounds, breath coming in little gasps as you offer him a jerky nod. könig only watches with lazy half-lidded eyes.
"now," he murmurs, finger filling you again. "gonna ask one more time. have you gotten tighter..." his thumb brushes your clit, just enough to make you twitch, "...or have i just left you empty for too long?"
heat surges through you. your hands clutch at his jacket, grounding yourself in the weight of him. your face burns.
"you were gone for so long," you whisper, voice small, shame curling in your stomach.
he sighs. something in his gaze softens, guilt threading through his voice. "i know, baby." his forehead presses against yours. “missed you too."
you sniffle, nuzzling into his shoulder. "y-you can’t go away that long again..." the words tremble, cracking at the edges.
he kisses your temple, breath warm against your skin. "i won’t," he lies, gentle. "let me stretch you out, yeah?"
könig guides you further into your home, coaxing you down on the couch. könig kneels between your legs, broad hands spreading you open and drinking in the sight of you laid out before him.
"look at you," he murmurs, thumb dragging through your folds, gathering your slick up to rub slow circles against your clit. "so wet for me already. miss having me inside, huh?"
your fingers clutch at the cushions as he begins to fill you, head tipping back. "yes-"
"you gotta watch, pretty," könig interrupts, fingers tilting your chin back down.
your gaze drops, breath catching when you see it— his thick fingers buried deep inside you, slick dribbling down his knuckles. the gold band around his finger shines beneath the mess you’ve made, drenched, the sight obscene and somehow more intimate than you’re prepared for. your walls flutter around him, clenching down like your body’s desperate to keep him there.
"look at that.” he grind. "look at your cute little cunny... makin’ a mess all over me."
your cheeks burn. you squirm, trying to close your thighs, but his other hand tightens on your hip, keeping you spread. "no hiding," he says. "told you to watch."
so you do.
you watch the slow drag of his fingers pulling out, coated in slick that strings between you. your cunt clenches around nothing, throbbing, and you let out a soft, desperate whimper. könig hums, pleased, pressing back in. "look how well you take me," he says, dragging against that spot inside that makes your vision blur.
you whimper, head spinning, hips grinding down onto his hand. "feels so good-"
"yeah?" he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "gonna let me in now, sweetheart? let me fill you up nice and slow?"
you nod, frantic, words lost to the heat coiling low in your stomach. könig smiles, pulling his fingers free. you whine at the loss.
"shh," he soothes, wiping his slick-covered fingers against the head of his cock, spreading you over himself. "gonna take care of you. just lay back and be good for me, yeah?"
his hands grip your thighs, pressing them up toward your chest, folding you beneath him. your skin burns under the pressure, nerves sparking with every shift of his weight. the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance. he’s patient, achingly so— dragging it along your folds, gathering your slick, smearing it along his length until you’re soaked enough that he doesn’t have to rip you open.
könig’s gaze drops to where you’re spread open for him. "ready?"
you nod, breath catching in your throat, but it’s barely a sound, barely a thought when he starts to press in. he breaches you, the thick crown of his cock pushing past your entrance. your cunt clenches on instinct, trying to force him out, but könig presses on.
every inch feels like fire licking up your spine, burning through every nerve until you’re nothing but sensation.
"gonna fill you up, sweetheart.” his voice is a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. "stretch you out every day i’m home-" he drives forward another inch, making your back arch, "-’til this pretty cunt just opens up for me."
you can’t speak. can’t think. everything narrows down to the drag of him inside you, veins and ridges catching on the soft walls of your cunt. your mind spins, vision blurring as your hips jerk, instinctively trying to escape the overwhelming fullness. his fingers bite into your thighs, holding you in place.
"uh-uh," he murmurs, dark amusement curling at the edges of his words. "don’t run, baby. you wanted this."
he braces himself, broad shoulders tense above you as he tries to sink deeper. but even with how wet you are, how pliant you’ve gone beneath him, your body refuses to give. his hips stutter, pushing, pushing— yet still, there’s that impossible last inches he can’t force past.
“p-please- need it, need you-” the words spill out as he pauses, pulling back an inch.
"i know, baby, i know," he pants, forehead pressing to yours, sweat slick between you, before rolling his hips back in, trying his damn best to bottom out, but your cunt clenches stubbornly. frustration twists across his face, the sight of you writhing beneath him, cunt stretched wide and still too tight to take him fully— it drives him insane.
"gonna have to fix that," he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.
you nod, dazed, tears slipping down your temples as you sob out a choked, "yes- yes, please-"
"shh," könig soothes, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. "you’re doin’ so good, baby. takin’ me so well. just need to open you up a little more, yeah?"
könig adjusts his grip, hands sliding beneath your knees, lifting you with ease. before you can even register the shift, he’s pulling you up against his chest, arms hooking beneath your legs, locking you back in a full nelson.
your breath stutters, eyes going wide as your body is left entirely at his mercy, weightless in his grip, spread open around him.
könig’s lips graze your ear. "gonna let gravity help us, yeah? lil bit of science. let’s see if this pretty little cunt can take all of me now."
your toes curl, breath hitching as he angles his hips, smearing your slick between you.
then he lets gravity do most of the work.
your breath leaves you in a shattered moan as your body sinks down, forced open as he drops you down on his cock. your walls flutter, clenching around him, stretched impossibly wide, struggling to take him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you squirm away.
"that’s it," könig groans, arms flexing as he holds you still, keeps you spread. "so fuckin’ good for me, baby. lettin’ me stretch you open- gonna make you take it all."
you whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your lips, eyes rolling back as the last stubborn inch finally, finally sinks in, his cock seated fully inside you for the first time.
"fuck," könig grits out. "that’s my girl. knew you could take it, baby. knew you just needed a little help."
könig doesn’t give you much of a chance to adjust. the moment he thinks you're ready, his arms tighten, muscles flexing as he hauls you up before slamming you back down.
you jolt, cunt forced to stretch and squeeze around him with every thrust. his strength controls everything— the pace, the depth, the way you bounce like a ragdoll, helpless to slow him down. he’s slamming himself inside, spearing you open over and over, forcing you to stretch wider than you ever have.
you can’t keep up. your limbs go slack, muscles useless, brain short-circuiting. your vision blurs, eyes rolling back, drool slipping from the corner of your lips as your mouth falls open in a silent scream.
könig chuckles, pleased, watching the way you’ve gone completely limp in his arms. "gonna stretch you out like this every single day. keep you full, fuck you dumb, make sure this little cunt remembers who it belongs to."
your body convulses, wracked with sensation too intense to hold in. könig keeps moving, fucking you onto his cock like he’s trying to break you in, to shape your cunt to his cock.
"n-no-" your voice barely comes out. a sob caught in your throat as your fingers claw weakly at his forearms. your legs shake, eyes welling up, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. "g-gonna pee," you whimper, body locking up.
"no, baby." he drags you down harder, grinding the thick head of his cock against that perfect spot inside you. "you’re gonna cum. gonna make a mess all over me, aren't you?"
your sob turns into a choked wail as you gush, squirting hard, the release almost violent, soaking könig's thighs, dripping down to form a puddle on the floor beneath you.
könig watches you fall apart with hooded eyes, holding you up as your body jerks and trembles in his arms. "good girl," he praises, sounding utterly enthralled by the mess you’ve made. "fuckin’ knew you’d soak me- knew you were just a little messy thing."
you slump against him, muscles useless. the aftershocks have you so dazed that you barely register the shift before you’re being turned, pressed down against the floor, cheek squished against the slick puddle you just made.
"könig-" you whimper, trying to lift yourself, but his broad hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, keeping you open.
he ignores you, fingers digging into your hips, adjusting your position, spreading you wider. he lines himself up and pushes in, stuffing you to the brim in one deep thrust. your fingers claw at the wet floor beneath you, the slick sound of him sinking into you obscene in the quiet.
"good fuckin’ girl," he drags his cock out before slamming back in, his thighs slapping against your ass. "just let me use you, yeah? just take it like my perfect little cumdump."
you sob into the mess beneath you. könig presses your face harder against it, his broad palm splayed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned.
"lick it up," he orders, tone smooth, assured, the kind of voice that expects obedience.
your whole body burns, but the heat between your legs is hotter. könig feels the way you clench around him at the command, the way your body betrays you before your lips can even form a protest.
"kö-”
“don’t make me say it twice, sweetheart," he warns, hips pulling back, dragging his cock out until only the tip stretches you open.
"what’s the matter?" he mocks. "you were so eager to make this mess- now you’re going shy?"
your breath shudders out in a small whimper before you obey, lowering your head, tongue flicking out, just barely grazing the puddle beneath you.
könig clicks his tongue. "that’s not licking, that’s teasing."
his hips snap forward, knocking you further into the mess, forcing your mouth against it. your lips part with a gasp, and könig watches, eyes dark and hungry, as you taste yourself properly for the first time.
"there we go," he hums, smug satisfaction. "now clean up every drop."
your cheeks burn as you press your tongue flat to the floor, licking a slow, tentative stripe through the mess. the taste floods your mouth and your stomach twists— but the weight of könig’s cock inside you, the way he keeps you full and stretched and pinned beneath him, sends another rush of slick dripping down your thighs.
he notices. of course he notices.
"oh, sweetheart," he breathes. "you like this, don’t you?"
your body betrays you again, a little shiver running down your spine, your cunt fluttering around him.
"mm, you do." he chuckles, dragging his fingers through your hair, tightening his grip. "filthy little thing. you’re gettin’ off on this."
you squeeze your eyes shut, shame crawling up your throat.
"könig-"
"uh-uh," he interrupts, grip tightening, making you whimper. "keep licking, schatz. don’t stop ‘til it’s gone."
your tongue flicks out again, lapping up another mouthful, swallowing it down even as heat prickles behind your eyes.
könig groans at the sight, his free hand stroking down your spine, over the curve of your ass. "that’s it, baby," he breathes. "such a good little slut for me."
you whimper, thighs squeezing together, hips rocking subtly against him, desperate for friction, for anything.
he notices that, too. "oh, you poor thing," he coos, all false sympathy, fingers stroking your cheek where it’s damp with tears. "s’this gettin’ you all worked up?"
könig pulls back just a little, dragging his length through your overstretched walls. "you gonna come just from this?" he asks, rolling his hips. your body tenses, toes curling. "from licking your mess off the floor like a good little bitch?"
your face burns, whole body trembling. too full, too overwhelmed, too much— and yet, you nod, a choked little sob escaping your lips.
his pace stutters, burying himself to the hilt with a ragged groan, holding you still as he spills inside, his cock twitching, pumping thick ropes of cum into your swollen cunt. "fuck," he pants, chest heaving, his weight bearing down on you. "so good, baby. took me so fuckin’ well."
his cum is hot inside you, sticky, leaking, seeping out around his cock as he slowly pulls back, watching his spend start to slip from your overstretched hole. könig hums, almost thoughtful. he presses a broad palm against your pussy, scooping it up, pushing it back in with two thick fingers, shoving his spend as deep as it’ll go. "keep it in,” he says almost absentmindedly. he lifts his hand after a moment, tilting his head as he examines the way it drips from his fingers.
his free hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up. your lips part before he even has to tell you. "clean it up," he slides his ring finger past your lips.
your lashes flutter, heat prickling up your spine as you close your lips around him, sucking gently, swirling your tongue over the ridges of his finger, tasting yourself, tasting him.
könig groans, thumb stroking over your cheek, watching your lips stretch around the digit, tongue flicking against the band wrapped around his finger.
"good girl," he breathes, eyes hooded, cock twitching against your slick folds, already stirring again, already wanting more.
he presses his finger deeper, until it nudges against the back of your throat, until your breath stutters and your eyes go hazy, wet.
"so pretty like this.” his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit. "gonna keep you like this forever, wife. nice and full."
he pulls his finger from your mouth with a soft pop, watching the way your tongue flicks out after it, lips wet, eyes dazed. "gonna make you a mommy.” he grins. “fill you up every night until it takes.”
Leon comes home feeling better than he has in ages, and he knows just how he wants to show you.
ao3 ✦ wc: 5.9k
tags: Leon Kennedy/cisfem!reader, marathon sex, multiple creampies, p in v, porn w/o plot, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, cockdrunkeness, rough sex, praise & degradation, aftercare, wife!reader, can imagine with or w/o age gap, re9 requiem spoilers
a/n: I meant for this to be love-making but then it turned freak nasty oops
SMS Message: Home tomorrow.
Sender: Leon S.K.
You jumped up from the couch as you read it, the words shaking on the screen you held with trembling hands.
You didn’t think he’d come home so soon. You didn’t think he’d come home at all.
The next 18 hours were a blur, and then you heard it: the purr of a familiar motor in the driveway. It stopped you dead in your tracks, standing as still as a statue in the kitchen. You tensed as you waited for the sound of footsteps outside— held your breath as you heard the key in the lock— watched unblinkingly as the handle turned— when Leon walked through the door, time itself went still.
For a moment, all you could do was stare. You didn’t know what to expect. Every mission changed him, and you didn’t know what new version of him would walk through the door now, or how to react to it. And the stakes had never been higher.
The days before his departure were spent mostly in silence, doing little else except hold each other as his departure neared every second. You both knew the two likely results: he’d either die in the place it all began or come home even closer to death’s door. He’d wait for his disease to slowly consume his soul while he made his own funeral plans, and you’d stay close to your gun to prepare for the moment he went cold.
You’d spent the time between his text and now clinging to hope and preparing yourself for the worst. You’d never felt as fragile as the moment he opened the door.
He looked your way as the lock clicked behind him. It was only a few seconds, but they expanded into eons as you searched him for signs of bad news. A knit in his brow, or a downward tug of his lips. Traces of tears he may have wiped away in the car before you could see them. His steely eyes filling with grief.
But you didn’t see any of that. Instead, he grinned and held his arms out wide.
You flew crashing into them. He was steady, firm, and tight as you clutched your fists into the back of his shirt. His arms wrapped around your head and he kissed the top of it softly, swaying you ever so slightly because he was too overcome to stand still.
For minutes, all you did was stand in the doorway and hold. That was the quiet choreography of all of his homecomings, though it never felt routine. Each time it had a different weight, and this one was the heaviest yet by far.
When you finally were able to pull away, you scanned him again for signs of injury, physical or otherwise. You knew him like you knew yourself, and even the most imperceptible changes never got past you.
Your eyes widened when they dropped to his neck.
You didn’t have to ask; he already knew the question. He answered it, still smiling, his voice gravelly and low, soft and tired, but not weary. All of it built up your hopes until he finally spoke it into reality.
“I’m alright, baby.”
His hands grazed your face, and you nearly flinched at the feeling of his bare fingertips purely out of habit. You’d spent months of him preventing you from coming into contact with his infected tissue. But then you realized what you were feeling: real skin sans leather, flesh devoid of flaw. His fingers were roughened from calluses and nothing more, complete with his wedding band returned to its rightful place.
Your eyes watered in disbelief and awe. A trepidatious smile grew on your lips as he cupped your cheek in his palm. You covered his hand with your own and pressed into the warmth while your other hand traced up his torso, until you were grazing over the skin of his neck and nudging down his shirt collar.
It was free of all black-rotted dry patches, no cracks on the surface to be seen. Nothing but a fresh scar you didn’t need to ask about right now. Right now, all that mattered was that he was whole and solid, returned to his natural state, totally healed and hot-blooded under the surface.
Your breath hitched at his body heat. Oh, how you missed his skin.
“You’re really okay..?”
The words were small and barely squeaked out. You didn’t want false hope. You needed to know the healing was more than just skin deep. His reaction assuaged all fears.
“Yeah. I really am.”
The truth took a moment to permeate the air. When it did, he took you in a kiss so firm and certain, it crushed all remaining doubt.
You met it fiercely, pushing yourself against his torso to feel him closer. Your hands threaded into the hair on the nape of his neck as he wrapped his arms around to hold you firmly in place.
Your tongue darted out first, or maybe his did, you couldn’t say. And from there, it happened fast.
His hands moved to the back of your head, then your waist, and then your ass, where they couldn’t help but grope and lift until your legs wrapped around him and he held you in the air. You grabbed his face as your lips parted wider to allow his tongue further inside. He roughly kicked off his boots and then he was walking. He kept kissing you all the way through— he didn’t need to open his eyes, he knew where he was going.
Your back met the cool blankets on your bed and then he was crawling over you, caging you under him in the dark. You wrapped your hands around his biceps and felt the muscles flex as he lowered himself to kiss down your neck, covering each square inch of skin with his sloppy, desperate kisses.
“I feel better than I have in years. Spent the whole trip home waiting to show you.”
'To prove it to you' was in the subtext.
He returned to your mouth hotly and grinded his hips into your center, the friction of his jeans against the soft fabric of your home clothes making you keen into the toe-curling feeling. He pulled his shirt over his head and you took the opportunity to speak.
“Turn the lamp on, need to see you.”
He made quick work of reaching over to it, and then you shuddered as your palms felt the expanse of his abdomen. Tight ab muscles, beefy pectorals, and broad shoulders. The sight you never got sick of that made up his brawny form. All of it healed and renewed.
He kept grinding while you took him in. Your arms went up and around and down again, nearly worshipping the flesh. But when you yanked at his belt, he stopped you with his hands around your wrists, bringing them to each side of your head and caging you in again.
“Spent too much time thinking about what I’m gonna do to you.” He sat back up and you kept your arms where he fixed them as he began to pull at the elastic waistband of your bottoms. He kissed your exposed navel and you shivered as he mumbled into you. “Need’ta show you how I’ve always wanted to fuck you.”
You never felt like his age held him back much in the bedroom— his job relied on stamina and endurance, and though his job was physically demanding and he was not quite in his prime, the toll was mostly seen in the back pain after; it hardly showed in the moment. As his hands and mouth traveled every inch of exposed skin like a starving animal, you wondered if you could even handle him giving you something more. The thought of finding out went straight between your legs.
His mouth went straight there, too.
You nearly yelled as he dove into your cunt with a fervent tongue, lapping and sucking and messily making out with your folds, his thumbs kneading to pull open the soft fatty skin of your vulva. He wasn’t interested in wasting any time on teasing, clearly.
Your thighs clenched around his head and a hand pushed against his head reflexively to fight off the sudden intensity, but it was useless. The pressure of your legs around his head only spurred him on until your cunt was soaked in spit– it certainly wasn’t your own wetness– he devoured every ounce that escaped before it could go anywhere but his mouth.
You bucked and twitched as you cried out his name. “Leon, Leon, s’too much, holy— fuck, Leon—” but he only spread your thighs and kept your there, pointing his tongue to circle sharply around your clit.
“I’m just getting started, baby,” he said, sucking your clit into his mouth and letting go with a flilthy noise, “thought I’d never taste this sweet cunt again, gonna drink my fucking fill.”
Your head fell back as he dove back in, steady and thorough and obscene. You took deep breaths, although they were more like hitched pants and moans until you acclimated to the sensation. He hummed as he felt you melt under him and added a single finger inside, groaning when you arched into it.
He slowed down, his finger rocking and curling in and out and his tongue lapping at you. You looked down to see his darkened eyes gazing at his work between tastes, and you shuddered as he licked his lips before retracting all touch. Your hips flinched upwards to beckon him to return, but he didn’t. He met your eyes and reveled in your wanton expression as he sucked you off his fingers, never breaking eye contact as he rose to kneel between your parted legs.
He finally began to do away with his jeans, and something changed in his tone as he did. You shivered with desire as you watched him move. It was deliberate and slow. He was undressing like a threat.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen…”
His belt fell with a thud against the ground—
“I’m gonna fuck you until you cry…”
The button fell apart with a flick of his wrist—
“Fill you so full of cum you’ll be dripping ‘til next week…”
The zipper seemed to ache as it slowly parted open—
“And you’re gonna fucking take it.”
Unhurriedly and never once looking away from you, he pushed his pants and boxers down until his thick cock sprang free. You whined at the sight of it, eyes fixed where it hung in the air. It was dark pink– definitely darker than usual– his hot blood expanding every vein. He was harder than you’d ever seen him, a full display of the immensity of his desire, so much that it nearly looked painful. When a bead of precum began to appear on his tip, your mouth watered for it.
Your eyes scanned upward as you realized he’d stopped talking and was kneeling there in wait while you stared. You took in his form on the way up; the way his abs tightened with every throb of his cock, the striations of his brawny arms, the few new cuts over old scars. The heavy rise and fall of his chest as he held back for the last time tonight.
And then, you saw his face. His chin was slightly raised as if he was looking down on his next confirmed kill. His lips were still glistening with slick as they were pulled into something not unlike a snarl. His hair was halfway in his eyes, but it did nothing to conceal the intent within them.
“You think you can handle that?”
Your eyes fleeted to his navel, only for a second, assessing him like a loaded gun that was aimed right at you. His hands held his clothes in tight fists and his cock leaked with pre.
You met his eyes again and blinked as you nodded and choked out a needy, “yes,” and your gulp gave away your uncertainty. But that only seemed to spur him on.
He fell forward; suddenly, his face was inches away from your own, one hand on the mattress beside your head to hold himself up, the other yanking his pants off as quickly as he could.
“You know what to say if you can’t,” he grumbled, hunkering down to glide his tip against you until it notched against your entrance, “because telling me to stop won’t be enough.”
He grabbed your wrist at the same time he violently drove in, knowing you’d leap from it and keeping you there anyways. You were nothing but a mess of yelps and moans as he beat his way inside, clawing against his back and shoulders. A single finger wasn’t enough to ready you for this, and the knocks against your cervix were only soothed by the equal force against your g-spot.
Each merciless pounding of his fat cock stretched your walls to their limit, and he truly didn’t give you any other option but to take it. You groaned at the way he used his broad build to keep your legs open to him, every ounce of muscle that you were no match against weighing down to pin you there.
With an arm wrapped under you to hold you by the back of the neck and the other tightening in the hair on the crown of your head, he caged you in to face him. But your dizzy eyes were squeezed shut and could only open to roll back into your skull.
He shook you lightly by the hair. “Look at me,” he growled. You mewled as you attempted it, but your glossy eyes went straight back behind your eyelids. He did it again, harder, pistoning up to fuck you harder, too. “Look at me, you fucking bitch.”
The shock of his words made your eyes shoot open with a gasp and a furrowed brow, far removed from the gentle reverence he held you in at the door. His gaze bore straight into you with a scowl, his adoration replaced with possession.
He was terrifying. Unhinged. A madman on the loose inside of you. A killer who lashed against your walls with uncalculated raw power. Though you could only see his face, it was the hottest thing you’d ever seen.
While you were still reeling from the disparagement, he gritted angrily into your face, crowding you until your noses nearly touched.
“Who owns you?”
You could only attempt to answer, your voice breaking into a sputtering moan as he bottomed out harshly again and again, not needing any of the great focus it took you to speak.
The pitiful noise you’d made wasn’t good enough for him. He squeezed the sides of your neck and you arched off the bed, but that only sent your body flush against his, which didn’t make you any clearer-headed.
“Tell me who fucking owns you.”
You felt like you were floating as your brain was cut off from blood flow, and out of care for your own wellbeing, you managed to answer him.
“Y-you, Leon—“
He let go of the pressure and smirked as you gasped. “Mouth not so good for talking right now, huh? Only good for one thing?”
He unclasped his fingers from your hair and brought them to your chin, delving into your parted lips to hook around your bottom teeth. You let your jaw fall open and watched in shock as he spat inside.
“Swallow it,” he commanded, fingers digging into your face as he pushed it shut. You shuddered as you did, and his own eyes rolled back now.
His head fell into the crook of your neck with a smoky groan. You felt hot puffs of air against your pulse as his hands became gentler, like he revered you for doing what he demanded.
“Gorgeous fucking girl… needed this cunt so bad, went through hell to get back home to you…”
His hold on you may have lessened, but his words held your heart in his fist and squeezed. He’d captured your thoughts so purely on the present, you nearly forgot the context.
Your arms were limp as they tried to wrap around his back, barely able to hold on as he moved with every pounding of his hips. But still, they searched him, chest filling with every inch they felt unmarred by disease, and your cunt pulsed as he searched you for places to grab. Your ebbing breasts, the small of your waist, the meat of your hips, landing finally on the underside of your knee where he changed the angle to impale himself even deeper.
You were losing it, and he could tell. He thrust upwards to meet where your hips rose to help him land in that perfect spot and he kissed your jugular— first a peck, then an open-mouthed kiss, and then a full-on lick of his tongue.
Your legs trembled under him. “Leon, I’m, fuck, please,” you breathed.
He twisted your nipple and nipped under your ear as if to mock how it made you writhe. “Oh yeah? You sure you wanna cum so soon?”
‘So soon’ ..?
Maybe he wasn’t all talk when this started. Maybe that savage look in his eye wasn't a trick of the light. At this rate, he wasn’t going to fuck you until you cried, he was going to fuck you until you died.
But he wanted it. He lifted himself enough to sear your mouth with a kiss, his thrusts slowing momentarily to wedge his hand against your clit. He gathered the wetness between your bodies to easily rub against the silky nub. Your toes curled and your spine curved to seek the friction of his freshly calloused fingers. He deepened the kiss as you moaned, and it became all tongue so he could swallow the sounds in his throat.
He was debauched. Delirious. A bad man smiling as he plucked petals from a flower. Delightfully drowning himself in sin. All you could do was surrender as he brought you your undoing.
You came with wild cries and jolts of ecstasy, nails digging into his deltoids as he sped up even more. You watched him look down at his cock being covered in your cream, a ragged sound in his throat as you tightened around him with each wave of pleasure.
You panted sharply as you barely began to come down, and he lifted himself up on his haunches, kneeling between your legs as he soaked up the sight.
Once your half-lidded eyes met his, he grabbed your hips to brutally fuck you into him.
You clawed at the sheets as he used you like a toy. You won’t be surprised if your ass is speckled with fingertip-shaped bruises tomorrow. All you could see in front of you was your breasts recoiling from each thrust, and behind them, Leon lost in his own world of feeling. His head was tipped back and you saw the stubble under his chin— his pecs were flexed and flushed pink from the vigor— all of him covered in a light gloss of sweat that shone in the warm lamplight.
He was intoxicating to behold, and it was absolutely unfair, because you already lost the ability to think straight. Now you drank him in with your eyes, and you were totally inebriated.
Your moans turned into some kind of mumble. You didn’t know what words you were hoping to form, but it was something along the lines of a warning that he was approaching the realm of too much. He looked down at your babbling with a lust-filled, lazy smirk, all too pleased with himself already.
“Whatdya want, love? You drunk on my cock already?”
He slapped your clit and laughed lowly as you gasped and jolted, then propped your limp legs around him and barreled in even more. Steady, fast, and loud.
Thank god the apartment days were over or the cops would come any minute. Skin slapping against skin, the headboard banging dents into the drywall, you crying out for him like he was carving out your heart. A noise complaint in the making. But when he signed the property deed, it came with the right to make you scream, neighbors be damned.
And scream you did as he held you even tighter and thumbed your swollen clit, evoking your walls to seize in the way he needed to release. He leaned back with a sharp and airy shout, hips sputtering as you felt him unload deep inside, his remaining jerky movements making it trickle out around him.
You were a touch thankful as he slowed down and his hands rubbed soothingly on your thighs. You could finally catch your breath. But your graciousness was short-lived as he flashed a grin and flipped you onto your stomach. The breath was forced out of you as your chest fell into the mattress, and your eyes went wide as he lined himself back up, slowly pushing inside, his cum allowing his cock to slip easily inside regardless of how sore your folds already were.
You whined and knotted your fists into the fabric under you as he bottomed out and pulled away with slow and liquid motions. You heard the faintest laugh rumble in his chest before he spoke.
“I’m not anywhere near done with you,” he huffed.
You buried your head in the soft sheets below. Filled with his load and the promise of another, you felt totally and completely his. Exactly where you wanted to be. Right where you belonged. You couldn’t help but smile, until he moved and it was wiped off your fucked-out face.
He gripped the meat of your ass as he steadily picked up speed, the silver of his wedding band cold against you in contrast to the heat of your bodies. A wet spot collected underneath you from his cock coaxing out his cum with each thrust. The sounds were softer yet even more crude with your cunt so sopping wet.
“Gripping me so good, look at you,” he spread your cunt apart a little more, “goddamn, you’re perfect.”
You felt mildly embarrassed at the messy sight of you that he was undoubtedly staring at right now, but at the same time, you envied his view. To watch his cock disappear inside of your puffy and well-used folds, then withdraw covered in his cum and a healthy mix of your own. To view his strong hands holding you open, to see yourself laid out in submission.
But all you could do was feel, and that was more than enough to sate you. In fact, you were already well past satisfaction, and you kept having to refind your focus so you could keep taking more. You inhaled deeply as you felt the soreness at your entrance and reminded yourself to relax your body, sighing away the tension in the muscles you didn’t mean to flex: your thighs, your back, your shoulders. But then you’d feel the friction of his tip dragging against the gummy walls of your g-spot, and your mind was clouded by pleasure all over again.
He wasn’t going nearly as fast as before, but it was obviously a choice, and not one made out of tiredness or necessity. It just felt too good for him to change the rhythm. With your knees together as you lay prone, your canal was tightened in a way that made you feel dense and so, so warm around his tender cock. You always felt incredible to him, but if sex always felt like this, he wouldn’t just fuck you all night, he’d stay buried in you so long he’d risk starving to death.
You were each lost in your own minds as the feeling went on and on. The air was heady and thick as you breathed against the blankets, and Leon was humping into you like waves rolling into shore– fluid motions that still crashed onto the shore or your center, followed by another and another, a constant ebb and flow that lulled you deeper into euphoria.
“Feels s’good, Leon, oh my god… d-don’t stop.” Your voice was laced in awe.
“Really fucking does… shit…”
The words were airy and held just as much wonderment as yours had. He traced a hand down the valley of your spine, revering the body that gave him such immeasurable bliss. Knowing that he was feeling the same seventh heaven you were made you feel even more connected to him, and your toes curled at the thought.
It kept going, and going, and going. You couldn’t tell how long it remained exactly like that, neither of you searching for your next orgasm, just totally and completely captured by the present. Time wasn’t something that existed in the room. It was a long time, but it’d never be enough.
He groaned as you felt his hips stutter involuntarily as the next thrust landed even deeper inside. The unexpectedness hit you both and turned it back into something needier. The next thrust snapped against your ass and you arched into the air to meet it. He shifted to hold you firmly as he set on a new wanton speed.
You mewled as you keened into him, legs parting slightly to make room for any spare length he had to give, and gripped the sheets as his balls began to slap against your clit. Each time he crashed against your walls, you felt them begin to bloom with electric want, and you braced against the bed to push yourself back into his thrusts as they became gritty, harsh pounds again.
He felt just the same as you, blood rushing to the parts of his brain that demanded another orgasm, and he felt every flutter of your walls around him that beckoned to milk him dry– exactly what he wanted you to do, to drain him until he had nothing left to give. He wanted to do whatever it took to make sure that fluttering didn’t stop.
He reached under you to rub your clit. You yelped as his fingers made contact, gliding easily against the cum-covered nub. His forearm was pressed against your navel, pinned between you and the mattress, and you could feel the size of his cock protrude against it from within you. Your legs spread even wider as you cried out, struggling to hold onto reality as he worked the thousands of nerve endings he’d already made oversensitive. Now, it bordered on torture.
The way you opened yourself only made it easier for him to find purchase to pound even harder, meeting the way you writhed and keened for more, his eyes rolling back as you bore down as if you were trying to squeeze him out. But all it did was drive him harder into all the right spots inside of you, and you were so overcome with sensitivity, you came before you even knew you were close.
And you came hard. Jolting and seizing as you cried his name, your eyes growing wet from the shock of it. He was loud as he reacted to the way you clenched and pulsed around him, your warm, slick cum covering his cock and making his movements sloppy and wet. And you were even louder as he kept going even harder.
He was surprised that he didn’t cum again right then and there, but it only galvanized him to pull your hips back and use you again. Your body was growing limp, you were shuddering and shaking, and his eyes widened with madness as he watched your face contort in pleasure. He was watching for signs that you’d say your safeword, too, but every moment that passed that you didn’t, he took as permission to fuck you even harsher.
Your head lolled and your lip quivered as you took it like a punishment, not a single coherent thought inside your head. You registered that he was close like white noise, simultaneously in the background and all around you. His hands seared in their grip on you as he hammered in once, twice, and then held himself deeply inside with broken rasps and moans. Your lips fell open as you felt his fresh load mingle with the first, pooling hot against your cervix.
He pulled out with a violent hiss, and you cried out as the fluid stung against your sore opening. Your legs trembled until they collapsed back onto the bed along with the rest of your body.
You were vibrating from the inside out, still reeling from how aggressive both of your orgasms were. You could hear him catching his breath, too. You twitched as you felt him touch the outside of your cunt, bracing yourself for more, relaxing when he only stroked the outside. He drew his fingers up and down the crease of your folds, languid and smooth, leisurely playing in his overflow. He pressed them in once just to watch you jolt, and then cleaned them off with his mouth.
He finally gave you a break and turned his focus to taking care of you. By the way you lay there limp, he knew you needed it. He peppered you with kisses as you floated in the afterglow, sprinkling them softly on your rear, up your spine, and onto your shoulder blades, until he placed one on your cheek.
He brushed your frazzled hair away from your face and the corner of his mouth pulled into a smile at the absolute state of you. But then the lamplight reflected off a tear and he furrowed his brow as he gently wiped it away.
“You with me, sweetheart?”
He chuckled at the small sound you made in acknowledgement, the only thing you had effort to respond with. He placed a kiss onto your head.
“Did so good for me, love. So perfect.”
He grunted as he laid down, pulling your back into his chest to spoon you. You weakly held onto his arm as it wrapped around your torso, shifting back into him to steal his body heat.
You closed your eyes with a sigh as you soaked in the way he took care of you after such a brutal display of lust. His thumbs circling against your sweat-damp skin, nose nuzzling against your hair, gravelly voice soothing you with praise.
“M’so glad to be home, baby. You always made me feel young again, but it’s almost like I am young again. Don’t want to take it for granted. Gonna take some time off, take you on vacation, let you see the world. Might fuck you on every continent.”
You giggled at his ambition, still high on happy chemicals and swimming in the dream he laid out. It’d be a significant change, him enjoying the fruits of his labor with things more permanent than gifts and fast cars. You always encouraged him to, but he said it’d be easier for him to cope with losing a material possession than a vacation being ruined by being called on a mission. You hoped it wasn’t just the endorphins talking.
“Yeah, you like that idea? Good, ‘cause I mean it.” He kissed under your ear and squeezed you in closer. “Wanna spend every day making you happier than ever, make up for how long I was sick. Can’t waste any of ‘em not fucking you the way you need me to.”
You gasped as you felt his half-hard cock twitch against your ass, instinctively arching back into it. A shiver ran over your skin as he pressed it against you in turn, and you realized he still wasn’t done, confirmed by the way his voice darkened against your ear and he started kneading your breast in his hand.
His kisses against your pulse turned open-mouthed and erotic, one hand pinching your hardening nipple as the other reached for his cock, slowly stroking himself with the tip resting against your sopping hole. You were so flush together that with each wave of bloodflow that grew him towards full-hardness, it breached your pulsing entrance without him even trying.
Your toes curled as he leisurely thrust into one centimeter at a time. It was just enough of a tease to eat away your apprehension. You really weren’t sure how much more you could take, but as he shallowly fucked his tip into you, you became increasingly desperate for more, until you were squirming and panting in his arms.
You gasped as he suddenly pushed halfway in, feeling your folds and your entrance smart in their soreness. Just a few minutes left empty and you needed time to accommodate him all over again. He wasn’t quite as big as before after two orgasms, but with his size, being slightly smaller was still pretty fucking huge. And now you needed to adjust to more than his size; you needed to adjust to your own overstimulation, too.
He thrust halfway in and stilled there, holding you tight to prevent you from backing into it, feeling your legs shake around him.
You already couldn’t walk, he was sure of it. But it must be well past midnight now. Did you need to use your legs tonight anyways? He decided that you didn’t. Might as well make them truly useless.
He bottomed out in one smooth, sharp thrust, aided by the lubricant of the two creampies inside. His eyes rolled back as he stayed there for a brief moment, just long enough to feel you throb around his cock, like your body was begging him to make it three.
He’d never cum that many times in a row before, not even in his prime. But now, he felt like he’d entered a new prime, and he wanted nothing more than to see just what his limit was. He wondered if he’d reach yours first. But you were a tough girl, he thought. You took him like you were made for it.
His navel thumped against your ass as he drove in with that goal in mind: find out how much cum he could stuff inside your cunt until one of you tapped out.
He started steadily, knowing it’d take him longer to find his finish a third time, and seeing how you were already a mess of moans, both from pleasure and physical overwhelm. It boosted his ego to know he was pacing himself for you much more than for himself.
You felt like an unraveled spool of thread. You couldn’t believe he had the stamina for another round, his age considered or not. You were shocked you could keep going yourself. But at the same time your swollen cunt ached around him, it sucked him in for more.
He twisted your head back to take you in a kiss, swallowing your moans as he beat fast inside again. You reached back to hold onto any part of him you could until your senses were once again flooded and you melted open to him.
“That’s it, relax for me. Just one more, baby, gonna fill you to the brim. Fucking take it.”
And take it you did, until the night sky turned light blue.
he'd probably be the type to never want to hurt you or be to rough but deep down he's a freak too but you're a little brat and you keep begging him to be rough and he wants to but at the same he doesn't wanna hurt you but you keep insisting and he finally gives you what you wantAAAAAAAAH
you ask leon to be rough ✿ꫀ ㅤׂ ᛌ ⠞ 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 18+
leon presses gentle kisses from your ankle up to your spread thighs, mouthing lazily at your pudgy flesh while ignoring his swollen cock hitting his stomach, tip flushed bright pink and leaking pearly pre-cum from being neglected so long. all he wants to do is focus on you.
you whine and squirm a bit, growing restless from the drawn out teasing. you anticipate tonight will be like every other night. leon will make out sweetly with your pussy until it's swollen and drooling, then probe his tongue inside, swirling and scoping your puffy inner walls until you you cum on his face. then he'll gets up and fuck you nice and slow for a few rounds until neither of you have a drop of cum left in you.
it's lovely, vanilla, predictable. on some nights, he'll let you sit on his face while you suck his cock, or he'll have you spread on his lap so you can touch each other until you make a mess on one another's hands. so gentle and soft.
you love it, yes, but you've been craving more, lately. he's so big and strong, terrified of hurting you or leaving marks on you, but part of you wishes he'd just lose all of that carefully crafted control and mount you like an animal in heat.
"leon..." your voice comes out as a breathy moan as he sucks a love bite onto your inner thigh, soothing the mark with his tongue. he answers with a hum of acknowledgement, too busy lapping up the slick leaking out of you to give you a real response.
you continue, hoping to finally tell him the truth. "l... did you wanna g-go- mmh," your words cut off when he finally kisses down to your pussy, sucking your leaky mound into his mouth and lapping at your folds greedily. you wonder if he's doing this on purpose, distracting you by making you feel so good you can't speak.
you jolt as his tongue licks a fat stripe up to your clit, which he delivers a light faint of his teeth against the hardening peak before flicking his tongue over it. "did... fuck... could you be a little mean t'me today? not so gentle..." you plead weakly, soft moans leaving your mouth as he munches on your pussy. he pulls away with a faint pop, your folds sliding out from between his lips and leaving slick all over the lower half of his face. "mean?" he cocks his head slightly, looking at the wanton, desperate look on your face.
"do you even know what you're askin' for, baby?"
you nod eagerly, licking your lips and flitting your gaze between his glossy eyes and his long, thick cock standing up proudly against his bare stomach. "yeah," you nod earnestly. "i've been thinking about it for a while now. i know what i want."
he listens to your words, considering your words. you're half his size, you need pacing and him going in inch by inch inside of you so you can adapt to his size, and he has to go slow inside you so he doesn't hurt you. hell, you were a virgin when you met him. being rough with you just isn't something he does. he knows your body well enough to be sure you cant handle it. he sighs softly and shakes his head, thick blond hair falling into his eyes. "i don't think you do. why don't you just lay there, be my good girl, and take what i give you? can make you feel real good without bein' a brute to my baby."
you whine, fighting the urge to thrash and lash out as he returns to mouth at your pussy, your anger quickly forgotten as he slips two thick fingers inside you, twisting skillfully while his tongue returns to what he does best. he groans softly into your cunt as your tangy-sweet taste explodes on his tongue, the vibrations rumbling against your sensitive core and offering a little more pleasure, but still not enough. it's too soft.
leon traces his tongue along your slit from the base to your clit slowly while he curls and pumps his fingers in and out of you gently, feeling your silken walls clinging tight to his thick digits.
every few licks, leon pauses to suckle on her swollen clit, drawing the sensitive bud into his mouth to roll it around with his tongue. he could spend hours like this, buried between your thighs, drinking down your essence until he's drunk on it, but you're getting impatient again. you squirm against his face, trying to gasp out more protests, but the sheer amount of pleasure he's giving you has your brain all muddled. "leon pl-please, just... wait!"
leon groans again and lifts his mouth from your hole, sliding his fingers in to the knuckle and not taking them back out to signify that he wants you to talk quickly so he can return to making you feel good. "yeah?" he prompts, keeping his composure.
"i... i know what i want." you repeat. "and i really, really want you to be rougher with me, please? just this once, and if we don't like it, we don't ever have to do it again, just please, please leon, please..."
he groans, the noise cutting you off as he returns to a kneeling position between your legs. he's sick of your incessant whining - he'd been aching to make love to you all day, and you just won't shut up, being greedy and begging for more when he knows you can't handle it. but fine. if manhandling you and fucking you hard enough to forget your own name is what you want, he'll fucking do it.
he grabs you by your plush thighs and spreads you open as wide as you'll go, your knees nearly touching your ears. "hold 'em." he snaps at you firmly, and you gasp, unaccustomed to his stern, no-nonsense tone, but you oblige quickly, not wanting to let the moment go to waste. its finally happening...
he grunts, unimpressed. "wider, you stupid girl. he shoves your legs apart harder, making you squeal as your dripping holes get exposed to the cool air of the room, your pussy drooling slick onto the sheets.
he fists his cock, pumping from base to tip with rough, uneven strokes until enough precum gathers at the tip. then he smears his mess all over your puffy folds, mixing your shared juices around until your hole is nothing but a creamy, lubricated mess. then, with no warning, he notches the swollen head at your messy pussy and shoves his whole cock in, leaving you crying out and arching off the bed.
of all the times you and leon have had sex, he's never gone all the way in one thrust because he's too scared of hurting you, but you're getting what you want tonight. he braces one hand on your soft tummy, pushing down on the indent his cock makes in your belly as he stays buried inside you to the hilt, while his other hand wraps around your throat firmly, using it as a fucking grip as he begins to fuck you on his cock like a toy.
"this what you wanted, y'little whore? hm?" he sneers down at you, hips rocking forward in time with him manhandling you down onto his cock, while you're moaning and crying out in delight. "f-fuck! yes, oh mygosh leon-" your words shift into babbles and pitchy little whines as he fucks you at a brutal pace, his thick cock stretching out your creamy little pussy with each thrust and pressing into your deepest parts.
he pistons his cock into you from above, veins scraping your soft inner walls and jutting against your sweet spot, pushing you closer and closer to the edge already. he reaches up and pushes his thumb down on your clit as well, rolling his hips forward and grinding into your womb each time he bottoms out and pairing the motion with circling your clit. the rough pad offers you more stimulation, and you squeak each time he drives into you. it feels like each thrust is sending him deeper. "le-hic-leon, im gonna... 'm gonna..."
"gonna what, baby? gonna cream on my cock already? barely started on you. i told you you couldn't handle it... baby needs her - fuck, princess treatment." he trails off with a loud groan as your walls suck him in deeper, tight pussy clinging onto his cock and drawing him in deeper each time he pulls out. he stares down at your swollen bud, your puffy folds swallowing up his dick, the imprint in your stomach each time he fucks up into you, and his brain spirals. he's not gonna last much longer either.
teeth sink into the side of your throat as leon leans down and bites you harshly, his mouth closing over the bruising flesh to soothe it with his tongue. he licks up your skin, tasting sweetness mixed with the salt of your sweat and slides his tongue over your jaw and into your mouth, making you swallow his saliva and suck on his tongue as he pounds you, balls squished into your ass as he pushes every inch into you.
your body tenses, every muscle pulled taut as a bowstring as your peak crashes over you. you wail into his mouth, and he swallows up your moans eagerly while your pussy squeezes around him as slick gushes along his cock, soaking it in your cum.
leon groans as your velvety walls squeeze him in a vice grip, and not long after you, he shoves his cock inside you and holds in place so he can empty his balls straight into your womb, cock throbbing as he starts to unload deep inside you.
the two of you kiss messily, tongues rolling over one another and slurping greedily as his hot seed spurts in thick streams, painting and sticking to your insides. he pumps load after load of his thick, hot cum deep into your spasming cunt. and your poor pussy has to do it's best to milk him for every last drop and not let any go to waste.
leon growls, grinding his pelvis against yours and stirring his seed inside you as the last spurts dribble out.
without pulling out, he suddenly flips you over onto your hands and knees and pushes your face into the pillow, keeping you plugged with his cum as he starts to rock his hips once more, ready to continue with fucking you. why hadn't he done this with you earlier?
it was a practical decision, you told yourself, scrolling past flashy advertisements for gyms promising overnight transformations, past testosterone-fueled testimonials about “beast mode” and “grindset.”
you'd sworn to yourself that as soon as you had the financial breathing room, as soon as you didn’t have to mentally calculate whether a dinner out would set you back for the week, you’d do it. invest in yourself. not in aesthetics, not in performance metrics, but in survival.
something that made you feel safer so that walking home late at night wouldn’t always feel like a loaded gun pressed to the base of your spine. you wouldn’t keep your keys between your fingers like they were some flimsy excuse for a weapon.
you found a coach who was within budget, someone named könig. a straightforward profile without a profile picture and just a handful of mid-range reviews.
it was genuine in its mediocrity, not glowing in the way bot-generated reviews tended to be, but not riddled with horror stories of scams or half-baked lessons either. people mentioned that he knew what he was doing, that he was patient, that his methods were effective.
but there were a few comments about his communication too. his english, more specifically.
at first, you were more nervous about looking weak than anything else.
logically, you knew that was the point. that was why you were paying for this— to get stronger, to learn. but the thought of stepping into a room filled with people who could probably bench your body weight while you struggled with a 25 kg deadlift made something inside you shrivel. made you feel like you’d be under a microscope, mistakes magnified. the thought of someone watching you fumble through drills, assessing your form— the potential for ridicule made your stomach knot up.
so, you signed up for solo lessons.
before you even met him, könig messaged you. a late-night notification breaking through the dim glow of your phone screen.
“is it ok that my english is not so good?”
you blinked at the screen. read it again. there was something unexpectedly… earnest about it. a self-consciousness that you rhymed with your own.
your thumbs hovered over the keyboard before you replied. “of course! i don’t mind at all.” then, after a second, “i’ll probably learn some phrases from you, haha.”
a long pause. three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. finally— “this is nice. i will try my best.”
something about that, about the fact that he had asked at all, the careful way he phrased it, stuck with you. you didn't know why, but it did.
the first time you met könig, you nearly turned around and walked straight back out the door, convinced your coach still hadn’t arrived.
at first, you genuinely thought you had the wrong room. or maybe there’d been some kind of mix-up, like another instructor using the space before your lesson.
you had walked into the gym expecting— what? some average-looking guy in a compression shirt? maybe a little bulky, maybe with that particular kind of gym-rat energy, all tight smiles and way-too-enthusiastic handshakes.
instead you got könig.
a massive, six-foot something, tank built like something that was meant to withstand damage and then deliver it back tenfold.
his hoodie, loose on his frame and looking a bit worse for wear from too many washes, still did nothing to hide the sheer scale of him. the water bottle he was holding was dwarfed by his hand and his arms, even relaxed at his sides, looked like they could crush a man’s ribs without much effort.
out of place. that was what he looked like. less self-defense coach and more guard stationed at the gates of hell.
you hesitated in the doorway, gripping the strap of your gym bag, suddenly hyperaware of every muscle in your body tensing up.
and then he spoke.
"… my client?” his voice was surprisingly soft. deep, yes, but smoothed down with the lilt of his accent.
you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. jesus christ.
“uh, yeah, i think so,” you shifted on your feet, clearing your throat. “i booked the solo slots.”
he nodded. “good.” a pause. then, “you are… beginner?”
you exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh. “you could say that.”
his eyes smiled, something in the creases looking like amusement, before he jerked his head toward the back of the gym. “we start slow then.”
the whole thing went… surprisingly well.
könig was an amazing instructor for self-defense, not afraid to teach you moves that were downright dirty. not just the textbook counters or polished techniques that looked good in demonstrations but the kind of violence that left real damage. moves that could end a fight before it even started. his lessons were brutal in their practicality, built for survival, not sport.
his shrug always came before the skepticism could leave your mouth, as if he already knew the doubts forming behind your eyes. anticipation sat in his expression, waiting for you to question the practicality of a move that involved hitting someone's throat or breaking a wrist. waiting for that flicker of hesitation so he could counter it.
“has no rules, defense,” he simply told you, adjusting his gloves with a nonchalance that felt at odds with the destruction he'd just inflicted on the poor training dummy. his foot still pressed into its broken torso, the material caved inward like a crushed can. “s’long as you're safe, is good tactic.”
it was truth that didn’t need embellishment to him. könig wasn’t just saying it to justify his methods— it was a simple fact.
he made it seem less brutal, more justified. not just an excuse for violence but a reassurance, a lesson in survival.
it had you thinking if maybe you had been seeing things too rigidly, measuring combat in terms of right and wrong instead of what kept you breathing. könig didn’t. his world wasn’t one of fairness, it was of outcomes.
you exhaled, glancing at the poor, ruined dummy before looking back at him. “i think you broke it.”
könig tilted his head, unbothered. “hm. ja.” then, after a pause, he grinned, nudging the dummy’s crumpled remains with his boot like it might suddenly spring back to life. “but was good form, yes?”
the laugh that bubbled up caught you off guard, an unexpected burst of warmth. the corners of his grin lifted just a little higher at that.
texting started out as a necessity. scheduling changes, clarifying techniques, occasional reminders about bringing extra wraps. that was the whole point, really— a way to communicate outside of training.
somehow, though, könig turned out to be a menace over text. sarcasm practically dripped from his messages, sharpened now that he had the time to translate things properly. he was witty, sometimes outright ridiculous, and the sheer absurdity of his jokes caught you off guard more times than you could count.
könig: i think i have unlocked a new level of muscle soreness. my body is rejecting me. i am a broken man.
you: rip. gone and forgotten.
könig: good. don't tell my story. it's kind of pathetic.
“könig,” you typed one evening. “where the hell did you learn english?”
“the internet.”
immediate suspicion flooded your mind. “what part of the internet?”
“…the bad part.”
“be more specific.”
“ah…” there was a long pause, like he was regretting his choices. finally, “weird forums.”
apprehension curled at the base of your spine. “what kind of weird forums, könig?”
“…conspiracy theories.”
sheer, undiluted disbelief clung to you as you stared at your screen.
“WAIT” he backpedaled immediately, as if he could feel your judgment through the phone. “i was a child!!”
“A CHILD IN CONSPIRACY FORUMS?”
“it was not like that!!”
his frantic response only made you laugh harder. “then explain.”
“i was just reading, yes? stories. people told very cool stories. aliens, secret government projects, ghosts”
“oh my god, you were a cryptid kid.”
“nein!!”
amusement bloomed in your chest. “so what i’m hearing is you were, like, deep in the trenches. lizard people? JFK clone theories? the moon isn’t real?”
“…yes.”
“jesus christ.”
“it was fun!! and good english practice!”
“you learned english from paranoid men on the internet.”
“they were very passionate.”
laughter ripped through your chest so violently you nearly dropped your phone. könig sent a series of increasingly exasperated texts, all variations of “stop laughing”, which only made it worse.
every time you thought about it after that, a fresh wave of giggles overtook you. the next training session, you couldn’t even meet his eyes without picturing tiny könig hunched over an old computer, nodding solemnly as someone named TruthSeeker88 explained how the queen of england was actually a reptilian overlord.
he hated you for it. “you are evil,” he muttered when you brought it up again, shoving your shoulder lightly. “this is slander.”
“is it slander if it’s true?”
“YES.”
somewhere along the way, little snapshots of your lives started slipping into the conversation. könig sent blurry photos of his boots kicked up on a table, a war documentary playing in the background. “history lesson,” he’d caption, like he wasn’t watching something unreasonably brutal for fun. you sent the sky from your morning walk, pink bleeding into gold, and he always responded with a simple “pretty.”
you weren’t sure if he meant the sky or something else, but you let yourself wonder.
and then, selfies.
his were always shy, half-obscured, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to let you see too much despite the fact that you saw each other every week. the lower half of his face, mostly— jawline tucked into the shadows, the soft curve of a grin barely visible.
sometimes it was just his hands: wrapped around a steaming mug, fingers long and scarred, or flexed absentmindedly over his knee, veins shifting beneath pale skin. you never commented on them outright, just sent something casual— “cozy” or “nice gloves, old man”— but you always saved them, tucked away in your camera roll like little guilty pleasures.
yours were much less subtle in comparison.
exhausted post-workout, slumped against your couch with a dead-eyed stare. wrapped up in a hoodie, coffee in hand. the first time you sent one, you didn’t expect much. maybe a quick “good job” or some kind of fitness advice. instead, he sent “cute.”
you stared at the message for a full minute, blinking. your stomach did something stupid.
after that, he started commenting more. when you looked particularly grumpy, he’d send a teasing “you need nap, bird?” or “angry face. very scary.” and when you groaned about soreness, he was smug about it, “should have stretched. tsk tsk.”
it was cute. unbearably cute.
but all good things must come to an end.
one month. that’s how long this was supposed to last. four weeks of training, a neat little package of lessons that would leave you more capable of handling yourself in a fight. somewhere along the way, that timeline stretched, bending under the weight of something neither of you dared acknowledge.
könig should have cut you off weeks ago.
“you are expert already,” he tells you one evening, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. his tone is light, teasing, but there’s a hint of real curiosity beneath it. “i do not think class is needed. why do you keep taking?”
hesitation flickers in your chest. because of you, you want to admit, but the words sit heavy on your tongue, too risky, too exposing. instead, you roll your shoulders back and offer something easier, something safer.
“i need to beat you first.”
amusement dances across his features. könig huffs out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head as if considering the possibility.
“it will not happen in a million years, i think.”
arrogance suits him. confidence carved into his bones, stitched into the way he moves, the way he fights. you don’t argue because he’s right— he’s bigger, stronger, more experienced. if he wanted to, he could probably break you in half without much effort.
but miracles happen.
it’s a fluke. both of you know it. a momentary lapse, a split second where his guard lowers just enough for you to slip past his defenses. könig lets you try—indulges you, really, humoring your attempts at taking him down like he’s teaching a child to wrestle. that cockiness, that easy amusement, is what costs him.
somehow, impossibly, you get him in a triangle choke.
his body tenses the moment your thighs clamp around his neck, locking him in place. shock flickers in his eyes before it shifts into something unreadable, something quiet and assessing. his breath comes out steady despite the position he’s in, controlled in a way that makes your pulse stutter.
for a moment, you think you have him.
then, with an ease that’s almost insulting, he pries your legs apart, spreading them like it’s nothing.
a gasp hitches in your throat.
his movements don’t stop there— before you can even process what’s happening, he shifts, pressing himself close, kneeling between your thighs, completely caging you beneath him. his grin is wide, pleased, entirely too unbothered for someone who had just been seconds away from losing.
“very good, bird,” he praises. “very good takedown. i like.”
air sticks in your throat. something is wrong.
“k-könig-”
he blinks at you, tilting his head slightly. “ja?”
your bugged-out stare flicks downward, and his follows instinctively.
oh.
his entire body tenses. his pupils shrink.
understanding dawnes, slow and terrible, as he finally feels the press of something very, very apparent against you.
“that was not supposed to happen.”
no shit.
könig’s weight shifts over you, muscles tight as he tries to move away but instead— maybe by accident, maybe not— his cock drags against your core, thick even through the fabric separating you. the pressure is just enough to make your breath hitch, a spark of something warm licking up your spine before a sound slips from your throat.
he freezes, head jerking up like a startled animal, eyes darting around the empty training room, scanning for any sign that someone might’ve heard, his breath uneven as he listens, as you listen, as the silence between you stretches impossibly thin.
nothing. no one.
he exhales. something in his face twitches, like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real, that you really just made that sound because of him.
his gaze drops, landing back on you, mouth parting, jaw flexing. then his body moves again, slower this time, cock grinding against you, rubbing you through your clothes, dragging heavy between your thighs, and you swear you see his eyelids flutter just slightly at the friction.
his forehead presses against yours, breath coming faster. “tell me to stop.”
the words hit your skin as more air than voice, warm against your jaw, but you don’t even need to think about it, because stopping is the last thing you want right now, the very last thing your body would allow.
“d-don’t stop.”
he curses, words slipping before he can stop them, and you don’t know what they mean, only that they sound wrecked, like they’ve been dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest.
könig’s forehead presses harder into yours. his hands tighten at your waist. his breath comes out uneven, stumbling over itself, and his voice fumbles through the next words. “i don’t have lube.”
“we don’t nee-”
“we do.” his face twists a little, mouth pressing tight, like the idea of taking you without it is actually painful.
you swallow, shifting slightly under him, feeling just how big he is. slick gathers between your thighs, and before you can stop yourself, the question slips out, barely above a whisper.
“are you big?”
his lips twitch, like he’s fighting back a grin, like he can’t believe you just asked that, and then it spreads into something quintessentially könig, — slow, lazy, and warm.
he presses in harder, dragging over your soaked cunt through the fabric of your underwear. the friction pulls a gasp from your lips, hips rolling up instinctively.
his grin stretches wider, eyes flicking down to watch you grind against him. "i am not small."
heat floods you, pussy fluttering around nothing, aching. your hips move again, searching for more, slick soaking through your underwear. your head tips back, breath catching. the sound that escapes you is closer to a whimper than you’d like to admit.
his lips find your jaw, tongue flicking out, tasting sweat and skin. his voice follows his mouth, words warm against your neck. "pretty little pussy..." he murmurs, dragging the syllables out like he’s savoring them. "bet it’d feel better wrapped around me."
the sound that leaves your throat is humiliating, high-pitched and needy. you don’t mean to make it, but it’s too late.
könig grabs your wrist. pulls you up. your balance falters, and before you can recover, he hauls you toward the showers. boots thud against tile. the door slams, lock clicking into place.
his mouth finds yours before you can speak. lips crash into yours, messy and eager. tongues tangle, breaths mix, heat pouring between you as your fingers twist in his hair. a laugh bubbles up between kisses—yours or his, you can’t tell—and he groans into your mouth, grinning against your lips.
“fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. cheeks flush, eyes dark with something feral. “wanted this so long…”
clothes hit the floor in frantic shoves. hands fumble, pulling fabric away until skin meets skin, warmth pressing in on all sides.
his cock, thick, flushed, and dripping with precum, hangs between the two of you, weighed down by its own girth.
he sees your stare and grins. "big, huh?”
words fail you and for a moment you can't do anything but nod dumbly.
könig reaches past you, flicks on the shower. water crashes down, steam rising fast. the air thickens with heat and he wastes no time to pull you under the spray, water slicing over skin.
scarred hands find your face, thumbs brushing your jaw as his mouth returns to yours.
your hand slides down between you and wraps around his cock. konig's hips jerk forward, breath shuddering out against your lips.
“could kill you with this, eh?” his grin tugs lazy at the corners of his mouth. his chest lifts and falls, breaths dragging in deep, water cascading over both of you, hot against skin already burning.
your hand tightens, fingers sliding along the thick length of him, precum slicking your palm. warmth pulses beneath your touch, veins pronounced under your grip. he twitches when you give a slow twist near the tip, hips jolting forward. a groan rips from his throat, echoing off the tiled walls.
“scheiße,” he hisses, jaw working as he fights the urge to thrust. one hand flies to his hair, tugging as if the sting will help. water streaks down his face, lips parted, breaths breaking up his words.
“not helping,” you breathe, voice shaking. you press your mouth to his jaw, pressing a kiss there before your tongue darts out to taste the salt of his skin. his breath catches, eyes squeezing shut.
“oh, fuck-” his hips rock forward again, cock dragging through your fist, smearing more warmth along your stomach. precum drips from the flushed head, glistening in the steam-filled air.
a grin tugs at his lips, strained but there. “you tryna kill me?” the words slide out. "scheiß kleines ding…”
you laugh, kissing down his jaw. “not my fault you’re easy.” your thumb slides over the tip.
his head knocks back against the wall, neck stretching, throat working through a swallowed groan. “you- fuck- you think is easy?” a hand finds your chin, pulling your gaze up. “look at me.”
könig’s eyes catch yours. blown out. a ring of blue against black. then suddenly his lips curl, and his voice slips through his teeth.
“i have touched myself to you.”
you blink. “what?”
his grin widens. “before.” his hips push forward, cock dragging against your belly. “many times.”
your face burns.
“oh my god.”
his head dips, lips brushing yours, his breath hot and amused. “you do too, hm?”
your heart stops. heat shoots through you, cunt clenching. “yeah,” your breath shudders. “me too…”
his eyes widen, like he didn't expect you to admit to it, then narrows, grin pulling crooked. “yeah?” his cock twitches in your hand again. “fuckin’ knew it…” laughter spills out, breathless and warm.
könig’s head dips to press a sloppy kiss to your lips. tongue sliding against yours, messy and eager. laughter rumbles out, hips rolling, giggles slipping between mouths.
“fuckin’ knew it,” he repeats, words slurring together. “think about me late at night? fingers stuffed in that pretty cunt…”
you gasp, half scandalized, half aroused, hips shifting as slick pools between your thighs. “könig-”
“yeah?” another thrust. precum smears across your belly. “tell me.”
“i- fuck- yeah,” you breathe. “think about you all the time.”
he groans like the words alone could undo him. könig’s hands drop to grip your thighs, fingers digging firm into the flesh as he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your back meets the cold tile with a dull thud, heat from the shower clashing with the chill seeping through the wall.
your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him close. his cock drags through your folds, thick length sliding slick against your cunt, nudging your entrance but never pushing in.
könig watches your face, chest lifting with every shaky breath. “how much do you take?”
you blink, heat simmering through your skin. “what?”
his cock slides against you again, harder this time, grinding against your clit, making you twitch. “normally. how much?”
a shrug rolls through your shoulders, confidence bubbling up, reckless. “all of it,” you answer without thinking, back arching, rubbing against him, arms looping around his neck. “i can take everything.”
he stills, expression shifting— his lips part, brows lifting just slightly. then he laughs, a low, amused sound, mouth curling into a grin. “nein, you can not.”
challenge flares in your chest. “i can.”
another laugh, softer now, hands adjusting on your thighs. “you are-” he shakes his head, grinning wider, lips brushing your cheek as he exhales, “-so very stupid.”
heat pools in your stomach, thighs clenching around him. “i’ll prove it.”
hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing deep into flesh as könig shifts his weight, cock grinding slow against your entrance, precum smearing where you’re slick and warm. a breath shudders out of him, jaw tight, brows pinching like he’s trying to hold something back. “you say this,” he mutters, “and then you cry.”
“i won’t,” you shoot back.
“hm.” his gaze flicks down to where his cock pushes against you, dragging through your folds. “we’ll see.”
könig’s fingers flex. his grip tightens and your breath hitches. “ready?”
“please,” you gasp, nails biting into his shoulders.
he grits his teeth, cock sliding as deep as your walls will allow, head bumping against your cervix. every sob that escapes your lips makes his hips stutter, breath catching like he’s holding on by a thread.
"oh shit," he mutters. "look at you... crying so much."
"feels too good." your hands are weak on his shoulders.
könig grins, breathless, hands squeezing your hips. "ja? but you begged for this, no? say ‘please, könig, fuck me’-" he mocks your voice, low and whiny, then thrusts, ripping a squeak out of you. "and now you cry like a little baby like i said."
you shake your head against his chest, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. you love it—you love his cock so much it hurts—but you just can’t stop the sounds. every thrust drags a new sob from you, body trembling in his grip.
"shh." he squints down at you. "you are too loud-" his hand slides to the back of your head, pressing you close. "fuck... here. suck."
your lips brush his chest, and his nipple is right there, stiff against warm skin. you hesitate, dizzy from pleasure, but then your mouth opens and you latch on, tongue flicking over the peak before you suck soft and slow.
könig’s hips jerk.
"oh, shit- good girl," he breathes, head falling back. his fingers tangle in your hair. "yeah, just like that. little baby needs something to suck on, huh?"
your cheeks burn, whining against his chest, mouth working over his nipple as his cock drags in deep and slow. he groans, low and desperate, fucking you through your cries.
"such a messy baby," he grins, looking far too fucked-out to be as smug as he is. "can’t stop crying, can you? too good, yes? too much?"
you nod, sobbing around him, and könig just laughs, like he can’t believe how fucked you both are.
"keep sucking," he growls. "will fuck you ‘til you’re dumb.”
Toji just grins when your voice wavers, his head falls back with a deep, mocking laugh that rumbles through his broad chest. He’s got your thighs folded back, hips pressed flushed against your ass, and his cock buries itself so deep you swear he’s kissing your cervix with that fat, leaking tip of his dick.
“What’s the matter, huh?” His big hands keep your legs pinned in place in his strong grip as his thumb brushes over the supple flesh of your thighs. “You were real mouthy earlier—talking back n’ giving yer old man all that attitude. Now look at ya. Can’t even get a word out, huh?”
You try to speak, try to tell him off, but it just comes out a pathetic whine, broken and high-pitched, and he scoffs with a low laugh while grinning down at you like you’re something pathetic.
“Aww, what’s that baby, Can’t think straight when your sloppy cunt’s stuffed full of cock?” He chuckles as his hips grinds down into your cunt—it’s slow but the sudden moving sensation forces your eyes to roll back in a drunken way, the stretch burning as your greedy hole embarrassingly clamps down around him like you’re trying to keep his cock there forever. “Bet it’s so hard to focus, huh? Poor baby’s too dumb to remember why you were throwing a fit”.
You bite your lip, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, and Toji’s calloused thumb drags down to press against your clit. The sudden pressure has you gasping, back arching into his touch—greedy for more, and he just clicks his tongue while shaking his head.
“Yeahhh, see that’s what I thought. Can’t even remember, can ya? Dumb little thing, always bitching and moaning about something”. His thumb purposefully flickers over your puffy clit with every forceful thrust, each snap of his hips making you cry out and claw at his big forearms in an unforgiving way—as if it’s your get back but unfortunately, you knew Toji wouldn’t be affected by your sad little nail scratches anyways. “But when it comes down to it—” He leans in, teeth scraping over your jaw before biting down just enough to make you yelp. “—you just want Daddy to fuck you stupid”.
You choke on a moan, toes curling against his large back as he presses into you deeper, folding your legs back even tighter, practically bending you in half and crushing you with his heavy weight. Toji watches your face, all red and teary-eyed, lips bitten raw, and it makes his grin go feral.
“Look at ya. So fucking pathetic”. He looms over, lips brushing your ear, his voice a dark, rumbling growl. “Didn’t I tell ya not to pick fights you can’t win, baby? Now you’re just gonna take it like the little slut you are”.
Your pussy clenches hard around him from that, and he laughs again—a low wicked sound, shaking his head like he almost feels bad for you. Almost.
“Yeah, that’s right. Making a mess all over my cock ‘cause you love being put in your place”. His thrusts grow rougher, each one hammering his thick cock deep enough that you see stars. “Fuckin’ brat—gonna make sure you remember who’s in charge. Next time you’ll definitely think twice before running your mouth with me”.
You have been Simon Riley's housemate for about two years now. He's the perfect roommate - never oversteps your boundaries, always cleans up after himself, is quiet, and helps with groceries. Most of the time, however, he's gone. He's in the military, so Simon goes on missions that can last for months and months at a time.
Here's the thing. Simon bought this very nice weighted comforter recently. You remember seeing it in the order history on your shared Amazon account. When it came, Simon snored like a damn chainsaw. He slept like a baby, even bringing the comforter to the living room on movie nights. And sometimes, though you loathe to admit it, you'd go into his room to take a nap under that comforter. It's one of the more expensive, better-made, and heavier blankets. You're pretty sure it's almost 30 pounds.
Unfortunately, there's always a risk when you nap under that blissful comforter. The risk that he'd come home. Today, you're curled under his weighted blanket, taking a quick nap before you make supper. You really shouldn't have ever done it. It's disrespectful and an invasion of privacy. But that damn comforter sang to you like a siren... and you couldn't resist the urge today.
Simon comes home, exhausted from flights and the mission. He drops his duffel in the closet, then kicks off his shoes. You must not be home. It's quiet here today, no TV or video games on. You're not in the kitchen or reading in your room. But then, he gets to the doorway of his room. In the center of his otherwise tidy room, curled into a ball, is you.
"Little fuckin' goblin," he grumbles.
He should pick you up by the scruff of your neck, scold you for sleeping in his bed, and kick you out of his room. But there's something about seeing you in his bed that makes him feel possessive. If you were anybody else, maybe he'd be angry. But you're you, and he can't bear to even raise his voice at you.
"Hey, girl," Simon whispers, gently waking you.
Your eyes open slowly until you recognize who woke you up. You sit bolt upright, gasping like you just had the air knocked from your lungs. "Oh, shit!" you squeak.
"Relax," he says softly.
"Okay, l-l-listen, I can explain," you stammer.
"I don't think you can," he replies, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"I just wanted to sleep under your comforter," you whisper, face heating with shame. "I'm sorry, Simon. It was wrong of me."
"Well, that's half the battle right there," he murmurs, putting a comforting hand on your thigh. "You could have just asked me."
"You're... kind of scary," you mumble. "I thought you'd say no."
"I know that comforter is nice," he whispers, rubbing soothing circles over your leg. "I sleep under it."
You nod sheepishly, heat flooding your neck and face even more now. "I'm sorry," you say again.
"You're alright," he promises. "Just ask next time, yeah? You look good in my bed."
You're almost certain your chest is flushed at this point. "Uh-" you say eloquently. "I- um-"
"Were you going to make supper?" he asks gently.
"After my nap," you admit.
"I can do it," Simon assures you. "If you want to sleep some more."
You shake your head. "No, you just got home. You're probably tired."
He shrugs. "I'm always tired."
You scramble to get out of his bed. "You sleep," you whisper. "I'll make dinner."
"Why don't we... both sleep?" he offers tenatively. "Would you like that?"
You go completely still. You thought you were going to be in a world of trouble. That Simon would kick you out of the house or, at the very least, yell at you until you cried. But he didn't. And he won't. In fact, he's offering to let you go back to sleep under that heavenly comforter of his. Next to him, the human space heater.
"Okay," you squeak out. "Okay, we- uh- we can do that."
Maybe this is your punishment. Because you have never felt so flustered in your life.
Simon takes off his mask and his gloves, throwing them aside like they offended him. In one swift move, he wraps you in his arms and rolls under the sheets.
At this point, you're pretty sure this is all a dream. No way Simon Riley would cuddle you in his bed, tuck you in, and hold you while you nap. "This is crazy," you whisper to yourself.
"I sleep easier when you're near," he says, breath brushing your ear. "Just... let me have this. I'll order takeout when we wake up."
You nod, turning in his arms so you can face him. "This is surreal," you tell him.
"I know." He presses his lips to your forehead. "I know it is."
"This is comfy," you admit, nudging your nose against his chest.
"Just sleep," he says, almost a command. "No nightmares when you're here."
You quiet down, allowing Simon to cuddle you to sleep. Maybe sleeping in his bed wasn't such a bad idea, especially since you ended up in his arms. You don't mind so much. In fact, you think you like being held by him.
You were impossible tonight—talking back every time Nanami tried to reason with you. He’d had a long day, and all you wanted to do was push every button.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he said, voice low and calm. You huffed, rolling your eyes again, lips parting to throw something smart back—only to yelp when Nanami’s massive hand wrapped around your wrist and dragged you straight across his lap.
“Nanamin what—!” Before you could protest, he bent you over with one strong hand pressing into the small of your back. Your ass jutted up, cheeks already pink from the first sting of his palm, and he smacked it again, harder this time.
“Princess,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “I’ve fucking had it with your attitude.”
You whimpered, cheeks flushing hot, pretending like you weren’t already soaking through your panties. His palm came down hard, a crack that made your eyes sting.
“Kento!” you whined, squirming as he pinned you down with one strong arm. The second came harder, sharper. You whined, kicking your feet, but his other hand was pressed firm against your back, holding you down like you weighed nothing.
“Every time you roll those pretty eyes at me,” smack, “you earn another one.” Smack.
“Nanami—please—” you gasped, writhing as your ass stung.
“Count,” he said, voice low, cold.
“F-Four,” you stammered, ass already hot and red from the punishment.
“Louder.”
“Four!” you squeaked, only to scream when his hand landed again, harder. Your cunt was dripping, your thighs sticky, humiliation mixing with arousal until you were sobbing for him to stop—but secretly hoping he wouldn’t.
When his fingers finally dipped between your legs, he groaned at how soaked you were. “Pathetic little slut,” he muttered, shoving two thick fingers inside without warning. “Getting off on being spanked.”
“Kento—please—” He didn’t let you finish. He shoved you forward, pressing your chest to the sheets as he tore his zipper down. The blunt head of his cock pressed against your slick entrance, and then he slammed in to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
You wailed into the mattress, the air punched out of your lungs. His hand came down on your ass again, the wet smack echoing in the room. “What did I tell you about that attitude?” he snarled, punctuating each word with another merciless thrust, his cock splitting you open until you were crying.
“I—I’m sorry!” you sobbed, clawing at the sheets while your body bounced helplessly with every punishing snap of his hips.
“Too late for sorry.” His grip bruised your hips as he pounded into you, his balls slapping your swollen, tender skin. “Now you’re going to take it until you learn to show some fucking respect.”
Every spank left you trembling, every thrust drove you closer to breaking. When you finally came—screaming his name, tears streaking your cheeks—he didn’t let up. He fucked you through it, harder, meaner, until he was snarling your name and spilling hot inside you, holding you down so you couldn’t move an inch.
When it was over Nanami’s palm lingered on the curve of your ass, fingers splaying wide and digging into the sore flesh like he wanted the bruises to last. You were trembling under him, face buried in the sheets, skin damp with sweat and tears.
“Maybe now,” he rasped, voice wrecked from growling through every thrust, “you’ll think twice before rolling those eyes at me.”
You whined, too fucked out to answer, but he wasn’t having that. His hand snaked into your hair, yanking your head back until you were arching for him, throat exposed. “You’re mine to discipline,” he whispered hot against your ear, biting down on the soft skin until you gasped. “And next time…” his hand smacked your ass again, sharp enough to make you yelp, “…I’ll tie you up and make sure you can’t move until you’ve learned your fucking lesson.”
Nanami exhaled slowly, the last of the tension in his shoulders finally bleeding out as he looked down at you—face buried in the sheets, body trembling, ass flushed red and glistening with both your arousal and his release. His chest ached with guilt at the sight, even though he knew you’d asked for it in your own bratty way.
“Hey,” he murmured, palm smoothing over your back, gentler now, like every stroke was an apology. “That’s enough. You did so well for me.”
He eased out of you carefully, shushing your whimper, and pulled you into his lap like you weighed nothing. You curled into him instantly, cheek pressed against his chest as his big hands rubbed your sore thighs. He kissed the crown of your head, lingering, as though he could kiss away the sting he’d left on your skin.
“Sorry I was hard on you,” he whispered against your hair, his voice hoarse but soft. “You push me sometimes, princess, but I’ll never push you too far. You know that, right?”
You nodded weakly, clutching his shirt, and he reached for a tissue on the nightstand to clean you up, patient and tender. After tucking you under the sheets, he slid in beside you, tugging you into his chest. His arm draped heavy and protective around your waist, pulling you impossibly close.
“Good girl,” he sighed into your hair, pressing another kiss to your temple. “My sweet girl.”
The steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulled you, warmth cocooning you until your eyes fluttered shut. He held you as your breathing slowed, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your hip. By the time you drifted off completely, Nanami was still there—solid, safe, the last thing you felt before sleep was his lips brushing your forehead and his low murmur, meant only for you.
୨୧ — "Keep holding onto that stupid stuffed animal," Sukuna snarls, forcing your thighs wider with no regard for your trembling muscles. The seam of his pants grinds into your swollen clit as he aligns himself, fully clothed while you're left bare, undone beneath him. He flashes you a grin, "I want you to ruin it- drown it in your tears while i remind you what this pretty body was made for."
Your grip tightens on the Hello Kitty plush, nails biting into it's cotton face as your wet lashes blink up at him. His cock slips back into your cunt, stretching you around the previous load he'd already left inside.
"m'too full," You whimper, "gonna- gon' burst- please-"
"Shut up." he growls, teeth grazing your jaw. His thrusts start sharp- hard enough to make your breasts jiggle with each smack of his hips. His pace is unrelenting- like he's trying to beat his cum deeper into you with each snap forward. You feel a little bit of it spill out each time he pulls out, only to have it squish back in alongside more, "You're pathetic, but fuck-" Sukuna's teeth sink into the tender spot below your ear, "this pussy makes up for everything.
Your sobs fill the room, swallowed by the now damp plush clutched to your face, your teeth digging into its worn material as the tip of his cock beats into your cervix- "s'ho full- s'too big! nngh-!" you hiccup, your belly slightly bulging where the fat head of his cock attempts to stretch your womb.
"Fuck... I can see it again" he croons, pressing a thumb to the slight swell of your belly, "almost feel bad for the next poor bastard-" Sukuna laughs lowly, "he won't be able to fill you half as good."
There won't be a next guy. He'd fucking make sure of it- not when you looked so perfect, so needy with him, crying his name in your sweet little voice. But you don't need to know that. Don't need to know he'll be keeping an eye out, waiting for some other schmuck to get handsy and let his guard down long enough for Sukuna to slip a hand around his neck and drag him to the nearest dark alley... or an abandoned building. Whichever is closest at the time.
The fairy lights above cast a soft glow over your writhing form as he uses you roughly, degrading words falling from his lips between harsh grunts. Your glossed lips part around desperate moans as he hits that spongey spot deep within you- the one that has you squeezing tighter around his dick.
"That’s it- squeeze me," he grunts, one hand yanking your hair until your throat arches, the other locking around your waist as he dips his head low, tongue sliding across your tear damp cheek. "Look at you, mascara running down your face, lip gloss smeared everywhere," he taunts, yanking your head to force eye contact. "Such a pretty little mess-" his pretty little mess... "Bet you can't even count how many times I've filled this greedy cunt today."
You shake your head pitifully, proving him right as hot tears streak your flushed face, dampening the plush toy more. Every roll of his cock inside you wrings out another ragged cry until speech is impossible- just broken pleas.
Sukuna chuckles, the sound almost affectionate if not for the cruelty glinting in his red eyes, "That's right, numbers are too hard for that empty head," he mocks, "just focus on taking my cock like a good little bimbo. It's all you're good for anyway." Its not... And he hates that- how you managed to worm your way under his skin and make him want more. Want you. Forever.
He pulls out with a groan, watching the thick string of his cum connect the two of you- watching the way your pussy struggles to keep his prior loads in. His hand strokes his length, squeezing and twisting along the fat vein that runs along the underside before smearing the head of his cock through your folds, pressing at your entrance.
A moan escapes him at the sight of his cockhead stretching your abused hole- he looks down at you, gaze hooded, "How many more do you think it will take? Before I fuck you pregnant."
Well shit… where the hell did that come from? His eyes widen a fraction- caught off guard by his own admission. His jaw ticks as he stares at you, silently willing you to speak. To say something, anything, instead of looking at him with those wide, glassy eyes.
Your fingers flex around the plush, a soft noise escaping your throat, and Sukuna wonders if you even heard him.
You did.
But it didn't sound right- no. He couldn't mean it- guys like him don’t actually want girls like you, much less knock them up. Right?
So then why is he looking at you like that? Like he's daring you to call him on his bluff.
You open your mouth- wanting to say something, but nothing comes out… instead you lie there trembling, still clutching the tear stained Hello Kitty plushie when something unexpected happens.
Sukuna's rough hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing away some of your smeared makeup with surprising gentleness. "Stupid woman," he grumbles…
You blink up at him in confusion through clumped lashes, your lip gloss stained mouth parting in surprise when he actually leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. "Don't get the wrong idea," he growls, but his fingers are threading through your tangled hair almost soothingly. "It’s just a kink of mine."
Six months later, you're standing in the ice cream aisle, one hand on your rounded belly as you debate between chocolate chip cookie dough and strawberry ice cream… Sukuna stands beside you, arms crossed, looking thoroughly bored by your indecision, like always.
You're about to reach for the strawberry when you notice him toss something into the cart behind you. Turning around, you blink in surprise at the soft pink Hello Kitty plushie now sitting among your groceries.
"Sukuna?" you ask, confusion clear in your voice as you look up at him. You thought he hated this sort of stuff- he'd certainly made enough comments about your "ridiculous obsession" over the months.
He catches your stare and tsk's in annoyance, a faint flush creeping up his neck, "What? I saw you staring at the ugly thing when we passed the toy section," he grumbles, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets… "Figured you wanted it for the nursery or whatever."
Your heart does a little flip, but before you can say anything sweet, he continues with a scowl, "This brat better have better taste than you," he mutters, but his hand comes to rest protectively on your lower back- guiding you toward the checkout, "Now come on, let's get home."
thinking about ghost fucking you into the couch, one firm hand pushing your face into the back cushion to keep your back arched so he can fuck you so deep it hurts. he can already hear how you'll complain in the morning about your stomach hurting, might fuck you hard enough to make you nauseous next time you come. you're clawing at the cushions like a feral cat, your hips wiggling and feet giving aborted little kicks that he has to hold your hips to keep you from falling from, and then you go limp.
like a switch flipping off you just stop, and for a man thats choked out enough enemy combatants he knows exactly what happened, using the hand already holding your head to rip your face from the cushions and wait for you to take that first gasping breath as he keeps fucking your cunt. he had been wondering why you'd tightened up all of a sudden, if he wasn't so focused on filling you up he might laugh.
Synopsis: Smut - Shane never wanted to like you. Unfortunately, as he gets to know you, he soon realizes that you’re just as messed up and depraved as he is.
Word Count: 6.5k
Warnings: brat reader, brat tamer Shane, alcohol/alcoholism, arguing, spanking, dubcon/cnc, choking, slapping, unprotected sex, oral sex, vaginal sex, creampie, degradation, established relationship
Starting a new life is scary. New surroundings, new people, everything you’ve ever known left behind in hopes that this new thing will be better. Shane can sympathize. He can also tell you that it’s never better. All the problems you had before will follow you to every corner of the earth until you face them. There’s no escaping that. Maybe moving to a cute little town full of friendly faces can mask that fact for a while. Moving in with his aunt did give him the opportunity to reinvent himself, though everything comes to the surface eventually. The depression hadn’t taken longer than a few days to meet him in the valley, alcoholism following closely behind.
The arrival of the new farmer, his new neighbor to the north, was big news. Everyone who moves here is big news. He and Jas were the newest arrivals and Yoba knows everyone was flocking to Marnie’s to meet them. It was fine at first, but grew irritating as he began to feel like a zoo animal to be gawked at. Everyone knew why he was here. They knew all his problems, all the thoughts that plagued him when he tried to fall asleep sober instead of passing out in a drunken fit. No one needed to say anything about it; he could tell by the sad eyes they all greeted him with. There’s nothing like your reputation preceding you to bring you right back into it.
There were plenty of rumors about you, too. How you worked for Joja and had a mental breakdown and maybe you got yourself fired in your lashing out, or maybe you just walked out in the heat of the moment. You were impulsive and desperate for a life outside working a 9 to 5 office job. You thought moving to a farm left to you would fix the emptiness and desire for purpose you were plagued with in Zuzu City. You were wrong, but you didn’t know it for a while. You’d come to the bar for a drink, exhausted after a long day of labor. You excused it by thinking you were just seeking relaxation after all that work. Shane saw the way you idled at the bar, looking around at the townspeople nervously. You wanted to fit in, but you didn’t fit in. And you didn’t even know about the things people said behind your back, speculating about you. Untrusting of you. It’s not even your fault. That’s how small towns are.
Something about Shane drew you in, fuck if he knew what it was. You’d indulge him with beer purchased from Gus, even swinging by JojaMart to drop one off occasionally. He couldn’t even act mad. He wondered if you could tell that he’d been craving a drink since he woke up. He wondered if you were aware that you were feeding into an unhealthy obsession— all while creating a new one.
Shane managed to keep a guarded front with you for a while, brushing off your overt attempts at friendship. He refused to contribute to a disillusionment of life in the valley. The weight of the world falling on you is heavy, but it’s much worse when it happens suddenly. Best not to get your hopes up. Unfortunately for him, you were a good drinking buddy. He liked binging with you, be it in the saloon or at the lake near his house. He never wanted more than that until he’d tried it.
He liked fucking you on the rickety wooden dock of the lake in the middle of the night, both of you taken by surprise with that development. It was fun, but never again. He liked fucking you in the back room of the saloon. It was dangerous, and it could never happen again. He liked fucking you in the forest just off the little path connecting your homes, but the risk of Marnie stumbling across you on her way back from Lewis’s was too high and it couldn’t happen again. He liked following you home and finally fucking you in your bed, but it felt too serious and he absolutely did not want anything serious. He liked fucking you in the walk-in cooler at JojaMart when you showed up in a short skirt, nipples hard in the chilly air, breasts bouncing wildly as he held you against the cool metal wall and pounded into you. He liked when you texted him, the subject only ever about when he could be inside you next, supplemented with teasing photos. After a few months, Shane needed it all to happen again. It had to. He couldn’t think about anything else.
The strangest thing about the whole situation is how little your relationship has changed on the surface. Shane is still a dick to you. The only difference is how he expresses it, and how much you enjoy it. It had taken a while for him to realize, but all your arguing and fighting with him was a front for a brat who was desperate to be tamed. He’d let your poor behavior slide for a while but the second he challenged you on it, a flip switched in both of you. Shane felt so much better about having regular, exclusive sex with you when that time was filled with him punishing your nasty words and inability to follow a simple fucking direction. It didn’t feel so serious when it was just a physical extension to your bickering.
He finds himself thinking about you in the saloon on Friday night. Not like it’s abnormal. Shane has done an amazing job of learning as little as possible about you. He doesn’t know what your routine is, or if you even have one. He doesn’t know what you did yesterday, what you’re doing today, or what you want to do tomorrow. He doesn’t know if you’re going to walk through those doors and join half the town in the crowded bar tonight. He scrolls through his phone as he leans back in his seat in one of the corner tables, bringing up the pint glass to finish off his beer with his other hand.
“Want another?” Emily shouts toward him over the music and conversations. Her arms are full of empty glasses shoved full of crumpled cocktail napkins but she reaches for his empty as she waits for an answer. He shrugs and nods, pushing his empty toward her. She strolls back behind the bar to drop off the dishes and pours him another, bringing it over. He closes his hand around it, pulling it toward him and fixing his attention back to the door just in time to watch you walk in. He eyes you, so confident as you glide your way through bodies to get Gus’s attention. The cheery owner greets you loudly before serving up a pale ale in exchange for a handful of gold. Until now, you hadn’t taken in your surroundings, but he watches as you turn from the bar and immediately set your sights on Shane’s usual spot. He watches your face fall when you don’t see him there. And he watches the confusion form as you glance around and spot him sat away from the crowd.
You approach him with a grimace, surely a response to the smug grin tugging at his lips. He raises an eyebrow. “Looking for something?”
“Is there a special occasion I’m not thinking of?” you ask as you sit down in the chair to his left, your back to the other wall as you sit around the circular table and look out at the other villagers. “What’s the reason for this big change?”
Shane shrugs. “Felt like being lazy today. Long shift.”
“Yeah?” You rest your chin on your hand, elbow propped on the table as you gaze at him intently. “Any annoying stories?”
“Plenty,” he grumbles, noting the delighted smile on your face from his response. You know you can act extra bad and get a bigger rise out of him when he’s starting out in a bad mood. You fucking love it.
“You can keep ‘em to yourself,” you say, taking a long sip of beer.
“You’re so considerate.”
“We both know that’s why you like me.”
“Tolerate,” Shane quickly corrects, earning an eye roll.
“With that attitude—” you begin.
He cuts you off. “Don’t threaten me.”
“Your place or mine?”
“Unless Jas is staying out late tonight, yours.” Stupid question.
“I’d really prefer yours,” you push.
“Then you’ll be sleeping alone tonight.” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. He notices the way you push your breasts up to accentuate the curve peaking out from the neckline of your low cut t-shirt. It’s laughable how bad you want him. “You can’t pretend like you’re going to be quiet. Gagging you wouldn’t even be enough.”
“You could try.”
“Don’t need to.”
“You’re no fun.” You stop nursing your drink, keeping it in your hand as you raise it to your lips every few seconds.
“I know enough about you to know that it’s a bad idea.”
You shift your seat a little closer to Shane. “You have no interest in fucking me in your bed?” He shuffles around, trying not to let on how much he does like the idea. A cute girl surrounded by the mess that is his bedroom, face-down in his wrinkled sheets, naked and waiting for him. “Wait— never mind. I get it.”
“Get what?”
“You’re self conscious. You don’t think you’re skilled enough to tame me when the stakes are so high.” Shane raises his brows. “You’d be right. Don’t worry though, I get it.”
His voice goes low, barely audible over all the background noise. “It’s not me, it’s you. I could stuff that slutty fucking shirt in your mouth and you’d still scream around it. I could stick my dick down your throat and you’d still moan and gag. I’ve seen enough of your tricks to know better.”
You stare for a moment before giving him a half smile. “It’s fine if you give up.” Another long sip of your beer. Shane reaches down, giving your thigh a harsh squeeze, a warning. You don’t acknowledge it, only finishing off your drink. “Want another?” you ask.
“Nope.”
“Mmkay,” you hum, getting up to head to the bar and order another. You return a minute later, Shane still only halfway through his own drink as he sits and stews on your conversation. You reach out and pinch his cheek obnoxiously. “What’s wrong, doll?”
“Just finish your fucking drink,” he snaps, positioning himself to face the bar, turned slightly away from you. You reach over, underneath the table, palm running over the bulge in his jeans.
“Must’ve had a really bad day,” you conclude from his attitude.
“Wouldn’t be so bad if some people would be nicer instead of acting like a little bitch.”
“Nice girls don’t let you smack them around,” you remind him. He drops the argument.
Shane is nearly finished with his beer now, your pint almost entirely full still. You must notice him eyeing the difference because you reach toward his glass, pulling it out of his reach before he can react, to toss back the remainder of it. He shoots you a glare, abruptly standing up. “I’ll see you at your place.”
“Shane,” you whine in protest, your tactics having worked a little too well. He knows that you’ll drag out that last pint for far too long if he allows you to toy with him in public. “Are you just going to sit outside my house waiting for me?”
“No.”
He walks out before you can get another question in, left to finish your drink. Shane takes the long way, walking past Marnie’s ranch and through the shortcut up to your farm. Just in case anyone’s paying attention. He surveys your crops, checks out the condition of your animal buildings, before stumbling up to your door. He wonders how you’re so ditzy with barely one beer in you that you hadn’t noticed your keys were missing from the table when you returned with your second round. You’re lucky you have him. Someone with worse intentions could have picked these up easily. What those worse intentions could be, he isn’t sure, but they must exist.
Shane lets himself in, making sure to lock the door behind him. You left a couple windows open too— he quickly shuts and locks those in case you get any bright ideas to break into your own house. Draped on your couch, he scrolls through his phone for a bit until enough time has passed where he should be angry that you haven’t come home yet.
Shane
9:40 PM: 5 minutes and I’m leaving.
No response, not that he expected one. Five minutes pass with no return; he didn’t expect you to do that, either. That’s okay. Each minute you wait is another minute for Shane to imagine up an adequate punishment. He has no intentions of leaving before you get home. His mind wanders to things he’s tried before, then to things he’s dreamed up. His hand trails down his stomach, landing over that bulge you’d not-so-subtly groped earlier. His fingers move over it through thick denim while he loses himself in his imagination.
You’re almost 20 minutes late when he hears cursing outside. Realized you don’t have your keys? “Shane?!” Have to work harder than that. A pound on the door, wiggling of the handle. “Shane… are you here?” Footsteps around your house, probably checking those windows you were so sure you left open. You circled back to the front door. In a weak voice, you try, “Sir?”
That’s better. Shane gets up, swinging the door open to find you puzzled. Understanding begins to dawn on you as he hands you your keys and pulls you inside, twisting the lock behind you. “What do you say?”
You toss the keys onto the kitchen counter, using your toes to slip out of your shoes. “Thanks for stealing my keys, asshole.”
You start heading toward your bedroom but he’s quick to grab your wrist, twirling you back to him before he backs you up against the door. “Try again.”
“Thanks,” you spit, struggling against his grasp. He pointedly pushes you into the door again. You throw on a sickeningly sweet voice. “Thanks, Sir!” With a harsh shake of your arm, you pull yourself from his grasp and turn back to your bedroom, disappearing into the short hallway leading to it. Shane watches you leave. His jaw would be hanging open if he had any less self control. He would never deny your title as a brat, but this behavior was worse than anything you’d pulled with him before. It was like you were having a temper tantrum. The normal part of his brain, or what was left of it, wondered if he’d gone too far with this little game tonight. No, no, you’re just mad that he didn’t give you what you wanted. Mad that he wouldn’t invite you into his room. The risk of someone finding out would be far too high— he couldn’t.
To Shane’s surprise, you sulk back out while he still stands in the middle of the living room, brushing past him. You’re wearing a pair of shorts, a bra on top as if you’re only halfway through changing. A baby pink bra with tiny flowers running over the cups. It makes you look cute and innocent, but you’re certainly not fooling him. He watches you lean down to dig through your fridge, ass in the air, hem of those little shorts slid halfway up your soft cheeks as you make a show of it. Shane walks toward you quietly.
When you stand up and turn around, he’s right behind you. “Fuck!” you yelp, clutching the cold beer in your hand close to your chest. “Any reason you’re hovering over me?”
“Nope.” Shane grabs the beer from you, cracking it and taking a long sip. He makes eye contact with you as he swallows, your glare icy. Shane ignores it, leaving the kitchen to settle on your couch and drink. Inside, he’s seething, but he knows how much you love to see him angry. He wants to toy with you and deprive you of the satisfaction just as you’re trying to do with him.
You grab another can with a melodramatic sigh and plop down on the armchair settled against the wall to Shane’s right. He eyes you, not saying anything. “Just gonna sit there staring at me all night?” you ask, crossing your legs at your ankles as you prop them up on the coffee table and sip your beer. Shane shrugs, mirroring you. “Boring.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“It’s fine,” you shrug. “I can tell you’re not really cut out for this kind of thing.”
“‘s that so?”
“Yeah. Nothing to feel bad about. You just have bottom energy.”
“Do I?” Shane chuckles but it’s devoid of humor. He’s a bottom, huh? That’s what you think of the man who, just nights ago, had his hand wrapped around your throat with his dick stuffed inside you in a public setting? He wonders if you knew Joja had cameras in that cooler. He’d pulled the tapes before his boss saw, but obviously he’d saved it for himself.
You nod in response, appearing so confident in your assessment. He knows it’s a front, but his hand is still tightening around the aluminum of the can he holds, causing it to give out a metallic crinkle. You glance at it, asking, “Did I make you mad?” Shane rolls his eyes and you giggle. “That’s so cute.”
“You know what else is fucking cute?” he snaps.
“You know what else is fucking cute?” you mock in a high-pitched voice.
“Not fucking happening.” Shane climbs to his feet, slamming the beer can down on the table in front of him and rounding the corner of it to stand in front of you.
“Not fucking happening,” you parrot, setting your own beer down. As he leans toward you, you shrink down in the cushy chair, a shrill laugh falling from your lips. Shane grabs you by your waist, managing to pick you up and toss you over his broad shoulder. You squirm around, still giggling as his fingertips dig into the fat of your thigh to hold you in place. He carries you into your bedroom, tossing you down on the bed. You look up at him, knees bent, resting on your elbows.
“Turn over,” he instructs.
“Make me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Shane gives a firm tug to one of your hips, flipping you on your stomach easily before pulling your ankles off the side of the bed, sweet ass perched up for him. He pulls his belt off in one fluid motion, the metal of the buckle clinking. You look back excitedly but Shane shakes his head. You’ve got nothing to be excited about. “Any smartass remarks you want to make?”
“So many.”
“Great. Save ‘em.”
You make his decisions so easy. Despite all this simmering rage, he almost considered letting you off easy with his hand but it looks like his black leather belt will be of use after all. He folds it in half, snapping it together. The crack echos around your room for a second and Shane feels his cock throb as he watches your face fall. Before you can fight him, he tugs your shorts down around your thighs and flicks the belt against your skin just enough to make you jump. He’s mean, but he won’t go straight to making bruises. “Shane!” you gasp. Another smack, harder. You know why. “‘m sorry.”
“No you’re not.”
“I ammm!” you insist, squirming around. Smack. “Shane!”
“Try again.” Smack. Your pretty ass is turning red, the spots where his belt has made contact blushing almost immediately.
“Sir!” you yelp, sounding exasperated like the name was forced out of you. And yeah… maybe it was. Sometimes it has to be.
Shane presses his crotch to your ass, leaning over your torso to wrap his fist up in your hair and put his mouth next to your ear. “Gonna stop being a little bitch to me?”
“Yes,” you groan, wincing at the harsh, scratchy denim of his jeans rubbing against your abused skin. He kisses your temple, releasing you with a light shove that forces your face into the sheets for a second, climbing back to his feet.
“Good girl. Sit up and help me out.”
You roll over, slowly settling yourself on your tender ass to reach out and unbutton his jeans. He massages your scalp as you do, a sweet gesture, but both of you know he’s only doing it so he can pull your hair if you do something he doesn’t like. He steps out of his pants when you slide the denim down his legs, leaving him in plaid boxers. Shane guides your mouth to his covered length and you stick out your tongue, running it over the bulge. “Don’t know why you act out. All you ever want is a dick stuffed in one of your holes.” He pulls down on the back of your head just enough to force your gaze up to his face. “You’re just a cockslut.” You run the tip of your tongue over your bottom lip, focusing your attention back on the task in front of you. Shane gives you another harsh tug, holding his hand there as you’re forced to crane your neck with the pressure. “Look at me and say it.”
“I’m not a cockslut.”
“Huh?” Challenging you to disobey again.
“You’re a pussyslut.” Maybe so, but not for you to say, especially with such a sinister smirk on your face. Shane’s palm meets your cheek with a solid slap, enough for your head to turn from the impact and the shock of it. He loves how surprised you are to receive backlash from your flagrant refusal to follow directions.
“I could whip my dick out, jerk off, ‘nd cum on your face and leave here happy. I don’t need pussy. I won’t even touch your pussy tonight if you can’t act like a good girl for longer than a few seconds.”
“Liar. You wanna fuck me.”
Shane pulls his boxers down just enough to release his erection, nearly smacking you in the face with it. He holds the tip to your mouth, pressing it forward and smearing precum all over your soft lips until you finally open up for him. He fucks it into you, holding your face against his pelvis for a moment before pulling back a little and settling into an even pace. “Sure, I want to. But I don’t need to. It’s more important to me that naughty sluts learn their lesson.” Shane knows his cockslut loves his length in her mouth, but the pleasure you’re getting there surely isn’t outweighed by the discomfort of your leaky hole and throbbing nub between your thighs. “Look at you drooling all over my dick. You’re so pretty when you shut the fuck up.” You try to mumble something around him but it comes out unintelligible, only vibrating up his erection. “Yeah baby, do that again.” And you do, louder, growing more irritated, and it feels even better around Shane. He holds your hair, hips still as he moves your head up and down his cock, sure to choke you on his dripping tip as he holds it to the back of your throat. When he lets go of you for just a second, you pull back and gasp and your mouth fills with more spit, so good and messy as it lubricates him and leaks down to his balls. “You wanna swallow my cum?”
You moan quietly and he knows that’s a yes, especially as your hands fly up to massage at his balls in an attempt to milk him. He’s a little disappointed at the answer, forced to pull out to refrain from giving you a single thing you want. You grasp at him as he steps back, seeking out the thick cock that filled you a second ago. “On second thought, I’d rather put it in your cunt.”
“Put it in my mouth or don’t cum.”
“That’s sure as hell not your decision.”
You reach down for your shorts, slowly pulling them up your legs to cover yourself, though you leave plenty of time for him to stop you. “We both know who’s really in charge. If I don’t want it, it’s not happening.”
“This delusion is real cute, doll, but you’re only hurting yourself.” Shane tugs your shorts back down your legs with one hand, a finger looped around the waistband of your panties to slip them off in the process, removing them from your body entirely and tossing your shorts over your head and into the corner of the room. Your panties fall on the bed near your head. He unclips your bra, having had plenty of experience with doing so recently to have it done in a second and joined with your shorts, far out of reach. Shane tugs his shirt off and climbs on top of you, pinning you down to the bed with his torso. You squirm around and it’s laughably easy to swat away your hands that try to push him off. Reaching down, he grips the back of your thigh and pulls your leg up to wrap around his hip and immediately plunges his dick into your pussy. He watches your face as he bottoms out with no warning, no fingering, not even any grinding or friction on your little clit to prepare you. Your eyes roll back, mouth slipping open, hands falling limp as you take in the sensation. “Throwing a fucking fit, and for what? You’re dripping.”
And you are. Shane fits like a fucking glove inside you, walls so tight around him, sucking him off just like your lips and throat did. Between your spit covering him and the slick of your pussy, each thrust comes with an obscenely wet sound that he can’t get enough of. And while he’s enjoying it, your hands are back to pushing on his chest roughly, other knee pulled out from under him to press into his stomach. As much as he hates breaking the illusion, his voice reverts back to normal for a second, thrusts pausing, asking, “What’s your color?”
He’s hoping for green because he wants to fuck into you harder, wants to manipulate your body to take his cock straight to the little patch inside you that makes it feel so fucking deep. Yellow is manageable; as long as he can keep fucking you. Your response is nothing he expected.
“Beige,” you answer, breaking out of your own character to let out a yawn and stretch your arms above your head like you could fall asleep right here, right now.
“Beige,” he repeats. Beige. As if you’re so bored and unsatisfied by his cock ramming into you that you can’t even feign interest. Beige.
Shane reaches toward your panties, balling them up in his fist and using his other hand to press his index finger and thumb into the sides of your jaw, mouth popping open. He wastes no time shoving your underwear between your parted lips and resumes his hip thrusts, faster and deeper as he refrains from pulling out more than a couple inches in between. “You shouldn’t lie to me. Don’t act like I can’t feel you squeezing around me. I can see your fucking legs shaking.” His fingers wrap around the sides of your neck, practically holding himself upright with it while he abuses your cunt. You moan, hindered by the feeling of lacking oxygen and the slutty fabric stuffed in your drooly mouth, but he still hears you loud and clear.
“You wanna know why you’re not invited to my place? You’re loud, whiny, entitled, rude— we both know that. The real reason is that you’re fucking messy. You get spit and cum everywhere when you get fucked like the spoiled brat you are, and I won’t cater to you any more than I already do by cleaning up after you.” Shane runs a hand between your bodies, pulling out to shove three digits in. They curl up to prod at your g-spot, your back arching in response as you grab at his wrist. He uses his free hand to pinch at your nipple just hard enough to earn a muffled yelp. Pulling his fingers out of your cunt, he removes the panties from your mouth and replaces them with his digits soaked in your pussy mixed with his precum. He holds them all the way in your mouth, knuckles pressed to your lips as your lips close tight and you suck off the evidence of how much you’re enjoying your sick little fantasy.
Once Shane’s satisfied, he flips you around and has you kneel in front of him, your back pressed to his chest as he holds you by your neck. His hot breath tickles your ear as he speaks. “Gonna let me fuck you?”
“Nuh-uh,” you mumble.
“No? What are you gonna do, doll?”
“Gonna stop you,” you breathe.
His grasp on your neck tightens. He presses a finger to your soaked, throbby nub between your thighs, rubbing over it softly. You buck your hips, desperate for more friction. He gives it to you, touches turning harsh and your ass presses against his cock. Taking the opportunity, he stops his assault and positions himself at your hole, allowing himself to enjoy the painstakingly slow reentry. Your cunt tries to pull him in faster, your walls quivering around the thickness, but he drags it out as long as he can manage. Your hands are preoccupied, trying to pull at the fingers around your neck. You’re not even trying. He lets go— he has what he wants. Both hands grasp onto your hips to hold you still.
“What happened?” he coos, faking concern. “Look down, doll. Look between your thighs. Thought you were gonna stop me, but the head of my cock is right up against your cervix now.”
“Sir,” you grumble, unsatisfied with the lack of motion and upset with the teasing in his words.
“Tell me what’s wrong, baby girl.” Shane nestles his chin in the crook of your neck, pressing short kisses to the sensitive skin. Four red lines mark the area and he smiles as he sees these indents of his fingers left behind.
“I need you to fuck me.”
“Ask nice.”
You let out a pouty huff. “Please fuck me, Sir.”
Even with all your naughty behavior, he’s weak to your good girl persona, so he listens. He pulls himself out almost as slowly as he’d entered, feeling the way you gasp and following suit for the sake of copying you. When he snaps his hips forward to meet your ass, he moans mockingly just as he knows you’re going to. Being berated for your pleasure in response to his cock makes your cunt drip now that your brattiness is wearing down. Mean Shane brings out your rebellious side but when he babies you, you begin to melt into his hands, so moldeable for his pleasure. So he pushes your face into the pillows, ass up, perfect to fuck himself against your g-spot. You quiver beneath him, so much closer to orgasm than he is. You haven’t asked yet but he knows a decision needs to be made. Does he let you cum or force you to hold it in, facing a bigger punishment if you can’t?
“Sir,” you breathe, voice hitched in the middle of the word as he pointedly slams his cock against your insides, swearing he can feel your stomach bulge with the motion. “‘m so close.”
No shot in hell you’re going to be able to hold off if your voice is any indication. Your thighs are shaking like all the energy you have left is going into holding yourself up. “What are you gonna do about that, baby?”
“Gonna cum,” you whimper, backing your hips up in time with his to feel his dick deeper and harder.
“Not until you ask,” Shane reminds you.
You grunt and he can practically feel the eye-roll despite your face being shoved against your bed. “Don’t need to ask.”
“Like hell you don’t.” Shane pulls his hips back, his cock slipping out of you with a wet pop. Your tight little hole squeezes around nothing, so desperate for something thick and long to fill the space. And if you’d just done what you were told, you wouldn’t be having that problem, yeah? He shakes his head as he looks over your body, so weak and pathetic and all a consequence of your own decisions.
“Please,” you finally whimper, not even giving Shane the respect of looking over your shoulder at him. No, your face is still pressed into your soft pillow, ass wiggling as you eagerly wait for your prize. Shane delivers a sharp smack to it.
“Don’t insult me. You beg for it like a dumb slut if you wanna act like one.”
“Please Sir, please fuck me and let me cum.”
That’s it? “Fucking pathetic. On your back. Now.”
Shane moves to give you enough space to roll over, staring up at him as he glares at you. Your eyes are big, eyelashes clouding your gaze. You act so innocent and it gives him a hundred other ideas to play with but he can’t get distracted. That’s what you want. He moves over your chest, heavy wet cock hovering just a few inches above your sweet lips. “Beg. You only have one more chance to show Daddy how bad you want it. Don’t fuck it up again or I’m going to fuck your mouth until I cum.”
You carefully reach your hand up to his cock, wrapping your fingers around it and jerking it with his tip pointed at your face. Your eyes don’t move from his, locked in until you’re sure he won’t yell at you for touching him without him instructing you to. “Please, Sir?” you try again, voice so small and hesitant. “I wanna cum on your cock so badly. It’s all I think about.”
“Why don’t you act like a good girl, then?”
“I like it when you get mad and fuck me like you hate me.”
“If I hated you, I’d let you cum. I want you to learn your lesson. Being mean won’t get you what you want all the time. There has to be a limit.” You swirl your tongue around his tip. “You have to learn that I’ll make you feel good, but I’m not going to make you cum until you deserve it.”
“‘m sorry, Sir. I’ll behave. I promise. Will you please make me cum, Sir?”
Shane reaches down to pet your hair, stuck to the side of your cheek. He melts when you drop the bratty act, so unsettled by your kind, innocent demeanor that he forgets why he was ever annoyed with you. “Course I’ll make you cum, sweet girl.”
Shane finds his way back down your body, settled on his knees as he hooks your legs over his shoulders. He pushes into you, no chance for you to adjust again because he knows how much the sudden squeeze turns you on. You grasp up at him so he leans down, bending your legs further and tightening your cunt with the motion. Your palms fall to his chest as he pounds into you, settling his thumb over your clit to play with it as you squirm below him. “C’mon, baby, cum for me. Show me how tight your cunt can get around my cock.”
And you do, pulsing around him as you throw your head back, digging your nails into your sheets while he slams into you. Your pussy feels like it’s trying desperately to milk him and lucky for you, the sensation brings him closer and closer to joining in. You let out a yelp as you cum, the rush of fluids coating him and further reducing any friction between you. “Sir, please cum in me. Need it so bad,” you whine out, trying hard to keep your eyes open to meet his lidded gaze.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he grunts. “Even when you act like a bitch. Giving me a boner at the bar, keeping me waiting all that time. I was jerking off on your couch waiting for you. Do that again and I might just cum and go home.”
“I won’t, Sir, I’m sorry.”
“Good, doll. Gonna cum in you now. Keep squeezing, don’t let it leak out.” He leans in further to bury his face into your neck, smelling your perfume mixed with sweat. Shane can’t help but nibble on your delicate skin as his hips slow, cock twitching wildly inside you as it begins to pump out thick ropes, surely puddling within your walls as you clench him so tight he’s not sure he could pull out if he tried. “Good cumslut, love how bad you want it, baby.” As he finishes, he pumps in and out a couple more times to make sure his cock has been thoroughly milked, and to fuck his seed deeper into you. He pulls out while you remain all clenched up, white streaks still inevitably slipping down to your ass and gathering between your thighs. Shane kisses you softly before pushing himself off and laying down next to you.
The two of you let the silence take over for a minute, catching your breath. Shane stares up at the ceiling. He always feels some level of post-nut clarity with you where guilt comes rushing over him for being so mean and demanding, despite the therapeutic element of getting his anger and stress out on you. He wants to apologize, but you’ve scolded him for doing so before.
“Maybe next time, we save the trip home from the saloon,” you finally suggest.
Shane’s head lolls to the side to examine your expression. If you’re joking, you hide it well. “Absolutely not.”
“I’ll be quiet!” you lie.
He tosses the idea around in his head. It’s certainly not like he isn’t aroused by it. “You can suck my dick in the bathroom, but that’s it. I don’t trust your mouth unoccupied.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m not,” he assures. “We can argue about it later.”
“Fine.” You lean over, kissing him abruptly, pulling away with a sweet smile. “Now get out of my bed.”
He chuckles, pushing himself up and collecting his clothes, tugging them back on. Just before he leaves your room, he asks, “Ever find your keys?”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you, too.” In a softer voice, he adds, “See you soon.”
“Get home safe,” you call back as he pulls the front door closed behind him, checking that the lock is in place before he heads back home for the night.
warning: Mean old man Price giving you backshots :(, he also smokes but its barely mentioned
Thinkin' bout Captain John Price smoking while giving you backshots.
The atmosphere is heavy, and the room reeks off smoke, n' sex. The pull of his hips are slow, but his thrusts back in are heavy.
It's how he is when he's stressed :( and what better way than to use your soft, pliable body to take away some of that tension away, right?
So he holds you down and forces you to take his fat cock. You can't do anything but take him inch, by painful inch. Jus' crying into the pillows ,and fisting the sheets. S' all you can do cause he's been going at it for an hour now. But also because the ashes from his cigar land on your back. It stings and you can't help the pathetic mewl that escapes your lips because of it. He doesn't even give you the chance to catch your breath, s'pecially with the way his dick stretches you out and leaves an imprint in your tummy, making you feel impossibly full while his shaft sits snugly inside your hole. Price sees and he can't help but lick his lips at the seemingly perfect fit.
Captain John Price, who also loves slapping your ass. Mesmerized by the way it bounces against his thighs when he speeds up the drilling of his hips.
He likes to keep one of his large palms planted on the small of your back. Keeping you pinned, and preventing you from squirming away. N' if he's feeling extra mean he'll massage the sides of your hole with the pad of his thumb, maybe even pushing the tip of it inside just to tease you :(
a/n: THIS TOOK A LOT OUTTA ME. Dunno why but this thought just didn't want to be written about, took me multiple laps around the room before I was able to come up with words to put. Why is english so hard? 😞 But I hope you'll enjoy this far more than I have lovies! Remember to drink water!
he sucks the pretty pink pillow of his lip between his teeth, grinding down on the plush pillow till the fragile skin breaks and bleeds. he misses the bitter, irony taste when your tongue slides up the base of cock, hugging around the girth of him till you lay a sweet kiss cross the tip.
and simon’s shuddering, body physically recoiling into itself. “ss’not ready, babe, slow down,” he hiccups, words drawn in a whimper, a high pitched hiss of desperation.
and you puff, laying your head over his thigh, and simon’s in his own world when your teeth dip, ever so gently into the soft base of his length, canines digging up into the skin softly.
it has his hand slapping down at the back of your head, a growl rumbling up in his belly till it reaches his voicebox. and he’s grabbing you by your soft locks of your hair, and pulling.
he ignores your whining and gasping, pulling you up n up till your thrown over his lap, face in the cushions of his warm couch and ass arched up over his meaty thighs.
and that hand digs deeper in your scalp, scratching at the roots of your hair till your scalp strains n begs for some sort of let up.
“always fuckin’ messin’ ‘round with me aren’cha, honey?” he chuckles, spreading his thick fingers over the soft, untouched skin of your ass, kneading into like dough. “you wanna be mean, baby, huh? bout’ time you get’a taste of your own medicine.”
this makes no sense n i hate it but i miss yalllll wanted to put something out for my luviesss
