Shane and Ilya being like fuck drunk together. Walk with me. They’ve been teasing and fooling around all day, fucked a few times and Ilya has edged Shane and the made him cum until he was cuming dry. They are both exhausted and fucking loopy from how good it feels, a bit loopy and sore and fuzzy but Ilya mentioned Ramen like two hours ago and now they both really can’t stop thinking about it and they are starving from marathon fucking and they don’t want to cook.
So they bundle up in sweats and hoodies, no underwear after the most rushed shower- Shane can still feel the slick of lube inside him and- and it’s late but there’s this one shop shane knows will still be open and he’s so hungry and Ilya is smiling so big in excitement for their ‘date’ (as he keeps calling it) so they go there.
They Sit in a corner booth, smushed in together on the same side shoulders over lapping all puffy mouthed and big eyed. The order far too much and Shane won’t let go if Ilya’s hand and Ilya keeps feeding Shane, and the noodles are hot and salty and fatty and so good and it’s messy and stupid but Shane smiles so big every time he does it, or raises his can of ginger ale to his lips for shane to sip. Shane is giggly and soft, fucked out with big sleepy blinks and he’s all loose and lovely and stuck to Ilya’s side and Ilya shoves his hand down the back of Shane’s sweats while the eat, thankful for his body as a shield. Ilya can’t stop smirking and he can still feel the burn of the nail marks Shane has left on his back under his hoodie when they kiss and kiss and kiss and giggle and Shane smirks when he spots his teeth marks under Ilya’s ear. Ilya makes a secret tunnel of their two hoodies, hands cupped to make it a little private pocket for them and kisses Shane with far too much tongue for outside of the house. Bites his swollen mouth and tells him so he’s so pretty snd good, his voice heavy and rumble Russian.
The tip the sweet ladies behind the counter far too much when they leave and Shane rubs his face against Ilya’s shoulder while they walk back to the car, hiding his yawns into the material
synopsis: after receiving a nice outfit from the boss, dazai simply needs to remind you who you belong to.
introduction: baby, i can't hurt you, sure. but i'm the jealous type.
i love writing jealous dazai, so this was definitely fun to just write raunchy smut between you and your executive boyfriend because he hates the thought of losing you.
contents: ~9k words; nsfw; pm member fem, afab!reader; 22+ pm executive!dazai; jealous!dazai; established relationship; smut: public bathroom sex, briefly caught, oral/rim job (f receiving), fingering, multiple female orgasms, lots of cervix hitting/kissing, in front of a mirror, lots of dirty talk, unprotected, "dumbification" - just very desperate, messy fucking. pet names: princess; baby; whore; slut; dumb; stupid; pervert; remarks on how dumb you are when he fucks you.
a/n i'll proofread this better tomorrow lol. i just wanted to get it posted.
“Oh, don’t you look lovely,” that soft croon whispers in your ear as you are putting on a fairly overdone and gaudy necklace, not something you’d necessarily pick out on your own, and your hands freeze. Your eyes meet deep, dark brown ones in the mirror, and a ghost of a smirk is on his lips when he sees the sudden tension in your shoulders. “Not like you to wear something this classy.” Dazai’s hands come up to assist in clasping the necklace on, not without placing a lingering kiss to your bare shoulder.
“Well, it is supposed to be an important gala. Mori made such a huge fuss about it, I thought I’d put in the effort,” you force a light smile, still only looking at him via the mirror, then your fingers not so elegantly fumble around on your vanity for your makeup. His gaze scans you, observes, notices every little twitch in your features and muscle under your skin, his fingertips carefully tracing down your spine, completely exposed from the open back of the dress. The sparkling sheen catches in the light with your movements, and that makes him suspicious. A small shudder escapes from his touch, glancing at him again but wearing a shy, coy smile. “What is it?”
“Just can’t take my eyes off of you,” he murmurs, line of sight dragging from your reflection to your chest, hardly covered by the material, a deep V scooping down to your torso, then the twinkling of thousands of little gems and stones distracts him once more. Those consuming voids travel up the side of your neck to your earrings, matching the jewelry resting on your collarbone, and his eyes narrow, quickly correcting them before offering a semblance of a smile. “You are going to be the most expensive thing at this gala.” His lips press gentle kisses along the side of your face and to your ear, calloused, bandaged hands sliding down your arms to lace his fingers with yours, distracting you from getting ready, and there isn’t really a need for cosmetic blush with how furiously red he is making you.
“Osamu, I need to finish getting ready,” you breathe when his mouth finds your neck, but you don’t really do a whole lot of anything to stop him, fingers trailing up to tangle in his tresses. He hums, vibrating into your skin, before reluctantly pulling away, then placing more kisses on your knuckles as he sets you free.
“Forgive me, I’m not used to seeing you look so enchanting,” his eyes, usually detached, are dilating the more he stares at your reflection, bouncing from it to how much of your body is showing, then remembers how strangely you acted when he stepped in to check on you. His gaze travels down to your feet, semi-covered by the length of your dress, and he thinks he notices a heel. His brow gradually lifts, hands stuffing in his pockets, before slowly turning on his heel to the kitchen.
Something to note: you aren’t exactly the “dazzling” type. Your streetwear consists primarily of casual, comfortable, and practical clothes, while your mafia attire is nothing short of dull. Heels don’t necessarily work well for you, preferring flats or other business-like shoes that keep you low to the ground; skirts that are only ever an inch above the knee but you ensure it is flowing enough to be manageable to walk around in; and your dress pants are the most unflattering pairs you can find. You like glitter – who doesn’t, but you don’t particularly reach for it when shopping, and your makeup typically consists of neutrals, a smoky eye if you’re feeling like putting in the extra effort. Of course you’re not plain, far from it, you just do not know how to dress yourself; it can be embarrassing, especially when your boyfriend is the one constantly stunting on you in public and neither of you seem to have a mutual understanding of what to wear for the occasion.
This was not lost on Mori either, mentioning a few times to Dazai about how while you are in uniform, it is more or less unassuming. He has always been a stickler for dress code and presentability. Which brings you to tonight’s gala that he was against having you show up in something that wouldn’t be appropriate to represent his organization. The gesture was relieving after calling you into his office without much other notice, but strange all the same when you peeked in the bag and saw the contents.
“Mr. Mori, sir, this is incredibly generous of you–” You had stammered, but he smoothly cut you off with a toss of his leg over the other.
“I know, dear,” he smiled, that one when he knew he had gotten what he wanted but didn’t need to show it. “I am very generous. I would hate for you to stick out like a sore thumb.” You took another look into the bag, skeptical, glancing up at him with that written across your features, and he tilted his head. “Plus, you have a stunning figure underneath all that drab clothing, don’t you think you should show it off?” The comment made a shiver run up your spine and a grimace you had to hide, offering a polite smile in return.
“Thank you, but I’m not sure how Dazai will take me wearing something he hadn’t bought for me,” you told him, hands folding in front of you, awkwardly shifting in your spot.
“Then Dazai should have jumped the gun to get you something more appropriate for such an important gala,” he maintained his faux politeness, but the bite was there, underlying in his words, and you knew you’d have to try to keep this a secret as much as you could.
Dazai stands in the kitchen near his liquor cabinet, a crystal glass filled with his second glass of whiskey, staring out of the window as he takes smaller sips this time, remembering how absolutely gorgeous you looked, but everything was off. You would have mentioned going shopping, and you definitely would have asked him to go with you to pick an outfit for this evening. That dress has never once been in your closet, and you don’t own a pair of heels at all. The jewelry is too over the top for your tastes, and you were tense, as if on edge, walking on eggshells around him – you two haven’t fought, but he briefly wonders if he had done or said something wrong. However, you didn’t push him away, so that couldn’t be it either. His fingers lightly grip the rim of his glass, eyes narrowing again at the setting sun and pink clouds while he thinks, trying to avoid the possibility someone else has gotten everything for you.
“Osa!” You call out to him, hand leaning on the wall as the other grips the skirt, and you’re panicking some at the top of the stairs while your knees shake in the heels you tried practicing walking around in but never seemed to grasp. His head snaps in your direction, abandoning his theories for the time being to reach you, his brows furrowing when he sees you just standing there. You give him a pitiful look, glancing down then back to meet his mildly concerned gaze. “I… I need help with the stairs.” You mumble. He stares at you for a moment too long, bouncing around different parts of your done-up face, and he doesn’t believe the person in front of him is his girlfriend. “Do I look bad?” You fret, clinging to the wall so you don’t topple over.
“No, no, of course not,” he clears his throat, having to force his daze away, and offers his hand to you. “C’mon, my long-lost princess, we have a ball to get to.” He jokes, uncharacteristically patient as he helps get you down the stairs one step at a time.
He sat beside you on the car ride, close enough his cologne was beginning to rub off of him to mix with your perfume, his large hand gripping your thigh – also exposed from the slit running down to the floor, periodically squeezing it as he continued with his thoughts. He seemed lost in them, unaware he was subconsciously riding his palm up further than it should, and you had to continuously, subtly, push it back down closer to your knee.
The moment you two had left the car, his hands and arms were all over you, latching your sides together, making pointed stops to leave kisses on your cheeks, behind your ear, on your neck, and the corner of your mouth. The affection was nice, but you knew the behavior and actions too well, and you had to pretend you didn’t notice. When he spoke to people, he wore that beautifully practiced smile, introducing you, arm securely around your waist, hand tight to your hip, and he never once let you out of his sight.
Dazai has you tucked away in a corner with him, holding you close so his whispers only reach your ears, the things he’s saying making you giggle and blush, both of you holding a glass each of the expensive champagne, and he is softly begging you to leave a kiss on his neck with such a bold color on your lips. “We can’t do that here.” You giggle again, playfully pushing him away when his head ducks down to start peppering kisses on your neck instead.
“Yes, we can, my darling princess,” he coerces, a small grin forming at the sound of your laughter and quickened heartbeat, the only thing that seems to soften his caged-off black heart anymore these days. “I’m doing it right now.” He pulls you closer, hoping whatever idiot thought they could put you in this behind his back is watching you have an amazing time with him, your actual boyfriend.
“Look at you two,” a grating, irritating voice wanders into Dazai’s ears, his happiness fleeting, and he rolls his eyes. Your smile drops only enough to appear polite, trying to place enough distance between your bodies to be professional, but his arms have minds of their own to keep you pressed into him, glued, almost crawling into your skin.
“Mori! Always a pleasure to see you,” Dazai greets, standing up straight and giving his boss enough respect to face him. Mori stands before you two, wearing one of his best suits with his mafia robes, hands behind his back, and Elise off not too far away, entertaining herself. The two exchange smirks, similar to a handshake in the ring, and Mori nods.
“Don’t you look absolutely ravishing, my dear,” he compliments, ignoring Dazai completely, and nails dig into your side that makes you bite back a reaction.
“Thank you, Mr. Mori, that means a lot coming from you,” you bow some, staying close to Dazai, who keeps his other hand stuffed in his pants pocket, a fist formed, and biting on his back teeth.
“I did a wonderful job putting that together for you, don’t you agree, Dazai?” He immediately throws out his cards, and Dazai’s impression freezes with widened eyes and a tight smile. Your entire composure slips, hardly keeping a normal grip on your glass, and your feet are starting to hurt. “I think red suits her quite nicely.” He eggs on, stepping forward to drape the end of his scarf along your shoulder, pretending to admire how it looks on you, and that sends you into an internal spiral of what could that possibly mean? Your boyfriend is stuck, the only movements being his nails trying to claw at the fabric of your dress, and you’re beyond uncomfortable. “You do clean up so beautifully, dear, you should look into speaking with Kouyou about expanding your wardrobe for more flattering pieces. Oh, you could even ask Nakahara, he’s incredibly stylish.” The sound of his colleague’s name snaps Dazai out of his raging daze, coming back to reality, and lets out the perfect laugh to brush off everything he’s said while silently telling him he’s crossed a line.
“Now you’re just saying things, Mori,” he carefully steps between the two of you, one hand behind his back to clutch yours, and you peek over his shoulder at your boss, attempting not to come off as nervous as you are. He merely tilts his head, wearing that wretched smile, and smooths out his scarf. “You bought my girlfriend all of this?” He asks, voice pitched, question rhetorical.
“But of course, it seemed no one else was going to bother doing so,” Mori counters, gesturing toward you. “I have brought it to your attention on numerous occasions that maybe you needed to speak with her regarding her attire, and nothing changed. I took matters into my own hands, as this is an important event.” He speaks fluidly, convincingly, and you gently squeeze Dazai’s fingers.
“It’s okay, Osamu, he’s right–”
“I see nothing wrong with her appearance,” Dazai tells him, matter-of-fact. “She dresses professionally, she’s more than punctual, her work is top-tier, and there aren’t ever any complaints.” He lets out another chuckle, his eyes once alight with relaxation and admiration from the two of you huddled to the side alone, now shifting into a silent danger, daring to throw a responsive punch to the initial blows he has received. “It seems you have nothing on her aside from your attire. If you ask me, boss, that seems trivial compared to the other matters you need to concern yourself with. She is mine, as you know, therefore my responsibility.” You stand there in silence, listening, and you hadn’t heard him say things like that before, wondering where this is coming from. He’s possessive, sure, but he never made you feel as though he was the one that had control over your life and decisions – at least outside of work.
“Well, as we all know, you are terrible at handling your responsibilities,” Mori fires back, a slight laugh of his own, and that comment does set Dazai off, hiding it well as he always does. You notice his feet shifting, and you have to carefully draw him back some, reminding him under your breath that ‘he is our boss’. “While I usually have no issue handing things you can’t finish to others, I’m more than happy to take care of her if you’re so incapable. I mean, I seem to already have this evening.” He loves getting under his top executive’s bandages to tear at his skin, knowing nothing gets to him quite like the threat of going near you – even the simple implication is enough to drive him insane, but he doesn’t normally dare saying anything in your presence. Alas, Mori’s in the mood to start trouble, and Dazai’s an easy target since he’s aware there’s only so much he will do in retaliation, what with growing up and out of childish shenanigans.
“Mori,” Dazai laughs, a warning, eyes wild, and the grip on your hand is numbing. “Don’t you think she’s a little too old for you?” It takes an embarrassingly long time for both you and Mori to register what he just said, your brow arching while eyes trail up the side of his face, a semi-deranged smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and Mori shares a raise of his eyebrow.
“I believe you mean ‘too young’?” He corrects, and Dazai stares at him with that strange impression, head slowly tilting, eyes flickering elsewhere before holding contact with his boss again.
“No,” with that, as if on cue, Elise comes running through, laughing with one of the other children that were forced to come because his parents couldn’t find a babysitter, and you have to cover your mouth to prevent giving away the laughter you’re about to burst into. Mori’s eyes follow after her, keeping an eye that she doesn’t cause any trouble, before rolling them with a heavy sigh.
“If that’s the best you can come up with, then I’m not worried,” his hand lazily tosses up in a form of a wave as he turns to go, no longer entertained by pissing off Dazai, hitting the limit he could achieve for the day. Your throat clears, sucking in your lips as you free yourself from his death grip.
“You’re not getting out of this one so easily,” he murmurs, turning now to face you, and your eyes widen with innocence as you look up at him. His features have fallen down to immense agitation, arms folding, and fingers come up to tuck some loose hair behind your ear. You don’t say anything. “You kept this a secret from me. You aren’t allowed to keep secrets from me.”
“Osamu, he’s right, though!” You gently argue, gesturing to yourself. “I would have never been able to pick something like this on my own! I would have looked drab, and–and boxy. I look glamorous, and sparkly! I actually match you for once.” You’re pleading your case, justifying why you didn’t say anything about this to him, but he is clearly not having any of it. His eyes narrow down at you, jaw setting, and a shadow seems to cast over his features.
“You could have asked me to help you,” he points out. “Not Mori.”
“In my defense, it was the same day he announced the event,” you lower your voice more, catching that a few people are slowing their steps to eavesdrop. “That was why he took me into his office alone. He was giving this to me.”
“You shouldn’t have accepted it. You know accepting anything from Mori is signing a piece of yourself away, eternally locked into fulfilling your end of the favor he gave you.”
“I tried declining it!” You hiss, stepping closer so you don’t risk raising your voice.
“Not hard enough!” He reaches down to lift then drop your dress, enough time to show off your shoes, then vaguely gestures to the obviously expensive necklace, then your earrings, and even circles back to your extravagant makeup to match. “How dare you accept anything like this from someone that isn’t me!” He sounds hurt, but his expression tells you differently, rage and something else hidden away in those voids, and you scoff.
“It’s Mori,” your hand pushes at his chest as you begin walking away from him – not well, mind you. “That’s gross!” Your nose scrunches before leaning down to take your heels off and storm in the direction of the women’s room. He watches after you, honestly just pissed off by the entire interaction and fiasco, kicking himself more at feeling like this when you do look so incredible and instead of enjoying it, he’s fighting with you.
You huff as you stand in front of the mirror, carefully touching your makeup in different places, unbelievable that this is how the night is going. You’re more infuriated with Mori for making such a big show of the whole ordeal – however, you shouldn’t be surprised since it’s Mori, knowing his relationship with Dazai is a constant tug of war that your boyfriend repeatedly keeps trying to walk away from but the boss knows the right words to force him into picking the rope back up. This is no different, it would seem, and now you’re wishing you had fought harder against taking the outfit.
You take a step back, your heels on the counter, and allow yourself to take a once over of your appearance: much to your dismay, you do look the best you ever have. It’s unnerving to think about how the boss knew this would accentuate your silhouette, but he did pick the right thing to stick you in. You’re not used to this much exposed skin, the neckline nonexistent, no backing, and if you move the wrong way to the right, everyone will see the color of your underwear from how high the slight runs. The necklace, while huge and tacky, is quite sparkling, dazzling under every light in the building, making you the most eye-catching person here. The only thing you didn’t bother doing was your hair, deciding to leave it down, and that was your way of showing you’re still you – underneath all this glamour forced upon you, your undone tresses is the signature of your inability to properly do anything with yourself as far as styling is concerned. It just… ended up still looking exceptionally well with the rest of the outfit.
You sigh, a hand coming up to hold your head, eyes closed as a migraine is coming on strong, and the sound of the door opening then closing fills the room. Previously, you were alone, but this place is packed, someone was bound to roam their way in here eventually. I probably need to go back out there anyhow.
Fingertips lightly trail up your thigh, making you jump, swiftly knabbing the knife you have tucked away, and whirling around to hold it to whoever dared touching you’s throat. A soft chuckle comes out, too low to be a woman, too recognizable to be a stranger, and your murderous eyes trail up to meet Dazai’s. His lips are tugged up in his signature smirk, hands up in surrender, and cocks his head.
“Well prepared, even when you look like a princess,” he playfully taunts, and your eyes roll, arm dropping and stuffing your knife back in its hidden holster.
“What in the world are you doing in here?” You turn around, facing the mirror once more to grab your shoes, when you’re suddenly pressed up against the counter. Hands rest on either side of the surface, slipping between your arms, and his nose gingerly nudges under your ear; you watch him in the reflection, and it’s written all over his features that this once previously inconvenient “ordeal” bothers him greatly. It isn’t just his usual, permanent melancholy, he genuinely looks heartbroken.
“You truly look so stunning,” he murmurs, fingers dropping down to lightly drag up your skin once more, and your leg shifts to stick out from the slit more. “I just wish I had gotten it for you.” Those wandering fingertips trail up to your inner thigh, barely stopping where it connects to your pelvis, before grasping some of it to squeeze.
“Osamu, anyone could walk in at any second,” you breathe, but just as before, you don’t stop him. If anything, you encourage it. Your fingers slide up into the back of his hair when his lips leave behind sweet kisses down the side of your neck, kneading into the flesh of your thigh, occasionally pulling at it, and he hums.
“I hear there was a rumor spreading that this particular women’s restroom is out of order,” he tells you, his other hand snaking to your back, finding the zipper he had helped you pull up before, now slowly falling down. “It should buy us enough time.” He then nips at the crook of your neck, a small gasp pulling from your lips, and he’s already working to slip the material from your shoulder.
“I-I’m not sure…” You trail off when his reflection disappears, only the top of his head visible, sitting on his knees behind you as he helps the dress fall to the floor, pooling at your feet, and he groans at the sight. You peek down at him, his hands grabbing absolute handfuls of your ass to separate your cheeks, the string of your panties visible then hiding as he moves them, and you only watch his face – his eyes.
“These are my favorite pair on you,” he whispers, finger sliding under the laced string then pulling it up, making the cottoned-front slip between your lips, catching on your clit from how tight the fit is now. You grip the ledge, nails useless digging at the polished marble, and bite down on your bottom lip to stay quiet. “Get them wet for me.” He rasps, and you waste no time to start moving your hips back and forth on the material, hushed pants and whispered moans coming from you at the friction, and you’re already feeling overstimulated with the painful ache of want overwhelming you. His hungry eyes watch you, soft encouragement here and there following: ‘just like that’, ‘look how soaked they are already’, ‘gonna keep these on me all night’, and ‘that’s my good girl’. Every last sweet, filthy thing filling your ears and fueling your movements, the desperation making them stutter while you lose rhythm, feeling the cloth stick your pussy the more you grind into them.
His hand comes up in front of your hips, placing the palm on your abdomen to stop you, then pushes your wrecked panties to the side, guiding your back to arch and part your legs, your needy cunt right in his face when you’re positioned the way he wants. “Watch yourself in the mirror. See how you come undone from me eating this perfect cunt.” He commands, large hands coming back to spread you apart, waiting no longer for a response as he buries his face in, tongue eagerly lapping at your swelling clit and dripping hole. You try to listen to him, looking in the mirror, but your eyes are already rolling back into your head, panting, and knees trembling. You can hardly hold yourself up, and he is only getting started.
The tip of his tongue caresses and fondles your clit with thoughtful precision, dragging the hood back and forth over the bud, the rest of his tongue flat up against your folds and hole. His fingers are digging deep into the plush of your ass, gripping tight to keep you spread open, his own eyes fluttering shut at the taste of you, starting to moan with you, the thought of this very moment filling his mind the moment you put that stupid dress on. Your hips start moving again, grinding down on his tongue, the perfect angle to do so, and your head drops forward at the feeling. He moans louder, a resounding smack! reverberating in the room as his palm roughly spanks on your ass, and that makes your moans and groans turn needy, trying to find the right rhythm, but he continuously slaps your ass as you do, and you’re getting dizzy.
His hands come up to grasp at your hips, stilling them, just so he can slowly drag his tongue from your clit to your hole, thumbs positioning down to open it more so he can thrust the tip of it in, darting in and out, your fingers raking back into his hair to grip tight. You attempt gazing in the mirror once more, and you’re simply met with your cheeks deeply flushed, lips parted while you pant, and lids hooded from the pleasure. You can barely make yourself out in the haze, and his fat tongue on back to kitten-licking at your sensitive pussy, teasing it every so often to prod it in, circle around the opening, spit on it, and lap it all back up. He groans when you tug at his hair, walls clenching on nothing, a long whine coming out when he goes back to paying extra attention to your clit, rapidly brushing back and forth on it, knowing you’re getting close already.
He wants to fluster you more, say dirty, filthy things to you as you’re a mess hanging over the counter in a public bathroom, but you taste so good, and your thighs are shaking in his hold, and you’re whining and panting his name while holding onto his hair to keep his face forcefully buried in his favorite place to be, and he wants to have your orgasm gushing straight down on his tongue from him to happily swallow. His expert tongue doesn’t relent, going from acting like a human vibrator to dragging narrow circles around your clit, and your cheek is pressed down on the cool surface because you don’t have the strength to hold yourself up anymore. “Gonna come.” You warn, quick, nails clawing at his scalp, and he doesn’t hear you. His overactive muscle does what it pleases, assaulting your clit, tip dragging it back and forth in an attentive caress, making circles with the slightest pressure, then back to flicking with immense speed, then the fattest part of his tongue does its best to rub on the spot above your hole, and you’re going insane. “Osamu…!” Your whine falls down into a loud moan, unable to contain yourself, the pit in your abdomen releasing, the thread you were hanging onto snapping, and you can’t believe this is happening here.
He knows. He hears the change in your voice, the death grip on his hair, the way your hips try jerking away with him, the aftershocks coursing through your body. His hands slide up to your sides to hold firmly, forcing them still, pressing your cunt down flat on his tongue, moaning with you when not only is your orgasm coating his tongue, but so is a small string of squirt dribbling down his chin. He couldn’t be any more satisfied right now with how loud you’re being, all because of him, the only one to convince you to let him eat your pussy in public, letting you start shutting down to do whatever he wants with you.
“Good girl,” he breathes, pulling away some air, the lower half of his face coated in spit, your arousal, and your come. He doesn’t give you a chance to catch your own breath before you feel his slender fingers force their way into your cunt, knuckle deep already, and the pads of his fingertips on your sensitive, swollen G-spot. Your hips jump, only making him laugh softly at you, pressing down on it to make you squeak. “Sensitive, princess? It was only one orgasm, surely you can handle another one.” He tells you, warning that won’t be the only one you’re getting, and he hums at the sight of your asshole in front of him. His fingers caress at it, moving just his fingertips to pet that spot, your lips parting, and cross-eyed gaze staring at the wall. “I wonder how much you’d like my tongue here.” He whispers in a dangerous croon, the pad of his thumb now gently circling around the unused hole, and you merely let out a weak ‘ah!’ in response. Your mind is too muddled from his talented fingers as they pay close attention to your G-spot to care about anything else he could possibly do to you.
“Tell me if you want my tongue here,” he murmurs, knowing you’re already far away from here. His fingers dip impossibly deeper, curling and uncurling, your limp arm dropping to your side as your legs shake underneath both you and him, and he lets out a slight chuckle. “Stupid pervert.” He mutters, despite the fact he’s the one thinking of doing it. “Wanting me to rim you in public with my fingers in your needy cunt. What next? Want someone to walk in and see?” Realistically, he’d shoot whoever would walk in and see you like that, but with how tight your pussy just got at those words, he knows he’s right.
“Please,” you whimper out, pitched high, feet shuffling on the floor to spread you out more for him. He smiles to himself, dark, knowing you will say ‘yes’ and ‘pretty please’ to anything at this point, even if it’s something you two haven’t ever done before. His thumb gently pets your hole one last time before removing it, his other fingers never stopping their ministrations, taking a moment for his blown-out eyes to watch his knuckles flex around your opening, admiring how well your tight cunt takes whatever he shoves in it.
“Alright, baby, only because you asked me to so nicely,” he coos, making it sound like it was all your idea – something he’s infuriatingly good at – then presses a few wet kisses to your cheek. Two fingers slide up to keep you open, ogling it for a few long seconds, the anticipation getting to you, your brain melting to nothing when he stops moving his fingers to just press down firmly on your swollen spot, and you’re about to fall to your knees. His tongue, your second favorite part of him, drags a long, fat, wet stripe up your asshole, the feeling so foreign it makes a pitched, questioning sound emit from you. “You like it, pretty girl.” He decides for you before going back to doing it again, his fingers moving once more inside you to fondle every inch of your pussy, and you don’t know what to make of this situation – but it all feels too amazing to care.
His mind is starting to go blank on himself, caught up in the situation: you’re bent over the sink, making such cute noises while his fingers fuck your insides and his tongue fondles your asshole, wearing only the lace thong panties he bought for you, his favorite pair, and he is so high up on cloud nine he is willing to allow Mori walking in to see him making such a slut of you. This is taking away the sting of his raging jealousy, the way you’re hand comes behind you on its own to hold one of your cheeks apart for him so he has easier access to keep tongue fucking your hole, and to let his long fingers reach deeper in your soaked cunt. He spits a large glob on it, watching it try to open and close, and he’s losing himself. “Look at this. Every slutty hole you have is mine and opening up just for me to taste.” He laughs, burying his face back in and everything he did to your clit is back on that tight ring of muscle: the tip of his tongue circles around it, then laps at it, stopping long enough to spit more on it, saliva dripping down on the back of his hands and fingers to push into your pussy as he starts thrusting in, and fondling your barely opened hole that isn’t sure if it wants him in there or not.
“Oh god,” you lament, his heavy petting combined with his fingers thrusting, and his tongue nonstop on your asshole, a second orgasm is rising, pulse pounding in your ears and clit throbbing between your legs. “O-Osamu, please!” You beg, but you don’t know what you’re begging for. He is lapping at both of your dripping holes now like a desperate dog, losing focus with his fingers that are mindlessly pumping in and out of you, walls clenching on those overworked digits.
“Touch yourself,” he pants, words stumbling out in between tasting as much of you as he can. “Touch yourself while I tongue fuck your ass.” Another harsh slap! rings out on your reddened flesh, muttering under his breath ‘stupid, perfect whore’ before occupying his mouth once more. Your fingers obediently slide down between your legs, rubbing your clit with your middle finger, and your whole body is buzzing. Eyes roll back, lashes fluttering as you try to keep them open, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep your mouth closed, wanting to prevent being loud again, and his fingers are back to pressing down on your G-spot so his tongue can focus on frantically rimming your hole. He starts whimpering with you, the strain of his hard-on confined in his dress pants, too close to his body, and he wants to feel every hole of yours wrapping around his cock.
You can’t even warn him that you’re coming, thighs trembling and trying to close on him, asshole constricting and relaxing against his flat muscle, cunt fluttering around his fingers, and a low groan erupting deep within your chest as your finger continues stroking your clit. A shock of electricity is shot up your spine, and this may be the best release you’ve ever had. Teeth release your cheek, mouth falling open, attempting to breathe, and he hasn’t stopped. He groans quietly, mouth withdrawing so his thumb can circle the messy rim, and his fingers gradually slow, noticing your shaking limbs and stilled movements. “That’s my good girl.” He praises, carefully slipping his slick fingers out, then pops them in his mouth to lick clean – a low hum following at the taste he can’t ever get enough of. “Poor thing, worn out already?” He teases, hand running up and down the base of your spine, two fingers separating your lips to watch your cunt pulse. He whispers to himself, but you faintly hear a ‘so pretty’.
Your brain has turned itself off now, a bit of drool streaking out of the corner of your mouth and down your cheek, staring blankly at the plaster painted an ugly shade of purple, and your bones are limp. Dazai stands back to his feet, hands already undoing his belt to toss on the floor, and his fingers snap at you. “Up.” He demands, and without thinking – because you can’t anymore – your quaking arms shakily lift you upright, a pool of your spit left behind, and you gaze at him in the mirror: his cheeks are stained maroon, lips still glistening, and his hands are making way for your body. He flips you around before helping set you on the counter, legs instinctively wrapping at his hips, and you can feel his cock bulging in his boxers as it presses to your messy clit. He rests his palm on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone, lustful and distant gaze lingering on your painted lips. “I never got my kiss I asked for.” He taps on the side of his neck, the section where his skin stops and bandages start, his preferred place to be kissed. You blindly oblige, all ten fingers clawing up into the back of his head, bringing him close to you can leave him a perfect , bright red kiss mark with what little bit is left of your lipstick.
He sighs, content, wrapping one arm around your waist while the other hand works to shove his boxers down so he dick can spring free. “I love when you turn stupid.” He whispers with the same cadence as someone admitting they have a crush on you. “So obedient and agreeable. You like doing everything I say.” He goes on, fingers gripping a chunk of your hair at the roots to rip you off of him and carefully jerk your head back so you can look at him. “Isn’t that right, princess?” You barely nod, a soft ‘mhm’ with it, and he presses his forehead to yours. He slowly strokes himself, the head brushing on your clit as he does, and you shiver.
“Love only you, ‘Samu,” you manage, holding onto him for dear life, and that small phrase, the reassurance, makes those hollow voids soften.
“And I love only you, baby,” he pecks your lips, the response rare, and it makes your heart do backflips. “You’re mine. Don’t ever forget that.” He gently holds your jaw, forcing you to look in his eyes, and you nod fervently.
“Only yours,” you echo, meaning it with your whole heart, not wanting anyone else, gazing up with big innocent eyes.
“Good,” he kisses your nose, lining his cock to your awaiting cunt, and pulls you closer. “Now, what does my princess want?” You whimper some, wiggling your hips down in hopes of getting the tip at least to slip in, but he doesn’t let it, tone more firm. “Words. What do you want?”
“Cock,” you choke, embarrassed. He leans a bit closer, to ensure he can properly hear you. “I want your cock.” You specify, hands dropping down to his broad shoulders, trying to push off his jacket, he doesn’t let you.
“Such a good girl,” he praises, finally giving you what you want, the head having little resistance as it pushes in, stretching you more than his fingers ever could. His unbuttoned jacket drapes over your side, the fabric brushing on your thigh as he leans on the counter, hovering over your body, then painfully slowly starts pushing more of his length in. He forces you to hold eye contact with him while he does this, watching you struggle to even keep them open, your beautifully soaked pussy inviting, drooling over his dick, practically begging him to fill you to the hilt. “I know, you never get used to it, do you, baby?” Fingers brush your hair away, tucking it behind your ear, and you shake your head, lower lip trembling from his hips finally stopping – meaning he’s balls deep already, and you’re full. You’re so out of it you don’t comprehend that he basically just bragged that his cock is too big for you to handle – you’ll remember later and get onto him for his arrogance, when it’s already said and done with the proof in your sore body.
His hips pull back, thrusting in hard, another slow drag out, then thrusting back in with the same force, his throat visible as his swallows, holding back his own moans since there’s nothing there to muffle them, and he just watches your face as he moves. Your nails are uselessly clawing and clinging to his jacket, legs locked around his waist, and your body jerks backward with each harsh thrust he strikes into you. “That’s it, take my cock. Only my good little slut can handle it.” He encourages, eyes scanning your face, seeing yours rolling back some again, and this is his form of heaven: your pussy wrapped deliciously around his raw dick, tight and sensitive from multiple orgasms, still dripping for more, and unable to utter a single word while you cling to him. “I know, I know, you love it just like this.” His voice is mildly hoarse, and it just adds to the ambiance of being in the public bathroom, getting drilled by your overly jealous boyfriend with the risk of someone walking in at any second, and his voice is drifting in and out of your muddied mind telling you how good you are and how much you love everything he’s doing to you. Your cunt tightens, and he just smirks, your tell that you’re responsive.
His thrusts continue that pace, painfully slow and beautifully harsh, the head taking turns deciding to hit your already bullied G-spot or your cervix, each one a euphoric agony that makes your head fall back. The pressure sits in your abdomen, no build up, but not letting down either, the sensation enough to keep you on the edge for hours if he wanted to torment you for so long, and he would if he had the determination. The slow pull allows you to feel every ridge and vein on his throbbing cock, wanting to hold onto it and keep him there inside you forever, the tip hot from how long he went without giving himself any type of relief while he generously attended to your aching holes.
His head drops to bury into your neck, parted lips meshed to your skin, hot breath hitting on your pulse as he pants, his lids dropping as he revels in the pleasure, the realization he needs you hitting him in this very moment. The thought of you wearing clothes another man picked out and bought for you vexes him more than he would ever care to admit, your mutual boss of all people worming his way in between you two not making it any better – Dazai doesn’t necessarily believe Mori likes you or anything, but he does believe that rat bastard will do whatever it takes to get under his skin, and the easiest way is through you.
“Love you, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked at the irrational thought of losing you. “Love my girl so much, my slutty princess. My gorgeous girl.” He chants, telling you repeatedly, over and over again that he loves you, punctuated with his thrusts, the head ignoring that spot completely and trying to push its way through your cervix. “All mine, all mine, all mine.” You try, you try so hard to respond, to let him know you hear him, but the pressure from hitting your cervix like this is sending you into overdrive.
“‘Samu…” Is all you can get out before your hips move on their own, meeting his as another deep, hard hit to your insides electrifies your bloodstream. They roll, pushing down further on him, but there isn’t anything left to go inside you, earning a soft groan from him.
“Yeah, that’s my girl, so greedy,” he lifts his head and grips the wall to stabilize himself, other arm helping lift your lower half from the counter, and you’re suddenly bouncing down on his cock, one hand on the counter as the other hooks around his neck. “Fuck, yeah, yeah, show me how much you want me.” He grits, head falling back as your thighs smack against his when you rock back and forth along with long, thick cock, wanting every last inch filling your pulsing pussy, not entirely sure how you’re doing this in the first place – good dick makes you do the craziest things.
His hips meet yours, every time you roll your hips down, his shoot up to make sure you feel him deep in your stomach, and you do. His cock moves easily in and out of you, this being the best he has felt, and the sounds turn him on further. “Your whore cunt is the wettest it’s ever been.” He remarks, hand coming down between your bodies to land a quick smack! over your clit, and you let out a small, satisfied yelp that makes your hips intensify, bouncing down harder on his dick that makes his hips thrust harder into your cervix. “It’s ‘cause you’re a dumb pervert, getting off to me fuckin’ you in public.” You nod in agreement, no idea what he said, and he laughs at you in between panting and moaning, his nails trying to puncture into the skin of your back when he quickly goes back to hold your hips up so you can keep fucking him out of desperation. “You’re fucked stupid already, you don’t even know what I said to you.” He laughs again, seeing in your eyes he’s right, the only thing coming from your mouth is just ‘ah, ah, ah’ and different variations of his name.
His ears perk up though at the faint, quiet sound of the door pushing open, and he drops his arm some to ensure his jacket covers your body, and is grateful a wall is separating your face and whoever is walking in. However, he doesn’t stop you, and you don't hear anything as you continue grinding down on his cock, pressed firmly to his pelvis to rock back and forth so the tip can hit both your G-spot and cervix, causing the most lewd moans and cries fall from your lips.
Dazai’s head whips in the direction to see a random party goer, lightly panting behind his arm, but she freezes when she sees only him and your legs, hearing you but not seeing you, and she doesn’t know what to do – definitely not stay, but her feet are planted to the ground. “Take a video or get out.” He growls, eyes violent at her trying to interrupt, and she can’t help her eyes flickering to try to see who is going insane on his dick. “Get out!” He finally spits out, and the octave of his voice makes the stranger bolt right out the door, even more grateful you’re so lost in your own pleasure to not notice what happened because he’d simply die if you stopped.
“Wanna come,” you whine, getting tired, but you’re chasing after that third orgasm as if it’s life or death, needing it so badly from him, you can’t bring yourself to slow down. He gently hushes you, lowering you back to rest on the counter, and presses his hand into your abdomen.
“I’ll take care of you, princess, just like I always do,” he reassures, applying pressure to your flesh to keep you pinned, and you nod feverishly, hands grasping at his forearms, preparing yourself. He repositions himself, angling his cock up, and glances down at you, silently asking if you’re ready, and you nod once, all the permission he needs. Suddenly, his dick is pistoning into you to a point you’re seeing stars; he hits your G-spot with each thrust, never missing, never stopping, the moans leaving your moan deep and low, straight from your chest, back arching in the uncomfortable position you’re in, his hand not letting you go anywhere while he continues rapidly fucking into you, and his groans mix in with yours to fill the room. Passersby can faintly hear from outside the door if they walk by, curiosity piquing but no one daring to walk in since a different rumor spread that the top executive of the Port Mafia is currently getting absolutely nailed in that very bathroom. People are nosy, wanting to check if it’s his famous girlfriend or someone else entirely since the one who started the gossip chain didn’t get a good look at the girl’s face.
“Wanna come!” You whine, legs kicking at his hips, and he merely hushes you again, thumb reaching down to rub frantic circles into your clit, the sweat he had been previously ignoring dripping down the side of his face and on his forehead, strands of hair sticking to his skin, and he’s so tired but doesn’t want this to end. The build up in the pit of your stomach is excruciating, the tortuous wait for your next release getting to you, making you impatient and tears filling your eyes, nearing sobbing from the way his cock drives into your cunt, the sweat shared between your bodies, and the need to feel him all the time getting to you.
“You can come, baby, go ahead,” he gives permission, his balls tightening as a white-hot flame casts over his skin, the need to chase his own orgasm so great, his hips can’t stop to force his aching dick in and out of you, making sure to not lose his rhythm and speed, thumb working its best to add on, to make you finish faster, and the sound of your moans getting louder and quicker is music to his ears. The tension he felt on his palm from your stomach is relaxing, chest heaving and seeing those gorgeous tears drop from your eyes are enough to let him know you’re starting to come. “Good girl, that’s it, come all over my cock so I can fuck my load into you.” His other hand comes up to grip your neck, pressing into your pressure points, and pins your head down on the marble, and you’re gone. A soundless cry makes your mouth drop, legs shaking violently at his sides, and hips jerk and move around from his thumb, but he doesn’t relent until your cunt loosens its hold on him, and he doesn’t have to focus on anything other than himself.
His hand remains wrapped around your throat, other gripping at the fat on your thigh, erratic thrusts of his hips smacking into you, watching your face as you just let it all happen. “You’re so pretty when you’re fucked dumb.” He breathes, brow twitching when his cock down, it jumping in your cunt, and you can’t even say anything in return. “Even prettier when you’re my little come slut. C’mon, beg for it.” His hand slides up to lightly smack your cheek, bringing you mildly back to Earth, and you blink a few times.
“Come…” You rasp, not sure what you’re supposed to be asking, drunk from the feeling of his dick still inside you, hoping it doesn’t leave, loving that it’s back at attempting to prod into your cervix. “Want… Want come.” He’ll take it, considering you do look so pretty with that fucked out look behind your hazing eyes, and has to tell himself he’s allowed to finish now.
“I’ll give it to you, princess. Give my girl all of my come,” he lands a few more harsh thrusts into you, trying to shove as much of himself as he can, then stills, slit of the tip kissing your opening, and shoots string after string of his load, it coating every bit of your walls and his shaft, a relieved moan falling past his lips, wishing he had more to fill you with. His hand fumbles around in his pants pockets, loosely hanging off his hips, until it finds his phone; while you try catching your breath and he keeps another hand on you, he gradually pulls his dick out, covered in a mix from you both, and makes sure to grab the perfect angle for a picture. His load starts dripping out of your cunt around him and onto the counter, making him take another picture, smirking to himself as he starts typing up a message. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, unaware of your surroundings, and don’t remember what day it is while he does this, and he stows it away when he’s done so he can start helping get you cleaned up. Showering you with kisses and affection, reassuring you that no one saw you, and insisting on holding your heels – and that you two were heading home as soon as you could walk on your own.
You clung to him, hugging him tight, head resting on his chest, and you were ready to fall asleep there, burying your face in more so you could inhale his cologne, and he kissed the top of your head, letting you hold onto him until you were set to go.
“Did you mean it?” You mumbled.
“Mean what?”
“That you love me,” he paused, wondering why you would ask that, but in your defense, he doesn’t say it often – if ever at all.
“Yes, I mean it when I say I love you,” he kissed your forehead, and wondered if he needed to be even more soft than he has been with you. Or at least tell you more than once every blue moon that he does, in fact, love you.
im not a huge traditional a/b/o writer so I don't have an entire fic idea for this but my brain keeps getting stuck on the idea of unpresented steve volunteering to take care of an orphaned baby during the quarantine, since there's too many kids and not enough adult omegas
alpha eddie, technically released but tentatively on temporary house arrest, ends up at the harrington house. with nothing much to do, eddie steps in as co parent and moral support for steve, helping the frazzled beta adjust to the reality of parenthood
and one day steve wakes up as an omega. no presentation heat, no desperate need to get bred, even though his new tits ache and leak. a little pain and his period eventually comes, sure, but it's not anywhere approaching typical. eddie watches the baby as steve goes to the fed doctors in a flurry, worried he's, like, dying or something--
stifling a smile, the doctor tells steve that his body accepted that he already had a pup and a mate, and decided no presentation heat was needed. otherwise he's perfectly healthy, and his heats should come back when he's done breastfeeding like any other omega mother's.
steve leaves, embarrassed and horny, having no idea how he's going to tell eddie that steve's hormones have decided he's the father of steve's kids, or why a medical explanation has him so turned on he can barely see straight
