Welcome to my blog! I mostly chat shit about dilfs, fictional characters, and other assorted fandom-centric stuff.
Feel free to message or moot me if we have anything in common !! I don’t bite ;)
₊✩‧₊˚ My fixations on fictional characters and their universes do move fast, but I will always come back to;
~ pedro pascal. in every universe, at any time.
~ the walking dead
~ supernatural (I mean, it is Tumblr)
~ rdr2, resident evil, tlou, bg3, video game dilfs in general…
~ the boys & mcu/dcu etc.
~ most recently, anime !! (naruto + jjk)
₊✩‧₊˚
disclaimer: this is an 18+ blog, I am an adult who posts solely for adults. so help me god, if I catch a minor interacting with anything I post on this hellsite I will banish them to the shadow realm
I’m working in America for the ski season and my snowboard-rental-worker, moustache-having American situationship looks like Aaron Taylor Johnson’s clone.
𓆩❤︎𓆪 ─ ꒰ 𝓼ituationship 𝓼ukuna ꒱ gets used for convenience by the bitchiest girl he’s ever met — and he wouldn’t want it any other way
cw. rough sex, bratty/bitchy!reader, power play, spitting (in mouth), squirting, face grabbing, light choking, hickeys/biting, overstim, praise/degradation mix, toxic dynamics, repost
“come over.”
he reads it at 12:42am. the little “read” stamp lights up and you don’t follow it with anything else, because you don’t need to. you’re not in the mood for back and forth.
not tonight. you’re already on your bed, shirt off, thighs parted, phone sliding out of your hand into the mess of sheets behind you. nothing soft is playing—just the low hum of the city and your own breathing.
you’re not horny for him. you’re just horny. bored. overstimulated by everything and underwhelmed by everyone. and sukuna? he’s nearby. he’s easy. he listens.
the door clicks open exactly sixteen minutes later. not a knock. not a call. he lets himself in like he always does, like he lives here, like he has a right to walk into your space without warning—and you’re already backlit by the glow of your salt lamp, one hand tucked under your head, one leg bent, mouth glossed and eyes half-lidded like you were expecting him to take longer.
he looks you over, head tilting, lip pierced and smug, tattoo peeking from under his hoodie collar like it’s daring you to look.
“didn’t know i was a fucking vending machine,” he says, voice rough, cocky, with that stupid glint in his eye that says he came the second you asked. “you just press a button and out comes the dick?”
you don’t even blink. “you’re here, aren’t you?”
he scoffs under his breath but toes off his sneakers anyway, pulling his hoodie over his head as he walks toward the bed. you watch him do it with your chin propped up on your palm, already shifting your hips, the thin cotton of your panties wet and sticking between your legs, not because you missed him—just because he’s good at this. or at least, good at being used.
“you could say please once in a while,” he mutters, dragging his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor with the rest of his self-respect. “might be nice to be wanted instead of just summoned.”
“if you want nice, fuck a girl who makes you pancakes in the morning.”
he snorts, licking his bottom lip like he’s already picturing it. “yeah? what do i get here? a woman with a wet pussy and a god complex?”
“pretty much.”
you open your legs wider. he shuts the fuck up.
he climbs onto the bed, slow, the mattress dipping under his weight as he leans over you. there’s something mean in his mouth, but it never makes it out. instead, he kisses you, rough and deep, all tongue and attitude. you kiss back with a smirk, biting his bottom lip just enough to sting, then pulling away.
“take your pants off.”
“jesus christ,” he breathes, but his hands are already on the waistband. “what do you say?”
you lift your brows, slow, letting your eyes rake over his stomach, the trail of ink crawling up his ribs like it’s been begging to be traced, tongue first. you’re not even touching him yet and he’s half hard, sweats pulled halfway down his hips, that mouth still trying to run even though his body’s already lost the battle. your tongue clicks against your teeth.
“i say hurry up.”
he laughs through his nose like he can’t believe you, like you’re a fever he hasn’t figured out how to sweat out yet. “you know you’re a fucking brat, right?”
“you say that like it’s new.”
“nah. just tryna figure out when you’re gonna admit this means something.”
you roll your eyes, but it stings more than it should. you shove his pants down and straddle him without giving him the satisfaction of a response, your pantied cunt brushing against his thigh as you shift forward. “don’t start that shit.”
“what shit?” he grins, that sharp grin, the one that means he knows exactly what buttons he’s pressing. “you called me. not the other way around. what, you think i don’t know what this is?”
you lean down, mouth brushing his jaw, voice low. “this is me using you to cum.”
he growls, something frustrated and half-laughing as he flips you back before you can grind down again, big hands catching your wrists and pinning them above your head against the mattress.
echoes of silence by the weeknd hums from your tv speaker behind him, low, the bass slow and thudding like a pulse you’re both pretending not to feel. his face is inches from yours. his breath smells like mint and weed. his eyes are locked on your mouth like he’s trying to decide whether to kiss it or shut it up for good.
“then ride me,” he says, letting your wrists go. “come on, baby. show me how in control you are.”
you stare at him for a long moment, breathing hard. his cock is heavy and hard between his thighs, glistening with precum, and you want to wipe that look off his face. you want to take it all and leave nothing behind.
you push him flat with a palm to his chest.
“hands behind your head,” you say.
“yes, ma’am.” his grin is feral. he laces his fingers behind his head and sinks into the pillows like he’s watching the best show of his life.
“just don’t beg for more.”
you roll your eyes again, but slide your panties to the side and your cunt clenches when you line him up. the head catches at your entrance, thick and warm, and you sink down in one slow, brutal motion, biting your lip so you don’t give him the noise he wants. you feel him all the way up, your walls fluttering around him, hips stuttering when your clit grazes his pelvis.
he groans beneath you. “fuck, you always take me like you hate me.”
“i do.”
“no, you don’t,” he mutters, eyes locked on yours. “you just hate that you like me.”
you slap your hand over his mouth and start to move.
your pace is mean. tight little circles, grinding your clit against the base of him with every slow, dragging rock of your hips. your thighs burn but you don’t stop. you chase it. you ride him like you’re proving a point. the weeknd’s voice washes over the room, crooning about silence and desperation and something ugly that feels too close to the truth.
he moans against your palm. his eyes flutter. his abs tighten. he’s so fucking deep inside you, the stretch dizzying, and it only spurs you on—grinding, bouncing, taking him again and again until your cunt’s so slick it’s all you can hear besides the music and his ragged breathing.
“you like this?” you whisper, removing your hand. “being used like this?”
his head tips back, chest heaving. “i love it. i fucking love it.”
“you wanna stay tonight?”
he blinks up at you, dazed. “...do you?”
you slow down. your hips roll deeper, more sensual. his hands twitch behind his head. he looks like he wants to touch you so bad he might explode.
you lean down, hands braced on his chest, mouth a hair away from his.
“no.”
and then you kiss him.
filthy. greedy. too much tongue and too much spit. your mouths move like you’re arguing without words, like neither of you knows how to be soft but you can’t stop trying to bite it out of each other.
his hands break free, finally, grabbing at your waist, your ass, your back, like he’s trying to pull you closer than your own skin. his hips buck up into you, rhythm brutal, and you take it, you take all of it, nails dragging down his chest as your moans catch between kisses.
his mouth is hot and open and angry, tongue pushing past yours, teeth nipping at your bottom lip until you hiss and pull back just enough to glare at him.
“don’t fucking look at me like that,” he mutters, breath ragged, pupils blown wide. “you don’t get to ride me like that and then act like i’m done.”
you scoff, breathless, grinding down once more just to feel him twitch inside you, just to remind him who started this. “what, you gonna cry about it?”
that’s when he snaps.
he flips you so fast the room tilts, the mattress creaking as your back hits the sheets and his weight settles over you, one knee between your thighs, one hand pinning your wrist above your head while the other drags down your body like he’s reacquainting himself with something that already belongs to him.
“say it again,” he growls, mouth trailing down your jaw, your neck. “say you don’t want me.”
you arch up into him instead, teeth catching his lip, dragging it between your own until he groans. “you don’t scare me, sukuna.”
his laugh is sharp and humorless, breath hot against your throat. “yeah? good. ‘cause i’m not trying to.”
he bites you then—hard, right at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, teeth sinking in deep enough that you gasp and curse, hands breaking free, your nails finding their way to rake down his back on instinct. he sucks the mark dark, tongue pressing over it like he’s sealing it in, like he wants it visible tomorrow, like he wants someone else to see it and wonder. your cunt clenches around him at the same time, slick and greedy, and he feels it. of course he does.
“fucking slut,” he murmurs against your skin, not gentle, not kind. “look at you. all attitude until i put you on your back.”
“fuck you,” you spit, but it comes out broken when he pulls almost all the way out and then slams back in, hips snapping forward with zero warning, the impact knocking the air out of your lungs.
he fucks you hard and deep now, no patience, no teasing, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, mixing with the low ache of the song playing like it was made for moments exactly like this.
you wrap your legs around his waist, dragging him closer even as you glare up at him, even as you refuse to kiss him again. “don’t get it twisted,” you pant. “this doesn’t mean shit.”
he leans down, forehead pressing to yours, eyes dark and burning. “then why are you holding me like that?”
you hate that he noticed. you hate that he’s right.
he shifts his angle just enough to make you cry out, cock hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, makes your thighs shake. his mouth finds yours again, but this time it’s slower, messier—tongue dragging, teeth clicking, breath shared and frantic. he bites your lip, then your jaw, then kisses the sting like he regrets nothing.
“you always try to leave before i get like this,” he mutters between thrusts. “always wanna pretend i’m just convenient.”
“you are,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair despite yourself.
he grins, feral. “yeah? then why do you let me fuck you like i’m staying?”
his pace turns brutal again, punishing, hips snapping forward as his hand slides down to where your bodies meet, thumb circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your back arch. you curse his name this time. can’t help it. he hears it and moans like it’s a victory.
“there it is,” he pants. “do it again.”
you try to hold it in. the noise, the heat, the ache crawling up your spine. you try to bite it back like always, teeth clamped down on your lip so hard it might bruise, nails digging into the muscles of his shoulders as if that’ll anchor you to something, but sukuna sees it. he always fucking sees it. the stuttering of your breath. the widening of your eyes. the tremble in your legs like you’re about to go boneless under him. and worst of all—the way your cunt squeezes around him like it’s begging for more, like your body doesn’t care about all the things your mouth refuses to say.
“that’s it,” he growls, grabbing your cheeks, not rough but firm enough to make your lips part on instinct. “open.”
you try to turn your head. he doesn’t let you.
“look at me.”
you do. you shouldn’t, but you do. and his spit lands right on your tongue, slow and filthy, dripping from his mouth into yours like it belongs there, like this isn’t the first time and won’t be the last.
“swallow.”
you do. and his cock twitches inside you the moment your throat bobs.
“fuck,” he hisses, dragging his thumb along the slick corner of your mouth. “you’re so fucking good when you stop pretending.”
“s-shut the fuck up—”
but your voice breaks. it cracks, high and raw and gasping, because he grinds down right as he thrusts in deep, thumb pressed flat against your clit, pace relentless and brutal, like he’s chasing something with every stroke. like he’s chasing you.
and you lose it.
your moan isn’t elegant. it’s not composed. it’s not bratty or mean or cool. it’s ugly—loud, drawn out, wrecked. your thighs clamp around his waist as the orgasm hits, harder than you expected, your whole body seizing, cunt fluttering wildly around his cock until you're gushing all over him, a sudden, sharp rush of wet that makes both of you curse in tandem.
“holy shit,” he breathes, laughing, almost shocked. “fucking squirting for me now? that's new.”
you’re still shaking. twitching. overstimulated and raw, head tossed back, mouth open, breath hitching while your soaked cunt pulses around him in aftershocks you can’t suppress.
he slows down—not out of mercy, but out of awe. like he’s savoring it. like he wants to feel every second of you breaking.
“look at you,” he mutters, leaning down again, dragging his tongue across your jaw, your neck, your chest. “big talk all night and now you’re fucking dripping for me.”
you grab at him, too far gone to play it cool anymore, hips rolling up into his even as your body begs you to stop. you don’t care. you want more. you want him deeper. you want him to ruin what’s left.
“don’t you dare fucking stop,” you whisper, voice wrecked.
he kisses you again, messier now. there’s no rhythm, no technique. just spit and tongues colliding in a haze of sweat and shared breath. you claw at his back, drag him into you harder, and he gives you what you want.
his hips piston into you with purpose, cock slamming deep on every stroke, the bed creaking beneath you, the slick squelch of your cunt only making it nastier. your name leaves his mouth over and over—low, strained, cracked in the center like it costs him something to say. his hand curls around your jaw again, tilting your face up, his forehead pressed to yours so close you can’t look anywhere else.
“watch me,” he growls. “you wanna pretend this doesn’t mean shit? fine. but you’re gonna watch me while i cum in this pussy.”
you nod. your throat’s too tight to speak.
his rhythm falters once, twice, and then he’s spilling inside you with a groan so deep it rumbles in his chest. his cock twitches, presses in deep, and he doesn’t stop moving—just slow, dragging thrusts to fuck it all into you as you twitch beneath him, overstimulated, moaning softly into the space between you.
he doesn't let you look away.
“that’s right,” he mutters, kissing your cheekbone, your jaw, your open mouth. “eyes on me, baby.”
when he finally stops, it’s only because you’re trembling so hard your hands can’t stay on his skin.
he stays inside you longer than necessary, hips still, forehead pressed to yours like he’s trying to catch his breath off your mouth. your body’s trembling, clenching around him every few seconds from the aftershocks, thighs slick and sticking to his waist, your nails still buried in his shoulders because you forgot how to let go. the room is quiet now—another song just finished minutes ago, the bass replaced with the sound of your breath, the ceiling fan creaking softly above both of your bodies like a reminder you’re not dreaming.
his thumb traces lazy circles into your thigh. not sexual. just there. something to keep him connected to you like if he moves too fast, you’ll disappear.
he shifts, just enough to meet your eyes again. his voice is rough. lower than before. but the bite’s gone.
“…still gonna kick me out?”
you blink up at him, lips parting like you forgot how to answer. maybe you did. you still haven’t unhooked your legs from his waist.
he smiles—faint, lopsided, stupid. “’cause like, i will. i’ll go. just saying... i could make pancakes in the morning. wear one of those slutty little chef aprons. ass out. the works.”
your laugh is so quick and unexpected it surprises even you. it bubbles up sharp, short, cracking straight through the haze. and the worst part? it sounds happy.
you shake your head, barely suppressing the smirk threatening your mouth. “shut up,” you murmur, smacking his arm. “just lay down.”
