Johnny's main man !

currently under construction | nineteen!

[lovelybunnis]

welcome !

M ★ he/him ★ black & autistic ★ y/n & oc fics + yapping

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[sanjisblackasswife]

Imagine Zoro Watching Sanji Eat You Out (NSFW)

To this day, Zoro hates the fact that you’re with that ero cook. He hates the fact that he sees you sneak off to his bedroom at 2am to be with him. He hates the fact he knows that when you both are not in sight on the ship you both are going to get a quickie because your little horny boyfriend always needs some kind of daily fix with your teasing body. He hates how you both are like the best of friends. He hates how you’re infatuated with the curly brow idiot even though he still shows lustful gazes to other women. He hates the EXTRA special treatment he gives you as if him doing it to you because you’re a woman wasnt annoying enough. He hates how you always laugh at his jokes. He hates how much you have a soft spot for him. He hates hearing your soft moans of Sanji’s name shyly seep under the door from your bedroom.

But what he hates the most is seeing how good he pleasures you. How you can’t seem to stop yourself from squirming under his touch. How tears prickle through your lashes when he is in between your thigh giving kitten licks to your clit.

“Need..More…” Your Voice is sore from the screams you’ve managed to have reduced from his pillow on your mouth. You desperately use one hand to cup Sanji’s wet face from below you, he was already pussy drunk and flustered. Drool still connecting from his swollen bottom lip to your aching cunt giving you a weak smile. “More please…”

Sanji shakes his head as if he has no other thoughts in that pretty little head of his and pushes your thighs back to your chest opening you up more. He coo’s little praises about your body and sticks his long wide tongue inside you making immediately arch your back to grab his soft hair.

Zoro hates how attractive you look. How much you’re panting, how you can’t keep your eyes focused on Sanji no matter how many butt slaps he gives you to remind yourself to. Zoro hates standing on the opposite side of that door just as big of a pervert as that love cook gritting his teeth in envy seeing yourself be so vulnerable with Sanji. Letting him touch anywhere, lick anywhere, grab anywhere, mark anywhere he hated it all.

“Suck her clit, dumbass.” Zoro didn’t even catch himself groaning at the end of him speaking his thoughts a loud while palming his own cock.

“You like when I do this, baby?”

“Y-yes! Ah—- yes Sanji keep going!”

Almost as if he heard Zoro his tongue flicks the hood of your clit before sucking and pulling on it making your sounds of pleasure harder to conceal. Zoro hates to see you so fucked out by his tongue alone. He hates that Sanji knows your body so well. He hates that’s not him making you cry out.

Sanji However loves it. He loves knowing he has something Zoro will never be able to have. He knows he watches, burning every eye roll, every lip bite, every reaction you give from being under Sanji to use as masturbation material when you both are done and Zoro is left alone again in the late hours of the night hearing Sanji take you to the bathroom of what could possibly be another round of blissful sex. He knows that he will never have you like this. He knows if Zoro had the opportunity he’d probably just join you both. It’s a sense of ego boosting for Sanji because he knows that you are all his.

[sweetlyrocks]

why do i like men that piss me off

[pluvoia]

Hii, I was wondering if I could request a toxic sinister mark x female reader smut..their relationship is toxic where reader keeps trying to leave from how abusive and manipulative he is but he just won’t let her

“MANIA.”

in which, SINISTER!MARK GRAYSON from INVINCIBLE cannot ignore his deepest desires, no matter how sickening. ‧₊˚✩彡 includes: sinister!mark grayson variant x fem!reader, MATURE CONTENT (17+), descriptions of gore, hematolagnia (sexual arousal for blood), masochism, mentions of cannibalism, threatening, sadism, fear kink, spanking, biting, licking, finger sucking, fingering, piv, creampie, dirty talk, degradation, roughdom!mark grayson, hair pulling, baby-trapping (if you squint), established (TOXIC) relationship, 2.3k words. ‧₊˚✩彡 DISCLAIMER: please do not romanticize abusive relationships / abuse. the situation described is more toxic than anything, as mark is a psycho and reader, despite her common sense, is into that. keep yourself and others safe <3

A RAVENOUS greed had begun to rot inside mark grayson. it had rooted itself deep within his gut; twisting, churning, and begging for him to succumb to the darkest, most deli cious, decay from the black that enveloped his mind.

floating above washington, he gnawed at his lower lip, canines piercing smoothly into the fat. droplets of blood trickled from the twin wounds, his tongue quick to absorb the irony liquid. it wasn't a nervous tick-- mark would never have adopted such foolish human customs-- as much as it was a way to temporarily satisfy the hunger creeping within his innards. wind tousled his hair, and for a moment, there was silence. there were no voices that told him to kill, to eat, to devour; until he smelled it.

not it; you.

your flesh. your sweat. your fear.

something in him snapped-- much like what he wanted to do to your spine after he had had his way with you: peel your body from your nervous system, limb by limb, dragging and fracturing each vertebrae from your measly frame, sucking and chewing on the calcium from your bones, tongue lapping selfishly at your blood and--

mark had to compose himself. drool had begun to pool in his mouth, and he gave his plush bottom lip a satisfying lick. no longer was he hovering: mark had shot off towards your location, tracing your scent with a maddening hunger.

the rot was spreading, practically oozing from his ears and his eyes and his nose and his mouth and his everything. it yearned for you, an instinctive frenzy mark could not bare to suppress any longer.

he would infect you too, he thought steadily. even if it was the last thing he did.

✰

the clock in the center of the wall was beginning to drive you mad. with each agonizing tick, tick, tick, you felt your chest swell hot with dread. every rotation of those insignificant hands on that stupid fucking clock meant mark was closer to returning. and this evening, mark had been out long.

he would be starving when he returned.

try as you might, and god, had you tried, to leave-- mark had always found you. there was something down right startling about his ability to track you down; often times you were sure it had been nothing more than a game to him, a juvenile round of cat and mouse.

cat and mouse. cat eat mice. mark was going to eat you alive.

your pulse quickened at the thought, and your body had begun, suddenly, moving on its own. the apartment reeked of desperation as you fumbled with the locks on each window, shaky hands unable to hide the pure horror pulsing through your veins. the locks were all unmoving within your feeble grasp, and as a last resort, you had grabbed something from off the counter-- a dirtied pot, you think-- and thrown it angrily at the kitchen window. glass shards painted the floor and window sill, and the pot eventually hit the pavement below with a thundering clamor.

if you had been thinking, maybe you would have attempted the door; you'd had a better shot at prying at the deadbolts than surviving the eleven story fall from the newly broken window.

alas, the wind bit eagerly at your face, taunting you.

the clock on the wall behind you ticked on and on and on, and certainly, there was no other option in your mind but to jump. broken glass cut into your skin as you crawled onto the sill, but it barely registered as adrenaline had pushed you, finally, into the air.

it was freeing. wind rushed through your hair as you fell, and your stomach had barely lurched. there was a tree below the window where you had fallen, and you figured it would soften the blow. sure, you'd have an assortment of injuries in the aftermath-- but you'd be free, no?

"no." mark's voice had cut your thoughts in half, and his grip on you was tight. his fingernails stabbed painfully into the plush of your thighs and the fat of your biceps as he held you close. he reeked of a silent hysteria.

he caught you.

"stupid girl," he spat, floating upwards, towards the apartment window.

mark had caught you.

"you thought you could leave me?" his voice rang in your ears, vibrating and jostling within the constraints of your mind. it was quiet-- too quiet, too calm, too hungry.

mark grayson had caught you.

he threw you down carelessly onto the small expanse of your apartment's kitchen countertop; the cold granite a shock to your system. "you must not know how good you smell," mark breathed, face shoved into the crook of your neck as he inhaled wildly, "good enough to eat."

✰

carnal instinct had gotten your clothes torn to shreds, the amalgamation of thread and cloth and whatever else had been your outfit carelessly discarded in some dark corner of your apartment. you laid bare, save for your panties, in front of mark. he stood a few feet back, taking in the view; you could see the sporadic rise and fall of his chest, and the way his pupils were blown wide.

"mark, baby, we can--" you tried.

"where should i start, hm?" he interrupted, voice low. his steps were slow, arms uncrossing from his chest and reaching out to grab the sole of your foot. he brought your ankle to his cheek, letting the bone rest against his face; he paused, before twisting his head to press a open-mouthed kiss to it. "maybe i'll work my way up, yeah?" he whispered.

sharp teeth sunk into the flesh of your calf and you gasped. he broke the skin, pursing his lips to suck the blood from the wound.

"markus," you hissed. his eyes flicked upwards to meet yours, and you saw brown irises roll. he gave a flat lick to the bite, as if to soothe the angry skin, before he moved upwards, past your knee, to your inner thigh. his tongue still remained connected to your leg, the salt from your sweat intoxicating to him.

he kissed your thighs, alternating between both legs, before simply biting down, harder than before, into the fat. you whined-- upset at yourself for enjoying this so much.

there was a lunatic in between your legs-- one you were certain would snap your neck the second he got bored of you-- and here you were, fucking soaked.

"you're not just scared anymore," he whispered, still nipping at the sensitive flesh of your thighs. "i can smell it."

without warning, he pressed his index finger against your panties, hard enough to create a stain from your slick beneath the fabric. your whole body shuddered, your head lolling backwards ever so slightly. the pad of mark's finger ran up and down your clothed pussy a few more times, stopping briefly where your clit was to roll lazy circles, until mark had had enough. he hooked two fingers beneath your panties, pulling them to the side, before the digits dove into your folds.

your hips tilted upwards and you gasped again, mark's actions stealing the breath from your lips.

"greedy slut," he mumbled. "you don't deserve this."

his hand tilted slightly, so this thumb could press harshly onto your clit; two fingers shoved knuckles deep inside of you, mark felt your tight hole flutter around his extremities. you couldn't speak-- too absorbed in the feeling of his hand bullying your cunt, too engrossed in the way he shifted his free hand to yank you towards the edge of the counter.

he knelt, still with his fingers curling and scissoring within you, to bite down again on your thighs. his teeth stung forcibly, and your legs shook around his head. mark's tongue darted out to taste the blood from your thigh, groaning as the substance coated his tastebuds.

mark curled his fingers inside you once, twice, and then pulled them out haphazardly. his vision landed on the glistening wetness that completely drenched his hand, and his voice was sharp. "see? you don't really want to leave me."

frustration bloomed in your core, and it was almost as intense as the shame that had crawled its way up your neck, mocking you. "i do." you snapped out, voice barely above a whisper.

"you do?" mark's face broke out into a grin, though he was not amused. "lie to me again," he threatened lowly, "and you'll see what happens."

you swallowed, watching him spread your slick against your lower stomach. it was obscene. "i'm not fucking lying, mark. you- you're insane!"

what was even worse, however, was the way mark reacted. he stood, no longer kneeling in between your legs. he had some of your blood smeared along his chin, and his smile was fucking unnerving. he used one singular palm to grip firmly onto your hip, flipping you onto your stomach. there was no love in his movements-- he manhandled you the way he wanted, palms groping with no pattern along your body.

smack!

the crack of his hand against your ass had you crying out, taken aback by the amount of force he had used. "i'm insane," he echoed, bringing his palm back down onto your ass with excessive force. "i'm insane," mark spanked you again, and again, and again; until tears prickled in the corner of your eyes and the heat radiating from the welts was concerning.

"please," you begged.

you heard movement from behind you, and suddenly you felt the weight of mark's cock throb against your drenched pussy. "shut up," he huffed, crudely slapping his cock onto your clit. your hips jerked, and you whined, unable to contain the noise. "i said," mark warned, before stuffing two fingers inside your pussy easily-- you had sucked his digits up with greed-- thrusting them repeatedly against your g-spot. he tugged them away suddenly, and you made another noise at the loss, before you felt his wet fingers being pressed meanly to your lips. without protest, you opened your mouth, the taste of your own arousal flooding your senses. "shut up."

mark used his left hand to guide his tip to your hole, not bothering to wait before he shoved himself inside you completely. you felt his hips flush against your ass, and your eyes rolled into the back of your head as the tip of his cock met that spongy spot inside of you. he leaned forward, pressing his weight firmly against your back-- and hot breath hit the back of your neck. "i'm insane," he repeated, as he pulled his hips back to thrust himself inside of you completely once again. your toes curled. "fuck, what does that make you then? you're the one drooling on both my fingers and cock."

you whined as he continued to fuck into you, back arching against his lower stomach. your tongue swirled messily at his fingers, drool dripping down your chin.

"why can't you fuckin' listen to what i say?" he snapped angrily, hand leaving your hip to smack the plush of your ass again. "you're so much prettier when you're not bitching about me hurting you."

his teeth sunk into the flesh where your neck meets your shoulders, and you, lacking in any self respect, fucking enjoy it. "don't you realize," he whispered, lapping at the blood that now spilled from your neck, "that i could have killed you a long fuckin' time ago? torn you limb from limb, devouring this sweet and weak little body, leaving you nothing but a carcass?"

it should scare you. it should make your blood run cold. he should make you fear for your life.

his hips continue to snap against your ass, the obscene sounds of your pussy clenching and squelching around his thick cock filling your apartment.

you should be petrified!

but you're not. especially not as mark bottoms out again, grinding his hips against you, forcing his dick impossibly deeper. your eyes sting; mascara bleeding down your flushed cheeks as he reaches a hand out to yank your head back, neck craning at the force. he groans, moving in and out of you again.

"i'm going to cum," he whispers, breath hot against the shell of your ear, "and you're going to take it."

mindlessly you're nodding, cunt practically strangling his cock. your own orgasm is approaching fast; the way he rams his dick into you sending shivers down your spine.

mark's body tenses as you feel his cock begin to pulse within you, his cum intruding your pussy. he's bitten down on your shoulder-- pain prickling into the edges of your senses as you cum sloppily around his dick next. his hips continue to rock into you as he laps at your shoulder, completely bewitched by the taste of your blood.

forcefully, you're spitting out his fingers-- the sensation of him within you blurring into a painful overstimulation. "mark, s'too much," you gasp. a trail of saliva keeps you connected to his fingers. embarrassment vaguely washes over you.

his hips still, and suddenly, you're left feeling empty. mark moves silently, using his spit-covered fingers to shove the cum that's begun to dribble from your cunt back inside. you thrash a little at the feeling, only spurring mark on to bring a palm down harshly on your pussy.

"there," mark juts his chin forward, stuffing any last trails of escaped cum back into you, "now you will not leave me."

you quiver, his tone painfully ominous. you feel exposed in front of him, post-sex guilt contaminating your mind, and the need to run, to hide, to escape from mark starts to simmer deep in your gut.

mark smiles. it looks painful. every last pointed tooth blinds you, and as he comes closer to your face, you can smell the adrenaline on his breath. you can smell the delirium, smell the insanity. his whisper is frightening.

"i've infected you. there's no escaping the rot." 

PLUVOiA '25 ® - masterlist

loren's thots: sinister mark is a fuckin weirdo lmfao, hope he came off that way. also fun-fact: i went onto the wikipedia page for paraphilias to check for some stuff js for tagging and holy shit?? go take a look if u hv time lmao theres some crazy shizz on there. not yucking anyones yum (unless its illegal like pedophilia) but damn. (reqs are open!!)

[lovelybunnis]

what if i said i forgot my password on here and thats why i havent posted.....

[hyuniemyunie]

Clinical Signs of Affection

gregory house x reader

nsfw

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(ФωФ): domestic fluff, work day softness, kiss sneakery, annoying couple behavior, eventual sex, riding house into oblivion, afab reader. no pronouns mentioned, reader calls themselves a "hot housewife" but is referred to as houses "partner" no prns, just a mention of readers clit n hot housewife🙏🙏🙏🙏

tbh its mostly sfw, the nsfw comes at the end

i love this soggy old man sm.

i might repost this on ao3 too, i have ONE fic on ao3. its a house fic.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･

You don’t technically belong here.

You’re not on the clock. You’re not on call. And the front desk nurse definitely gave you the stink eye when you flashed your visitor’s badge and breezed in like you owned the place.

But you do own one very specific thing in this hospital.

Well. One person.

One disaster of a man currently on his sixth hour of ignoring basic human needs like food, water, and common sense.

So you walk through the halls of Princeton-Plainsboro like you’re on a mission, lunchbox in one hand, water bottle in the other, and a familiar devil-may-care smile curling on your lips. You even wore the hoodie he pretends to hate—the one that’s technically his but smells like you now.

A few nurses smile at you. One intern stares like she’s seeing a unicorn. You’ve visited enough times that people know you, but still rarely enough that your appearance turns heads.

Especially when you burst into Diagnostics without knocking.

House doesn’t look up immediately. He’s lounging in his chair, feet on the desk, twirling a pen between his fingers with all the grace of a bored cat. His team—Chase, Cameron, and Foreman—are mid-bicker, voices overlapping, something about liver enzymes and blood cultures and, probably, the meaning of life.

“Tell me someone brought coffee,” House says without looking up.

You don’t say anything.

You just walk in, slow and deliberate, and place the lunchbox right on top of the folder in his lap.

And then the water bottle.

Then, you lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Hi,” you say.

There’s a pause.

Then he finally blinks, looks up, and sees you.

And for a moment, the mask slips.

His eyes soften—just a flicker—and his lips twitch into something less sardonic, more fond.

“I didn’t order a personal chef with boundary issues,” he says.

“No, but you’re getting one anyway.”

Chase coughs awkwardly.

Cameron pointedly avoids eye contact.

Foreman mutters, “Every damn time.”

You ignore them all and pull up a chair beside House like you own the place. Which, emotionally speaking, you do.

“You haven’t eaten,” you say, flipping the lunchbox open. “I know you haven’t eaten. And if I don’t shove food down your throat myself, you’ll subsist on nothing but ibuprofen and rage.”

House narrows his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Romantic,” he says dryly.

You smile sweetly. “Chicken teriyaki. And a granola bar, because I know you forget dessert exists.”

He squints at you. “You’re enabling my childish avoidance of nutrition.”

“I’m preventing your body from eating itself.”

He eats.

Grumbling, mock-insulting your cooking, muttering about sodium content—but he eats. And when no one’s looking, you slip your hand under the table and lace your fingers with his.

He squeezes once, hard. Doesn't look at you.

But he holds on.

You give him his water bottle with your other hand and wait until he rolls his eyes and takes a sip, just to shut you up.

When his team clears out—some excuse about test results, but really, it’s because no one wants to witness this—he finally glances at you properly.

“You know,” he says slowly, like drawing out each word, “you could’ve stayed home. Slept. Watched trash TV. Painted your toenails. I’m not exactly prime lunchtime company.”

You lean in, pressing another kiss to his jaw. This one lingers.

“I know,” you murmur. “But I missed you. And I like bothering you.”

He grumbles something unintelligible, but his arm slips around your waist. Just a little.

Just enough.

“Also,” you add with a cheeky grin, “I thought you might appreciate a few stolen kisses between patient charts.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are we in a 90s romcom now?”

You lean closer. “Only if you kiss me back when no one’s watching.”

And sure enough, when Cuddy passes by five minutes later, glaring through the glass with a look that screams Gregory, do your actual job, you’re sitting innocently beside him, lips kiss-bitten, cheeks warm, and House is chewing thoughtfully while looking suspiciously satisfied.

When the office empties again, he leans in and kisses you without a word.

Deep. Slow. Almost hesitant.

“You’re disgusting,” he mutters when you smirk.

“You’re making out with me in your workplace.”

“God help me.”

You grin, smug, resting your head on his shoulder. “Don’t need God. You’ve got me.”

He makes a show of groaning dramatically, but his fingers trail lazily up and down your arm. Like he can’t not touch you. Like he needs to be reminded you’re here, real, breathing beside him.

You stay like that until his pager buzzes again.

He sighs.

You steal one last kiss before he pulls away.

“Bring me leftovers tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder as he limps out.

“Tomorrow’s your day off.”

“Exactly. I’ll be hungry.”

You roll your eyes fondly, but your heart is full, stupid and warm.

You’ll bring him lunch again tomorrow.

And sneak another kiss, too.

Because even if he never says it in those exact words, you know the truth:

He works best when he knows you’re somewhere nearby—keeping him grounded, fed, loved.

..And hydrated.

---

The moment House’s cane tapped against the hardwood of the front hall, you were already in position like a military strategist. He was home. Finally.

You’d spent all afternoon preparing. Not because you were the type of person to wait on him hand and foot—House would’ve teased the life out of you if that were the case—but because you knew the way his shoulders slumped just a little lower after back-to-back shifts, the way his sarcasm came out slightly more biting when he was actually running on fumes. And because, somewhere deep inside his perpetually grumpy self, he would never ask for what he needed.

So, you gave it to him anyway.

He barely got through the door when his nose twitched.

“Something smells edible,” he grunted, tossing his bag to the side and half-stumbling into the living room. “And here I was expecting the usual ‘eat air and cry’ menu.”

You poked your head out from the kitchen doorway, wiping your hands on a towel dramatically. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know I slaved over a hot stove for at least thirty minutes. That’s premium effort.”

“Mm. You must love me or something,” he said dryly, dragging himself toward the kitchen by the scent alone. “Poor taste.”

“Absolutely tragic,” you agreed, grinning.

When he got close, you could finally take him in—creased button-down under his blazer, the stubble that had grown longer over the last few days, the weary creases by his eyes even as he smirked. He smelled like hospital soap, exhaustion, and the faintest trace of antiseptic.

He leaned in without a word and buried his face in your shoulder, the side of his nose brushing your neck. You didn’t even hesitate—your arms were already around him, pressing him close, fingers slipping up under the back of his shirt to stroke over his skin.

“You always smell better than the hospital,” he mumbled, voice muffled.

“I should hope so. I don’t exactly rub against the ICU on the daily.”

“Might be missing out.”

You laughed against his hair, squeezing him tighter. “You’re disgusting.”

“Your disgusting. You love this disgusting. And speaking of things I love—what did you make me?”

You finally let him go with a dramatic sigh, motioning toward the table. “It’s all ready, Dr. House. Go sit. Or fall. Either works.”

He dropped into his chair with a groan of relief, rubbing his thigh out of habit while you set the table. Pan-seared steak, garlic mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, and a tiny bit of something green you knew he’d push around but at least look at. You slid a beer beside his plate with a flourish.

“Who are you and what have you done with my partner?” he asked.

“I killed them. Now I’m the hot housewife.”

He took a sip of the beer, eyeing you over the rim. “You do realize this makes me want to skip dinner and go straight to dessert, right?”

You gave him a sly look and sat across from him. “Eat. Or I’m not letting you see the apron under this shirt.”

“You’re wearing an apron under the shirt?”

“No.”

He choked on a laugh, and something about the softness in his eyes when he finally started to eat made your chest squeeze. His sarcasm never went away, but when it was you, he let it soften at the edges. He let himself feel. That was more than he gave anyone else.

The meal passed with the usual banter—House throwing roasted carrots at you for being “a rabbit,” you threatening to “accidentally” pour gravy in his lap, both of you laughing like idiots over things that probably weren’t even funny. You cleared the table together, and when you were finally done, you leaned back against the sink and raised an eyebrow.

“Now,” you said, arms crossed. “Are you ready for me?”

He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Was this all just foreplay?”

“House. I literally lit candles. Do I ever light candles?”

“Only when something’s on fire.”

You threw the dishtowel at him. “I ran a bath. And I’m letting you shower with me. Which is generous, because you’re grabby.”

“You say that like it’s a complaint.”

He slid off the counter and limped toward you slowly.

“You’re mine to be grabby with,” he said as his hand snuck around your waist, tugging you in. “Domesticity looks hot on you.”

You leaned up to kiss his jaw. “Shut up and get naked.”

—

Steam curled against the mirror, blurring the edges of your reflections as House stepped in behind you under the stream of hot water. You gasped slightly when the water hit your shoulders—he had cranked the temperature all the way up. He always liked it too hot, and you always let him win.

“You’ll boil me alive one day,” you mumbled, grabbing the soap.

“Mm. Tenderized and ready to eat.”

His hands slid around your waist again, but this time they didn’t stop. Palms flattened against your stomach, fingers dipping low, tracing lazy circles that made you lean back against him. He kissed your shoulder, then your neck, and the scruff of his beard scraped lightly against your skin. One of his hands moved up, cupping your chest shamelessly.

“House—”

“I’ve been dealing with blood, idiots, and Cuddy all day,” he muttered against your ear. “Let me feel something good.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop him, leaning back further into his chest as both of his hands roamed. Not rough—just possessive. Comforting.

You turned in his arms finally and kissed him slowly. He tasted like beer, toothpaste and exhaustion, and he kissed you back with the hunger of a man who’d been living on bitterness and hospital coffee.

“Love you,” you whispered.

His forehead pressed to yours. “You’re an idiot.”

You smiled. “Takes one to love one.”

He grinned, and the way he looked at you in that moment—naked, wet, sleepy, and grinning like a man in love—was worth every moment you’d spent waiting for him to come home.

---

It started, as it often did, with you waking up to something pressing insistently against your backside.

You were warm. Wrapped in soft sheets. Limbs tangled with House’s. The air smelled like morning and him—skin and shampoo and something vaguely medicinal. You didn’t even open your eyes at first. Just exhaled a breath and shifted slightly in bed.

That was when you felt it again.

Thick. Hard. Warm.

Pressed right up between your ass cheeks, like it was meant to be there.

You didn’t need to turn to know House was still fast asleep. His arm was slung over your waist, his breathing even, that low rasp of sleep just starting to fade into wakefulness. But his body was already several steps ahead of him.

Typical.

You smiled to yourself, still barely awake, and wriggled a little closer. That earned you a low grunt.

“…if you’re gonna grind on it, at least commit to the bit,” he muttered sleepily into your hair.

You snorted, turning in his arms until you were face to face, and yup—there was that morning glare. Eyelids half-closed, hair a mess, scruffy jaw, and the world’s most unrepentant erection trapped between you.

“Not my fault you’re pitching a tent,” you whispered, grinning as your hand slid under the covers to palm him through his boxers. “Wanna tell me what you were dreaming about?”

“Medical malpractice.”

“Sure it wasn’t about me in nothing but scrubs?”

He opened one eye, his mouth twitching upward. “You in scrubs is hot. You out of scrubs is hotter.”

You slipped your hand past the waistband and wrapped your fingers around him, slow and firm, and his breath caught, teeth dragging across his lip.

“I could help,” you said softly, giving him a lazy stroke. “Before breakfast.”

“Are you the breakfast?” he asked, voice still gravelly, eyes now glued to your mouth.

You leaned in and kissed him softly. His hand tangled in your hair, and when you shifted to straddle him, his hips arched up immediately into your palm.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned.

“Mm. I’ll revive you. Doctor’s orders.”

You reached over to the nightstand and pulled out a condom from the drawer—because House was a bastard, but he was always careful. You opened the packet, and he watched you like he couldn’t look away, like the very sight of you half-naked in the morning light had short-circuited every sarcastic neuron in his brain.

You rolled it onto him with slow, practiced care, and he hissed softly, hands gripping your thighs. Once he was sheathed and you were slick enough to take him, you eased yourself down onto his cock with a breathless moan.

“Jesus,” he muttered, brow furrowed, “how are you this warm already?”

“Your fault,” you whispered, rocking your hips. “You started it.”

His hands found your waist, guiding your rhythm even though he barely had the strength to lift his head. His mouth fell open as you moved—slow, deep, lazy like Sunday mornings should be. No rush. No urgency. Just the warmth of skin, the roll of your hips, the softness of your hands on his chest, your fingers laced with his.

“God, I missed this,” he muttered.

“You had me last night.”

“Not like this.”

He let you ride him in silence for a few minutes—aside from the low, broken groans he couldn’t hold back when you clenched or angled just right. His thumb brushed your clit in lazy circles, coaxing pleasure from you with that same knowing touch he used in diagnostics—only now it was you he was unraveling.

When your moans started to climb and your thighs began to tremble, he bucked up once, hard, and you gasped.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come on. Come with me.”

You barely had time to nod before your orgasm hit, crashing through you in a wave of heat and release. You clung to him as you came, shuddering, and he wasn’t far behind—his grip tightened, and he thrust up one final time as he spilled into the condom with a low groan, forehead pressed to your chest.

You collapsed against him, both of you breathless, your bodies tangled and sticky with sweat and satisfaction.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Then, House grunted. “I think I broke a rib.”

“You’re such a baby.”

“You rode me like I was a prize bull.”

You laughed and kissed his shoulder, nuzzling against his neck. “Worth it.”

He reached up, brushed your hair back gently, and kissed your forehead with surprising tenderness.

“Definitely worth it.”

---

After a shared shower—filled more with sleepy kisses and soft touches than anything dirty—you both ended up back in the kitchen, dressed in soft pajamas, your hair still damp, House’s limp a little worse than usual.

“I blame you,” he said, sipping coffee while flipping a pancake with surprising skill. “I’m gonna need my cane just to sit down today.”

“You always need your cane.”

“Not the point.”

You leaned against the counter, watching him. He was still bleary-eyed, still grumbling, but there was something in the way he moved—lighter. More at ease.

When you handed him a plate and he brushed his fingers over yours, you smiled. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to.

It was all there in the way he looked at you over his coffee mug.

Grumpy. Sated. Home.

And as far as mornings went?

You couldn’t think of a better one.

[defectivevillain]

man in the mirror

pairing: House/Reader

reader is transmasculine and uses he/him pronouns.

summary: As you walk past House’s desk, there’s a blur at your right, before you’re promptly hit in the face.  “Ow!” you hiss instinctually, more out of surprise than genuine pain. You were just hit with a flying projectile. House’s movements suggest he threw it. You frown and pick it up from the floor, finding it to be a blue razor.  “That’s a razor,” House says pointedly. “Use it,” he says flatly, motioning to your jaw and chin area.

word count: 3.2k | ao3 version | transmasc euphoria playlist

author's notes: hi friends!!! the inspiration for this fic was my thoughts of House being gender-affirming to a transmasc reader, but in his typical House way (aka sarcasm, passive aggression, unexplained gestures, etc.). This is more of a collection of isolated moments, less of a single coherent narrative. But I still like it.

This is House/Reader focused, with no explicit romance. The reader is implied to be gay; he's transmasculine, is taking testosterone, and has had top surgery! I want to emphasize that the situations/effects and symptoms are things that I have experienced—I am not intending to generalize or make broad claims about the transmasc experience. This fic does not substitute for 100% accurate medical information—do your research and speak to your doctor for guidance on T and top surgery.

With that in mind, here is a list of the scenarios (many of which involve traditional T effects): 1) veiny hands, 2) better posture after top surgery, 3) voice cracking, 4) menstruation, 5) growing facial hair, 6) jaw/tooth pain, 7) dizziness and vertigo from a higher dose, and 8) happiness/less anxiety! (#7 is specifically based on *my* experience, so don’t fear that it will necessarily happen to you. I’ve just learned my body is fucked and I have to take a very low dose of T.)

warnings: mentions of menstruation and menstrual products (kept general as “products”), gender dysphoria, depression (reader mentions having it); mentions of medication & side-effects.

House is a strange man. You know this, and you’ve known it since you first met. It’s far from a bad thing—he’s assertive, wicked smart, and witty. Of course, he also has the tendency to be a massive dick and completely uncaring of other people’s feelings. But still. You manage to get along with him just fine. (And the same cannot be said for at least 95% of the population, so… you’ll take it.)

One thing you’ve definitely gotten used to is his judgment. House is constantly expressing it, entirely unwarranted. You don’t think you can even go a day without him commenting on something—whether it’s your slightly wrinkled shirt (it was one time, seriously…) and your handwriting (still neater than his) or your choice in jackets and movies. Anything and everything is up for grabs. 

So when House makes a confusingly ambiguous comment one morning, you’re not surprised.

“Easy there, Hulk,” House huffs with amusement, looking over as you hold your clipboard and flip the pages. “No one’s going to take it from you.” 

You just blink at him, confused, before turning your attention back to your clipboard. Unfortunately, your curiosity isn’t fought off for long, especially when under House’s unwavering scrutiny. He is annoyingly difficult to ignore. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you eventually ask. 

“Your hands are veiny,” he states. “Look.”

Apparently looking is not enough, because House promptly yanks the clipboard from your hands and tosses it a few feet away. Then, he’s taking your hand and holding it in front of you. His thumb glides across a vein and he smirks. You hate how your heart jumps a bit at the movement. House doesn’t do physical contact. Ever. So why…? 

“Watch out for paper cuts,” House says ominously, raising his eyebrows. 

“Don’t even think about it,” you try to say. 

House just shrugs, making a show of dropping your hand with disgust. 

You sigh, before moving to pick up your clipboard. It’s cracked now. Figures. 

The next time you remember House’s… eccentricity… isn’t until a few months later. You work with House on a daily basis, since you’re a member of the diagnostics department—so you’re used to his strange behavior. At least, you thought you were. 

You’re walking into your shared office when it happens. House is glaring at his computer, even as you announce your presence and try to greet him. Eventually, your expectant stare must wear him down, because he sighs loudly and looks up from his screen. What follows is a blatant show of scrutiny, as he looks you up and down skeptically. 

“You grow a few inches since last week?” House asks. You’re not sure if he even wants an answer, or if he’s just making an observation. That’s the tricky thing about House’s ‘questions’: more often than not, they’re vehicles used to assert his superiority. They’re never genuine displays of interest. 

Still, if there’s one thing you’ve learned about your colleague, it’s that he always expects an answer. “Uh… no,” you respond with a frown. “Why?”

“You’re not slouching,” House states matter-of-factly. A slight quirk takes his lips. “Did they finally find your spine in there?” 

You resist a laugh. Truthfully, you don’t really know what to say in response… (“Yeah, I got top surgery so I don’t have to hunch over to feel comfortable with myself anymore.”? That feels like way too much detail…)

“Can’t say it’ll fix anything, though—your posture was abysmal,” House scoffs, bringing you back to the present. 

“Thanks, Holmes,” you say sarcastically.

“House,” he corrects you. 

“Holmes,” you repeat. A pause. “You know, it’s kinda funny. Holmes and Watson, House and Wilson?”

“No,” House argues immediately. 

“Okay,” you shrug. He quickly loses his remaining patience and looks back down at his papers. You soon do the same. 

Unfortunately, these seemingly private moments of scrutiny soon turn out to be a lot more public. You’re in a meeting when it happens next—quite literally in the middle of speaking. 

“Did your voice just crack?” House says with a sneer. He’s leaning with his arms crossed over his chest. He keeps rocking back and forth on his chair when you talk, and it’s very annoying and distracting. His constant commentary and interruptions certainly aren’t helping.  “Are we in grade school now?”

You register the insult and huff. “Shut up, House,” you remark, making a point to clear your throat. Cuddy sends him a knowing look, which House completely ignores. Foreman just shakes his head in disbelief; Chase seems too busy trying to catch Cameron’s eye to notice much of anything. 

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” House says innocently. A complete lie, which will soon be followed up with a sardonic remark. You grit your teeth in preparation. “You have always possessed the intellect of a fifth grade boy.”

There it is. “Shut up,” you say again. There are assorted grumbles and groans around you, the show of solidarity making you feel better about yourself.

House just smirks at your remark, because of course he does. 

“Now I forgot what I was saying,” you scowl. Thanks a lot, House. 

“Blah blah blah, cholesterol levels, blah blah blah,” House says with a flippant wave. Ironically, that tiny remark buried beneath his uncaring act lets you know that he was actually listening. 

You fight off a smile, straightening up and continuing to speak. 

You hate, hate, hate menstruation. Going on T stopped it for a while, and you almost forgot about it. But here you are. Ugh.

And menstrual products… Where to even begin. Obnoxiously marketed towards women, for starters—which is dysphoria-inducing. Add on the fact that they’re uncomfortable, and have to be changed frequently… And they’re just all around nightmarish. 

It’s about time for you to change, too. You internally groan at the thought, stuffing that damned pastel nightmare in your pocket and trudging off to the restroom around the corner. It’s a single stall all-gender restroom, thankfully. Usually it’s open. You like to think it’s your bathroom now.

But apparently someone didn’t get the message, because when you approach it, it’s locked and occupied. Damn it. 

You wait around for a few minutes, slowly but surely losing your patience. The door remains closed. Ugh. You’re moments away from just busting the door down when you see House around the corner. He raises a brow, taking a few steps forwards until he’s standing in front of the door. He processes the situation quickly, a worrying smirk on his face. 

“Watch this,” House says, before pounding on the door with far too much strength. “Wilson. That blonde woman is back. The one who said she wanted to see you naked.”

The door bursts open. “Where?” Wilson asks with wide eyes. He takes one look at the two of you and sighs. “Damn it. Can’t believe I fell for that.”

“This is Wilson’s crying bathroom,” House informs you, before reaching out and hitting his colleague in the foot with his cane. “Beat it.” 

Wilson huffs, rolling his eyes before walking away. You stare after him, shocked by what just happened. House opens the door with an ominous creak, looking at you pointedly. 

Is House being nice to you? No. Surely not. You’re imagining things. He was just being efficient. Yes. Efficient. Hell, he was probably just annoyed by your helplessness. Sure. You’ll go with that. 

“Now wipe that look off your face,” House says impatiently, gesturing at your face vaguely. You’re thrown out of your thoughts. You look over at him, finding that he’s staring at you with scrutiny. “You’re a grown man, not a lost puppy.” 

He looks away with a scoff, departing before you can process what the hell just happened.

Apparently, passive-aggressive remarks and borderline insults still aren’t enough for House, though. Now, he’s turning to physical violence. 

As you walk past House’s desk, there’s a blur at your right, before you’re promptly hit in the face. 

“Ow!” you hiss instinctually, more out of surprise than genuine pain. You were just hit with a flying projectile. House’s movements suggest he threw it. You frown and pick it up from the floor, finding it to be a blue razor. 

“That’s a razor,” House says pointedly. As if you didn’t know that already. Dick. “Use it,” he says flatly, motioning to your jaw and chin area. 

You sigh, long accustomed to House’s rudeness disguised as observation. “Thanks for that.” 

You’re starting to think House likes throwing things at you. Or, more accurately, he must like causing you pain. He is a bit of a sadist, after all.

The razor didn’t hurt. But the pill bottle he throws at you a few weeks later does.

“Ow!” you say yet again, rubbing at your temple. “What the hell, dude?”

“‘Dude’?” House repeats with a disgusted scoff. 

“Dude,” you agree, picking up the bottle of ibuprofen from the floor. “What was that for?”

“You keep making this pinched face,” House states, waving his hand nonchalantly. “It’s bogging up my peripheral vision.” 

“Uh… okay,” you frown. Now that you think about it, you have had a bit of a jaw ache (if that’s even a word). Headache? Same thing. Your jaw hurts, basically. And your teeth do too. Normally, you’d suspect a sinus headache, but this kind of pain is something you’ve experienced on T before. It’s not a bad thing, and it’s far from frequent—it just means your face is restructuring itself a bit. Fat redistribution, supposedly.

You blink and look down at the ibuprofen again, taking a few and grabbing a glass of water. “Thanks,” you tell House. Predictably, he doesn’t respond. 

You take particular pleasure in whipping the bottle at the wall behind him. It goes sailing past his ear and he glares at you evilly. You just laugh. 

You want to say that your increased T dose is treating you well, but… that would be a lie. You have consistent headaches, unpredictable mood swings, and vertigo, which overpowers any of the benefits you’d be getting from the higher dose. 

You’re walking through the diagnostics department when you’re suddenly hit by that familiar wave of dizziness. You blink and try to clear your vision, but it only blurs and spirals. You shoot a hand out and grasp at the nearest desk, trying and probably failing to stay still. 

“Oh, it’s you,” House says in a revulsed voice, making a show of sighing dramatically as he enters the room. “What do you need this time? Bail? Someone smarter than Wilson—?” he breaks off as he finally gets to his desk, leaning in and peeking at you. You try to pretend as if everything’s fine, but the way you’re gripping the desk gives it away. 

There’s a brief moment of silence as House regards you. “Your dose is too high,” he then says. 

“What?” you ask. 

“Your dose is too high,” House repeats impatiently. 

“I— How do you know that?” you ask. 

“You’re wobbling like one of those inflatable car wash things,” House notes. 

“That’s an exaggeration,” you huff. It’s probably not—the whole world feels like it’s spinning and you feebly grasp at the edge of his desk. There are black spots on the outsides of your vision. It almost feels like you’re on a ship, with the whole ground tilting in movement. 

“Go sit down,” he orders. “I’m not getting your blood on my desk when you fall and crack your head open.”

You sigh but move to sit down at your desk across the way, taking a selfish moment to put your head in your hands and close your eyes. You feel dizzy just sitting here, and you’re not even moving. 

“Half-empty coffee, no water in sight, sodium-rich foods… That checks out.” You flinch at the rather loud volume of House’s voice, looking up to find that he followed you to your desk. 

“It’s fine, House,” you sigh tiredly, pinching the bridge of your nose. You’ve worked with him long enough to pick out the clinical concern seeping through the passive-aggressive remarks. 

Unsurprisingly, House just huffs defensively. “Go collapse, then. See if I care.” He then heads back to his desk, sneaking glances at you when he thinks you don’t notice. 

Evidently, he does care. Because within an hour or two, Cuddy is strolling into your office and standing across from your desk. She glances at House’s empty desk before turning back to you. She doesn’t beat around the bush. “House told me you weren’t feeling well,” she says.

You stare at her in disbelief. “Really?” That doesn’t sound like something he would do. 

“Well, not really,” Cuddy admits. “He was complaining that you were as unsteady as a baby deer. Or something like that. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you nod. “Just a bit dizzy.” 

“Don’t push it,” she warns you. “Can’t have one of my best subordinates collapsing in the hall.” 

Best subordinates? You’re sure you look absolutely foolish now, staring at her with wide eyes. 

“Take it easy,” Cuddy then says, before promptly leaving the room. You stare after her. 

When House returns twenty minutes later, you can’t quite stop yourself from staring. And he notices. “What?” he snaps. 

“...Nothing,” you say quickly, keeping your appreciation for his concern to yourself. 

“You’re happy,” House notes one afternoon. It’s relatively quiet in the office. House looks up from his paperwork to glare at you. “Stop it.” 

You stare at him. “Uh… sorry, I guess?” 

It’s true: you have been happier recently. And with all the changes that have been accumulating from T, you’re more comfortable with yourself. You’re not self-conscious about your voice anymore, or painfully aware of your figure. Your everyday life isn’t bogged down by the existential dread of being perceived the wrong way. You still get those moments, sure, but they’re not nearly as frequent as they used to be. 

House is looking at you expectantly. 

“I mean, I still have depression, if that makes you feel better,” you add casually. 

If he’s surprised by this admission, he doesn’t show it. “Oh, it does,” House says sarcastically. A smirk. “I do sleep better at night knowing you’re suffering.”

“Of course you do,” you say with a roll of your eyes. Then you smirk back. “I’m honored you think about me before bed.” 

House rolls his eyes. 

You just grin. 

The diagnostics team attends the occasional conference or fundraising gala, but other than that, you’re free from formality. It’s one of the few perks of the job, you think—aside from the discounted coffee from the coffee shop near the cafeteria and the generous time off allowance. The salary helps too, of course. 

The moral of the story is that you don’t have to attend extra engagements often. In fact, since you’ve been hired, you’ve only attended two: an out of state conference and a donor event. The most recent one was several months ago, and you’d nearly forgotten that such an obligation even existed—until Cuddy sent out a mass email to the department reminding you all. There’s some sort of donor cultivation event on Friday evening, requiring you to dress formally. Attendance is mandatory, and it’s after work hours. On a Friday night. Ugh. 

The only consolation is that you’ll get paid for your time—and that there will probably be food and drinks there. Otherwise, you’d really rather not go at all. House evidently shares the sentiment, as he spends the days prior muttering to himself about plausible illnesses he could contract to avoid the evening. But against all odds, Friday night arrives and the team is reluctantly getting ready to leave. House heads out of his office and stops near your desk, scrutinizing you. You stand there for a moment, helpless under his attentive eye. You’re waiting for an insult. 

“Did a blind guy tie your tie?” House says. Yep. There it is. 

“No,” you scoff defensively. You were never taught how to tie a tie, since most of your childhood was spent suffering through wearing dresses. You tried your best, but clearly your best—YouTube’s best—isn’t enough, if the annoyed look on your colleague’s face is anything to go by. 

“Have to do everything myself,” House mutters under his breath, taking a step forward and then another. He gets too close and you lean back, only to nearly fall over the desk behind you. His grip on your collar is probably the only thing keeping you from vaulting backwards from the momentum. 

“Relax,” House says with a huff. You try your best to take a deep breath, settling against the desk awkwardly as he makes no effort to be gentle, yanking your tie off fiercely. He nearly sends you toppling and you glare at him, which only makes House’s eyes flash with maniacal glee. 

He’s close as he measures your tie, before deftly tying it with practiced ease. House leans back a bit to get a better look, adjusting it before brutally pulling the tie close to your collar tight enough to choke you. 

“Jesus Christ,” you say breathlessly, massaging your neck. “Does it have to be that tight?!” 

“You’re a baby,” House scoffs, loosening it a bit. He studies you for another moment. “There,” he then announces, tugging it to make you lurch forwards and get to your feet again. This leaves you standing almost chest to chest with him, before House is stepping back and looking you up and down. “…Passable,” he declares, leaning on his cane. 

“Thanks,” you say, half-sarcastic and half-serious. You smile. “Don’t tell Cuddy you know how to do that.” She’s always scolding him for not wearing a tie.

“Oh, she knows,” House says with a smirk, putting a hand in his pocket and leaning against his cane more in an exaggerated pose. “I just choose not to induce heart attacks in my admirers.”

“That’s… charitable of you,” you remark.

House scowls at the thought, almost like it’s an accusation. You resist the urge to laugh. Your colleague looks like he has more to say. “You look nice,” House says through gritted teeth, the effort clearly painful for him. 

“Thanks,” you respond, surprised. A beat. You’re suspicious. “Are you just complimenting yourself?” you ask skeptically. 

“Yep,” House responds unabashedly. There’s a twist to his lips as he regards you for a moment, before making a languished movement with his free hand. “Now, come on. I want to see the stupid look on Cuddy’s face when she sees you.”

“Why do you think she’ll have a look on her face?” you ask.

“She’ll be pleased to have another guinea pig,” House remarks ambiguously. He raises his eyebrows pointedly. “You just stand there and look handsome to distract the donors from my unrelenting cynicism.” 

“Sounds like fun,” you sigh. Did he just call you handsome? You don’t have much time to process that before he’s continuing to speak. 

“It won’t be,” House agrees. “Dibs on breaking the news when women inevitably think they have a chance with you.” You just stare in disbelief, still comprehending that remark even as he turns to leave. You’re so distracted by picking it apart that you don’t realize he’s waiting for you. 

“Come on,” House motions impatiently, frozen in the doorway as he looks back at you, “before Chase breaks a table again.”

You chuckle and follow after him.

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[berrywip]

18+ ⋆˙⟡

⋆. 𐙚 Best-friend’s older brother Giyu! who’s just sooo addicted to your pussy when he knows he shouldn’t be </3

“Giyu- Giyu baby I can’t.”

your fingers tighten in his raven locks trying to pull him away from your sensitive clit, he’s been in between your thighs for minutes and he hasn’t stopped.

“No— m’not done” he rasps denying your hand smushing his face directly back into your pussy.

It’s so wrong, the thought repeats like a warning siren, useless and ignored drowned out by the way his pulse won’t slow, by how fucking good your look — and sound, bliss filling your face.

One wrong move, one moan too loud, and everything collapses. His sister's room is right there, same hallway, same house, same rule he swore he’d never break.

You trust him, god that’s the worst part. The way you look down at him like this is natural, like he belongs here. Like he hasn't crossed a line so sharp it’s already drawing blood.

He should stop, he knows he should. He’s spent his whole life being careful, being controlled, being the one who never crosses the line, and yet his body refuses to listen, betraying him, like it’s been waiting for this moment — to be buried so deep between your legs he could suffocate.

He’ll stop in a second. He will.

Just not yet.

Not when your wetness is coating his face, not when you're so close to finishing again for the fourth time tonight just by his tongue, especially not when you just taste so god damn sweet — like everything he’s ever dreamed of.

“Oh my god,” he sucks your folds back into his mouth, moving his tongue in sloppy side to side action, as his nose nudges against your clit at just the right angles, causing you to grind even harder on his face, dragging your clit down his already messy face.

“Fuck yeah, baby that feel good?” he grunt against your folds. Giyu is painfully aware of everything — your warmth, your breathing, how easily his name leaves your rosy lips in pleasure. The risk hums through him, electric, intoxicating.

This is so fucking dangerous.

You’re dangerous.

His lapis blue eyes reflecting the moonlight, his pupils growing bigger at the sight of the moon illuminating the arousal that seeps out your warm pussy.

“fuck— so pretty,” he babbles intoxicated off you, spreading your slick lips apart holding them out of his way and sucking your aching clit back into his greedy mouth, your back arching and legs shaking around his head.

Your thighs squeezing tighter around his head, holding him in place as you suck in a choppy breath. Not caring about how loud you are because your just so fucking gone.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp, “Just like that.”

He tells himself it’s just the closeness that’s getting to him. The sounds of pleasure flowing out of your mouth. The want, the need. But that’s a lie. It’s you, it’s always been you. The way you make his restraint feel like a joke, like something he puts on for everyone else.

He’s never wanted something this badly. Never wanted someone he shouldn’t touch.

His chest tightens with guilt, but that doesn’t stop him. It only makes it sharper, heavier — turns every second into something he craves even as he condemns himself for it.

He slides his tongue down your pussy in messy movements, slowly pushing into your gummy hole. “...mmm! gonna cum!,” you whine.

Giyu retracts his tongue, pulling back just an inch before he drops a wad of spit straight onto your pussy — watching as it mixes with your juices, before he dives right back in sloppy and messy.

You cry out, bucking against him when you finally fly over the edge, a warm gush of liquid spaying so quick and hard against his face, trailing down to his abdomen.

“Oh god- oh god,” you sob. He grabs ahold of both your shaking legs, a broken moan failing out of your lips.

He opens his mouth wider as his right hand comes down in between your legs applying pressure on your clit hard moving it back and forth — forcing more liquid out of you as it gushes all over his face wetting his eyelashes, flowing down his cheeks like tears — making him look even more ungodly beautiful.

“Ah! Giyu—” you cry out. “It’s so good, I love it– so good mmmm.”

He doesn’t stop, flicking his fingers faster against you until you cry out again. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck,” you moan. “I can’t. I can’t”

He goes back and forth between sucking hard for a few seconds, and rubbing hard, just enough to watch your spine curl.

Your eyes flutter closed, and he gives your pussy a little kiss, as your reactions becoming slower. He pulls back resting his soaked face against your thigh smiling like he’s in heaven.

“Can you sit on my face now?”

He’s addicted to this feeling.

To you.

God even if he stands up right now, he wouldn’t be able to walk away.

And that’s horribly bad.

Dividers - @/cafekitsune

an - Their so Beauty School by deftones coded, my babies ꨄ

[sanjisblackasswife]

Asking Toji to take your virginity was probably a mistake.

Everybody you knew and that knew Toji told you it’d be a mistake, especially since you knew you wanted your first time to be memorable, but now you’re just beginning to believe that maybe you’ll never find the one, but the urges of having sex have made you relentless.

Granted…all the other close guy friends you had was already in a relationship and Toji was pretty much the last of your choosing, but you didn’t care anymore.

You wanted to experience your first orgasm from penetration.

You wanted sex.

You wanted to feel what it’s like to cum undone from a man.

Gojo said you’d regret it.

Geto said you should keep looking.

Even Shiu tried hooking you up with somebody else. Was Toji THAT BAD??

They were wrong though.

“You sure?….You wanna have sex?”

The years you’ve known Toji he never sounded so…hesitant. Maybe you weren’t his type—-

“I mean shit I have thought about fucking you a few times but…”

Okay maybe not that.

When you explain to him how you just wanted to rid of your virginity he actually tried to convince you to reconsider.

Not, because he didn’t want you, but he believed you deserved a better candidate for your first time. Though, you could see by his actions deep down he really wanted to take it.

He tells you how scummy some men can be with virgins, how rough they are.

Yet his lips trailed down your neck so softly it felt as if a ghost kissed you. His scar just grazing against your skin, giving it a little texture.

Toji mentions how most men are creeps that hunt for virgins to ruin, to slut out, and break their hearts afterwards.

Yet he takes it slow when it came to taking off your clothing, kissing each piece of exposed skin from your shoulders, to your cheeks, to the valley of your breast, your hips, your tummy, your arms. Everywhere.

He tells you how you should be with a man that wants to worship your body, make your first time memorable. Sweet, fun.

Yet here he is, landing a few light hearted jokes to lighten the mood when you felt yourself close in and nervous, your naked body out and exposed for his sharp green eyes to see only. He was the first man to ever see the way your nipples hardened when he cupped the bottom of your breast. His calloused thumb rubbing over your cute nub before attaching his lips around it. His mouth was surprisingly cold.

He was the first man to make you whimper so pathetically, making you realize how sensitive you were. Toji found it so cute. So sexy. He was eager to teach you anything you wanted.

Your voice was so loud and whiney to Toji, and that wasn’t an insult either, no fucking way you actually was his new favorite noise to listen to. The way his name dragged off your toji, so syrupy sweet and slutty, as he ate your pussy, he began to groan inside you while pressing down on your lower tummy.

“To—-ji!” You hiccuped, body squirming to move away from his mouth, but he was obviously much stronger than you, he felt your cunt flutter around his tongue, the pulse on your clit beating bashfully against his lips he attached them to suckle and shake his head a little, maybe you will squirt on his fingers for the first time?

“Toji! Toji! Toji!” Your hips moved with each cry of his name up and down and Toji’s mouth followed it not letting go like a beast that finally caught its prey, “Close! Clo—!”

You just kept babbling, the bottom of your tummy was tight and knotted, he kept pressing on your bladder which in turn made you cry in pleasure and panic, but Toji looked at your fucked out face and smiled, his middle and ring finger scissoring you until your body spoke for itself and realized such a mess on his face and hands,

Covering your face, he snatched away your hands to kiss you, but it wasn’t just a hungry capture of the lips, it was deliberate. Passionate…..romantic almost? He swallowed your gentle whimpers while he helped you ride out your orgasm on his thumb,

“You’re beautiful.”

It was all he said to make you snap out of your daze and feel your chest warm. He don’t know why he said it, maybe you won’t think too much of it.

When you mentioned you always wanted to learn how to do a blowjob , he didn’t let you. Not tonight, Toji for the first time in a long time wanted to focus on your pleasure.

“Okay….can next time you teach me?”

He smirks, leaving your question in the air as his lips kept exploring new parts of your body, because the thought of you both having a next time seemed unrealistic, after this you will probably end up finding another man.

Even if in the back of his mind he might not want you to.

Toji was overbearing, his figure at least 4 times bigger than yours he hovered over you and practically covered your entire body, his silver chain dangling in between the small gap, that he eventually closes to kiss you again, distracting you from his cock head prodding at the entrance of your so sensitive and indescribably wet pussy.

You press against his lips harder, his free hand cupping the back of your head when hes only 4 inches deep inside you and you already feel so full.

“Look at me.” His voice choked out a breathy laugh above you, “Just relax, okay? Breathe. Inhale.”

You did so and mimicked him, “Exhale.”

When you did he used the moment to fully bottom out inside you, the skin on his back now torn by your nails, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle, he stilled inside you, peppering your face with kisses before asking you if he could move, when you gave the green light it wasn’t long before you felt trickles of warm blood and his precum oozing out of your cunt to falter a mess between you both.

You were such a good girl for him and he reminded you with every stroke, Toji wasn’t really a words of affirmation kinda guy, but he was drunk off you as much as you were of him so he really couldn’t shut up.

Before this evening ended with a sweaty, hot mess, and you sleep in his arms, Toji could’ve sworn you’ll never have a moment like this with each other again, but now he’s reconsidering.

Just for a moment though, it didn’t feel like a mistake to do this with you.

[gggoofiestgoober]

part 2 of redrawing cunty ads i come across on pinterest

this time it's 2000s dior ads

happy new yuri!!!!!

[lovelybunnis]

Hey everyone! The fanfic curse got to me and now I'm in finals week! But I will be putting out fics soon ^_^

[lovelybunnis]

i got the ao3 author curse…. but stay tuned i WILL be dropping a sinister mark x reader soon ^^

[lovelybunnis]

reading a fic where the reader is so unlikable stresses me out! LIKE UGHHHH WHY ARE YOU BEING SO RUDE I WOULD NOT DO THIS!

[lovelybunnis]

List of fics I plan on doing

Here are my current writings that I will prioritizing as of now + requests of course ^_^.

Keep in mind I am a college student and my break ends next week so I will be less active sort of :3

Doflamingo x FTM! Teacher! Reader - Modern AU

Johnny Silverhand x GN! Drummer! Black Reader

Yamato x FTM! Reader - Modern AU

[worstgenerationloser]

the u.s.a is such a shithole

[lovelybunnis]

we're so cooked

[worstgenerationloser]

,, First time? '' (2)

Shanks x GN! Reader

Summary... how does your first time with Shanks go?

Contains... Shanks is sickeningly horny, Shanks has a filthy tongue, penetrative sex, creampie, shanks may or may not have developed a certain kink at the end… he WILL NOT stop talking either

Word count... 0.8k

A/N: oneshot for shanks taken from "Indulgence" read here! Not proofread!

Shanks grunted, plowing his hips forward, driving them deeper into your body, his entire weight shifted ontop of you, his red hair had fallen across the back of your neck, and his arm was wrapping itself around your waist, his heavy, wet breath more than hastened after each lewd plap of his hips meeting your ass. He had barely had anything to drink, for once, he was just a little tipsy, was all.

"You want this so bad— Fuck yeah, you want me?"

Those words whispered in your ear, in a tone of voice that sounded as if he were trying to convince you, as if he wasn't spot on with his accusations. Another string of erotic lines spilled through his teeth, cramming their way into your brain. Oh, how dirty he was, managing something like this could only be achieved by him and him alone, his voice was just so sweet, slipping your shirt off to give you a simple massage, and that was supposed to be it! A massage? Well, technically he was massaging something... Your insides, that was. A filthy mewl escaped your lips with every breath you took, the scent of sex was almost sickening as it was being carried through the air.

Because your voice was so quiet, he could barely make out the soft words of confirmation from you, but he was entirely sure he heard them when you practically screamed them when he adjusted himself, spreading his legs a little wider, his throat bobbing as he swallowed the pooling saliva in his mouth. He pushed himself deeper into you, so deep it practically burned, but it was a pleasant one, atleast.

"Come on... A little more, babe."

Had it been an hour? You sure it has, the evidence of your previous orgasms was splattered in liquid form across the sheets, a pout dawning on his face when he realized he couldn't taste you when he was balls deep inside of you, Shanks compromised by fucking you for as long as he could until you couldn't handle it. Shanks couldn't believe himself, falling in love like this, and maybe he felt a little bad for allowing his hand to go somewhere it definitely shouldn't have, but with such a heavenly result, he was overjoyed.

He panted, hand desperately pawing at you to hold onto something, upon finding your throat a momentary panic settled in, before being washed away by the loud sob of pleasure elicited from your lips. An easy grin took over his face, the grip on your throat firm but not tight, he wouldn't be able to do that with you for just your first time.

"Shit– Gonna cum. Want me to cum inside you? Or should I pull out?"

Although he wasn't gonna disobey you if it just so happened that you, in fact, did not want him to paint your insides white, he was silently begging you to let him, and with a few more deep thrusts he was sure he would start growling like an animal in heat. There wasn't a moment of hesitation in his movements, and he felt like he was on fire, the same adrenaline rush he got during his legendary duels which many had remembered as horrifying to see was eminent now more than ever, a new rush coursing through his veins. A breathy chuckle escaped his lips upon hearing your words of confirmation which you screamed, and now he was really fucking you.

A string of incoherent words which you think were curses somehow managed to slip out of your brain, you couldn't feel anything other than your bare skin pressed into the mattress, a white overtook your brain, sounds you weren't sure you would have ever made echoed into the room, the wet squelching of his cock sliding into your hole with a bit of your own cum smeared across your thighs was practically humiliating, but not necessarily in a bad way. Did it hurt? It stung, you think, he was impossibly deep inside of you and he was already raring for more; the way he was digging inside of you was despicable.

"Wanna be pumped full already, don't ya? Are you getting off on the fact that you got me wrapped around your finger, huh? I waited so, so long for this... Fuck— I'm not stopping after cumming just once; I spoiled you so much already..."

Runny and sticky cum flooded inside of you, both of your thighs shaking. Shanks pushed deeper into you, savoring the feeling of your hole; He didn't care much that his wasted semen was spilling out from where you two were connected, he was just gonna fuck it back into you, anyways.

He couldn't wait until next time, he wondered if he could get even deeper next time he came inside you?

[lovelybunnis]

Are ok with threesome or foursomes like Luffy and Ace or Luffy law and kid?

Yeah of course! I just don’t have any experience writing three/foursomes there are a few fics that i have read (one of the readings that i recently reblogged is a foursome with the monster trio and reader and it was AMAZING!)

I just wouldn’t do a threesome with reader, Luffy, and Ace since they’re brothers, but i’d definitely do (Ace/Yamato/Reader, Luffy/Reader/Zoro, etc!)