OKAY!! hii, you can call me Berry!!! I'm a digital artist who sometimes does traditional art!! I normally post my art either here or my tiktok!! I write fanfiction as well on wattpad and AO3!!
My favorite phrases are:
Thats to much work
Lwk/lowkey
I guess
I'm also a yumeshipper!! Specifically a sharing one!!While I have a lot there are main ones I focus one which are:
Romantic:
Vance hopper(tbp)
Alejandro (total drama)
Luna Lovegood (harry Potter)
Platonic:
Severus snape(Harry Potter)
The freeling family(haunted hotel)
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Fandoms I'm in!!
Harry Potter
The black phone
haunted hotel
Camp camp
Yugioh
Total drama
Criminal minds
Naruto
ohshc
Twisted wonderland
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I like to draw for people, it's one of my favorite things ever and you can ask!! I'll draw for you guys!!
Things I can/will draw
OCs →over complicated ones may be hard
Yumeships!!
Your fav character
The basics
Little g0re(aka wounds, blood, cuts etc)
Platonic
Headshots
Full bodies
Perspective is kind hard but I can try
Things I can't/won't
Nsfw
Animals
Proships
Inc3st/illegal ships
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Now drawing takes time!! So if you do ask, don't expect it to be done right away! Now I'm also thinking of writing small oneshots for people but idk you guys get back to me on that... Which reminds me!!
My wattpad: luvpinkjazz
My AO3: luvpink_jaz
My tiktok: luvpink_jaz
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Anddd that's it for now!!! Thank you for reading!!!
Since you have officially become my like, number one slasher writer for my manzs Michael and Bo:
Could you pretty pls do Michael, Bo, and whoever you would like to write for with a fem!s/o that looks and acts like a ‘sweetheart’ in a (non republican lol) 50’s housewife type of way but cusses constantlyyy if that makes sense? Like, think Bree from Desperate Housewives with Gordon Ramsay’s profanity, so really sweet but just aggressive about it (I’m sorry if it doesn’t really make sense and feel free to not do it :))
Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Charles Lee Ray with a S/O who's a Sweetheart but Swears a Lot
Summary: Imagine Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Charles Lee Ray with a S/O who’s very cute and a sweetheart, but has an explosive temper and swears a lot.
A/N: As always your ideas are great, sorry for the delay in responding to requests, this week has been crazy, thank you for always sending requests, I'm always happy to write them.
Michael Myers
“Oh sugar, could you hand me that fuckin’ chainsaw?”
You were a contradiction wrapped in satin gloves.
The first time Michael saw you, you were standing outside your little retro house at the end of a quiet suburban street. The morning sun hit your lemon-yellow dress like a halo, and your lipstick was cherry red — perfect, untouched. You were watering your garden, hips swaying to some old doo-wop song playing faintly from a vintage radio inside.
You looked like you belonged on the front of a Betty Crocker box.
Until you dropped the hose, stepped in the mud, and muttered loud enough for God and the birds to hear:
“Goddamn motherfucker, not these heels again, Christ on a fuckin’ cracker—”
And then, sweet as pie, you looked up and waved at your neighbor with a sunny:
“Good morning, Mr. Owens! Hope your prostate’s treatin’ ya better today!”
Michael stood there in the bushes, frozen. Not stalking you — yet — just... watching. Bewildered. You were both doll-like and chaotic. Sugar-laced thunder.
He kept watching. Days turned into weeks. You vacuumed in heels. You baked cupcakes with little fondant pumpkins on top and left them on porches. You told the paperboy to “be careful on that shitty-ass bike or I’ll be scraping your spleen off the sidewalk,” with the voice of a lullaby. He was obsessed.
You didn’t even flinch the first time you saw him up close.
You came home from grocery shopping to find a six-foot-tall man in a boiler suit and mask standing in your hallway. Most people would scream. You? You just exhaled like you were annoyed and dropped your bag of produce.
“Jesus tapdancin’ Christ, you scared the goddamn soul outta me. You one of them freaks from next door? If you’re gonna kill me, do it fast, I’ve got a roast in the oven and it’ll burn to hell if I don’t baste it in the next twenty minutes.”
He didn’t kill you.
You made him dinner instead.
From that point on, you just… accepted him.
You’d hum old love songs in the kitchen, apron tied tight around your waist, pearl necklace shining against your throat, muttering about the broken mixer like:
“Piece of shit sounds like it’s possessed by a meth head raccoon…”
And Michael? He just loomed in the doorway, silent as a shadow, following the scent of cinnamon and soap and that one perfume you always wore — something old-fashioned and soft. You never demanded anything from him. You didn’t cry, you didn’t run, you didn’t try to “fix” him.
But you did talk to him constantly.
“I made your favorite today, sugar. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The potatoes are fluffier than Satan’s ass cheeks, swear to God.”
“I put some more knives in the drawer for you. Good ones. Japanese steel, sharp as hell. Don’t say I don’t treat you right, you giant homicidal marshmallow.”
“If that little bitch Laurie peeks over my hedge one more time, I’m gonna march my ass over there and shove my spatula up her perky little nose.”
Michael never responded. But he stayed. That was his answer.
You weren’t scared of the mask. You even joked about it.
One day you got up in his face while adjusting his collar and whispered,
“You ever wanna try a pastel pink one, baby? I could match it to my oven mitts.”
And then you cackled like it was the funniest thing in the world while he just… stared.
And yet, somehow, your softness reached him. The way you’d gently rub circles on his hand when he sat at the kitchen table. The way you left him little notes like
“Gone to the market. Don’t kill anyone in the living room. ”
You swore like a sailor, but loved like the 1950s housewife you dressed as. Tender, thoughtful, present.
You patched up his wounds without hesitation, gently dabbing antiseptic and muttering,
“Jesus Christ, who put a fuckin’ meat hook through your shoulder? I’m gonna find that bastard and slap ‘em so hard they piss alphabet soup.”
Your touch was gentle even when your words were vicious.
The day he killed someone for you, it was the neighbor who kicked your cat.
You weren’t mad. You just sighed and kissed his jaw, eyes bright with a kind of knowing warmth as you said,
“Aw, baby… you didn’t have to. But hell, that guy was a dick. You want lemon bars?”
And he nodded.
In the end, you became the calm in his storm — even if you swore like the thunder itself.
Michael never needed words, and you didn’t need answers. You just needed someone who let you be exactly who you were:
A loving, doting, cupcake-baking, vintage-dressed, profanity-flinging badass with a heart of absolute gold.
And he needed someone who didn’t flinch when he got blood on the floor — someone who just sighed and muttered,
“That better not fuckin’ stain. I just mopped.”
.
Bo Sinclair
When Bo Sinclair first laid eyes on you, he thought he was hallucinating.
You were standing outside your charming little home just outside Ambrose — watering the flowerbeds, your pastel yellow sundress cinched at the waist, matching heels digging into the gravel as you shifted your weight. A vintage kerchief held back your curls, and a string of pearls hugged your neck. A picture-perfect 1950s vision — you even had a cherry pie cooling in the window.
He was halfway through imagining how to flirt with you when you turned, looked him dead in the eye, and called:
“You just gonna stand there like a goddamn creeper or you got somethin' to say, sugar?”
His jaw damn near hit the dirt.
You smiled so sweetly it gave him cavities. The kind of smile that made men forget what day it was. But the voice? You had a tone like a shotgun — all honey and gravel.
Bo didn’t know whether he wanted to date you or put you on a leash.
Bo, being a man of his own… colorful vocabulary, finds your style hilarious and magnetic.
You’ll bake him biscuits, hummin’ along to old vinyls in the kitchen, your frilly apron hugging your curves — and then you burn the second batch and shout:
“MotherFUCKER, I knew I set that damn oven too high, son of a BITCH!”
Bo leans in the doorway and just watches you — beer in hand, shit-eating grin on his face.
“You kiss me with that mouth, darlin’?”
“Damn right I do, sugarplum. You love this fuckin’ mouth.”
He does.
He likes to walk into rooms just to hear what’ll come out of your mouth next. It’s like a sport to him — poke the bear and see what kind of filthy poetry you’ll spit.
You’ll talk about needing to clean the curtains and insult Lester’s entire lineage in the same breath. You’ll lovingly rub Bo’s shoulders while telling him he’s your “big, sexy bastard,” then flip off a tourist from the porch with a fresh batch of lemonade in hand.
You don’t let Bo get away with being a temperamental shit. And that’s what really draws him to you — you challenge him, but in that sexy, playful, Southern-goth way.
“Bo, if you slam that fuckin’ door again, I swear on my mama’s ashes I’ll superglue your dick to a car battery.”
“You gonna wear that sleeveless shit in front of company, darlin’? Or are you tryin’ to start rumors?”
“Boy, I love you more than pie, but if you touch my ironing again, I will throw hands.”
Bo isn’t used to that. He’s used to people being scared of him, tiptoeing around his moods. You? You threaten to shove a wrench up his ass and then kiss his cheek and ask if he wants sweet tea or whiskey.
And what’s worse? It works. He actually listens to you. (Sometimes.)
You're fiercely loyal, despite your loud-ass mouth. If anyone — anyone — says anything sideways about Bo, they’re gonna have a whole lot more than tooth decay to worry about.
You’ve absolutely cornered some poor soul before like:
“Say one more fuckin’ word about my man’s scars and I swear to God I’ll take that spork and carve my name into your eyeball.”
Bo just stands there, arms crossed, biting back a proud smirk while you defend him like a rabid chihuahua in heels.
You're not just sass — you're his protector in your own unhinged, mother-hen way. You patch him up after fights, rub his shoulders when he’s tense, and kiss his jaw like it’s sacred. You tell him he’s handsome even when he’s covered in motor oil or blood.
“You look good, baby. All sweaty like that. Like a filthy mechanic Calvin Klein ad.”
“You need Jesus, sweetheart.”
“What I need is you to bend me over the fuckin’ sink after dinner.”
He chokes on his beer often thanks to you.
Living in Ambrose with you is chaos in pearls.
You clean up the Sinclair house — which Bo doesn’t even realize is possible — in floral gloves and heels, all while calling the dead bodies “inconvenient little fuckers” and the flies “Satan’s tiny bastards.”
You paint the walls pastel and cuss out the wiring.
You host a tea party for yourself, Bo, and Vincent once — complete with scones and the most aggressive table manners known to man:
“Vincent, sweetheart, pass the cream — and Bo, if you scratch your balls at the fuckin’ table again I will knife you in your sleep.”
Bo’s never laughed harder. Vincent hasn’t stopped blinking.
Bo never knew he needed a woman like you — sweet enough to charm anyone, but savage enough to start a war. You keep him grounded, even when you're threatening to “gut-punch God himself if the washing machine breaks again.” He thinks you’re the hottest thing in heels, and no one — no one — gets to talk shit about you without losing a tooth or two.
Bo loves you because you’re wild, loyal, gorgeous, and completely yours.
And when he sees you fixing your lipstick in the mirror, muttering about “those damn tourists ruining your front lawn with their crusty-ass footprints,” he leans in, smirks, and says:
“You’re somethin’ else, sugar.”
“Damn right I am, baby.”
.
Charles Lee Ray
From the second Charles laid eyes on you, he was in love — or as close to love as a scumbag soul trapped in a plastic body could get. There you were, standing in your sunlit kitchen with checkered curtains, a powder-pink apron cinched over your dress, red lipstick perfectly applied, and a frilly headband keeping your victory rolls in place.
It would’ve been a Leave-It-To-Beaver wet dream if it weren’t for the fact you were scrubbing blood off your floor with a mop and muttering:
“Fuckin’ hell, I just waxed this floor yesterday. Asshole couldn’t have died somewhere useful, huh? Like the goddamn backyard?”
And then, as if the universe wanted to seduce Charles specifically, you turned around, smiled at him sweet as peach pie and said:
“Well hey there, sweetheart! You want lemonade, or are you just here to stare at me like a constipated jackrabbit?”
He burst out laughing. Loud, genuine, amused-as-all-hell laughter.
You didn’t flinch. You even giggled, because you knew what you were — a contradiction wrapped in satin gloves and peppermint-scented rage. Charles was used to blood and chaos. What he wasn’t used to was someone matching his energy while wearing kitten heels and pearls.
You were affectionate, sweet, doting — calling him things like “darlin’,” “my little firecracker,” and “handsome devil” while simultaneously using language that would get you banned from network TV. You’d make him a sandwich and say:
“Here ya go, baby. Don’t eat it too fast or you’ll choke like a goddamn dumbass. Love you.”
He adored you. Couldn’t get enough. He never knew whether you were going to kiss him or insult his life choices, and honestly? That was his favorite part.
You had this voice — soft, airy, almost sing-song — and everything that came out of it was horrendously explicit. You’d read cookbooks aloud while replacing every measurement with swear words:
“Two goddamn cups of that floury bullshit… half a fuckin’ teaspoon of baking soda — NOT powder, unless you want it to explode like my ex’s tiny-ass ego…”
Charles would just be there on the counter in doll form, cackling, kicking his little feet while watching you flounce around like a pissed-off Stepford Wife.
You and Charles were murder soulmates. You looked like the type who’d faint at the sight of blood, but no — you were the one snapping the guy’s wrist while Charles stabbed him in the neck.
And every time, without fail, you'd pause mid-murder to scold someone:
“You absolute dickweed — who the hell tries to run in heels? You're making me chase you in my good apron, and I swear to Christ if you get blood on my fuckin' blouse I’m gonna give your corpse a goddamn makeover and parade it around like a prize hog at the county fair.”
It was poetry. It was obscene. Charles would be doubled over laughing while also violently stabbing someone. It was romantic, really.
You kept your home pristine. Pink appliances, floral curtains, vintage everything. But the second something went wrong — toaster didn’t pop, radio signal cut — the cussing started.
“This stupid, limp-dick, crusty-ass bread ruiner of a toaster is testing my goddamn patience!”
Chucky: “I love you so fucking much.”
You once threatened to strangle a Jehovah’s Witness with your phone cord because he insulted your dress length. Another time, you told a nosy neighbor:
“Oh honey, if you spent half as much time worrying about your own pussy as you do about mine, you wouldn’t be getting cheated on every weekend. Want some brownies?”
Chucky was so proud he cried. Actual tears (okay, blood, but still).
What stunned Charles most was that underneath all the murder and swearing, you were incredibly level-headed. You kept him grounded. You could disembowel a guy and still remind Charles to take his medicine or brush blood out of his hair before bed.
You kissed his scars. You never judged the way he looked — even as a doll, you’d sit him on your lap, stroke his fiery red hair, and say:
“You’re my cute little bastard. Don’t care if you’re plastic or not. You still get me wetter than a hurricane, baby.”
He blushed. Chucky actually blushed.
You helped stitch him back together after a fight with Tiffany (who lowkey respected you but also wanted to fight you for being too hot and fun). You two would get drunk together and throw knives at moving targets, taking turns insulting each other:
You: “You throw like your dick’s on backwards.”
Chucky: “You flirt like a grandma with dementia.”You: “Still sucked you off better than she did.”
Chucky: “...Okay, fair.”
Charles never expected to be happy — truly happy — until you. He was chaos incarnate, a murderer, a soul in a broken doll. But you? You were delightfully unhinged, dressed like a Disney character but cussing out reality like it owed you rent.
And the weirdest thing?
You made him feel safe.
You didn't just tolerate his psychotic tendencies — you embraced them, matched them, outpaced them, all while baking cherry pies and yelling about flaky crust like it was a war crime.
ɞ an | i've been thinking of ushiten x reader... i might start a small series for them if i feel like it :3c everything here is timeskip and reader is living with ushijima in poland (for now), so they're video calling tendou so that everyone can get freaky 2gether. sorry if the ending is weird, its 3.30am and i cant think anymore. enjoy!
ɞ cw / wc | dom/sub dynamics, creampie, slight degradation, esex, vaguely implied dubcon, fluffy ending, 800+
“guh- ah!”
your broken moans fill the room as ushijima relentlessly slams into your sticky pussy. his breaths are heavy and laboured, punctuated with groans of pleasure. his balls are heavy with cum and it takes everything in him to not fill you with his seed right then and there. he has you in doggy position where your ass bounces off his hips with each thrust, your back arched beautifully beneath him.
“c’mon, pretty thing. let me see your face.”
tendou’s voice comes through the phone speaker. with bleary eyes, you muster what little strength you have left to lift your head off the drool-stained pillow. he strokes his length languidly. even through the screen of your phone, you can still make out the wet shine of precum on the head of his cock. you spy a lazy grin on his face.
“aw, look at her, wakatoshi. so drunk on your dick,” tendou coos.
he likes the view he has of you, eyes half-lidded and spit running down the side of your open mouth. ushijima grunts in reply. he never stops thrusting into you even as you try to wriggle free of the tight grip he has on your hips, fingernails digging half-moons into your skin.
you don’t know how many times you’ve cum tonight. maybe twice on ushijima’s mouth, once on his fingers and another time on his cock. you know tendou wants more, though. he likes pushing you to your limits till you’re crying and wailing for him, “satori, please- ah! no more, mmph! no! too much!”, and trembling so hard he has to hold you down.
“make her cum one more time, wakatoshi, then you can finish,” tendou hums. “the both of you look so good together. i wish i was right there, i’d fuck your throat while wakatoshi filled your pussy.”
you whine. tendou laughs mockingly.
“yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you? both of us fucking you from either end? whore.”
ushijima’s eyebrows are furrowed together. he’s held back his orgasm for long enough to the point where he’s certain if you clench just right around him, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from cumming (but tendou wouldn’t like that. the last time he came without permission, the red-head edged ushijima until his voice cracked, and was denied from orgasming for another week).
ushijima leans over your shoulder, his breath hot against the shell of your ear.
“one more, baby. you can do one more, right?” he pants.
each ram of his hips bumps the head of his leaky cock against your favourite spot. your womb practically feels like it’s melting, and your mind is so foggy you barely manage to make a weak noise of affirmation.
ushijima speeds up his pace. you lean your weight on one elbow as your other hand ventures to toy with your swollen clit. you gasp. each circle of your fingers makes electricity shoot down your spine, your nub already overly sensitive from your previous orgasms.
“f-fuck,” you wheeze. “toshi, toshi!”
he kisses your bare shoulder in response. you tilt your head back so that your lips meet his, teeth clacking against each other and tongue a heated mess as you moan into his mouth. you hear tendou let out a groan. his hand quickens, the slick of skin and lotion echoing from your phone.
it hits you before you even realise it. your pussy flutters around ushijima’s cock as you cum for the fifth time, muscles stiffened to the point that your toes curl and your thighs shake. for a moment, your ears pop and you hear everything in a blanketed haze. you make a high-pitched cry that cuts off when ushijima finally, finally gets to fill you up. he muffles his pathetic moans by burying his face in the crook of your neck, effectively pinning you flat to the bed as he empties the last hour’s worth of pent up cum into your warm cunt. he gives you a few shallow thrusts and heaves for air.
tendou’s so close. fuck, he curses. he really wishes he was right there, fucking your face and making you gag and sputter all over him. he squeezes the base of his dick and strokes himself even faster. you look up at the screen dizzily. tendou huffs, a pink tint staining his cheeks as he chases his high.
“satori,” you slur. “ahh-”
you open your mouth and loll out your tongue at the camera. tendou’s eyes go wide. a string of saliva stretches between your upper and lower lip, snapping at the same time tendou cums all over his fist.
“shit- fuck!” his hips buck into the air. “wish this was your mouth. fuck, you’d clean it all up for me, wouldn’t you?”
“uhuh.” you make a show of licking your lips.
tendou lets out a sigh of satisfaction, riding out his high as you sit there, pretty and flushed in that after-sex glow. he thinks about the plane tickets he bought to surprise you and ushijima for your anniversary next month.
"god, i can't wait to see you both again," he groans.
the next time the three of you are in the same room, you cum more than five times. tendou and ushijima make sure of it.
Summary: You finally get home, not wasting any time as you immediately began doing your winding down routine after your long day at work. But wait, there’s more….
Warnings: Fluff, gossiping, Michael being messy, reader being messy, reader and Michael getting along, reader using 2000s slang, read to find out the rest🙂↕️
AN: Blue texts are thoughts, also, if you feel like it, listen to "Let go" by Ark Patrol for the first half, then"My way" by Fetty Wap for the second half. Hope yall enjoy😊
Chapter 4
Third Person POV:
Even though you were grateful that you hadn’t gone home early, the consequences of your late night festivities were very clear as you staggered through the door, tiredness evident on your face as you threw your work bag towards your couch, not even looking to see if it landed.
You’re pretty sure if you even looked towards the couch you’d try throwing yourself next, “Lucky purse” you said to yourself as you walked into your room.
“I need to shower, but I’m so tireddddd” you whined out loud, contemplating just going to sleep without showering, but you knew how that would go, sweaty body plus cotton sheets plus summer time, yeahhhhh that was DEFINITELY not a good equation to work with.
Rolling your eyes, you groggily grabbed some PJ’s out of your drawers, not even caring to close it as you trudged into the bathroom, your mind only thinking of the good nights rest you were going to get.
As you began taking off your clothes, and tying up your hair, you couldn’t help but reminisce the events that took place less than two hours ago.
“Haaa, so worth it tho” you told yourself as you stepped into the shower, standing still as you let the water run over your body for a few seconds, then getting your soap and getting down to business, not wanting to spend too much time in there, the sleepiness getting to you,
A few minutes later, after taking your shower and doing anything that needed to get done, you jumped into your bed, the soft sheets instantly pulled you into a trance of relaxation, “Now I can finally go to sleep” you said out loud, your voice barely audible, “heh, Playboy Carti reference” you humored yourself, a small chuckle leaving you as you turned over on your back,
Not even bothering to get underneath the sheets, you lay there for a few minutes, slowly feeling sleep starting to take you into its arms, “Today is a great day” you whispered out loud, and not even 10 seconds later, you were immediately knocked out.
A few hours later:
You had woken up at 3:56PM, you slept for a good 12 or so hours, having came home at 2 or so last night, it still didn’t feel like enough,
but alas, your slumber was disrupted by the grumble in your stomach, and the feeling that you needed to be awake right now.
Your intuition was right, because now even 5 minutes after you sat down on your bed with your newly cooked meal in front of you, your phone rang,
“who the hell is calling me on my day off” you grumbled to yourself, wiping your fingers off before you grabbed your landline at the side of your bed,
“Hello?” You said, wondering who in their right mind would call you right now,
“Hi,” Instantly recognizing the voice, you felt your heart skip a beat as he continued talking, your irritation quickly fading away “It’s Michael”
Andddd that’s how you ended up like this right now, not even 20 minutes later.
“I know it might sound crazy, but she really did that” I said over the phone, laughter evident in my voice as I carried on on the phone,
“I feel like that one lady from TikTok, the Chilli Mac one” just the thought alone caused me to burst out into laughter, and the sound of my laughter caused him to laugh even louder,
“So you mean to tell me,” Michael could barely get his sentence out, laughter taking over his body almost completely “Wajt, lemme be serio-“ he could barely continue himself as he suddenly bursted out laughing, not caring if his family heard him,
“Yessss bro, she really decided that she was going to whoop this man for lying to her” I said to him, not realizing that I was using modern term language with him, but he didn’t seem to notice.
I was telling him the story of one of my neighbors that I had growing up, Ms Bertha had found out that her husband was cheating, so she waited until he was in the shower and poured baby oil on the floor, then when she asked him about it and he was acting dumb she told him to come out of the shower to talk to her face to face.
“Maannnn, that lady got him good” I gossiped, taking a bite out of my food as I listened to him laugh over the phone,
“And would you believe me if I told you they’re still together to this day” I said to him, shaking my head when I heard his gasp from over the phone, but that shock didn’t last long before I said something else,
“Shiiii, you never know, maybe they discovered something new about themselves that day”
As soon as I said those words, we both bursted out into a loud stream of laughing, my hand dropping the phone as I fell over on my bed, Michael was no better, his laughter still being heard, even though my phone wasn’t by my ears.
“This feels like watching reels at 2 in the morning” Now I felt genuinely tickled, my sides beginning to hurt from the laughter, “And and, that’s not even the worst pa-“ I bursted out laughing again as I thought of something else, the phone shaking in my hand as I tried to calm down”
“Ok ok, lemme be cal-“ I couldn’t help it as the thought now came to my mind, my laughter getting louder, “Gu-guess how old they were” I said to him, wheezing between words as I tried my best to calm down,
“May- maybe 20 somethi-“ I didn’t let him finish his laugh stricken words before I interrupted him, “THEY WERE 58 YEARS OLD” I shouted, the phone falling from my hand as we both once again fell over in laughter, the sound making it sound like two witches were conjuring up a spell,
Never in my life would I ever think I would be sitting on the phone gossiping with a Michael Jackson, if you were to tell me this while I was still in the 2000s, I’d probably think you were joking, or going crazy, but here I was, damn near laughing out a hole in my throat
“Ouuu ouuu, I didn’t even say this part” he heard me say, his laughter calming down a bit as he waited for my next words,
“The person he was cheating on her with…was a guy” I could feel his eyes widening through the phone, he probably felt how I felt when I first found out too, “Wait wha-“ and once again, before he could finish, I said something else, “but it just wasn’t any guy….” He held his breath as he eagerly waited for the reveal, his attention fully focused on his phone
“It was her brother,” I could tell his jaw had already dropped to the floor, silence taking over the landline “I feel like Wendy Williams right now” I thought to myself, it wasn’t long before I heard his voice again,
“HER BROTHER???” At the sound of his voice I suddenly froze for a second, his voice sounded a bit….deep, sure, you knew his singing voice wasn’t his only voice, but to hear it in over the phone, it felt….electrifying.
Quickly snapping out of it, I began to engage back into my conversation with him, “yeah her brother, then he acted lik-“
Our conversation went on for awhile, I was about to tell him the story about my school principal and how he had to leave for “Bringing suspicious materials into the school” but we were interrupted by the sound of a knock on his door.
Third person POV:
Michael looked up at his door, giving a small “come in” to whoever was knocking, it was his older brother, Jackie.
“Dinners ready” he said, holding a piece of candy in his hand as he took a bite, pausing for a second before looking at Michael, then the telephone that was seated on his lap, then at the back at Michael, then back at back at the telephone, then slowly back up at Michael, a smirk appearing on his face,
“Tell your lady friend I said hi” he said before he walked out of the door, a smirk on his face at what he just said, leaving a flustered looking Michael, now realizing that you probably heard that.
“Um, sorry about him” he apologized, his face feeling hot from embarrassment
“Oh no it’s ok, I have 4 brothers, they can be like that sometimes” you joked, “but hey,” you said, already knowing you were gonna say some bullshit,
“at least our brothers are better than Ms Bertha’s one” at the mention of the woman you two were gossiping about earlier, you both let out a scream like laugh, both falling the beds as you guys lost control of yourselves,
“I better tell Janet to keep an eye out for Jackie in the future, you never kn-“ he couldn’t finish his words as he let out another scream like laugh, his body shaking on the floor as he could barely contain himself,
“Like how the hell do you get your man took by a guy named Bartholomew” you said out loud, laughter in your voice as you stood with one hand on your hip, genuinely baffled at the thought, your other hand shakily holding the phone, the result of all your wheezing and laughing,
You guys went on for a couple more minutes, telling jokes back and forth, completely forgetting that Michael was called down some time ago, “so-so whe-“ right as you were in the middle of saying something, there was once again a knock on the door, it was then that you both remembered that he had to go
“oh shoot, I forgot you had to go” You said out loud, shaking your head in disappointment, you were really enjoying yourself, and it seemed like Michael was too,
Now wanting the time to come to an end, he then thought of a plan, he was a bit nervous, to ask, but he decided to take the shot,
“You know what, since shooting is finished, I’ll be free tomorrow, what about you?” As soon as he asked those words, I felt myself freeze up “No way… is he asking me out” you thought to yourself, but without wasting a moment, you immediately replied.
pairing. Obito Uchiha x Top!Missing-nin!male reader
synopsis. in where obito is saved but by the wrong hands. — 3.5k
warnings. mdni, nsfw, rough sex, amab reader, aged up obito (the kannabi bridge incident happens when he is 18), dead dove, gore, physical and emotional abuse, manipulation, toxic dependency, dubcon undertones, exploitation of trauma, dark themes.
The acrid scent of blood and burnt wood hung heavy in the air as M/n knelt by the crumpled body. The boy was a mess—his dark hair matted with dirt and blood, his skin bruised and pale.
One leg was crushed beneath the rubble, the jagged bone peaking out of the skin of whatever remained. The fleshy tethers barely holding together as the wound sluggishly oozed blood.
It was clear to M/n that he wouldn’t be able to save the leg.
The boy on the other hand barely clinging to life yet—he was still conscious. He was mouthing words that M/n couldn’t make out but they sounded like names–Rin, Kakashi, Sensei.
M/n wondered who these people were to the boy as he stabilized him and whisked him away.
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His body was betraying him—his ears rang, breathing felt like knives, and his body oddly enough, felt numb. Is this what it felt like to die?
No—not yet.
He promised them that he would catch up, that he would surpass Kakashi, so he can’t give up. But his body is betraying him—giving up.
His vision is becoming cloudy, when suddenly he feels relief. He sees the figure of a person and he can’t help but think that Rin and Kakashi had come back for him— they even brought sensei!
With that thought he completely falls into unconsciousness.
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When he awoke, it wasn’t the cold of death or the warmth of his team by his bedside that greeted him. Instead, it was the subtle chill, that flowed from a nearby open window.
A flickering fire cast shadows on the walls of the small cabin, its light catching on the smooth walls. He tried to sit up, but pain shot up through his chest and down to his leg, forcing him back down with a sharp gasp.
“Don’t move,” a voice said, calm but firm.
Obito’s gaze snapped to the source. A man knelt by his side, his face partially hidden by the shadows. His presence was commanding, the kind that demanded attention without needing to ask for it.
The man’s hands moved with practiced ease as he adjusted the bandages around Obito’s chest, his touch surprisingly gentle.
“You’re lucky I found you when I did,” the man continued, his tone almost conversational. “A few more minutes, and you’d have bled out in the mud. Hell of a way to go.”
“Who… who are you?” Obito rasped, his throat dry and voice barely audible.
The man paused, tilting a cup of cool water to Obito’s lips— he opened his mouth before he could even think of checking for poison, the water soothed his achingly dry throat.
His dark eyes met Obito’s as he put down the cup on a nearby dresser. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that made Obito’s stomach twist.
“Just someone passing through,” he said after a moment, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Call me M/n.”
“M/n…” Obito repeated, his voice cracking.
“Rest now,” M/n said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder when Obito tried to push himself up again. “You’re in no shape to do anything reckless. I’ve already stitched up that leg of yours, but if you move wrong, you’ll tear it open again.”
Obito’s gaze flicked to his leg, and his breath hitched at the sight of the crude splint and thick bandages wrapped around the stump where his lower leg used to be, it was gone from the mid-thigh. Panic clawed at his chest, his mind spinning as he remembered the boulder, the pain, the crushing weight that had pinned him—
“Hey.” M/n’s voice cut through the spiral, his hand gripping Obito’s shoulder more firmly. “Breathe. You’re alive. That’s all that matters right now.”
The words, though simple, anchored him. He inhaled shakily, forcing his mind to quiet, and nodded.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
Over the next few weeks, M/n tended to Obito’s injuries with a patience that bordered on tenderness.
He hunted, cooked, and even shared what little he had without complaint, though his sharp, calculating eyes always seemed to watch Obito too closely.
“You’re strong,” M/n said one evening, his voice breaking the quiet. He was crouched by a fire outside of the cabin, sharpening a blade as the light danced across his features. “Most people wouldn’t have survived what happened to you. But you did.”
Obito glanced at him, his expression guarded. He was still wary of this stranger, but he couldn’t deny that M/n had saved him. He owed him his life.
“I had to,” Obito muttered, his gaze falling to the fire. “Rin and Kakashi… they need me.”
M/n’s hand stilled, his blade catching the light as he looked at Obito. “Do they?”
Obito frowned, confusion flickering across his face. “Of course they do. They’re my teammates.”
M/n hummed thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the blade in his hands. “And where are they now?”
The question hit harder than Obito wanted to admit. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he looked away. “They probably think I’m dead.”
“Maybe,” M/n said softly, his voice almost pitying. “Or maybe they left you behind.”
Obito’s head snapped toward him, anger flashing in his dark eyes. “They wouldn’t—”
M/n raised a hand, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m not saying it’s true. I’m just saying you shouldn’t expect too much from people.”
His words lingered, settling over Obito like a shadow.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
The day Obito could walk again, he ran. His leg ached with every step, the crude prosthetic M/n had fashioned was digging into his skin—which to M/n’s credit said he would make a better one, one that would connect to his chakra and fit better. But he didn’t care for that right now—he had to see Rin, had to let Kakashi know he was alive.
But when he found them, the sight that greeted him shattered what little was left of him.
Rin’s body crumpled beneath Kakashi’s Chidori, blood staining the ground as her lifeless eyes stared into nothingness. Kakashi fell to his knees beside her, his expression twisted with grief, but all Obito could see was the blood on his hands.
Something inside him snapped. He wanted to scream, to cry, to kill, but his body refused to move. The world blurred around him, and by the time he stumbled back to the cabin, his breath was ragged and his vision was swimming.
M/n was waiting for him.
“Obito,” he said, rising to his feet as the younger shinobi collapsed into his arms. “What happened?”
“They… she…” Obito’s voice broke as he buried his face in M/n’s chest, his fists clinging to the man’s shirt like a lifeline.
M/n’s arms wrapped around him, his grip firm but not unkind. “Shh,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over Obito’s hair. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m here.”
Obito’s shoulders shook as he wept, the grief and anger pouring out of him in waves. And through it all, M/n held him, his gaze dark and unreadable.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
The days after Obito returned to M/n were a blur. He didn’t speak of what he saw—didn’t have the words to describe how Kakashi’s Chidori had ripped through Rin’s chest, how her blood had painted the earth. When M/n asked, his response was always the same: silence.
But M/n didn’t press him. He gave Obito space, kept his voice soft, his touch gentle, and waited.
It was on the seventh night, after another fitful sleep, that Obito finally broke.
The fire crackled between them, casting dancing shadows across the cabin walls. Obito sat hunched over, his face buried in his hands, his entire frame trembling with barely contained emotion.
“She’s dead,” he whispered finally, the words clawing their way out of his throat. “Rin’s dead. He… Kakashi… he killed her.”
M/n’s gaze sharpened, but his expression remained calm. He set down the blade he’d been sharpening and crossed the room to kneel in front of Obito.
“I see,” M/n said quietly, placing a firm hand on Obito’s shoulder. “So now you know.”
Obito’s bloodshot eyes lifted to meet M/n’s, confusion flickering across his face. “Know what?”
“That people betray you,” M/n said simply, his tone laced with pity. “The ones you love the most—they always do. Rin, Kakashi, your sensei—they all abandoned you when you needed them most. And now look at you.”
“That’s not true,” Obito muttered weakly, though the weight of M/n’s words pressed against him like a vice. “Rin didn’t… she didn’t abandon me.”
“Didn’t she?” M/n’s hand slid to the back of Obito’s neck, squeezing just enough to draw his attention fully. “You saw what she did, Obito. She chose to die. And Kakashi let her.”
“She didn’t want—”
“Then why didn’t she fight? Why didn’t she try to stay alive for you?” M/n’s voice hardened, though he kept his expression calm. “Because she didn’t believe in you, Obito. They didn’t believe in you. But I do.”
The words hung heavy in the air, sinking into the cracks of Obito’s broken resolve.
“I pulled you out of that wreckage. I saved you when no one else cared. Not Rin, not Kakashi, not anyone.” M/n leaned closer, his grip tightening slightly. “You only have me now. And I will never leave you. But you have to let go of them. Let go of the people who hurt you.”
Obito’s shoulders shook, his breath hitching as the first tears fell. And when M/n pulled him into his arms, cradling him like a fragile thing, he didn’t resist.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
It started as training.
At first, M/n’s methods seemed harsh but reasonable—he drilled Obito relentlessly, making him push past exhaustion, teaching him how to move with his new prosthetic.
The pain in his missing leg was unbearable some days, but M/n was always there, his voice unwavering: "Your pain is a gift. Learn from it."
Obito tried. He really did. But the grief still gnawed at him, slowing his movements, making him hesitate. He could still see Rin’s face, still hear Kakashi’s voice calling her name.
M/n saw it. He always saw it.
One evening, after Obito collapsed mid-exercise, chest heaving and body trembling, M/n’s patience snapped.
"You’re weak," M/n’s voice was cold as steel. "That’s why you couldn’t save her. That’s why they left you."
Obito flinched, his fingers clenching in the dirt beneath him. “I’m trying,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
"Not hard enough."
The kick came fast—M/n’s boot slammed into Obito’s ribs, sending him sprawling onto the ground. The air fled from his lungs in a choked gasp, pain searing through his body like fire. He curled in on himself instinctively, clutching his side.
His mind screamed at him to fight back, to retaliate—but he didn’t. He couldn’t.
M/n crouched down beside him, fingers gripping Obito’s chin, forcing his face upward. His dark eyes were unreadable, but there was something expectant in them. Waiting.
“Look at me,” M/n ordered.
Obito’s vision was blurred, pain radiating through his skull, but he obeyed.
The moment their gazes locked, a sharp snap rang through his head—a shift, a pull, like something deep inside him had finally woken up.
M/n’s expression changed slightly, his fingers tightening just a little. "Oh?"
Confused, Obito blinked, the world suddenly too sharp, too vivid, too clear. The flickering fire behind M/n cast shifting shadows across his face, the individual strands of his hair distinct in a way that shouldn’t be possible.
His breath hitched.
"The Sharingan," M/n murmured, a slow smirk curling his lips. "Three tomoe."
Obito didn’t understand at first. He blinked again, the clarity still there, still unnatural—and then realization hit him like a blade to the chest.
His Sharingan had fully matured.
The pain, the anger, the agony of loss—it had pushed him to this moment.
M/n had pushed him to this moment.
Obito shuddered, his lips parting as if to speak, but nothing came out. He felt sick, like something inside him had shifted permanently.
M/n’s thumb brushed over his split lip, smearing the blood there as if admiring it. "Now, do you see?"
Obito swallowed hard, his new vision locking onto M/n’s eyes.
"Pain makes you stronger," M/n murmured, almost reverently. He released Obito’s chin but didn’t move away. "You should be thanking me."
And Obito did.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
M/n hadn’t spoken in a while.
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The only sound was the dull drip, drip of blood hitting the wooden floor. Obito’s blood.
He knelt, panting, sweat and crimson streaking his face. His body ached, the dull throb in his ribs reminding him of the blows he had taken. His Sharingan still spun wildly, his breath sharp and uneven.
He had failed. Again.
M/n leaned back against the wooden table, arms crossed. He was watching—always watching—but his expression gave away nothing.
Obito’s stomach twisted. He had learned to recognize that look.
"Disappointing," M/n finally murmured, shaking his head.
Shame burned through Obito’s chest like acid. His fingers twitched where they rested against the floor, curling into fists.
Not enough.
He was never enough.
“I…” Obito swallowed thickly. “I’ll do better.”
M/n exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Will you?”
“Yes.” His voice was desperate now, raw with something frantic. He lifted his head, looking up at M/n with pleading, bloodshot eyes. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”
M/n tilted his head slightly, as if considering it. Then, after a long moment, he moved.
He crouched in front of Obito, reaching out. His fingers caught Obito’s chin, tilting his face up fully. The touch was softer than it should have been, considering the pain he had just inflicted.
"You still hesitate," M/n said quietly, his thumb grazing the sharp edge of Obito’s jaw.
Obito shivered beneath the touch, not out of fear—but something else.
M/n’s voice dropped lower, his words slow, deliberate. “You hold back because you’re still clinging to them.”
Obito's breath hitched.
Them.
Kakashi. Rin. Sensei. The ghosts of his past still clawed at him, whispering in the back of his mind.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to drown them out.
“I don’t—” he started, but M/n’s grip on his jaw tightened just enough to stop him.
“Lying doesn’t suit you, Obito.”
Obito opened his mouth—to argue, to deny—but the words died before they could form.
Because M/n was right.
There was still a part of him that ached when he thought of Rin’s smile. A part of him that still saw Kakashi standing over her body in his nightmares.
And M/n had no patience for hesitation.
A sharp sting lashed across his cheek—fast, precise, controlled. Obito’s head snapped to the side from the impact, a choked gasp escaping him.
M/n hadn’t hit him hard. Just enough to prove a point.
“You need to let them go,” M/n murmured, his hand cupping the cheek he had just struck. His touch was warm, careful, fingers brushing soothingly over the red mark.
Obito’s breath stuttered.
The contrast—the sharp bite of pain followed by this—it left him reeling. His mind struggled to reconcile the two, to make sense of it.
But M/n made it easy.
M/n was always there, guiding him, grounding him.
"Do you trust me?" M/n asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Obito nodded, without hesitation. "Yes."
M/n’s fingers trailed down, pressing against the frantic pulse at Obito’s throat. He smiled, satisfied.
"Then prove it."
Obito blinked. "How?"
M/n leaned in, his lips almost brushing against Obito’s ear. "You know how."
And he did.
Burn it all.
Konoha. The village that took everything from him. The village that let Rin die. The village that would never accept him now.
Obito trembled. The hesitation was there—a flicker, a ghost of something old and useless.
Then M/n’s fingers curled around the back of his neck, holding him steady. The touch was possessive, grounding.
"You belong to me, Obito. And I take care of what’s mine."
Something in him snapped.
Rin was dead. Kakashi had left him. Konoha had abandoned him.
M/n was the only one who had stayed.
He exhaled shakily, feeling the last pieces of his past fall away.
"You’re right." His voice was different now—colder. Certain.
M/n grinned. "Good boy."
Obito let out a shuddering breath. And for the first time in his life—he felt free.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
Obito was on his hands and knees, his face pressed against the sheets, breath ragged, body trembling. His arms ached from holding himself up, but he didn’t dare collapse—not when M/n’s grip was so tight on his hips, bruising, possessive.
M/n was taking him apart.
Splitting him open. Stretching him too wide.
Each thrust was deep, unforgiving, his thick cock slamming into Obito’s abused hole, making his vision blur. The wet sounds of skin against skin filled the dimly lit cabin, mixed with Obito’s shaky moans and M/n’s amused chuckles and groans.
"Fuck, Obito," M/n groaned, dragging his nails down Obito’s back, leaving red lines behind. "You’re taking me so well."
Obito whimpered, his fingers clutching desperately at the sheets. His entire body was burning, a mix of lingering pain from training, exhaustion, and the unbearable pleasure coiling tight in his gut.
He shouldn’t love this.
He shouldn’t crave it.
But M/n had made him need it.
"M-M/n—" Obito gasped, his voice cracking as M/n suddenly thrust deeper, grinding against his sweet spot. His back arched sharply, his body betraying him, his walls squeezing around M/n’s thick length.
"What?" M/n taunted, fisting a hand in Obito’s sweat-damp hair, yanking his head back. He tilted Obito’s face just enough to see the tears clinging to his lashes. His smirk widened. "You crying for me?"
Obito bit his lip, choking down a whimper. He was so full, so overstimulated, so wrecked. His thighs shook from strain, but he didn’t want M/n to stop.
He needed it.
"Please—"
M/n’s grip tightened in his hair, forcing his head back further. His breath was hot against Obito’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.
"Please, what?"
Obito’s pride had long since shattered.
He didn’t care if he sounded desperate.
He didn’t care if he had to beg.
"Please fuck me harder—"
M/n groaned, slamming his hips forward in a bruising thrust. Obito let out a broken cry, his back arching beautifully beneath him.
"That’s more like it," M/n growled, setting a ruthless pace. Each thrust knocked the air out of Obito’s lungs, reducing him to whimpers and choked moans.
M/n was ruining him.
Breaking him in every way possible.
Obito’s dick dripped precum onto the sheets, untouched, twitching with every deep, brutal stroke into his puffy hole. He was so close, his entire body trembling, but M/n hadn’t given him permission yet.
"You wanna cum, don’t you?" M/n murmured, dragging his tongue along the shell of Obito’s ear.
Obito nodded frantically, his sore walls fluttering around M/n’s cock, sucking him in deeper.
"Then beg."
Obito didn’t hesitate.
"Please—fuck, please let me cum—"
M/n chuckled, his thrusts slowing, teasing. "So obedient now. What happened to all that defiance?"
Obito’s face flushed darker.
He was too far gone to fight back.
He was too addicted to M/n’s touch, to his praise, to the sharp edge of his cruelty.
"M/n—" he whimpered. "Please—need it, please—"
M/n hummed, pleased. His grip on Obito’s hips tightened as he slammed forward, hitting his prostate in brutal strokes.
"Cum for me."
Obito’s entire body seized up, his eyes rolling back as he came without a single touch. His cock throbbed, spilling hot streaks of cum onto the sheets, his walls clenching around M/n in desperate spasms.
M/n groaned, slamming into him a few more times before burying himself deep, spilling inside.
Obito shuddered violently, his body spent, legs weak and trembling.
But M/n didn’t let him collapse.
Instead, he pulled Obito up against his chest, his lips brushing against Obito’s sweat-damp temple.
"See how good you are for me?" he murmured, his fingers stroking Obito’s throat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin.
Obito whined softly, leaning into the touch, into the praise.
M/n smirked.
"Good boy."
And Obito let himself sink deeper into M/n’s arms—deeper into the devotion he could no longer escape.
══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══
Later that night, Obito knelt before M/n once more. His head resting against M/n’s lap.
The fire flickered between them, casting long shadows. M/n watched him with something unreadable in his gaze.
"What would you do for me, Obito?"
Obito didn’t even pause.
"Anything."
M/n smiled, reaching out to tilt his chin up. Their eyes met—Obito’s unwavering, the three tomoe in his Sharingan burning like embers.
"Then say it."
Obito closed his eyes and whispered:
"I’d let the world burn."
M/n’s smirk deepened. He leaned in, his lips barely brushing against Obito’s ear.
Prompt: 20. Itachi's First Time. Request (Prompts)
Summary: You have been Itachi's teammate in the Akatsuki for years now, and over that time, your relationship has developed into something unspoken. Reciprocated feelings, stolen touches, and brief kisses are shared between you. With each one, the tension tightens, the stoic Uchiha unapologetic but unacting on his desire- so you decide to take him for yourself. Sorry for another Sleep Token inpired fic lol
Huge shoutout to @emoiover for helping me with ideas for this and giving this a beta read ❤️❤️
Masterlist. AO3.
🔞 Mature Content. Minors DNI. 🔞
Tags: (4k words) All characters are 18+ Sub!Itachi (kinda), the reader really kinda controls the whole thing lol, established relationship, Itachi losing his virginity, reader is not a virigin, Oral (M+F receiving), slighty dom!reader, Praise kink (Itachi is a good boy after all), Sharingan use during sex, desk sex, he also might be a lil awkward at times lol, unprotected sex.
You sit perched on the edge of Itachi’s desk while he reads a scroll, his face relaxed as he goes over each word. You kick your legs aimlessly as you study him, your head slightly tilted, bottom lip tucked beneath your front teeth. He paid you no mind, your presence a constant at his side, almost as if you were attached at the hip.
Leaning back on your palms, your knee brushes his elbow on the armrest, and his gaze flickers to your form at the brief contact.
Once his eyes meet yours, he pauses before setting the scroll down and leaning back, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “You look lost in thought,” he remarked plainly, but playfully hinted underneath.
“Perhaps I am,” you lean over and whisper seductively with a coy smile. You relish the way his cheeks immediately flush and the way his throat bobs as he swallows. “Surely I’m more entertaining than a scroll.”
“Perhaps you are,” he echoes as the pink moves down his cheeks and neck, moving below the collar of his black shirt.
His expression is controlled, but you can tell in the way his hand flexes that he is holding something back. So you press him, scooting over to directly in front of him and knocking the scroll to the side, you hook your legs on either side of his hips, bringing your hands to his chest as you lean over him.
“Then perhaps,” your lips ghost over his as he appears stunned by your assertion, “you should start acting like it.”
His breath hitches when you plant yourself in his lap, and your arms travel up and around his neck, your weight pressing firmly against him. Left with nowhere to escape, his spine pressed against the back of the chair.
You could practically taste the air that he choked.
Easing on him gently, you place your lips on his. He initially tenses, but a heartbeat later, he relaxes, letting you slowly begin to consume him. As your hands tightened in his hair and pulled him closer, his apprehensive hands rested on the tops of your thighs, gripping the flesh tightly.
You open your mouth against his and push your tongue between his lips lightly as he opens up. His tongue is tentative at first, but soft, eager, and incredibly warm. You hum and drag your hips along his lap, the friction sending a shiver down your own spine. You part from him for a moment, breathless, leaving a thin, wet string between your mouths as you roll your hips again, slower this time, the pressure building between your legs.
Itachi’s grip migrates from your thighs to your waist, hands splayed, fingers digging in as if to ground himself. He’s breathing harder now, the blush on his face more pronounced, bleeding into the tips of his ears. He’s trying to keep his composure, but the subtle tremor in his hands gives him away.
You smirk, savoring his unraveling. “Do you like that?” You murmur, letting your lips trail down his jaw, pressing a flutter of soft, nipping kisses at his pulse.
He chokes on a breath, nods. “Y-yes,” he manages, and you reward him by grinding down, feeling him hard and hot through the thin cotton of his pants.
You let your hands wander, sliding up his shirt and down his sides, nails scraping just enough to make him squirm. He’s so responsive, so sensitive, you can’t help but wonder how much more he can take. Your hand slips between your bodies, palm cupping the bulge beneath his waistband. He jolts, a strangled gasp escaping him, the noise desperate and involuntary in a way that makes your core throb.
You rub your palm against his cock, slow and deliberate; he bites his lip, eyes fluttering closed. You lean in, lips grazing the shell of his ear. “Tell me, Itachi, have you thought about this before?” You whisper in question, stroking him through the fabric as he shudders.
“Yes,” he breathes. “T-too much— too often.”
Your heart hammers at that, that he’s as honest as he is helpless. You slide your hand inside his pants—he’s so hard, you wonder if it’s painful. You pull him out: flushed, dark, and wet at the tip. You watch how his jaw clenches at the exposure, how his Adam’s apple bobs as you wrap your fingers around him. You stroke his length, slow and tight, thumb teasing the sensitive underside. He juts his hips up into your fist, unable to help himself.
You press your mouth to his again, deep and hungry, swallowing the sounds he makes as your wrist works him. His hands find your hips, gripping hard, pulling you closer until there isn’t a breath between you. You break the kiss, breath mingling, and meet his eyes— black and blown wide, pleading with you.
His hand suddenly grips your wrist, halting your movement. You glance up, surprised by the abruptness, but Itachi’s gaze is fixed somewhere over your shoulder— his breathing harsh, his composure fraying. You can see in the tremble of his jaw that he’s wrestling something dark and vulnerable.
“Wait,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I—” His eyes search the wall, then dart down to where your hand still wraps around him, then back to your face. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
You blink, not expecting a confession. For once, there’s no mask, no shield of stoic nonchalance— just wary honesty. You feel your heart tighten with a fierce delight as you smile up at your shy lover.
“Who cares?” You murmur, squeezing his length gently, thumb circling the head of his cock, drawing a low, involuntary noise from his throat. “I bet you’ll figure it out fast.”
His mouth quirks slightly, a nervous, helpless smirk. You lean in and kiss him again, slow and soft, letting him set the pace. This time, his tongue is bolder, tracing your lower lip, the contact more explorative as your hand continues to jerk his dick between your bodies.
“You’re—hn— you’re not making this easy,” he manages, hips when you give his dick a light squeeze.
You nip at the soft skin under his jaw, greedy for more of those ragged, involuntary noises. You jerk him slow, then quick, changing rhythm until his breath hitches and his spine arches tight beneath you. He’s close, so close, you can hear it in the way his voice wavers.
“Please—” he whispers, not sure if it’s a plea for mercy or more.
You reward him with another kiss at his pulse. “You’re doing so good, Itachi.” The words drag a shudder from his chest, his hands shaking as he clutches the arms of the chair.
“Feel good?” You murmur, lips barely touching his ear. “So pretty when you blush for me.” You feel him tense, a sharp tremor running the length of his body. There’s pride in you, wicked and bright, at how easily you unravel him.
You bite his earlobe, gentle but firm, and he gasps— a sound so desperate you think he might break apart if you let up.
So you don’t.
His head tips back, his throat long and bared, eyes squeezed shut. You stroke him harder, thumb catching on the sensitive spot just under the head. He whimpers— a sound both mortified and hungry— and you realize you want to wreck him a little, want to see how much he can take before his composure fractures entirely.
“I—don’t—” he stutters, voice thin. “I won’t— c-can’t—”
You slow your grip, teasing him further. “Can’t what?” His cheeks burn deeper, crimson to the tips of his ears.
“Please, hn— I’ll—” He doesn’t finish; instead, you watch him tense up further.
You grin against his skin before letting go. “Then wait,” you murmur, and with a swift, deft motion, you push the chair back from the desk, dropping to your knees between his parted legs. The movement is so sudden he gasps, but you don’t give him a chance to recover— you shove his pants lower with one hand, exposing more of him, flushed and leaking.
You lick up the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate, and he wheels his head back up, lips parted, eyes wild and glassy with shock. He breathes your name like a confession when you take him in your mouth. You hollow your cheeks, working him with your tongue, twirling it along the sensitive vein; when you flick the tip, he almost yelps, hands flying up to knot in your hair, desperate for purchase.
He fucks up into your mouth, tentative at first, then with a shuddering abandon. You hum and squeeze the base with your hand, and that’s all it takes— he breaks, cuming with a long, trembling gasp, fingers gripping your hair almost painfully.
Honestly, you’re surprised he lasted this long, but it’s just another testament to the Uchiha might.
You let him ride out his orgasm as you swallow every pulse, not stopping until he’s twitching and oversensitive, panting like he’s just run a marathon. When you finally pull away, you look up at him through your lashes, smirking, and let a thin strand of spit and cum break from your lip.
Itachi’s face is ruined— dark hair glued to his temple, eyes half-lidded, lips parted and slick. He catches his breath with a huff, and you watch as the tips of his ears pulse pink, mortified by the wreckage you’ve made of him.
You wipe your mouth, still on your knees, and level him with a look. “Think you’ve got another one in you?” You ask playfully.
His tongue wets his lip, still dazed. “I—” He blinks, gathers himself with his stubborn dignity. “Yes.”
“Good,” you hum, rising to your feet and tugging your own pants down with a slow, teasing roll of your hips. You’re already soaked, your pussy clinging to the cotton of your panties— leaving an obscene, dark patch over your center. His eyes drop, and you feel the tremor of want that runs through him, even as he tries to compose himself.
You straddle his lap as his hands go instinctively to your hips, palms hot on your skin. You tug your shirt over your head and toss it to the floor, baring your chest to him. Even in the dim light of his room, he can see your nipples are taut, pebbled in the chill and anticipation.
He stares, stunned, and his hands hesitate before skimming up your sides. You guide his palms to your breasts, and he cups them gently. “Don’t be afraid,” you murmur, nuzzling his nose with yours. “You can touch me however you want.”
He kisses you then, slow at first, then with a rising hunger. His thumbs brush your nipples, a feather-light touch that makes you gasp into his mouth. When he does it again, you arch into his hands, grinding your cunt onto his pelvis and feeling his length twitch beneath you.
You break the kiss and dip your head to his ear. “You learn quick,” you say, nipping the soft skin just below the lobe. His cock jumps at the praise, and you press down, grinding harder, chasing the friction as you roll your hips against him.
Itachi, emboldened, leans in and kisses down your neck, sucking marks into your skin, his hands never leaving your breasts. When you tangle your fingers in his hair and gently tug, he groans, the sound vibrating through your whole body.
You guide his head with both hands, lowering his mouth to your chest. He hesitates, then licks over your nipple, his hot breath fanning over the wetness. You shudder, and he does it again— then takes it in his mouth, sucking gently. The sensation sends a jolt straight through you, and you keen, clutching his shoulders for support.
“Yes,” you moan, “just like that—” and the praise drives him wild. His hand rolls your other nipple between his fingers, and you whimper, rutting against the thick heat of him, and you feel his dick stir beneath you again.
He moves his mouth to your other breast, giving it the same reverence, the same aching attention, and you realize he’s memorizing you—cataloging every shiver, every gasp, every little sound you make. He pulls off you with a soft pop, the noise obscene, and when he looks up, his eyes are lidded and hungry and focused.
“I want to taste you,” he says abruptly. His voice cracks, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t retreat from the vulnerability. “May I?”
For all his soft-spoken deference, there’s a possessive edge in the way he asks—like he’s desperate to prove himself worthy. You smirk, drag your fingers through his hair, and lean in, brushing your lips over the arch of his cheekbone.
“Only if you beg,” you whisper, letting your breath tickle the shell of his ear.
He inhales sharply. “Please, I—I—” But you don’t savor the moment; instead, you cut him off with a hard kiss on his lips, running your tongue over his.
Then you push off his lap and stand, facing him. Slowly, you hook your thumbs under your panties, sliding them down your thighs, letting the dark, dampened patch stretch and peel away from your dripping pussy. You don’t break eye contact as you step free, tossing the sodden scrap onto the floor. You settle your ass on the edge of his desk, legs spreading in a slow, deliberate show. The cool air licks at the heat between your thighs, and you watch his throat work as he takes in the full lascivious view of you.
“Come here,” you command.
He moves the chair forward, knees bumping the desk, and you rest your feet on the arms of the chair, bracing him with your calves on either side of his body. He’s caged, trapped by your legs, helpless to do anything but stare at the place where you’re slick and swollen, desperate for him.
He runs a hand up your thigh, fingertips soft as satin. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble; instead, he traces the outline of your lips, then dips two fingers between them, sliding through your slick and spreading you open. The touch is careful, and you see him exhale in awe as your folds part under his touch.
You bit your bottom lip, spreading yourself wider, baring every secret inch to his reverent gaze. “You’re not scared, are you?” You tease, letting your tone drip with challenge.
His mouth crooks in answer, dark eyes flashing. “Should I be?” The lazy cadence of his voice dares you to break him, but you feel the tremor in his fingers as he drags them back through your folds, gathering the slick on his fingertips. He leans forward, letting his lips brush your inner thigh, soft and almost chaste, before his tongue darts out and licks a single, searing stripe through the center of you.
You clench, toes curling on the chair arms, and whine, breathless, at the sheer, electric heat of it. Itachi pauses, watching for your reaction, noting every twitch of your hips. When you lock your fingers in his hair, he closes his eyes and buries his mouth in your cunt.
He eats your pussy with pious focus, tongue rolling over every slick contour, learning you in real-time. When he finds your clit, swollen and throbbing, he circles it softly, then harder, then draws it between his lips until you gasp, the sound shattering the hush of his room. He chuckles against you, and the vibration nearly ruins your control.
You fist his hair, grinding your hips against his mouth, and he lets you, eager for the way you tremble, how you lose yourself. You look down, desperate for the sight, and meet his gaze—Sharingan active, swirling at the edges of his irises—a violent red flash, hungry and beautiful. He smirks, the movement subtle, and moves to plunge a single finger inside you, thick and stretching.
You lurch and nearly shriek, savoring the wet noise as he drags the pads of his fingers along your walls before adding another. He’s methodical, and when he hooks his fingers just right, a shiver detonates in your spine, raw and electric.
“There?” He asks, voice muffled, and it’s not really a question, more a taunt, because he already knows.
“Yes, fuck—there—” you cry, and you see the crimson of his fade to black, tongue flicking your clit in time with the curl of his fingers. Your brain whites out, every nerve drawn tight, and he doubles down, his mouth greedy.
You cum so hard you nearly black out, your nails digging into his scalp as you ride the wave, every muscle gone taut. The sound you make is wild and unhinged, ripped straight from your core. Even as you tremble, legs locking around his head, Itachi doesn’t stop until you collapse, boneless and buzzing, back against the desk.
Your vision is slow to return, but as you drag your gaze up, you find him watching you, his lips raw and glistening, his hair in wild disarray. Heat licks at your flesh, but you’re greedy for more— as you curl your hand into his shirt and pull him between your thighs, tugging it over his head. The kiss you steal is lazy, but his mouth moves with a hunger that says he’s already forgotten the boundaries he clung to moments ago. Your hand roams over his newly uncovered skin, muscles hard and hot beneath your fingers. You moan into him, feeling the rigid press of his cock—now fully resurrected—nestled between the slick mess of your thighs.
Your fingers skate over the ridge of him, tracing the curve, the feverish pulse beneath your palm. His hips jerk at your touch, a gasp shuddering in his throat, and you swallow the sound. You move against him, slick heat meeting the desperate strain of his erection, and the friction draws a low, unguarded groan from him. You lap at his bottom lip and then pull back just enough to watch the desperation war with discipline on his beautiful, ruined face.
“Do you want to fuck me?” You murmur coyly, grinning as you grind your hips into him. He tries to answer, but the words catch. His pupils are blown wide, burning with a hunger that’s almost animal.
Finally, he nods.
“Say it,” you order, voice sultry and sweet. “Just once.”
He licks his lips, breath trembling as he obeys. “I want to be inside you.” The words burn, and your pulse stutters with feral delight. “Please.” It’s a whisper, but you feel it everywhere.
You guide the head of his cock between your legs, letting the tip drag through the wet, swollen folds until you feel him twitch and throb, desperate to take more. You tease him, circling your hips until he gasps, and then, with a wicked smile, you tilt just so, pressing him inside, inch by inch.
He can’t keep from jerking, hips stammering forward as you draw him deeper, the stretch delicious. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, shuddering, the heat of his breath matching the wild rhythm of his pulse under your fingers.
You don’t let him move— not yet. You grip his hair tight at the roots, holding him there, savoring the way his cock twitches inside you as you clench around him. You wait, just long enough for him to nearly lose himself, before you let go, giving him permission with a single, hungry roll of your hips.
He fucks you deep and deliberate at first, each thrust measured with that same ruthless control he brings to everything. But you can feel the restraint fraying at the edges, can taste the unraveling on his tongue as he kisses you between broken breaths. You moan, raking your nails down his back, and he hisses, rutting into you a tad harder. The desk rattles beneath you, and you can feel it in the way his thighs tremble, the way his hands fist in your hair and on your skin.
He’s holding on by a thread, and you want to see it snap.
You lock your ankles behind his back, slam your heels down, and pull him flush—daring him closer, deeper, harder. “Don’t hold back,” you whisper, biting the edge of his jaw. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
The words break him. He growls— a sound you’ve never coaxed from him before, low and guttural, laced in pure want. He slams into you, urgency eclipsing technique, the rhythm frantic and desperate. You arch, spine bowed, nails scraping new lines down his back as you meet each thrust, the collision of bodies thunderous.
He’s never let go like this, not for anyone; you see it in the wild flash of his eyes, the way his features break apart, sweat slicking his hair to his brow. He’s beautiful, wild, red-cheeked, and desperate, and every time he slams inside you, it blots out any thought.
You have to cling to him, or you’ll break apart. You tangle your hands in his hair, pull him down for a bruising kiss, and he devours your mouth with a matched hunger. Each thrust drives you higher, pleasure spiking at a dangerous, dizzying pitch.
He hits a place inside you that makes you see stars, and you break away from the kiss, gasping. “There—right there, fuck, Itachi—” and him just hearing his name like this, ruined and needy, makes him shiver violently in your arms.
You press your lips to his ear, panting. “You feel so fucking good, don’t you dare stop—” and the praise undoes him, makes his hips stutter once again. He mutters something hoarse and filthy in return, words lost in the haze as he holds you tighter, pulsing inside you.
You snake a hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. You rub in time with his thrusts, grinding down, chasing the heat rising through your gut. He sees what you’re doing, and instead of faltering, he moans—open, and so goddamn eager for you. “Please—let me—” he stammers, hand sliding down to cover yours, guiding your touch with his own.
“I want you to cum with me,” you breathe, hot and urgent against his jaw. “Can you do that for me, Itachi?”
He trembles, whole body gone taut. “I—” He gasps with a nod, barely able to speak. He’s shaky, sweat sliding down his temple to drip onto your skin. “Trying—” but the words trail off, replaced by a helpless, keening sound as the tension winds tighter and tighter.
You circle your clit harder, panting, fully on the verge yourself. “Cum with me, please—now—I need to feel you—” and that’s all it takes. He breaks, slamming into you with a feral snap, groaning as he spills inside you, thick and hot.
The sensation burns wild through your whole body, your orgasm detonating around him. You clench down, rigid and convulsing, every pulse wrung out by the force of his cock as he pumps you full. You’re gasping, both of you, your legs trembling so hard you lose your grip on the desk and almost fall backward—he catches you, arms bracketing your body.
For a few seconds, there’s just the sound of your ragged breaths, the obscene scene of your bodies pressed together, and the overload of Itachi buried deep inside you, shaking from the aftermath. He collapses forward, face in your neck, ruining your skin with sweat and the hot, slow drag of his breath. You feel him soften inside you as he shudders, his arms going slack and heavy. Your thighs spasm, gripping his hips as though you want to keep him there forever.
You stroke his hair, wild and tangled against your chest, and he doesn’t move, just pants into the hollow below your ear. His body sprawls over you, heavy and inert, and you savor the weight— how solid and real he feels, how his usual detachment has gone to ruin. You press a breathless kiss to his temple, feeling the fever of his skin, and rest your forehead against his.
His eyes are closed, lashes glued together with sweat, but you can tell he’s still there, present and alive in a way you’ve never seen. A slow, lazy smile carves your lips. “You alive?” You tease, fingers brushing the nape of his neck. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth tugs up at one corner.
“I should be the one asking you that,” he murmurs, voice so hoarse and spent that it hardly sounds like him.
Your laugh is warm and fuzzy, muffled in his hair. You’re about to say something clever, something biting and affectionate, when the moment is shattered by a violent, repetitive pounding at the door.
“For fucks sake, we can hear you in the hallway!” Comes Hidan’s voice, muffled by the thick wood but still braying as ever. “Some of us don’t want to listen to you two blowing your loads all over god damn the place!”
Itachi sighs, peeling himself upwards, as if jarred back to the real world.
“At least he waited until we finished,” you chirped up at him with a satisfied hum.
❥ ︎ Warnings: Mention and use of a feminine reader and feminine body parts; although anyone and everyone can read if you ignore those. all characters portrayed in my fanfics are always 18 years old and up .ᐟ .ᐟ Unprotected PnV, dead dove, do not eat (Kind of?), extreme overstimulation, forced multiple orgasms, creampie for days .ᐟ .ᐟ ( with thick, messy loads repeatedly forced deep and pushed back in .ᐟ .ᐟ ), bloodplay / blood kink ? ( Toby bites you .ᐟ .ᐟ ) choking / breathplay ?, cervix-bruising / womb-fucking ( he just wants to make sure it stays in there .ᐟ .ᐟ ), unhinged feral but also pathetic Toby ( he’s whining and growling with every thrust .ᐟ .ᐟ ), dubcon / some cnc? ( he’s sorry, but he just can’t, and won’t stop, fucking you, even if you beg him to .ᐟ .ᐟ ), some Cum play ( ? ), pain play ( you’re so overstimulated .ᐟ .ᐟ Poor you .ᐟ .ᐟ ), loss of bodily control ( you’re so tired, he promises one more — hes a fucking liar ), mind numbing fucking, doggy-style, no mercy at all .ᐟ poor you ᰔ .ᐟ .ᐟ
❥ Synopsis: Poor Toby can’t feel anything anymore… except when your pretty pussy is milking him dry ❤︎ .ᐟ .ᐟ
❥ ︎ Whispers from the author: The dividers belong to @/uzmacchiato , and I have reblogged the other accounts .ᐟ .ᐟ I got the pictures from Pinterest .ᐟ .ᐟ My first ever Creepypasta / Ticci Toby fanfic .ᐟ it has been so so so fun writing this .ᐟ .ᐟ i hope he isn’t too OOC or OOC at all, and I hope you enjoy .ᐟ to my lovelies who are waiting for Chapter four of my “A Heaven Built from Ruin”: it IS still coming, I just want to get the smut PERFECT for you all .ᐟ .ᐟ please pardon any missed mistakes, I edit and write everything on my phone.
❥ ︎ Word count: 1.5k
The bedframe is screaming like it’s being murdered, wood splintering, headboard slamming against the plaster with every savage snap of his hips: BANG—BANG—BANG. Your whole bedroom wall is going to cave in soon. The bed’s already half-broken, and you — fuck, you’re absolutely ruined.
Toby’s scarred, calloused hands are locked around your hips like steel vices, fingers digging so deep into the soft, yielding flesh that a delicious ache blooms instantly under every twitch and jerk of his grip. He yanks you back onto his cock at the exact same time he drives forward, forcing every thick, brutal inch straight through your overstuffed, messy cunt until the head batters your cervix raw and your entire pelvis throbs with a deep, aching fire.
Your face is mashed into your pillowcase that’s soaked with your tears and spit; you can barely breathe, or speak, every desperate gasp tasting of wet fabric and your tears. Your voice has shredded itself raw: high, broken wails fracturing into helpless sobs every single time he bottoms out, splitting you open all over again. And his cum… fuck, it’s everywhere: thick, creamy ropes from load after load that has been forced back out around his pistoning cock, splattering your inner thighs in sticky white streaks. An obscene, frothy mess of his thick cum and your slick coats the base of his shaft, clinging in gooey strands to your swollen, abused pussy lips every time he drags back.
The moment he slams home again it all squelches loudly with a filthy, wet shlk-shlk-shlk-shlk — mixing into a sloppy, pearlescent slime that drips in heavy, swinging strings onto the ruined sheets and smears between your bodies with every loud, meaty thwack of his pelvis against your arse.
Toby is lost to it now, chasing the only thing his dead nerves can still feel: the way your perfect little cunt clamps and ripples and strangles his cock when you come. That bright, violent spark. Better than blood, better than the axe, better than anything. And he’s fucking ravenous.
“T-t-t-take it—f-f-f-fuckin’ TAKE IT—” His voice is a shattered rasp exploding with tics, head snapping sideways so hard his neck cracks like a whip, shoulders jerking violently, “C-c’mon—squeeze—squeezeme—f-f-f-fuck—AGAIN—” He drops his full weight onto your hips, completely hovering over your bowed spine as his mouth latches onto the nape of your neck with teeth first. He bites down viciously, breaking skin, copper flooding hot across his tongue. The pain detonates white-hot through your nerves, but it only makes your cunt clamp harder around him, pleasure spiking so sharp it rips a raw, animal shriek from your throat and sends fresh tears flooding the pillowcase.
“Y-y-yes—there—there—there—” thé sound rips out of him, half growl, half sob, high and wrecked. He doesn’t pull away. He just keeps his teeth sunken deep into your skin while his hips piston faster — short, mean, grinding strokes that stay buried to the hilt, bullying that gooey, tender, ridged spot inside you until your whole body twitches uncontrollably.
The wet sound of your soaked, engorged walls dragging along his cock is deafening. Your legs are shaking so badly they keep collapsing; he just snarls, wrenches them back up with bruising force and fucks you straight back down into the mattress. You’re begging now, voice completely cracked and whiny and pathetic. “T-Toby… baby… c-can’t—s’too much—!”
He whines against your bleeding neck, almost pitiful, hips never slowing for a second. “I—I c-c-can’t—m’s-s-s-sorry—need you t-to—f-f-f-fuck—cum again—pleasepleaseplease—just one more—s-swear on m-my fuckin’ life—”
He’s a fucking liar. A desperate, filthy, twitching liar.
Because the second your body starts seizing again your thighs lock without warning, gummy walls fluttering in helpless, stuttering waves that knock the breath clean out of you. One of his hands flies up, wrapping itself around your throat, thumb and fingers slotting perfectly under your jaw as he closes them around your throat and he yanks you back, forcing your spine to bow painfully towards him. The other snakes underneath, rough fingertips finding your aching, raw clit and rubbing vicious, merciless circles.
His tics are nuclear, head whipping side to side, shoulders seizing, hips stuttering erratically as he feels every single pulse milk him. “F-f-f-fuck—yesYES—squeeze—squeeze—f-f-f-fuckin’ SQUEEZE—”
He slams in, flush to your arse, grinding so hard the bones bruise, and stays there, his cock throbbing, twitching, pumping out whatever’s left while his teeth find your shoulder again. The sting blooms hot, but your toes curl so hard the muscles cramp and a fresh broken cry tears from you. Yet instead of stopping, he starts moving again, slow at first — agonising, deliberate drags out until just the fat head of his pulsing cock stretches your entrance, then punishingly thrusts back in, each one of his thrusts punches another helpless twitch from your body; he’s making sure you feel every ridge, every vein, every fresh gush of cum forced deeper into your ruined cunt.
“S-s-s-sorry,” he gasps against the fresh bite, voice splintering into static and sobs, “can’t fuckin’ stop—need one more—please—give it to me—break for me—f-f-f-fuckin’ BREAK—”
Your scream is smothered into the pillowcase as he loses the last of his mind, his pounding hips turn faster, meaner, and completely unhinged, his teeth sink deeper into your skin, painting his teeth and mouth red with your blood, one hand is crushing your hip, while the sloppy squelches of your overstuffed cunt fills the room like the filthiest soundtrack.
Your next orgasm doesn’t explode, it drags through you in slow, stuttering waves, legs giving out completely, a choked half-sob the only sound you can manage as your back seizes in one long, helpless shudder.
Toby’s teeth rip free from your shoulder, he licks his lips breathlessly for a quick second, letting the metallic taste of your blood coat his tastebuds, and then drops back to the torn skin of your neck like a vicious animal, reopening another bite wound, that was healing, he gave you previously, in one savage clamp. The pain whites out your vision, but your body betrays you instantly, throat cutting off mid-sob as every muscle locks in exhausted, twitching overload.
He then starts rutting like a rabid dog in heat, his hips slamming into the sore skin of your arse like he’s taking his frustration out on you — he probably is —grunting and growling against your bleeding flesh with every single thrust: “Hnn—hnngh—fuck—fuck—!” Low, guttural, feral sounds ripped straight from his chest as he forces every last twitching, sweat-slick pound of his weight onto you. One of his scarred hands, that is still clamped brutally around your hip, yanks your bottom half higher again, keeping your arse tilted up and presented so he can grind deeper, and force every thick inch of his cock into that leaking, needy, greedy cunt and feel it flutter helplessly around him. He’s using you, owning the angle, making sure nothing stops him from chasing that addictive squeeze even as his chest collapses onto your back.
He groans, “C-c-can’t—can’t s-s-stop—m’s-s-s-sorry—need you t-to—f-f-f-fuckin’ milk me—milkme—” The words tumble out in a shattered chant between snarls, spit and blood dripping hot down your shoulder as he ruts harder, shorter and meaner, his pelvis grinding against your arse like he’s trying to fuse himself inside you.
Shlk-shlk-shlk-shlk-shlk. The filthy, sloppy sounds of your wrecked cunt being fucked through another weak, twitching load are downright sinful as thick white ropes bubble out around his cock and smear everywhere, but he doesn’t slow down.
Toby just keeps rutting through it, hips stuttering wildly, teeth locked deep in your neck, breath hitching with every desperate grind: “feels so good—break—f-f-f-fuckin’ break—”
Only when your whole body is limp and trembling beneath him, when your cunt is giving one last exhausted twitch around his cock and you’re sobbing into the pillowcase like you might actually pass out, does something in Toby finally fracture. His hips give one last savage, stuttering grind, his legs buckling, chest collapsing unevenly so one forearm slams down harder beside your head, the other clawing at the sheets for balance — a broken howl tearing out of his throat as another weak spurt of cum pulses deep inside you.
Then: he’s dead weight on you, teeth still sunk into your neck, chest heaving, his cock still buried to the hilt and twitching like it never wants to leave. Even then his thighs keep making tiny, involuntary little rocks forward, breath stuttering hot and ragged against your ruined skin. The tip of his tongue slithers out of his mouth and he gives a slow lick of the pulsing bite mark om your neck, “j-just… o-one… m-m-more..” he exhales heavily, and the hot breath wafts over the sensitive wound, causing you to whimper pathetically, “mm.. s-so.. perfect… so f-f-fuckin’ per-perfect f’me…”
His weight keeps you pinned completely, his chest heavy on your back, your mattress creaks under the combined weight of you both when he moves. His heartbeat slams against your spine like a second, frantic pulse. And in the hazy, shattered silence you realise you aren’t pushing him off. You’re not even tryjng to — well, it’s not like you can anyway, but you’d let him stay buried inside you like this forever if that's what he wanted.
But Toby isn't stopping, not really: he’s just run out of energy, and he’ll be back at it — at you — sooner than you can catch your breath.
AHHH SHE'S SO ADORBS!!!! I'm genuinely tweakin it's not rare I get fan art of my characters plus the art style makes me go brrr🥹🥹🫵🫵(also I love the sleeves I might just have to steal the idea-)
