#like massive spring cleaning needed here...

[byfawn]

INSPECTED

౨ৎ — beware of dubcon, possessive behavior, pussy inspection, rough unprotected sex, fingering, degradation, implied cheating accusations, breeding, throat fucking, cunnilingus, and manhandling

the barracks were quiet, the usual hum of soldiers winding down for the night replaced by a thick tension. you’d been simon’s little secret for weeks now, his barracks bunny, always eager to please him whenever he crooked a finger in your direction. but tonight, his mood was different—dark, possessive, the kind that made your stomach twist with both fear and something hotter, something desperate.

“heard you’ve been spreading those pretty legs for anyone who asks,” he growled, his voice low, rough like gravel. his massive frame loomed over you, crowding you against the wall of his private quarters. the accusation hit you like a slap, your breath catching in your throat.

“w-what? no, sir, i—i wouldn’t—”

“shut it.” his hand clamped over your mouth, cutting off your protest. his eyes, sharp behind that mask, raked over you like he could see right through your clothes. “gonna inspect you myself. make sure you’re still mine.”

your pulse skyrocketed, thighs pressing together instinctively. but he didn’t give you a choice. one large hand gripped your waist, spinning you around to face the wall. his body pressed against your back, his cock already hard against your ass.

“spread ‘em,” he ordered, voice leaving no room for argument.

you whimpered but obeyed, shuffling your feet apart. his hand slid down your thigh, pushing your skirt up roughly. his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, yanking them down to your knees. the cold air hit your bare skin, making you shiver.

“fuck, look at you,” he muttered, his free hand spreading your cheeks apart. “gonna check every inch of this cunt. make sure no one else’s been here.”

his thumb dragged through your folds, slow and deliberate, spreading you open. you gasped, your hips jerking forward, but he held you still. “stay put,” he growled. “this is an inspection, sweetheart. not a fuck.”

his fingers slide through your folds, spreading you open. “fuck, look at you. puffy little cunt, all swollen up just from me lookin’ at it.” he rubs his thumb over your clit, just once, and you jerk. “sensitive, too.”

he chuckled darkly, rubbing his thumb over your clit again, just enough to make you whine. “dirty little thing,” he murmured. “already soaked. you like this, don’t you? being checked like some cheap whore.”

“n-no, i—ah!” your protest turned into a moan as two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning, stretching you open. he worked them deep, curling just right, and your knees nearly buckled.

“tight,” he noted, voice rough. “but that doesn’t prove shit.” his fingers fucked into you, rough and relentless, the sound obscenely wet. “gotta check deeper.”

you were panting now, your hips rocking back against his hand, chasing the pleasure despite yourself. he added a third finger, stretching you impossibly wider, and you cried out, your nails scraping the wall.

“fuck, sir—please—”

“please what?” he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “tell me what you want, bunny.”

“i—i need—ah!” his thumb pressed hard on your clit, rubbing circles just shy of painful, and your vision whited out. your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt clenching around his fingers as you came with a broken sob.

he didn’t stop. his fingers kept pumping into you, dragging your pleasure out until you were shaking, oversensitive. only then did he pull his hand away, bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth. he licked them clean, eyes locked on yours.

“taste like mine,” he rumbled. “but i’m not done.”

before you could process his words, he was spinning you around, forcing you onto your knees. his belt clinked as he undid it, his cock springing free, thick and flushed. “open,” he ordered.

you obeyed, your mouth falling open, and he shoved himself between your lips without hesitation. you gagged, tears pricking your eyes as he fucked your throat, his grip tight in your hair.

“gonna check this too,” he grunted. “make sure no one else’s been here either.”

you choked around him, drool dripping down your chin, but he didn’t let up. his hips snapped forward, forcing himself deeper, until your nose pressed against his pelvis.

when he finally pulled back, you gasped for air, your lips swollen, your face wet. he tilted your chin up, his thumb smearing spit across your bottom lip. “good girl,” he murmured. “still mine.”

then he was hauling you up, tossing you onto the cot. his hands ripped your clothes away, leaving you bare beneath him. his mouth was on your cunt before you could blink, his tongue lapping at your folds like he was starving.

you writhed, your back arching, but he pinned your hips down, his tongue fucking into you with brutal precision. he sucked your clit into his mouth, biting just enough to make you scream.

“simon—fuck, i can’t—i can’t—”

“come again,” he ordered, his voice vibrating against your skin. “prove you’re mine.”

you shattered, your body convulsing as another orgasm tore through you. he didn’t stop until you were limp, your thighs trembling around his head.

only then did he rise, unbuckling the rest of his gear. his cock was dripping, his need obvious. he dragged you to the edge of the cot, flipping you onto your stomach. one hand pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you down as he lined himself up.

“gonna inspect this cunt thoroughly now,” he growled.

then he was inside you, splitting you open in one brutal thrust. you screamed, your nails clawing at the sheets as he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass.

“fuck,” he hissed. “so fucking tight. still just for me.”

he didn’t give you time to adjust. his hands gripped your hips, yanking you back onto his cock with every thrust. the cot creaked beneath you, the sound drowned out by your moans, his grunts.

“mine,” he snarled, his pace relentless. “this pussy’s mine. say it.”

“y-yours!” you sobbed. “only yours, sir—fuck!”

he slammed into you harder, his fingers digging bruises into your skin. you could feel him everywhere, his cock stretching you impossibly full, his breath hot on your neck.

“gonna fill you up,” he promised, his voice ragged. “mark you from the inside. let everyone know who you belong to.”

the words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your cunt clenching around him. he groaned, his thrusts turning erratic.

“come for me, bunny,” he ordered. “one more time.”

you did, your body obeying him instantly. your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your walls fluttering around him, milking his cock. with a final, brutal thrust, he followed, his cum flooding your cunt, his growl muffled against your shoulder.

he stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you panting, before he finally pulled out. his cum dripped from your used cunt, and he dragged his fingers through it, smearing it over your thighs.

“good girl,” he murmured, pressing a rough kiss to your spine. “passed inspection.”

[rambld]

݁˖𝜗ৎ hockey player sukuna gets a lovesick case of frostbite

pairing: hockey player!sukuna x figure skater!reader

contains: UNEDITED, fluff, figure skating, hockey team nonsense, mentions of fights and blood, uncle sukuna, nephew yuji

words: 2k (not bad)

note: this was a drabble idea sent in my inbox and while i don't take requests, i thought it was cute! so here you go anon <3 art by su2kuna!

Ice. You've loved it for as long as you could remember. It framed your earliest core memories with frosted, intricate edges with swirls of baby blue snowflakes as your toddler self bubbled with giggles in your mother's arms. She'd laughed with you, cradling you within the safety of her warm embrace as she glided over the frosted lake just outside your holiday home as your father clapped and cheered, voice carried over by the gentle breeze.

It's where you witnessed your parents, so very in love with each other, skate together like a pair of elegant swans courting each other, bundled up in white coats and scarfs that may as well have been feathers, faces reddened from affection as much as the cold, their breaths curling into wispy hearts as you recorded them.

You had laced your first pair of skates before you could properly tie your own shoes. By six, you were gliding. By nine, you were competing. By sixteen, the world knew your name.

To you, the ice glows pale blue under the lights, smooth and glassy like a frozen sky waiting to be written on, and when you step onto it the first glide feels like exhaling—your blade whispering across the surface, carving thin white lines as the cold air kisses your cheeks and speed gathers effortlessly beneath you. It is firm but alive under your edges, springing you into jumps and catching your landings with a sharp, honest kiss, so that skating on it feels less like moving across something solid and more like flying just inches above a mirror that knows you completely.

Audiences loved you for your versatility. One season you were all soft blush and bashful glances, skating to delicate piano concertos, embodying first love with shy smiles and fluttering lashes. The next, you prowled across the ice in crimson silk and smoky eyeliner, every step deliberate, every glance a dare, smirks lascivious. Commentators called you “chameleonic.” Critics called you “fearless.” Fans simply said you had “duality.”

Now, at twenty-seven, the medals were boxed away in velvet cases in the back of your closet. Retirement had come quietly after a lingering ankle injury and a final standing ovation that lasted long enough to make you cry on live television. You hadn’t disappeared, though. Legends hardly ever did.

Instead, you traded sequins for sleek black leggings and a whistle around your neck. You coached rising stars with the same relentless precision that once defined your own training. Albeit with a maternal touch as you experienced the pressure of the industry firsthand and defended your students when need be.

Twice a week, you taught ballet in the mirrored studio above the rink, correcting posture with gentle hands and sharper words. Your prodigies adored you as you did them. Parents trusted you. The rink felt like home in a way the roaring arenas never quite had.

Sukuna was the opposite of quiet.

Massive, broad-shouldered, permanently scowling beneath his helmet, he was professional hockey’s golden boy—captain, leading scorer, owner of a highlight reel that seemed to grow by the week. His record was obscene. His fan base, feral. Interviews painted him as cocky, blunt, occasionally insufferable. He wore arrogance like a second jersey.

You've seen him. Blush pink hair, tattoos highlight the sharp planes of his scarily handsome face, invasive carmine eyes. There was blood smeared across his face and dripping from his mouth more times than you'd seen it clean but that fanged smile never wavered.

It was difficult to be unaware of a presence as large as his. His face was plastered across billboards, magazines, underwear ads and even slapped onto the ramen noodles you liked as well as your favorite energy drink..

Naturally, you had crossed paths for years at shared training facilities, international tournaments and the Olympics. Figure skaters and hockey players lived in parallel worlds divided by boards and temperament. He’d always nodded at you with infuriating amusement, like he knew something you didn’t. You'd dismissed him as loud, overconfident, another brute who thought grace was a weakness.

“How embarrassing. Do better, boys,” you had drawled once when you passed his team in the hallway, the conservative pricks of the group talking down to the female hockey team, telling them to come to the after party with less than respectful looks—all sleazy smiles and wolfish gazes.

Halting in your tracks when he arrived, shooting the culprits a withering scowl that promised punishment for their sexism and lack of good sportsmanship. They gulped and sputtered apologies to the women they offended.

A hand came down on his shoulder, downturned expression faltering as he looked to his side and saw you.

“A full face cage would do you barbarians some good,” you told him with a nod to his swollen cheek and busted lip.

That certainly wasn't praise or a compliment in the slightest but what's a young man to do when the girl he harbored feelings for for a better part of a decade touches him and talks to him at the same time?

If anything, he took it as you calling him good-looking and telling him not to damage that moneymaker of his. The pink-haired hulk of a man gave you a dopey, crooked grin, scarlet irises swirling rose gold as his pupils morphed into little hearts. Not that you noticed as you'd just shook your head in disappointment and sauntered off.

What you hadn’t known—what he had never quite managed to tell you—was that he had been half in love with you since he was fifteen and watched you win gold with tears on your cheeks.

He’d assumed it was a phase. An admiration born of proximity and admiration. It had faded when schedules separated you, when headlines about your boyfriends surfaced, when he buried himself in playoffs and championships.

Until the Saturday he brought his eight-year-old nephew to your rink.

“Uncle ‘Kuna, that’s her,” Yuji whispered loudly from beside the boards, eyes wide as you demonstrated a slow spin for a cluster of tiny skaters wobbling on rental blades.

He hadn’t prepared for the way his chest tightened. You looked different without stage makeup and glittering costumes. Softer. Real. Your hair was in a loose braid, your laugh easy as one of your students clung to your arm after they nearly fell on their butts.

You only noticed him when the lesson ended. Your posture went rigid for half a second before you smoothed it away.

“If you’re here to critique edge work,” you called dryly, “you’re about ten years too late.”

He barked out a surprised laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I'm like a newborn fawn on those things”

His nephew tugged on his sleeve. “She’s the best skater ever,” he informed him solemnly.

“I know,” he said before he could stop himself.

You blinked at the sincerity in his voice then looked at his nephew who was a sweeter, softer version of the brick wall beside him. Instantly, you knew you'd come to adore the kid.

Yuji enrolled in beginner classes that afternoon.

His uncle started showing up every week, at first under the excuse of bonding time as if he didn't bicker with his brother, insisting that he'd fetch Yuji after classes. He leaned against the boards, bulging arms folded, watching carefully as you adjusted his nephew’s stance, praising small victories like they were Olympic medals. Sometimes you caught him watching you instead, his usual smirk replaced with something quieter.

It was his nephew who forced conversation.

“Uncle says you skate like a swan. He says you're like Odette whenever we watch the movie,” he blurted one evening.

Your brows shot up. “Does he?”

He shifted, suddenly less composed but his face was on fire. “You do,” he muttered. “Always have.”

You studied him differently after that. Not as the cocky captain with a million followers and an ego to match—but as the man who stayed late to help his nephew retie skates, who listened intently when you'd explained the discipline of ballet and how it may help his rusty teammates, who admitted he’d rewatched your old programs before big games because they calmed his nerves.

“You?” you teased softly one night. “Calmed?”

He huffed. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”

The more they talked, the more the edges of him softened. The arrogance wasn’t cruelty, it was armor. The bravado, habit. Beneath it was someone startlingly earnest, almost shy in the face of you.

You found yourself laughing with him in the empty stands after lessons, your shoulders brushing. Found yourself watching his games, recognizing the same artistry in the way he carved across ice that you once felt in your own routines.

Newborn fawn, my ass, you thought.

It was the nephew who finally took matters into his own hands. Encouraged by watching you two warm up to each other and spurred on by the secrets he couldn't keep to himself.

Snapping his fingers—hardly because it doesn't make a noise—he gasps as if he had a Eureka moment one day after class, pointing at you then blinking up at his confused uncle frowning at him.

“Wait, isn't she the pretty fairy from the posters on your wa—”

“Aha,” Sukuna laughs, squeezing his nephew's shoulders with a pointed, warning look that Yuji has learned not to fuck with over the years. “Shouldn't you go take off your skates and change?”

Yuji takes the opportunity to flee, knowing he may get an earful later. Sukuna watches him going, cussing colourfully in his mind as he avoids your stare with the worst attempt at indifference ever.

His nose wrinkles when he's been caught, something you've come to recognize. It makes you snicker as you look down at your shoes, stifling your amusemnent.

“My posters on your wall, huh?”

A distressed noise comes from his throat. “It's stupid. I was younger and—”

Waving a hand, you gave him an easy smile that visibly eased the tension in his shoulders. “Don't sweat it. It's cute.”

There was a moment of silence that stretched between you—comfortable and cozy—as you regarded each other. You feel as if you're seeing him for the first time and he's accepting the fact that his feelings never faded, just laid dormant.

“You two are obviously in love,” Yuji declared one afternoon, hands on his hips while you both were locked into one of those lingering stares yet again.

Startled, you both stared at him in identical horror.

“We are not,” you insisted.

The hockey player crossed his arms defensively. “Kid—”

“You look at her like she hung the moon,” the boy continued, unimpressed. “And she smiles at you like she’s not annoyed anymore.”

That quietest you two until Sukuna's clicking his tongue, lip curled up as he tells the eight-year-old to stop reading so many fairytales with his mum.

He glanced at you, suddenly stripped of every ounce of swagger. “I did have a crush on you,” he admitted quietly.

You arch a brow at the past tense. “Did?”

Tattoos crinkling, he smiles but it comes off more as a painful grimace like he does if he gets injured during a game.

“Do!” He blurts.

Blinking in surprise at his enthusiasm, you huff. “Do?”

“Still do. Probably worse now.”

Your heart did something inconvenient and fluttery. “I thought you hated me,” you admitted, flitting through your memories to see if you had missed any signs that made it obvious.

Just as you thought, there were none.

What else was a girl to think when some aggressive hockey player packed with muscle and unstable hormones would glower and frown at her from across the room growing up? You swear he looked like he wanted to bite you and not the nice kind of biting but rather like a tiger clamping its jaws down on the neck of a gazelle and shaking it violently, skin and blood flying everywhere.

“I was terrified,” he corrected. The guy had never had a crush before, he didn't know how to act.

That, more than anything, undid you.

You had spent your life performing love stories on ice—bashful and breathless, sultry and dangerous. But this felt different. Unchoreographed. Unscored. Real.

You stepped closer, close enough to see the flicker of hope in his eyes.

“For the record,” you said, “you’re much sweeter than I expected.”

His grin, when it came, was boyish and triumphant all at once like your praise rendered him back into that fifteen-year-old who watched you, positively awestruck.

Behind you, his nephew pumped a fist into the air like he’d just scored the winning goal.

Yeah, he's definitely getting ice cream tonight, that Optimus Prime figure that's unreasonably expensive for his birthday and the newest gaming console for Christmas. Sukuna didn't give two shits if Jin chewed him out for spoiling the little brat.

And in a rink that had witnessed your greatest triumphs and hardest falls, you began something entirely new—no spotlight required.

tags: @kaagrwl @uncagedwings @shamelessdancer @sukusdoll @aspinny @thebl00dwyrm @emluvsgetou @poisonnuggies @zenaskull @liliklei @wwasabiiiii @bruleecream @batcatgal @sunabff @icebearcucumber @vm4879bb-blog @pjselee @kunababy

[phainonez]

݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ Tutoring frat!Toji and he teaches you how to give…

“A blowjob?” Toji’s eyebrows raise. 

You blink at him innocently. 

“Yes? I teach you something and you teach me something. Fair, isn’t it?” 

“Sweets…”

You and a couple of friends are running private tutoring sessions for the first and second years for some extra cash. 

Toji isn’t younger than you though. He’s actually a year older but he’d kept switching majors and now, he’s stuck in a biology class he doesn’t want to be in. 

He’s decided to push through with it because at this point, his money is on the line. Tutoring was the cheaper option so here he is. 

“You also said you wanted to bargain my prices, right? If you teach me how to give a blowjob, you won’t have to pay,” you sing the last part and Toji stares at you awkwardly. 

He nods, considering the exchange. 

“Just a bold request for a girl like you,” he murmurs. 

“Sure.” 

You squint at him and push your chair away from the desk you both are sitting at. You rise from your seat and walk to the edge of your bed. Toji’s chair spins and his eyes follow your every step. 

Toji watches as you kneel down, resting your head on the bed. 

A week ago when he met you, you acted closed off and as if you were forced to tutor him. Despite your nervous demeanour, you agreed to tutoring him and slowly, you did open up to him. 

But this was way too quick. Maybe not for him but for you. Toji had sex hookups often but usually with girls who were just as experienced as him. He didn’t need to teach them how they should pleasure him. 

But he was running low on cash so he’d do anything to save a penny at this point. 

He exhales loudly and stands, walking to your bed. Maintaining eye contact, you smile cheekily as he stands in front of you. 

You perk up excitedly and scoot in front of him, biting your lip. 

“So? Do I need to teach you how to take my pants off too?”

You shake your head frenziedly and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants, hooking your fingers onto it and dragging it down. 

His large bulge is covered by his grey boxer briefs and you trace your fingers along the outline. 

Your soft touch makes Toji’s whole body twitch and his breathing becomes more audible. 

“You gonna start licking through the briefs or something? Pull ‘em down,” he demands. 

You do as he says, dragging his briefs to down and his thick, massive cock springs up, reaching his shirt. 

He takes a seat on the bed and you watch his cock spasm, precum trickling down his length. 

Feeling intimidated, you gulp and continue to ogle at him throbbing. 

“You’re freaking me out. Do you actually need me to narrate everything?” he grumbles. 

You think about how the tutoring session was going a couple minutes ago and how you had to teach him cellular respiration step by step. You had to narrate every stage so he should too, right? 

You shrug innocently and flutter your eyelashes at him. You wedge yourself in between his legs, gripping onto his bare thighs. 

“Didn’t know you could be such a brat,” he spits. “Use your hands first.”

You nod simply and wrap your dainty hand around the tip of his cock, applying various amounts of pressure as you stroke down slowly. 

“Usually you put the tip in your mouth now?” Toji’s voice comes out raspy. 

You blink silently and choose to tease by deliberately giving his tip a few kitten licks, cleaning off any cum that had leaked out. 

You notice Toji’s body stiffen and you smirk to yourself. You wrap your lips around the head of his dick and suck lightly. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Toji praises. 

You envelope his whole tip into your mouth and gradually you swallow more of his length. His girth pushed your mouth wide open and once he had reached the back of your throat, your eyes begin to tear up. 

You look up at Toji with glassy eyes and you notice him watching you silently.

“Keep going, you’re doing good.”

You drag his cock out of your mouth and eagerly, you push it back in. You took him in deeper this time and you gag slightly, pulling him out instantly. 

“Sorry…” you whisper, stroking him softly. 

“That’s okay. Try again.”

He guides his tip to your wet lips and they part slowly, taking in his dick again. You get used to the feeling of his cock occupying the space in your mouth and begin to move your head faster. 

“Fuck just like that.” Toji leans his head back in pleasure. 

 Unexpectedly, his whole cock slips out of your mouth and before slipping it back in, you rub his cock. You stick your tongue out and slap his cock against it, grinning. 

“You fucking tease,” Toji growls, grabbing your hair with a hint of force. 

He forcefully pushes his cock into your mouth until your nose makes contact with his stomach. 

You let out a muffled groan and shut your teary eyes. 

“Yeah, you’ve learned enough, right?” he grunts, shoving his dick so deep down your mouth, you feel it reach your throat. 

“Relax, you know better than to gag, yeah?”

You try to nod your head but he slows his movements and begins to roughly buck his hips into you. 

“Fuck, can I cum down your throat?”

Toji doesn’t care whether you say yes or no. He does it anyway. 

As you nod your head, you feel hot fluid flow down your throat and you choke. Toji steadies your head to the base of his cock and he groans. Hearing your muffled gags only encouraged him to cum more. 

He pulls out of you slowly, spurts of cum landing on your tongue. Once your mouth releases its grip on him, you move your jaw side to side ungracefully to relieve the pain from being pried open. 

“Aw no… did it hurt?” Toji fakes the concern in his voice. 

“You’re just really big,” you murmur, rubbing your cheeks and looking at the floor. 

“Yeah, I know.”

You don’t see but you can imagine the mocking pout in his face. 

He lifts your chin with his finger. 

“Same time, next week?”

[cxleune]

content warning: semi public car sex, size kink af, praise/degradation mix, unprotected rough sex (creampie, multiple rounds), choking, hair pulling, spanking, oral, squirting, overstimulation, dirty talk, cockwarming, fem reader as needy/clingy type, choso being dominant but soft-ish after, minors dni.

plug!choso x fem!reader

the club’s lights are still flashing in your rearview mirror as you climb into choso’s matte black charger, the engine purring low like a predator waiting to strike.

you’ve been teasing him all night, grinding against him on the dance floor, whispering filthy promises in his ear while he handled his “business” in the vip section, passing discreet baggies to the usual crowd.

he’s your plug, sure, but he’s more than that now.

has been for weeks.

the guy who shows up at your door with premium flower and ends up staying till dawn, wrecking your sheets and your ability to walk straight.

tonight, though? you’re both wired.

the air’s thick with tension as he pulls out of the parking lot, one hand on the wheel, the other already sliding up your thigh under that skimpy club dress, black, sequined, barely covering your ass.

“you’ve been a fuckin’ tease all night,” he mutters, voice deep and gravelly, eyes fixed on the road but thumb pressing firm against the damp spot on your panties.

“rubbing up on me like that in front of everyone. you want attention that bad?”

you squirm in the passenger seat, thighs clenching around his hand.

“maybe. what’re you gonna do about it?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

just smirks, that subtle curve of his lips under the streetlights, the red streak in his bangs catching neon as he turns down a side street, away from the main drag.

three blocks later, he kills the engine in a shadowed alley, the kind where no one bothers to look twice.

the bass from distant traffic hums faintly, but inside the car, it’s just your heavy breathing and the click of his seatbelt unbuckling.

“get over here,” he commands, reclining his seat back with a hydraulic whine.

you don’t hesitate, scrambling over the console, knees straddling his hips, dress riding up to expose the lacy thong you wore just for him.

his hands are on you immediately, big and rough from rolling blunts and counting cash, gripping your ass cheeks and spreading them apart like he’s inspecting his property.

“fuck, look at this,” he groans, thumbs hooking under the thong to pull it taut against your slick folds. “soaked through already. you been dripping since the club, huh? thinking about my cock stretching this pretty pussy?”

you nod, biting your lip, grinding down against the hard bulge in his sweats.

it’s massive, you can feel the outline, thick and veined, throbbing through the fabric. “yeah, choso. need it. please-”

he cuts you off with a sharp slap to your ass, the sting making you yelp and clench. “patience, baby. i wanna see how bad you want it first.”

his fingers tug the thong aside, exposing your bare pussy to the cool air, lips puffy and glistening with arousal.

he traces a single digit through your slit, collecting the wetness before bringing it to his mouth, sucking it clean with a hum. “taste yourself on me later. right now, i want you on your knees.”

wait, what? in the car? but you’re already moving, twisting awkwardly in the tight space to drop between his spread thighs, the gear shift digging into your side but you don’t care. his sweats come down easy, no boxers, of course, and his cock springs free, slapping against his abs with a wet smack.

god, it’s beautiful.

nine inches at least, girthy enough that your fingers don’t meet when you wrap around it, the head flushed purple and leaking precum in thick beads.

veins pulse along the shaft, and the base is nestled in trimmed black hair that trails up to his happy trail.

you lean in, tongue flicking out to lap at the tip, tasting salt and him.

he groans, hand fisting your hair into a makeshift ponytail. “don’t tease. suck it like you mean it.” you obey, mouth stretching wide to take him in, lips sealing around the head as you hollow your cheeks and bob down.

he’s too big, hits the back of your throat halfway, making you gag, tears pricking your eyes.

but you push further, relaxing your throat, nose brushing his pubes as you swallow around him.

“fuck yes,” he hisses, hips bucking up to fuck your face shallowly. “good girl. choke on it. get it nice and sloppy for your pussy.”

saliva drips down your chin, coating his balls as you work him, tongue swirling around the underside, hand stroking what you can’t fit.

he pulls your hair tighter, guiding your rhythm, faster and deeper until your makeup’s smudged and your jaw aches.

“look at you, all messy for your plug. bet your friends don’t know you gag on dealer dick in alleys, huh?”

you moan around him, the vibration making him twitch in your mouth.

he yanks you off with a pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock. “enough. get up here and ride me before i bend you over the hood.”

you climb back up, straddling him again, his hands shoving your dress up to your tits. no bra — your nipples harden in the air, and he pinches one hard, rolling it between his fingers. “perfect fuckin’ tits,” he mutters, leaning down to suck the other into his mouth, teeth grazing the peak.

you grind against his bare cock, slick coating him, the friction making you whine.

“choso please, inside”

he releases your nipple with a wet pop, hand wrapping around your throat, not choking yet, just holding, thumb pressing your pulse. “you want this cock? beg for it.”

“please, daddy,” you gasp, not even caring how desperate you sound. “need your big cock in me. stretch me out, fill me up, make me cum-”

that’s enough.

he lines himself up, the fat head nudging your entrance, and pulls you down, slow at first, letting you feel every inch splitting you open. your walls flutter and clench, the burn so intense it borders pain, but god, the fullness. “shit, so tight,” he grunts, bottoming out with a grind that presses against your cervix. “pussy’s gripping me like a vice. you been waiting for this all day?”

you can only nod, forehead against his shoulder, adjusting to the stretch.

then you start moving up and down, rolling your hips in circles, riding him like you own him. the car fills with obscene sounds, skin slapping, your wet pussy squelching around his cock, his low groans mixing with your high pitched moans.

he meets every bounce with a thrust up, hands on your hips bruising as he slams you down harder.

“fuck, just like that,” he praises, voice rough. “bounce on this dick, baby. show me how much you love it.” one hand slides to your ass, spanking in rhythm, the pain blooming into heat that makes you clench tighter. “gonna cum already? i feel you squeezing. do it. cream all over me.”

it hits fast, your first orgasm ripping through you, walls spasming as you gush around him, slick soaking his lap and the seat. “choso, oh god” you cry, body shaking, but he doesn’t let up.

flips you somehow in the cramped space, pushing you face-down over the console, ass up, and re enters from behind in one brutal thrust.

“not done,” he growls, pace punishing now, deep, hard strokes that punch the air from your lungs.

his balls slap your clit with every slam, the angle hitting your g spot dead on.

“gonna fuck you till you squirt. till you’re leaking my cum everywhere.”

hand in your hair, yanking your head back to arch you deeper; the other around your throat, squeezing just enough to make stars dance in your vision.

you’re sobbing, overstimulated but chasing more, pushing back against him.

“harder please, choke me” he obliges, grip tightening, air thin as he rails you.

pressure builds again, different this time, fuller and urgent.

“choso, i think- fuck, i’m gonna-”

“do it,” he snarls, fingers reaching around to rub your clit in frantic circles. “squirt for me, slut. make a mess.”

you shatter, a gush of clear fluid spraying out, soaking his cock, his thighs, the floor mats. he moans at the sight, thrusts erratic.

“holy shit, yes good girl ” a few more slams and he buries deep, cock throbbing as he pumps you full, hot ropes of cum painting your walls, so much it leaks out around him, dripping down your thighs.

he doesn’t pull out.

just collapses over you, both panting, his weight comforting.

“fuck, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your neck softly now.

“you okay? that was intense.”

you nod weakly, humming. “so good. but… can we go again? at your place?”

he chuckles, already hardening inside you. “greedy. yeah, let’s go. gonna wreck you all night.”

[devilpeqch]

Pleasure is The Best Medicine!

sub!Jack Abbot x dom!fem!reader

Synopsis: Sometimes the best cure for having a rude attending is going to his house and having sex with him.

CW: SMUT, 18+, sub! Jack Abbot, devilpeqch's clear lack of knowledge of how sex works, my first time writing smut, small mention of Jack having a mommy kink at the very end. This is very self indulgent. Jack is a sad, old man.

Based on this ask

Masterlist part 1

The drive to Jack’s home was quiet. Not awkward, just expectant. 

Over the course of the truck ride, your hand slid onto his knee. His hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white– he kept forgetting to turn on his turning signal, you had to remind him.

When you arrived at his townhouse, you realized how real this was. You were about to have sex with an attending– the same attending who made your shared shifts hell, the one who apparently did it to hide his crush on you.

Jack jumped down from his side of the truck, and quickly ran to your side, opening the door and offering his hand to help you climb down. He led you in the house, and let you gawk at the massive home. He offered you a drink, and you asked for water. He walked to the kitchen and handed you a glass.

“So, how are we gonna play this?” he asked.

“What?” you didn’t hear him, your head swimming with thoughts, fantasies and insecurities.

He cocks his head to the side, a small smile pulling on his lips.

“You are the one calling the shots, aren’t you?” he reminds you.

Right, you’re here for sex.

You look deep into his eyes, as if trying to read his mind. Maybe trying to find a shred of doubt, or maybe that this was all an elaborate prank and your fellow doctors and doctors-to-be will pop out at any second and laugh.

But no, all you see is hope– a tiny ball of hope in his eyes. Hope that you’ll kiss him again, or even get close to him again.

“Show me your room,” you finally command.

Jack springs into action, grabbing your hand and guiding you to his room. There were pictures all over the walls of the hallway leading to his room– pictures of him and Robby, him and his fellow combat medics, him and his family.

You never took Jack for the sentimental type.

His room was clean, not freshly clean, but homely. You could tell he took pride in his space, and you took pride in being in it.

Jack’s bed was in the middle of the room, with sheets and a navy comforter, there was a small cream-colored, fluffy pillow perched up on the bed.

“Decorative pillows, Jack? Seriously?” you joked.

“A man in his 50’s knows how to decorate a room,” he quipped back.

You both stood at the foot of the bed for what felt like ages.

You pushed Jack onto the bed, half expecting it to creak due to all the force it took you to push him. He lets out a breath and chews on his lip, not to seduce you but from nervousness.

“Take off your shirt,” you tell him.

In a flash his black t-shirt is on the floor. You study the light sparse hair adorning his chest, down his stomach. Your eyes move back up to his neck, and you can see his jugular pulsing heavily.

Jack is just as excited as you are.

“Now your pants.”

This time Jack hesitates for a second, but still proceeds to take off his pants. Leaving him in black boxer briefs, which finally convinced you that Jack wanted this just as much, if not more, than you.

You walk up to him, dropping down to your knees and put your hands on his thighs. You caressed up and down, stopping at his prosthetic. Jack’s eyebrows shoot up, unsure of what to say.

“Is this okay?” you ask as you slowly begin to take off Jack’s prosthetic. “It must hurt, you’ve been on it all day.”

Jack nods, his eyes closing as he begins to drift into a certain mindspace.

“I need words, Jack,” you stop your ministrations when Jack doesn’t answer. “You’re a big boy, you can do it.”

Jack shudders, the slight emasculation travelling up his spine.

“Y-yes, it’s ok,” Jack pants. “You can do anything.”

You coo at him. It was cute how eager he was. His eyes were wide, like a puppy.

You fully take off his prosthetic and you could see the relief in his face. You then stood up and threw yourself at him, kissing him and pushing him down on the bed. Successfully on top of him, you seated yourself on his lap.

You could feel him underneath you, hard and leaking. Your hands travelled to your own jeans and started unbuttoning them, you had to unstick yourself from Jack to pull them down, making him whine in protest.

With nothing between you except for the sad excuse of your panties and his wet boxers, you began to grind yourself on his dick. Both of you letting out sighs of satisfaction.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a while,” you admit, while removing your shirt. Officially in just your underwear now.

Jack can’t even begin to comprehend your words, his brain short-circuiting from your movements, and the fact that he can finally see your bare skin.

You continue your ministrations before you get the idea to slide your hand up Jack’s throat, playfully squeezing and saying, “you have to answer when I speak to you, baby.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack gives a delirious smirk, savouring your hand on him.

Growing bored of just grinding on him, and frankly, too close to your orgasm, you decide to give Jack what he truly wants. You move to take off your bra, a simple black bra that you’ve had for years– Jack’s breath catches.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, his eyes wide and darting between your breasts.

“Go ahead, Jack,” you nod, giving him permission to get close to them.

Jack reaches one hand up and brushes his thumb over your nipple, making you let out a small moan.

You push Jack’s boxers down, tired of fantasizing about how he would look and feel, and move your panties to the side. You look down and gasp.

Jack’s cock is red with want, standing and drenched with precum. It twitches the second you grab a hold of it, you can feel it pulsing and growing impossibly harder.

“It’s like he has a mind of his own…” Jack tries to joke, but you shoot him a glare that shuts him up.

You fully wrap your hands around it, giving it a few strokes while you instruct Jack, “I am going to make myself cum, and you are going to sit there and take whatever I give you until I tell you to cum.”

Jack nods and you finally sit yourself onto his cock. You exhale through your mouth as you slowly make your way to the base, wanting to feel the coarse hairs of his happy trail on your clit. Once fully sat, you don’t move, you lean over and grab Jack’s face and kiss him. You softly bite his lip and shove your tongue into his mouth.

Jack;s hands settle on your hips, moving you to grind yourself on his lap once again but you slap at his hands.

“Bad Jack!,” you reprimand, half serious, but also taking notice of Jack’s visceral reaction. His mouth parts and his eyebrows furrow, a high-pitched moan escapes him and you laugh.

“You must really like this, huh? What would you do if I start telling people at work?” you mock, continuing to grind your clit of Jack’s pelvis. You feel him twitch harshly inside of you, making you let out another breathy laugh.

What a perv!

“Maybe I’ll start with telling Robby, who’ll tell Dennis, who’ll tell Trinity and soon the whole hospital will know what a depraved old man you are.”

“Please, you can do whatever you want… just please cum,” Jack begs, panting, enjoying the slight drag of your warm cunt around him. He was on the edge already.

“Oh, I thought you could hold out longer, maybe age is getting to you,” you sit up and put your hands on his shoulders, using the leverage to start moving up and down on his length. “I’m feeling nice today, next time I’ll have to teach you a lesson about not rushing me.”

You grab Jack’s hand that hadn’t left your breast and move it to your clit, letting him take the tiniest bit of control as you grow closer to your orgasm. You wanted this to last longer, but between Jack’s hand, the feeling of his dick inside of you and the mere thought of having sex again was too much and you came, surprising you both. The force of it made you collapse on top of Jack, his hand still on your clit, helping you ride out the waves.

Jack wrapped his arms around you, moving your body against his own, hoping that you will let him cum soon. You look up and study his face, scrunched up in pain and pleasure. The poor man trying his hardest to hold everything in.

“You can cum now,” you said into his ear, purposefully clenching around him and kissing him.

Jack moaned into your mouth and spilled inside of you. Hands digging into your sides, pulling you even closer to him. His hips jerked upward, pushing his cum deeper into you. You make sure to give him an open-mouthed kiss before separating.

You roll off of him, and lay your head on a pillow. Your body sweaty and spent, you could almost hear your heartbeat. As you lay next to each other, Jack reaches foe your hand, making you look at him.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t last longer,” he gives you a dejected look.

You grab his face and say, “Jack, don’t ever apologize for that stuff,” your thumb caressing his cheek. “We can practice all you want.”

“You want to do it again?”

“I want to do it all the time,” you reassure. “Maybe next time we can start with you going down on me? It would give us more time.”

Your earnest face makes Jack smile and give you a peck on the nose, he then pulls you into him, letting your head fall on his chest, your sweaty bodies clinging together.

Jack looks down at you, already planning on how to ask you to be his girlfriend, as well as how you feel about being called mommy.

Author's note: guys i literally struggled so hard with writing this, idk how y'all do it. But I hope y'all enjoy it x.

Special thanks to @lindsey-lana for helping me with the title.

Taglist: @irishprincessnigel

[itssskimiiii]

The Rkive After Hours

.°୭ you were looking for a fresh start away from the relentless blur of seoul; however, the quiet avenues of ilsan held a tempting distraction you didn’t anticipate; "you look beautiful in this light... i haven't been able to focus since you walked in." — the heavy tension of an unexpected encounter forces you to lean into the commanding presence of a bookstore owner who knows exactly how to get what he wants; r.m.

°⊹- pairings: bookstore owner!namjoon x reader (F)

°⊹- tags + warnings: slow burn to immediate heat, heavy smut, dominant!namjoon, baddie-minimalist aesthetic, short blonde buzzcut, office setting, praise, rough/tender balance, explicit content.

°⊹- notes: namjoon exists in a world of vintage leather and low, thumping r&b. he smells like expensive cedarwood, clean linen, and rich coffee. he acts like a polite intellectual until the door clicks locked. enjoy the Rkive.

☾ ˚ ₊ ˚ ⊹ ₊ ˚ ⊹ * ˚ ₊ ☾

The late afternoon sun in Ilsan is softer than you expected, casting a warm, honey-colored glow over the quiet neighborhood streets. Holding an iced latte in one hand, you take your time adjusting to the slower pace of your new home. Moving here was supposed to be a fresh start, a break from the relentless, high-speed blur of Seoul. So far, the quiet avenues and tree-lined sidewalks are delivering exactly what you needed.

As you round a particularly peaceful corner, the faint, comforting scent of roasted coffee beans and aged paper drifts through the air. You look up, your eyes catching a charming storefront. The exterior is a deep, muted charcoal, framed by large glass windows that show floor-to-ceiling wooden bookshelves packed tightly with literature. Above the door, a sleek, minimalist sign reads: The Archive.

A small, brass bell chimes softly as you push the door open, stepping out of the spring warmth and into the cool, air-conditioned sanctuary.

The atmosphere instantly wraps around you like a heavy, expensive blanket. Low, mellow R&B hums faintly from a speaker hidden somewhere in the room, the bassline thumping gently against the wooden floorboards. The shop is a beautiful blend of old-world charm and modern sophistication minimalist aesthetics done perfectly. Monochromatic art prints hang on the walls, and sleek leather armchairs are tucked into cozy corners, illuminated by the warm glow of vintage banker's lamps.

"Welcome in," a deep, velvety voice calls out from behind the counter.

You turn your head, and your breath hitches slightly in your throat.

Standing behind a massive oak service desk is a man who looks less like a standard shopkeeper and more like a high-end editorial model. He is tall—intimidatingly so—with broad, solid shoulders that stretch the fabric of a simple, fitted charcoal grey sweater. His hair is a sharp, platinum-blonde buzzcut that highlights the striking symmetry of his features—defined high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and full, plush lips. The close-cropped cut gives him a rugged, effortless edge, contrasted beautifully by the pair of clear, silver-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his straight nose.

He looks up from a heavy leather ledger, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The moment your gazes meet, a dimple deepens on his left cheek, softening his imposing silhouette into something profoundly warm and welcoming.

"Let me know if you’re looking for anything specific," he says, his voice a low, soothing baritone that sends a sudden, unexpected shiver straight down your spine. "Or feel free to just wander."

"Thank you," you manage to say, offering a polite smile as you try to master your sudden spike in pulse. "I’m actually new to the area. Just exploring."

His eyebrows raise slightly behind his frames, his interest clearly piqued. "New to Ilsan? Welcome. It’s a beautiful city. I’m Namjoon."

"Y/N," you reply, the name feeling intimate coming right after his.

"Well, Y/N," Namjoon says, leaning his forearms against the counter, the movement flexing the broad muscles of his back. "Take your time. We have a bit of everything here. If you need a recommendation based on what you usually like, don't hesitate to ask."

You nod, turning on your heel to mask the heat rising to your cheeks. You guide yourself into the labyrinth of tall bookshelves, the scent of vanilla and old parchment grounding you. As you walk, your fingers trace the spines of the books. You can hear the faint, methodical sound of Namjoon turning pages back at the counter, the rhythm oddly comforting.

You drift deeper into the store, eventually finding yourself in a secluded section tucked away at the very back. A sign overhead reads Rare Editions & Poetry. The lighting here is dimmer, more intimate, shielded from the front windows by massive, double-sided bookshelves.

Your eyes scan the shelves until they land on a slim, leather-bound volume of classic poetry. You reach up, but the book is perched just a bit too high on the top shelf. You stretch onto your tiptoes, your fingertips barely brushing the edge of the spine.

Suddenly, a warm, massive presence materializes directly behind you.

Before you can even turn around, a large, broad hand with long, elegant fingers reaches up effortlessly over your shoulder. The solid expanse of a chest presses lightly against your back, the sheer heat radiating from his body instantly enveloping you. The scent of him—expensive cedarwood, clean linen, and a hint of rich coffee—fills your senses, making you dizzy.

Namjoon slides the book smoothly from the shelf. He doesn't step back immediately. Instead, he lingers, his tall frame completely shadowing yours in the narrow aisle.

"This is a beautiful choice," Namjoon murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating directly against the back of your neck. "One of my personal favorites."

You slowly turn around within the tight space he’s trapped you in. Your back presses against the sturdy wooden bookshelf behind you, and you look up. Without the counter between you, his height is staggering. He has taken off his glasses, tucking them into the collar of his sweater, and his dark eyes are incredibly intense. The short blonde buzzcut makes his gaze feel even more direct, completely framing his face with a bold, masculine intensity that makes your knees feel weak.

"Is it?" you whisper, your voice suddenly breathless. The playful, confident edge you usually carry is entirely compromised by how commanding he looks standing over you.

"Mm," Namjoon hums, stepping a fraction closer. His thighs brush against yours, a deliberate, burning contact. He holds the book between you, his long fingers tapping rhythmically against the leather cover. "The imagery is incredibly sensual. It’s all about longing. About wanting something so intensely that it consumes you."

The air between you grows thick, charged with a sudden, electric tension. The low R&B track playing in the front of the shop feels miles away now, drowned out by the heavy thudding of your heart. Namjoon’s gaze drops to your lips, his own parting slightly as his breath hitches.

"You look beautiful in this light, Y/N," he says softly, his candor direct and completely devoid of hesitation. "To be honest, I haven't been able to focus on my book since you walked in."

A bold, thrilling wave of desire washes over you, melting away your initial nervousness. You look up at him through your lashes, leaning just a fraction closer to his chest. "And here I thought you were just being a helpful store owner."

A low, dark chuckle rumbles in Namjoon’s chest. He places the book down on a nearby ledge without breaking eye contact. "I am the owner. Which means I can decide exactly when the shop closes for the evening."

Before you can process his words, Namjoon reaches past you and flips a small latch on the side of the bookshelf. A hidden panel clicks, and with a gentle push, a section of the wall swings inward, revealing a sleek, dimly lit private office.

Namjoon guides you inside by the small of your back, his touch firm and possessive. He closes the door behind you, locking it with a quiet click that seals the two of you away from the rest of the world.

The office is beautiful—minimalist, dark, and incredibly plush. A large, dark mahogany desk sits in the center, and a leather sofa lines the back wall under a single, glowing amber sconce.

Namjoon turns to you, his entire demeanor shifting from the intellectual, polite bookstore owner to someone entirely consumed by desire. He doesn't waste another second. He steps into your space, his large hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs wiping across your cheekbones with surprising gentleness before his lips descend onto yours.

The kiss is deep, bruising, and fiercely demanding.

You gasp into his mouth, and Namjoon takes full advantage, his tongue sliding past your lips to claim yours in a slow, heavy rhythm that matches the bassline filtering through the walls. You wrap your arms around his neck, your fingers brushing against the soft prickle of his blonde buzzcut as you pull yourself flush against him. He groans, his hands sliding down your neck, over your shoulders, and gripping your waist with a strength that makes you whimper.

He pulls back just an inch, his lips wet and flushed, his breathing ragged. "I’ve been thinking about doing this since you smiled at me at the counter," he murmurs against your skin, his lips tracing down your jawline to press hot, lingering kisses against the sensitive pulse point of your neck.

"Namjoon," you breathe out, your fingers tangling along the short, textured sides of his hair, pulling him closer.

He lifts you effortlessly, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his broad waist. He carries you the short distance to his desk, clearing a stack of papers with one sweep of his arm before setting you down on the edge of the smooth, dark wood. He steps between your thighs, pushing your skirt up your legs, his large palms hot against your bare skin.

"You are so soft," he groans, his dark eyes looking up at you with an intensity that burns. He reaches for the hem of your top, lifting it over your head and tossing it aside, leaving you in just your lace bra. Namjoon takes a step back, his eyes slowly sweeping over your form, appreciating every curve with unadulterated reverence. "Absolutely exquisite."

The heat in his gaze makes you feel entirely exposed yet incredibly powerful. You reach forward, your fingers catching the hem of his charcoal sweater. "Take it off," you command softly.

A dimple flashes briefly before Namjoon pulls the sweater over his head, discarding it on the floor. Underneath, his body is breathtaking—sculpted, broad chest, deeply defined abdominal muscles, and strong arms mapped with faint veins. You reach out, your palms pressing against his chest, feeling the rapid, heavy thud of his heart.

Namjoon leans back in, his hands finding the clasp of your bra and releasing it with practiced ease. He catches your lips in another searing kiss while his hands cup your breasts, his long fingers kneading the soft flesh before his thumbs begin to stroke your nipples. A sharp, high whine catches in your throat, your head tilting back as a wave of intense pleasure coils deep in your stomach.

He shifts his attention downward, his lips following the path of his hands. He drops to his knees between your open thighs, his hands gripping your hips, anchoring you to the edge of the desk.

"Namjoon, wait—" you gasp out as you realize what he’s about to do.

"Let me taste you, Y/N," he murmurs, his voice thick and dripping with promise. "Let me welcome you to the neighborhood properly."

He slides your underwear down your legs, tossing them away. Slowly, deliberately, he presses your thighs wider apart, opening you up completely to his gaze. You flush, but before you can feel self-conscious, Namjoon leans forward, his hot breath fanning against your inner thigh, making you tremble.

When his tongue makes first contact, your fingers instantly fly to the edge of the mahogany desk, gripping the wood so hard your knuckles turn white.

Namjoon is meticulous. He uses his tongue in broad, wet strokes, painting your sensitive flesh before focusing entirely on your clit. He sucks it gently into his mouth, his tongue swirling in a relentless, agonizingly perfect rhythm. You writhe against the desk, your hips lifting into his mouth instinctively as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you.

"Namjoon, please," you cry out, your voice echoing softly in the quiet room.

He hums against you, the vibration sending a jolt of pure electricity straight through your core. He slides two long fingers inside your slick warmth, pumping them deeply while his mouth continues its ruthless assault. The combination is too much. Your breath hitches, your vision blurring as your walls tighten around his fingers. You arch your back, a loud, uninhibited moan ripping from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you in violent, beautiful waves.

Namjoon stays with you through every single pulse, drinking you in until your trembling slowly begins to subside.

He stands up slowly, his face flushed, a wet sheen on his lips that makes him look completely undone. His dark eyes are wild with a primal hunger as he quickly unbuttons his trousers, pushing them down along with his boxers. When he frees himself, you take a sharp breath—he is thick, heavy, and fully aroused, glistening in the dim amber light.

He reaches into his desk drawer, pulling out a small foil packet. With trembling but efficient hands, he tears it open and rolls the protection over his length.

He steps back between your legs, lifting your knees to rest over his broad shoulders, opening you up completely. He rests the blunt tip of his length against your soaking entrance, pausing for just a fraction of a second to look deep into your eyes.

"Look at me, Y/N," he commands softly, his voice thick.

You lock your eyes onto his, your breath catching as Namjoon slowly, steadily pushes himself inside you.

The sheer size of him stretches you completely, filling you to the absolute brim. You let out a long, shaky sigh, your hands moving to grip his bicep and shoulder as he bottoms out against your core, holding himself still for a moment to let you adjust to his depth.

"You fit me so perfectly," he whispers, a low growl tearing from his throat.

He begins to move. He pulls out almost completely before driving back in, a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm that makes you lose all sense of time and space. The smooth mahogany desk clicks faintly with each of his powerful thrusts. Namjoon leans forward, pinning your hands to the desk beside your head, his chest pressing down against yours as his pace begins to quicken.

The friction is incredible. Every drive of his hips hits your sweet spot with unerring accuracy. You throw your head back, your moans filling the office, entirely untamed. Namjoon loses his restraint entirely at the sound of your pleasure. His thrusts become harder, faster, his broad hips slamming against yours with a desperate, heavy urgency.

"Namjoon, I’m—I’m going again," you sob out, the tension building so rapidly you can barely breathe.

"Come for me, sweetheart," he pants, his voice raw and breathless against your ear. "Let me feel it."

He delivers three more incredibly deep, hard thrusts. Your internal walls clamp down tightly around him as a second, even more intense orgasm rips through your body. The sheer sensation sends Namjoon over the edge. He lets out a loud, guttural groan, his eyes closing tight as he drives into you one last, deep time, his body shaking violently as he releases his heat inside the protection.

He holds himself deep inside you for a long moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder as both of your chests heave, trying to catch your breath.

The quiet R&B music from the front of the shop finally filters back into your awareness, a smooth, slow melody that matches the peaceful afterglow settling over the room.

Slowly, Namjoon pulls out of you with a soft sigh. He takes care of the protection, disposing of it quickly before retrieving a clean cloth from a small restroom attached to the office. He gently cleans you up, his movements incredibly tender and devoid of any rush, his dimple reappearing as he catches you watching him with sleepy, content eyes.

He pulls a soft, oversized linen button-down shirt from a hanger in his closet and gently helps you slide your arms into it, buttoning it up halfway. He then pulls on his own trousers, leaving his chest bare as he sits down on the edge of the desk right next to you.

He pulls you into his side, his large arm wrapping securely around your waist, drawing you into his warmth. You rest your head against his solid chest, listening to the steady, calming rhythm of his heartbeat.

"So," Namjoon murmurs softly, his fingers gently tracing soothing circles on your bare thigh where the shirt rides up. "How are you liking your new neighborhood so far?"

A soft laugh escapes your lips, and you look up at him, a bright, genuine smile spreading across your face.

"I think," you say, reaching up to gently tap his dimpled cheek, "I’m going to love living here."

☾ ˚ ₊ ˚ ⊹ ₊ ˚ ⊹ * ˚ ₊ ☾

Banner credits: @seokbite 🫧

song inspo: like a star by corinne bailey rae 🫧

[redheadedramblings]

Enslaved by the Hunter King (Part 2)

Summary: You are cherished yet captive sex slave of a Yautja king, you surrender to his every whim, your body his to claim and ravish whenever he desires.

Paring: Yautja x Reader

word count: 8000+

warnings: NSFW, Smut, Sex Slave, Made up Yautja names 

A/N : Hello! I wrote a part two, requested by @nomimi I hope you enjoy! Read Part one HERE and be sure to read more of my Yautja x Reader fics by checking out my master list! <3

Masterlist

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

The throne room pulses with the low hum of Yautja discourse, the air thick with the scent of polished bone and flickering torchlight. K’thar lounges on his massive throne, a colossus of muscle and authority, his advisors arrayed before him like shadows in the dim glow. You kneel between his powerful thighs, naked as the day he claimed you, the cool stone floor a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from his body. His clawed hand rests on your head, fingers weaving through your long hair in lazy, possessive strokes. Petting you like the cherished animal you are—his pet, his fuck toy, his everything.

His musk envelops you, a heady cocktail of pheromones that seeps into your pores, stirring something primal deep within. It's earthy, spicy, with an undercurrent of raw power that makes your pulse quicken. You press closer, inhaling deeply, the scent igniting a fire between your legs. Your pussy aches, growing slick with arousal, the wetness coating your inner thighs. You shift slightly, rubbing your face against the rough fabric of his loincloth, feeling the hardening ridge beneath. A soft whimper escapes your lips, unbidden, as your body betrays you once more. You should hate this submission, this reduction to a needy creature, but gods, his dominance calls to you like a siren's song.

K’thar notices immediately. His amber eyes flicker down, meeting yours with a gleam of amusement and approval. His mandibles click softly, a pleased rumble vibrating through his chest. "My pet is so needy," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly purr. His fingers tighten in your hair, not painfully, but enough to hold you in place as you nuzzle against him more insistently.

"Master," you breathe, your voice thick with want, "let me serve you." Your thighs press together, seeking friction, any relief from the throbbing emptiness. Your arousal drips now, a shameful trail down your legs, but you can't stop. You need him—his approval, his touch, his cock.

He chuckles, a deep, resonant sound that echoes in the chamber, drawing fleeting glances from his advisors. They continue their discussions on clan borders and hunts, unfazed by the intimate display; such is the king's prerogative. "Serve my cock, little one," he grants, his eyes darkening with hunger. "Show me how eager you are."

Your hands tremble as you reach for his loincloth, unfastening it with practiced ease. His massive cock springs free, already half-hard and swelling under your gaze. It's enormous, ridged and veined, a deep greyish-green that pulses with life. The size kink hits you anew—how could something so huge fit inside you? But it does, every time, stretching you to your limits and beyond.

You lean in, lips parting to take the flared head into your mouth. The taste is musky, salty, intoxicating. You suck gently at first, tongue swirling over the ridges, drawing a low growl from him. Your legs rub together desperately, your clit aching for touch, but you know better than to reach for yourself without permission. That's his domain, his control.

Deeper you take him, bobbing your head, the wet slurping sounds filling the space between his thighs. His fingers run through your scalp, petting, praising. "Good girl," he rumbles, his voice steady even as his advisors drone on about supply lines. "Such a devoted pet. Lick me clean."

You obey, tongue lapping along the underside, tracing every vein, while one hand strokes what won't fit in your mouth. The other cups his heavy balls, rolling them gently. He growls louder now, his hips twitching subtly. The advisors glance but say nothing; this is normal, a king indulging his prize.

His climax builds swiftly, his grip in your hair tightening. With a guttural roar that interrupts a advisor's sentence briefly, he cums. Thick, hot ropes flood your mouth, overflowing despite your desperate swallows. It drips down your chin, your neck, marking you. Your arousal surges, pussy clenching on nothing, juices running freely down your thighs.

K’thar pulls you off gently, his eyes softening as he sees your state. "Come here, my pet," he commands, helping you up with surprising tenderness for his size. He licks his cum from your face and neck, his rough tongue sending shivers through you. "I know what you want, and I will give it to you."

He turns you around, your back to his chest, and lowers you onto his lap. His cock, still hard, presses against your soaked entrance. With one hand guiding your hip, he impales you slowly, the stretch immense, delicious. You scream in pleasure, the sound echoing as he fills you completely. He holds you there, letting you adjust, one massive hand around your neck—not crushing, just holding, a collar of flesh. The other dips between your legs, fingers circling your clit.

"Such a good pet," he murmurs, beginning to move you up and down his length. "You were so eager for your king's cock today." His thrusts are deep, claiming, each one dragging his ridges against your sensitive walls. He adds a finger alongside his cock, stretching you further, the fullness overwhelming.

You cum hard, vision blurring, body convulsing in his grasp. He licks your neck as you come down, tasting your sweat, your essence. Pulling you close, he spreads your legs wide, feet on his thighs, your leaking pussy on display. His cum drips from you, pooling on the floor. His hand returns to your neck, holding firm, while the other resumes fingering you, rubbing your clit relentlessly.

He stays like this for hours, finger-fucking you through multiple orgasms while conversing with his advisors. You writhe, moan, but he keeps you in place, his possession absolute. The day ends with you exhausted, draped over him like a limp doll.

The next day dawns with preparations for a banquet in the great hall—a grand affair to honor returning warriors. The hall is vast, vaulted ceilings adorned with trophies from hunts: skulls of beasts from a hundred worlds, banners woven from alien silks. A long table stretches down the center, laden with roasting meats, exotic fruits, and flagons of fermented brews. The air is alive with smoke and spices, the crackle of a massive fireplace at one end casting flickering shadows.

K’thar sits at the head, his throne-like chair dominating the space. You are his centerpiece, perched naked on the table beside him, your curvy body on full display. He's adorned you lavishly—gold necklaces draped over your huge breasts, adorned with jewels matching the gemstones in your collar glittering in the firelight. A gold leash attaches to your collar, the other end wrapped around his wrist, a symbol of ownership as much as the collar itself.

The warriors and advisors tower over you as they take their seats, their massive forms making you feel even smaller, more vulnerable. Their amber eyes flick to you, envy and curiosity mingling, but none dare touch. You sit surrounded by platters of food, your master's hand occasionally stroking your thigh, your arm, your hair. He feeds you choice morsels—tender meat dripping with juices, sweet fruits that burst on your tongue. You accept happily, leaning in to lick his fingers clean, your tongue darting out to savor every drop. He purrs approval, his mandibles clicking.

Across the table, the younger warrior, V’rkal, stared. V’rkal—a younger, battle-scarred male with fresh trophies dangling from his armor. His mandibles flexed, a low rumble in his chest. He’d been boasting of his recent kills, his gaze always drifting back to you. The challenge was silent, but it was there. K’thar saw it. He always saw everything. 

The feast progresses with roars of laughter, tales of hunts exchanged. But tension simmers. He boasts loudly of his kills, his gaze lingering on your curves, your breasts, the way the jewels accentuate your form. "A fine prize for any hunter," he rumbles during a lull, his voice carrying a challenge. "Earth females are rare trophies. How did you acquire such a... compliant one, my king?"

The hall quiets subtly. K’thar's hand tightens on your leash. "She is no mere trophy," he growls, his tone laced with warning. "She is mine. Bought, claimed, broken to my will. Touch her, and you die."

V’rkal leans forward, mandibles flaring. "A king shares his spoils with loyal warriors, does he not? A taste would honor your victory." The deep rumble that passed for his laugh vibrated through the table into your bones. His hand stopped tracing and squeezed your thigh, hard enough to make you gasp.

Murmurs ripple through the guests. Everyone knows you belong to the king—his pet, his slave. But V’rkal pushes, his envy palpable. K’thar's laugh booms, dark and dangerous. "You dare? Watch, then. See why she is mine alone."

The great hall was silenced. Smoke from roasting meats and pungent alien spices hung thick in the air. You sat wide eyed, bare skin against the cold stone of the massive table, right next to K’thar on his throne. You were the prize. The king’s pet.

“V’rkal looks at my pet with hungry eyes,” K’thar’s voice was a grating purr.  The hall quieted. “He thinks his new trophies earn him a taste of what is mine.”

He turned his huge, tusked head towards you. “Come here, my pet.”

You didn’t hesitate. You couldn’t. You scooched across the stone table closer to your king, your jewelry jingling as you moved.  The firelight danced over your naked body. You felt a thousand eyes on your skin, a prickling, shameful excitement coiling in your gut.

K’thar’s hands came up, calloused and rough. One settled on your hip, anchoring you. The other cupped your breast, his palm swallowing it whole. He squeezed. The pressure was immense, a blunt, claiming force that made your nipple peak instantly against his skin.

“See?” he growled to the hall. “See how she responds? Her flesh knows its master.”

He pinched your nipple between a talon and his thumb, a sharp, bright pain that melted into a throbbing ache. A moan slipped from your lips, high and desperate in the silent hall. He did it again, rolling the sensitive bud, and your back arched, pushing your tit further into his hand.

“She likes the attention,” K’thar said, his voice dropping to an intimate, terrible whisper just for you, though the translator broadcast it to all. “You like them looking at my hands on your tits, don’t you, pet? You like them seeing how wet their king makes you.”

He was right. Your cunt was already slick, a hot, embarrassing pulse between your legs. You could feel the dampness there.

“Now,” he commanded, the playful tone gone, replaced by absolute authority. “On the table. On your back. Show them.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You obeyed, climbing onto the smooth stone, laying back before him like an offering. The stone was cold against your shoulder blades, your ass. The vaulted ceiling swam above you, but all you could feel were the eyes.

“Wider,” K’thar said.

You let your knees fall open, exposing yourself completely to the hall, to him. A collective hiss of indrawn breath came from the Yautja assembled.

K’thar stood, looming over you. He put one massive hand on your inner thigh, his grip like iron, and pushed your leg wider still. With the other, he did the same on the other side. He held you spread, utterly vulnerable, displayed.

“Look at that pretty cunt,” he announced. “Pink and wet and waiting for me. Does it ache, pet? Does that hungry little hole ache for my tongue?”

“Yes,” you breathed, the word barely a sound.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, my king,” you moaned, the title a fuel to the fire in his eyes.

He didn’t bend. He descended. His tusked mandibles brushed your inner thighs as his long, thick, prehensile tongue, a deep blue-black, snaked out from between his teeth. It was hot and wet and rough like velvet-covered sandpaper.

The first flat lick up your slit made your entire body jolt. Oh fuck. It was too much. It was everything. He licked again, slower this time, from your asshole all the way up to your clit, swirling around the swollen bud. The texture was incredible, the heat shocking.

Then he pressed the broad tip of his tongue against your entrance and pushed inside.

You cried out, your hands flying to grip the edge of the table. He was tongue-fucking you, his tongue plunging in and out of your cunt with slow, deep strokes. It was thicker than two human fingers, ridged, and it reached places nothing else could. Each thrust dragged against your inner walls, a rough, perfect friction that had your hips bucking off the table.

“She fucks herself on my tongue,” K’thar grunted, his voice muffled against your flesh. “Watch her. See how my pet takes it.”

The wet, obscene sounds of his tongue working your pussy filled the space. You were drowning in it, in the sensation, in the humiliation, in the sheer blinding pleasure. You didn’t care who saw. You wanted them to see. You wanted them to see how good your king made you feel.

His tongue retreated. Before you could whimper at the loss, you felt the blunt press of a finger at your entrance. Not his tongue. A finger, thick and taloned, the sharp tip carefully sheathed. He pushed one inside you, and you were so fucking wet and open it slid in to the last knuckle with a filthy, wet sound.

“Fuck,” you sobbed.

He added a second finger, stretching you beautifully, scissoring them inside your dripping cunt. Then his tongue was back, lapping at your clit in fast, tight circles while his fingers fucked into you, curling, searching.

He found the spot. A rough pad on his finger rubbed right over that spongy place inside you and your vision whited out. Your cunt clamped down on his invading fingers, a wild, fluttering rhythm. “Right there, right there, please!” you begged, your voice breaking.

His tongue worked your clit harder, the pressure perfect, relentless. The coil in your belly snapped.

Your orgasm ripped through you like a tectonic shift. It was silent for a second—a vacuum of pure sensation—then a raw, screaming cry was torn from your throat. Your back arched violently off the table, your cunt gushing around his fingers, pulsating, milking them as he kept fucking you through it, his tongue never stopping its brutal, wonderful assault. Pleasure electrocuted every nerve ending, leaving you twitching and gasping, a pool of liquid heat on the stone.

Slowly, he withdrew his tongue and fingers. He held his glistening, wet fingers up for the hall to see, then brought them to his own mouth, sucking your taste from them with a deep, satisfied rumble.

Before you could even come down, his hands were on you again, gently flipping you over onto your hands and knees. Careful not to hurt his pet or her knees, he makes sure she is secure—positioning you with a surprising gentleness, ensuring the stone doesn't bite too harshly into your skin. Your spent, sensitive cunt throbbed against the cool air. Your ass was in the air, presented. You heard the rustle of his loincloth, then the sound of it tearing away.

“Look up, pet,” K’thar ordered, his voice thick with need. “Look at V’rkal. I want you to see his face while I fuck you.”

Dazed, you lifted your head. Across the table, the warrior V’rkal was staring, his body rigid, his fists clenched. There was fury there, and a stark, undeniable envy.

You felt K’thar’s cock then, as he stepped up behind you. It was huge, monstrously so, a shaft of deep grey ridged with thick, pronounced veins and a flared, blunt head. It was already weeping thick, clear pre-cum. He rubbed the massive, hot length of it through the crack of your ass, smearing the slickness over your back hole and your swollen, sensitive pussy lips.

“You want this cock, pet?” he growled, grinding against you. “You want me to fuck this fertile little cunt full of my seed? To breed you right here in front of them all?”

“Yes! Please, my king, please fuck me,” you begged, the words tumbling out. You needed it. The emptiness after his fingers was an agony.

“Tell him,” K’thar demanded, notching his cockhead at your sopping entrance. “Tell V’rkal who you belong to.”

You looked straight into the jealous warrior’s eyes, your own glazed with lust. “I belong to K’thar,” you panted, the declaration making your cunt clench. “My cunt is his. Only his.”

K’thar drove forward.

There was no gentle slide. He sheathed himself in one brutal, claiming thrust, burying every thick, ridged inch of his alien cock inside your pussy in one go. The stretch was immense, breathtaking. You screamed, your arms buckling, your forehead hitting the table. He was so deep, so fucking big, splitting you open, filling you to the absolute brink.

“Fuck!” you shrieked, the burn of the stretch melting into a devastating, full feeling.

He didn’t give you a second to adjust. He pulled back and slammed home again. And again. His hips pistoned, his grip on your hips bruising, holding you in place for his relentless fucking. Each thrust rocked your whole body forward on the table, your tits swaying, your ass slapping back against his scaled pelvis.

The sounds were obscene: the wet, slapping rhythm of flesh on flesh, his guttural grunts, your broken, sobbing moans. You could feel every ridge of his cock raking your inner walls, lighting up nerves you didn’t know you had.

“This cunt is mine,” he snarled, his pace punishing. “You feel how it grips me? How it sucks my cock in? It was made for this. Made to take my seed.”

You were babbling, nonsense words, pleas, affirmations. “Yours! All yours! Fuck, it’s so good, so deep! Don’t stop!”

He was hitting that spot with every plunge, the one that made you see stars. The pleasure was building again, a tighter, sharper coil than before. Your orgasm was coming.

“You gonna cum, pet?” he grunted, his thrusts becoming erratic, harder. “You gonna milk my cock with your tight little cunt? Do it. Cum for your king. Show him how well I fuck you.”

The command was all it took. Your second climax shattered you. It was less a wave and more a detonation, a raw, screaming release that clamped your cunt down viscously around his invading length. You thrashed under him, your inner muscles fluttering and squeezing, pulling him deeper.

With a roar that shook the hall, K’thar slammed into you one final time, hilted himself, and came.

It was a flood. A torrent. You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum erupting inside you, pumping deep into your womb, an impossible volume. It filled you, spilled out around the seal of his cock, dripping down your thighs in hot, sticky streams. He kept pulsing, fucking his cum deeper into you with short, grinding jerks of his hips, marking you, claiming you from the inside out. The sensation of being so utterly filled, of feeling that heat flood your deepest parts, triggered a third, smaller, shaky orgasm that left you whimpering.

He stayed buried in you for a long moment, both of you panting. Then, slowly, he pulled out.

A gush of his cum followed his retreating cock, pooling beneath you on the table. You were dripping, soaked, claimed.

But he wasn’t done.

His hand, slick with your mixed fluids, smoothed over your ass. A talon traced your other hole, the one that had never been touched.

“My mark is in your cunt,” he whispered, his voice a dark promise. “Now I put it in your ass. Every hole is mine.”

He spat on his hand, a crude lubricant, and slicked his cock, which was still rock-hard, still dripping. The head pressed against your tight, untouched back entrance.

You tensed. “My king… it’s…”

“You will take it,” he said, no room for argument. “You will take all of me. Beg for it.”

You looked at V’rkal again. His envy was gone, replaced by something like awe. You were being ruined, owned, completely and publicly, and you were loving it. The filthiness of it, the sheer possession, made your spent cunt throb anew.

“Please,” you whispered, then louder. “Please, my king, fuck my ass. I need it. I need you in every hole. Please breed my ass too.”

He pushed.

The burn was intense, a sharp, stinging breach. You cried out, but he didn’t stop. He fed his massive cock into your ass inch by torturous, incredible inch. It was a fuller, tighter, more consuming stretch than your pussy. It stole your breath. He bottomed out, his balls pressed against your dripping, cum-filled cunt.

He grabs your leash then, pulling gently—not to choke, but to heighten the sensation, the tug adding a layer of exquisite pleasure to the overwhelming fullness. “Fucking hell,” you gasped, feeling impossibly full, stuffed in a way that bordered on pain but was veering wildly into ecstasy.

He began to move. The drag was rougher, more intense. Every nerve in your ass was alight. He fucked your ass with the same dominant power, his grip on your hips unyielding. It was raw, it was nasty, it was everything.

“This ass is mine now too,” he growled, his thrusts gaining speed. “You feel my cock in your guts? You feel how deep I own you?”

You could only moan, your body rocking, your mind blank with a pleasure so profound it was agony. The stimulation was everywhere—the rough table under your cheek, the burning stretch of your ass, the wet mess between your thighs, the eyes on you.

It didn’t take long. The fire built quickly, a conflagration in your core. “I’m gonna cum… I’m gonna cum from your cock in my ass!” you wailed.

“Do it,” he commanded, his own rhythm faltering. “Cum on my cock. Let them see.”

Your orgasm took you violently, a seizure of pleasure that clenched your ass around his invading length, milking him. He roared again, a sound of pure triumph, and you felt another hot, colossal flood fill your bowels, a second, impossible deposit of his seed. It was too much. It was perfect.

He stayed there, pulsing inside you, for a long minute. Finally, he pulled out, a final trickle of cum following. You collapsed onto the table, into the puddles of your shared release, completely spent, thoroughly used.

K’thar turned to the silent, watching hall. He placed a heavy, claiming hand on the small of your back.

“She. Is. Mine.”

The declaration hangs in the air, unchallenged. Even V’rkal bows his head, envy quelled by the raw display of power. The feast resumes haltingly, but the atmosphere has shifted—respect deepened, boundaries reaffirmed.

K’thar gently gathers you, helping you sit up amidst the slick mess of fluids and cum on the table. He pulls you onto his lap, your body molding to his chest. You sit there for hours, the banquet dragging on with toasts and stories, your naked form a constant reminder of his dominance. His hand strokes your hair, your back, as you doze lightly against him.

Time passes, the guests depart one by one, the hall emptying until only echoes remain. The lights dim, leaving you and K’thar illuminated by the roaring fireplace, its warmth bathing you in golden hues. You've dozed off in his arms, wrapped in a soft fur blanket he's draped over you. Your leash is unclipped and discarded on the floor.

You stir, blinking awake to find his strong arms encircling you protectively. You look up at him, his amber eyes soft in the firelight. He pets your hair gently. "You were so good today, my pet," he murmurs. "You must be tired. Here, drink this—you are thirsty."

He holds a goblet of cool water to your lips. You reach for it instinctively, but he shakes his head, insisting on holding it himself. You drink deeply, the water soothing your parched throat, gulping until sated. When you finish, he sets it aside. A droplet escapes, trailing down your chin. His warm tongue laps it up, rough and tender.

You open your mouth to him, sticking out your tongue in invitation. He accepts, his prehensile tongue dancing with yours in a slow, sensual tangle—less frantic than before, more affectionate. He pulls back after a while, mandibles brushing your cheek.

"You did so well, my pet. So well." His voice is a low rumble, filled with pride.

"I belong to you," you whisper, echoing the truth etched into your soul.

"Yes," he agrees, fingers tracing your collar. "You are mine—body, soul, every breath. No other will ever touch you, taste you, claim you. You are my pet, my slave, my treasure. I will fuck you when I wish, spoil you when you please me, protect you always."

You nod, exhaustion pulling at you. "Rest now," he commands softly. "You are tired."

Nestled in his embrace, by the fire's glow, you close your eyes, surrendering once more to the king who owns you completely.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

[rockabyedaisy]

RSA Students: 🐚Rielle and 💠Minajael Headcanons!

In honor of our first two Royal Swords Academy character's reveal, here's some free crack ideas I came up with because I'm slowly started becoming obsessive of them and I am appalled by this.

Autism is instilled into this boy like a hard drive serum. Specifically the type to pick things of the ground as "trinkets" for his already massive collection back at his dormroom.

The "trinkets" in question are really just things broken things he felt bad for and didn't want it's pain to be ignored

"It was just sitting all alone on the street, broken without anyone tending to it! I couldn't just leave it!" (Definitely not projecting guilt for broken litter on to this guy)

It's bad enough Rielle loves buying random things from his school store so his collection feels more like a clutter than anything

His dorm has staged many, MANY interventions for Rielle to convince him in just throwing away all the other junk except the important ones, that way his room can be nice and tidy.

"But their all important to me! 🥺" The interventions basically don't do jack squack.

Has very manic pixie dream girl vibes, he gets very happy whenever spring arrives and would be seen frolicking and rolling around the flower fields with the widest smile on his face.

His eccentric energy can sometimes be too much for his friends but it can also be exactly what they need wherever they are down in the dumps.

Like Minajael, Rielle values his freedom and independence. Grew up in a very strict and controlling household with a hot headed father. (Definitely envies Vil)

Always wanted to go to the surface and RSA was the best way to experience the new world without being trapped in his home all the time.

Is one of the first to stand up for his friends whenever they are being made fun of by other schools. Most likely from the guilt of letting Azul getting bullied by the people he knew back at elementary/middle school.

Always excited to meet Azul and the NRC boys because he sees them as dark and cool. (Rielle they are just emo, they are not that cool!! >[)

The suprisingly chill mom and (platonic) flirt of his friend group

Doesn't take long to convince him to get into commiting a crime. You ask him to kidnap someone, Minajael is already there with the burlaps and masks.

Sneaks out from RSA constantly to mingle with the native Sage Islanders about his age.

It's rumoured he's snuck into NRC one or two times. Been caught BOTH times because he sucks at being discreet. Luckily one of the times was by Leona who was actually amused by the Minajael's willingness to tresspass. The other time was by Riddle and Kalim who, if it actually wasn't for Kalim, would have got Minajael suspended and banned from NRC grounds.

Greatly values his independence. Grew up very spoiled and pampered by his father and servants. It's from this he also felt being trapped into a cage and was grateful to be in NRC to get away from having things be done for him all the time

In contrast to Leona and Kalim, Minajael would rather do his own laundry, dishes, and room cleaned up. In fact he enjoys spring cleaning his dorm and have spring cleaning days be set for his dormmates to encourage their own sense of responsibility

While not entirely friends, Minajael and Leona actually get along for the most part. Their only difference is their beliefs in confidence in oneself when the world is stacked against them. If they both graduated, they would hit each other up to go to a party

Minajael LOVES Kalim, and is always concerned about how carefree and optimistic Kalim gets because of them growing up together and Minajael seeing first hand how much of a target Kalim is.

Has a love-hate relationship with Jamil. Knows Jamil doesn't have the best intentions when it comes to Kalim but understands his family's struggles and debt to the Al Asim family.

Has only one tiger who he values more than life itself