— 20. Bodyguard! Caitlyn Kiramman x President's Daughter! F Reader I Drabble
Warnings : Cait receiving, condescending praise, SMUT MDNI (idk if they actually wear ear pieces, and oh my god another violation of work ethics)
You pride yourself on the architecture of your composure: the razor-sharp line of your spine, the practiced tilt of your chin, the way your hands rest like heavy marble against your hips. Beside your father, under the blinding heat of a thousand camera flashes, you are less a woman and more a monument. But as the President’s voice drones on, a low, tectonic thrum begins to vibrate at the base of your skull.
You catch your bottom lip between your teeth, a tiny fracture in the statue. Shivers, unbidden and electric, coil from your hips and race up the ladder of your vertebrae, raising goosebumps in its wake.
Then, the static of your ear piece hisses—a sharp, intimate intake of breath delivered directly into your inner ear.
“Look at you. Poor, desperate thing. Trying so hard to hold it together.”
The voice is posh, dripping with the kind of upper-class cruelty that feels like a velvet noose. It’s Caitlyn.
Your eyes narrow into slits, a silent curse screaming behind your teeth. You hate her for this—for the psychological siege she’s laying while you’re pinned under the national gaze.
“I can’t wait to taste you,” she murmurs, the words yearning and heavy. A pause follows, long enough for the image to take root in your gut, followed by a low, devastatingly smug giggle. “All these people, all these lenses... and I’m the only one who knows how wet you are under that silk. So prim and fucking proper.”
Your brow twitches. Your gaze sweeps the room, cutting through the sea of suits until you find her. She’s stationed by the heavy mahogany doors. Her hair is scraped back into a bun so tight it looks painful; her face is a mask of passive, professional boredom. To the world, she is a weapon in a blazer. To you, she is a predator watching her prey.
“That million-dollar face,” she whispers, her voice dropping an octave, vibrating against your eardrum until your knees feel like jelly. “I’d kill to see it between my legs right now. That’s a face made to be ridden, don't you think?”
A fresh surge of heat crashes into your pussy.. Your hand bunches into a fist, knuckles white, as the heel of your stiletto taps a frantic, agonizing rhythm against the marble floor. You’re sweating now—a fine, shimmering sheen on your forehead that the cameras will mistake for the heat of the lights.
Just so you fucking wait until this is finished. You thought.
By 10 PM, the "First Daughter" has been stripped away, leaving only a frantic mess of rumpled silk and pleated wool on the satin sheets. The gala was a marathon of botoxed smiles and velvet-glove handshakes; now, the only thing that matters is the weight of Caitlyn straddling your hips.
Caitlyn moves with the efficiency of an officer taking what’s hers. She grinds her wetness directly against the skin of your stomach, her eyebrows drawn together in a look of focused pleasure. Her hands are heavy on your chest, pinning you, using your body as a high-end toy to get herself off.
“It feels too fucking good—fuck,” she rasps, her posh accent staggering, broken by hot, jagged breaths.
You arch your back, your hips canting upward, desperately grinding against thin air. You’re chasing the ghost of her touch, but she keeps you just out of reach, forcing you to watch her take from you.
“I wonder what the press would think,” she whispers, leaning down until her breath ghosts over your damp skin. Her hips roll, slow and agonizingly deliberate. “Your bodyguard using the President’s daughter like a piece of furniture. Think of the scandal. All that dignity, wasted on me.”
“Cait—please. I’ve been wanting you all night,” you beg, your voice a ragged shadow of your public persona. Your hands roam blindly over her body, your cold fingers finding the hard, pebble-peaks of her nipples.
She doesn’t give in. Instead, she hooks a hand under your knee, hiking your leg over her shoulder to expose your wet pussy completely. She shifts, grinding her clit directly against yours in a slick, bruising slide of friction.
A moan tears from your throat, but she smothers it, her mouth crashing onto yours. Her teeth clash against yours, a brutal claim.
“Keep it down,” she murmurs against your lips, her voice heavy with authority. “You don’t want the maids to hear how loud you get for me, do you? I’m your dirty little secret, remember?”
“No—Cait, you’re not a secret—ah, fuck—” You’re babbling now, the facade of the poised socialite left in fragments on the floor. “I’ll let them know. I’ll tell everyone I’m yours—I promise—fuck, Cait, ride my face. Please.”
She doesn’t offer a verbal reply. She knows you won’t. There’s a dull ache that rests beneath her ribs but she simply shifts, positioning her hips over your mouth. Your high-end lip gloss is already smudged across your chin, a mark of her ownership. Your next moan is muffled entirely as she presses her wet, swollen pussy lips against your tongue.
She doesn't ask; she takes. You work for her now, your tongue tracing the slick heat of her while she grinds down, chasing her high with a ruthless, rhythmic pressure.
Caitlyn’s face scrunches, her head falling back as the pleasure racks her. There’s a dark, addictive thrill in the indignity of it—the way a powerful woman in the country is currently nothing but a mess of smudged mascara and her wetness. Down here, behind the marble molding and the locked doors, you aren't an asset to be protected. You’re just a slut for her, and God, she makes you feel it.
— 19. Dr. Mel King x Coworker F! Reader I Drabble
Warnings : g!p, I just seem to love violating work ethic, mentions of a man being creepy, NSFW, MINORS DNI
“So good, baby—you’re doing so well,” you whisper against Mel’s ear, your hips rocking steadily on her swollen cock as you brace yourself against the wall beside the storage room closet.
“Y-yeah? Good?” she hums, her hips bucking upward in uneven rhythm, brows drawn tight as pleasure overrides her control.
“You look so pretty—” she starts, but you cut her off with a kiss before she can spiral into words. Your hand slides into her braids, gripping gently to tilt her head back, deepening the kiss as your tongue meets hers. Heat radiates between you, sweat beading along her hairline and dampening the collar of her scrubs.
Just earlier, you had seen Dr. Mel King standing in the hallway, her expression unusually somber, fingers absently toying with the diaphragm of her stethoscope. Her brows were furrowed, her posture tense like she was holding something in. When you approached and asked if she was okay, she hesitated. That was all it took for you to take her hand and pull her into the nearest storage closet.
And now, here you are.
Her scrubs are pushed halfway down her thighs, cock hard and beading with precum with her composure long gone. She looks undone, flushed, breathless with tears beading on her lashes— reduced to soft and shallow gasps, all the clinical precision she carries has been stripped away.
“Tell me, Mel… what’s been bothering that pretty little head of yours, hm?” you murmur, your voice softer now, coaxing. The sweaty pads of your palm cradling the hot skin of her face, a blush painting her cheeks. The faint light slipping through the narrow crack of the door casts a thin glow across her face.
She hesitates, biting her lip, her chest rising and falling too fast like she’s just run a code and hasn’t recovered yet.
“T-there’s this patient—oh God—” Her head tilts back, eyes fluttering as her words falter when you drop down on her cock, circling your hips in a way that makes her toes curl.
You slow slightly, your hand moving to cup her cheek, grounding her. “And? What happened?” you ask gently, thumb brushing over her heated skin.
“He was… acting inappropriately,” she manages, her voice shaky. “I—I felt cornered. Like I couldn’t say anything, couldn’t move… like my body just froze.” Her words break off, her breath hitching as tension finally gives way, her entire body slackening and you feel her cum inside your pussy with the quick stutter of her hips.
You exhale softly, easing your movements as your hand slides from the back of her neck down along her spine in a soothing motion. Your thumb frees her lip for the assault of her teeth.
“Hey… it’s okay,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.
The air in the small space feels thick and humid, carrying the scent of antiseptic and sweat. Her glasses sit slightly askew, fogged at the edges, her usual sharp, clinical composure replaced by something vulnerable.
And for the first time since you saw her in that hallway, the tension in her finally starts to release.
— 18. Hockey player!Ellie Williams I Team medic F! reader
Warning : NSFW, Minors DNI I Highkey a violation of work ethic ? This is totally not because of heated rivalry
The crowd shook the stadium, a relentless roar rolling through concrete and ice as the game unfolded in brutal flashes of speed. On the ice, the New York City Beasts moved with practice and stealth that's unforgiving. They were a team no hockey fan could miss and at the center of it all was their captain, Williams, 08, a player as cold as the rink itself, steering the Beasts through each and everyone of their victory.
You were no stranger to hockey. Your father had lived and breathed the sport, and through him you learned the rules early. The lines and matchups, power plays and penalty kills. Eight years ago, you stepped into the league as a team medic, and the rink became the only environment in your life. Since then, you’d bounced from teams to organization, covering practices, road games, playoff runs, always chasing a contract with more stability.
Tonight, you watched from the medical room beneath the stands, the broadcast humming quietly. On the tv monitor, bodies collided along the boards, shoulder to chest, sticks clattering as the forecheck tightened. A heavy open-ice hit made your face cringe despite yourself. You knew the sound too well, the dull crack of pads and bone, the split second where a player stayed down just a moment too long.
You shook your head as Williams— a player you know enough, slammed her stick against the ice. She squared up, blade clattering, body locked head-to-head with a rival player. Instinctively, you rose from your chair, arranging your medical kit. You already knew the drill, helmets could come off, elbows could fly, and someone would end up on the bench or worse, stretchered off. Tonight, it looked like it might be Williams, as usual.
You fought back a smile at her scowl, eyebrows drawn together like she had a hatred for the world. The camera pans closer, and you saw her fingers lift to her nose as she glides along the ice, checking the split, blood running in streaks across the freckles of her face. You tsked quietly as she skated into the penalty box, slamming her helmet onto the bench beside her. Her lips moved fast, words spilling in a torrent of anger and frustration, her shouts aimed at anyone within earshot.
The crowd roared in response, feeding off the display. They almost reveled in it. The hits, the fights, the fury. It was in her blood: the aggression and raw intensity that made her Williams, captain of the Beasts.
But you came to know that it wasn’t real, not like this. Not in the way her eyes softened when she knelt between your thighs, not in the way her blunt fingernails pressed into your tits, claiming you as if you were worthy of worship. Not in the way her gaze shimmered with tears when she came, lips glistening as she bit down in need. You came to know Ellie, the side the world never saw, entirely different from the player millions cheered for on the ice.
The home game ended in another victory, though who really expected anything else? Players scattered, some heading to greet family in the stands, others stopping for post-game interviews. Not Ellie. She tore off her skates and stripped off her gear with urgency, her focus fixed. Without a glance at the cheering crowd, she stepped off the ice, heading straight for a room beneath the stands that only a few knew about.
A rapid knock at the door makes a small smile tug at your lips. There was only one player who liked celebrating in the medic room— You weren’t even sure if every Beasts player knew your name, but Ellie did. Of course she did.
The door swings open, and she’s there, grinning, dried blood streaked across her nose, chin, and lips.
“You look pretty banged up,” you say, nodding at her face, eyes flicking to her hands gripping the doorknob and locking it, never breaking her gaze.
She smirks, stepping closer. “You should’ve seen the other guy,” she says, tilting her head, then reaching up to press a brief, chaste kiss to your lips.
You pull back immediately. “Gross. You have blood all over your face.”
“Don’t act like this doesn’t turn you on.”
“Shut up, Williams.”
You turn toward the prep table, giving yourself some space as her hands find your hips anyway. Reaching for cotton pads and alcohol, you soak the pads and gently lift her chin, wiping away the remnants of the fight from her face. Her eyes track yours, lips pouting as if to steal another kiss. You chuckle softly, pushing her face away.
“I usually don’t like getting blood on me. No thanks.”
Cotton pads discarded, the scent of alcohol hanging faintly in the air.
“Time for my reward, yeah?” she murmured, leaning in close. Her lips brushed yours with rhythm, tracing from your neck back to your mouth, pulling a shiver and a moan from you. Her hands roamed under your scrubs, teasing and testing your reactions, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“You missed me too much, huh?” she whispered against your lips.
“I don’t know… number 10 was really something, I couldn’t take my eyes off her—” you joked, only for her gaze to harden, forehead resting against yours. Her cold hands roam under your scrubs, scattering goose bumps under its wake. She fingers the lining of your bra, lifting the cups and pinching your nipples, hard, making you gasp.
“I’m going to make sure you forget everything about number 10,” she said, pressing closer, her coldness enveloping you. Her hands worked to pull your pants down as she lifts your hips to situate you on the desk behind you. Her thumb lands softly on your soaked underwear, thick with arousal.
"I don't think it was number 10 who made your pussy this wet, right?" She stares directly into your eyes, prying an answer from you. "It was me, isn't it?" She adds.
"No, 's you Ellie— Please touch me." You gasp eagerly, grinding your hips against hers. "No baby, I didn't think so. I mean— How can it be when you look this beatiful begging me to touch you." Her tone softening, teasing, almost like she's whining.
She kisses a path down your throat until she reaches your nipples, covering one with her hot mouth. She groans against it as you throw your head back in pleasure. "Fuck— This is better than any winning booze on the fucking planet." She sinfully drags her teeth across your nipple as she moves to the other one, giving it equal attention until your nipples were swollen. You whine, thrusting your chest towards her. "Feels good? Oh I bet it does." You give her a nod as you bite your lips in heated pleasure.
Ellie continues her path towards your navel, giving it soft kisses, just enough to tease you. "Goddamn it El, get your mouth on me now—Fuck" You mutter as she chuckles at your desperation, tracing her lips along your inner thighs until she gets closer to your throbbing pussy.
"Ah— there's my reward", she says as she puts your panties to the side and licks a long stripe against your pussy as you quiver under her tongue.
"Everything about you is just so delicious baby", As she continues to eat your pussy, her nose dragging against your clit, adding extra pleasure.
"F-fuck Ellie— It's so so good" You moan as your eyes close in pleasure. "You hear that baby? How wet your pussy is for me?" Ellie taunts further, making your face heat up. Her tongue flatterns against your clit as two of her fingers lift up to your mouth. "Open", she commands, you open your mouth as her fingers dip into your tongue, wetting it with your saliva. She pushes in and out until she drags it along the lips of your pussy.
She inserts two fingers into you, your mouth parting in pleasure. "So so tight, your pussy is so tight", she grumbles with a moan, pushing in and out, making you even more soaked, spilling your mess onto the table beneath you.
Your hand find the top of her head, brushing the strays of auburn away from her face as your fingers grip her hair tight making the woman below you groan deeply. She licks and sucks your dripping pussy, mumbling words against it as you squirm and cry for more. Ellie continues to curl her fingers, abusing that spongy spot inside you.
"Feels so good inside you, baby. 'S the prettiest cunt I've ever seen." She looks up at you, eyes hazy and lips swollen with your arousal. Your hips start to roll against her, every move you make digging her fingers against your g-spot deliciously. "That's it, that's it fuck-" You whimper as you struggle to think coherently, seeing her tattooed arm moving in and out.
Ellie stands up, fingers continously abusing your spent pussy as she presses a kiss against your parted lips. "You taste that? So fucking delicous isn't it?" As your eyes tear up, you nod your head making Ellie smile fondly.
"You gonna cum, pretty girl? Yeah? For me?" She asks as you moan beside her ears, her lips planting soft kisses and bites along your jaw leaving bruises and marks as a reminder to you. "Yes- Ellie 'm gonna cum- please", you squirm through broken breaths. Her fingers glide in and out of you in a steady pace, constantly hitting your g-spot, urging you to cum.
You erupt, your orgasm making a shiver run through you, a surge of heat that left your body trembling, hands gripping her shoulders as your chest heaved. “That’s it… atta girl,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing—grounding you even as your mind spun, eyes rolled back, your orgasm consuming you entirely, body and mind. Ellie could feel you tighten on her fingers that you almost cut her blood pressure. She continues her ministrations, inching her fingers in and out until you come off your high.
You chuckle, your back still bowing from sensitivity. “Living up to your name, huh? Captain too good to be true,” you tease, letting Ellie help you straighten your clothes. She laughs, tossing her head back, a sound that’s all mischief and warmth. “Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. You know I’m just Ellie with you.”
“I know, I know,” you say, pushing her away gently, the chuckle escaping your lips betraying how much you like the banter. She leans in, peppering kisses across your lips, your cheeks, your eyes—every inch of your face claiming it.
“Text me later? You know we’re not done yet,” she says, slowly walking backwards towards the door, gathering her gear with deliberate, teasing slowness.
“See you, Captain,” you call after her, chuckling as she winks before disappearing.
Later, once the stadium lights are out, the crowd dies down, in the privacy of her five start rated pent house, you know the night isn’t over, neither of you would let it be.
Because you know what they say— when the sun goes down…
— 17. StepDad! Kento Nanami I F! reader
Warnings : NSFW, minors DNI I Nanami is a sexy silverfox yum I reader is of age.
— The lake mirrors the bruised blue of the morning sky, trembling softly beneath the weight of wings. You sit at the edge of the dock — its rotting wood biting into your palms, splinters pressed into supple skin. The air hums with the humid sun, its warmth spilling down your face as your legs sway above the water, toes kissing the surface, stirring ripples.
Beside you, the wicker basket sighs under its own age. You reach inside, fingers brushing against a pomegranate, heavy and carmine. You dig your nails into its skin until it yields, crimson blooming between your hands. The scent rises, tangy and sweet.
You don’t notice the presence behind you — only the quiet thud of polished shoes against the rotting dock. His hands rest neatly in the pockets of his powder-blue suit pants, that same hue he always wears, as if trying to preserve an illusion. The wind tears through his flaxen hair, dusted with gray, undoing its careful order, scattering perfection into something almost human. His coat clings to his lean frame. He stands there, silent and deliberate.
He watches you for a moment, slow, almost reverent. His eyes, framed by lashes pale as wheat, trace the shape of you like a prayer. The light spills over you, catching the ghost-white linen that clings to your hips, soft and sinful in the same breath. You toy idly with the lacing of your dress, unaware of the way the gesture unravels him. In that breathless silence, he looks at you the way men look at altars — not with love, but with hunger dressed up as devotion.
“I hear you argued with your mother again?” His voice is light, almost teasing.
You don’t need to turn around — you already know it’s your step father, Kento. A small smirk creeps onto your face. “Well, it wasn’t all my fault,” you say. “I was minding my own business until she decided to mind it too.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “You know that’s not how it works, sweet girl.”
You twist around, crossing your arms, irritation flickering, your eyebrows knitting harshly. “Oh really? Then tell me how it does.”
He smiles, that calm, infuriating kind of smile that makes you feel like he’s already taken something from you. With a soft sigh, he tugs at the hem of his suit pants and lowers himself beside you, the dock groaning under his weight. The air folds around him, thick with salt and quiet, and when he looks at you, it’s the kind of gaze that devours without teeth,with tenderness — hunger as care. His calloused thumb finds your forehead, pressing lightly as if smoothing away the frustration knitted within your skin.
“Here,” he says, voice low, words dripping with the silk of his accent, “I brought you something from Libreria Acqua Alta, in Venice.”
The name rolls through you like a hymn. Your irritation breaks apart, replaced with an ache disguised as affection. He smiles when you do, slow, ruinous, as though your joy feeds him. “There’s my girl,” he murmurs, and the words taste of confession. His hand tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, fingers dragging along your jaw — not to comfort, but to consume, to feel the pulse of something living and warm.
“Wouldn’t you like to thank your father?”
His voice dripped like honey and ash, heavy with something unholy. His eyes dark, devouring, locked onto yours. You stared back, lips painted pomegranate red, trembling as your teeth caught the edge of its skin.
You nodded, dazed. Like a fawn kneeling at the altar. Your bruised knees pressed against his thighs as you sank into his lap. His arms found you instantly, steadfast and scorching—tracing slow circles down your spine.
You leaned in, mouth hungry, desperate for his taste. His lips tasted of dark tobacco and wine, the kiss thick with spit and desire. Kento hummed low against you.
His fingers spread out your back to add a delicious preasure, grinding your clothed pussy against his cock. Your head throws back and Kento’s eyebrows furrow in satisfaction.
“Yes that’s a girl, grind your frustration away.” He coaxes you, guiding your hips along with the upward thrust of his. His warm lips meet the skin on your forehead, leaving a honeyed kiss. You paw at his bulge, feeling his cock grow under his slacks, thick and hard.
“You know I can’t resist you when you give me those eyes, doll. Tell your dad what you want.”
“Wan’ your cock please–” Breaks from your throat with a hiccup, desperately grinding your hips into his as he hums seeing your need. He gently pries off your hips, lifting it so he can unbutton his slacks, tugging it down his hips to free his swollen cock.
“All for you. Come on get that cock baby you deserve it.” He moans as you eagerly move your panties to the side to push his cock into your dripping pussy. Your eyes close from the pressure to accommodate his size but your eyes shine with determination.
“It’s so big” You gasp lightly against his lips.
“I know, I know it's big, my love. You know how to take it, don't you?” Your head nod eagerly, bouncing your hips until you reach the golden tuft of hair on the base of his cock. The pads of his finger immediately finds it’s place onto your swollen clit, gentle circles to loosen you up.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as Kento’s thrusts get quicker, needier, faster. Tears swell on the beads of your eyes as an overwhelming pleasure takes over your body, wet with perspiration. “So-o good” the whisper leaves your lips like a prayer. Kento shushes you as he grabs the back of your head and places a sweet kiss on the top of your head, contrasting his brutal thrusts into your aching cunt. “This pretty pussy is my favorite, so wet— all for me?” As you nod your head eagerly.
“Come on girl, show me how you do it.” Kento leans back, putting his weight onto his palms. An egoistic smirk painting his devastatingly beautiful face. Your hands cup the supple skin of your breasts, pinching your nipples as you ride his cock, putting on a show. A seductive smile settles on your swollen, bitten lips as your eyes pan to the wedding ring on your step father’s finger, glinting, teasing as the sun beams down on it.
“I’m so close, so close daddy” You say with a moan. Kento nods his head as if giving you permission and coaxing your orgasm out of you.
Kento responds by grabbing a hold of his shaft and slapping the reddened tip against your achy clit. You both come at the same time, pleasure seizing your veins as you stare at his pupils, dilating. His eyebrows furrowed and cheeks dusted with faint red.
“You are so, so very good for me love.” He says, forehead touching yours. He takes out a fine silk handkerchief, his initials stitched in fading gold, and runs it gently along your pussy — a gesture slow and ceremonial, like a believer tending his altar. Each movement is careful, deliberate, as though you were something holy he feared to tarnish.
Your body softens, spent and trembling, folding into Kento’s chest like a small, shivering creature seeking warmth. The rhythm of his breathing steadies you; his palm moves through your hair in slow, looping patterns, whispering comfort without a sound.
He hums something low, almost like a prayer, and you let yourself drift into it, half-dreaming, half-haunted — a willing relic in the arms of your chosen sin.
— 15. [FANTOMĂ] GHOST / SIMON RILEY X FEM! AFAB READER
WARNING : MANHANDLING, DEGRADATION, PRAISE, FEAR PLAY, DOUBLE PENETRATION, KNIFE PLAY, BONDAGE, SPIT PLAY, MASK KINK, IMPACT PLAY, OVERSTIMULATION, BLOOD, PRIMAL PLAY, SIZE KINK, DARK CONTENT! NSFW, (DNI IF YOU AREN’T 18+)
A/N : The story will be substantially altered, and certain portions may not be linked to the original lore of COD. I do not play the game, nor am I educated in the military field; this is simply self indulgent. ALL OF THIS ARE A WORK OF FICTION AND IS LABELED AS DARK CONTENT, PROCEED WITH CAUTION
— Ghosts are a tale, a haunting narrative; some may find them symbolic, but they are essentially a mental construct; some may believe in them, while others do not. They are terrifying, instilling fear in the hearts of those who cross them.
Your trembling fingers dig into the cold, wet soil beneath you, nails caked with dirt, twigs, and dead leaves, your palms slick with rain and mud. Your bare feet strike the earth with bruised soles as you’ve been running for hours, rising after countless falls, your legs screaming in protest. Every bruise on your thighs throbs in rhythm with your pounding heart, and the sharp ache in your skull pulses like a second heartbeat.
A twig snaps sharply, and your head jerks up. Moonlight glints on the black silhouettes of the trees, their branches sharp against the silver mist. A sob lodges in your throat. You scramble upright, dragging your back along a tree trunk, tears blurring your vision, ignoring the debris digging into your feet.
Through the fog, a small cabin appears, warm and welcoming in the oppressive forest. Relief surges through your body, and you rush forward, slamming the old oak door behind you, shoving a heavy bookshelf against it with the last of your strength.
Your dress is soaked with mud and rain; you wring it, wet fabric twisting between your fingers. Inside, the cabin is sparse: a wooden chair and table in a corner, shelves overflowing with dusty, discarded books and papers. Moonlight spills through a cracked window, illuminating fragments of the forgotten space. You stumble toward a lone desk, thudding against the floorboards, and scan a wall plastered with torn newspapers and pages ripped from magazines.
One catches your eye, trembling fingers lifting it to read. A prickling runs down your nape, gut twisting, a metallic tang of fear rising. Your knees give way as the paper crinkles in your hand.
“No, no, no!” you scream, voice cracking.
A pair of strong arms lift you effortlessly by your armpits, spinning you through the air. Pain flares as you slam against a shelf.
“Fuck! What do you want from me? Please, let me go!” you plead, voice raw.
A finger presses to your lips. “Shh,” he murmurs.
Courage tinged with terror allows you to open your eyes. A man towers before you, masked by a skull, eyes dark, primal, consuming. Every nerve in your body hums with fear and something darker, something magnetic.
He leads you to a small bathroom. Crimson rope winds around your wrists, tethering you to the showerhead. Your chest heaves as panic grips your heart like iron.
“What did I say, hm?” His deep voice rumbles through the room, vibrating against your chest. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, lips pursed, defiance trembling in your throat.
“I asked you a question,” he says slowly.
“To stop roaming these forests,” you answer, voice steadying.
“And you didn’t listen,” he growls. Shame curls in your stomach.
“You said I can’t be here… because it’s dangerous. But I haven’t seen anyone… except you.”
“Exactly.” His hands move with brutal precision, tearing your dress down the middle. You gasp, crossing your legs instinctively, arms covering yourself.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he says, fingers tracing the apples of your cheeks. You flinch. “Scared of me, love?”
“Isn’t that why you come here every night? To feel this fear?” he teases, voice low, almost amused. “Because you crave it… from me.”
“Does it make you wet,” he whispers, “knowing I’m feared? Knowing you’re the only one who’s close enough?”
Your thighs press together, instinct warring with reason. You tell yourself it’s wrong, but you cannot resist—the thrill, the chase, the danger. He’s raw, untouchable, and your body craves him like air.
His mask hovers over your face; hot breath brushes your cheek. You part your lips, welcoming the darkness, offering yourself willingly.
“Please,” you whisper.
The kiss comes, fierce through the mask, his lips pressing, tongue invading. Your hips lift instinctively, rutting against his thick thighs.
“Look at you, grinding on me like a little slut,” he murmurs. “My little slut.”
He moves his thigh away, and you whine in protest. A knife glints, tracing from your sternum down to your hips, teasing skin just enough to leave a mark. The thin fabric of your underwear is torn, exposing your swollen cunt.
His knife handle circles your clit, spelling his name. You moan, mind hazy with pleasure. He instructs, “Spit on it.” You comply, saliva dripping onto the handle, then he slides it into you, fingers widening your legs, savoring your arousal.
Kneeling, he lifts half his skull mask, lips parted, wet, sucking your clit with fervor. Your head throws back, hips gyrating. Knife pumping in and out of you, his blood drips from his forearm, mingling with your slick on the bathroom floor.
“Look down,” he commands. “See me on my knees for you, desperate and bleeding, and cum for me.”
Your eyes meet his, pleasure radiating through every nerve.
“That’s it, scream for me. Sounds so beautiful,” he praises. Waves of ecstasy wash over you, leaving your head lolling to the side as he nips and sucks until satisfied.
Standing, he discards the knife. The rope twists tighter as he kicks your feet apart, pressing you down, hips arching. His own presses into your bare ass, thrusting hard, groans vibrating in your ear. You bite your lips, meeting each thrust with your own.
“Please—want it so bad,” you plead, arching onto him. His palm steadies your hips, guiding the head of his cock in.
“Does that feel good?” He withdraws, thrusts back in. Pre-cum coats your walls, the chain around your thighs digging in. Dog tags clink as he hammers into you.
“Too much… can’t anymore—” you gasp, hands pushing at his pelvis.
Smack.
“You’ll take it because I said so,” he growls. Thrusts hit your G-spot, beads of spit and saliva sliding from his hand as a finger penetrates your ass.
“Gonna cum, gonna cum—” Your head tilts back onto his shoulder as he lifts your legs higher, chasing his own climax.
“So good, love… cum with me—now,” he moans. Hot release fills you, eyes rolling, drool sliding down your chin.
Your wrists loosen as he unties the rope.
“Care for a bath?” he whispers, hands rubbing your lower back as he carries you bridal-style.
“What’s your name, Ghost? Will you tell me?” you murmur, eyes wide, pleading.
Your own eyelids snap open; hips twitch, scar peeking through your skin:
S.R
Etched into your hip, hair damp with sweat, proof that he exists only in your dreams. A ghost. A Fantomă.
—14. [ANCORA] KNIGHT ! BEIDOU AU X FEM! AFAB READER
WARNINGS : STRANGERS TO LOVERS(?), PENETRATION, ORAL, SPIT PLAY, ANAL, SPANKING, DEGRADING PET NAMES, MENTIONS OF BLOOD, BITING, FACE SITTING, NSFW (DNI IF YOU AREN’T 18+)
— It was never meant to unfold like this. Fleeing at eventide, you escaped the suffocating grip of your town’s unjust governance. A lone wolf howled in the distance, its mournful hymn slicing through the twilight. Your boots crunched against the gravel with every strained step, legs burning from exertion, lungs searing as you chased the final train of the day. Your thighs ached, your chest heaved, and your lips had lost all color, the pit in your stomach sinking lower with each passing second.
“Just a little more,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
At last, the train’s open door greets you. Relief floods your body as shoulders relax, and you exhale, letting the tension scatter into the night air. You sprint to your roomette, shoving the rusty door open harder than intended, and collapse onto the dusty bed. The burlap covering is stiff, the pillows stained and dotted with stray hairs, but complaints are a luxury for someone with so little opportunity.
Your thoughts drift to your frail little sister, her hands almost skeletal, gripping yours like you were her lifeline. Before leaving, you had scribbled a letter, explaining that you were forced to leave her in the care of a relative while you pursued a better life. The castle’s notice had been stapled to a tree bark, calling for a new maid—a job you couldn’t refuse, especially after the town’s law forbade women from working and forced them into servitude under a husband. Fired from the logging job you loved, you had no choice. You wrote to the castle and were welcomed with a positive reply.
Sliding off your mantle and pelice, you are left in your chemise and stockings. Sitting down, the bed groans under you. Deadly silence fills the compartment until a soft, deliberate tapping at the door pierces the stillness. Your eyes widen. Have they found you? No—you are sure of it—but caution rules your actions. Hands shaking, you grab the dagger stashed in your garter, pressing it against your chest, sweat trickling down the valley between your breasts.
The knocking persists, careful, measured. You press yourself behind the door, ready to defend yourself. A raspy, commanding whisper breaks the tension:
“Please… I’m in need of help.”
Every syllable is strained, desperate yet authoritative. Your fingers clutch the doorframe, hesitation warring with duty. Finally, you slide the door open, dagger raised.
“Hmph—” you attempt a warning, lips streaked with blood, dagger hand wrapped in hers, a contest of control.
“Shh,” she mutters, a finger pressing against her lips. “I’m not going to hurt you. I require help… do you have a medical background?”
You shake your head, voice trembling. “I—I don’t, but my sister… my sister has a sickness… I care for her most of the time.”
“Okay,” she interrupts, nodding firmly. “Then fix me up.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.
You scramble for your chanerie, retrieving a medical kit you prepared in advance. She moves swiftly, shedding her coat to reveal subtle armor beneath, scarred and pierced by battle. A gash runs across her side, deep and deliberate, cutting through metal and muscle alike. Her arms are lean and firm, scarred with history, and your gaze lingers before you force yourself back to the task.
She removes her armor completely, leaving only a shredded, blood-stained tunic. You retrieve a needle and thread, a flask of liquor nearby. Its sharp scent fills your nostrils.
“This might hurt… tell me when it does, and I’ll stop,” you warn.
“I’m tougher than I look, sweetheart,” she replies, a faint smirk tugging her lips.
Focusing, you pour the liquor over the gash. Her reaction is minimal, only a flicker of her eye, the other obscured by an eyepatch. You sanitize needle and thread, guiding her onto her side. Exhaustion overtakes her, collapsing her against the floor in awkward comfort.
You begin stitching, careful, measured, singing softly to yourself—a song once sung to your sister—keeping nausea at bay. Each stitch, each press of the thread over torn flesh, is deliberate, intimate.
As you wrap gauze around her waist, your hands brushing against her heated skin multiple times, a charged tension coils between you. Her breathing is ragged; your thighs clench involuntarily. She watches you, lips pressing into a slow smirk, eyes dark with something predatory.
You retreat, heels scraping the wooden floor, as she crawls toward you on hands and knees—each movement measured, like a predator closing on her prey. You fall back, body trembling, chemise slipping from your shoulder as she leans over, kissing your exposed skin, teeth brushing lightly in a raw, carnal touch. Tears spill from your eyes, pleasure mingling with fear, until her thumb frees your lips, and her mouth claims yours.
Her tongue invades, hot and insistent, swallowing your moans. Hips arch of their own accord, grinding against air, seeking her.
“So needy, so desperate… are you?” Her voice is low, throaty, laced with amusement. “Tell me, darling… have you ever been fucked here before?”
A warm hand slides to your pelvis, teasing, pressing. You grind instinctively, nodding, murmuring, “Mhm.”
“You’re a little slut, aren’t you?” she teases, pressing harder, grinding against your clit.
“I’m not,” you protest.
“Oh, but you are. Your pussy doesn’t lie, does it?” She kisses the nape of your neck, tracing lips along your shoulders, down to the mounds of your breasts. She circles erect nipples with her tongue, sending jolts of need through your body.
You instinctively take her fingers into your mouth, coating them with saliva. Her eyes darken, brows furrowing, lips parting in a seductive smile. She lifts you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around her hips.
“Your wound—” you start.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” she interrupts, laying you gently on the bed. She pulls up her tunic, revealing firm abs, full breasts adorned with metal rings. You swallow, desire coiling in your belly.
Her thumb parts your wet lips, teasing. “So wet… all for me, baby?”
“All for you,” you murmur, mind melting into lust.
“Open,” she commands. Tongue out, mouth receiving her spit. She clamps your jaw, coating your lips, trailing her fingers down your body, circling your clit with slickened fingers.
She inserts two fingers into you, her tongue relentless on your clit. “Arch for me, my darling,” she murmurs. Fingers and tongue torment you, overwhelming, exquisite, primal.
Her thumb explores your ass, sliding inside, while her tongue worships your pussy. Strong hips match finger thrusts, teeth occasionally grazing your neck, sending shivers down your spine.
“Good girl… playing doctor for me, yeah?” She bites, drawing blood, licking it away, the mingled pain and pleasure sending gasps from your lips.
Flipping you onto her back, thighs straddling her head, she urges, “Ride me, beautiful.” Your hesitant movements soon find rhythm, pressing against her face, calves nudging her wound. Pain mingles with pleasure, heightening every sensation.
“You like me in pain, don’t you, love?” she taunts. Teeth clamp into your thighs, marking, as your hips drive against her face.
“Just like that, darling… use me, use me for your pleasure,” she encourages. Crying out, your back arches, pleasure cresting, as she drinks it down with fervor, ensuring nothing is wasted.
Exhausted, your body collapses beside her, sleep cradling your limbs as the night stretches on.
Morning brings a new strain—shoulders aching under luggage as you exit the station. A carriage awaits. On the horizon, the castle rises, perfection incarnate, every stone squared and deliberate, built for protection, laughter, and shelter.
An employer guides you through the corridors, explaining your duties.
“Here we are—the queen’s quarters,” he says, monotone, hand on a golden doorknob, elaborate carvings catching the morning light.
Through the doors, a grand chamber awaits. Guards line the walls in flamboyant armor, their colors dazzling, almost distracting you from the glittering piles of treasure. Gold gleams, light refracting from teardrop-shaped windows, bathing the room in a warm, amber glow.
And there she is. Back straight, brown hair framing her face, mischievous vermillion eyes glinting, lips quirked in recognition.
“It’s nice to make your acquaintance… again,” Ancora.
— 13. [TERCEIRA] MIKASA ACKERMAN AU X FEM! AFAB READER
Warnings : OLDER MIKASA! Infidelity, lap dance, masturbation, gun play, drinking, NSFW (DNI IF YOU AREN’T 18+)
— Your phone vibrates for the third time, buzzing against the pillow beside your head, drawing your attention from your husband as he readies for work. Glancing at the caller ID, Mikasa, a thrill runs up your spine, tingling all the way down. Your husband is influential, his life surrounded by bodyguards and security, but you’ve navigated that world before. Years ago, your relevance had earned you one of the Ackermans—Mikasa herself—the finest in the field.
“Who’s calling you?” he asks casually, tying his tie.
“Book club,” you murmur, offering a sickly sweet grin. “I was scheduled to go today, but I’m feeling under the weather.” You weren’t supposed to contact her. An NCA barred you from speaking with her; your husband alone was authorized.
By the third ring, you answer. “It’s your day off today,” you say low, feigning annoyance. You turn your back to your spouse, angling just enough to claim privacy.
“I’m aware,” she responds, voice smooth and knowing.
“Why do you keep calling?” you hiss.
“Hm, why do you keep answering?” Her low laugh curls around your nerves, teasing and infuriating.
“Come on… you’re really going to put me off again?” she presses, tone tight with frustration. “You get like this every time. We both know you’re going to cave for me… every fucking time.”
“Stop—” you begin, but she cuts you off.
“Your husband is in the room with you, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” Brief, clipped.
“I’m guessing you told him it was book club?” She chuckles, the sound curling around your senses. You hear movement, shuffling, and then: “I’ll do the talking then. I feel like reminiscing today, shall we?”
Before you can protest, she begins.
“Do you realize how much I miss you?” She pauses, drawing a slow breath. “I’ll never forget the third day of working for you, baby.”
You sit up on the bed, phone pressed between shoulder and ear, shoulders tense, nails picking at the scabs from your anxiety.
“It happened so fast, don’t you remember? You snuck off on me, went to a club, and I found you. I always will,” you murmur, tone thick with nostalgia and heat.
“After I found you,” she continues, voice soft yet edged, “you looked so… carefree. So I sat with you and played three rounds of blackjack. I kept winning, and in exchange, you gave me a lap dance.” Ice clinks in her glass; you know she’s drinking. “The most unforgettable… and expensive… lap dance of my life.”
You giggle, tipsy with memory and longing. “Do you want a lap dance from me?”
She rests back on the velvet sofa of the VIP area, her combat boots slightly at odds with the red carpet, sleeves rolled, tattoos gleaming under the club lights. Her gaze is sharp, precise, yet the anticipation trembles beneath it.
“Sure,” she says, coolly. She never imagined card-counting blackjack could feel so sweet, so indulgent.
You tap a finger to your lips, thinking theatrically. “Oh! But it’s going to cost you.”
She smirks. “I don’t know, sweet girl… seems unfair, considering you owe me five hundred dollars after losing.”
“But I’ll take your offer.” Her fingers loosen her tie, short dark hair tousled, framing her face with wild elegance. Pouty lips, glistening with moisture, silver glints catching the lights, hypnotizing you.
Sensual music hums through the room. Your satin dress rides up your thighs, testing her restraint. Patient as she is, you are her undoing, her obsession.
You grind against her, lips brushing her neck before pulling away sharply, stealing her breath. Every sway of your body, every deliberate arch, unravels her control. You are perfection—her downfall in flesh and bone.
Soon, you are laid bare atop the cold glass table. Your pierced tongue flicks across your clit, Mikasa’s cold ball contrasting against the searing heat of your pleasure. Tears prick your eyes as dulcet moans bounce against the velvet walls. Your palm tangles in her hair, pulling, eliciting a hiss of dominance from her.
She rises, gaze traveling over you, before descending to suck your nipples into her mouth, leaving them swollen and slick. Your lip caught between teeth, sharp and red.
A shiver runs down your spine as she untucks her gun, the cold barrel pressing beneath your jaw. Your eyes widen.
“No fingers for you, yeah? Only my gun. This is for running away from me. Bad girls don’t deserve my fingers.”
The barrel drags along your sternum, down your navel, finally teasing your clit. Waves of heat and cold clash, and you gasp, arching, instinctively recoiling. Mikasa’s free arm tightens around your thigh, pinning you with precision.
“Shh,” she coos, fingers lubricating the muzzle with your wetness. Drips of slick trace down your skin onto the glass. “Gonna fuck this pussy until it’s the shape of my gun.”
She recounts the night—every detail, every scent, the texture of your clothing, the hum of the club.
Transferred to the guest room, chemise hiked over your breasts, fingers buried in lace underwear, you desperately press at your clit. It is useless; only Mikasa can claim you. Not your husband, not anyone else. She has branded you, claimed you, and the privilege of it sends shivers down your spine.
Tiny gasps float from your lips into the phone. Mikasa inhales deeply, cigarette smoke curling from her lips. “Aw, baby… are you touching yourself? Let me hear it.”
You comply, moans spilling freely, hot pants brushing her ears even miles away.
“Come on, love… you can do it, yeah? Make yourself come for me.” You circle your clit, one finger slipping inside. Her voice, raspy and low, makes pleasure bloom in your chest. “Du klingst so schön,” she mutters.
The sensation drives you wild. Lace clenched between teeth, back arching, toes curling into the linen, your orgasm rocks you, soft and euphoric.
“Good girl,” she praises. “There we go.”
“The thought of your body… makes my brain blank, meine Liebe. No thoughts. Only desire. And the pain of waiting.”
You gasp, chest heaving, feeling weightless in the rush of your pleasure. Thrill, surrender, and liberation swirl inside you.
“I’ll see you again on Wednesday. Until then… use one of your bitch girls to pleasure yourself, or something.”
“‘Or something,’” she breathes, the teasing edge of authority in her voice.
“None of them are you,” you whisper. “None of them matter.” Heart pounding, you place your hand over it, trying to slow the rhythm for her benefit.
“And stop calling me. We’ll get caught. If you do, I’ll block you, change numbers.”
“Are you threatening me?” she asks, humor threading through her raspy tone.
“That isn’t a threat. It’s a promise, Ackerman.” You fight a smile.
“Don’t bother blocking my number, princess.”
Silence stretches, heavy and expectant.
“We both know you’ll always answer on the third ring.”
— 12. [LURIDO] MAFIA RIVAL ! QUANXI AU X FEM! AFAB READER
Warnings : Mentions of violence, straight up hate fuck, use of strap on (referred to as dick) , fingering, slapping, spanking, smoking, drinking, drugs, NSFW (DNI IF YOU AREN’T 18+)
— You move with measured grace, each step deliberate, the heels of your red bottoms pressing into the plush red carpet. Your black dress flows behind you like liquid shadow, fingers raking through your blood-painted nails as you adjust your hair. The building’s heavy atmosphere presses against your lungs, suffocating and sharp, claws scraping along your ribs with every inhale.
She’s there, waiting. Legs parted, a cigarette pinched between two fingers, the other hand lazily swirling the ice in an old-fashioned glass. Her presence hits you like a physical force, sharp and intoxicating.
“What the fuck, Quanxi?” Your voice slices through the smoke-filled air, eyes locked on her, your pulse spiking. You’d awoken to an envelope, an invitation to her domain—a club on the rougher side of town, a place she once ruled, and apparently still did. Your mind reels, trying to process the woman you despised, the one you had sworn to destroy.
“I thought you died.”
“I did.”
Her gaze meets yours, steady and unflinching. Time has sculpted her, sharpened her edges, but her aura is unchanged—commanding, untouchable. You had tried to stop her, countless attempts during sleep, in car rides, in shadows—but deep down, you knew the balance of this city depended on the two of you, like yin and yang.
“You look fine,” she rasped, the cigarette smoke curling around her words.
“No, you don’t understand,” you whisper, voice tight. “You’re dead. I saw it. I saw how you died.” Seven years of haunted nights flash before your eyes, waking gasps and salty tears coating your cheeks.
“I see you’re still the same,” she murmurs, a hint of amusement curling her lips. “Aggravating. Galling. Certain things never change, do they, darling?”
Your breath catches. Every instinct rebels at what you feel, what you want to feel. She is supposed to be your enemy, your adversary, yet the pull is undeniable.
You try to rationalize. It’s a game, a chess match. You tried to provoke her, to sabotage her reign, to see her snap first. Every failed attack, every clash—it was to draw her attention. Yet deep down, you knew there was no resisting Quanxi. You were powerless, and you hated it.
You’re lost in thought when she’s suddenly in front of you, standing tall and impossibly poised, an aura of dominance radiating off her. “Hey,” her voice slices through your fog. “Come back to me.”
You face her, heart hammering, trying to hold your ground. She tilts her head, eyes gleaming with condescension. “I see, honey… are you guilty? Concerned you’ve gone too far? Afraid I’ll bite back?”
“You know, I didn’t peg you as stupid,” she continues, voice low and commanding. “Do you think I don’t see that your little games are just a way to grab my attention?” Her gaze is brown and relentless, rigid as steel.
You smirk, mocking her. “How wonderful. Delighted to hear you haven’t lost your touch… although you did lose an eye.”
Her lips press into a thin line, irritation flickering across her face. “I admit… you’re good. Too good. I hate you so much. Every time I see you… my blood boils. Everything you do drives me insane because I can’t—can’t touch you, can’t haveyou.” Her finger traces your cheek, slow, deliberate. You struggle to resist leaning into her touch.
“I think of you all the time,” she whispers, voice laced with heat. “When I drive, when I shower, when I… when I spread myself at night. Your wrong-send messages, the lingerie, the moans—I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter. You plague me. You’re everything I hate, yet you make me cum harder than anyone. And you haven’t even touched me.”
A gasp slips past you as she drags her thumb across your bottom lip. “Your name,” she murmurs, voice husky, “is the one I scream at night. Pretty girl… does that make you happy?”
Your tongue darts out, tasting the tip of her thumb. Lips parted, you offer an ensnaring smile. “The smile on your face… tells me you feel the same.”
“Oh no, honey,” she murmurs, mischief dripping from every syllable. “You look ravishing when you smile.”
“Do I?” you ask, breath hitching.
“Yes,” she says, sweetness morphing into something sharp. “It makes me want to slap it off your face.”
Your head jerks, a gasp escaping, yet your eyes stay locked on hers, defiant. “You irritate me,” she continues, “so much that I want to bend you over this table.”
Her boots glide across the glass tabletop, sweeping away remnants of drinks and debris. She seizes your arms, locking them behind your back. You fall against the cold surface with a soft thud, lips parting involuntarily.
Zipper ripping, your dress is gone in a heartbeat. Lace, garter, stockings—the works. She snaps the garter on your thighs playfully, and a moan escapes your throat despite yourself. Her hands, calloused yet precise, wrap around your neck as she lifts half your body, heat and arousal roaring through you.
“Let it out, Il mio amore,” she coos, tracing a finger along the curve of your spine. Your back arches instinctively, yielding to her touch. “Così carino… I’ve wanted this for so long.”
No time is wasted. Fingers drag your bra aside, teasing and pinching your nipples. She strips your underwear, gathering your arousal with it, lips biting as wetness beads against your inner thighs. “Look at that… all for me?”
“All for you,” you whisper, voice small, submissive.
The cold tip of her cock teases your clit, and a whine escapes. You try to recoil, but she grips your hips, firm and unyielding. “No running away, mama. S’ okay,” she murmurs, tone sharp yet intimate.
“Lascia che ti veda,” she commands, flipping you over the table. Belt looping around your wrists, arms pinned above your head. “You want it?”
“Yes… I do, I do!”
“Tell me how much.”
“So bad… please… want it so bad!” You grind your hips, desperate, needing her entirely.
A genuine smile crosses her face as she enters you, wet and yielding. Moans and wet squelches echo through the dim room, mingling with the muted music. “Così stretta, piccola… posso sentirti,” her hot breath brushing your ear.
You shiver, Italian thick and sinful, every syllable igniting you. “Una figa così carina… tutta nuda per me,” she groans, hips driving into yours.
“Fuck, Quanxi… so good… so good…” you gasp, drool wetting the corner of your lips. Pain, pleasure, dominance, and desire all intertwine as she grips your hair, pulling, marking, consuming.
“M’ cumming! Please!” You cry, hips thrusting uncontrollably. She watches, awe-struck, every tremor, every shiver, taking in the sin and beauty of you.
“Conosco il mio amore, lo so… come on, cum for me,” she urges, voice low, intoxicating. Your body shatters, quivering, thighs trembling against her hips, and she drinks it all in, reveling in her conquest.
Ice runs down your torso, melting against your heat, droplets pooling between your legs, pushing your climax even higher. Screams, whimpers, moans—all yours, all for her.
Afterward, she lies atop you, chest against chest, matching your every breath. The air thick with sex, sin, and heat, yet there is a strange tenderness. Rough hands caress your nape, grounding you, soothing you.
You breathe each other in like oxygen, love and lust entwined, defiant of nature itself. “Sono tornato per te, sempre per te, amore,” she murmurs.
Warnings : Orgy, hand jobs, cunnilingus, power imbalance, vaginal penetration, NSFW (DNI IF YOU AREN’T 18+)
— As the Tsaritsa pinned the insignia onto your chest, the gold crest gleaming with two scarlet crimson banners dangling like living flames, your chest swelled with pride. Ecstasy burned through you—you were the twelfth Harbinger, following Ajax. Finally, you thought. Finally.
But the surge of triumph was short-lived. Nothing could have prepared you for this. You hadn’t anticipated this. You were ready for the front lines, for the thrill of combat, for the dance of fire and blood. And yet, here you were.
Kneeling on all fours, a collar tight around your neck, the Harbingers forming a circle around you as their private entertainment, heat and humiliation coiled in your stomach. Cheeks flushed, tears rolling freely down your face. How had it come to this?
Hours of mockery echoed through the headquarters.
“You thought you were going to fight alongside us, didn’t you?” The laughter crashed over you, sharp as steel, cutting through your pride. Always one observer—Pantalone—sat in the shadows, spectacles perched on his pointed nose, eyes piercing, unblinking. Darkness clung to him like a cloak, and when his gaze landed on you, it felt like a physical weight, heavy, commanding, undeniable.
How could you have been so naive? So ambitious? So utterly blind? The Harbingers didn’t forgive mistakes. They devoured weakness. And yet, here you were, a lady in the eye of their storm.
Bound, tied, and stripped bare, your body became a canvas of their desire. Hands clenched your hair, mouths claimed your lips, your cunt, your every nerve ending. The sensation was overwhelming, filling you until thought dissolved entirely into raw need.
You rubbed Dottore as he grunted softly, each shiver of pleasure sending a spark up your spine. At the same time, your hands gripped Pierro tightly, feeling the tension in his body as you worked him. Tartaglia plowed into your cunt, a sneer on his lips, reveling in how perfectly you stretched around him.
“Pussy so tight,” Tartaglia cooed, voice thick with lust, “how can anyone resist you? You should be grateful your needy little cunt gets filled every day, isn’t that right?” His words, accompanied by low hums, vibrated through the room, setting your skin on fire.
Arlecchino perched herself on your lips, hips pressing down as your tongue greedily sought her folds. Knees beside your head, she traced her fingers along the scar etched on your breast, hot and precise, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. One name after another whispered through your mind, a litany of domination.
They flipped you over. You were on all fours again, Arlecchino beneath you, her thighs framing your face as your mouth devoured her, tears streaking her navel. She laughed at you, full, cruel, and intoxicating.
“Give me a turn!” Columbina’s voice cut through, a velvet whip of command. She knelt before you, elbows bracing as she watched Tartaglia and Capitano devour your cunt and soft ass, mask slipping in haste to claim you.
Sandrone’s voice wrapped around your ear, saccharine and soft, each word a command you couldn’t resist.
“Keep being a good girl for us, so you don’t get in trouble. We don’t want that, do we?” Fingers brushed your tears, gentle yet possessive. You nodded, lips still busy worshipping Columbina, swallowing her with desperate adoration.
The tension coiled tighter, the pull of release irresistible. Your gaze met Pantalone’s across the room, dark eyes unreadable. Silent permission. And you broke, shattering under the surge of sensation, body buckling as your head fell against Columbina’s thighs.
Cum slicked your mouth, your cunt, your hands. You trembled, spent and pliable, nothing but a pawn in their game.
After all, you had always been just a pawn—a Pedone.
— 10. [AFFASCINATA] YAE MIKO X FEB! AFAB READER
Warnings: Infidelity, exhibitionism, cunnilingus, use of degrading names, NSFW (DNI IF YOU AREN’T 18+)
— The sun rose over the city, spilling light with casual elegance, a quiet brilliance that warmed your skin, seeping into your bones. It was a lustry day, heat draping over you like silk, comforting and consuming at once. Your tennis skirt hugged your waist, a plain white visor perched delicately atop your head, framing your eyes in soft shadow.
“I’d destroy you, you know that?” you said, eyes lifting to your husband. Your lashes, long and dark, brushed your cheeks, and the saccharine curve of your smile could have brought him to his knees.
“In what, honey? Golf? Sure,” he chuckled, low and easy, the sound rippling through the air, stirring a familiar tightening in your chest.
You swirled the ice in your glass, watching him man the grill. Broad shoulders, arms corded with muscle, a Patek Philippe catching the sunlight on his wrist, not a single strand of hair out of place. While women schemed and fought to snare Hollywood’s hottest bachelor, you were here, front row, seated across from him, your diamond catching the sun and fracturing it across your skin in sharp, precise patterns.
People called you difficult, untouchable, a woman wrapped in aura like armor. Yet that aura had ensnared him—a man whose name carried power, whose hands you gripped with precision, intoxicated by the rush of it. A life of ease in Beverly Hills? Pedestrian. You craved thrill; you lived for the balance of power, the delicious tension that always hummed between you.
His family never approved. “You don’t deserve him.” “Your name is unpleasant, especially with ours.” Criticism rolled off you like water. Small insults never pierced your armor. Life was a chessboard, and you had always known every move. You knew the labyrinth. You knew him.
Dinner was theater. His mother’s voice, smooth but sharp, cut through the clatter of cutlery.
“Do you remember Miko, son? She’s the one I introduced to you before.”
The pink-haired woman glided toward your husband with the ease of someone untouchable. He smiled, slow and indulgent, the creases around his eyes deepening. She was breathtaking—mesmerizing—but you didn’t falter. You watched them, entranced, enthralled, Affascinata, and returned his mother’s triumphant gaze with your own, sharp, knowing. You were winning.
Later, in the sanctuary of your bedroom, you shed the trappings of performance. Your husband, usually lost in work, slept in his office, leaving you with the velvet headboard, gold buttons catching the sunlight—simple, understated, a reprieve from opulence.
Clad in baby pink lingerie, stockings held by a garter, you rubbed essential oil into your pulse points, along the back of your neck, the hollow of your knees. The scent mingled with your heat, rising, intoxicating. You approached your vanity with a soft thud, taking in your reflection framed by bronze-gold carvings, gifts from him, commissioned to reflect your taste.
For a moment, vulnerability flickered, ghost of your former self, carefree and untainted, before it dissolved into the woman you had become: commanding, dangerous, irresistible.
Feather-light kisses ran from your shoulder to your pulse points, and you shivered.
“Yae,” you murmured.
“Hm?” Her hum was a promise. Hands warm, deliberate, exploring you. White gown draped her body like liquid, gloved hands adorned with delicate gold chains brushing your skin. The scent of her perfume was intoxicating.
“Make me forget.” The words were surrender, release.
Her breath ghosted over your ear as she turned you, bending you against the vanity.
“He gave you this?” she murmured, eyes sweeping over your lingerie. You nodded. Her smile was wicked, certain.
“By the time we finish,” she said, pressing closer, “I’ll be the only one you remember when you see this mirror.”
Her fingers pressed through your panties, teasing your folds, every touch deliberate, electric. Eyes locked with hers, cheeks flushed, you gasped, arching into her hands. She was insistent yet careful, drawing out every quiver, every soft moan.
“Yae! Too much—ugh!” You cried, biting your lips, tears threatening, pleasure weaving through your spine. She pulled you up, adjusting your bra strap, fingers teasing your breasts, rolling your nipples between thumb and forefinger. Breath hitched.
She lifted you onto the vanity, pressing your back against the cold mirror. You hissed at the chill, but it barely registered. Her lips trailed from ankle, along the line of your thighs, following the anklet she had gifted you, marking every inch, replacing him with her presence. Every kiss, every brush of her tongue, erased his trail.
Your chest heaved. Mind unraveling under her ministrations, she traced your folds, fingers plunging deep, curling expertly. Hips bucking instinctively, arching like a cat, yet she held you, suspending your body under her control, claiming every tremor, every soft, helpless moan as hers alone.
“Let me hear you, princess. I want to hear how gorgeous you sound for me.” Her fingers pressed into your mouth, forcing you to release the moans she demanded, sweet sounds filling the room, vibrating through walls, sliding down her spine.
Tears pooled in your eyes, your chest heaving, your stomach tightening. She murmured against your skin, “I miss ruining that picture-perfect façade you put on for others.”
The door clicked. You froze. Her head lifted, eyes glinting at your husband standing frozen, disbelief written across his face. He watched, reflection caught in the mirror, unable to look away as Yae pressed closer, claiming you entirely.
You pushed lightly, but she refused, smirking up at you as she continued, lips moving over your folds, fingers teasing, claiming, marking.
You glanced at your husband, lips curling into a serene, almost angelic smile.
“Didn’t I tell you I’d destroy you?” The words fell soft, lethal, and the certainty he had held shattered, leaving only awe and disbelief.
— 09. [ALEA] YELAN X FEM! AFAB READER
Warnings : Angst with comfort (?) , cunnilingus, heavily toxic, NSFW (DNI IF YOU AREN'T 18+)
— As you stepped through the door of your shared flat, the familiar weight of repetition slammed against your chest, pressing your ribs together until every breath felt borrowed, inadequate. Here we go again, you thought, the thought a dull throb in your skull. The cycle never ended, an endless abyss folding in on itself, and you were trapped with no exit.
It wasn’t that you couldn’t leave—it was that you didn’t want to. The poison sliding down your throat stung, yet you drank it eagerly. The prickling heat climbing your arms to your neck coiled through you like electricity, paralyzing, limiting your movement, binding your body to the moment.
And yet, the toxicity, the searing ache, felt like home. It grounded you. Her presence—her silver-threaded hope—flowed into you when she touched you, fingertips trailing across your skin like barbed wire, cutting, scraping, leaving small trails of red where you bled without protest.
Yelan had never been a woman of commitment. Yet even her minimal gestures, the way she returned to you despite herself, kept you moving, kept your mind alive. You didn’t understand why she came back. Neither of you did. But in some strange, perverse way, it made you feel… chosen, unusual in the line of women she had known, tasted, and discarded.
Maybe it was the way she denied affection, how she refused herself and everyone else. You hated that about her—how she saw no worth in herself—but you hated yourself too, for not being able to love her as fully, as recklessly as you wanted. It had to be her way, and you submitted.
You picked at the wounds of your relationship, reopening them deliberately. It hurt, but it hurt so beautifully, so fittingly, that the pain became comfort. Yelan drove stakes through your chest with ease, carving her name into you with every glance, every touch, and you craved it, relished it until it was all you could feel.
The takeaway bag thudded onto the rotting oak table, its cracks seeping moss and hosting tiny legions of termites. You needed a new table. She didn’t notice. Her back was to you, eyes locked on the television, the only light in the room the harsh glow of the screen.
“Come eat,” you said softly. You didn’t want to disturb her, to provoke the thought that she might leave. The fear of her abandonment lived in your chest like a parasite, gnawing even when sleep tempted your lids.
“Hmh,” she murmured, barely.
You removed your coat and purse, sitting on the couch. Tears pooled behind your eyes before they even had a chance to form, a rehearsed ritual, a whispered prayer that maybe—maybe—she would see you, truly see you. But speaking felt impossible. Yelan was the thorns in your throat, the weight on your wrists, the duct tape on your lips, the stake through your heart. She was everything, and you didn’t know where you ended and she began.
Your love was a gamble. Alea.
“I don’t want to do this anymore.” You choked back a sob.
Yelan didn’t flinch. But in her cyan eyes—those same eyes that had once been home—there was a flicker, a crack, a glimpse of vulnerability you’d never seen.
“You’re leaving me too?” Her voice, soft but trembling, pierced the silence. For the first time, you could see her, the real Yelan beneath the mask.
“Yes.” You forced it out, a single, heavy syllable.
“No.” She stiffened, rising to kneel before you. Her dulcet voice wrapped around the room, echoing off the walls.
“Baby—”
“I don’t want this anymore. I don’t know what to do with you anymore. Let me go,” you begged, raw, unguarded. “Let me go, Yelan, please—”
“I’m sorry, baby. No, I can’t; I don’t want to. I’ll do anything.” Her arms wrapped around your waist, but for once, they weren’t shackles. They were refuge.
For the first time, she felt you: your submission, your hunger, your heart poured bare before her. And it consumed her.
Fat tears spilled down her cheeks, the stoic mask she had worn finally cracking. You traced her face with your eyes—the curve of her nose, the swell of her lips, the anguish that made her beautiful—and you realized: you would take her brokenness and make it yours.
You stared at her, and she stared back. She felt your sorrow, your sacrifice, the sharp edges of your devotion. And in that mirrored pain, she saw herself: selfish, terrified, consumed by the need to keep you. She had thought withholding would make you fight harder. It had—but it had also made her heart crack under the weight of her own desire.
“Please, give me one more chance, please, baby,” she whispered, pressing herself to you, arms tight around your neck, chin resting on your shoulder. You could only feel, only absorb, the devastation she carried and the love that bled through it.
When you didn’t respond, she kissed you. Deeply, desperately. Teeth collided, tongues tangled, and for the first time, it wasn’t just her. It was you. It was both of you. Longing and need, heartbreak and submission, mingling in a kiss that was at once violent and tender.
Her fingers laced with yours, drawing your face closer. She pressed you down gently, carefully, as if you were fragile glass, as if she feared breaking you. But the breaking—the consuming—the surrender—that was what you had craved all along.
Your hips found her, pressing, grinding, desperate for more of her, for more of this jagged, intoxicating connection. Her lips traveled down your neck and collarbones, each kiss a spark, each touch igniting fires along your nerves.
You panted as if starved of each other, stripped bare of the barriers that had kept you apart. The shared moans, the collision of bodies, the wet heat of skin against skin—every gasp, every cry, a testament to the agony and rapture of what you were together.
Yelan’s hips moved harder, faster, matching your ecstasy with her own. Your voices intertwined, filling the flat, tearing life back into walls that had long held silence. When the tension snapped in your lower stomach, she believed it was magic. Perhaps it was—your love was enough to resurrect the wilted.
She flipped you atop her, your hair tangled in her fingers, as if plucking out the shadows lodged in your mind. Bodies slick with sweat, pressed together, hearts pounding in sync. For the first time, she found purpose, grounding herself in you, in the absolute surrender of what you had both become.
“I’m sorry, my love. I’ll try for you. I promise.”
“I will forgive you—but not right now, not so soon.”
“I’d grovel for your forgiveness. I’m sorry, my angel. I love you so much.” Her dulcet voice became a lullaby, and you surrendered, drifting into a fragile, aching sleep.
You would give her everything, if she needed it. She was your Yelan, after all.
— 08. [A NÉVOA] PLUG ! ROSARIA X FEM! AFAB READER
Warnings : Bad habits (smoking, hot boxing), burning, car sex, implied strangers to fwb, NSFW (DNI IF YOU AREN'T 18+)
— You pumped your fist in the air, doing a silly celebratory dance for finishing college. Years of endless papers, late nights, and assignments had finally come to an end, and your body was exhausted. The only relief came from the cooling patches stuck to your skin, easing the tense muscles as you exhaled a long, shuddering sigh.
You had told your friends about it, and they all responded the same way: “Why don't you try smoking weed?” or “I can hook you up with my plug if you like.” The plug, as it turned out, was the same maroon-haired woman with dark, sunken circles under her eyes. You had refused her countless times in college, promising yourself you wouldn’t make impulsive mistakes—but college was over now. What was the worst that could happen?
You texted the number your friends had given you. As you stared at your phone, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, you hesitated, composing and deleting the message a dozen times. How the hell do you even approach a woman selling weed?
You: Yo, can you hook me up? Sent
Your chest tightened the moment you hit send. This wasn’t you. The guilt pressed down, but you brushed it away: It’s okay, I deserve this. You waited, nails bitten down to the quick, mind spinning.
Then the reply came:
xxx-xxx-xxx: Aight, how much? where n' when do we meet? Sent
You: Behind the parking lot, local grocery store near "xxxxx", 10 pm. Seen
The silence that followed felt like a blessing—less chance to embarrass yourself further. You considered your outfit, second-guessing every choice: all black? Casual? Was there even a rule? Too nervous to care, you distracted yourself with movies, counting down the hours.
When the time finally came, you walked the dark road, pepper spray and keys in hand, toward the small store not far from your dorm. You stayed in the shadows, careful not to draw attention.
The parking lot was nearly empty. A matte black car caught your eye, sleek and imposing. Smoke drifted lazily from a joint held between long, black-painted fingers, a pale hand poised effortlessly. You froze for a moment—so badass. The hand pulled back, probably taking another hit, and you kept walking, oblivious to the piercing blank pupils in the side mirror, a smirk painted across Rosaria’s dark lips.
You knocked on the passenger door, arms crossed over your chest as you kissed your teeth in nervous anticipation. The click of the lock felt like a minor victory. You slid inside the car, the smell of smoke and something musky immediately hitting your senses.
“Hey, great to meet you.”
She gave a low hum in response, passing you her product. You handed over cash and picked up one of the joints. “Lighter?” you asked, voice tentative.
She handed it over without a word. You pressed the joint to your lips, the dryness of your mouth making it stick slightly, and wiped your sweaty palms over your sweatpants.
“It’s backwards, doll face.”
You jumped at her sudden voice. Rosaria had turned to you, one arm draped lazily over the window, the other resting casually on the headrest behind you. Her gaze was locked on yours.
“Oh, sorry,” you said, a nervous laugh escaping. Cold sweat streamed down your sideburns as she took the lighter from your hand, tilting your chin gently to face her. Her palm covered yours, blocking the air as she lit the joint.
The first inhale was humiliating. You coughed violently, chest heaving, fists clutching at your chest.
“To be honest, I—I really don’t know how to smoke—”
“I know.”
Your cheeks burned. Fuck it, you thought. “Can you teach me then?”
Her eyes widened slightly in surprise as she took a hit, smoke curling around her face. She exhaled slowly, the movement mesmerizing.
“Sure, just softly inhale so you don’t choke, close your throat for a few seconds when you take a hit, then let the smoke run down your throat,” she rasped.
You followed her instructions, and immediately felt a head rush. You collapsed back into the seat, staring at the ceiling, rubbing your temples as the room tilted.
“You okay?”
You nodded slightly, bottom lip trembling. The dizziness and the heat pooling in your body made you regret nothing and everything at once. She handed you a pack of mango juice.
“Thank you, does this help?”
“It does for me,” she replied. You poked the straw through the hole and gulped. Your mouth felt less parched, and you were ready to try again.
You watched her exhale the last of her joint, mesmerized by the smoke curling around her face. Every detail was electric: the curve of her lips, the sharpness of her gaze, the heat radiating from her body. Your pulse thrummed in your ears, lust and euphoria clouding your thoughts.
Your hands began exploring instinctively, massaging your neck, shoulders, and down to your thighs. Damp underwear pressed against your skin, making your blush deepen. The car suddenly felt too tight, too hot.
Rosaria’s gaze followed your subtle movements. She reached out, pressing her hands against your thighs to halt the grinding. A tiny whine escaped your lips at the sudden absence of sensation.
Her nails dug into your thighs as she inhaled the remainder of her joint. She grabbed your chin, forcing your lips to hers, and you inhaled her smoke, a silent permission passing between you. Hunger erupted as your mouths met, tongues sliding against each other, tasting, exploring, devouring. Moans slipped from you uncontrollably.
“Get in the back seat,” she commanded.
You obeyed clumsily, dragging your sweats down your legs as she moved around to the back. She lit another joint, hot-boxing the car, smoke curling around both of you as she pressed down onto you, hands roaming from your shoulders to your waist. Her thumb traced your damp underwear, teasing over your sensitive folds.
She lifted your shirt over your head, leaving you exposed to her hungry gaze. Smoke stung your lungs as you tried to catch your breath.
“Shh, it’s okay, inhale, exhale,” she murmured, pressing your chest gently. You did as instructed, grinding subtly against her hand as the pleasure built unbearably.
She chuckled, dragging your panties down to your ankles. Her mouth descended on you, sucking and licking with deliberate intensity. Your moans filled the car, mixing with the scent of smoke and sweat. She added a finger, scissoring inside you, hitting every sensitive point you’d never experienced pleasure in before.
“That feel good? Grinding your legs together on my passenger seat like a bitch in heat, what a naughty girl you are,” she cooed, marking your neck with love bites. You clutched her fingers as she teased, and when she spoke of tearing you open, your nod was frantic, lost in the haze.
The pace quickened, your legs closing from pure sensation. She pressed her joint to your thighs, the burn sharp.
“It hurts—hurts! hmm!”
“I told you to keep them open didn’t I?”
You babbled, too high to speak coherently, grinding against her relentless fingers. Pleasure built until it erupted, thighs trembling, body slick with sweat. She finally released you, stepping out and opening the windows as the cool night air washed over your heated skin. She helped you redress, offering water and bandages for the faint burns.
“Did I go too hard?” she asked, brows furrowed.
“Don’t worry,” you murmured, a fucked-out, high smile curling your lips.
“I’m taking you home. I doubt you can walk. That okay with you, princess?”
“Hmh,” you nodded, giving her your address before closing your eyes, drifting into a contented sleep.
You woke in your pajamas, phone buzzing with a message from her:
“Wanna go again? Sent 3:04 am”
You squealed, tossing your blankets and kicking your legs in giddy delight. It turned out, this was something you would never regret.
— 07. [INQUIETUS] PRINCESS ! G!P AYAKA X FEM! AFAB READER
Warnings : Mild exhibitionism, immediate closeness, breeding, girl penis, virgin reader, NSFW (DNI IF YOU AREN'T 18+)
— Winter choked the land as a pale, silvered moon hovered in the sky, an icy serenade that made the warmth of human flesh all the more exquisite.
Ayaka jerked upright, drenched in sweat, her yukata sliding down her shoulders to cling to her skin in damp folds. Goosebumps prickled across her arms and neck as her chest rose and fell violently. She had dreamed of you again—your form, your presence, the intoxicating clarity of your features invading her mind. It had been far too long since you entered her dreams, yet now you consumed her entirely.
Within the Kamisato estate, whispers circulated among the citizens of Inazuma. The lady of the Kamisato clan was obsessed with a mysterious woman who haunted her dreams. A massive painting of you, adorned in delicate traditional garb and scattered with fine jewelry, hung within the estate walls—a testament to her longing. Some murmured that Ayaka was delusional, while others insisted she possessed a gift: the foresight to see her destined partner. The majority, however, agreed that her dedication to her people, her meticulous care for her household, and her nobility made her choice of a spouse less urgent. Still, Ayaka remained resolute: she would wait for the woman of her dreams.
Rising from her futon, her sheets damp and clinging, she changed into a simple tunic before grabbing a jug of water. Her agitation was palpable; she ached for you. Memories of her childhood surfaced—playful, unguarded moments when she defied protocol to climb trees for the color of the Amakuno fruit, her attendants yelling in panic. She had always been determined, but now her heart’s longing had grown into a feverish need.
And there you were.
She opened her eyes to see the younger you, seated beside a stream, koi swirling through the green water. “My dame, are you alright?” Your voice was gentle, soothing, the kind that erased pain. Even as a child, she had felt safe in your presence. The sting of a fall dissipated as you urged her closer, warmth flowing into her, wrapping her in solace. Time seemed to stretch unnaturally as your lives entwined in her mind, growing together in ways reality had yet to allow.
Shaking off the memory, Ayaka grasped her sword and quietly slid the Soji door open, stepping into the moonlit night. Outside, the forest stretched infinitely, wild and fragrant, each step bringing scents of earth, wildflowers, and dew. Stars pricked the sky, silver against deep blue, the moon casting its gentle glow over the world. Despite her upbringing, her patience for confinement had waned. She needed to find you.
“Archons, guide me,” she whispered, voice low but tense. Her palms pressed against the hilt as rustling reached her ears. “Show yourself. I will not wait.”
A sudden pain shot through her hands and knees, forcing her down. The earth scraped against her skin as she struggled to gaze upward.
And there you were.
Clothed in a simple white gown, scarf wrapped around your hair, basket in hand, you froze at the sight of her. “Uh—My lady, are you alright? Are you lost?”
Ayaka’s desperation overtook decorum. She crawled forward, clutching at you. “Do you understand? How long I’ve been searching for you? There’s nothing I want more than to hold you.” Tears glistened in her eyes.
You hesitated. “I… I don’t understand. Please… stand. Your knees—”
She toppled onto you, arms locking around your neck, trembling against you. “Are you always this kind? Always so… in trouble?” she whispered, lips brushing yours in a fevered, urgent kiss. Her shoulders shook with sobs; you held her, warmth radiating, matching her intensity.
Her gaze swept over you, and her beauty stole your breath: smooth, fair skin, a delicate nose, mauve eyes that held you captive. Your lips collided in a fierce, hungry kiss, urgent and unrestrained.
“My name is Kamisato Ayaka,” she murmured. “You call me My dame. In my dreams… you were always there. You are bound to me, a blessing of the Archons. The future lady of my clan.”
Shocked, you said softly, “Ayaka… I’m… I’m nobody. I don’t belong here.”
Her hand tightened over yours, eyes alight with devotion. “I don’t care. As long as you are with me, you are safe. I will protect you, shelter you, provide for you. Please… stay with me.”
Her lips sought yours again, soft, teasing, insistent. Every touch sent shivers racing down your spine. Her mouth traced your jaw, neck, shoulders, teasing, biting, leaving heat in its wake. You gasped as her teeth grazed your skin; her hands explored every curve, every tender swell.
“You’re… a virgin, aren’t you?” she murmured, and your nod brought a teasing smile to her lips.
“Don’t fret, My dame,” she whispered, predatory and tender at once. Fingers caressed your inner thighs, lips tracing the delicate skin beneath your ears. Your breath hitched, body betraying you as you shivered under her meticulous attention.
She sank lower, lips and tongue dancing along your swollen clit, tracing every sensitive curve. You cried out, fingers tangling in her soft, pale hair, moans escaping despite your attempts to cover them. The scent of flowers, the warmth of your own arousal, the feel of her body pressing against yours—all consumed you.
“Shh… don’t hide from me, My dame,” she murmured, her movements orchestrating exquisite pleasure, teasing, coaxing every moan from you.
Her hands guided your hips, spreading you open like a butterfly, lips claiming your heat. “Oh… Archons…” she whispered, overwhelmed by your response, and her mouth enveloped you, sucking, nipping, teasing in a rhythm that made you ache.
Finally, she withdrew, her tip brushing your entrance, thick and aching. “Now… now it’s time,” she whispered, dark and urgent. Clutching your hand, she positioned herself at your entrance. You nodded, giving silent consent.
The first inch burned, stretched, felt impossibly sweet. She kissed away your tears, murmuring reassurances as she eased inside inch by inch. You gasped, whimpering, your body arching instinctively. Slowly, carefully, she moved deeper, each motion measured, sinful.
“Look… see how deep I am in you,” she murmured, lips brushing yours mid-thrust. Her cock pressed against your cervix, every movement filling you completely, drawing shuddering, ecstatic moans. The forest night, the scent of earth and flowers, and the warmth of her body coalesced, a cocoon of intimacy.
Her seed filled you, hot and unrelenting, making you clench, body trembling around her. She moaned into your shoulder, muscles tense, her body arching, your own climax riding her waves of motion.
Dawn crept over the horizon, painting the world with soft gold. She helped you dress, draping your torn clothes across your shoulders and wrapping you in a blanket. Her laughter, soft and joyful, lifted the night’s tension.
“Come home with me?” she asked, hand entwined with yours. “Please… don’t leave me.”
You held her tightly. “I won’t leave you. Ever.”
Together, you returned to the estate. Ayaka muttered playful complaints about tiring you out, yet her eyes shone with adoration. Outside, attendants waited, anxious and fearful, only to fall silent as she revealed you, hand in hand.
“Prepare for our wedding tomorrow,” she commanded, voice radiant with possession and love. “I need it done this instant.”
— 06. [REVENDICAREA] GANYU X AFAB! FEM READER
Warnings : Top reader, use of dildo, heavy jealousy, overstimulation, NSFW (DNI IF YOU AREN'T 18+)
— You and Ganyu sat at the dining table, surrounded by her coworkers, celebrating the anniversary of the company where she worked as a secretary. Pride swelled in your chest; she was diligent, brilliant, and graceful, and though her job sometimes consumed her, you admired her dedication. Yet, a flicker of concern lingered—you both knew how rarely you got to spend time together, and you worried about the toll it took on her health.
The evening had been pleasant until a teasing voice cut through the polite chatter.
"Hey Ganyu, what's up with you and Keqing, huh?"
The words sliced through the air like a knife. Whistles and coos echoed around the table. Your mouth fell open in shock. You were here—her girlfriend, sitting right in front of them—and they had the audacity to disrespect you? Heat roared through your veins, burning from your chest to your fingertips. You clenched your palm so tightly that the skin thinned, a physical echo of the rage boiling inside you.
The mauve-haired Keqing spoke next, dabbing a napkin at her lips, her gaze lingering on Ganyu in a way that made the secretary’s cheeks blossom crimson. Your jaw clenched as you watched the exchange, the tension slicing through your ribs like steel.
“Oh, that’s nothing, right, Ganyu?” Keqing’s voice dripped with amusement. “Besides, her little girlfriend is here. We wouldn’t want to make a bad impression, would we?” She smirked at you, sizing you up, and a shiver of fury surged through your body.
You pushed your chair back sharply, the sound of it scraping against the floor snapping attention to you. Ganyu’s eyes widened, a mixture of shock and worry etched on her features. You forced a tight-lipped smile, teeth pressing just enough to keep your fury contained.
“I apologize. May I be excused to the bathroom? I think I may have drunk too much refresher,” you said smoothly, spinning away before they could respond.
Inside the bathroom, you slammed the door, water running cold over your hands and face, but it did little to wash away the fire still burning within. Your fists clenched. Every breath was a struggle as rage and humiliation tangled in your chest.
Then, a soft hand rested on your shoulder. You flinched, your muscles tightening instinctively, and turned to see Ganyu’s face—beautiful, concerned, and hesitant. Her eyes searched yours, unsure, waiting, silently pleading for calm that you didn’t yet feel.
You washed your face again, running fingers through your hair, wiping at your flushed cheeks with tissue. “Pack your things. We’re going home,” you said, voice firm as you passed her reflection in the mirror. Her blue eyes brimmed with tears, fists pressed to her lips, trying to suppress sobs. Watching her hurt—feeling the fracture between her pain and your own anger—shredded your heart. Yet, for once, you allowed yourself to prioritize your own feelings, your need to reclaim control.
In the car, your fingers drummed anxiously against the steering wheel. Ganyu sat quietly in the passenger seat, hands clasped tightly between her knees, shoulders hunched in a shy attempt to minimize herself. Her pale blue turtleneck swallowed her delicate frame, her soft chubby cheeks flushed. She was painfully, irresistibly tempting. You weren’t angry with her—your fury belonged solely to her coworkers—but you wanted to remind her who she belonged to.
Back home, you grabbed a bottle of cool water from the fridge, leaning against the counter, peeling off your jacket to reveal your bra. Ganyu approached, each step hesitant, blush flooding her cheeks, eyes glimmering with a mixture of worry and desire.
“I-I’m really sorry… I didn’t think they’d act that way—” she stammered, hands fidgeting behind her back.
You silenced her with a fierce kiss, lips crashing together in a frenzy. Tongues tangled, exploring, tasting, claiming. Her soft moans pressed against your mouth, urging, confirming—she was yours.
“You want to make it up to me, huh? You know what to do, don’t you? Work for it. Be my good girl again,” you murmured against her lips, fingers threading through her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. Ganyu’s wide eyes shimmered with tears, lips trembling as she nodded, every shallow breath sending shivers down her spine, through her soft core, pooling heat between her thighs.
“You’re… turned on by this? My jealousy?” you whispered, teeth grazing her earlobe. She whimpered, a high, pitched plea escaping her. “No! I’ll be good, please! I promise!”
You released her just enough to let her prepare. She moved upstairs to your shared bedroom with a deliberate, desperate slowness, every sway of her hips a silent promise of submission. Her face was innocent, yet beneath the surface, she was a little vixen, hungry for your attention.
On the bed, Ganyu sprawled before you, pink nipples hard against her pale skin, arms lifting her thighs to give you an unobstructed view of her glistening slit. Eyeliner scrawled across her body read: “Daddy’s good girl” with an arrow pointing to her thighs. You smirked at the audacity and need evident in her posture.
“Look at you… working so hard to be my good girl again. You want it so bad, don’t you?” you murmured, circling her face with your gaze. Her nod was frantic, desperate.
“Well, too bad. I don’t like you anymore,” you said darkly, pushing her to the brink of tears. Her fat, plump lips quivered, sobs threatening, yet she didn’t retract her thighs.
“Oh, you think I’m mean? I haven’t even started,” you added, sliding closer, fingers tilting her jaw to meet your gaze. “Stick your tongue out.”
Obediently, Ganyu offered her wet, glistening tongue, lips trembling as your thumb swiped across, collecting her saliva. You smudged the word “good” with her own finger, replacing it with “bad”.
“There… much more fitting for a slut like you,” you said, leaning against her for pseudo-affection, stroking her tears from her cheeks. She sobbed, panting, trying to catch her breath before a sharp slap landed across her pussy.
“Nggh—It hurts! M’ pussy hurts, please!” Her high-pitched plea only fueled your desire. You delivered another sharp slap to her thighs, and she obeyed your command, opening her legs. Her slick gleamed, clinging to her plump thighs, every curve and tremble a testament to her filthy obedience.
Your thumb circled her swollen clit slowly, agonizingly, eliciting jolts and soft whimpers. Slaps met her sensitive bud rhythmically, her moans and tears a beautiful, desperate symphony.
“Tell me what you want,” you demanded.
“Your dick… s’ bad… please!” she whimpered, grinding against nothing, soaked in her own desire.
You chuckled, gripping her love handles as you slid your 9-inch strap inside her. Slick eased you in swiftly, her tightness enveloping you like velvet. Thrusts were relentless; her cries and whines punctuated the rhythm. You pressed your thumb against her stretch-marked back, feeling every tremor of pleasure as she arched under you.
She tried to take control, pressing your pelvis for more, but you held her hips firm, driving into her cervix, watching her flail, moaning incoherently. Her cries were music, her desperation intoxicating.
“Say the safe word, Ganyu,” you muttered. Her head shook—she wouldn’t, couldn’t.
You flipped her onto her back, legs pressed to her chest, pounding into her tight cunt while her lips formed an “O,” eyes rolling back. Your hands found her nipples, pinching and tugging as she squirmed, grinding her hips against yours. She came repeatedly, each spasm leaving her dizzy and overstimulated. Her squirts coated your stomach, slick glistening in the dim light.
“Shh… no running away. Take it like a good girl,” you murmured, thrusting faster. Her trembling thighs, clawing hands, and high-pitched moans were exquisite. She collapsed on the bed after another wave, spent, drooling, utterly yours.
“You’re such a good girl, doing so well for me. My princess,” you cooed, cradling her flushed face against your chest, pressing soft kisses over her pale skin. Her body, slick and warm, melded to yours.
Later, you drew her close in the bath, then bed, limbs intertwined, hearts pounding. Every kiss, every caress, every whispered “mine” across her smooth skin reaffirmed ownership and devotion.
“Mine… mine… all mine,” you whispered against her pale, trembling shoulder, inhaling her scent, tasting her skin, and feeling every inch of her respond to your touch.
— 05. [OCEANUS] BEIDOU X FEM! AFAB READER
Warnings : Slight exhibitionism, use of dildo, vaginal penetration, oral, NSFW (DNI IF YOU'RE UNDER 18+)
— You’d just finished a lavish dinner with your family, finally introducing your fiancée, Beidou. Pride radiated from your parents and extended family; they didn’t just accept that you were marrying a woman—they celebrated it. Beidou, wealthy and confident, carried herself with a magnetic charm that drew admiration effortlessly. You couldn’t help but feel a flicker of apprehension for her safety, though. Her fortune was built on risky endeavors, and as much as you trusted her, a part of you always stayed vigilant.
Flying back on her private jet, you sank into the plush leather seat, letting the hum of the engine lull you. Your life with her was indulgent: lavish nights, constant pleasure, and the rare luxury of complete freedom. You stayed home most days, devoted entirely to Beidou, though she’d offered you the choice to work if you wished. Her wealth was enough to sustain generations—you had no need for anything else.
Back at your family’s villa, the energy was warm and chaotic. Half your extended family was gathered, all glowing with pride at seeing you finally married. Beidou moved gracefully among them, laughing and sharing stories. Later, she joined your father and his friends in a casual drinking circle, guitars strumming, voices harmonizing imperfectly but joyfully. Watching her let go brought a rush of relief and warmth—you’d had to coax her out of her demanding schedule to enjoy tonight, and seeing her relaxed filled your chest with quiet satisfaction.
Later, after a tender conversation with your mother and aunties—your mother shedding tears at the thought of letting go—you hugged them, whispering reassurances, before retreating upstairs. The shower washed away the day’s energy, warm water tracing over your skin, and when you stepped out, you slipped into a maroon Victoria’s Secret nightgown. The delicate lace skimmed your hips, soft lotion still glistening faintly on your skin. By the time you slid under the covers, exhaustion claimed you, and sleep came easily.
You woke to the gentle shaking of your body. Groaning, you opened one eye and saw Beidou’s tumbled brown hair brushing your face, a mischievous grin curving her lips. “Oh my god, love, what are you doing? It’s three in the morning!” you whispered, sitting up, hand over your chest as adrenaline surged.
Beidou, her blazer discarded, wore only her pants and maroon lace bralette, the dim light catching the smooth curve of her skin. She curled against you, her warmth pressing into your side, breath ghosting along your neck as she murmured indistinctly. “What was that?”
“I’m really hungry,” she admitted, nuzzling against your stomach. Her cheeks were flushed, tipsy and soft.
You laughed softly. “Come downstairs with me. I’ll fix you something.”
In the kitchen, she perched casually on the counter, the cool surface pressing against her thighs, while you stirred pasta. Warm hands found your waist, drawing you close as her breath tickled your neck. You kissed her cheek lightly.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” she said, voice low and teasing.
“What about the pasta? Come on, I know you’re hungry—”
“I am… but not for pasta,” she interrupted, shutting off the stove. Before you could react, she lifted you effortlessly onto the cold kitchen island. The shock of the tiles pressed against your thighs as her hands roamed over your legs, a delicious heat rising from her touch.
“I know something far more delicious than pasta,” she whispered, lips brushing your neck, teeth nipping at your collarbone, moving down to the thin cotton over your breasts.
“Beidou… not… not here! Someone could walk in—ugh!” you gasped, head thrown back as the realization hit: her strap-on was already hard against you.
“Ah! Feels so good!” you moaned silently, instinctively grinding against her. She smirked, holding your hips down with firm authority. You whimpered as she chuckled softly at your desperation.
“What do you want? Tell me,” she demanded. You turned your head away, shy, trying to hide your need, but her grip didn’t budge.
“That won’t work, pretty girl. I need you to say it,” she said, chest rising and falling with anticipation.
“Please… love… I need it so bad,” you whispered, hot breath brushing her ear. She bit her lip, eyes closing briefly to compose herself.
“Need what, huh? I give you everything, my darling. What more exactly do you want?” Her voice was low, teasing, dominant.
“Fuck… please… I need—need your cock inside me, please,” you begged, pressing wet kisses to her ear. A triumphant grin spread across her lips.
“Please… fuck me hard,” you urged, and that was all it took. She ripped the delicate string of your panties, the fabric pooling at your hips, and you shot her a mock glare.
“That pair was expensive!”
“I’ll buy you another… or two,” she replied, unfazed.
You unbuttoned her pants, sliding them down to reveal wide hips and the strap-on that dwarfed your excitement. A sarcastic laugh escaped you.
“Funny joke, Beidou. Real funny,” you teased, trying to push away, but she intercepted.
“Where do you think you’re going? You’re taking this,” she said, lifting you by your underarms and repositioning you. “Come on, love, you know that won’t fit! It’ll hurt so much.”
You pouted, eyebrows furrowed, deep in thought. She laughed, rubbing the crease from your brow with her thumb. “That’s why my mouth is here, isn’t it?” she said, that familiar shit-eating grin on her lips.
You smacked her chest playfully, but she captured your lips, plunging her tongue into your mouth, exploring and teasing. Your breath hitched as she left a trail of bites along your neck, chest, and thighs. Nestled between your legs, she nuzzled and sucked at your sensitive flesh, leaving marks that would sting deliciously tomorrow.
Her tongue trailed down to your slit, collecting your slick with deliberate care. You arched, gripping her hair, gold clip clinking to the tile. The sharp sound, the intimate sensation, made your breath hitch. You tried to push her away, but she held firm, pressing closer, teasing, knowing exactly what you needed.
The footsteps outside faded into silence, and you exhaled, body trembling from the intensity.
“Fuck… you! Someone could’ve seen us!” you whispered, chastising.
“But we didn’t, did we?” she smirked, pressing the strap-on tip to your clit. You jolted, overstimulated, hips pressing instinctively against her.
“Such a sensitive pussy… all mine, hmm?” she murmured. Legs trembling, you opened for her, and she chuckled at your eagerness, teasing as she positioned herself.
She nudged inside, slow and deliberate, filling you completely. You bit your lip, eyes squeezed shut, clinging to her shoulders, thrusting in sync instinctively.
Beidou’s eyes widened, and reflexively, she pressed her palms over your mouth to muffle your moans. “Oh my fucking god, baby… what are you doing to me?” she whispered, eyes flicking down at where you connected. “All the way in?”
You mewled, urging her faster. Her hands steadied, thrusts deep, rhythmic, controlled. Tiny whimpers escaped as she grunted lowly, relentless. Your orgasm hit like a storm—back arching, tears sliding down your cheeks, breath ragged. She didn’t stop, keeping her pace even as your body shook, strap pushing you beyond your limits.
Finally, she slowed, admiring your trembling form. She slapped the tip lightly, making you jolt. You reached to hit her chest, but she captured your hand with a sly smile.
“Let’s go to bed. I love you. I can’t wait to make you my wife.”
ANOTERÓS ! Baal I AUREUS ! Ningguang I OCEANUS ! Beidou I ANCORA ! Beidou I REVENDICAREA ! Ganyu I INQUIETUS ! Ayaka I A NÉVOA ! Rosaria I ALEA ! Yelan I AFFASCINATA ! Yae Miko I PEDONE ! Fatui Harbingers
０２． Ｊｕｊｕｔｓｕ Ｋａｉｓｅｎ
HEDONISTIC ! Mei Mei I INVIDIA ! Maki
０３． Ｍｉｓｃ.
LURIDO ! Quanxi I TERCEIRA ! Mikasa I FANTOMĂ ! Ghost I Step Dad ! Nanami Kento I Hockey Player ! Ellie Williams I Dr. Mel King Drabble
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