#mdi

[colhercomnutela]

I want to be the reason you touch yourself at 4 am

🚫 MEN AND MINOR'S DO NOT INTERACT

[mareofthegoldenforest]

[moonlitrapture]

✧ Pairing :Michael Jackson x Black!Reader

⸻ ⊹ ࣪ ┆ ˖ ࣪　⊹ ࣪ ★ ⋆.˚ ⊹ ࣪

࣪ ˖⋆˚★ ₊ ⊹　 ࣪˖ ࣪ ₊ ࣪ ˖　

. ݁　⊹ ࣪ ˖　　　 ࣪ ˖

✧ Genre : Romantic Comedy , Fluff , Established Relationship , Feel-Good Smut , 90’s AU

⸻

✧ Summary : Dating Michael Jackson is exhausting for one very specific reason : he cannot keep his hands to himself.

Not in public.

Not backstage.

Not even during serious moments.

One minute you’re trying to help him rehearse choreography for the “The Way You Make Me Feel” performance , and the next he’s spinning you around the studio dramatically claiming :

“Baby , the chemistry has to feel authentic!”

Which is apparently Michael Jackson code for,

Kissing your neck between dance breaks.

Smacking your ass every time you walk past him,

Whispering filthy things in your ear while pretending to discuss choreography,

and getting distracted every single time you bend over near him.

The problem?

Michael swears he’s smooth.

He absolutely is not.

Especially when the band keeps catching him staring at you instead of rehearsing , forcing him into embarrassing excuses that somehow only make everybody laugh harder.

And after one particularly chaotic rehearsal leaves the two of you locked inside his dressing room for “privacy,” things quickly spiral from teasing touches and giggling arguments into something much hotter.

Warnings :18+ ( MDI - Minors do not interact), Suggestive Content , Sexual Humor , Flirting , Kissing , Teasing , Light Smut Themes , Dirty Talk , Public Relationship Antics , Black Reader , Michael Being Whiny & Touchy

"Oh, Michael," you sigh, shaking your head as his hands slide around your waist for the fifth time in ten minutes. His fingertips drum against your hipbone, restless and warm, even through the thin fabric of your rehearsal clothes. The studio hums around you keyboards looping, drummers adjusting their snares, backup vocalists harmonizing but all you can focus on is the way he keeps distracting you. Again.

"You're supposed to be teaching me the counts," you remind him, twisting just enough to glare over your shoulder. His grin doesn't falter. If anything, it widens, all mischief and dimples, like he’s already forgotten this is technically a *work* environment. His breath ghosts your ear when he leans in, and for a delirious second, you think he’s actually going to whisper the choreography notes.

Instead, his voice drops to that low, honeyed register that always makes your knees weak. "I am teaching you," he murmurs, thumb tracing circles just above the waistband of your leggings. "This part’s all about… feeling the rhythm."

You roll your eyes, but the shiver running down your spine betrays you. "Mm-hmm. And what rhythm exactly are you feeling right now, Mr. Jackson?" You arch a brow, spinning to face him fully only for his hands to slide lower, fingers splaying possessively across the curve of your backside. The band erupts into poorly stifled laughter behind you, and Michael’s grin turns downright sinful.

"The rhythm of us," he says, like it’s obvious, before dipping you backward in a sudden, dramatic sweep. Your surprised yelp dissolves into laughter as he catches you effortlessly, one arm hooked beneath your knees, the other cradling your shoulders. "See? Authentic chemistry." His eyes sparkle with mischief as he pecks your nose then your lips, quick and teasing before pulling you upright again.

"Mike," you hiss, swatting his chest, but the damage is done. The guitarist wolf-whistles. The drummer chuckles into his hi-hat. And the backup singers? They’re practically vibrating with suppressed gossip. You groan, burying your face in Michael’s shoulder. "You’re impossible."

Michael smirks, his dark eyes dancing with amusement as he leans in close enough for his breath to ghost over your earlobe. "This rhythm lesson is strictly private, baby. Director’s cut." His fingers tighten around your waist just as the overhead speakers crackle to life.

"Alright folks, take five!" the director’s voice booms through the studio, and the room instantly dissolves into chatter and stretching limbs.

You shake your head, already stepping back or trying to, anyway but Michael’s grip is insistent. His outfit black high waisted trousers that hug his slender frame, a loose white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and those damn loafers that click against the hardwood when he prowls after you makes him look unfairly good for a simple rehearsal. Meanwhile, your own leggings and cropped tank top feel suddenly too thin under his gaze as you retreat toward the backstage dressing room.

"You’re *following* me?" you whisper over your shoulder, but the answer is obvious in the way his footsteps match yours, deliberate and unhurried. The dressing room door swings shut behind you both with a quiet click, and before you can turn around, his hands are on you again palming your hips, sliding up your ribs, mapping the bare skin where your tank rides up.

"Mike " you start, but he cuts you off by spinning you to face him, backing you against the vanity. The mirror rattles behind you, bottles of hairspray and foundation wobbling precariously as he cages you in with his arms.

"Just making sure you really got the choreography down," he murmurs, all innocence, but the way his knee nudges between your thighs tells a different story. His shirt collar is slightly askew from rehearsal, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone, and you resist the urge to bite it. Barely.

The director’s voice still echoes distantly from the studio "Alright, people, back in five!" but Michael acts like he hasn’t heard a thing. His fingers trace the hem of your leggings, dipping beneath the fabric to tease the sensitive skin of your hip. "You know," he muses, tilting his head, "if you wanted me alone, you could’ve just asked."

You snort, pushing at his chest not hard enough to actually move him. "Right. Because *I’m* the one who couldn’t keep his hands to himself for ten minutes straight."

He grins, unrepentant, and leans in to nip at your jaw. "Guilty." His breath is warm against your ear as he adds, "But you love it."

You do. And he knows it. The problem is, *everyone* knows it. The band’s knowing glances, the backup singers’ poorly concealed whispers it’s all getting harder to ignore.

Michael doesn’t seem to care. His hands slide up your sides, fingers brushing the underside of your breasts through the thin fabric of your tank top. You arch into the touch instinctively, biting your lip when he hums in approval. "See?" he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "Perfect chemistry."

You roll your eyes, but your hands tangle in his shirt anyway, pulling him closer. The vanity digs into your back, but you barely notice not when Michael’s lips are trailing down your neck, not when his knee presses more insistently between your thighs.

The vanity digs into your spine as Michael drops to his knees with the kind of effortless grace that makes your stomach flip. His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your leggings down just enough to expose the damp patch of your panties a fact he doesn’t miss, his smirk widening as he noses along the fabric. "Someone’s excited," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement, and you huff, tangling your fingers in his curls as he hooks his thumbs under the waistband.

"You’re the one who- who started this," you gasp, hips jerking when his tongue drags a slow, filthy stripe over your clit through the lace. He hums, the vibration making your knees buckle, and then he’s pulling the fabric aside, mouth hot and insistent against bare skin. The mirror rattles behind you as you arch into it, his name spilling from your lips in a breathless whine. He works you open with his tongue, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs to keep you still, and you’re so close already, thighs trembling, when he suddenly pulls back, lips slick and glistening.

"Mind if I do?" he asks, voice rough, and before you can process the question, his fingers hook into the delicate clasp of your necklace the expensive one, the $2000 Pro piece you’d worn just to tease him earlier and snap. The pearls scatter across the vanity, clattering against bottles, and you gasp, half-protest already forming on your tongue. But Michael just grins, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. "Don’t worry," he murmurs, "I’ll replace it."

Then he’s spinning you around, bending you over the vanity with a hand between your shoulder blades, and your stomach swoops. "Mike—" you start, but his palm lands on your ass with a sharp *smack*, and you yelp. "Ever done anal before?" he asks, like he’s asking about the weather, and your breath hitches. "No," you admit, pulse thundering in your ears.

He hums, low and considering, and then there’s the sound of him spitting into his palm, the slick press of two fingers against your entrance. "Relax," he murmurs, thumb circling your clit as he works you open, slow and deliberate, and you bury your face in your arms, whining into the crook of your elbow. The stretch burns, just a little, but the way his fingers curl inside you *Fuck*. "Good?" he checks, voice rough, and you nod frantically, hips canting back against his hand.

"So fucking good," you pant, and he laughs, breathless and warm against your spine as he adds a third finger. The vanity creaks under your weight, and distantly, you hear the muffled chatter of the crew outside close enough to remind you how not alone you are, how anyone could walk in but Michael’s touch drowns it out, his fingers fucking into you with a rhythm that has you gasping.

Your fingers scramble against the vanity’s edge, knuckles whitening as Michael’s fingers crook inside you deeper and more rapidly, you choke on a moan. “Yes just like that sir don’t stop—” The plea tumbles out before you can catch it, raw and shuddering, and Michael groans against the sweat-damp skin of your lower back. His free hand strokes your clit in tight, practiced circles, and you’re *right there*, teetering on the edge, when he suddenly slows. “Hurts?” he murmurs, lips brushing your spine, and you shake your head frantically, hips rocking back against his hand.

“No, no, keep going —” you pant, but he ignores you, easing his fingers out just enough to press a kiss to the dimple above your ass. “Shh, baby, I got you,” he soothes, voice all honey and heat, and you whine, thighs trembling. His thumb never stops circling your clit, lazy and relentless, and when his other hand reaches for the scattered pearls on the vanity, your breath hitches. “Mike—”

The first bead is cool against your overheated skin, and then it’s *inside*, nudged in beside his fingers with a filthy, slick sound. Your knees nearly give out. “That,” you gasp, “—Shit, that’s—” He chuckles, low and dark, adding another bead, then another, each one stretching you just enough to make your toes curl. “Good?” he asks, and you nod, desperate, as his fingers twist, dragging the pearls against that *spot* inside you.

“Yes yes—” The words dissolve into a whimper as his thumb presses harder against your clit, and suddenly, you’re climaxing , shaking apart around his fingers with a broken cry. Michael doesn’t let up, working you through it, his fingers still moving inside you, the pearls rolling against your walls as you clench around them. “Mike —” you sob, and he hushes you, pressing a kiss to the small of your back.

“You’re doing so good taking me like that ” he murmurs, voice rough with want, and his fingers curl just so , dragging the last of your orgasm out of you with a shuddering gasp. Your legs wobble, and he catches you before you can slump, his hands steadying your hips as he pulls his fingers free slow, so slow and the pearls spill onto the vanity with a soft clatter.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s spinning you around, lifting you onto the vanity with effortless strength. His mouth crashes into yours, hot and hungry, and you taste yourself on his tongue, bitter and sweet. His hips slot between your thighs, and the hard line of his erection presses against your still-sensitive clit, making you whimper into his mouth. “Mike—Urgh—”

, hands sliding up your thighs to hitch them around his waist. “Couldn’t stop if I tried.” His fingers trace the curve of your hip, thumb brushing the damp fabric of your panties still pushed to the side and you shudder, biting your lip. “Want me to?” he asks, voice dropping to that low, honeyed register that makes your stomach flip.

You nod, breathless, and his grin is downright sinful as he reaches for the scattered pearls again, plucking one from the mess. “Gonna make you feel so good,my sweet girl ” he promises, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh before sliding the bead against your clit. The coolness makes you gasp, and then he’s circling it over the swollen bud, slow and deliberate, his other hand holding your hip steady. “That’s it,” he murmurs, watching your face as your breath hitches. “Just like that.”

The pleasure coils tight in your stomach again, sharp and bright, and when he nudges the pearl inside just a little you jerk against him, thighs trembling. “*Oh”-

Easy,” he soothes, fingers curling against your hipbone. “I got you.” His touch gentles, the pearl rolling against your clit again before he presses it back inside, deeper this time, and your head falls back with a whine. “Good?” he checks, thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you nod, frantic, fingers scrabbling against the vanity’s edge.

“*Yes—don’t stop—” The plea spills out raw and shuddering, and Michael groans, leaning in to nip at your jaw. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmurs, adding another pearl, then another, each one stretching you just enough to make your toes curl. The stretch burns so good, and when his fingers twist, dragging the beads against that spot inside you, you cry out, thighs clamping around his wrist. “Mike”-

The moment the first pearl rolls back out of you with a slick, obscene sound, you swear you see stars or maybe that’s just the way Michael’s eyes darken with pure, unfiltered hunger as he watches your body push it free. His fingers catch it effortlessly, his smirk widening when your hips jerk involuntarily, a fresh wave of pleasure crashing over you as the remaining beads shift inside. "Look at that," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement, holding the glistening pearl between his thumb and forefinger. "Made you squirt all over it."

You groan, covering your face with your hands, but Michael just laughs that breathless, boyish laugh that always makes your stomach flip—l before dipping his head to lick a stripe up your inner thigh. "Taste yourself," he orders, pressing the pearl against your lips, and when you part them instinctively, he pushes it into your mouth with a filthy grin. "Good girl." The salt-sweet tang of yourself coats your tongue, and you whimper, thighs trembling as his fingers return to your clit, circling with relentless precision.

The second pearl follows the first, then the third, each one dragged out slow and torturous, Michael’s fingers curling just right to wring another broken moan from your lips. By the time the last one slips free, you’re a shaking mess, thighs slick, toes curled, and Michael gosh , Michael looks like he’s barely holding himself together. His cock strains against his slacks, the fabric damp with precum, and when he finally undoes his zipper with one hand, the sound is obscenely loud in the quiet dressing room.

"You’re so beautiful like this," he murmurs, dragging the head of his cock through your mess, his breath hitching when you clench around nothing. "All fucked out and still begging for it." His thumb swipes over your clit once, twice, and you jerk against him, a fresh wave of wetness coating his fingers. "See? Can’t even talk right now." Before you can protest, he’s grabbing a crumpled napkin from the vanity some forgotten prop from lunch and stuffing it into your mouth with a wicked grin. "Mmm, better. Now you can just take it.

You whine around the fabric, but the sound cuts off into a muffled scream when he slams into you in one smooth thrust, his hips flush against yours. The stretch is perfect, just shy of too much, and when he pulls out only to snap back in, your vision whites out for a second. "Fuck, fuck—" he hisses, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise as he sets a brutal pace. The vanity rattles with every thrust, bottles toppling over as your back arches, the napkin doing little to stifle your moans.

Michael doesn’t care. If anything, the noise eggs him on, his breath ragged against your neck as he fucks you senseless, his cock dragging against that spot with every snap of his hips. "Gonna cream in you," he growls, voice wrecked, and the words send a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core. "Gonna fill you up do good fuck , you’re squeezing me just right—" His rhythm stutters, his thrusts growing sloppy, and you can feel him twitching inside you, so close to the edge.

The words hit you like a physical blow low, rough, and dripping with that particular brand of Michael Jackson arrogance that always makes your stomach flip. "Such a whore for your favorite pop star, huh?" His voice is wrecked, breathless, and when his hips stutter against yours, you feel the moment he loses control. His cock twitches inside you, hot and pulsing, and then he’s coming, spilling into you with a ragged groan that vibrates against your neck.

You whimper around the napkin, thighs trembling as his cum floods you, the warmth of it seeping into your already-overstimulated cunt. Michael doesn’t pull out not yet just grinds his hips in slow, lazy circles, milking the last of his orgasm as his fingers trace idle patterns over your hipbones. "Fuck," he mutters, voice thick with satisfaction, "your cunt is so good “.-

The napkin falls from your lips when you gasp, your voice hoarse from screaming. "Mike oh g—" His name spills out in a broken moan he murmurs, watching your face with dark, hungry eyes as you squirm under his touch. "Think you can come again? Just like this?"

"No, Mike," you pant, shaking your head weakly as his thumb keeps circling your clit with relentless precision. Your legs tremble where they're still hooked around his waist, the vanity digging into your thighs as he leans over you, his cum still dripping between your legs. But Michael just smiles that slow, knowing smile that always makes your stomach flip and presses a kiss to your forehead before murmuring, "Can't help the way you make me feel."

You groan, throwing an arm over your eyes as he chuckles, the sound warm and rough against your collarbone. His fingers trace idle patterns through the mess he's made of you, swirling through the mix of your arousal and his cum with unhurried fascination. "Look at you," he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction, "all pretty and ruined."

The dressing room is a disaster pearls scattered across the floor, makeup bottles overturned, your leggings tangled around one ankle but Michael doesn't seem to care. He reaches for a discarded towel from the rack, dampening it with bottled water before gently cleaning you up, his touch surprisingly tender compared to the filth that was pouring from his mouth minutes ago.

You groan louder, kicking a stray pearl across the floor with your bare foot. "You cannot just quote your own song after that ." The words come out breathless, your thighs still twitching where they're splayed open against the vanity's edge.

Michael hums, entirely too pleased with himself as he wipes the damp towel between your legs with infuriating gentleness. His fingers linger just a little too long, tracing the swollen, sensitive skin he'd worked over so thoroughly minutes ago. "But it's true ," he insists, tilting his head with that wide-eyed innocence that never fools anyone. "You do make me feel—"

"I swear to god, Michael—" You swat at his hands, but he catches your wrist easily, pressing a kiss to your knuckles that makes your traitorous pulse jump. His lips are still swollen from yours, his collar still rumpled from where you'd clawed at it, and god, he looks unfairly put-together for someone who just had you screaming into a napkin.

The laughter bubbles out of you first uncontrollable, breathless giggles that shake your shoulders as you slump against the vanity, legs still spread wide and trembling. Michael’s hands hover over you, his touch suddenly gentle as he brushes sweaty curls from your forehead, his own laughter mingling with yours. “You good?” he murmurs, thumb swiping over your bottom lip where you’d bitten it raw. His eyes are soft now, all traces of earlier mischief replaced by something unbearably tender.

“Mmm. Define ‘good,’” you manage, voice hoarse, waving a limp hand at the wreckage of the dressing room pearls glinting like misplaced stars on the floor, your leggings hanging off one ankle, his cum still dripping down your thighs. Michael grins, unrepentant, and presses a kiss to your knee before reaching for a half-empty water bottle on the counter.

“Hydrate,” he orders, unscrewing the cap with his teeth before pressing it into your hands. You take it obediently, gulping down the lukewarm water as he watches, his fingers tracing idle circles on your bare hip. The silence is comfortable, broken only by your occasional breathless giggles and the distant hum of the crew outside still oblivious, hopefully.

[snow-snowball]

My child — my light

Your children have been hurt.

characters: Sylus, Zayne, Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel

w: 4,3 k

warnings: not to be read by anyone who's sensitive about fathers. bullying, mdi, hurt/comfort, fluff, soft, +18, maternity certificate, child abuse. Fem!Y/N

a/n: [Y/D/N] — your daughter’s name. [Y/S/N] — your son’s name. My father is strict and I never tell him if something is happening to me. So I wanted to make the men from LADS into fathers you can only dream of. English is not my first language, so I apologise for any mistakes. Requests are open. Dividers belongs to me.

Sylus:

Lately, you both have noticed that your child has become withdrawn: he doesn't join you at the table, stays silent, and spends all his time in his room.

Your heart aches every time you see bruises on your son's face. You have anxiously asked him more than once, “Sweetheart, what happened? Did someone hurt you?”

He answers your questions sharply and coldly, “No.”And then he goes to his room. At first, it seemed like it was just a teenage phase, but your motherly heart tells you that something bad is happening.

Sylus often spends time with you and has noticed his son's behavior, which has alarmed him. Something had to be done. And so, after another outburst from your son, who retreated to his room, Sylus stroked your head and went after the boy. “Don't worry, Kitten, I'll talk to him.”

After knocking on the door and not hearing a "Come in" in response, Silas stood by the door for a while, thinking about the right words, and then opened it. “Hey, buddy, can we talk?”

“I'm not in the mood... Dad,” your son mumbled, burying his face in the pillow. Taking a deep breath, the man walked into the room and sat on the edge of his son's bed. “You haven't been yourself lately, do you want to talk to me?”

[Y/S/N] shook his head negatively. Deep down, he wanted to talk about what was bothering him, but he was scared.

“Son...” Sylus rarely addresses your child like that, only when he has something truly important to say. “Know that your mom and I have your back, no matter what. We're not your enemies, and we'll always be on your side.” He ruffled his son's hair. “Remember that we care about you and your feelings. You don't have to talk now, but you can tell us whenever you're ready.” Sylus gave his son a gentle smile and got up from the bed.

“Dad, wait!” The man stopped at the door, turning his head towards his son. “I... thank you.”Sylus nodded in response. “And I'm sorry for making you and Mom worry. You know, these are tough times... people have become more ruthless, ha-ha.” [Y/S/N] laughed nervously and looked away. Sylus felt like he was looking at you, because when you're worried, you start laughing nervously and avoid eye contact.

“Are other kids bullying you?” Sylus asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not exactly,” your son said, taking a deep breath.

“Then who?” The man's face became more serious.

“Well, at first, it really was just some kids, and I could handle them myself, but then... their parents started picking on me too. I don't understand why everyone hates me so much... I haven't done anything wrong...” Your son couldn't hold back his tears any longer and began to cry, trying to hide his tears from his father. Sylus took a few large steps and was by his son's side, holding him tightly. “You're not alone. As long as your mom and I are around, no one will dare to even look at you the wrong way.” And so it was. Sylus's anger was uncontrollable, much like your own. As soon as you found out WHAT was happening to your son, you wanted to tear everything apart. How dare anyone touch your child?! Well, let me tell you, you paid back your child's tormentors in full—they're in the hospital with broken bones, and the children are so intimidated that as soon as they see [Y/S/N], they start to shy away. Now, no one will mess with your son everyone suddenly wanted to be friends with the kid whose parents are the most dangerous people in the country.

Zayne:

He's the kind of father who's rarely home due to work. But the moment he gets a chance to see his family, Zayne drops everything. No matter how exhausted he is, his main priority is making sure his beloved princesses are doing well.

Today, he got home earlier than usual, but found the house empty. Glancing at his watch, it was one in the afternoon, so his daughter must be at school. But what about his wife? Zayne kicked off his shoes and headed to the kitchen. A note on the refrigerator read, "Gone to the store, be back soon ♡"

Smiling, Zayne walked into the spacious living room, where a plasma TV hung on the wall. He turned on the news and sat at the table, opening his laptop. Well, while you're away, I might as well get some work done.

About thirty minutes later, you returned from the grocery store, laden with bags. Spotting your husband in the living room, you set the bags down in the kitchen and approached him, kissing him on the cheek. “Hi, honey, how's work going?”

“Hello, darling. Everything's fine. How was your day?” Zayne asked, taking off his glasses and closing his laptop. He pulled you closer by the waist and kissed you softly on the lips. “Oh, Zayne, my day was good too. Is [Y/D/N] in her room?”

At your question, Zayne raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn't she be at school?” He glanced at the time with concern. It had been an hour since he got home, and his daughter still wasn't back.

“What?... Her classes ended half an hour ago, and it's only a 10-minute walk from school...” You tapped your chin, deep in thought. “What if something happened on the way home?!” You immediately sprang into action, heading to the hallway and grabbing your windbreaker. Zayne followed you. But just as you were about to leave the house, the door opened and your daughter walked in.

“Mom? Dad? Are you guys going somewhere?” she asked, her voice a little hoarse.

“Sweetheart! You scared me half to death!” You immediately pulled your daughter into a hug, but quickly released her when she hissed in pain. “What happened? Are you hurt? Where? Here?” You gently touched her shoulder. Her composure crumbled, and she simply burst into tears, burying her face in your stomach.

Zayne furrowed his brow and approached the two of you. Stroking his daughter's hair, he scooped her up in his arms, simultaneously removing her street shoes, and headed upstairs to her room. After tidying up a bit, you followed your husband.

“Snowflake, what's eating you?” Zayne asked softly, carefully laying her down in bed.

“The girls... the girls in my class ganged up on me because a boy likes me... Daddy, it hurts so bad.” She didn't hold back her feelings when she was with her dad. He never pressured her and always knew how to handle these situations. Zayne listened patiently, wiped the tears from her face, and kissed her forehead. “Don't be afraid of anything; Daddy's here.” His words resonated not only with your daughter but with you as well.

You stood outside the door, hearing every word. Zayne never made empty promises. After settling your daughter, he exited her room and noticed your worried eyes. With a sigh, he stroked your hair. “She's being bullied at school.”

“I see...” you said, feeling a surge of anger. How dare anyone lay a hand on your child? You were ready to go and tear them all limb from limb. Zayne could clearly see your fury.

“Honey, calm down. Tomorrow, we'll go to the principal and try to sort things out peacefully...” remember these words, kids, because the next day YOU were the one who had to calm HIM down he froze the principal's office and nearly skewered the parents of the kids who bullied your daughter with icicles.

Caleb:

He loves sparring with his son because it's a chance to bond and teach the kid some self-defense. The only problem? [Y/S/N] takes after you and can't land a decent punch to save his life. He's too worried about hurting his dad. Caleb's always saying he needs more killer instinct.

But lately, your son's been dodging training sessions like the plague. When asked why, he just shrugs it off with a quick, “I'm tired.”

Caleb's not one to force his kid into anything, but it's been bugging him. [Y/S/N] used to be all hyped up for a friendly spar, practically dragging Caleb into the ring. Now, the mere mention of "fighting" makes him clam up. And Caleb's not happy about it. Not one bit.

“Don't you think [Y/S/N]'s been acting kinda weird lately?” You asked, drying the dishes. A mother's intuition is never wrong, and you knew something was up with him.

"Maybe he's just worn out from school?" Caleb shrugged, switching the news to "The Avengers."

“Do you wanna talk to him?” You put down the plate and towel, walking over to him. “I'm worried…” You wrapped your arms around him from behind, nuzzling your nose into his shoulder blade, inhaling his scent.

"I'll try." Caleb squeezed your hand, which was resting on his stomach.

Your son came home from school and went straight to his room without saying hello. He tossed his backpack aside and flopped onto the bed, closing his eyes. But then he remembered the bruises and winced. It hurt like hell. [Y/S/N] started scratching his chest, as if trying to rip his heart out of his body from the unbearable pain. Heartache. Bruises and cuts heal, but a shattered soul? That's another story. [Y/S/N] didn't even hear the knock on the door, his father's voice, or him approaching the bed. Feeling a hand on his head, he startled and turned to see his father's stern gaze. “Dad…”

“I'm here,” Caleb announced, and upon hearing his words, his son launched himself into his father's arms, momentarily forgetting his stinging wounds. “What's been going on with you lately?” your husband asked, gently stroking his son's back.

“I hurt, Dad. I hurt so much.”

You entered the room, instantly drawn to your family. Seeing your son clinging to his father, uttering “I'm not okay,” nearly shattered your heart. Kneeling by the bed, you embraced your child as well, kissing the top of his head. “Sweetheart, what happened?”

“My friends... they're hurting me.” Wriggling out of your and Caleb's embrace, [Y/S/N\] pushed up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing the angry bruises. You gasped, covering your mouth in horror. “But it hurts more here...” Your son placed his hands over his chest, indicating his heart. You and Caleb had instilled in him that you never hurt your friends, so your child never retaliated – because hitting a friend was like hitting himself. But not all kids were raised with the same values. Rage consumed Caleb. He shot up from the bed and stormed out of the house. Where to? Neither you nor your son knew. “Mom... are you... are you proud of me? Did I do good?” your child asked, nestled in your lap.

“Baby, I've always been proud of you, I am proud of you, and I always will be. Listen, just because you consider someone a friend doesn't mean they feel the same way about you. Friendship has to go both ways, not just one. Stick with those who truly value you, okay?” you asked, holding out your pinky.

“Okay.” He linked his pinky with yours and smiled.

Meanwhile, Caleb was raising hell at the principal's office and throwing punches at the fathers of your child's classmates. “If I ever hear that my son is being hurt again, you'll regret it. I'll shove apples so far up your asses, you'll be tasting them for weeks! Got it?!”

Well, the outcome? Your son is no longer bothered one father didn't get the memo and is now in the hospital with apples in his backside.

Xavier:

Your daughter was always a firecracker, that's why absolutely everyone loved her: passersby, classmates, and acquaintances. She could connect with anyone. Xavier saw you in her – just as impulsive as her mother.

But as we know, when someone is widely loved, there are those who start to get envious. They're like snakes, ready to strike at the most unexpected moment: slithering into the soul and thoughts, injecting venom to weaken and incapacitate their victim, making them easier to devour.

Your daughter had a friend, quiet and modest. You and your husband thought their friendship was very harmonious. Thought. Until your daughter clammed up. It was like her mouth had been sealed shut... but with what? Every time you touched your daughter, you felt a strange surge of foreign energy. “Evol?” spun in your head. But as soon as you tried to figure out more, you recoiled from the jolt. While waiting for your husband after his latest mission, you decided to keep an eye on your daughter.

Approaching her room, you felt a dizzy spell, as if something or someone was trying to invade your mind. Shaking your head and drawing your weapon, you quietly opened the door. The room was as dark as the abyss. Suddenly, something crawled on your leg. Barely finding the light switch and flicking it on, you almost fainted from horror: snakes. A huge number of snakes. And in the middle of these vile creatures was your daughter? No... it wasn't her. The girl looked like her, but those serpentine eyes... and oh god... that was YOUR daughter's body?! She lay on the floor, bitten by these creatures injecting their venom into her. “Oh, Mom!” the thing croaked, grinning wickedly.

“Xiangliu...” your daughter whispered, barely opening her eyes. “Please...”

“Silence!” the girl snapped, and the snakes immediately coiled around her feet.

“You're Xiangliu?” Your voice was like steel. “You're my daughter's friend, right? It's not cool to treat friends like that.” You drew the katana from your robe. “That's just not how it's done.” You lunged into battle, but a huge snake slithered out of the ground, blocking the path to Xiangliu. Oh yeah, your roof, and half the house, will need repairs. Just as you were about to cut down the vile creature, you felt a familiar evol and caught a glimpse of light flashing past you. “Xavier!” you cried with relief. But remembering your daughter, you rushed forward, dodging Xiangliu's attacks. Finally reaching your daughter, you scooped her fragile and pale body into your arms. “Honey, please, open your eyes!” You shook her shoulder, but there was no response. “Xavier!” you cried, tears welling up.

“I'll handle this, get out of here!” your husband yelled. You know he can handle it, after all, your husband is the best hunter. Holding your daughter carefully, you raced to the hospital. Thank god it was close to your house.

“Zayne!” you shouted, spotting your childhood friend. “Zayne, help!”

“Get her on a gurney, quick. Venom?” Zayne asked, seeing the purple marks all over her body. You nodded, clutching your hands to your chest and following the doctors. “Don't worry Y/N, I'll make an antidote and everything will be fine.” He gave you a friendly pat on the shoulder before disappearing with the medical team. Slumping into a chair, you closed your eyes, trying to calm down. “Y/N!” You heard your husband's voice and immediately jumped up. “Where's [Y/D/N]?”

“Zayne and a team of doctors are on it. They're working on an antidote...” You buried your face in your husband's shoulder, tears welling up. Right now, all you could do was pray that your daughter would be okay. “And where...?”

“I handed her over to the police for safekeeping,” Xavier replied, knowing exactly who you were talking about. You both sank into the armchairs, waiting for Zayne.

About three hours ticked by before Zayne finally appeared. “The poison was potent, but I managed to find an antidote. She's sleeping in a room now; you can visit her.” Zayne's calm tone instantly eased your anxiety. She was going to be alright.

“Thank you, Dr. Zayne,” Xavier said with a slight smile, shaking the doctor's hand. Zayne returned a polite smile and, with one last glance at you, left.

Gently easing the door open, you both stepped inside. Your daughter was breathing softly, looking less pale than she had just hours ago. You let out a shaky breath and stroked her hair. “Mom?... Dad?...” her tiny voice whispered.

“Stay still, princess,” Xavier said, rubbing his thumb over her palm.

“What happened? All I remember is playing hide-and-seek with Xiangliu at her house, and then... nothing.” You and Xavier exchanged a look of dread.

“When did you play hide-and-seek with her?” you asked, glancing at the calendar. If your daughter had been acting strange for the past few days, was that really your daughter at all?

“Well, you let us play outside so we wouldn't break your favorite vase.” Oh no... no, no, no. Three days! For three days, some other girl had taken your daughter's place! How could you have been so blind?! “I'm such a terrible mother...” Tears streamed down your face. “I'm so sorry! Please forgive me!”

“Mom... why are you crying?” The girl looked at you with confusion, then at her father. “Dad, what's wrong with her?”

“Nothing, honey, your mom's just being an overprotective worrywart, you know how she gets. You get some rest; Mom and I will check in on you later,” Xavier lied, not wanting to scare your daughter. Taking your hand, he led you out of the room. “You're not the only one who dropped the ball, honey. I didn't like that girl from the get-go, so I'm just as guilty for not voicing my suspicions.”

“We could have lost our child... I'll never forgive myself.”

“Me neither. That's why we'll make it up to her and keep a closer eye on her, especially when it comes to the people she brings into our home.” Xavier chuckled, remembering the time your daughter brought home a homeless man and introduced him as her friend. The look on Xavier's face had been priceless. The man now works as your gardener, by the way.

“That's for sure,” you said, smiling, understanding what your husband was laughing about.

Yes, you'd made a mistake. But together, you would fix it and become the best parents you could be. With parents like you, [Y/D/N] would definitely be safe.

Rafayel:

Rafayel was throwing a grand exhibition and needed his gorgeous wife by his side to help greet guests. The only problem? They had no one to watch their son.

“Maybe we should hire a nanny?” You suggested, scrolling through profiles on a website.

“Hmm, not a bad idea. How about this one?” Rafayel said, pointing to a young woman. “Lots of stars and rave reviews.”

“Alright, I'll give her a call.” After dialing the number, you arranged for her to come over the next day. “Okay, great, thank you.” Gently massaging your temples, you headed into the living room, where Rafayel and your son were painting.

“That's awesome! You're doing great! Definitely his father's son!” Rafayel proudly raised his brush, smirking.

“Mommy's!” [Y/S/N] exclaimed, spotting you. He hopped off the chair and ran to give you a hug.

“WHAT?! How dare you steal my son from me, woman!” Clutching his shirt dramatically, he placed the paintbrush on his forehead and pretended to faint.

“Such a drama queen,” you sighed, and your son nodded in agreement. “Listen, sweetie, your dad and I need to go to an important event, and we don't have anyone to leave you with. So... we decided to hire a nanny for you. Be good tomorrow, okay?” You stroked your son's hair.

“You got it, Mom!” He squeezed you tightly, smearing paint on your clothes. “Oops...” Your son stepped back and looked at your stained outfit. “Mom, I didn't mean to!” He ran to Rafayel, hiding behind him. “Dad, save me!”

“Ooh! You finally remembered you have a father?” Laughing, Rafayel lifted your son above his head and started spinning him around. Laughter filled the room, creating a warm, familial atmosphere.

The big day arrived in no time. You and Rafayel got ready and waited for the caregiver, explaining everything that needed to be done. The girl seemed sweet, so you didn't worry too much while you were at the exhibition.

However, as soon as you and your husband left, it was like a switch flipped. The girl acted like she owned the place: she grabbed some chips from the cupboard, turned on the TV, and... SHE SPILLED ON RAFAEL'S FAVORITE COUCH!

“That's Dad's favorite couch! Don't mess it up!” your son exclaimed, standing in front of her, blocking the TV.

“Get lost, kid.” She shoved him aside, popped a chip in her mouth, and your son hit his head on the couch edge. He clutched his head and started to whimper. “Can you shut up?!” she barked, cranking up the TV volume.

“Leave me alone!”

“That's it! You’re just too much!” She found some tape in the kitchen and, wrapping his mouth and limbs, carried him to the closet. “Sit here and think about your behavior, you little brat.” She even switched off the light. For some reason, your son was terrified of the dark and never slept without a nightlight. Panic gripped him; he cried and tried to kick the door with his swaddled legs, but he was too weak.

“I’ve got a weird feeling…” you murmured after greeting another guest.

“Maybe you’re just tired?” Rafayel shrugged.

“No. We need to go home. I have to see my son.” You rushed to the exit, your heart racing.

“Sweetheart! Wait!” But you didn’t reply. “Oh, that woman. Hey!” He called his assistant. “There’s hardly anything left to do, so finish the show yourself, alright?”

You could feel that something was off.

As you swung the door open, an eerie silence greeted you—no one was in sight. But then, a loud voice broke through the stillness. A television show, perhaps? You stepped into the living room, your heart pounding, and froze in shock. Rafayel stepped forward slightly, his expression mirroring yours, both of you utterly dumbfounded.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” he exclaimed.

“Why are you here so early? This isn’t what you think!” the girl began to stammer, her eyes wide with panic.

“Are you kidding me?!” you shot back, leveling a steely glare at her.

“Exactly! You were just five minutes ago fooling around with some loser on MY couch!” Rafayel shouted, his anger boiling over.

Meanwhile, your mind raced as you scanned the room for your son. Where could he be? Panic clawed at your stomach until your ears caught a faint knocking sound coming from the pantry. With urgency, you flung the door open. What you saw made your heart drop—there was your son, tears streaming down his cheeks, wrapped in duct tape.

“Mommy!” he cried, and you rushed to him, your heart breaking at the sight.

“Shh, sweetie, it’s okay. Mama’s here,” you whispered softly, carefully peeling the tape away from his small frame. Just then, Rafayel stormed in, his eyes blazing with fury as he locked onto the so-called "nanny."

“What the hell is going on?!” he barked, his rage palpable.

You held your son close, cradling him against your chest as if that alone could shield him from the chaos erupting around you. The tension in the room crackled like electricity, and you felt a fierce protectiveness take hold.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” you said with steely determination, heart pounding in unison with his.

“She's wrecked Dad's couch! I told her not to mess it up! She shoved me, and I hit my head and started crying!” With tears streaming down his cheeks, your son lamented about the girl. “And then she wrapped me in tape and locked me in the pantry without any light.”

“Rafayel, hold our son for a minute.” You lifted the little boy and handed him over to Rafayel. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, your husband is a true gentleman who would never lift a finger against a woman, even if she were as terrible as this nanny. But you could, because you're also a woman.

With a fierce determination, you pushed her into the hallway, where she collided with the corner of the wall. Standing tall before her, you seethed, “You laid hands on my son?!” Grabbing her by the hair, you delivered a sharp slap across her cheek, pulling her toward the door with a firm grip.

“It hurts!” she screeched, a mix of outrage and fear in her voice.

“Good,” you shot back, your eyes blazing. “Maybe you'll think twice before laying a finger on my child again.” The air was thick with tension, a silent understanding that you wouldn't let this slide. In your mind, you were ready to do whatever it took to protect your family.

“I'm telling you, my son was hurting too, you little witch!” You hurled her out the door with a fierce shove. “This is just the beginning. I’ll make your life a living hell, you little brat.” Slamming the door behind you, you returned to your loved ones, planting soft kisses on their foreheads and wrapping them in warm embraces. “I wish I could've just taken her out,” your husband chimed in, pouting playfully.

“Looks like you've taken on the role of dad's personal bodyguard, huh? Desperately defending my favorite couch, like a true hero!” He scooped your son up and, with a playful flourish, set him down on the floor, heading toward the bathroom for the first-aid kit.

“Y/N! You coming or what?”

“Yeah! Just tidying up a bit, I’ll be right there!”

“Mom! Hurry up! Dad doesn’t know how to handle wounds!”

“Not true! I totally know what I’m doing!”

“Get that enema away from my head! Mom! Please!”

And just like that, the house buzzed with that familiar family atmosphere again: laughter, playful chaos, and a guy who practically jumped out the window to escape your wrath, fearing he'd end up just like that girl he cheated with.

© 2025 do reblog, but don’t copy or publish my work on other platforms, or translate (without my permission) into other languages.

[vampbellxo]

Husband!Jamie loves you and your surprises! ۶ৎ

Jamie knew you like the back of his hand.

He knew which song you put on repeat when you were upset but too stubborn to admit it. He knew you hated when your hands got cold so you had no choice but to reach out for his. He even remembered the job you swore you’d have when you were eight.

So it was almost insulting that you thought he wouldn’t notice the way your thighs shut when he called you “annoying”.

The way your teeth caught your lips and the way the air shifted before you mumbled a “sorry”.

It baffled him even more that you thought he wouldn’t notice how you started to purposely get on his nerves.

How you would purposefully misbehave in public just to feel his tight grip on your arm as he scolded you for being a “annoying whore.”

How you would laugh a little too hard at his friends when they were over just to see his expression tighten as he called you a slut.

It shocked him how deliberate you were, how you would constantly push his buttons just to get something—anything out of him.

How you’d apologize so sweetly afterwards, a pout forming on your lips as your hole clenched around nothing.

It surprised him really, the way you’d bite your lip when he threatened to make a mess out of you before forming a pout like he hurt your feelings.

Even the way you’d whimper when he threatened to hit you for just being so aggravating.

It surprised him how quickly you’d hide the shift in your legs and a whimper on the verge of spilling out of your throat behind a trembling apology and a carefully crafted frown.

It surprised Husband!Jamie even more how he’d get a boner from it every time.

You surprised him.

And maybe that’s why he loved you as much as he did.

- a/n: i know this is so ooc of jamie but in my imagination jamie would do anything to make me happy even if it’s being mean and abusing me 🥹😓.

[ghosthouseart]

Bass Harbor Light, done at a paint-and-sip event

image description: a watercolor painting of a lighthouse on a rocky coast, inside the outline of Mount Desert Island. the lighthouse is surrounded by pine trees and a short wooden fence, and overlooks a blue-green ocean. several birds fly in the background, and there are intentional paint splatters around the outside of the island's shape. /end i.d.

[otaku-over1ord]

AkaKen Smut

Includes: heavy smut, pounding, lotus positions, Omegaverse,

The dim light of the shared apartment filtered through half-drawn curtains, casting shadows over the tangled sheets on Akaashi's bed. Kenma lay sprawled on his back, his lithe body already slick with sweat, chest heaving as Akaashi loomed over him. Both omegas, their heats had synced in a cruel twist of fate, turning the air thick with pheromones that made every breath a spark of need. Akaashi's dark eyes burned with hunger, his cock already hard and leaking pre-cum against Kenma's thigh.

Akaashi's hands gripped Kenma's hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. 'You smell so fucking good,' he growled, voice rough from the haze of heat. He leaned down, capturing one of Kenma's nipples between his teeth, biting down sharply. Kenma arched off the bed with a sharp cry, his small pink bud hardening instantly under the assault. Akaashi sucked hard, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak while his free hand pinched the other nipple, twisting it until Kenma whimpered, his body trembling.

'Harder,' Kenma gasped, his own cock twitching against his stomach, the tip glistening. Akaashi obliged, clamping down with his teeth again, pulling until the skin stretched taut. Kenma's hands fisted in the sheets, his pussy clenching emptily, already soaked and throbbing with desperate ache. The omega's folds were swollen, slick dripping down to his ass, begging to be filled.

Akaashi released the nipple with a wet pop, smirking at the red marks blooming on Kenma's pale chest. He wrapped a hand around Kenma's cock, stroking roughly from base to tip, thumb pressing into the slit to smear the pre-cum. Kenma bucked into the touch, moaning low as Akaashi's grip tightened, jerking him off with firm, unrelenting pulls. 'Your cock's so hard for me,' Akaashi murmured, squeezing the shaft until veins pulsed under his fingers. He twisted his wrist on the upstroke, making Kenma's balls draw up tight.

But Akaashi wasn't done playing. He shifted lower, his mouth descending on Kenma's cock, swallowing him down in one deep thrust. Kenma's hips jerked, a choked sob escaping as Akaashi's throat constricted around him, sucking with hollowed cheeks. Akaashi bobbed his head, tongue pressing flat against the underside, tracing every ridge and vein. He fondled Kenma's balls, rolling them in his palm, tugging gently before giving a sharp squeeze that bordered on pain.

Kenma's pussy throbbed harder, the empty heat building to an inferno. 'Akaashi... please... fuck me,' he begged, voice breaking. Akaashi pulled off with a filthy slurp, strings of saliva connecting his lips to Kenma's flushed cock. He positioned himself between Kenma's spread thighs, rubbing the head of his own thick cock against the omega's dripping entrance. Kenma's pussy lips parted eagerly, slick coating Akaashi's length as he teased the hole.

Without warning, Akaashi slammed in, burying his cock to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Kenma screamed, walls clamping down around the invasion, every inch stretching him wide. Akaashi's cock throbbed inside, pulsing against Kenma's sensitive insides, the sensation sending shockwaves through both of them. He didn't give time to adjust—pulling back only to pound forward again, hips snapping with savage force.

The bed creaked under the assault, Akaashi's balls slapping against Kenma's ass with each heavy drive. Kenma's pussy throbbed around the thick shaft, milking it desperately as Akaashi fucked him raw. 'So tight... your cunt's gripping me like a vice,' Akaashi grunted, leaning forward to latch onto Kenma's nipple again. He bit down in time with a particularly deep thrust, the dual sensations making Kenma's vision blur.

Akaashi's hand returned to Kenma's cock, stroking it in rough tandem with his pounding hips. He jacked him off fast, fingers slick with pre-cum, twisting over the head until Kenma's thighs quaked. The omega's body jolted with every slam, his pussy fluttering, walls convulsing as Akaashi's cock dragged over that spot inside him relentlessly.

Sweat poured down Akaashi's back, his muscles straining as he rutted harder, faster. He released the nipple, now swollen and bruised, and grabbed both of Kenma's hands, pinning them above his head. The new angle let him grind deeper, his cock throbbing wildly, swelling as his own heat peaked. Kenma's pussy responded in kind, pulsing around him, slick gushing out with each withdraw.

'Cum for me,' Akaashi demanded, his free hand yanking on Kenma's cock one last time. Kenma shattered, his release spurting over Akaashi's fist, body seizing as waves of pleasure ripped through him. His pussy clamped down like a fist, throbbing in rhythmic squeezes that pulled Akaashi over the edge. With a roar, Akaashi buried himself deep, cock pulsing as he flooded Kenma's womb with hot cum, thrust after thrust milking every drop.

They collapsed together, Akaashi still buried inside, both cocks twitching with aftershocks. But the heat wasn't sated—Akaashi's hips twitched, already hardening again for round two.

Akaashi's cock stirred back to life inside Kenma's cum-slicked pussy, the thick length swelling against the omega's fluttering walls. Kenma whimpered, his body still trembling from the first orgasm, oversensitive nerves firing with renewed hunger. The heat clawed at them both, demanding more, their scents mingling in a heady fog that drove Akaashi to shift his hips experimentally. He ground deeper, eliciting a gasp from Kenma as fresh slick coated his shaft.

'Not done yet,' Akaashi rasped, pulling out slowly, his cock dragging along Kenma's inner walls with a wet schlick. Cum and slick dribbled from Kenma's stretched hole, pooling on the sheets. Akaashi sat up, hauling Kenma onto his lap in one fluid motion, positioning them face-to-face in the lotus. Kenma's legs wrapped around Akaashi's waist, his arms looping over broad shoulders for support. Their cocks rubbed together, Akaashi's rigid length pressing against Kenma's semi-hard one, both leaking steadily.

Akaashi gripped Kenma's ass cheeks, spreading them wide as he guided his cock back to that greedy entrance. He sank in inch by inch, the position allowing him to bottom out until his balls pressed flush against Kenma's skin. Kenma's head fell back with a moan, his pussy clenching around the fullness, throbbing in time with Akaashi's pulse. Akaashi's hands roamed up, thumbs circling the abused nipples before pinching hard, rolling the stiff peaks between his fingers.

'Ride me,' Akaashi ordered, bucking up sharply to emphasize. Kenma obeyed, lifting his hips and slamming down, the slap of skin echoing in the room. Akaashi met every descent with a powerful thrust, his cock spearing deep, grinding against that inner spot that made Kenma's vision spark. Sweat-slicked bodies slid together, Kenma's cock trapped between them, smearing pre-cum across Akaashi's abs with each bounce.

Akaashi leaned in, capturing a nipple in his mouth, sucking voraciously while his teeth grazed the tender flesh. Kenma cried out, his rhythm faltering as pleasure-pain shot straight to his core. Akaashi's free hand wrapped around Kenma's shaft, pumping it in short, rough strokes, squeezing the base to stave off release. The lotus held them locked, intimate and intense, Akaashi's hips rolling in circles to stir his cock inside, stretching Kenma's pussy wider.

But the heat surged, needing more ferocity. Akaashi stood abruptly, still impaled deep, carrying Kenma with him toward the edge of the bed. Kenma's legs tightened around his waist, nails digging into Akaashi's back as gravity drove him down harder onto the pounding cock. They stumbled to the wall, Akaashi pinning Kenma against the cool surface, using it for leverage to fuck up into him with brutal snaps.

Kenma's back scraped the paint, his pussy gushing around Akaashi's relentless drives, the angle hitting new depths. Akaashi's mouth switched to the other nipple, biting down as he thrust, the combined assault making Kenma's cock throb untouched against Akaashi's stomach. 'Fuck... so deep,' Kenma panted, his walls pulsing, milking every ridge of that invading length.

Akaashi spun them away from the wall, lowering Kenma to the floor without pulling out. He flipped the omega onto all fours for doggy, knees spreading wide on the carpet. Kenma arched his back, presenting his ass, pussy lips puffy and dripping. Akaashi knelt behind, hands clamping onto hips as he rammed forward, burying himself to the hilt in one savage plunge.

The new position let Akaashi go feral, hips pistoning with unrestrained force, balls slapping loudly against Kenma's clit. Each thrust jolted Kenma forward, his arms buckling until his chest pressed to the floor, ass high. Akaashi reached around, fisting Kenma's cock again, jerking it in time with his pounding, thumb digging into the slit to coax out more pre-cum. 'Your hole's sucking me in,' Akaashi growled, leaning over to nip at a shoulder, then sliding a hand up to tweak a nipple, pulling until Kenma sobbed.

Kenma's pussy throbbed wildly, walls convulsing around the thick shaft as Akaashi's pace turned punishing. He varied the thrusts—shallow teases followed by deep, grinding slams that made Kenma's toes curl. Slick sprayed with every withdraw, the carpet darkening beneath them. Akaashi's own cock swelled, veins dragging along sensitive folds, the friction building to a fever pitch.

Not satisfied with the floor, Akaashi yanked Kenma up by the hair, guiding him to the dresser. He bent the omega over the wooden surface, mirrors reflecting their flushed faces and the obscene sight of Akaashi's cock disappearing into that soaked pussy. Akaashi spread Kenma's legs wider, one foot propped on a chair for better access, then drove in again, the dresser rattling with each heavy impact.

Kenma braced his hands on the mirror, fogging it with ragged breaths, watching Akaashi's intense gaze in the reflection. Akaashi's fingers found Kenma's nipples once more, pinching and tugging from behind, the pull syncing with his thrusts. He stroked Kenma's cock over the edge of the dresser, balls tightening as he felt the omega clench. 'Gonna fill you again,' Akaashi promised, hips blurring as he chased release.

They moved to the chair next, Akaashi sitting with Kenma straddling him reverse cowgirl, facing the door. Kenma sank down, pussy engulfing the cock fully, rocking back to take it all. Akaashi's hands guided the motion, one on a hip, the other playing with Kenma's balls, squeezing and rolling while his other fingers teased the base of the shaft. Nipples forgotten momentarily, Akaashi slapped Kenma's ass, the sting making the pussy tighten deliciously.

Kenma ground down, circling his hips, but Akaashi took control, thrusting up hard enough to lift Kenma slightly. The chair creaked under the assault, threatening to tip. Slick ran down Akaashi's thighs, the wet sounds filling the room. Kenma's cock bobbed, untouched now, leaking steadily as his prostate was battered.

Akaashi stood once more, maneuvering them to the windowsill. He pressed Kenma face-first against the glass, cool night air seeping through as he entered from behind in a standing doggy variation. The city lights blurred beyond, but neither cared—Akaashi fucked with abandon, one hand muffling Kenma's moans, the other yanking on a nipple through the twist of his body. Kenma's cock rubbed against the sill, friction adding to the overload, his pussy throbbing in endless waves.

Finally, back to the bed for missionary, Akaashi hooking Kenma's legs over his shoulders, folding him nearly in half. This let him plunge deeper than ever, cockhead kissing the cervix with every brutal drive. Akaashi's hands pinned Kenma's wrists, mouth alternating between nipples, sucking and biting until they were raw peaks. He wrapped a foot around Kenma's cock—no, wait, hand again—stroking furiously as his own release built.

Kenma shattered first, pussy spasming in violent contractions, cum shooting across his chest in thick ropes. The grip pulled Akaashi under, his cock erupting deep inside, flooding the womb with pulse after pulse of hot seed. They collapsed, bodies entwined, but the heat lingered, promising more rounds in their endless cycle.

[edenisonline]

Silco’s number 2 is a regular they say….

[full post. here ]