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Fandom: Supernatural
Word Count: 1300
Tags: Friends to Lovers, Backseat Sex, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Fingering, Grinding, Dean Winchester is a Simp for You.
The interior of the ’67 Chevy Impala always smelled the same: old leather, gunpowder, cheap beer, and the faint, lingering scent of Dean’s sandalwood aftershave. Usually, it was a scent that meant safety. Tonight, it felt like an intoxicant.
For months—maybe years, if you were being honest—the two of you had been playing a game of chicken with your own hearts. It was in the way your hand lingered on his shoulder a second too long after a hunt. It was in the way he’d let you pick the music, even if you chose something that wasn't "classic rock" enough for his tastes. It was in the silent, heated stares across motel rooms that Sam would break with a loud, pointed cough.
“We’re just friends, Sammy,” Dean would bark, his jaw tight, eyes never leaving yours even as he dismissed his brother.
Just friends. Friends don’t look at each other’s mouths like they’re starving for a feast. Friends don't feel the air turn to static the moment they're left alone in a car on a rainy Tuesday night.
But here you were, parked on a dirt road miles from the nearest town, the rain drumming a rhythmic, frantic beat against the roof. You weren't in the passenger seat anymore. You were in the back, straddling his lap, your knees pressed into the worn leather on either side of his hips. The quarter-zip sweater you wore was pulled down just enough to expose the swell of your breasts, and Dean’s eyes were devouring the sight.
"So. What now, pretty girl?" he rasped. His voice was a low vibration you felt in your own chest. His hands, rough and calloused from years of iron and grease, slid down from your waist to cup your rear, squeezing firmly.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck. You leaned in until your lips were ghosting over his, breathing in his heat. "You always like calling the shots, Dean. You tell me."
He chuckled, a dark, hungry sound that vibrated through your thighs. He didn't hesitate. One hand shot up, his fingers threading through your hair and tilting your head back to give him better access. He didn't just kiss you; he claimed you.
It started with a bruising pressure, a desperate collision of teeth and tongue that tasted like unspoken promises. Dean groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound of surrender as he pulled you impossibly closer. He rolled his hips upward, a slow, deliberate grind of denim against denim that hit your clit with pinpoint accuracy.
A sharp, needy whine escaped your throat, swallowed by his mouth.
"Just friends, huh?" he whispered against your lips, his breath hot and ragged. "Friends don't make sounds like that for each other."
"Shut up, Winchester," you breathed, fumbling with the hem of his shirt. You needed skin. You needed to feel the heat of him.
He helped you, shucking his flannel and t-shirt in record time, his eyes never leaving yours. In the dim light of the dashboard, his skin looked like hammered gold, his muscles taut with tension. When you pressed your chest against his bare skin, the contact felt electric.
Dean’s hands were everywhere—on your back, your hips, sliding under your sweater to find the clasp of your bra. He popped it with practiced ease, his palms immediately finding the weight of your breasts. He kneaded the soft flesh, his thumbs flicking over your nipples until you were arching your back, gasping his name into the cramped space of the car.
"You’re so beautiful," he growled, his voice dropping an octave into that gravelly register that always made your knees weak. "God, I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted to get you alone in this backseat for so damn long."
He moved his mouth to your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive cord of your throat, marking you. His hands slid down, tugging at the button of your jeans. He made quick work of the zipper, his fingers diving beneath the lace of your underwear to find you.
You were already slick, your body betraying how much you’d been craving this. When his middle finger slid into you, you let out a strangled cry, your forehead dropping onto his shoulder.
"Look at me," he commanded.
You lifted your head, eyes hazy with lust. He was watching you with an intensity that felt like it was stripping you bare. He pushed his finger deeper, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with agonizingly slow, rhythmic pressure.
"You're so wet for me," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips even as his eyes burned. "Tell me how much you want it. Tell me you’re not 'just a friend' right now."
"Dean, please," you whimpered, your hips moving instinctively against his hand. "I'm not… I've never been just your friend. You know that."
That was the breaking point. The smirk vanished, replaced by a raw, naked hunger. He pulled his hand away just long enough to rid you of your jeans and toss them into the footwell. He worked his own belt free, his movements frantic but certain.
When he was finally bare, his length pressing against your entrance, he paused. He gripped your hips, his knuckles white.
"If we do this," he said, his voice trembling slightly, "there's no going back. I don't know how to be 'just friends' with you after I've been inside you. You get that?"
"I don't want to go back," you whispered, reaching down to guide him. "I want you. All of you."
Dean didn't need to be told twice. He surged upward, burying himself inside you in one smooth, deep thrust. The breath left your lungs in a sharp gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him. He groaned, a long, pained sound of pleasure, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"You're so tight," he choked out. "Perfect."
He began to move, his hands locked onto your hips to control the rhythm. It was a frantic, desperate pace, the Impala rocking on its springs with every heavy thrust. The sound of the rain was drowned out by the wet friction of your bodies, the slap of skin against skin, and the chorus of broken moans filling the small cabin.
You leaned back, hands braced against the ceiling of the car for leverage, as you took him deeper. Every time he hit your sweet spot, the world tilted on its axis. Dean was relentless, his eyes fixed on your face, watching every expression of pleasure he elicited from you. He loved the way your eyes rolled back, the way you bit your lip to try and stay quiet, the way you whispered his name like a prayer.
"That's it, sweetheart," he urged, his pace quickening as he felt your walls start to quiver. "Come for me. Give me everything."
He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again, adding the friction you needed to tip over the edge. The combination was too much. You shattered, your vision going white as a powerful orgasm ripped through you, your body shaking as you clamped down on him.
The feeling of you coming was the final straw for Dean. He let out a loud, unrestrained shout, his back arching as he spent himself deep inside you. He held you tightly, his fingers digging into your skin, anchored to you as the waves of pleasure ebbed away.
For a long time, the only sound was the heavy, synchronized thud of two hearts and the rhythmic drumming of the rain. Dean’s head rested on your chest, his breath hot against your skin.
He finally pulled back, just enough to look at you. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen, and his eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. He reached up, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek.
"So," you whispered, your voice still shaky. "Friends?"
Dean let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning in to press a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead.
"Not a chance in hell," he murmured. "You're mine. About damn time I admitted it."
You know that won't last long, not with his track record.
A/n: forgive me if it's not the most lore accurate! Credits to @diviniyae for the divider!
A/N: A lot of these points are inspired by how I want this man to ravish me. So forgive me if it doesn’t align with your beliefs or headcanons of the character. Nevertheless, enjoy xx
Kratos is exemplary at aftercare. Usually, he’s touchy in terms of just wanting to be physically close to his partner, embracing them and checking if they’re okay.
A good example would be missionary - he’d stay inside, brush hair out of their face, and scan for any sign of discomfort. If things got a tad more out of hand (non-vanilla stuff) proper aftercare would always be done.
B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
He’s slightly indifferent to his own body. He thinks that the discipline and inner strength he’s been taught and taught himself are the most important. However, I think he’s a fan of his biceps and arms. They’re the things that he uses to manhandle his partner and what comes to wrap around them as well.
On others, I believe he’s a chest man. Though he’s able to admire the entirety of a person, he adores breasts. But he’s also a big fan of hips and waist (more on that later).
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
A big fan of cuming inside. He’s not fussed with “marking” someone by releasing on their body, he prefers to claim them internally. Also, I like to think that he cums a lot, and that it’s very thick.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Kratos wouldn’t have a dirty secret per se, but I believe he likes to be praised more than he lets on. He’d never ask for it, but if he’s doing a good job and his partner lets him know, he gets really turned on.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
He’s obviously very experienced in the sex department. But only after meeting Faye did he actually start enjoying it properly. It wasn’t just about fucking at that point. Similar thing with Lysandra, but I don’t think he was as caring back then as he came to be way later in his life.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Mating press. No one will ever shake me out of this belief. This man was born to breed, and he knows it too.
Having someone riding him is also nice, but it’s mostly because he can just literally bounce them on him and use them at will.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Very serious in the moment. Not to the point that its concerning, of course. He might give a chuckle at a mishap, but nothing past that.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Kratos keeps his “carpet” neat. He’s not bald by any means (haha), but he’s definitely well groomed. Just a tad of hair where it should be.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Romantic wouldn’t probably be the word to describe it, but it does get intimate. He has to have some type of feelings towards his partner - it can’t be just a random. I believe he was quite romantic with Faye, and even with Lysandra.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Doesn’t really do it, and doesn’t really feel the need to. Once in a blue moon if he has no one. But if his partner is available, he’d rather be with them than alone for this. Although, if he has someone and has been apart from them for whatever reason, he might masturbate to the thought of them.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
I’m the CEO of thinking Kratos has a breeding kink - it doesn’t matter if the person can get pregnant or not. He’s a simple man, but this is where the animal in him comes alive. Expanding on what I said earlier (C), he loves the feeling of claiming someone as his own by filling them up to the brim - especially with multiple rounds.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
In the comfort of his bed. Any other place would be seen as unnecessary to him. Also, he’s not a fan of doing it in public or anywhere he can get caught. However, if there was a place in the wild that was absolutely secluded, he’d be up for it. Even then, his home takes first place.
(Kitchen counter is also an option.)
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Their partner. Again, he’s a simple man. Simply being attracted to a person is enough to get him going. Especially if they come to him, sweet demeanour, and expecting nothing of the sort from him. I also think he’s a fan of “easy access” clothing - like loose skirts/tunics, or anything akin to a babydoll dress.
See through gowns (see Oracle of Athens in GOW1) and things that are tighter around the hips and waist to show off that silhouette are also acceptable.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Being extremely rough in bed. Kratos has dealt enough pain in others as is, he wouldn’t really be up for things like heavy hitting, hard choking, etc. He’d be more than happy to hold his partners neck just right, and wouldn’t be opposed to a spanking, but anything beyond that is most likely a no.
Definitely NO use of his weapons in the bedroom.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Kratos is an eater. If there’s pussy in his mouth, he is content. He’ll draw it out for his own benefit, if anything. He’s very skilled at it - the right pressure of his tongue, the right moment to introduce his fingers, the right curve and motion to hit that spot inside. I could talk about it for days.
He enjoys it on him, as any man would, but he’ll never ask for it. At some point he realised he quite enjoys not being the one in immediate command as he watches them taking him in their mouth.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
He fucks slow but deep, only speeding towards the end. If his partner is on all fours, however, he’ll gladly jackhammer into them.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Not the biggest fan (see above). It happens, but it’s not his favorite.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
The only thing I figure that he’d consider is getting someone pregnant. It’s happened twice before, so why wouldn’t it with someone new? If we’re talking about his wives, then the risk would be none - the more the merrier.
He’s a quite vanilla guy, so anything new in the bedroom would most likely be introduced through his partner and not him. He’s willing to try mostly everything within reason (see N).
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Kratos can go on for a long while. He’s not a minute man at all, he’ll keep going until his partner is satisfied and won’t finish until they do. Rounds wise, maybe four or so, depending on the day and the person.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Has none to speak of, and has no need for them. Anything he does is with his (and his partner’s) body. He’s keen on using his hands, so toys are obsolete to him.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
I believe he can be a bit of a tease, but not in a snarky way. He’s devoted to drawing things out to enjoy them completely. Never to the point where one would have to beg though.
With brats (like me teehee), he’ll just put them in their place straight out. No games, no teasing.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Isn't (regrettably) very loud or vocal. He will grunt and groan, but will only really let out a rugged moan when he cums. Calling his partner’s name is probably when he’s most vocal.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Kratos enjoys cooking. At least, he discovered he did after Ragnarok. When peace settled and he actually had time, he came to find that he’s quite domestic overall. Wants more wolves (dogs), has actually learnt to take care of them properly, and he’s found himself paying more attention to details than before.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
It absolutely matches his bulking figure. It’s long, it’s astoundingly thick, and heavy. With an upward curve, it’s absolutely heavenly.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Not extremely high. Is not too demanding or nonchalant about it. A nice balance. However, he will never deny his partner when they approach him.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Depends on the day. If its been a particularly rough day, he’ll be more keen to just turn in by the end of it. Though if he’s been at it in the morning, it’ll actually make him wake up more.
Tags: Established Relationship, Brat-Taming, Discipline, Spanking, Praise Kink, Some Condescending Praise, Religious Imagery, Age Gap, Chubby Female Reader, Slight Body Insecurity, Breathplay, Rough Handling.
The ride back from Valentine had been conducted in a silence so heavy it felt like a physical weight pressing against your chest. The sun was dipping low over the Grizzlies, painting the sky in bruised purples and angry oranges—colors that matched Arthur’s mood perfectly.
You sat behind him on the horse, your arms wrapped around his thick waist, your cheek pressed against the rough leather of his jacket. Normally, you’d be humming a hymn or chatting his ear off about the price of eggs, but today, you kept her jaw locked tight. You could feel the tension in the muscles of his back, the way his frame remained rigid, refusing to lean into you.
You had pushed him. You knew she had. It had started at the general store when you spent far too much time batting your eyelashes at the clerk just to see Arthur’s jaw tighten. It had escalated when you walked off alone toward the saloon after he’d specifically told her to wait by the hitching post. And it had culminated in you laughing off his stern warning in front of the town sheriff, making him look like a man who couldn't keep his own woman in line.
The second the door to their small, secluded cabin clicked shut behind them, the air went stale and charged.
Arthur didn’t even take off his hat. He just stood there, his back to her, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy, deliberate breaths. You stood in the center of the room, her fingers nervously toyed with the silver cross hanging around your neck — It was a habit, a silent prayer for strength, or perhaps for mercy.
“Take it off,” Arthur said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in your marrow.
You blinked, your eyes wide and flickering under the lamplight. “Take… take what off, Arthur?”
He turned then, and the look in his eyes made your knees go weak. They weren’t the kind, weary eyes that usually looked at you with such tenderness. They were dark, hooded, and predatory. He looked like the outlaw the government was so scared of.
“The attitude. The dress. All of it,” he growled, stepping into your space.
You instinctively took a step back, your boots scuffing against the floorboards. You felt the familiar prickle of defiance. You were a grown woman, independent and capable, even if you did have a soft spot for a man who smelled like tobacco and rain.
“I don’t know what’s got your dander up,” you huffed, tossing your curls over your shoulder. I was just havin’ a bit of fun. You’re always so serious, Arthur Morgan. It’s enough to make a girl go stir-crazy.”
Arthur’s hand moved faster than you could track. Before you could finish your sentence, his palm landed flat against the wall beside her head with a loud crack. You flinched, your back hitting the wood. He loomed over you, his shadow swallowing you whole.
“Fun?” he repeated, the word sounding like a threat. “You call makin’ a fool out of me in front of half the county ‘fun’? You did the opposite of everythin’ I told you to. I told you to stay put, you ran off. I told you to keep your mouth shut, you chirped like a damn bluejay. You had your fun, doll? Out your system now?”
Your heart hammered against your ribs, the corset you wore beneath your floral dress feeling suddenly far too tight. You hated how your body betrayed you; you felt your cheeks go warm. You tried to look him in the eye, your gaze catching on the wrinkles under his eye, then drifting down to his mouth.
“I… I ain’t got a clue what you’re—”
The fight drained out of your voice the second his hand moved from the wall to your throat. He didn’t squeeze — Arthur would never hurt you — but the weight of his large, calloused palm resting there, his thumb grazing the underside of your jaw, was enough to steal your words.
“’Pose I’ve been too nice to you,” he murmured, leaning down so his hot breath fanned over your ear. “I’ve been soft. Let you think you run this show. I’d oughta teach you a lesson on how a good girl conducts herself when she’s out with her man.”
You shook your head, a small, desperate movement. “I ain’t a girl to be handled, Arthur.”
“Tonight, you’re exactly that,” he countered. His hand tightened just a fraction, earning a gasp from you that tracked dangerously close to a whimper. “Still not listenin’. Still tryin’ to be the boss. You gonna say you’re sorry, or do I have to work it out of you?”
You bit your lip, your stubbornness warring with the heat pooling in your lower belly. You looked up at him, your eyes defiant. You didn't say a word.
Arthur let out a dark, dry chuckle that sent shivers down your spine. “Fine. We’ll do it the hard way. Turn around.”
“Arthur—”
“Turn. Around.”
Reluctantly, you turned, your face pressed against the cool wood of the wall. You felt his presence behind you, massive and overwhelming.
He reached out, his fingers fumbling with the tiny buttons at the back of your dress. He was surprisingly patient for a man in a rage, unfastening each one with a terrifying deliberateness. As the fabric loosened, he pulled the dress down over your shoulders, exposing the white chemise and the tightly laced corset beneath.
You let out a shaky breath, trying to pull your stomach in. you were acutely aware of your body — the soft curve of your hips, the weight of your breasts, the way the corset squeezed your waist to try and hide the "chubbiness" you were so certain made you less attractive.
Arthur’s hands paused at your waist. He didn't pull the corset tighter; instead, he traced the line of your hip with his thumb, his touch unexpectedly reverent despite his anger.
“You spend so much time tryin’ to hide yourself in these damn things,” he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. “Tryin’ to be small. Tryin’ to be quiet. But today? Today you wanted to be seen. You wanted everyone lookin’ at you.”
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Well, you got my attention now, darlin’. All of it.”
Suddenly, he gripped the back of your neck, forcing your head down slightly. “Now, you’re gonna tell me you were a brat. Say it.”
Your hands gripped the wall, your knuckles turning white. “I… I was just—”
“Say it,” he growled, his hand shifting from your neck to the small of your back, pressing your pelvis firmly against the wall.
“I was a brat,” you whispered, her voice cracking.
“Louder. And tell me what a brat deserves.”
You closed your eyes, the scent of him—leather, woodsmoke, and *man*—filling your senses. The religious girl in you screamed that this was a sin, that you should be praying for forgiveness. But the woman in you, the one who loved this rough, broken man more than life itself, was screaming for something else entirely.
“I was a brat, Arthur,” you said, your voice stronger now, laced with a desperate kind of honesty. “And I… I suppose I deserve a spankin’.”
You heard the sound of a belt buckle clinking—the most terrifying and exhilarating sound you ever heard.
“Good girl,” Arthur purred, the praise hitting you like a physical blow. “See? You can be obedient when you try. Now, hold onto that wall, doll. Don't you move an inch until I tell you I’m done with you. You’re gonna learn exactly who you belong to.”
You gripped the wood, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, the cross necklace dangling between your breasts as you waited for the first taste of your penance.
The leather belt didn’t come down immediately. Instead, Arthur used it to lift the hem of your skirts, bunching the heavy fabric up around your waist until your drawers and the tops of your stockings were exposed. Your breath hitched, your fingers digging into the rough-hewn logs of the cabin wall. You felt the cool air of the room hit your skin, followed closely by the radiating heat of Arthur’s body.
“Look at you,” Arthur murmured, his voice thick with a dark sort of satisfaction. “Covered in all this lace and bone, tryin’ to hide what God gave you. You think I don't see you? You think I don't know why you’re actin’ out?”
He reached around you, his large hand splaying flat over your stomach, feeling the way you tried to suck it in against the constraints of your corset. He clicked his tongue disparagingly.
“Stop that. I told you before, I like a woman with some meat on her bones. Makes you soft where a man needs it. But today, you weren’t actin’ like a woman. You were actin’ like a child seekin’ attention. So, I’m gonna give you exactly what you’re lookin’ for.”
The first strike of his open palm wasn’t a blow; it was a heavy, stinging slap across the meat of your ass.
You let out a sharp yelp, your back arching instinctively. The sting was immediate, a blooming heat that radiated across your skin. It wasn't the pain that shocked you as much as the sheer authority behind it.
“That’s for the general store,” Arthur counted, his voice calm, almost conversational.
Whack.
“That’s for the clerk.”
Whack
“And that’s for walkin’ away when I told you to stay.”
Your eyes watered, your nose pressing against the wood. You could smell the pine sap and the faint scent of old dust. “Arthur, please,” you whimpered, your pride finally beginning to crumble.
“Please what,baby? Please stop? Or please keep goin’ until you remember who you’re supposed to be listenin’ to?” He didn't wait for an answer. He rained down a steady rhythm of slaps, his hand heavy and unerring. He wasn't being cruel—there was a precision to it, a controlled discipline that made you feel entirely handled.
You began to sob softly, your cheeks flushed a deep crimson, tears wetting the wood. Every time your body tried to recoil, his other hand, still resting firm on the back of your neck, kept you pinned.
“You’re gettin’ so red for me, darlin’,” he praised, the words dripping with a condescending sweetness that made your heart race. “Such a pretty, colorful mess you’re makin’. Look at you, shakin’ like a leaf. Are you startin’ to feel sorry yet?”
“Yes,” you choked out, your voice muffled. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t believe you yet,” he whispered. He stepped back for a moment, and the sudden absence of his heat made you feel cold and abandoned. Then she heard the leather of his belt fold over in his hand. “You’ve been a real trial today, darlin’. A real test of my patience. And you know what the Bible says about those who spare the rod.”
Your eyes went wide. You looked over your shoulder, your eyes shimmering with a mix of fear and desperate wanting. The silver cross swung wildly from your neck, hitting your collarbone. “Arthur, please… I’ll be good. I’ll be a good girl.”
“You’ll be a good girl after I’ve finished tamin’ the brat out of you,” he corrected.
He didn’t use the belt with the full force he’d use in a fight, but the leather had a bite that his palm lacked. The first crack against your thighs made your knees buckle. You would have fallen if he hadn't caught you by the waist, hauling you back up and over his thigh as he sat down on the heavy wooden bench by the table.
Now you were draped across him, your skirts tossed over your head, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in the center of their home. The indignity of it was overwhelming. She felt like a sinner at the altar, stripped of your pretenses.
“Count ‘em,” Arthur commanded, the belt hovering. “Every time you feel the leather, you tell me why you’re gettin’ it. If you lose track, we start over.”
Crack.
You gasped, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on his denim-clad leg. “One… for… for bein’ disrespectful.”
Crack.
“Two… for runnin’ off.” your voice was high and thinned by tears.
“Good girl,” Arthur murmured, his hand stroking the small of your back in a brief, confusing moment of tenderness before the belt fell again. “See? You’re findin’ your manners. It’s a shame we had to go through all this just to get you to find your tongue.”
He continued until you reached ten, your voice a broken whisper of confessions. By the time he tossed the belt onto the table, you were a sobbing, trembling wreck. He pulled you up, tucking your head under his chin and wrapping his massive arms around you. He let you cry into his shirt, his fingers gently untangling the curls that had become a knotted mess during your struggle.
“There now,” he cooed, his voice returning to that low, rumbling barrette that usually soothed you to sleep. “The worst is over. You’ve been a brave little thing, haven’t you? Took your lickin’ like a lady.”
You clung to him, your fingers clutching the fabric of his waistcoat. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a heavy, pulsing ache in your lower body that was rapidly turning into something much more demanding.
Arthur pulled back just enough to look at you. He reached up, his thumb wiping a tear from the mole under your right eye. His expression softened, the darkness in his eyes shifting from anger to a smoldering, possessive heat.
“You learned your lesson?” he asked, his voice a low growl.
You nodded frantically, your cheeks still damp. “Yes, Arthur.”
“And who do you belong to?”
“You,” you whispered, your heart thudding against your ribs. “I belong to you.”
Arthur’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then down to the lace of your chemise, where your breath was coming in quick, shallow pants. “Well then. Since you’re bein’ so obedient now… I reckon it’s time I rewarded you for finally listenin’.”
He stood up, effortlessly lifting you into his arms. You let out a small squeak of surprise, wrapping your legs around his waist. As he carried you toward the bedroom, you felt the sting of your raw skin against his rough clothes, a delicious reminder of the price you paid—and the pleasure that was about to follow.
“I’m gonna see every inch of you tonight, sweet thing,” Arthur promised, his voice dark and promising. “No corsets. No hidin’. Just you and me. And you’re gonna be the best girl I’ve ever had. Understand?”
“Yes, Arthur,” you breathed, burying your face in his neck as he kicked the bedroom door shut. “Anything you want.”
Tags: Leon S. Kennedy/Reader, Leon S. Kennedy (Resident Evil), RE: Death Island Era, Makeup Sex, Silent Treatment, Rough Sex, Face Down Ass Up, Praise Kink (Condescending/Mean), Overstimulation, Desperate Leon S. Kennedy, Creampie.
Summary:
Leon has been a soldier too long. He’s stubborn, he’s weary, and his default setting during a fight is an impenetrable wall of silence. But two hours of your icy stares in the cramped confines of the safehouse broke him. You told him to show you he’s sorry. Now, face-down on the mattress, you’re making sure he earns every bit of your forgiveness.
The air in the San Francisco safehouse was so thick with unspoken resentment you could practically taste the copper in it. For two hours, the only sound was the ticking of the wall clock and the distant hum of traffic. No talking. No looking. Just two hours of Leon S. Kennedy—legendary agent, survivor of Raccoon City, hero of the Island—sitting on the edge of the sofa, staring at his boots while you existed in the same space as an angry ghost.
The fight had been stupid—a cocktail of his reckless disregard for his own safety during the Alcatraz mission and his refusal to admit he was exhausted. But Leon didn't cave easily. He was a man built on steel and secrets.
Until you’d stood up, walked into the bedroom, and left the door cracked.
He’d followed three minutes later. You didn’t give him a chance to start an apology with words. Words were too easy for him; he was too good at talking his way out of trouble. You’d simply turned your back, stripped off your jeans, and braced yourself over the edge of the bed in a clear, undeniable invitation that felt more like a demand.
"Show me you're sorry, Leon."
Now, the silence was long gone, replaced by the rhythmic, wet slaps of skin hitting skin and the heavy, ragged sound of Leon’s breathing.
You were exactly where you wanted to be: face down, hips shoved high into the air, while Leon worked behind you with a desperate, punishing intensity. He had his large, calloused hands clamped over your waist, his thumbs digging into your hip bones as he drove himself into you with enough force to slide you an inch forward on the sheets with every thrust.
"Ngh… damn it…" Leon’s voice was a gravelly mess, cracking under the strain.
He was sweating. You could feel it dripping from his hair onto your lower back, hot and messy. This wasn't the measured, suave Leon you saw in the field. This was a man trying to fuck his way back into your good graces, his composure completely dismantled by the fear of losing you.
You let out a sharp moan, your face muffled by the pillow. You felt the bedframe creak and groan, the steady thud-thud-thud echoing the violence of the argument you’d just had.
"Is that… all?" you managed to gasp out, turning your head slightly so he could hear your smirk. You sounded bored—condescending, even. You knew it would drive him insane. "I thought a hero like you could do better than a mediocre apology, Leon. You were doing so well at being a prick earlier."
A low, guttural growl erupted from his throat. He leaned down, his chest crushing against your back as he reached up, fisting his hand into your hair and pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat.
"I’m trying… fuck, I'm trying," he rasped, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck. He sped up, his hips slamming into yours with a reckless, frantic pace. "Tell me… dollface… tell me it’s enough."
"It's getting there," you teased, your voice trembling as the pleasure began to overwhelm your senses. "Maybe if you were a bit more thorough… a bit more… desperate."
Leon let out a sound that was dangerously close to a sob—a jagged, high-pitched whimper that vibrated through your body. He was shaking. His hands left your waist to grip your shoulders, his fingers bruising your skin.
"S-so sorry… fuck… I'm so sorry, dollface," he repeated, the words tumbling out in time with his frantic movements. His head tossed back, his eyes fluttering shut. "Please… forgive me? I’m such an idiot… I'm your idiot… p-please…"
He was unravelling. You could feel it in the way his muscles were seizing, the way he was losing the rhythm because he was trying so hard to get deep enough to prove he belonged to you.
"Good boy," you crooned, the praise dripping with a mock-haughty sweetness. You reached back, your fingers tracing the straining muscles of his thighs. "You're apologizing so well now, Leon. Just like that. Show me how much you need to be forgiven."
The "good boy" snapped the final thread of his control. Leon let out a choked moan, his hips hitching in a frantic, uncoordinated burst of speed. He was overstimulated, his nerves fried by the mission, the fight, and the sheer crushing weight of your attention.
"You're—god, you’re so good to me," he whimpered, his eyes rolling back. "So good to let me… let me do this… I'm gonna—dollface, please—"
He bottomed out with a force that made you cry out, his body going rigid as he finally broke. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in broken, weeping gasps as he spilled into you. He didn't pull back. He kept his weight on you, his fingers still buried in your hair, his body twitching with the remnants of the most desperate orgasm he’d had in years.
The room fell quiet again, but the silence was different now—soft, heavy, and forgiven.
Leon didn't move for a long time. He stayed inside you, his heartbeat hammering against your spine. Eventually, he started kissing the marks he'd left on your shoulders, his lips soft and trembling.
"Better?" he whispered, his voice small and genuinely vulnerable.
You reached back, patting his cheek in a way that was still a little bit condescending, but mostly affectionate.
"Keep that up, Leon," you murmured, closing your eyes as the afterglow settled in. "And I might just let you sleep on the bed tonight."
He let out a shaky, relieved laugh, holding you tighter. "Thank you, dollface. Thank you."
a/n : more leon stuff cs i love him sm, also thanks for the support <33 also I wanna try some dean winchester stuff but im worried of fucking up cs i havent watched the show...
Tags: NSFW MDNI, Very Needy Choso, Face Sitting, Cunnilingus, Dominate Female reader, Praise Kink, Begging, Smut, Submissive Choso
Kitora was the first to notice the shift in the room's atmosphere. The sleek black cat narrowed her eyes from her perch atop the bookshelf, letting out a soft, warning chuff.
You didn’t look up from your laptop. Your hair was ruffled, a few stray strands falling over your forehead. Choso was staring again.
He was seated on the edge of the bed, his usual stoicism completely dissolved into something soft and painfully desperate. It was a common occurrence; Choso, for all his lethal prowess as a Death Painting, was a man built for devotion. And you, who guarded your personal space like a fortress, was the only thing he wanted to worship.
“My love,” he murmured. His voice was a low rasp that usually made your skin prickle.
“I’m working, Choso.” You didn't look at him. Your eyes remained fixed on the screen. You didn't do 'touch' often. It was too loud, too demanding.
But Choso was a master of silent pressure. He moved closer, crawling on his hands and knees until he was right between your legs, looking at you hungrily through hooded eyes. He didn't touch you yet — he knew the rules — but the heat radiating from him was palpable.
“You’ve been working for hours,” he whispered, his large hands resting tentatively on the back of your laptop. “Please. Just a moment of your time.”
You finally sighed, snapping your laptop shut. You looked at him, your expression cool, though the slight glint in your pupils betrayed you. “You’re being particularly needy tonight.”
“I’m hungry for you,” Choso admitted, his eyes dark with an intensity that would have terrified anyone else. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, his breath hitching when you didn't pull away. “I want to be useful. I want to feel you.”
You reached up, your slender fingers brushing through his messy hair — a rare concession. “And what does ‘useful’ look like in that head of yours?”
Choso looked up, his gaze dropping to the silver bar in your tongue as you spoke, then lower to the toned line of your thighs beneath your large shirt. He swallowed hard. “I want to be beneath you. Truly beneath you. Please, my darling... let me... I want you to sit on my face.”
The bluntness of it made your eyebrows jump. “Choso.”
“Please,” he begged, his voice cracking. He shifted, sinking closer to you, his expression one filled with pure need and devotion. “I want to taste you. I want to hold the weight of you. I won’t move, I’ll just… I’ll just serve you. Please.”
You looked at him — at the raw, unchecked desperation on his face. You glanced at Kitora, who gave a slow blink of approval before turning her head.
“You’re pathetic when you’re like this,” You said, though there was no heat in the insult.
“I am,” Choso agreed immediately, his hands reaching up to catch the hem of your shirt, his fingers trembling slightly. “Anything you want to call me, as long as you let me.”
You stood up from the bed slowly, shedding your panties. Choso’s breath caught, his heart hammering against his ribs so loudly you could almost hear it. You moved to the edge of the bed and spread your legs slightly. You didn't say a word, just tapped the mattress below you.
Choso didn't need a second invitation. He scrambled onto the bed, his movements frantic yet careful not to crowd you. He laid himself flat between your thighs, looking up at you with those haunting eyes.
You shifted, sliding down until you were hovering directly over him. “Don’t make me regret this,” you warned, your voice dropping an octave.
You lowered yourself.
Choso let out a choked, muffled sound of pure bliss as you settled her weight onto him. The scent of you — an earthy musk and something sweet — flooded his senses. He couldn't help it; his hands flew to your hips, his fingers digging into the firm, toned muscle of your waist, anchoring you to him.
You gasped, your back arching. The silver ball of your tongue piercing clicked against your teeth. “Choso—”
He didn't wait. He plunged his tongue into you, finding a rhythm with a desperation that was both feral and incredibly sweet. He was worshipful in his execution, his tongue swiping with broad, wet strokes that made your head throb.
You weren't used to this much sensation. You usually preferred your autonomy, your quiet. But with Choso literally beneath you, bearing your entire weight and devouring you like his life depended on it, your independence felt less like a shield and more like a veil you were happy to tear.
“Choso, fuck,” you hissed, your fingers lacing into his dark hair, pulling hard.
He groaned into you, the sound vibrating through your entire lower body. He was begging again, even with his mouth full—unintelligible sounds of devotion and need. He pushed his face deeper against you, his nose buried in your folds, breathing you in as he worked his tongue with a relentless, frantic pace.
Stars spun in your vision. You looked down at him—the way his hands gripped your thighs, his knuckles white, the way he looked so utterly ruined by you. It was a power trip you hadn’t expected to enjoy this much.
“Again,” you commanded, your voice trembling. “Right there.”
Choso obeyed instantly. He was a creature of blood and instinct, and right now, every drop of his blood was dedicated to your pleasure. He used his fingers to spread you further, his tongue hitting your clit with a precision that sent a jolt of lightning straight to your toes.
Your breath came in ragged, short bursts. You felt the climax building—a supernova behind your eyes. You leaned back, your weight pressing harder into his face, nearly smothering him. Choso didn't pull back; he leaned *into* it, his hands sliding up to your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the peaks of your nipples, loving every inch of you.
“I’ve got you,” he seemed to mumble against your wetness. “I’ve got you, my love.”
You broke.
Your body convulsed, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you came. You clamped down on him, your muscles twitching in the aftershock of a release so intense it made your eyes water.
Choso took every bit of it. He stayed there, his tongue moving slower now, lapping up the remnants of you, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. He didn't pull away until you finally slumped forward, your strength spent.
When you finally shifted, Choso looked up at you, his face a mess, his hair disheveled, and his expression one of absolute, terrifying love.
“Better?” he whispered.
You wiped your eyes, your hair a disaster, your pupils dilated so much it almost swallowed your irises whole. You looked at him, then at your own trembling hands.
Choso wrapped his long arms around you, pulling your back into his chest. “Can I stay?” Choso asked, his voice muffled in the crook of your neck.
You sighed, closing your eyes and leaning into his heat. “Yeah,” you murmured, your voice drifting off. “Stay.”
a/n: writers block kicking my ass 😓 figured out how to color my text tho! Credits to @issysh3ll and @saradika-graphics for the dividers!!
The velvet curtains of Levi’s study were drawn tight against the moonlight, leaving the room illuminated only by the flicker of low-burning candles and the dying embers in the hearth. The air here was always the same: it smelled of ancient parchment, expensive Earl Grey, and the sharp, metallic tang of copper that seemed to emanate from Levi’s very pores.
You stood in the center of the room, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs—a sound that, in this silence, was as loud as a drumbeat to the creature watching you.
Levi sat behind his mahogany desk, his posture perfect, his fingers laced together. He looked every bit the Victorian aristocrat, save for the unnatural stillness of his body and the way his steel-gray eyes glowed with a faint, predatory red in the shadows.
"You’re late," he rasped. His voice was a gravelly silk that made the hair on your arms stand up. "I told you to be back before the moon reached its peak."
"The market was crowded, Levi. I—"
In a blur of motion too fast for human eyes to track, he was in front of you. The air shifted as his cold, solid weight crowded into your space. One hand, pale and deceptively slender, shot out to grip your waist, while the other tilted your chin up. His touch was icy, but the possessive strength in his fingers made heat bloom in your belly.
"You smell of them," he hissed, his nose dragging along the pulse point of your neck. "Stale sweat and cheap cologne. You were talking to the baker's boy again."
"I was buying bread," you gasped, your head falling back as his grip tightened. "He’s just a boy, Levi."
Levi’s fangs nipped at the skin of your throat—a warning graze that sent a shiver straight to your core. "He looked at you as if you were something he could have. As if you aren't already spoken for. I don’t like other vermin sniffing around my things."
He leaned in closer, his tongue dragging a hot, wet stripe from the hollow of your throat to behind your ear. "You're mine. Every drop of blood in these veins belongs to me. Do you understand?"
"Yes," you whimpered, your fingers clutching the lapels of his heavy black coat. "Yes, Levi."
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, his hand slid from your chin to your nape, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head to the side, exposing the jugular. Levi didn't hesitate. He sank his fangs deep into the tender flesh.
You cried out, half-pain and half-searing ecstasy, as the intoxicating venom in his saliva flooded your system. It acted like a drug, making your limbs feel heavy and your mind haze over. You felt the rhythmic, powerful tug of him drinking—a visceral, intimate connection that left you weak.
Levi let out a low, vibrating growl of satisfaction. He didn't take much; he was never reckless with you. When he pulled away, he licked the puncture marks clean with obsessive care, ensuring not a single drop was wasted or allowed to stain your clothes.
But he was far from finished. The taste of you always flipped a switch in him—from the controlled, stoic captain to a ravenous, centuries-old beast.
He swept the tea set and books off his desk with a single, violent motion of his arm. He hoisted you up, seating you on the edge of the dark wood, and stepped between your thighs.
"I'm going to make sure that for the next week, the only thing you smell of is me," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave as he began to unlace your bodice with frantic, trembling fingers.
When he finally bared you to his sight, he stared at your chest with a hunger that had nothing to do with blood. He lowered his head, his mouth capturing your nipple, his tongue swirling and sucking until you were sobbing his name, your heels digging into his back.
Levi’s hands roamed over you with territorial fervor, marking every inch of your skin with hickeys and light teeth marks—bruising claims that would bloom like dark flowers by morning.
"Please, Levi," you begged, reaching for the buttons of his trousers.
He assisted you, his movements efficient even in his lust. When he was finally free, thick and pulsing with undead heat, he didn't give you a moment to adjust. He gripped your thighs, hiking them over his broad shoulders, and drove himself into you in one long, devastating thrust.
The breath was punched out of you. You felt entirely occupied, stretched to your absolute limit by his size. Levi let out a sharp, staccato groan, his forehead dropping against yours as he stayed still for a moment, savoring the tight, wet heat of you.
"Look at me," he commanded.
You forced your eyes open, meeting his burning red stare. He began to move then—a ruthless, pounding rhythm that shook the desk against the wall. He was powerful, his muscles working beneath his skin like coiled steel. Every snap of his hips was an assertion of ownership, a deep, bruising drive that sent sparks of white-hot pleasure through your nerves.
"Tell me," he rasped, his breath hot against your lips. "Whose are you?"
"Yours," you cried, your voice breaking as you felt the first ripples of your climax building. "Always yours, Levi."
He kissed you then—a messy, desperate clash of lips and teeth that tasted of your own blood and his desire. His pace became frenetic, a blur of motion that drove you toward the edge of a cliff.
When you broke, your body clenching around him in tight, rhythmic spasms, Levi let out a low, animalistic growl. He buried his face in your neck, his fangs grazing the skin again as he flooded you with his release.
For several minutes, the only sound in the room was your synchronized, heavy breathing. Levi didn't pull away immediately. He remained buried inside you, his arms wrapping around your torso to pull you flush against him. He hid his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the marks he’d left earlier.
"Mine," he whispered into your skin, his voice back to its usual soft, gravelly tone, but layered with a fierce, unwavering devotion.
He stayed that way, holding you in the quiet dark of the room, until the first hint of dawn began to touch the horizon. He would carry you to his bed, clean you with a damp silk cloth, and guard your sleep with the same terrifying intensity that he had claimed your body—a vampire king, and you, his only tether to the world of the living.
a/n: im ngl this was a lil rushed, im tired 😓. another req from my bestie bestie! Credits to @pixopix and @diviniyae for dividers!
Teasing Attraction ~ College JJK AU pt 2
pt 1 here!! - Teasing Attraction pt1
You groaned, your patience entirely evaporating as you turned on your heel and grabbed Naomi by the elbow. "We're leaving," you muttered, your raspy voice leaving absolutely no room for argument. "I'll explain in the car."
"Wait, my drink—!" Naomi protested, but you were already practically dragging her out, weaving through the sweaty bodies and spilling out into the crisp, mercifully cool night air.
True to your word, once they were sealed inside the quiet sanctuary of your beat-up sedan, you told her everything. You recounted the kitchen encounter with a heavy scowl, detailing how obnoxiously arrogant Gojo had been, how close he had stepped, and the absolute audacity the frat king had to touch your face.
You finished his rant and looked over, only to be met with a massive, shit-eating grin on Naomi’s face.
"You mean to tell me he flirted with you?" she squealed, her hands slapping her knees in delight.
You huffed, your ash-grey hair falling over your eyes as you shook your head aggressively. "That wasn't flirting—"
"As if you'd know that!" Naomi interrupted, pointing a manicured finger at your nose. "I'm the queen when it comes to flirting! That was flirting. Oh my god, Satoru Gojo wants to climb you like a tree."
You gripped the steering wheel so hard your knuckles turned stark white against the dark caramel of your skin. The thought sent an involuntary, horrifying jolt of heat straight to your groin, a sensation you violently forced down. "We're going home," you gritted out, shoving the key into the ignition.
The next week was exactly as normal as you wanted it to be.
you went to your classes, sat in the very back, and retreated straight to your dorm. Your only physical contact consisted of Kitora, your massive, fluffy Maine Coon mix, who spent hours draped over your chest, purring a heavy rhythm that usually grounded you. But this week, your mind was traitorous.
While running your fingers through Kitora’s fur, your brain would suddenly supply the phantom scent of expensive bourbon and mint. When you looked in the mirror, your fingers would brush your septum ring, remembering the agonizingly slow way Gojo’s long fingers had flicked the metal. You pushed the thoughts down with a heavy, frustrated sigh, summing it up to you just being profoundly annoyed that someone had invaded your personal bubble. That was all.
By Friday afternoon, the sun was blazing, and you and Naomi were out, walking across the bustling campus square to her favorite artisan ice cream spot. you was dressed down but still distinctly himself: a loose black muscle tee that dipped low, displaying the hard earned tonedness of your arms. your heavy silver chains clinked softly as you walked, your ash-grey mullet catching the sunlight.
"I'm just saying, if you got the matcha flavor last time, you need to branch out," Naomi was saying, walking backward to face you.
You rolled your eyes. "I like routine. Routine doesn't disappoint me."
you looked past her shoulder, and your breath instantly snagged in your throat.
Walking down the opposite side of the promenade were Geto and Gojo, deeply engrossed in their own conversation. Gojo was impossible to miss. Even in a simple white tee and loose denim, he looked like a walking centerfold, his white hair gleaming practically blindingly in the sun. The stupid round sunglasses were still firmly perched on his nose.
you grumbled under your breath, your jaw clenching tight enough to crack a molar. You averted your gaze, staring intensely at a nearby trash can, praying to whatever higher power existed that they would just walk past each other.
But Gojo was a predator by nature. His radar pinged the second you entered his vicinity.
Gojo stopped mid-sentence. From behind his dark lenses, his icy blue eyes locked onto the ash-grey mullet, tracing down to the exposed, toned arms. The memory of their kitchen standoff flooded back—the flash of the tongue piercing, the raspy, venomous voice, and the fact that you hadn't backed down an inch. That same electric spark from the party flared to life in Gojo’s chest, hot and demanding.
Instead of walking past, Gojo aggressively altered his course, striding directly into your path.
"Well, well, well," Gojo practically purred, forcing you to halt so abruptly that Naomi bumped into your back. "If it isn't the life of the party."
Your eyes narrowed into slits. The sheer proximity of the taller—well, equally tall—man made your skin prickle. "Get out of my way, Gojo."
Gojo just smirked, planting his feet and sliding his hands into his pockets. "And here I thought we were getting to be such good friends. You didn't even say goodbye last week."
Geto caught up, offering Naomi a polite, somewhat apologetic smile before looking between the two men. The tension between them was so thick it was practically suffocating the sidewalk.
"We're not friends," you snapped, your voice rough, dropping an octave. "And considering you look like a walking STD, I'd prefer to keep a ten-foot radius between us at all times."
Naomi gasped softly. Geto let out a bark of laughter, clearly enjoying the show.
Gojo didn’t get mad. If anything, his grin widened, exposing straight white teeth. He took a deliberate step forward, closing the distance until the toes of their sneakers were touching. Once again, you refused to back down, lifting your chin so their eyes were perfectly level.
"Is that so?" Gojo murmured, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that sent a dangerous shiver down your spine. The frat boy arrogance was laced with something deeply hungry. Gojo slowly lowered his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, exposing those vivid, crystalline blue eyes. "Because from where I'm standing, you don't look like you want to be ten feet away from me at all."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. The touch-starved part of your brain screamed at the nearness, the sheer, radiant heat coming off Gojo's body. Your eyes flicked down to Gojo's lips before you caught yourself, snapping your gaze back up with a fierce scowl.
"Move," you warned, your tone dark. "Before I make you."
"Oh, pretty boy," Gojo whispered, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer, the scent of mint and musk washing over you. "I'd love to see you try."
Your tongue darted out, dragging over your bottom lip in a nervous tick, the silver ball of your piercing glinting in the sun. Gojo’s eyes immediately dropped to your mouth, tracking the movement like a starving man looking at a feast.
Before you could throw the punch your muscles were winding up for, Naomi hooked her arm firmly through yours.
"Ice cream, bub," she chirped brightly, entirely unfazed by the localized hurricane of sexual tension happening in front of her. "It's melting, let's go."
You held Gojo's intense stare for one second longer, the unsaid challenge hanging heavy in the air between them. Finally, you broke away, letting Naomi pull you past the two frat boys. As your shoulder brushed against Gojo's, a jolt of electricity zapped through your nerves, making your breath hitch audibly.
Gojo definitely heard it.
As you walked away, your skin burning where they had touched, Gojo turned his head to watch you leave.
Your jaw ticked, a muscle feathering rapidly in your cheek as you stared straight ahead. "Don't say a thing."
But Naomi never listened.
She held it in for exactly three seconds before she exploded into a fit of breathless laughter, slapping your arm. "I didn't even have to say a word! Your face is saying it all for me! You are practically glowing neon red."
"It's the sun," you ground out, walking faster, your combat boots hitting the pavement with heavy, aggressive thuds. "It's ninety degrees outside."
"Oh, please!" Naomi jogged a few steps to keep up with your long strides, your eyes dancing with wicked delight. "I am looking at a man who is two seconds away from hate-fucking the king of Sigma Alpha right there on the quad. The eye contact? The lip-staring? The shoulder brush? I thought you were going to tackle him!"
"I was going to tackle him. Out of self-defense." You shoved your hands into your pockets, your shoulders hunched up to your ears. you hated how betrayed you felt by your own body. Even now, a full block away, your skin was practically humming where Gojo’s arm had grazed yours.
It was pathetic. You was so incredibly starved for physical contact that a simple, accidental brush from an arrogant, overgrown frat boy was enough to send a shockwave of heat straight down to your toes. You wanted to peel your skin off. You wanted to go home, lock your door, and bury your face in Kitora’s grey fur until you forgot the exact shade of Satoru Gojo’s eyes.
"Self-defense, my ass," Naomi snorted as they finally reached the shaded awning of Sweet Chills, pushing the glass door open. "He wants to eat you alive. And honestly? I think you want to let him."
"If you don't shut up right now, I'm paying for my own cone and leaving you here to walk back," You threatened, though the raspy edge of your voice lacked its usual bite.
You stepped up to the counter, desperate for a distraction, and ordered a double scoop of dark chocolate cherry. You leaned your forearms against the cool marble of the counter, trying to let the chill seep into your overheated skin. You took a slow, deep breath, finally feeling your racing heart begin to settle.
And then, the little brass bell above the door chimed —
The air on the peaks of Olympus was thin, smelling of ozone and the iron tang of spilled blood. Outside the chamber, the world was a cacophony of crumbling stone and divine lightning as the foundations of the Greek world bucked under Kratos’s fury.
Inside, the only sound was the heavy, rhythmic thrum of footsteps against marble.
You stood by the arched balcony, watching the storm, until the temperature in the room seemed to rise twenty degrees. You didn’t have to turn around to know he was there. The weight of his presence was an anchor.
“Kratos,” you breathed.
He came to a halt directly behind you. He didn’t touch you yet, but the heat radiating from his massive frame was a physical force. He was caked in the dust of ruins and the white, chalky ash that never left him. The crimson tattoo that snaked across his torso and over his eye seemed to pulse in the low light of the hearth.
“The cycle draws to a close,” his voice was a low, guttural vibration that you felt in your own chest. “The Olympians fall.”
“And you?” You turned slowly, meeting his steely, weary eyes. “What is left for the Ghost of Sparta when the world is ash?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, his large, scarred hand reached out, cupping your jaw. His thumb, thick and calloused, brushed over your lower lip. There was a desperate, hunger in his gaze — a need to be reminded that he was still made of flesh and bone, and not just vengeance and slaughter.
With a sudden, forceful movement, he crowded you back against the stone railing. You gasped as your lower back hit the marble, but his other arm was already around your waist, hauling you upward so your chests collided.
“Tonight,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours, “there is only this.”
His mouth crashed against yours with the force of a tidal wave. It wasn't a soft kiss; it was a conquest. He tasted of bitterness and fire, his tongue seeking yours with a ravenous intent. Your hands flew to his shoulders, gripping the hard, corded muscle as he tasted you, his growl vibrating through your teeth.
Kratos broke the kiss to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing heavy and ragged. He took a handful of your hair, tugging your head back to expose the line of your throat. His teeth grazed the skin there, biting down just hard enough to mark you—a Spartan’s claim.
“Kratos, please,” you whimpered, your nails scraping helplessly at his back.
He didn't wait. He caught the hem of your clothes and rent them with a single, sharp tug. He wasn't being cruel—he was just a man with no time for subtlety. When your skin was finally bared to the cool mountain air, he took a moment to look at you, his eyes dark with a worshipful kind of greed.
He stepped back just enough to free himself. He was monumental, a deity carved from stone and trauma, his heavy length pulsing and eager. He stepped back in, lifting you by your thighs as if you weighed nothing.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms locked around his neck as he pinned you back against the temple pillar. The stone was cold, but Kratos was a furnace.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice cracking with the effort of restraint.
You opened your eyes, meeting that piercing, golden-brown stare. He waited until you were watching before he guided himself to your cunt. He pushed in slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, his jaw tight as he felt you stretch and give way to him.
You let out a broken cry, your head tossing back against the stone as the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him took root. He was too large, too much, yet exactly what you needed to feel alive.
“Good,” he grunted, the praise rough and blunt. “You take me so well.”
Then, the pace began.
He moved with the relentless rhythm of a battering ram. Every thrust was deep, authoritative, slamming your hips back against the pillar. The Blades of Exile jingled on his back with every snap of his hips. Kratos wasn't gentle; he pounded into you with a desperate urgency, as if he could fuck the rage out of his soul and replace it with the warmth of your body.
You were a mess of incoherent moans and scratches, your nails digging into the pale, ashy skin of his back. You felt the slick of his sweat drip and mix with your own, you didn't care, your mind focused only on the sheer force behind each thrust. You only wanted him deeper.
“Harder, Kratos!”
A dark, primal smirk touched his lips — the only shadow of a smile he ever wore. He adjusted his grip, one hand staying beneath your thigh while the other moved to the front of your throat. He didn’t squeeze, but the weight of his palm there grounded you, forced you to focus entirely on the friction between your thighs and the sight of his face above you.
The pleasure reached a fever pitch, a searing heat building in your core that made your toes curl and your back arch.
“Kratos—I’m—”
“I have you,” he growled, his thrusts becoming faster, more violent. A low, primal growl rumbling deep within his chest only brought you closer to that climax.
As you hit your peak, your body convulsing around him in tight, rhythmic ripples, Kratos let out a guttural roar. He buried his face in your shoulder, biting down hard to stifle his own shout as he finished deep inside you. It was a staggering amount of heat, a flooding sensation that made you feel like you were being filled with liquid gold.
He stayed there for a long time, his forehead pressed against your collarbone, his chest heaving as he slowly lowered you to your feet. His hands stayed on your waist, keeping you steady when your knees threatened to buckle.
Silence reclaimed the room, save for the crackle of the fire.
He stepped back, his expression returning to that stoic, haunted mask, but there was a softness in the way he reached out to wipe a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.
He didn’t say he loved you. Kratos didn't have those words left in him. But he pulled you into his arms, wrapping his massive, scarred frame around your smaller one, and held you in the darkness as the gods died outside.
a/n: This if my first time writing anything of Kratos since i saw there wasn't nearly enough fanfics or oneshots of him, chill on me. Credits to @issysh3ll and @saradika-graphics for the dividers!!
PLZ WRITE MORE KRATOS X READER THERE ARENT ENOUGH FICS ABT HIM
𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐒
| synopsis; Kratos is sent by Hephaestus to retrieve a weapon from a goddess—you. to complete it, you demand he escort you to the elemental forge. along the journey, your cocky attitude and sharp tongue push Kratos past restraint.
a/n; you didn’t specify so i assumed any Kratos x reader fic. i had this in my notes for a while now, finally.. ima post it. if the smut is bad, then.. idk fight Zeus about it. also i agree, more Kratos fics from me coming soon.
wc; 4.4k
ꫂ❁| sexual content, rough sex, degradation, dumbification, foreplay (i think), choking (light breath play), spit kink (i think i lost my mind half way with this one), God of War III au, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, mild impact (spanking, hair pulling), goddess!reader, younger!Kratos (GOW3), power imbalance, emotionally detached dom!Kratos. 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓! 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐅𝐅!
the forge was silent, save for the hissing of molten iron that never truly cooled.
hephaestus’s voice had been rough, worn from centuries of exile. when he told kratos where to go next—to find the goddess of elemental crafting who possessed a key piece to the weapon he needed—his eyes didn’t meet the spartan’s. perhaps it was shame. perhaps it was fear. he knew what kratos did to gods.
still, he sent him to you.
you stood at the edge of your chambers, forged into the hollowed heart of an obsidian mountain, hands stained with soot and starlight. your domain thrived where fire could speak. he found you there, unmoved by his presence.
you had heard of him, of course. the ghost of sparta. the god-slayer. the mortal with olympus under his heel.
you met his glare with your own.
“hephaestus sent you,” you said, voice honey-thick but firm. “and i assume you’re here for the blade.”
he gave no answer. just a grunt. jaw tense, lips slightly parted with restraint. red war paint still fresh against the raw heat of your forge.
your gaze dropped briefly to the blood smudged along his chest. then rose again to his eyes. unflinching.
you didn’t like him.
you didn’t hate him, either.
but he was loud in silence. he was violence made flesh. and he was standing in your territory like he had already won.
“you won’t get it here,” you said, folding your arms across your chest. “i forged the base long ago, but to finish it, i need to bring it to the source. and that’s not something i’m doing alone.”
his brow twitched.
“escort me,” you said. “keep the beasts at bay. i’ll complete what hephaestus started. simple.”
another long stare. another breath laced with judgment. he clearly didn’t want to play courier for a goddess.
“you have no choice, kratos.”
the name fell from your lips sharper than a blade, and it curled the corners of his mouth downward, as if your voice itself offended him.
“then move quickly.”
you didn’t thank him. and he didn’t wait for you. he turned, jaw set, and began walking the path back out of your chambers.
the journey should have been short. but the land between you and the forge-source was cursed with broken terrain, lingering titan blood, and creatures crawling from the ashes of cronos’s fall. it had been days since he’d climbed the chain that pierced the sky. and you had no sympathy for the exhaustion in his limbs.
still, he protected you.
more out of necessity than care.
you took your time.
on purpose.
because it annoyed him.
and gods, it was so easy to irritate him.
you questioned him, challenged him, even walked ahead of him on purpose. called him “champion” instead of “kratos,” just to see that tight flicker of annoyance cross his features. sometimes you’d pause to adjust your clothing—tighter fitting than necessary—and make no effort to hide how you enjoyed his gaze dropping for the briefest second.
“i didn’t know the spartan could blush.”
he didn’t respond. just tightened his grip on the blades chained to his arms.
still, he followed.
he killed for you.
and when your path brought you to a broken cliff, the only way across being a chain-walk over lava-burnt rocks, you stood near the edge and looked back at him.
“afraid of heights?” you asked, teasing.
his silence answered. and he stepped forward, taking the lead.
you smirked.
but the ground shook before either of you crossed.
another beast—twisted, skin pulled back over bone like melted wax—slammed through the rocks behind you. before you could summon a defense, it was kratos that moved. fast. brutal. he slammed his shoulder into you, not gently, and sent you skidding behind him just in time for the claws to rake air where your throat had been.
you rose to your feet, spitting stone dust, and shouted, “watch it!”
but he didn’t respond.
he was already moving.
already ripping the beast in half.
you stared as blood painted his skin and the air stilled.
“you could’ve warned me.”
“you were too slow.”
he finally spoke.
it was gravel. tight. low. not just annoyance. it was seething.
“maybe i would’ve been faster if i didn’t have to deal with your barking all day.”
you stiffened.
he turned to face you. chest heaving. eyes like smoke. his teeth clenched as he breathed through his nose, sharp and loud.
you took a step forward.
“what?” you hissed. “you don’t like a woman who talks back?”
his stare burned.
you wanted him angry. but you didn’t expect the heat behind his eyes to pin you so fast.
“you are loud,” he growled. “and reckless.”
“and you are quiet. and blind.”
his brow twitched.
you didn’t stop.
“you came here like you owned the forge. like your name alone would open every gate. you think strength is enough? there’s power in control, spartan. something you don’t have.”
his jaw clenched. he stepped forward once, twice, until your back hit the cliff wall. you refused to flinch. even with his broad chest nearly brushing yours, even when his breath was warm and angry against your cheek.
“you will speak,” he said low, “only when necessary.”
your heart pounded. but you didn’t look away.
“then shut me up.”
he didn’t move.
but the air between you had already ignited.
his eyes didn’t move from yours.
you tried to hold the line, to keep that familiar sharpness in your mouth, but the heat in his stare made your knees pulse. you hated how easily he read you. how easily he could command without saying a word.
and when he moved—
he didn’t ask.
his hand came up and gripped your jaw, not cruel, but firm—thumb dragging over your lower lip before pushing inside. your breath caught. not in fear. but from how hard you clenched at the dominance in that motion alone.
his body was against yours. towering. thick. unyielding muscle flush to your front. you’d taunted him for days. you deserved this. and he was going to make sure you remembered it.
“open.”
he didn’t say it loud.
but you obeyed.
his thumb pressed down on your tongue, slow, and the sound that left his throat was almost a growl—not satisfaction. warning. you’d crossed something. and now he would return it.
you were pulled away from the cliff wall and turned. fast.
your back hit the stone again, chest pressed tight against it. his hand on the back of your neck, large enough to wrap your throat without effort.
you let out a low, cocky breath—“you’re finally showing some fire—”
but your voice broke when you felt his mouth at the base of your neck. not kissing. biting.
you gasped, but he didn’t let go. instead, his free hand grabbed your hips, pulling them harshly into his front. you felt all of him. all of him. thick, heavy, fully hard—pinned right against your ass through his gear.
you rolled your hips once. smug.
“this because i talk too much?” you murmured, voice defiant.
he didn’t answer.
instead, his mouth trailed lower—lips hot against your spine, down the curve of your back, teeth dragging along the ridges of your skin like he meant to mark every part of you.
then he dropped to his knees behind you.
you opened your mouth to speak.
but then he pulled your hips back.
and his mouth met your cunt like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
you choked on a moan. hands flattening against the stone wall.
his tongue worked you open in slow, punishing strokes—wet and warm and deep, his nose pressed to the crease of you as he devoured without mercy. one arm wrapped under your thigh, lifting it slightly to open you more, while his mouth moved with disgusting, feral hunger.
no gentleness.
no praise.
just heat and purpose.
he grunted against you, the sound vibrating through your core, and your back arched hard enough that your cheek scraped the rock.
you tried to steady your breath, to keep your voice from breaking.
“fuck—kratos, you—”
he slapped your ass.
hard.
you yelped.
then his teeth grazed your clit, not biting—but warning. again.
you were already dripping, thighs trembling.
he licked once more—long and slow and mean—then stood.
your legs nearly gave.
“already weak?” he murmured, voice dark and low against your ear. “and i haven’t even put it in you.”
your heart slammed against your ribs.
you turned your face slightly, daring enough to speak through breathless lips—“maybe you’re just too slow.”
his growl was low. dangerous.
you smiled.
then gasped as his hand wrapped around your throat and bent you against the wall. the force not cruel, but claiming. his other hand yanked down what little armor you wore from behind, and you didn’t get a second to breathe before the blunt, massive head of his cock dragged between your folds.
you whimpered.
and he hadn’t even pushed in yet.
you tried to mouth something—maybe a warning, maybe defiance—
but then he thrust.
deep. thick. brutal.
you screamed.
the stretch was insane—hot, splitting, your hands clawing at the wall for any grip. he held you still by your throat and his other hand splayed across your stomach, pulling you onto him even deeper.
he didn’t wait.
he set a brutal rhythm instantly—hips snapping into you hard, over and over, the slap of skin against skin echoing off the cavern walls. you tried to speak but nothing came out, just moans choked by his hand and your own shaking breath.
“look at you now.”
his voice curled against your ear, low and smug and feral.
“couldn’t shut up for a day.”
slap.
his hips drove into you again, deeper than before.
“now all you do is moan.”
you cried out, body folding under each thrust.
he fucked you like punishment. like payback. like he’d been holding this back for hours. days.
and he didn’t let up.
his hand left your neck only to grab your hair—pulling your head back, making you arch, forcing your body to take every inch of him.
you tried to say his name.
tried to taunt again.
but you couldn’t even think.
all you could do was tremble as he pounded into you, deep and rough, each thrust punching breath from your lungs.
you felt him spit—hot against your back—and his palm spread it down your spine, pressing hard between your shoulder blades to bend you deeper.
your knees nearly buckled.
“dumb thing,” he hissed, teeth close again. “thought you were in control.”
you moaned loud at that. too loud.
he grunted.
“you like this. you like being ruined.”
you nodded.
barely.
you couldn’t help it.
and he didn’t stop.
his pace didn’t slow.
not when you clenched, not when you gasped his name through broken sounds, not even when you started to fall forward, arms trembling too hard to hold you against the wall anymore.
he held you up. he made you stay there—bent, stretched open, every thrust carving a new place in you.
he finished.
with a grunt so deep it vibrated through your bones, he slammed in deep, the heat of his release coating your insides. thick. so much. it spilled the second he pulled back—and he watched it drip.
but he didn’t stop.
you whimpered as he pushed back in, his cock already half-hard again—but growing fast. filling. stretching. your legs kicked weakly, and he grabbed your hips and dragged you back onto him again.
“kratos—”
you tried to form a thought. anything.
he didn’t let you.
“shut up.”
his hand found your throat again.
your eyes rolled.
he thrust harder. deeper. slick now from his cum and yours, making the sound between your bodies filthy—wet, obscene, echoing louder than your gasps.
you had no rhythm left. no breath. your mouth hung open, drool sliding down your chin as he pounded into you with no mercy.
“you feel that?” his voice was low, dark, a growl dragging against your spine. “how full you are? how easy it is now?”
you moaned, almost sobbed.
“you’ll take it again.”
he slammed forward.
“and again.”
another. brutal.
“until that smart little mouth forgets how to speak.”
you couldn’t even nod.
you were gone.
mind numb. thoughts scattered. dumb.
his spit hit the side of your cheek. hot. it dripped down the edge of your jaw. you didn’t even flinch.
he grabbed your hair, yanked your head back so your mouth opened again, and he leaned close—tongue brushing your ear.
“say thank you.”
you gasped.
he thrust.
you screamed.
“thank you,” you moaned, “thank you, thank you—”
he laughed once.
once.
then he flipped you.
your back hit the stone, knees barely holding under you. he dragged your legs up, hiked one over his shoulder, and drove in again.
you clawed at the ground. body convulsing. already overstimulated. already soaked. the stretch burned, but your cunt fluttered around him with every motion.
you tried to twist your hips.
you tried to sass.
to speak.
but your voice was only moans now. high. shattered.
his thrusts went deeper.
he looked down at you—smug, controlled. still silent except for the way he breathed.
those eyes stayed on yours.
that heat. that domination without words.
you came again.
and again.
you don’t remember how many times. your body shook, core pulsing around him. your mind blank. lips parted and drooling as he filled you again, the thick mess of him leaking from your hole down your thighs.
you choked, nearly sobbing.
he never stopped.
just kept you open. kept you taking him.
“look at you now.”
his hand gripped your jaw. forcing your eyes to stay on his.
“nothing but a hole to fuck.”
you moaned at that.
you weren’t even ashamed.
his thrusts slowed.
deep now. dragging inside you, twisting.
your thighs trembled around his hips.
his cock was soaked. drenched. swollen from how much he’d used you already.
you tried to speak.
nothing came out.
his hand gripped your face. smearing spit across your lips.
“say something,” he said, low. mocking.
you barely swallowed.
“please.”
his brow raised.
“please what?”
“please… more.”
he smirked.
he gripped your hips again.
you felt your own slick, his cum, everything soaking between your legs, sliding down the backs of your thighs in thick, warm trails. and still—still—he was inside you. pulsing. hard.
your muscles twitched with every shallow thrust. overstimulated. trembling.
your body couldn’t even tense anymore. it just took it.
“you begged,” he said low. “but you didn’t mean it.”
his hand came around your throat again—not squeezing this time. just holding. just owning.
“you wanted more. and now you have it.”
he fucked you deeper.
not faster. deeper.
cruel in how slow he went. drawing out the stretch, letting you feel every inch of him as if he wanted to brand the shape of his cock into your body forever.
you made a soft, broken noise.
it wasn’t a moan.
it wasn’t even a word.
just air.
and he groaned at the sound of it.
your mind had gone numb hours ago. your body jerked with each thrust, but there was no resistance anymore. your hands were limp above your head. your eyes rolled back as your mouth hung open, lips raw from biting them.
you didn’t talk.
you couldn’t.
you were all feeling now. nothing else. no pride. no sharp tongue. just kratos—between your legs, over your body, inside you, claiming what he wanted again and again and again.
and he didn’t kiss you.
he didn’t whisper anything sweet.
he grunted as he thrust hard—deep—and finished inside you again.
you gasped as the heat flooded you.
you twitched. legs kicked slightly. your cunt spasmed so tight around him it pulled another noise from his throat.
he stayed there.
buried deep.
you weren’t sure how long.
your eyes fluttered. half-closed.
you didn’t feel like a goddess.
you felt like a vessel. one he’d used up. like your power had poured out with each thrust and now all that was left was this: aching. wet. breathless.
he didn’t pull out right away.
his eyes met yours.
you looked up at him, mouth parted, cheeks streaked with tears you hadn’t even realized had fallen.
you blinked once.
his thumb brushed your chin. not gentle. not soft.
just steady.
a mark of control.
his eyes flicked down your body—slick, red from friction, bruises blooming where his hands had held too tight. your chest rose in shallow, near-panic breaths, the edges of you still clenching like you thought he might start again.
he didn’t.
not yet.
his hand moved to your stomach.
pressed flat.
he watched your twitching thighs.
he leaned down close, mouth barely grazing your ear.
“if you speak again,” he murmured, “it’ll be with my cock still inside you.”
you shivered.
you didn’t respond.
smart girl.
he finally pulled out. slow. the sound obscene.
your breath stuttered.
his cum poured out of you—thick, endless, leaking down onto the stone.
you whimpered.
but he said nothing more.
he stood over you. towering. body still flushed with blood and heat and muscle tensed, battle-ready.
but he didn’t touch you again.
he didn’t help you up.
he left you there. sprawled on the stone, legs spread, mouth open, soaked through and used, as he turned and began gathering the armor he’d cast off somewhere during the second round.
your body ached.
your brain was silent.
no more wit.
no more teeth.
you stared at the ceiling of the cavernous tunnel, chest rising slow.
