Reina

quiet emo guy lover! 21

[ravereina]

MY OWN SUMMER

Hi, Welcum to my blog! (plz get the joke) My request are always open so don't be shy to send something in. I write basically every anime/gaming fandom and mainly nsfw but i will write sfw if requested! <3

✿ I might write dub-con, dumbfication, and mindbreak so be warned!

I write self-indulgent fics, you will find something about a character that is vile. Incel guys are everywhere in my mind!

Spam likes/Reblogs are very appreciated and encouraged!!!

MASTERLIST RULES

[unsocialpixie04]

ᴡʜʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴇɴ ꜱᴏ ᴛᴇʀʀɪꜰɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ɪᴛ?

ʏᴏᴜ ʙʀᴀɢ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴏʏꜱ

ʜᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴅ ᴘᴏᴜɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ,

ʀᴇꜱʜᴀᴘᴇ ʜᴇʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ,

ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ.

ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜰɪʟᴛʜʏ ꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛᴜʀᴇ ꜱᴘɪʟʟᴇᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʙᴇᴇʀꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ꜰʟɪɴᴄʜ.

ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ,

ᴡʀɪᴛʜɪɴɢ, ᴅʀɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ, ʙᴇɢɢɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ,

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴏɴɢᴜᴇ ɢᴏᴇꜱ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.

ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴏᴡ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ꜱʜᴇ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ,

ʜᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ʀᴜɪɴɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ, ʜᴏᴡ ᴛɪɢʜᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴇᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ꜱᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ.

ᴛꜱᴋ.

ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴡᴀʀᴅ ɴᴏᴡ.

ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ɪᴛ ꜰʟᴏᴏᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʀɪᴅᴇ, ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴛʜʀɪʟʟ

ᴋɴᴏᴡɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ɴᴀʀʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴅᴇᴘʀᴀᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ?

ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ʜᴇʀ ᴄᴜᴘ ᴏᴠᴇʀꜰʟᴏᴡ, ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ,

ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ?

ʜᴏᴡ ᴜᴛᴛᴇʀʟʏ, ᴀᴄʜɪɴɢʟʏ ʙᴏʀɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴀʏ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ.

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴡᴀꜱᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ.

ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏɴɢᴜᴇꜱ ᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴀʀᴠᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛꜱʟᴏᴡ, ᴅᴇʟɪʙᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ,

ꜰᴏʀ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴡᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜰᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ꜰɪʀᴇ.

ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ, ᴏʀ ʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪᴠɪʟᴇɢᴇ.

For my boys that read tumblr this is for you ;)

Words permeate skin deep.

Speak.

[niggette]

no bc i start crying at the thought of trying to run away from bestfr!megumi while he’s dicking you down because you think you’re about to pee on him.

but megumi knows you, knows your body, knows you’re gonna squirt and he’s not letting you run away from it. (gojo told him if he can make a girl squirt, she’ll stay in love w him forever)

cunt clenching, body wound up, something tight coiling beneath your navel. your finger pressing against his arms, his tummy. gumi just pulls you to him tighter, tellin’ you to trust him 🥺

it’s just another minute—another minute of being stretched, of having your insides bullied—and you’re in tears, shuddering and trembling and splattering cum all over his cock :( ‘gumi literally cums on the spot.

you sending me this ask like I won’t combust on the spot—

PUHLEASSSSSE he’s just so greedy ‘n impatient, especially since you’ve been unintentionally teasing him for years. What with your pretty lil’ eyes and those bratty little quips you just love to use when you decide Gojo, of all people, needs backup.

“‘Gumi’s too awkward to talk to somebody, much less screw one”

“s’ok ‘Gumi, I haven’t slept with anyone either! :)”

But none of that matters now cause you’re finally under him— dark, curly hair draped all over his bed, legs sore from being sprawled out at a slightly uncomfortable angle so he can hit that spot that makes you squeak just right—

“Gumiiii…” you drawl, breath and sweaty hands hot against his equal, if not hotter chest as you, of course, complain, “it— mMh! s-s’too much—!!“

And you know he’s a sucker for your tears, you’re well adept at catering to his heart. flutter those big brown eyes with that cute dimpled frown and you’re home free, right?

but then he remembers all the times you ragged on him for being inexperienced, a virgin. horny brain too addled to care about where said teasing could’ve stemmed from— not when your pussy’s clenching around him like it’s the best dick she’s ever taken. talking to him real nice with all those noisy, wet squishes ‘n pops as if she’s whining for him to come back with every thrust.

You’re not sure if he’s being rhetorical when he grumbles, “s’ that all you’re good for, hm? whinin’ and cryin’ ‘bout every little thing?”

“Complain that I’m goin’ too slow then it’s “s’too much—!”“ he croaks in a cruel mockery of your voice, right down to the pathetically tearful warbling of your lips before recollecting his aloof expression. “which is it, pretty girl?”

“hm?” he repeats the question again as his hips begin to speed up their pace once more— the gooey pat-pat-pat! between your legs bringing a flush of warmth to your ears— having the audacity to glower down at you when you don’t give him an answer. Like he’s not balls deep inside your cunt, speed reminiscent of a raging bull.

With the breeder balls to match.

Megumi was always a bit of a meanie. From when you two were younger and he would sometimes take your things and raise them above his head, knowing good and well you come up to his collarbone on a good day— to the days where he’d look you in the eyes during your ditz spells, deadpan expression and all, cooing “c’mon, you can do it. I believe in you.”

Your hazy trip down memory lane was interrupted by a swift and sudden pressure on your tummy, the odd, yet familiar dipping sensation in your guts that followed had your breath hitching at a horrified realization— no way.

were you…?

Your hands grew frantic as you cried, “‘G-Gumi— ‘Gumi, y’gotta stop, y-ya gotta— fuck, I need to—“

“—need to shut up for once and take it,” he groans, big palm digging harder into your stomach as he thrusts faster and faster— “kept whinin’ about my cock and now that you have it, you’re tryna run from it—”

Salty droplets bead in the corner of your eyes as your body starts to shake uncontrollably, whether in fear or pleasure you can’t bother to tell. Chest rattles with quick, unstable breaths as you’re fucked-out mind continues to race.

You have to warn him, you have to—

“G’nna” sniff “need’ta—” your back began to arch involuntarily while you tried with all your might to free yourself from the coming embarrassment, hands desperately gripping at his wrists as you plead, “‘Gumi pleeease, I need’ta—!” interrupted by another hiccup, “think ‘m g’nna peeeeeee—!“

And by some miracle, pale hips slow and his stoic expression softens with what looks like worry as those pretty emerald eyes, laced with the most graceful of lashes, gawk at your form.

As though he’s in awe at how pathetic you look.

Tears on the brink of escaping your lids, chubby body riddled with sweat that trails down your form to creep into your many curves and soak his sheets, dark brows knit in a sweet mixture of pleasure and embarrassment while your wobbly knees crowd around his hips and prod at his sides.

“said what?” his saccharine tone wavers a bit when your cunny decides to give him a nice little clench, barely able to stop his hips from bucking into yours as he spits through gritted teeth— “you have to pee?”

“mm-hm,” you hum softly, nodding your head unconsciously, “tummy’s feelin’ weird…”

Furrowed brows sag in relief when his hips finally go stagnant, shaky legs cramped from tension slowly beginning to cave open so that they may release their boa-like grasp around his hip.

Yet right as you’re about to relax, managing to mumble out a shaky apology for ‘ruining the mood’, Megumi’s hips suddenly jolt forward.

Hard.

Then they move again.

And again.

And again.

Until they simply don’t stop— no warm up or foreplay granted as Megumi lays utter waste to your cunt, his thrusts hard and deep like he’s searching for—

A gasp rips from your throat at the sudden overstimulation, tearful pleas rippling from your lips as your neck ‘n shoulders begin to bounce rigorously against the dampened sheets. your hands scramble for purchase on him once more but one of his hands move from your side to pin both of your wrists above your head with ease and just keeps going.

all you can do is gape at him with wide, betrayed eyes as your tummy knots up once more.

“g…g’m—“ is all you manage to wheeze out before your lips clench, tears finally taking ahold. Sore chest vibrating as weak sobs rack your throat. Throbbing fists whiten against his iron grip as your extremities twist and clench ‘round each other in sad attempt to divert and lessen the coming pressure in your tummy.

You don’t know what he’s thinking, what he’s trying, why he’s doing this— looming over you, beating into your gooey spot with that disconcerting expression.

like your suffering is that hypnotizing.

then your chest is aching cause your lungs are tightening and your tummy’s shriveling up as the knot grows bigger ‘n stronger—

As a last ditch-effort, you gather up what little is left of your strength and just wail— “‘Guuuumiiii—! ‘Gumi, please ‘Gum—” sniff “let m’goplease— m’serious ‘Gumi, I dun’w’nna—!” hic! “m’really gonna—“

The warning was abruptly cut off by an embarrassingly loud moan, eyes flooding with tears once more at the gross feeling of wetness spraying speckles upon speckles of ‘cum’ onto your thighs and tummy.

the silence that followed was deafening, the only audible thing in the room being your heavy breaths.

You didn’t even bother to look at him— why would you? so you could see the gigantic, humiliating mess you made? s’not like it’s all your fault, you told him you had to go!

But none of that matters now because you just pissed on your best friend!!

It seems you don’t have a choice however, as a force grips your neck so hard that you almost get whiplash and starts to squeeze and pull until your bleary brown eyes meet manic green ones.

it’s like looking into an abyss.

Megumi is practically drilling holes into your skull with how intense he looks, pupils dilated to their max with his jawline more than apparent due to his clenched jaw— you can tell by the red flush on his scrunched face and the thick veins that wrap around his arms ‘n neck that he is pissed.

Pissed at you for pissing on him, no doubt.

your eyes begin to well up in preparation for a well-deserved scolding before he finally growls at you, his voice subdued and gritty.

“you’re gonna do that again.”

[ph4ngz]

RIN ITOSHI || A KILLER AND HIS FINAL GIRL

Contains: DARK CONTENT! (BUT it is all pretend!) Ghostface mask Halloween special Rin-Rin!

You're still babbling on about everything that happened at the party. It's been two hours since the two of you left to go home. You've been overly talkative from the moment Rin had to drag you out after you found the bowl of candy just sitting there all lonely screaming "EAT ME" on the kitchen counter. You didn't stop speaking even when you had to stop on the sidewalk to haul some unconscious guy around and ask if anyone nearby knew the poor bastard.

"And you saw Shidou slip all that vodka into the punch bowl right? I saw him, ion' know if you did but gosh I'm so glad I brought my own drink, you know what I mean??"

Fucking E-numbers. Ghostface mask in one hand and keys in the other, Rin unlocks the front door with a bored grunt, barely looking at you (and quite frankly sick of your voice). The utility jumpsuit you'd devotedly smeared with fake blood while he complained about it is now half-unzipped and tied around his waist, revealing the tight black tee underneath that's currently soaking up the beads of sweat rolling down his throat from being stuck wearing a cheap mask in a hot room of insufferable drunks and a hurried walk home. He barges the front door open with his shoulder, hair still sticking to his forehead.

You waltz in after him with achy soles and kick your sneakers off to the side, grinning stupidly at him once your socks touch the hardwood floor. "Be honest, I was the cutest girl there wasn't I? You don't have to be modest or anything, I already, like, totally knew."

Rin seizes his movements as he's also taking his boots off, stopping for a moment to really take in the sight of you in your silly costume for the– well, he's lost count of how many times he's done it tonight, actually. Pigtails. Tight-fitting, ripped and bloodied tank top and the mini-est of denim miniskirts. Bare legs and a dumb, trusting smile. How could he not keep looking at you? A quiet "tch".

"I'm not visually fucking impaired." He responds flatly, proceeding to struggle out of his heavy boots and walk past you like you're simple, flicking the living room light on. "Obviously."

You scoff dramatically. "Ugh! Rude... ehh, I'll take it though!"

You jog to catch up with him, disappearing down the hallway and turning the corner into the other room with your footsteps thumping softly in time with his. He grumbles to himself about being thirsty and "so done" before throwing his mask on the couch along with himself, a long exhale leaving his lungs.

"Thirsty 'cause you're hot. You look super-duper yummy in that costume."

"It's stupid," he mutters whilst uncomfortably adjusting his pocket, flicking his bangs out of his face. "Knife kept stabbing me through the pocket, thought it was supposed to be plastic."

"It's hot. You're hot."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Too bad you're such a nice killer though... but! I kinda love that you're still nice to me even though you're supposed to be a scary murderer, or maybe I just love you. I dunno!" you think with a finger on your chin, only to bounce along off to the kitchen like you're his dutiful wife to get him some water, humming a pretty song you were dancing to just a few hours ago with your back turned to him. Because why wouldn't you have your back to him? It's just Rin.

A fond smile finds its way to your glossy lips at the mere thought of your dearly beloved boyfriend, the pitch of your humming heightening when you stretch to reach the cupboard door. Then, you gasp. Then deflate. Uh oh.

"Rin-Rin, I forgot to do the dishes before we left so I can't give you the 'I love my wifey' mug."

No response.

"Yo, did you hear what I said?"

Silence.

You pause, one knee hiked up on the counter because you were struggling to reach the very top shelf. A little louder this time. Loud enough for him to hear from anywhere in the house.

"...Rin-Rin?!"

You finally glance over the fake gash on your shoulder, met with the back of an empty couch. No Rin. That's odd. He was just there. Literally thirty seconds ago. Maybe he... suddenly needed to pee real bad after he sat down or something? But he would've heard you form the bathroom, right?

The living room light flickers once, startling you off the counter with a soft squeak and into an uneasy, defensive stance on the cold tiles. It takes you a good twenty seconds at least to muster up the courage and start stalking toward where your boyfriend was last seen sitting. Once you're standing so utterly confused in front of the couch, you realise that his mask is gone too. Then...

"Wuh–!"

Lights. Out. Completely.

In a hurry, your socks skid across the polished floor as you make your way over to the light switch, repeatedly flicking it up and down until you believe that no, its definitely not coming back on. A bothered whine escapes your throat when you take another look around you, noticing that even the microwave screen over in the kitchen is pitch black. The flash of the dodgy extension lead in the corner is nowhere to be seen, either.

When you go to yell, your voice starts off too quiet. "Uh- um...! I think the power cut ou–"

BRRR.

The sound of your phone vibrating against the coffee table almost has you ejecting out of your skin. With widened, glassy eyes, you practically fly over to the lit up screen before it can shut off again. There's a text. Its from a number you're absolutely sure you don't recognise.

'whats ur favourite scary movie?'

Without thinking, you type and send, thumbs trembling without your permission.

'idk sorry i can't think'

You don't expect to get a call from the same unrecognisable number, but you do. And so very naively, you clumsily slide a finger across the screen and hesitate to hold it to your ear, inhaling a brave breath before speaking. "...Hello...?"

There's breathing on the other end. Faint at first, but the longer you stay on the line, the louder and heavier it seems to get. It feels like they're breathing down the back of your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut as it starts to get too overwhelming to listen to, swallowing so hard it hurts.

"A-Are you okay?" The most mellow little voice is all you can manage right now, and there's an obvious shake to your words.

The breathing stops. You've barely noticed with how spooked you are, not until your ears begin to ring in the tense silence.

"...You've got ten seconds."

You open your eyes and freeze. "What...?"

Eyes fixated on the rug and no further response, you hear him before you see him. A muted tap against glass. Just one. Enough to get you to turn your head towards the patio doors in a stiff panic.

That Ghostface mask. That cheap, plastic knife. That bloodstained jumpsuit. That build.

Oh.

Ten seconds.

You don't hang up. Just drop your phone to the rug beneath you and bolt, immediately. Socks sliding and slipping as if they're trying to slow you down on purpose. A scream rips from your chest, but whether its origin is fear or thrill, you don't know. But you're scuttling through the dark house like you're going to die. And you're sure it's been over ten seconds.

All of a sudden as you're darting through the pitch black of the hallway, you trip. Toes catching on a loose boot.

"Oof–!" a quiet grunt is forced out of you on impact, landing front-first on the hardwood and skidding to a harsh stop with your thighs splayed and arms shielding your shocked face. No. No no no no no! Wait–

"Too slow." Rin's voice emerges from above your head, low and factual, large figure crouching over your back with an overpowering aura about him. You'd barely blinked and he was already on you. In a flash, you're being hoisted up to rest on your knees, back held tightly against his chest with a fake knife pressed to your throat, cheeks flushed from exertion in the darkness.

"Mn- no! Wait, please Rin, I–"

"Ghostface."

You let out a sharp, involuntary sound at the snappy correction from behind you, trying desperately to catch your breath while the adrenaline pulses throughout your entire being. The blade to your sensitive skin is blunt, yet he's digging it in like it really could slit you right open, right here and now. The sound of him huffing shakily at the way your hands go to grab his wrist has your panties dampening.

"M-Mr. Ghostface. I gotta ask you somethin', okay?" you inform him breathlessly whilst slowly decreasing the force of your yanking at his sleeve, cold edge of his knife evoking a shiver right from the base of your spine when it moves slightly.

He leans in closer over your shoulder as if to say "go on", pulling you harder into his warm chest until you can feel his mask grazing against your temple, strong and veiny arm over your stomach keeping you tucked and trapped between his knees. Yours ache from your devastating tumble a moment ago, but you don't mind at all. You clear your throat softly with a little "um..." to ease the atmosphere, stroking his wrist ever so gently. Wow, choosing the suck-up route? Really? You'd so die first in a horror movie.

"Are you... gonna kill me...?"

Your innocent whisper of those words play on Rin's body like magic. He's never wanted to "kill" someone so bad until you. You in your bouncy pigtails and tiny denim skirt that's doing fuck-all to hide your lace-clad pussy from the large hand that's gradually trailing down your bloodied front.

"Depends. You gonna let me fuck you?" the muffled bass of his voice in your ear hits you harder than it ever has before, so hard that you're sighing and tipping your head back, fully bearing your jugular to his blade in a subconscious act of self-sacrifice and love. How romantic. He jolts you with his entire body, snapping you out of it. "Huh? Gonna let me fuck you nice and hard? If you don't run, I won't mangle you too badly..."

"But, I mean, you–"

"Actually, I apologise. Let me rephrase,"

His fingers clutch the lace between your thighs and tug sideways. Twitchy cunt revealed to the cold night air. Wet with nerves and laughter. You gasp.

"I'm gonna fuck you. Then kill you."

Your heart stutters. Fuck you... then kill you? The sheer mention of dying so beautifully by your scary boyfriend's hand makes you feel like you could cum on command. You're scared.

"Aha," a strained laugh. "You wouldn't really do that, right? Mr Ghostface? You've got a real nice heart in there, I just know it...!"

If Rin were the type to laugh, he'd be in tears as of right now. His knife clatters to the ground.

"Wait. Hold on, hang o- wait–" you rasp, your breath catching mid-struggle before he successfully flattens you face-down against the frigid hardwood. A sharp whimper rips put of you when his palm digs between your shoulder blades, pinning you with one brutal press. You squirm, kicking up your heels uselessly as your knees slip on the slick grain of the floor. Reminiscent of a fawn on ice, helpless and flailing. He just watches, face cruelly satisfied behind that mask.

"Absolutely perfect." he thinks to himself. "Sweet, sweet Bambi."

Then comes the rustle of fabric. One hand yanks your skirt up rough by the back of the waistband, fist curling tight to drag your hips upward. Adjusting you. Like you're just some thing he's setting into place to inspect without obstruction. His other hand's busy at his front, fighting to free himself from under two constricting layers at once. You hear something. A sound so filthy it echoes within your mind. A thump of pure, solid meat whacking against a hard abdomen, followed by a long, harsh breath through his teeth.

Rin groans. Deep. Restrained. Relieved, as he straightens up on his haunches, hips jutted forward like he's been ready for months.

A slap lands right across the swell of your bare ass. But it's not from his hand. You can tell straight away, humming in surprise. That one was more... heavy. More blunt. And wet. The second one accompanies the first, this time hotter and louder. Then again, and again. Rhythmic and taunting. He's slapping his dick upon your cheeks to get to you. And it's getting to you. You sense that it's not some lazy tapping, but preparation. It's meant to intimidate.

After a long silence filled with weighty pats that get stickier with every leaky string of pre-cum smeared over your skin, he reaches over you, chest resting all unforgivingly crushing against your spine, muttering exasperatedly like he's just your competent, patronising coworker with a superiority complex.

"C'mere. Can wet my cock with your own spit, not using mine..." is what he tells you with three fingers reaching into your sloppy mouth, curling along the inside of your cheek. An involuntary, muffled "hnnff" sound is forced out of your nose as you gag lightly, wide eyes watering.

"...Should be enough."

Squelch.

Before you can blink, he's collected a substantial glob of slick saliva on his fingertips. He pulls them out without a shred of consideration for your dignity, sighing shakily and open-mouthed behind his mask when he clocks the way it sparkles in the faint glow of the streetlights beyond the other rooms' windows. Rin's eyes trail across the cooling string of spit connecting his knuckles to your quivering chin. He bites his lip and huffs to disguise a moan as he sits back. But you don't know that.

You can imagine how sexy he must look behind you right now, swirling and slathering your drool all over his fat, pulsing shaft with every vein in his forearms bulging at his waning self-control. Slicking up a blade before the plunge. He must be biting his tongue and grinding his molars to keep this act up. It makes you want to grin and whine. But you don't dare make another sound nor peek over your shoulder, not when you're desperately hoping he'll be nice about what comes next. Quite the dream, huh? Too bad you're a dumbass.

"Gh–" a hot breath escapes your lungs the second his thick tip slides up and down between the slippery folds of your downright intemperate pussy, threatening to dip just that slightest bit too far into your tight hole. Rin sees the floor beneath your palms is now adorned with shallow scratches, courtesy of your nails. He can't even begin to care with the adrenaline thrumming through him. Actually? Adrenaline or not, he couldn't care either way. Because his brain is more occupied, as he's watching his flushed head relentlessly bully it's way through into your clenching body, with the fact that–

"Fuck. It feels good to be a killer."

Your entire being throbs.

It's impossible to breathe in enough. Your thighs are vibrating so much that they're rippling. Words can't seem to find their way out of your open wet lips, only high-pitched and squeaky attempts to express how overwhelmed and weak with enjoyment you're getting. Your legs slip and splay out underneath him, causing his mean cock to nestle deeper inside with an unprepped stretch, instant and merciless. Deliciously split open for him. You shove your own knuckles between your teeth and almost cry. Rin throws his head back with a silent groan before correcting himself.

"Tch, stay still before I gut you." his voice wavers with serious arousal, tightening his hold on the back of your skirt and forcefully heaving you up onto your knees once again, holding you in position before him like a proud hunter dangling a hare by its tail. He drives into you until his balls are practically massaging your swollen clit, no remorse. Somehow, it's hotter that way. Your body jerks forward.

"Yes, Mr Ghostface...!" you whimper pathetically whilst trying to nod with your damp forehead buried into your arms, scrunched nose grazing the floor any time he makes an adjustment. It's pulsing within you, smushed right up into the very limits of your insides. The wiry hair at his base is scraping the cleft of your ass, and it hurts so good. But that's just the beginning.

He starts fucking you like he's mad, like you've done something unforgivable.

Not too loud or chaotic, not literally, not from an outside perspective. But from yours? The plap-plap-plap of his strong hips slamming their full weight into the fat of your jolting backside is deafening. The way he's leaning over you to smush your tearstained cheek further against the shiny hardwood with a big hand almost swallowing your head so you can't move is more chaotic than a rollercoaster ride.

A soft succession of "uh, uh, uh"s manage to spill from your mouth, though his thrusts are so beautifully harsh that they're punching the air from your lungs with every singular blow, so your voice is hoarse and whispered. Rin's is just as wrecked.

"Oh fuck, oh shit, 'm gonna kill you I'm gonna kill you I'm gonna fucking kill you," he chants breathlessly to nobody in particular, the hand over the side of your head loosening its grip as if the electric pleasure of it all is causing him to float. At this point his words are gonna kill you before he even gets the chance. "Rrgh, fuck you. Yeah that's right, that's right. You love taking a killer's cock raw."

"I do, I doooo, I swear...! Please don't kill me, please, I do," the cracking of your sweet voice has your sentiments almost unintelligible. Your toes are cramping from how tight you've had them curled, bare knees red from fake blood and friction burn. You'll never forget this. You don't want to.

"I know you do, I know. It's a funny feeling, isn't it. Butterflies in your tummy for someone you should be petrified of..."

"Mhm, mhm!" you nod frantically with teary eyes and a snotty nose, sniffling and wailing so appreciatively as your warm cunt is clenching around his thick length like its attempting to swallow him whole. The ache of your walls is pleasing enough to make you faint. In a split second of courage, you try to lift your head in order to look back at his mask.

He roughly shoves it down in a flash, and promptly punishes you with the quickest, deepest snap of hips yet. You eat dirt, your eyes roll back. You're so alive.

"Nnff–!"

"That's enough. You don't need to see who's fucking you, you don't get to. Now... take your last breaths as I cum hard and fucking nasty in your guts."

You do. You pant fast and heavy like you'll never have full lungs again, eyes shut so tightly there's an array of colours behind your eyelids.

And this is it. Scalding loads of thick cum are being emptied and ground right up into your cervix. A strained "god fucking dammit" along with a "you're dead" is hissed through your killer's teeth. A few gentle pats to your hip. Then he reluctantly drags himself from your ruined, fluttering hole. Sticky semen drools to the floor.

Silence. Then a deep, recollective sigh.

"...Baby I think that might've come a little too naturally to me, you know."

"You're so right."

|| || || || ||

[lumisverse-deactivated20260228]

✦ romeo and cinderella

older kinich x younger fem reader

cw. explicit sexual content, dubcon, age gap, manipulation / coercion, emotional abuse, toxic relationship, parent conflict, hurt no comfort

an. wanted to write something inspired by my fave vocaloid song !! wrote ts while listening to len’s cover of romeo and cinderella on repeat 🤞🏻

you tell them goodnight like you mean it. soft voice, hand on the doorframe, their faces lit by the dim glow of the living room lamp. your dad barely glances up from the tv — eyes fixed, body heavy in that same dent in the couch he always sits in. your mom gives you that quick, distracted smile she’s been wearing lately, the one that never really reaches her eyes anymore.

goodnight, you say again. the second time tastes heavier. it hangs there between you for a second longer than it should, but no one notices. or maybe they just don’t ask.

they don’t know what you mean.

by the time the front door clicks shut behind you, the air is colder. thinner. it slides into your lungs with that sharp, late-night bite, making you pull your jacket tighter around you. the world feels muted — no hum of traffic, no voices, just the echo of your own footsteps. sneakers crunching on uneven pavement until you see him.

leaning against his car like the night belongs to him. like it’s draped across his shoulders the way you wish you could be. hands shoved deep in his pockets, posture loose in that unbothered way that always makes you stare. he doesn’t wave. just watches you get closer, eyes half-lidded, the faint curl of a smirk tugging at his mouth as if he’s already read every thought in your head.

“you’re late,” kinich says, but there’s no real bite to it — just the lazy weight of the words rolling off his tongue. the streetlight catches the scar on his brow, the shape of his mouth. you start to apologize, but his fingers are already brushing along the edge of your jaw, tilting your head ever so slightly.

he smells like smoke and something warmer, heavier — the kind of scent that sticks to you, that lingers in your clothes long after you’ve gone home. it makes your chest feel hot, makes your pulse stutter like he’s been waiting for you and only you.

he tilts your face up, slow enough to make you ache for it. kisses you like he has all the time in the world, lips moving against yours with a patience that feels dangerous. your stomach flips, your chest buzzing with the rush of it — the secret, the stolen air between you, the way the rest of the world falls away until there’s just this.

“how far can we go tonight?” he murmurs against your lips. not a question, not really. more like he’s already decided.

and you think you’d follow him anywhere. even if it’s the last place you’re supposed to go.

his place is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you hyperaware of your own breathing. you leave your shoes by the door, the faint scuff of rubber against the floor sounding far too loud in the stillness. the air smells faintly of coffee and cologne — rich, warm, a little bitter — the kind of scent that makes you think of mornings you’ve never had here but want to. somewhere in the background, the hum of the refrigerator feels like the only other living thing in the room.

he sits on the couch like he owns the whole space, sprawled out, one arm draped over the backrest. his eyes follow you as you shrug off your jacket, his gaze catching on the way your skirt hem brushes the tops of your thighs. it feels like being undressed without a single button undone.

“come here,” he says, voice low, unhurried — the kind of voice that doesn’t need to repeat itself. the kind that coils low in your stomach and makes you move without thinking.

you cross the room, every step slower than the last, and when you finally climb into his lap, his hands settle on your hips like they’ve been waiting there forever. his fingers are warm, steady — possessive in a way that makes your skin prickle. the fabric of your uniform bunches under his touch, his thumb tracing the subtle curve of your waist as if memorizing it.

“you taste like candy,” he murmurs after kissing you again. his mouth is warm and slow, teeth grazing your bottom lip just enough to make you shiver. “too sweet.”

you giggle, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when someone says things like that. because it’s easier than letting him see how fast your heart is beating. but then his palm drifts lower, fingers catching on the edge of your stockings before sliding up. his knuckles brush bare skin, and the sound you make is so small you almost miss it yourself.

“you ever wonder why you like the things you like?” he asks, and the way his voice dips makes it sound less like a question and more like a lesson.

you shake your head.

his mouth curves against your ear, breath warm when he says, “guess i’ll have to show you.”

the kiss deepens until it’s all you can taste. your knees press into the couch cushions as his hand slips further under your skirt, fingers trailing higher with infuriating slowness. he never rushes — he likes watching you unravel, piece by piece. your pulse hammers in your ears, your body swaying toward his touch like it’s magnetic.

somewhere in your mind, you think this must be what growing up feels like — that strange mix of fear and want, innocence and something far sharper.

his fingers toy with the hem of your skirt like he’s deciding whether you’ve earned what comes next. each lazy tug feels deliberate, like he’s weighing your patience against his own.

“look at me,” he says, and you do — because you always do. because not looking feels impossible when it’s him.

his gaze pins you there, steady and unblinking, as if he’s reading something in your face that you didn’t mean to show. his other hand comes up to your jaw, warm and sure, thumb brushing the curve of your lip before pressing just enough for you to part your mouth for him. you breathe him in — smoke, cologne, something darker beneath — and when he kisses you again, it’s slower. heavier. like he wants you to feel the weight of it settle in your bones.

“if there’s something you don’t know,” he murmurs, the words curling low in your stomach, “isn’t it normal to want to learn?”

you nod before you even think about it. like saying yes to him is second nature.

his mouth drifts to your neck, lips skimming the skin before teeth graze just enough to make you flinch — not from fear, but from the way heat blooms there instantly.

“then let me teach you.”

you’re still in his lap, knees bracketing his hips, your skirt hitched higher without you noticing. when his hand finally slips beneath your underwear, the air leaves your lungs in a sharp gasp against his shoulder. the heat of his palm, the deliberate drag of his fingertips — it’s dizzying, wrong and right all at once, and you want more before you even realize you’re leaning into it.

“tell me what you want,” he says, voice all smoke and warmth. his fingers move just enough to keep you trembling, never enough to push you over.

you try to speak, but the words scatter before they reach your tongue. instead, what comes out is a sound — soft, broken, helpless.

he smiles against your throat, slow and satisfied, like he’s the only one who can pull those sounds from you. and maybe he is. maybe that’s why you’re already addicted.

you’re half-lost in the rhythm of his touch, the slow press and pull that makes the rest of the room blur. the couch, the shadows on the walls, even the faint hum of the fridge — they all dissolve until there’s only him, only this.

his mouth finds your collarbone, warm breath spilling over your skin before his lips follow. he lingers there, tracing heat into you, slow enough to make you shiver. you know he’s leaving marks — small, blooming things that will stay long after you’ve gone home — but the thought doesn’t bother you. if anything, it feels like proof.

“you’re mine,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself.

your chest feels light, almost giddy. you think of storybooks — of stolen dances, of whispered vows under a silver moon — and for a moment, you let yourself believe it’s the same thing. that this, somehow, is love. maybe he’s your magic, the kind that bends time, keeps the night from ending.

“you’d run away with me if i asked,” he says. it isn’t a question. you nod anyway.

his smile is slow, deliberate, and when he kisses you, it feels like he’s sealing a promise you didn’t even realize you’d made.

you think about your parents — about the way they’d look at you if they knew where you were, what you were doing. the disapproval in their eyes, the sharp words on their tongues. the thought sparks something defiant in your chest. they wouldn’t understand. they’d try to keep you apart. they’d be the villains.

and what’s a fairytale without a villain?

“good girl,” he says when you sink further into his hold, when you let his hands guide you exactly where he wants. his voice drips with satisfaction, curling around you like smoke. and you’re too busy chasing that dizzy, breathless warmth to notice how tightly he’s holding you — how there’s no space left between you at all.

you don’t remember how you ended up in his bedroom, only that the couch wasn’t enough and his hands had started getting rougher — impatient in a way that made your pulse race.

the overhead light stays off. only the dim glow from his desk lamp spills across the room, catching on the edges of his face, the sharp focus in his eyes. shadows move over him as he stands between your knees, studying you like he’s already decided what comes next.

you’re perched on the edge of his bed, knees pressed together until his hands find them, until he tugs them apart with slow insistence. your skirt rides up, lace the only thing left between you and him.

“this the line?” he asks, hooking a finger into the waistband, pulling just enough to make your breath hitch.

“n-no,” you manage, though you don’t even know if you mean it — if you’re saying it for him or for yourself.

he laughs under his breath, low, almost fond. “thought so.”

the lace slips away, slow and deliberate, pooling somewhere on the floor where you can’t see it. you’re bare under his gaze now, and you feel the weight of it — the way he drags his eyes over every inch of you, like he’s committing it all to memory.

then he’s on you, pressing you back into the mattress. his mouth finds yours, unrelenting, his hands everywhere at once — claiming, mapping, taking. one slides briefly to your throat, a warm pressure that makes your breath catch, before it moves down to cup your chest. his hips slot between yours with a certainty that leaves no room for hesitation.

the first push knocks a gasp from you, nails catching on his shoulders as your body adjusts, the stretch sharp enough to make your eyes squeeze shut.

“eyes on me,” he says, voice like a warning, like a rule.

and you obey, because you always do.

he moves slow at first, enough for you to feel every inch, every deliberate drag, until you’re clinging to him without meaning to. then faster, harder — each thrust breaking your breath into uneven, helpless sounds you can’t hold back.

his praise comes sharp-edged, cut with something possessive you can’t quite name. “that’s it. take it. you’re doing so good for me.”

when you finally come apart around him, it’s almost too much — your body twitching under the relentless rhythm. but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t give you space to breathe, chasing his own release with a low groan that vibrates against your skin.

and even when it’s over, you feel the way he keeps holding you there — like letting go isn’t an option.

your body’s still buzzing, skin hot, legs trembling in little aftershocks you can’t quite control. he pulls out, his breathing uneven, and for a moment you think he might say something — touch you, kiss you, hold you there just a little longer. instead, he disappears into the bathroom.

when he comes back, it’s with a towel. he wipes you down in quick, efficient movements, no hesitation, no lingering. just enough to get you clean, nothing more. no murmured reassurances, no gentle touches to ease the ache settling into your limbs.

he tugs the blankets over you, tucking the edges in with a kind of absent care. “rest for a bit,” he says, already turning away.

your chest swells — stupid, hopeful — thinking maybe he’ll lie down beside you, maybe his arms will wind around you and you’ll stay tangled together until morning.

but then you hear the chair at his desk creak. the click of his mouse. the low hum of his pc booting up. the glow from the monitor spills over his face, pale and cold, erasing whatever softness you thought you’d seen earlier.

you lie there, still catching your breath, listening to the faint tapping of keys. the sound fills the room in place of him. he doesn’t look back at you.

hurt curls tight in your chest, a small, sharp thing. but you swallow it down. you’re the one who came here. you’re the one who keeps coming back.

the room still feels like him, even after you’ve redressed — skin prickling where his hands had been, a phantom weight at your hips that refuses to fade. you glance at him one last time, hoping for some flicker of hesitation, some sign that he’ll stop you, ask you to stay.

he doesn’t. just leans back in his chair, scrolling through something you can’t see, the glow from the monitor cutting his profile into sharp edges. “lock the door when you leave, okay?” the words are casual, harmless if you take them at face value. but they settle low in your chest, heavy and certain, a quiet reminder that the night was always going to end like this.

you tug his hoodie over your head before you go. it swallows you whole, the sleeves past your fingertips, the fabric worn-soft and still warm from his body. it smells like him — coffee, faint cigarette smoke, and something you can’t name but would know anywhere, even in the dark.

outside, the air bites at your cheeks. colder now. your steps drag, not from exhaustion, but because leaving always feels wrong — like you’re walking away from something you’re not supposed to survive without. the streetlights stretch long shadows over the pavement, every one of them reaching for you, pulling you back toward him in ways your body aches to obey.

you think about how your parents would look at you if they knew. they’d tell you to stop. to end it. to come to your senses. but they don’t see him the way you do — the way his voice dips when he says your name, the way his hands map you out like you’re both dangerous and precious, something rare he’s allowed to keep for just a little while.

and isn’t that what every fairytale is about? a love worth stealing away in the middle of the night, glass slipper slipping from your foot as you run? you picture him chasing you through the dark, catching you before you vanish, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers your name.

maybe he’ll come find you before the dream ends. maybe he won’t. but you clutch the thought like a talisman, press it deep into the softest corner of your heart, because if you hold on tight enough, maybe it’ll stay true.

you’re halfway up your driveway when you notice the weight of his hoodie, the way it hangs heavy from your frame. you could take it off, fold it neatly, pretend it was never yours to wear. you don’t. instead, you breathe him in one more time before unlocking the door — and step inside with the scent still clinging to you like a secret.

it starts small. a casual text from him in the middle of the day — what are you doing?

you’re in the cafeteria, lunch half-finished, your phone glowing against the table.

talking with people from my class, you type back. a minute later: what people?

you tell him their names, not thinking much of it, until his reply comes: who’s the guy?

there’s a twist in your stomach. he’s just a friend. no answer. not for a while.

that night, you slip out again. the moment you step inside his apartment, the air feels heavier, thicker — like it knows something you don’t. kinich is at his desk, the blue glow of his monitor casting sharp shadows across his face, but he turns when the door clicks shut.

“so,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “this friend of yours.” his tone isn’t sharp, but it’s not light, either.

you laugh, trying to brush it off. “you’re not jealous, are you?”

he doesn’t smile. just stands, crossing the room until he’s in front of you. his fingers hook under your chin, tilting your face up. “should i be?”

the way he says it makes your heart stutter. not from fear — or maybe from fear, but you tell yourself it’s something else. something warmer.

“no,” you whisper. “there’s nothing to be jealous about.”

he studies you for a moment, eyes tracing your face like he’s memorizing each detail, searching for any flicker of a lie. then his grip shifts, hand sliding to the side of your neck.

“good,” he says. “because you’re mine.”

the words are warm and cold all at once, curling around you like smoke.

you smile — small, nervous — because you think that’s what you’re supposed to do. but his gaze doesn’t soften. his thumb brushes along the hollow of your throat, his other hand finding your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

“you know that, right?”

you nod, your voice caught somewhere between reassurance and surrender.

his mouth is on yours before you can speak, the kiss deeper than it needs to be, almost rough. his hands are everywhere — jaw, hair, hips — like he’s trying to prove something, or maybe erase someone. you can feel it in the way he pushes you toward the bed without breaking the kiss, in the way his teeth catch your bottom lip just enough to sting.

it’s overwhelming. dizzying. and when you breathe his name, it’s not a protest.

you tell yourself it’s just passion. that this is how people love when it’s real. that cinderella never got her prince without a little danger.

he pulls back only to say it again — softer this time, but no less certain. “you’re mine.”

and you think, i hope i am.

his hands are already under your skirt before you can think, fingers rougher than usual, pushing the fabric up until it’s bunched at your waist. you catch his wrist — not to stop him, you’re not sure you even could — but because your mind hasn’t caught up with your body yet.

“wait,” you mumble against his mouth, breathless, unsure if you even mean it.

he doesn’t. his other hand curls at the back of your neck, holding you in place as his lips drag along your jaw, the warm scrape of teeth against your throat. “you’re fine,” he says, the words low, almost gentle. “you want this.”

do you? you think you do. your pulse is too fast, your head too light, the heat in your chest spreading everywhere like something you can’t contain. isn’t this what it means to be wanted? to be chosen, even when you hesitate?

his fingers find your underwear, tugging them down just enough. the waistband snaps against your skin before the cool air hits, a fleeting second before he’s touching you — slow, deliberate circles that make your knees go weak. you gasp, half from shock, half from the way your body betrays you so easily.

“see?” his voice is smug, coaxing, like he’s proving a point you never argued. “your body knows.”

you don’t answer — you can’t. his mouth is back on yours, swallowing whatever you might have said. he pushes you toward the bed, guiding and crowding you until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. you sink onto it without thinking, and he follows immediately, his weight pressing you down, the scent of his cologne and faint cigarette smoke enclosing you completely.

he kisses you harder this time, hands roaming without pause — one sliding up your ribs, the other gripping your thigh, pulling it higher over his hip. the pressure of him between your legs is solid, insistent, leaving no space for second thoughts.

you tense when you feel him free himself, the hard press of him nudging at your entrance. “kinich—” he swallows your voice with another kiss, deeper, rougher, like he doesn’t want to hear the rest of your sentence. “relax,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm. “it’s me.”

and maybe that’s all it takes — maybe the fact that it’s him makes it okay, even if you’re not ready, even if you’re not sure. because he’s your prince, your magic, the one who comes for you in the middle of the night.

the first push steals your breath, makes you gasp into his shoulder. he doesn’t pause, doesn’t ask — just moves like it’s already decided, like this was inevitable from the moment you stepped through his door. the stretch stings, sharp enough to make your nails dig into his back, but he only groans, pressing deeper until he’s fully inside.

“good girl,” he says, hips rolling, setting a rhythm that swallows every scrap of thought. his hand finds your jaw again, tilting your face up so he can see you — really see you — watching every twitch, every gasp. “this is how you know you’re mine.”

and you believe him. you have to.

his thrusts grow more insistent, the bed creaking softly under the pace he sets. your hands clutch at him without thinking, holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. each movement pushes the air from your lungs, replacing it with him, until you’re sure you couldn’t speak even if you wanted to.

his lips find your neck again, dragging over skin that’s already sensitive. “no one else gets to have you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost reverent. you can only nod, the words tangling in your throat.

he feels it — the way your body tightens around him — and his grip on your hip tightens in response, pulling you closer, deeper, until there’s no space left between you. “say it,” he orders softly, not stopping his pace. “say you’re mine.”

your breath hitches, vision hazy. “i’m yours.” it comes out shaky, but it’s enough — you feel it in the way his mouth curves against your skin, in the way his hips snap forward with a little more force.

“that’s right,” he breathes, his forehead pressing to yours. the rhythm falters only when his hand slips lower, between your bodies, fingers finding the spot that makes your back arch. he watches you unravel, watches the way you can’t keep your eyes open under the weight of it.

and when you finally shatter beneath him, he follows — the sound of your name leaving his lips almost like a prayer.

you stay there for a moment, breathing hard, his weight still pinning you to the bed. and even when he finally moves, pulling back just enough to look at you, his hand stays at your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s sealing something in place.

“don’t forget,” he says quietly. “you’re mine.”

he stays between your legs, gaze fixed on the place where you’re still spread open for him. his hand is on your thigh, holding you there, thumb stroking lazily against your skin like he’s not done — like he’s just memorizing you all over again.

“don’t close them,” he says quietly, and when you instinctively try to shift, his grip tightens. “i want to see you.”

your breath catches. you’re flushed everywhere — chest rising too fast, skin damp, the insides of your thighs sticky from him. you feel exposed, raw in a way that makes your stomach twist, but he’s looking at you like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“kinich—” you start, but he cuts you off with a low, almost distracted hum. “stay still,” he murmurs, leaning down until his mouth is ghosting over your knee. you feel the heat of his breath travel higher, higher, until his lips brush the sensitive skin where your thigh meets your hip.

it makes your legs twitch, but his hands hold you firm. his eyes flick up to meet yours, the blue glow from the monitor still casting sharp shadows over his face. “you don’t get it,” he says, voice rough. “this—” his fingers drag along your inner thigh, stopping just short of where you’re aching— “is mine. every inch.”

you swallow hard, pulse thudding in your ears. he shifts forward again, settling between your legs like he belongs there, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. his thumb slides through the mess he left in you, spreading it, and you gasp, hips jerking without meaning to.

his smirk is small, but it’s there. “you’re still so sensitive,” he says, almost fond. “i could keep you here all night.” and with the way his hands are on you — steady, unyielding — you believe him.

he leans in, pressing his mouth to your stomach, the kiss slow and deliberate. “look at you,” he murmurs against your skin. “perfect. open for me.” each word settles heavy in your chest, like they’re sinking into your bones.

his fingers slip lower again, teasing, testing, and you bite your lip to keep from making a sound. but he notices anyway, tilting his head with that quiet, knowing smile. “don’t hide from me,” he says, thumb pressing lightly where you’re most tender. “i want to hear you.”

you’re already trembling, but when his touch circles there — slow, deliberate — your whole body tightens. he watches every flicker of reaction, every stuttered breath, like he’s studying you, like he’s taking inventory of what’s his.

“you feel that?” he asks, his tone low and almost reverent. you nod, unable to speak, your gaze locked on his because you know he won’t let you look away. “good,” he says, leaning up just enough to kiss you — slow at first, then deeper, stealing the air from your lungs.

when he pulls back, his mouth is curved in something that isn’t quite a smile. “you’re mine,” he repeats, quieter this time, almost like it’s a prayer. his thumb presses in just a little harder, and you can feel the heat rising all over again, quick and sharp.

he doesn’t rush. he doesn’t need to. he has you exactly where he wants you — and he’s going to keep you there until you can’t think of anything but him.

you’re still catching your breath when he gets up. no kiss to your forehead, no hand brushing your hair back — just the creak of the bed frame as his weight leaves it, the cold rush of air where his body had been.

your eyes follow him without meaning to. the muscles in his back shift under his skin as he walks away, the faint red marks from your nails standing out in the blue light. he disappears into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

you hear the water run — short, controlled bursts, not enough to suggest a shower. the sound echoes in the quiet, mixing with the faint buzz in your head. your breathing slows, but your pulse stays too quick, like your body hasn’t caught up to the fact that it’s over.

when he comes back, it’s with a damp towel in one hand. he doesn’t say anything as he kneels beside the bed, wiping you down. the touch is firm, careful enough not to hurt, but impersonal — his gaze fixed on the task, never on you.

it’s not rough. but it’s not tender, either.

the towel cools quickly in the air, leaving goosebumps in its wake. you shift slightly, but he doesn’t notice, or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. when he’s done, he tosses the towel onto the floor without looking where it lands.

he reaches for your skirt from where it’s crumpled on the other side of the bed. the fabric is wrinkled, one button hanging loose, but he folds it once and sets it beside your hip like it’s just another thing to check off his list. “rest for a bit,” he says, already turning away.

the chair at his desk groans under his weight. click — the monitor comes to life, spilling cold blue light into the room. it paints his jawline in sharp shadow, turning the soft curve of his cheek into something unreadable.

he slips on his headset, the faint buzz of a voice chat cutting through the silence. a low laugh escapes him at something someone says, the sound warmer than anything he’s given you in the last five minutes. his fingers tap against the keys, a steady rhythm, the clack-clack punctuated by quiet mutters you can’t quite make out.

you stay where you are, the blanket pulled up to your chin. the sheets are still warm from both your bodies, still heavy with the scent of sweat and skin and the faint bitter note that’s just him. you bury your face in the pillow for a second, breathing it in like it might hold you together.

but it doesn’t last. the warmth seeps out, replaced by the awareness of the space between you. you watch his back, the slope of his shoulders hunched slightly toward the screen.

he laughs again. you feel it like a tug somewhere in your chest, sharp and hollow all at once.

your legs still feel weak, your muscles sore in a way that’s half-pleasant, half-aching. your body still hums faintly from everything he just did to you — from how close he’d been, from how he’d looked at you like nothing else existed.

and now… now he’s already somewhere else.

you tell yourself this is what love feels like. being wanted so much in one moment, and left alone in the next. your fingers curl into the sheets. you don’t cry — not yet. you just watch him, hoping, stupidly, that at some point he’ll turn around and see you again.

you lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, the pale plaster blurring in and out as your eyes lose focus. the clack of his keyboard is steady, almost mechanical, broken only by the faint bursts of static and muffled voices from his headset. you try to match your breathing to the rhythm of his typing, like it might trick you into feeling in sync again.

the blanket is warm, but it’s the wrong kind of warm — heavy, suffocating. it’s not the heat from his hands on your skin, the way his gaze pinned you down like you were the only thing in the room. that warmth was fleeting, burned away the second he pulled back.

you shift, sitting up slowly. the hoodie slips off one shoulder, the stretched fabric brushing your arm. the scent of him clings to it, faint but stubborn, and you think maybe that’s why you don’t take it off.

“kinich,” you say, barely louder than a whisper, testing the sound of his name in the space between you.

no answer.

you try again, a little louder. “can you—”

his chair swivels just enough for the monitor’s glow to catch his face — the sharp cut of shadow over his cheek, his lips parted like he’s already impatient. “can you not be annoying right now?”

the words land sharper than you expect. they’re not yelled, not even cold — just tossed out with a casual weight that still feels like a door slamming in your face.

you bite your lip, swallowing whatever you were about to say, feeling it curdle in your chest instead. “…i just wanted you to pay attention to me.”

he exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. the sound makes something in you shrink. “i was paying attention to you,” he says, voice flat. “now i’m busy. don’t make this a thing.”

and that’s it. his attention slides away from you like water off glass, back to the glow of the screen. fingers flying over the keys, voice lifting when he laughs at something his friends say — lighter, warmer than it’s been with you all night.

you curl back under the blanket, pulling it up until it covers half your face. you turn toward the wall, away from him, so he doesn’t see the way your throat feels tight. in the dark space between blinks, you tell yourself it’s fine. he’ll turn around later. he’ll smile. he’ll call you his.

you just have to wait.

but waiting feels different now. less like patience, more like holding your breath until your lungs ache.

your mind drifts, chasing half-formed memories and metaphors you wish weren’t true. the stories never said the wolf stayed gentle after letting you in. they just said he got inside. and once he’s inside, you stop thinking about the door entirely — because it doesn’t matter if it’s locked anymore.

you sink deeper into the blanket, into the hum of his laughter and the relentless tapping of the keys. your body remembers the closeness from earlier. your chest remembers the distance now.

it happens fast.

you’re in the kitchen, half-distracted, phone facedown on the counter while you fill a glass of water. your mom’s voice cuts sharp from the living room — not curious, not casual, but edged. who’s kinich?

before you can even move, your dad’s voice follows, low but cold. when you step into the doorway, your stomach drops all the way to the floor. he’s holding your phone, scrolling, thumb moving slow like he’s making sure to see everything.

and then you see the screen. the messages. the pictures. the late-night timestamps that suddenly look a lot more incriminating under your parents’ eyes than they did under his.

you don’t even remember crossing the room, but you’re there, standing in front of them, frozen. your mom’s face is twisted with something between disappointment and disbelief. your dad’s jaw is tight, his voice sharp enough to cut.

the yelling comes all at once — a tangle of voices, overlapping until the words blur. you catch fragments. unacceptable. disgusting. you’re still a child. do you even understand what this means?

you try to explain. or maybe you don’t — maybe you just open your mouth and nothing comes out. your chest feels too tight, your ears ringing so loud it swallows most of what they say anyway. your eyes burn, but you don’t cry. not here. not yet.

by the time you’re in your room with the door shut, your hands are shaking. you grab your phone from where your dad left it on the bed, the weight of it almost foreign now, like it’s been tainted.

you text him. can i come over? please.

he doesn’t answer. you stare at the screen until your vision blurs, until you can’t take it, until you press call without thinking.

when he picks up, you’re already crying. your voice breaks on the first word. “they found out,” you choke, the sentence crumbling halfway through. “they’re so mad— they— i can’t—”

you swipe at your face, but the tears just keep coming, hot and unrelenting, blurring the room into nothing. your breath hitches, uneven. “kinich… can you save me?”

there’s a pause. long enough to make you think the call dropped. then his voice — calm, too calm, like he’s a hundred miles away instead of just a few streets over.

“save you from what?”

“from them. from this. just… take me away.” the words come out smaller than you mean them to, weak in a way that makes you hate yourself.

he sighs. not impatient, not loud — just quiet, heavy, like he’s already decided something. “you’re being dramatic. it’s not like they can actually stop you from seeing me.”

“they said they’ll—” “and what? ground you? you’ll get over it. they will too.” his voice is steady, but you can hear the faint clack of his keyboard in the background. he’s distracted. you’re not the only thing on his mind.

you grip the phone tighter, like maybe that’ll make him listen harder. “please. just say you’ll come get me.”

another pause. you hear him inhale, slow, deliberate. “i’m busy right now.” and then, softer — like softness is supposed to fix the way it breaks you — “you’ll be fine. you always are.”

the line clicks dead before you can answer.

you stay sitting on the floor, phone heavy in your hand, staring at the dark screen like it might light up again if you will it hard enough. the muffled sound of your parents’ voices seeps through the door — low, tense, like they’re still talking about you. you press your palms to your eyes until you see spots, until your chest hurts more from holding in the sobs than from the words themselves.

you tell yourself he’ll come later. you tell yourself this is just the part of the story where the prince shows up at the last possible second, when all hope feels gone.

but deep down, you know the truth.

the glass slipper isn’t lost. it’s locked away in the wolf’s den. and the wolf isn’t coming to save you. he never was.

you just didn’t notice until now that his den was never a home — it was a cage.

it’s been days since that night. days of silence from him. days of your parents watching you like a hawk, their suspicion thick enough to choke on. every footstep they hear, every glance at your phone, every second you linger by the door — it all earns you another warning look. another reminder.

you told yourself you were done. you told yourself he made it clear — he’s not coming to save you. you replayed the call in your head until the words blurred, until you could almost believe you misheard him.

but then friday comes. the air is heavy and damp, clinging to your skin, your bag strap digging into your shoulder as you leave the gates. and there he is.

leaning against his car like he owns the street. sunglasses pushed up into his hair, one arm crossed, the other lazily resting on the roof. he looks bored. like this was an errand, not a choice. but your chest still jolts. your feet still hesitate.

“hey,” he says, like nothing happened. like he didn’t hang up on you, like he hasn’t been a ghost for days. and stupidly, stupidly, you smile.

“you’re here,” you breathe. “yeah. figured i’d pick you up.” he says it like he’s doing you a favor. like you were just… waiting for him.

he opens the passenger door with one hand, casual, expecting. and you slide in without thinking. seatbelt locking in place, the familiar smell of his cologne hitting you in the face.

“i missed you,” you say, before your brain can warn you not to. “missed you too.” the words leave his mouth so easily they almost sound real. you don’t notice how his gaze flicks down the line of your thighs when you adjust your skirt.

the drive is quiet. too quiet. the kind of quiet where you start to hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

“where are we going?” “my place.” he smirks, eyes on the road. “no one’s home.”

and that’s when it hits you. he’s not here to make things right. he’s not here to talk, or explain, or say sorry. he’s here because he wants you. and you let him.

because in your head, this is still the happy part of the story. the part where the princess gets swept away. the part where you forget the ending for just a little while longer.

later, when you’re on his bed again — his hands gripping your hips, his voice low in your ear telling you to stop overthinking — you forget the phone call. you forget the silence. you forget the way your chest caved in when he said “i’m busy right now.”

because you’re here. and he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters. and for now, that’s enough.

even if you know the ending never changes. even if you know the wolf doesn’t put you back together after he’s done.

the door clicks shut behind you, his hand pressing into the small of your back, guiding you like you’re already halfway under his control. maybe you are. maybe you’ve been halfway there the whole time.

your bag hits the floor with a soft thud before you even sit down.

“kinich—” you start, breath catching.

he kisses you mid-word, firm and decisive, cutting off any protest before it can leave your lips. his hands slide under your uniform blazer, warm and insistent.

“missed this,” he mutters against your mouth, like it’s all the explanation you need, like nothing else matters.

you try to tell him you missed him too, but it comes out as a sharp gasp when his fingers tease the edge of your skirt, bunching it up, testing boundaries he knows you won’t resist.

“don’t act shy now,” he murmurs, smirk tugging at his lips as he watches you squirm. “you’re the one who got in my car.”

your back hits the bed and he’s on you in seconds, heavy, warm, exuding a mix of cologne and faint metal from his car. his hands move with practiced ease — blazer gone, tie loosened, buttons of your blouse undone one by one with lazy precision. he doesn’t even kiss you again until you’re half-undressed, lying there in just your skirt and bra, cheeks hot, chest fluttering like it could shatter.

“you look better than i remember,” he says, thumbing the hem of your bra before tugging it up, his eyes scanning every inch of you. the compliment presses into your chest, burning through every thought that tries to remind you of the phone call, of the days he left you waiting.

you try to speak, mumble something about how it’s been a while, but he’s already pulling you closer, guiding your legs around his waist. the kiss this time is different — deeper, hungrier, more claiming — and his hands slip under your skirt, fingers brushing the waistband of your panties before curling in, deliberate, claiming.

“still wet for me?” he murmurs.

you nod before your brain catches up, and that’s all it takes. he shoves the fabric aside, pressing in like it’s his right. your breath hitches, thighs clenching instinctively, but he only laughs, low and satisfied.

“relax. you know you like it.”

after that, the careful, slow teasing of before is gone. he pulls you down the bed, lining himself up with you, giving you no time to brace yourself before the sharp push that stretches you open. nails dig into his shoulders, breath catches on a half-formed protest — but the rhythm takes over, muscle memory filling in the gaps your mind can’t.

you tell yourself this is love. you tell yourself this is how it’s supposed to feel — when someone comes back, when they choose you again.

his pace is relentless, rough, each movement focused on the way you squeeze him, the way your skirt still bunched at your hips frames him.

“look at you,” he mutters, voice low, amused, dangerous. “knew you’d let me fuck you the second i showed up.”

when you come, it’s messy, uncontrolled, face buried in his shoulder to hide the sound of your cries. he doesn’t pause — or maybe he notices, maybe he likes that you can’t hide it — before following quickly with his own release, warm and heavy inside you.

he pulls out without a word, tucking himself back in, reaching for his phone at the desk. his chair groans as he sits, booting up his pc, the glow from the monitor washing over his features in cold light.

“you can grab a towel if you want,” he says, voice casual, eyes fixed on the screen.

you stay on the bed, chest heaving, body still trembling, mind screaming, but your lips form the same quiet reassurance you always give yourself: it’s fine.

he came back. he’s here. you’re still his.

even if the rest of the world reminds you you shouldn’t be.

you stay there for what feels like hours, knees tucked to your chest, staring at the ceiling as the faint hum of his computer and the occasional bursts of laughter from his headset fill the room. the ache between your thighs is constant, dull and stubborn, a reminder of what happened, of what he took and left behind without a word of softness. your skirt is still wrinkled, your blouse still hanging open, and the smell of him clings to your skin like a shadow you can’t shake.

he laughs again — not at you, not with you, just at the game, at some voice in his headset. you bite your lip, willing yourself not to care, and push off the bed to stumble down the hall to the bathroom. the floorboards creak under your weight, and the chill of the tile makes you shiver, even though your skin is still warm from him. there’s no towel waiting, never is, so you settle for toilet paper, dabbing as best as you can, hands trembling from more than just the soreness. you try not to think about the faint stickiness that smells like him, the way your body still remembers every touch.

in the mirror, your mascara is streaked, your hair a mess, your eyes rimmed with exhaustion and frustration. you smooth it the best you can, straighten what isn’t straightable, pretend that fixing yourself will somehow fix the quiet that’s settled over you. but when you return to his room, he hasn’t looked away from the monitor once. headset in place, back perfectly rigid in the chair, laughter spilling into the air for everyone but you.

“you want water or something?” you whisper, voice almost swallowed by the hum of his setup.

“nah, i’m good,” he replies, flat, distracted, as though you’re barely there.

you sit back on the edge of the bed, knees pulled up, arms wrapped tight around them. the glow of the monitor paints his profile in cold light, and your chest twists at the contrast — the boy who tore through you without hesitation, now distant and absent, more alive in the game than in the room with you.

this — this is love, you tell yourself.

because he wanted you enough to come get you from school. because he touched you, kissed you, said you looked good.

it has to mean something.

even if he’s not touching you now. even if his laughter is warmer for his friends than it ever is for you.

you rest your chin on your knees, eyes tracing the way the light hits his jawline, the curve of his shoulder. the sound of him playing, the rhythm of the keys beneath his fingers, fills the room like a pulse. your lips curl into the faintest smile, convincing yourself — this is enough.

you’re here. you’re his.

even if it hurts like hell.

you stay like that for a long time, chin pressed to your knees, arms tight around your legs, the quiet stretching out until it almost hurts. the hum of his computer, the click of keys, the bursts of laughter from his headset — it’s all you hear. you tell yourself it’s enough, that just being here, in the same room, makes you his.

because someday, he’ll turn back to you. he’ll look at you like you’re the only thing that matters, kiss you like he’s been holding back for far too long, whisper soft things into your skin, trace patterns on you like he owns you in the gentlest way possible. and for now, that promise — imagined, distant, maybe a lie — is enough.

you watch him, tracing the slope of his shoulders, the way his lips curl at something on the screen, the subtle tilt of his head. you pretend, just for a second, that it’s all for you, that every glance you don’t get, every dismissal, every silence — it’s just a part of the story. the hard part. the ugly, quiet part that comes before the happy ending.

maybe that’s all this is. maybe you’re just in the middle of the chapter where the heroine suffers, where the wolf ignores the princess for reasons she can’t yet understand. maybe if you keep being good — if you smile when he wants you to, keep quiet when he’s busy, let him take you when he wants — the ending will come.

your thighs still ache, tender and raw, a faint burn where his hands left marks that weren’t just bruises but ownership, insistence. you cling to it, proof that he wanted you, that he still does, that this — even this — is love, sharp and dizzying and a little painful.

the blue glow from the monitor flickers across the room, lighting his profile, washing over the bed, over you. you think about your parents somewhere in their house, probably eating dinner, probably still furious, still thinking he’s the villain. you want to shout that they’re wrong, that he came for you, that he’s the only one who ever really looked at you like you mattered. but you know they wouldn’t understand.

so you whisper to the empty room, to the shadows, to the quiet hum of electronics: good night, dad. good night, mom. sweet dreams. it’s bedtime for grown-ups now.

and even if the night stretches on, even if the quiet presses too close, even if he doesn’t look at you — you tell yourself it’s fine. because this is your story. because this is your fairytale. because he is yours, even if only for a little while.

credits to @cafekitsune for the animated border lines !

[imcanreadmindsnocap]

i’m extremely sensitive, so what’s up with all this “angst/no comfort” or “no happy ending” like be honest with me, do you want me to kill myself?

[patrochilles-or-bust]

Saw this this morning while I was feeling very low and tired, and I thought it would help any other Black women feeling the same.

Black women, we gotta take care of ourselves, and it's OKAY to do so. Not even just in the coming months, but all the time. We are worth love, respect, and dignity, no matter how much this world wants to force us to believe less. 🙏🏾💖

[patrochilles-or-bust]

Yes, I would appreciate it if you shared this for the Black women in your circles to see 🙏🏾

[ravereina]

Chat i think i’m bisexual

[ravereina]

How to stop being addicted to character ai go

[skxllz]

do y'all think he makes this face when he's about to...?

I'll stop. no I won't.

[ravereina]

yes.

[skxllz]

I like you, have a cupcake.

[ravereina]

I like u too, let’s share a giyuu themed cupcake

[skxllz]

do y'all think he makes this face when he's about to...?

I'll stop. no I won't.

[ravereina]

yes.

[everlastingleuthymia]

Mui throwing gang signs at us 💀

[skxllz]

all I can hear is “ word to ya’ mother ”

[ravereina]

Nyc Muichiro real

[homeslices]

Ride

A/N: Sorry this I took so long to upload school is kicking my ass and I’m sick 😭 also a sentence in here made me think of a sequel, guess which part lol. Also I’m actually sort of happy how this turned out but let me know what you guys think!

Summary: Just some more Chishiya smut. Do y’all sense a pattern of what I post? He might be a little ooc but I tried.

Pairings: Shuntaro Chishiya x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: Smut

Up and down, up and down, up and down.

That’s the only thing going through your mind at the moment. That’s the only thing that can go through your mind at the moment.

Your thighs are so tired, but that coil in your stomach that has been building up is so close to snapping.

Chishiya is lying beneath you, casually holding onto your hips while watching you bounce on his cock while your cunt is tightly squeezing around it.

You’ve been at this for a while. It started with just some lighthearted teasing while you both were in Chishiya’s room at The Beach. But that lighthearted teasing led to you saying you can get off without Chishiya’s help, and now you're regretting your choice of words- and humor.

You let out a choked sob when Chishiya’s cock brushes against that spongy spot inside of you.

“I thought you said you could get off by yourself, didn't you?” Chishiya’s voice cuts through the room.

“ ‘m sorry,” you whine.

The frustration of not being able to cum made tears well up behind your eyes, which are so close to sliding down your face.

Chishiya doesn’t move, of course not. Even if you beg enough you’re not sure he’ll take mercy on you. He’s just watching you amusingly. His lips twitch led up in a small, condescending smile.

“ ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry, please!” You cry out, those tears finally spilling down your flushed cheeks.

Your pace was stuttering, legs too tired to keep the rhythm, and that blissful feeling that was building up soon disappears as you ruin your own orgasm once again.

Your cunt squeezes in desperation and your upper body soon slumps down onto Chishiya’s, both of your naked chests flush together.

You’re still grinding against him, your clit brushing against his pelvis. You can hear how sticky it is down there every time you move.

A desperate whimper leaves your lips when Chishiya lifts his hips slightly, giving more pressure to your sensitive bud while simultaneously pushing his cock deeper in your soaked hole.

“Please,” you whimper out.

The ache between your legs is getting too much to handle. The only things you can think of at this point is Chishiya and having him make you cum.

“Please what?”

The shift of his lower body makes you whine once again. He’s messing with you, you know that, but at this point you don’t care.

“Please make me cum,” you sob, tears still streaming down your face.

Your face was in the crook of his neck so you couldn’t see him, but you could feel the amused snicker vibrate his body.

“Backing out of a challenge so soon?”

All you can do is nod frantically hoping he’ll grant you some mercy. You feel him hum thoughtfully only to feel him tap your sides.

“Up, I’ll help you, but you have to stay in the position you were before.”

Knowing that that’s as far as Chishiya was willing to compromise, you use all your strength to sit back up.

Breathing heavily, you brace your hands on Chishiya’s chest. His eyes remain focused on your face, almost as if he’s entertained by your struggle. Knowing him, he probably is.

Gripping your hips Chishiya steadies you, only to thrust up into your cunt, his cock brushing against your g-spot precisely.

Letting out a broken moan, you lean most of your weight on your hands, only to have Chishiya thrust up again and again and having him hit your g-spot over and over.

Your eyes are unfocused, but you can make you the smug grin covering Chishiya’s face with every thrust. He doesn’t break his pace once, and the only thing coming out of your mouth now is whimpers.

That pool of arousal soon starts building up once again, and god you can’t take it any longer. You can feel every thrust of Chishiya’s cock dragging against your sopping wet walls.

Chishiya could see a white ring forming around the base of his cock, and knowing you're close again, starts to slow down, making you wait for your release even longer.

You let out another sob of frustration, only to hear Chishiya quiet chuckling.

“You didn’t think It’d be that easy did you?”

You knew he wouldn’t just give into you. You knew, yet you still thought that he might’ve given you a little leniency. Apparently not though. He’s stopped his movements and settled for controlling your hips in a slow grind, making sure your clit rubs against his pelvis every time.

“I said I would help, not do all the work.” There was a slight pause before Chishiya continued. “Unless you don’t want to cum?”

That last sentence cut through your foggy mind. You knew he wasn’t playing around. If he wanted to, he could deny you cumming at all. He has before, and he sure as hell would do it again.

So, you slowly begin to bounce on Chishiya’s cock once again. Of course, he follows through with his promise to you, gripping your hips and helping you go up and down like you were previously.

That coil in your stomach was beginning to tighten fastly, the four previous ruined orgasms making you so much more sensitive.

You’re right at the edge, so close you could practically see the bliss that was sure to take over you.

Chishiya’s hand slides up your soaked thigh covered in both of your juices, to your cunt, that is continuously riding his cock. His thumb brushes over your clit once, twice, only the third time he starts rubbing tight circles against it.

Your head falls back, jaw open, as you let out a silently moan. And when Chishiya’s cock hits your g-spot once again, that coil finally snaps.

A shutter racks your body as goosebumps cover your skin. You see white as you cum all over Chishiya’s cock, creaming around it. A euphoric sense passes through you and you don’t think you’ve ever felt this good.

Your body slumps safely onto Chishiya, who was currently helping you ride out your orgasm by continually rubbing your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Coming down finally from you high, you start to whine at the overstimulation, only to be flipped around on your back with Chishiya hovering above you, thrusting shallowly into your sensitive heat.

“You didn’t think we were done did you?”

The feeling of his lips kissing and sucking their way up your neck had you leaning your head back, giving him more access.

Only then does he brush them against your ear and whisper.

“I didn’t even cum yet.”

[ravereina]

He’s so😫😫😫😫

[chikaras-garden]

Mean Streak (reader's version)

Osamu is the world’s most perfect boyfriend: Sweet, doting, protective. He’d give you the world—but what happens when you ask him to be mean to you?

Pairing: dom!Osamu x sub!fem!reader

Words: 4.6k

Contains: soft! to mean!dom!Osamu, brat!reader, light breathplay, dumbification, dacryphilia, praise kink, degradation, oral sex (f!receiving), overstimulation, piv sex, ruined orgasm, desk sex, chair sex, roughness, spanking, mention of a safeword, little hint of size difference, O calls R “baby girl,” “baby,” “little girl,” “dumb girl,” “good girl,” yes this was a wild ride

Notes: 18+ or you’ll be blocked, Yachi’s version on ao3. Couldn’t decide if I wanted this to be x Yachi or x reader, so…I did both.

Keep reading

[peachdues]

one in every hole please and thank you —

[ravereina]

Twin were have u been ❤️

HELP I HAVNET CHECKED IN INBOX IN MONTHS HIII SO SORRY FOR THE LATE REPLY 😭 💗💗💗💗

[skxllz]

g/n reader + nsfw content | mdni

saw a post that got me thinking of giyuu who just loves to make his s/o suffer from a long edging session.

and the whole time he's just stoic- emotionless, even when he feels the clamping of your tight walls around his cock.

but what seems to actually set him off is you crying about how sorry you are that you were being so unfair to him all day. you didn't mean to bother him- to anger him. you just wanted attention.

seeing the fat tears roll down your cheeks out of desperation snapped the water hashira back to a reasonable state.

his brows would furrow, and dip downwards so slowly that you'd think he's considering about doing something far worse than denying your orgasm — but in reality he was fighting off the urge to crumble before you. only... he couldn't.

giyuu would lean over your frame, heavy hands moving to press to the space right below where your junctions met — behind your knees. he's folding you into a tight mating press, his parted lips only seeming to twitch at the corners the more his expression relaxed and the louder you sobbed out.

so pretty; you looked so, so pretty like that. taking his cock so well and begging for him to let you cum. how could he deny you any longer?

“ cum for me, ” his balanced, velvety voice would reach your ears just as he presses a generous kiss to your lips. “ but don't make a mess, or I won't show you mercy next time. ”

[ravereina]

this has such a grip on me i’m gonna lose it